Life

I’d come to the conclusion, after the midweek excesses of Lhosar, that I needed to see less of Dawa during the week if I was to be able to devote enough time and energy to the kids during the day. This had been difficult to explain to her without hurting her feelings but she seemed to take it reasonably well when I explained to her that I hadn’t come to Nepal in search of a girlfriend. Being sweet-natured – as she indubitably was – she was further placated when I expressed my desire to give 100% to my schoolkids and agreed to see me mainly at weekends and, occasionally, for tea during the week. Feeling somewhat guilty – and eager to kill a couple of birds with one stone – I decided to treat her to a slap-up meal and 5-star hotel in Nagarkot. This was somewhere I’d been keen to visit ever since my arrival on account of the stunning views of the Himalayas that could be enjoyed as dawn broke over its peaceful, valley-rim setting. Having read the Lonely Planet, I fancied a bit of luxury and pampering after the cold and privations of Kathmandu’s waning winter and duly made a booking at the Club Himalaya Resort.
This was all a secret as far as Dawa was concerned and it was with suppressed glee that I bundled her into a taxi on Friday evening and settled back for the 75 minute trip to escape the din and dust of the city. Our taxi-driver was, I suppose, no more (or less!) insane than any of the 10,000 others we could have chosen for the drive but I can only say that I am glad it was dark by the time we reached the winding hairpins on the final climb up to Nagarkot. I could feel the g-forces as the car swung violently into the turns and it was not unusual to also feel the back tyres scrabbling for traction as the rear end struggled to keep up with the frenetic pace being set by the front of our Shiv Maruti. Finally (and still in one piece) we arrived at the centre of the village where a small argument ensued between Dawa and I as to which way the taxi should turn. She knew well enough that there was only one hotel along the right fork of the road and was trying to insist that we should go the other way to find somewhere cheaper. Of course, her command of the local lingo soon had the driver heading the wrong way and it took some forceful persuasion on my part to get the poor fellow to reverse back down the hill and go the other way. Eventually, Dawa realised my purpose and sat there in numbed silence with starry eyes and a daft grin on her face as we pulled up outside a very plush looking, hilltop edifice. The pièce-de-resistance was delivered when the hotel’s doorman greeted me as I emerged from the taxi and insisted on carrying my bag into the stunning, picture-windowed reception with its views of the star-studded sky and twinkling valleys.
For a grand total of just over 30 quid, we were treated to a delicious 5-course meal, heated air-conditioned room with private balcony and breathtaking views of the Himalayan Dawn and a 3-course breakfast served on that same balcony. I wouldn’t go so far as to confirm the hotel’s service as 5-star…a lack of room service, unheated pool and cold Jacuzzi would surely mark it down in the eyes of the International Hoteliers Association…but comparatively, when considering the dilapidated state of Kathmandu and the country in general, this was something akin to the mythical 7-star status in my humble opinion. And to be quite frank, waking up to those views as the sun began to stream in at 6am, was utterly priceless.
After a lazy breakfast in the growing heat of a now fully-fledged Springtime, I slowly felt the effects of three bottles of wine beginning to creep up on me. We’d agreed to meet Edd in the ancient city of Bhaktapur (just at the foot of Nagarkot’s hill) by 11am and, trusting to the luck of finding a taxi, we’d already let the opportunity of the 10am ‘tourist’ bus go begging thanks to my throbbing head and bloated stomach. After 20 minutes sat waiting fruitlessly at the crossroads of the previous night’s dissension, we eventually found ourselves in the hotel’s own shuttle bus as it made its way to Tribhuvan Airport to pick up some Japanese tourists. For a much-reduced fee, our friendly driver dropped us off outside Bhaktapur and showed us a back way into the city that avoided the ticket booths where I’d be ‘robbed’ of $10 for the privilege of not being a citizen of an ASEAN country. I can’t really be bothered to rant about the extortionate disparity between ‘local’ and ‘foreigner’ prices at popular Nepali tourist attractions but I will say that for a country suffering a massive downturn in visitor numbers, they’re not exactly endearing themselves to the faithful few who still come!
Eventually, we met up with Edd about 35 minutes late…although it turned out that he’d been waiting since 10am, having not read the e-mail properly anyway…so I didn’t feel too guilty on account of his supreme dumb-assedness in the first place. ;-) Before we did anything else, I dutifully walked out of the main gates to pay my entry fee…as this fee need only be paid once and the ticket could be used as long as my visa was valid, I knew I’d be spreading the cost over several intended trips to the city.
Under the baleful glare of the sun my burgeoning hangover was not putting me in the best of moods for sight-seeing (sound familiar, anyone?) but the sheer, attractive antiquity and relative serenity of Bhaktapur (where motorised transport is practically forbidden) seemed preferable to returning to the drudgery of Kathmandu. First of all I insisted on sitting down somewhere, preferably shady, to eat and attempt to rehydrate. Edd had found us a reasonable little eatery and we emerged from there about an hour later feeling much fortified and better prepared for the sight-seeing fray. Of course, in this new, quieter Nepal, the last thing we were having to contend with was the thronged masses of tourist hordes and we were able to wend our way around the LP’s recommended walking route over the course of a thoroughly pleasant two hours. The sheer number and variety of Hindu temples and shrines simply beggars belief; the narrow backstreet tenements hid a surprising richness of finely-detailed wood and stone carving; great communal pools and water stands appeared from nowhere with beautifully worked brass spouts and stone guttering; the very taste of at-once defunct and living history abounded through the mazy ways of this beautiful old city. Before Nepal was united, the Kathmandu valley was divided into three kingdoms, the capitals being in Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur. The rich opulence of these ancient capitals is still much in evidence to this day – no more so than in Bhaktapur, where the depredations of 20th century life have been much abated by the intelligent removal of motorised vehicles. There is still a slightly grimy, but nevertheless authentic, patina of filth and the majority of the wood carvings and finely adorned buildings have been left to decay somewhat for a UNESCO world heritage site. I think many Westerners would be appalled at the run-down state of many significant religious monuments in this country – perhaps, to some tastes, this rich heritage has not been too well preserved. However, in the world’s second poorest country, I think it shows (unusual) good judgement on the part of the keepers of the public purse…and maybe it would be churlish to rant about that price difference after all…
On our way back to the bus station we stopped to check out some erotic temple carvings, as recommended by the Lonely Planet. It was an unsubtle reminder of how open the Hindu religion can be about our natural appetites…and I can only commend the imagination of the guys who produced the work several hundred years ago.
We returned to Thamel in the evening, where Mahendra had invited us all to go to the Dohori club with him. Dohori is traditional Nepali music and singing performed by 5 or more vocalists, accompanied by a 5-piece backing band playing traditional instruments. The customers sit in booths and eat snacks while drinking plenty of beer (or whisky and coke, in Mahendra’s case) and, much like a karaoke bar, choose songs to be performed. Instead of singing, though, the members of the table that nominated the tune are expected to front of the stage and dance like whirling dervishes while the song is performed. As you can imagine, later in the evening the dancing gets pretty wild as the levels of blood-alcohol and excitement rise. With heads, arms and legs flying about at warp-speed it’s almost inevitable that someone will get hurt…and while we were there, this did indeed happen as Edd and I saw a guy levelled by a beautiful ‘drunken-master’ style right hook, which caught him – totally unintentionally – flush on the jaw. The prone punter was merely moved to a seat out of the thick of the action and the others carried on dancing much as before. Needless to say, all of this was extremely entertaining and I only wished I’d been in a better state to enjoy myself. The remnants of my hangover, not improved by a hot day in the sun and a general lack of sleep, meant that I wasn’t on the best of form. Despite Mahendra’s generous hospitality and repeated pleas, I declined to strut my stuff on the dancefloor. I felt guilty for hurting his feelings (he kept asking, ‘Are you boring?’ – meaning ‘Are you bored?’) and promised that, before I left Nepal, we would certainly come to the Dohori again…and that this time I would dance. When it was time to leave, much to my and Edd’s consternation, Mahendra refused to let us pay, explaining (in much the same way Dawa had at Lhosar) that as we were guests in his country, he insisted on treating us. We let it pass on this occasion but vowed that, next time, it would be our tab.