Tales of Three Cities

  Kathmandu, Nepal
Friday, September 29, 2006

Katmandu, I'll soon be seeing you
And your strange, bewildering time
Will hold me down.
~Cat Stevens, Katmandu

We intended a brief visit, but fell under the spell of this Shangri-La in the Himalayas where it was not difficult to believe that, as long as we remained, we would stay young forever writing poems touched by the magic of high tantric strivings under the blue cloud-filled skies, there at the top of the world.
~Ira Cohen

Tantric Hindu and Buddhist gods possess multiple heads and arms to show their many personalities and aspects. Likewise Kathmandu Valley and its ancient cities of Kathmandu, Patan, and Bhaktapur behave in tantric ways, leading me through Hindu cremation grounds, Buddhist stupas, narrow incense-filled morning alleyways, and palaces of the three historical rival city-states. The sights, sounds, smells, and feelings of the valley bring visitors such as Cat Stevens (and myself) from afar. But underlying the "strange, bewildering time" is a spiritual side of peace and calm that transcends this world. Thus, the Kathmandu Valley is a place where many can find what they are looking for, whether the psychadelia of Jimi Hendrix or an historical royal square.

After my travels in Tibet, Kathmandu has become this place for me, and I have found what I have been looking for: a restful yet enchanting place where I could regain my strength, physical and mental. I have now been here for almost three weeks, walking around the three cities, reading, playing chess with Sanjay, resting, eating nourishing food, meeting the locals, and listening to the Dogs of Kathmandu talk across the nocturnal cityscape.

At first, my world was small, and I didn't wander much further than the nearest restaurant from the family-run Himalayas Guesthouse in a small alleyway near Jhocchen Street, known better as Freak Street. The "freaks" were those strange westerners such as Cat Stevens that traveled through Asia in search of phychadelia, creative inspiration, and a freedom to inhale or imbibe anything they desired. Imbibing also included eating apple pie like Jack Kerouac on his American journeys.

Much of this freaky past is gone as drugs were outlawed and the freaks left for greener pastures, converted to Islam, or became the definition of today's baby boomers. The "Jimi Hendrix" temple and the Snowman Cafe, however, remain where you can still worship the many gods of the monotheistic Hindusim or eat apple pie with a tall glass of Nepali tea, milk tea infused with a touch of ginger and garam masala spices.

Throughout the valley are painters, intellectuals, musicians, gurus, snake charmers, rinpoches, and living goddesses who still enchant visitors, if you can find them in their hidden guises--booksellers, waiters, and more. In Kathmandu, veils and masks in the metaphysical Jungian sense abound, and it's up to you to figure out what is real and what is imaginary.

On Jhocchen Street, at the Tip Top Restaurant, I met Sanjay, a waiter-cum-philosopher. Together we played games of chess and talked about Nepal: its culture, its people, its religion, its current conflicts. As you might know, Nepal has been in engaged in a civil war of sorts between the Maoist Communist Party and the Royal Army; razor and barbed wire and bunkers with pointed machine guns abound. Now, however, the king is essentially powerless, his statues enshrouded in cloth or communist posters, although he presides over religious festivals such as Dasain. The big question on everybody's mind is: "when will free elections happen, if at all"?

Together, we went to Swayambhunath, a hilltop Buddhist stupa, walking through the busy, loud streets of Kathmandu, dodging Freedom Motorcycles, pedestrians, dogs, cows, and chickens along the way, crossing a foul river and breathing some of the most polluted air in the world.

All-seeing primordial Buddha eyes stare from the four directions of the Swambhunath, an light-emitting urna--a curl of Buddha's hair--between them, representing one-ness. Above the eyes are thirteen disks representing steps towards enlightenment, symbolized as a parasol at the top. Throughout the area were Tibetans-in-exile, who established communities here and at Boudhanath, another stupa on the other side of town.

I walked to Boudhanath from my guesthouse, stopping first at Pashupatinath, an auspicious Hindu Temple and cremation site, on a four-day hike. At Pashupatinath, I met brahmin, tour guides, and sadhus. The sadhus, called themselves "holy men," yet for some it was perhaps more of a mask to earn a living, asking "one photo" for money.

Many, however, remained true to form, it seemed, following in the footsteps of Shiva by growing long dreadlocks from which flows the Ganges, wearing rudraksha necklaces, and smoking ganja to show immunity to bodily poisons. I ate lunch with the babas in a small room, using my right hand, as a tour guide pitched me a sale and the sadhus smoked.

As tourists are not coming to Nepal because of the persistent civil strife, these tour guides were desparate for work. Most would follow me, being friendly, and slowly fall into the role of tour guide by mentioning things as we walked, however:

"I'm not interested in a guide. I prefer to walk alone now."

I felt for them, but didn't want to be forced to accept a guide out of pity--not good for either of us. Instead, I sat with a few guides at Parvati's temple listening to their problems; for a while, I felt like their shrink.

On my third eye, the Ajna chakra, was a tikka dot of two colors--red kumkum and yellow tumeric--given by a sadhu and a Brahman priest, respectively, to calm the soul and nerves. The Brahmans wait at Pashupatinath for greiving souls. They make offerings to the dead, pray for the families, and give yellow tikkas to those who felt a loss, and who hasn't?

As I sat with the tour guides, a begging woman arrived. Upon arrival to Nepal, we had to read the rules of Nepal which included not giving money to beggars. Another sign said: "help us to keep our self-respect." At the same time, however, Hindus and Buddhists alike have a culture of giving to the poor, with Buddha and others being beggars (Buddha holds a begging bowl in his left hand). Who was this woman?

I asked her to sit next to me, along with three sadhus and three tour guides. A rambunctious tour guide translated for me: "She says she's Brahmin...She wants you to go with her," he translated after about ten minutes of dialogue involving pointing at her broken arm, sign language showing she had a baby and that she didn't like the tour guide (in a joking way, stabbing him in the back), and that her husband had died.

Only later would I realize that her combination of problems was one of extreme suffering. Many woman in her position historically committed sati at places like Pashupatinath, where thousands are cremated on the ghats at the left bank of the Bagmati River. As the husband was placed on the pyre and engulfed in flames, the wife would jump into the flames and die with him.

In honor of these women, fifteen shivalaya were built overlooking Pashupatinath. Now, without a husband, the beggar was considered an outcaste and her Brahmin friends would no longer support her and her child. Remarrying would be next to impossible.

She had shaved her head in mourning, which exposed a deep healing wound. Along with her broken arm, I now believe she was the victim of unspeakable abuses. I sat in my guesthouse room feeling extreme grief for this woman, other women, and people who still existed within the lower web of the Hindu caste system. In religion there are Truths, truths, and mistruths, and the caste system is one of the grossest mistruths.

A short walk in the rain later, I arrived at Boudhanath, an immense stupa, a manifest mandala of Kalachakra, surrounded by another vibrant Tibetan community. Many monasteries and temples are found in this area, a place for Tibetans and westerners coming to learn about dharma. As pilgrims circumambulated the stupa in the late afternoon, soft music--aum mani padme hum--played from the CD stores, and bells rang in the temples. Gardens, temples, and thangka stores created an atmosphere of peace. Store owners relaxed, not feeling the need to pitch to tourists as they do elsewhere. The yellowing sun shone through the clouds onto the stupa as I drank tea from a rooftop cafe.

After being in Tibet for so long and seeing many disfunctional cities--half Chinese, half Tibetan--their brothels, their history of bloodshed, their feeling of suppression--I was heartened to see the community around Boudhanath. Fleeing terror at home over the years, the Tibetans had created something that felt like home, even if it wasn't in Tibet.

Patan, south of Kathmandu on the other side of the Bagmati River, was a separate city-state for many centuries, fighting with Kathmandu and nearby Bhaktapur. The three cities of the valley each have their own royal or Durbar squares with palaces and temples, each ruled by a malla king. These city-states were finally unified under the Gorkhas of Prithvi Narayan Shah in 1768, who conquered the lands that comprise modern day Nepal and more.

The streets of Patan were narrow, with markets tucked away along with gilded temples and friendly neighborhoods. For an afternoon, I walked throughout Patan, most of the time, it seemed, looking up at the woodcarvings of gods, goddesses, kama sutra, and intricate animals. This was one of the places where pigeons found their home with the gods.

To the east was Bhaktapur, the home of Shreestina, Anusha, Misila, Nischal, and Aayush. I found this group of children tending to their family business--selling rice, ghee, and oils. Business wasn't booming so I took them on a tour of the museums of Bhaktapur. Actually, they took me on a tour, as they knew about their history: so smart. Aayush was the most vocal: "I want to be a scientist," he said. We walked around town eating ice cream and the famous Bhaktapur King Curd and had a good time.

"You are now our uncle," Shreestina said.

As we rested in front of their store, Anusha brought me tea and some bread. Aayush said: "accept them as she brings them with love."

As Ragu, another tour guide, eloquently said, however: "I'm qualified, but I can't get a job, so I have to work the streets." Aayush would have a hard time achieving his goal within one of the most corrupt nations in the world: "Second only to Pakistan," Ragu said while we sat in the shade of the Bodhi tree in Kathmandu Durbar Square.

"Our Prime Minister, however, is one of the richest people in the world, but the Nepali people, many are so poor, despite so much foreign aid. Where does all this aid go? Maybe only ten percent reaches the people," Ragu continued.

Continuing into the countryside, I walked to Changu Narayan the oldest temple in the Valley. As the sun set, I reached the temple after walking through ripened rice fields, partially harvested. Immense cumulonimbus clouds towered above the valley, turning light yellow then rose, then red; the monsoon rains were present yet slowly making way for the dry season. I talked with Santos, a farmer establishing a homestay program, on the way back to the public bus. Today was his daughter's eleventh birthday: "Happy Birthday!" She smiled a big grin: "thank you," she replied in English.

After three weeks, I had finished the tour of the three cities in Kathmandu Valley: Patan, Bhaktapur, and Kathmandu. Cat Steven' lyrics became a reality as I felt that, yes Kathmandu, "your strange, bewildering time" has held me down. Time does flow differently in the Kathmandu Valley, home of masks and veils, golden temples, all-seeing stupas, Tibetans-in-exile, freaks, holy men, pollution, corruption, and smiling faces.