16th April, 2013. Tuesday ~
Go. Explore.
Darjeeling tea…for smoking?
“Wait till I make you one!” Francis smiles in his inimitable style, eyes disappearing behind creases. It fits him perfectly into the mongoloid ethnography of his adopted country, I think. Post dinner – a delectable imitation lasagna, pastry sheets replaced by sliced zucchini – he lights me a pipe.
“Half Darjeeling tea topped with chocolate tobacco. Now that is the secret!” He hands me the bowl almost like a sacred ritual.
I have brought the rain into the city.
“Very hot, madam,” the taxi driver said earlier in the evening as I roll down the window.
“Main jahan se ayi hoon…” I stop short, not because he doesn’t know Hindi (most Nepali-s understand Hindi well) but he wouldn’ve no idea of the kind of heat I’m talking about. I cannot explain how soothing Kathmandu spring is for me, having just escaped Calcutta’s high thirty degree-and-rising temperature. I see face masks everywhere but can’t feel the infamous dust or traffic cluster. Talk of perspective, any Indian city can give pollution here a run for its money. I am inured.
Tribhuvan International Airport, at first glance, impresses me, with its fly ash brick and glass exteriors. I’m terribly partial to fly ash bricks and large windows. As an Indian I don’t need a visa and was forewarned to stand in the emigration lines designated for ‘Nepali’ (our trek leader had thoughtfully mentioned this) which move faster.
[Indians don’t need a visa to enter or stay in Nepal. In order to avoid the long emigration bottleneck, stand in either of the first three emigration queues marked as ‘Nepali’. You will be whisked out with a smile and ‘Have a happy stay’ in no time.]
My euphoria vanishes at the serpentine luggage carousel. There isn’t a cart to be found; the conveyer belts around a length of the hall, stops intermittently, throws bags off its curves, jams itself under piles of them…and my duffel is nowhere to be seen! I stand, heart in my stomach, trying not to remember the stories of lost and pilfered baggage I’ve read about this airport.
Monstrous crammed backpacks get lifted off all around me. Spring tourist season is full on.
For a moment I panic…will I recognize my duffel? It isn’t mine, but borrowed from Sanjay, and I wonder, in that one point of waiting when everything appears potentially catastrophic, if it could have swept past me unidentified (not that the conveyer was capable of sweeping anything at its stop-and-start speed.)
Just then, my prim brown duffel peeps through the curtain. There was no mistaking it. On the front, in precise, solemn fonts is stitched:
Go. Explore.
De la Grande
No one has heard of Grande International Hospital at the airport pre-paid taxi counter, but Tokha Road seemed to ring vague bells. I calculate against haggling outside, willing to pay that extra buck my first cab ride in an unknown city.
Francis hears how much I paid, stares at me above his glass and a moment’s silence later, says bluntly, “You’ve been ripped off, my dear.”
Chabahil. Maharajganj. Basundhara. Greenland. The number of landmarks Francis had mentioned coupled with the drawled Nepali inflexions of the taxi drivers trying to figure my destination makes me realize I am in for a long ride. I sit back, determined to enjoy the scene.
The Ncell sim from the airport shop works the moment I slip it into my phone. Now that is truely remarkable.
“Pashupati” my cabbie points at the crowd. I see nothing but a clogged stream and lots of people. It’s a clever idea to put the airport right next to the chief attraction, I nod, bundle them straight from one to the other.
“What’s that?” Large Buddha eyes look down beside Chabahil's steaming traffic.
“Charumati vihar. It was built by the princess Charumati, who was married to the Prince Devapala.”
Charumati was in fact, Indian! A daughter of King Ashoka who the history books never name.
The taxi twists and turns through the narrow lanes, between screaming children, buxom ladies, ‘cold storages’ (butcher shops) and khaja ghar-s, a Nepali version of Darjeeling hills. Grey peaks come up in the horizon as we pushed north. Of course, Kathmandu is a valley…what wouldn’t I give to be able to live in a town where I could see hills from my window every morning!
“There!” I shout, not expecting to come upon it yet.
Standing tall above the surrounding hutments and dirt road, pristine in its ochre newness: Grande International Hospital.
The Signs
It begins to splatter as I come in from my walk.
The sound is unmistakeable so I go out to check. Putu is smashing the door mat, begging to come in. But this isn’t my house – “This isn’t my dog,” echoes Francis, “this is the landlord’s dog” – so I reluctantly pull the screen on him.
“Told you, you have come to trek in the wrong month,” Francis nods gravely. “I am an ex-alpinist, take it from me. You should have come end March. Monsoon hits by mid-April.”
As if there is a point worrying, now that the money is paid. I am here, for whatever’s coming. It isn’t monsoon, but a local disturbance, we are told later. Whatever it be, didn’t let up for the first and last two days into our trek, costing me dearly.
“It is off season in season this year,” someone was to say later on the trail.
Dr Francis Pauwels at 6 feet 2 inches is un grand homme who doesn’t lock his doors till bed time. “Don’t worry, my dear,” is his favourite response to most queries. Is the city that safe? For the next three weeks I will ask this to every Kathmandu resident I meet.
The cloud bank looked amazing the last five minutes' passage of my arrival flight, like a candy floss machine gone beserk. Or a sea generously churned with bathing salts. And Kathmandu appeared splendid two minutes from the ground, as the wings pierced below the cumulonimbus, miles of uniformly low houses broken by fields.
I see the signs but being an inexperienced city slicker, do not see.
Go. Explore.
Darjeeling tea…for smoking?
“Wait till I make you one!” Francis smiles in his inimitable style, eyes disappearing behind creases. It fits him perfectly into the mongoloid ethnography of his adopted country, I think. Post dinner – a delectable imitation lasagna, pastry sheets replaced by sliced zucchini – he lights me a pipe.
“Half Darjeeling tea topped with chocolate tobacco. Now that is the secret!” He hands me the bowl almost like a sacred ritual.
I have brought the rain into the city.
“Very hot, madam,” the taxi driver said earlier in the evening as I roll down the window.
“Main jahan se ayi hoon…” I stop short, not because he doesn’t know Hindi (most Nepali-s understand Hindi well) but he wouldn’ve no idea of the kind of heat I’m talking about. I cannot explain how soothing Kathmandu spring is for me, having just escaped Calcutta’s high thirty degree-and-rising temperature. I see face masks everywhere but can’t feel the infamous dust or traffic cluster. Talk of perspective, any Indian city can give pollution here a run for its money. I am inured.
Tribhuvan International Airport, at first glance, impresses me, with its fly ash brick and glass exteriors. I’m terribly partial to fly ash bricks and large windows. As an Indian I don’t need a visa and was forewarned to stand in the emigration lines designated for ‘Nepali’ (our trek leader had thoughtfully mentioned this) which move faster.
[Indians don’t need a visa to enter or stay in Nepal. In order to avoid the long emigration bottleneck, stand in either of the first three emigration queues marked as ‘Nepali’. You will be whisked out with a smile and ‘Have a happy stay’ in no time.]
My euphoria vanishes at the serpentine luggage carousel. There isn’t a cart to be found; the conveyer belts around a length of the hall, stops intermittently, throws bags off its curves, jams itself under piles of them…and my duffel is nowhere to be seen! I stand, heart in my stomach, trying not to remember the stories of lost and pilfered baggage I’ve read about this airport.
Monstrous crammed backpacks get lifted off all around me. Spring tourist season is full on.
For a moment I panic…will I recognize my duffel? It isn’t mine, but borrowed from Sanjay, and I wonder, in that one point of waiting when everything appears potentially catastrophic, if it could have swept past me unidentified (not that the conveyer was capable of sweeping anything at its stop-and-start speed.)
Just then, my prim brown duffel peeps through the curtain. There was no mistaking it. On the front, in precise, solemn fonts is stitched:
Go. Explore.
De la Grande
No one has heard of Grande International Hospital at the airport pre-paid taxi counter, but Tokha Road seemed to ring vague bells. I calculate against haggling outside, willing to pay that extra buck my first cab ride in an unknown city.
Francis hears how much I paid, stares at me above his glass and a moment’s silence later, says bluntly, “You’ve been ripped off, my dear.”
Chabahil. Maharajganj. Basundhara. Greenland. The number of landmarks Francis had mentioned coupled with the drawled Nepali inflexions of the taxi drivers trying to figure my destination makes me realize I am in for a long ride. I sit back, determined to enjoy the scene.
The Ncell sim from the airport shop works the moment I slip it into my phone. Now that is truely remarkable.
“Pashupati” my cabbie points at the crowd. I see nothing but a clogged stream and lots of people. It’s a clever idea to put the airport right next to the chief attraction, I nod, bundle them straight from one to the other.
“What’s that?” Large Buddha eyes look down beside Chabahil's steaming traffic.
“Charumati vihar. It was built by the princess Charumati, who was married to the Prince Devapala.”
Charumati was in fact, Indian! A daughter of King Ashoka who the history books never name.
The taxi twists and turns through the narrow lanes, between screaming children, buxom ladies, ‘cold storages’ (butcher shops) and khaja ghar-s, a Nepali version of Darjeeling hills. Grey peaks come up in the horizon as we pushed north. Of course, Kathmandu is a valley…what wouldn’t I give to be able to live in a town where I could see hills from my window every morning!
“There!” I shout, not expecting to come upon it yet.
Standing tall above the surrounding hutments and dirt road, pristine in its ochre newness: Grande International Hospital.
The Signs
It begins to splatter as I come in from my walk.
The sound is unmistakeable so I go out to check. Putu is smashing the door mat, begging to come in. But this isn’t my house – “This isn’t my dog,” echoes Francis, “this is the landlord’s dog” – so I reluctantly pull the screen on him.
“Told you, you have come to trek in the wrong month,” Francis nods gravely. “I am an ex-alpinist, take it from me. You should have come end March. Monsoon hits by mid-April.”
As if there is a point worrying, now that the money is paid. I am here, for whatever’s coming. It isn’t monsoon, but a local disturbance, we are told later. Whatever it be, didn’t let up for the first and last two days into our trek, costing me dearly.
“It is off season in season this year,” someone was to say later on the trail.
Dr Francis Pauwels at 6 feet 2 inches is un grand homme who doesn’t lock his doors till bed time. “Don’t worry, my dear,” is his favourite response to most queries. Is the city that safe? For the next three weeks I will ask this to every Kathmandu resident I meet.
The cloud bank looked amazing the last five minutes' passage of my arrival flight, like a candy floss machine gone beserk. Or a sea generously churned with bathing salts. And Kathmandu appeared splendid two minutes from the ground, as the wings pierced below the cumulonimbus, miles of uniformly low houses broken by fields.
I see the signs but being an inexperienced city slicker, do not see.
(The night is far from over. To know what more lies in store, continue here.)
