Mai is a 60-something originally from Vietnam, and the spouse of a trusted and well-respected Embassy employee in Kathmandu. She married him in 1969, at the height of US involvement in South East Asia, and they have been posted overwhelmingly in Southeast Asia ever since. She graciously offered to show us around town for the day.
She apologizes for the mess in her apartment, obviously dismissing the fact that we are new to this area and that our place in Jordan looked like somebody had lobbed a grenade in it not too long ago. All items are neatly boxed up, and only the bare necessities like the pictures of the grandchildren and a few smiling black Buddhas adorn the sills and desk space in their apartment. She seems happy to be leaving soon, although there is a sub current there beneath her delicate grey hair that suggests that there will be plenty of people and places to miss. That’s par for the course when you work in the Foreign Service.
The first stop will be Phora Durbar, although there are plenty of sideshows to admire en route. I notice little boys cycling through the mad traffic, often dangerously balancing their little siblings on the crossbar in front of them. Little motorbikes zip through the narrow streets, carrying passengers on their carriers, usually delicately small women with their colorful garb billowing in the air behind them. Mai points out the Prime Minister’s home, the residence rigidly surrounded by a cold, humorless red wall featuring guard towers at strategic intervals. Naturally, the wall is too high for us to catch a glimpse of anything significant, which is exactly the purpose, as Mai confirms.
“They scouted this place diligently,” she nods. “They are afraid of sniper fire.”
Given the overall ambiguity the Maoist government must endure here, this is hardly a surprise. At an intersection we stop, and I already see the first urchins approaching the car. There is a boy who plants his face square against the window, his lips forming an ’o’ as a small cloud of vapor hits the glass. Ten years ago, I would have easily rolled down my window and given the kid a coin. Nowadays, I know that would be pure madness, as our car would be engulfed by urchins, not unlike a pride of lions trying to wrestle down a zebra. In Nepal, we will have to choose our charities wisely.
First Phora Durbar. Other people call this the American Club, although this is highly misleading, as foreigners outnumber US citizens when you examine the membership list. This compound is what you would imagine from old black and white movies. This is where British or American expatriates would enjoy a cigar and a drink among lush gardens and perfectly manicured lawns in a country club atmosphere while the rest of town is choking on smog and poverty. There are three tennis courts, each one of them occupied by plump middle-aged American women who still show surprising agility on the court. There is also a fitness center and a store, where you can buy most American items, if you fancy it. In Nepal, I don’t particularly, so the Kraft dinners and root beer cases remain on the shelf. My wife and I still purchase plenty of items, such as diapers and cat food and litter.
Outside the compound, Mai motions for the driver to take a narrow road into Thamel, the tourist haven and heart of local commerce. There are stores everywhere. Billboards cover every available space of every building, like a cow being branded by multiple owners. A Phillips billboard here, a Hitachi there, who’s really counting? Rickshaws skillfully make their way through the dense traffic in even narrower allies, usually carrying laughing white tourist couples in the back. I spot an old man sitting on a flight of stairs, smoking a pipe. The lines on his face probably tell the history of this place better than the lines of any history book ever could.
Thamel is obviously the St. Pauli or Times Square of Kathmandu, where hedonism rules and accepts any conceivable currency. Not surprising, given the weakness of the Nepali rupee. It is also a place where people will get in trouble, say for carousing and other forms of debauchery, not rarely the final chapter for an expatriate or the careless tourist. I decide to come back here later, preferably accompanied by a local.
As we leave Thamel, a little girl who has crept up to our car is rapping at my window. She is selling postcards, their motives featuring the destroyer god Shiva or his son, the elephant-headed god Ganesh. I am struck by the colors people use when celebrating their religion. Like the women in the street, these gods usually wear the most colorful and elegant tunics, as if the bright orange and pink and purple colors had been created especially for them.
The only statue I have seen in the city so far is that of a singer recently deceased! A colorful flower chain rests around his neck as the singer’s head patiently peers at the mad traffic of Kathmandu. Several vehicles honk to pay tribute at the bespectacled iron cast head gazing down at them.
I have still decided not to drive here, although circumstances might alter that opinion. For now, my wife and I are rigidly pro-choice and pro-life, as in choosing to live. For now, we decide to let the driver earn his pay. From what we can tell about the traffic in Kathmandu, he already has.
She apologizes for the mess in her apartment, obviously dismissing the fact that we are new to this area and that our place in Jordan looked like somebody had lobbed a grenade in it not too long ago. All items are neatly boxed up, and only the bare necessities like the pictures of the grandchildren and a few smiling black Buddhas adorn the sills and desk space in their apartment. She seems happy to be leaving soon, although there is a sub current there beneath her delicate grey hair that suggests that there will be plenty of people and places to miss. That’s par for the course when you work in the Foreign Service.
The first stop will be Phora Durbar, although there are plenty of sideshows to admire en route. I notice little boys cycling through the mad traffic, often dangerously balancing their little siblings on the crossbar in front of them. Little motorbikes zip through the narrow streets, carrying passengers on their carriers, usually delicately small women with their colorful garb billowing in the air behind them. Mai points out the Prime Minister’s home, the residence rigidly surrounded by a cold, humorless red wall featuring guard towers at strategic intervals. Naturally, the wall is too high for us to catch a glimpse of anything significant, which is exactly the purpose, as Mai confirms.
“They scouted this place diligently,” she nods. “They are afraid of sniper fire.”
Given the overall ambiguity the Maoist government must endure here, this is hardly a surprise. At an intersection we stop, and I already see the first urchins approaching the car. There is a boy who plants his face square against the window, his lips forming an ’o’ as a small cloud of vapor hits the glass. Ten years ago, I would have easily rolled down my window and given the kid a coin. Nowadays, I know that would be pure madness, as our car would be engulfed by urchins, not unlike a pride of lions trying to wrestle down a zebra. In Nepal, we will have to choose our charities wisely.
First Phora Durbar. Other people call this the American Club, although this is highly misleading, as foreigners outnumber US citizens when you examine the membership list. This compound is what you would imagine from old black and white movies. This is where British or American expatriates would enjoy a cigar and a drink among lush gardens and perfectly manicured lawns in a country club atmosphere while the rest of town is choking on smog and poverty. There are three tennis courts, each one of them occupied by plump middle-aged American women who still show surprising agility on the court. There is also a fitness center and a store, where you can buy most American items, if you fancy it. In Nepal, I don’t particularly, so the Kraft dinners and root beer cases remain on the shelf. My wife and I still purchase plenty of items, such as diapers and cat food and litter.
Outside the compound, Mai motions for the driver to take a narrow road into Thamel, the tourist haven and heart of local commerce. There are stores everywhere. Billboards cover every available space of every building, like a cow being branded by multiple owners. A Phillips billboard here, a Hitachi there, who’s really counting? Rickshaws skillfully make their way through the dense traffic in even narrower allies, usually carrying laughing white tourist couples in the back. I spot an old man sitting on a flight of stairs, smoking a pipe. The lines on his face probably tell the history of this place better than the lines of any history book ever could.
Thamel is obviously the St. Pauli or Times Square of Kathmandu, where hedonism rules and accepts any conceivable currency. Not surprising, given the weakness of the Nepali rupee. It is also a place where people will get in trouble, say for carousing and other forms of debauchery, not rarely the final chapter for an expatriate or the careless tourist. I decide to come back here later, preferably accompanied by a local.
As we leave Thamel, a little girl who has crept up to our car is rapping at my window. She is selling postcards, their motives featuring the destroyer god Shiva or his son, the elephant-headed god Ganesh. I am struck by the colors people use when celebrating their religion. Like the women in the street, these gods usually wear the most colorful and elegant tunics, as if the bright orange and pink and purple colors had been created especially for them.
The only statue I have seen in the city so far is that of a singer recently deceased! A colorful flower chain rests around his neck as the singer’s head patiently peers at the mad traffic of Kathmandu. Several vehicles honk to pay tribute at the bespectacled iron cast head gazing down at them.
I have still decided not to drive here, although circumstances might alter that opinion. For now, my wife and I are rigidly pro-choice and pro-life, as in choosing to live. For now, we decide to let the driver earn his pay. From what we can tell about the traffic in Kathmandu, he already has.
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