Shangri-Lan’t
What do people come here to Kathmandu for? For me, it always held a mythical status, home of spiritual people worshiping the mountains, people I felt an inner pull for whenever I would think of them. Exhibits at the RMA (Rubin Museum of Art, Himalayan museum in New York) presented only this side and I would leave them determined to go there, find these people who shared the same awe for giant snow covered rocks.
Thamel, though, is nothing like this image in my mind. It’s air is full of dust and exhaust and the people are like people anywhere, trying to get more money. I stayed in this part of town because this is where my fellow westerners stay and my time in Gangtok at the empty Tibetan hotel left me hungry for some unhalting conversations. Yet, everyone here keeps to their cliques (or, I don’t try to break into them). So, what did they come here for? Someone must buy from the guy walking beside me whispering “hash?” I saw one westerner, a beefy guy in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts, checking out the product as the seller repeated “good stuff, good price.” Who are the lonely men who keep the “Nice Nepali girl? Good price, very nice” guy in business? Are they the spiritual revellers who are open to every experience, high on hash or meditation retreats, like the Faulstaffian German Buddhist named Bander staying at my hotel? Or the NGO workers, in town for the weekend after suffocating in some far off village with no one to speak to?
There is a British psychotherapist in my hotel who came to volunteer as a nurse in a hospital near Chitwan that turned out not to exist. Now she finds herself in Kathmandu for 7 weeks, searching for some other way to help. She mentions giving up, being a tourist is much more straightforward and everywhere you look is another volunteer. (60% of Nepal’s national budget is from foreign aid, yet the country seems to be just as crumbling as it was when it opened to outsiders, save the few improvements made to pacify the rioters. My guess is, if they ever got a real sewage system, or clean water, or 24 hour electricity, this flow of money would dry up. People seem to do this everywhere. In Serbia they never repaired the building NATO bombed, using it to bring in more money.)
The streets are bars are full of people looking for cheap parties. The cafes are full of people with a pot of coffee writing in their journals, and I’m just adding to the crowd.
Is everyone here to “see the sights?” Witness the Tibetan Buddhists in their daily reverance? To see crumbling squares holding statues hundreds or thousands of years old that we think should be in a museum but are still in use by the worshipers who pass by on their way to work.
What do I do with myself? I take day trips to quieter towns or neighborhoods, but return with a headache and a throat full of dust from the manic, jolting taxi ride. I busy myself with little errands, telling myself I can only get them done here: apply for my Australian visa, upload photos to my website with everyone else uploading their photos to their websites, buy a mechanical pencil because I can’t bear to permanantly mark my books. I spend a lot of time reading, a new book every other day. I’ve met a few people, notably a Nepali father and his two sons now living in Alaska and Oregon, visiting family. They take me to a Nepali hangout in Thamel where singers make up loud, repetative songs (some of them apperently about the foreigner in the corner), high school girls do traditional dances in saris on stage, and men twirl and move in traditional stutter steps and slow, rave-like hand gestures on the dance floor. The other men were excited to see this big white guy and would drag me onto the dance floor to watch me imitate the other Nepalis. It was great fun, but ultimately was it reduced to this, an experience to blog about?
And what do the Nepalis think? I used to be polite to those stepping in my way or following me, trying to get me to buy their tiger balm, beads, or musical instrument, but now the only way to get them off me is to rudely brush them away if ignoring fails. Politeness just encourages them, perhaps they’ll wear me down, but a dismissive wave sends them on their way. This puts me in a poor headspace when I wander the tourist areas. Outisde of where the westerners congregate, the spaces with no famous landmarks to draw us, people are curious about me. The children shout the three things they know “hello!” “how are you?” and “goodbye!” only for the joy of me responding in my wierd language. The adults stare at me, wondering what I am doing here, then smile when I smile at them. I watched two men selling cheap little stringed instruments on the street take a break and jam together. It was the first time I had seen them not selling, just enjoying.
I wonder if I’m being too cynical, but I’m tired of reading about how this place is a Shangri-La. Tired of reading about the amazing rush of colors, new smells (open sewage lines), and beautiful people. All that exists here, there is amazement to be found, but there are also some of the poorest people on earth living in awful conditions that decades of Shangri-La mythmaking have done nothing for.
