Nepal

After a grueling trip from Istanbul (I was incredibly ill with the worst migraine of my life), we arrived around ten o'clock in the morning, sans luggage. Our connection in Doha was too short and the baggage exchange unsuccessful. Nevertheless, we check into the Kantipur Temple House- a former temple turned hotel. I have always loved mogul architecture and chose this hotel for it's ornate work. Four stories high with a roof top balcony, it has many beautiful gardens to sit in. Little lamps with oil line the edges of the walls. In the entrance courtyard a large temple bell awaits clanging, perhaps for a call for dinner? A Buddha statue sits in a raised enclosed balcony. A variety of trees, all meticulously labeled grow despite the dust that falls daily in this grimy city. And the staff are very friendly.

We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.

After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.

For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.

As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.

After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.

One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.

After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.

An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.

After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.

Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.

But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.

After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.

We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.

At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.