I'm in catch-up mode. That means that, despite being holed up in North Vancouver, recovering from pneumonia and watching a series of beautiful, sunny, perfect skiing days march past outside the window, I'm writing about trekking in Nepal. From a month+ ago.
That, in turn, means multiple posts are going up; five have been uploaded since last night.
So, keep your wits about you. If you don't understand what's being said, it may be because you've missed one or more previous posts, rather than because you're limited - scroll down until you see a post you've read, work your way up from there
x
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Five Moneys
Short Version:
We're off!
Stats:
Total Walk Time = 2:45
Beer Time = 2:45
Long Version:
We walked a dirt road for a few hours that first afternoon.
Met some Nepali children. Refused to give them "five moneys." Or sweets. Or pens.
Learned our first Nepali words, for "Let's go" and "Slower!"
The first hour or so must have been a nightmare for Ganga, who got to watch the two of us scurry about the place, burning valuable energy unnecessarily, like excited puppies, only with less weeing on the carpet. At least we didn't fall into any of the rivers we crossed.
Uzir had tied our bags together and to his bag, and attached a webbing strap which he then hung off his forehead. We were wincing at the thought of using your head and neck to carry 30-odd kg, up until we heard about Uzir's record carrying effort: 105kg, for several days. Lovely Wife and I were carrying a daypack each, containing warm stuff and wet-weather stuff, camera and breakables, and water. Maybe 5kg each. Tops. Uzir and Ganga each had about that much stuff as well, although, to be fair, they didn't have to carry sleeping bags or water with them. And they were more hardcore than us.
As non-Catholics, we don't have to do guilt, so we didn't. Instead, we enjoyed being not in a van, not in a city, and not around thousands of people. Having said that, there WERE a LOT of people about; village folk going about their business, kids playing cricket and football and volleyball and other less-identifiable games, and trekkers. Many, many trekkers. A lot of them were in or on buses and jeeps, all of which were highly ornamented, and all of which were laden well beyond NZ standards of feasability, let alone sensibleness.
We were walking alongside a mid-sized river. The torrent of milky, limestone-sediment-laden water flew past at a good clip, and appeared to be moving even faster when viewed through the gaps in the decking of the well-deteriorated suspension bridge. The rain we'd encountered earlier in the day had left puddles on the ground, and was hanging around the ridges and mountain flanks that surrounded us on every side, and for as far as the eye could see in every direction, leaving everything looking slightly spooky and mysterious.
Dusk was starting to draw in as we made our way up a set of stone stairs and through Bhulbhule village to another suspension bridge - this time decked with metal gridwork - which we crossed to our first night's accommodation: the Arjun Hotel and Restaurant.
The Arjun was, we assumed, named after Arjuna, the hero of the Hindu epic tale "The Mahabharata." We never confirmed this, though, as we were too busy learning how the Nepali Himalayan lodge environment works, from how to get cups of tea or plates of delicious foods through to what gear do we need for evening, overnight, and morning. Oh, and there was some German management to do.
It would be unfair on everybody to refer to Germans as the Amerikans of the Himalayas. Yes, they're a bit louder than absolutely necessary, and they definitely exude an air of arrogant entitlement... but then so does pretty much every German out and about in the world*. And, to be fair to the Germans, we later met groups of French, Czech, and Israeli trekkers who were more irritating. Interestingly, the majority of the trekkers we encountered were from Europe, but pretty much everyone we spoke to for longer than the bare minimum required for politeness was from either Nepal or Canada. The Germans at the Arjun were big, ruddy-cheeked men who stood talking loudly in the middle of doorways and passages and didn't deign to notice the other people who were trying to get past them.
They were but a minor irritant, though, on a night full of newness and excitement. First time ordering food by writing one's order in the order book, first time eating dhal bhat (standard Nepali trekking fare: rice + lentils + potato curry + pickle + a papadam) on wobbly mismatched chairs at a communal table by candlelight during regular/irregular power outages, first night on hard single beds in a low-ceilinged room, first farts in the new sleeping bags...
* = Certainly the couple we met on the tiny island off the coast of the small island off the coast of the still-not-very-big island in Samoa were just as bad as, if not worse than, any of the Germans we met in Nepal
We're off!
Stats:
Total Walk Time = 2:45
Beer Time = 2:45
Long Version:
We walked a dirt road for a few hours that first afternoon.
Met some Nepali children. Refused to give them "five moneys." Or sweets. Or pens.
Learned our first Nepali words, for "Let's go" and "Slower!"
The first hour or so must have been a nightmare for Ganga, who got to watch the two of us scurry about the place, burning valuable energy unnecessarily, like excited puppies, only with less weeing on the carpet. At least we didn't fall into any of the rivers we crossed.
Uzir had tied our bags together and to his bag, and attached a webbing strap which he then hung off his forehead. We were wincing at the thought of using your head and neck to carry 30-odd kg, up until we heard about Uzir's record carrying effort: 105kg, for several days. Lovely Wife and I were carrying a daypack each, containing warm stuff and wet-weather stuff, camera and breakables, and water. Maybe 5kg each. Tops. Uzir and Ganga each had about that much stuff as well, although, to be fair, they didn't have to carry sleeping bags or water with them. And they were more hardcore than us.
As non-Catholics, we don't have to do guilt, so we didn't. Instead, we enjoyed being not in a van, not in a city, and not around thousands of people. Having said that, there WERE a LOT of people about; village folk going about their business, kids playing cricket and football and volleyball and other less-identifiable games, and trekkers. Many, many trekkers. A lot of them were in or on buses and jeeps, all of which were highly ornamented, and all of which were laden well beyond NZ standards of feasability, let alone sensibleness.
We were walking alongside a mid-sized river. The torrent of milky, limestone-sediment-laden water flew past at a good clip, and appeared to be moving even faster when viewed through the gaps in the decking of the well-deteriorated suspension bridge. The rain we'd encountered earlier in the day had left puddles on the ground, and was hanging around the ridges and mountain flanks that surrounded us on every side, and for as far as the eye could see in every direction, leaving everything looking slightly spooky and mysterious.
Dusk was starting to draw in as we made our way up a set of stone stairs and through Bhulbhule village to another suspension bridge - this time decked with metal gridwork - which we crossed to our first night's accommodation: the Arjun Hotel and Restaurant.
The Arjun was, we assumed, named after Arjuna, the hero of the Hindu epic tale "The Mahabharata." We never confirmed this, though, as we were too busy learning how the Nepali Himalayan lodge environment works, from how to get cups of tea or plates of delicious foods through to what gear do we need for evening, overnight, and morning. Oh, and there was some German management to do.
It would be unfair on everybody to refer to Germans as the Amerikans of the Himalayas. Yes, they're a bit louder than absolutely necessary, and they definitely exude an air of arrogant entitlement... but then so does pretty much every German out and about in the world*. And, to be fair to the Germans, we later met groups of French, Czech, and Israeli trekkers who were more irritating. Interestingly, the majority of the trekkers we encountered were from Europe, but pretty much everyone we spoke to for longer than the bare minimum required for politeness was from either Nepal or Canada. The Germans at the Arjun were big, ruddy-cheeked men who stood talking loudly in the middle of doorways and passages and didn't deign to notice the other people who were trying to get past them.
They were but a minor irritant, though, on a night full of newness and excitement. First time ordering food by writing one's order in the order book, first time eating dhal bhat (standard Nepali trekking fare: rice + lentils + potato curry + pickle + a papadam) on wobbly mismatched chairs at a communal table by candlelight during regular/irregular power outages, first night on hard single beds in a low-ceilinged room, first farts in the new sleeping bags...
* = Certainly the couple we met on the tiny island off the coast of the small island off the coast of the still-not-very-big island in Samoa were just as bad as, if not worse than, any of the Germans we met in Nepal
To the Mountains!
Short Version:
We meet Ganga and Uzir, and leave Kathmandu in a van full of people and stuff.
Long Version:
We were in more than two minds when it came to deciding how we should manage our trekking; every source we consulted had their own opinion, from "go by yourselves, you'll be fine" to "go in an organised group, they know best" and all points between. In the end, we opted for somewhere in the middle, borrowing a Kathmandu-based friend-of-a-friend senior guide's knowledge and contacts to arrange a guide, insurances, permits, transport, and pretty much everything else that needed arranging. Including, in the end, a porter. We'd been reluctant to succumb to the luxury of having our gear carried; self-sufficiency is something we feel like we're supposed to uphold as a NZ cultural standard, as well as a personal fundamental. However, between the expert advice and anecdotal evidence about altitude impact, the ongoing effects of Delhi Belly, and the comparative low cost of porter hire, we decided that we might as well. And, as it turned out, we were we glad we did.
We'd spent a couple of days exploring Kathmandu with our trekking guide, Ganga, who arrived at our hotel on trek day 1, bright and early, in a tiny van. We somehow managed to fit the three of us and all our gear (plus driver) into the tiny van, and set off into the madness. Not very far though - pretty soon we halted at a fairly scruffy open area the size of half a football field, chock-full of people and normal-sized vans. Ganga did some people-wrangling, we loaded our gear onto the roof of our chosen/allocated van, and... we waited. And waited. And waited. People burned tyres. Others played badminton. We met Uzir, our porter. Someone sold us flowers for our hair. And then, finally, the dodgy-looking van guy herded his passengers into their seats, and we were off! Not very far though - before we knew it we were stopped again, cramming in more passengers. Not sure where they were being put, as all seats looked already full, but they got in. Apart from the ones who climbed on the roof, who got on. And then the driver handed the wheel (and, more importantly, the horn button) to a younger and less-dodgy-looking guy, and we were off! And this time, we went very far.
We started by driving up. And then up some more. Still, it was somewhat surprising when we rounded a bend and found ourselves peering over the edge of a bloody great big cliff that dropped away into a steep-sided narrow valley that stretched away into the distance. Terraces covered the hills on both sides, with crops of some kind growing under the bright sun. A steady stream of more-or-less crazy-looking vehicles powered up the hill towards us, throwing up rooster-tails of dust in places where road (re)construction was in progress. We wound our way down the hill for what felt like hours, and might have been. And then we stopped. For a wee. At a rickety cliffside stall selling potato chips and cans of fizzy sugar liquid. With black polythene stretched vertically along a wooden frame, for weeing on. For the so-called ladies, the polythene urine wall was a ceilingless polythene room, with an area of more-or-less flat ground in the middle, for weeing on.
And then we were back in the van, back on the road, heading downhill. The hours trickled by. We stopped for lunch. The toilet was awesome. The trashfall on the other side of the road - down the bank and into the river - even more so. We passed a cable car that takes worshippers to a hilltop Hindu temple, we read a sign that said "Hearty Welcome to Open Defecation Free Zone," we saw a tractor perched on a rock in the middle of a river, and a truck being hauled by hand back up the cliff it had been driven over. We got sore legs from being squished into a van seat for too long. Then it rained, and the bags were removed from the roof and piled into the van, which meant a reshuffle that led to four in the front, but then we started to offload passengers at various waystops, and then we reached Besisahar, and the van vanished, and it was time to start walking.
We meet Ganga and Uzir, and leave Kathmandu in a van full of people and stuff.
Long Version:
We were in more than two minds when it came to deciding how we should manage our trekking; every source we consulted had their own opinion, from "go by yourselves, you'll be fine" to "go in an organised group, they know best" and all points between. In the end, we opted for somewhere in the middle, borrowing a Kathmandu-based friend-of-a-friend senior guide's knowledge and contacts to arrange a guide, insurances, permits, transport, and pretty much everything else that needed arranging. Including, in the end, a porter. We'd been reluctant to succumb to the luxury of having our gear carried; self-sufficiency is something we feel like we're supposed to uphold as a NZ cultural standard, as well as a personal fundamental. However, between the expert advice and anecdotal evidence about altitude impact, the ongoing effects of Delhi Belly, and the comparative low cost of porter hire, we decided that we might as well. And, as it turned out, we were we glad we did.
We'd spent a couple of days exploring Kathmandu with our trekking guide, Ganga, who arrived at our hotel on trek day 1, bright and early, in a tiny van. We somehow managed to fit the three of us and all our gear (plus driver) into the tiny van, and set off into the madness. Not very far though - pretty soon we halted at a fairly scruffy open area the size of half a football field, chock-full of people and normal-sized vans. Ganga did some people-wrangling, we loaded our gear onto the roof of our chosen/allocated van, and... we waited. And waited. And waited. People burned tyres. Others played badminton. We met Uzir, our porter. Someone sold us flowers for our hair. And then, finally, the dodgy-looking van guy herded his passengers into their seats, and we were off! Not very far though - before we knew it we were stopped again, cramming in more passengers. Not sure where they were being put, as all seats looked already full, but they got in. Apart from the ones who climbed on the roof, who got on. And then the driver handed the wheel (and, more importantly, the horn button) to a younger and less-dodgy-looking guy, and we were off! And this time, we went very far.
We started by driving up. And then up some more. Still, it was somewhat surprising when we rounded a bend and found ourselves peering over the edge of a bloody great big cliff that dropped away into a steep-sided narrow valley that stretched away into the distance. Terraces covered the hills on both sides, with crops of some kind growing under the bright sun. A steady stream of more-or-less crazy-looking vehicles powered up the hill towards us, throwing up rooster-tails of dust in places where road (re)construction was in progress. We wound our way down the hill for what felt like hours, and might have been. And then we stopped. For a wee. At a rickety cliffside stall selling potato chips and cans of fizzy sugar liquid. With black polythene stretched vertically along a wooden frame, for weeing on. For the so-called ladies, the polythene urine wall was a ceilingless polythene room, with an area of more-or-less flat ground in the middle, for weeing on.
And then we were back in the van, back on the road, heading downhill. The hours trickled by. We stopped for lunch. The toilet was awesome. The trashfall on the other side of the road - down the bank and into the river - even more so. We passed a cable car that takes worshippers to a hilltop Hindu temple, we read a sign that said "Hearty Welcome to Open Defecation Free Zone," we saw a tractor perched on a rock in the middle of a river, and a truck being hauled by hand back up the cliff it had been driven over. We got sore legs from being squished into a van seat for too long. Then it rained, and the bags were removed from the roof and piled into the van, which meant a reshuffle that led to four in the front, but then we started to offload passengers at various waystops, and then we reached Besisahar, and the van vanished, and it was time to start walking.
Probable Non-Human DNA
Short Version:
We get all Zen on things, and pay for cuddles
Long Version:
Our first Buddhist stupa was, as it turned out, one of the biggest in the world: Boudhanath. As a spiritual nonentity and void, my favorite bit was when the small, heavily-wrapped child waddled as fast as its stumpy little legs would carry it through the midst of a large herd of pigeons. The room-sized prayer wheel was pretty cool too, especially when it was being cleaned by the dwarf.
It's kind of surprising that the Buddhist practice of automating prayer, through prayer flags (prayer written on cloth, hung from wire, blown by wind = prayer done) and prayer wheels (prayer written, carved, or stamped in metal on a cylinder, mounted vertically and spun on an axis by passing hands = prayer done) has not been adopted by god-botherers in Western nations - you'd think that lazy people who limit their religiosity to lip-service and proselytising would be prime candidates for a system that allows one to build one's prayer stats without ever taking one's eyes from one's 80-inch television.
The taxi journeys around Kathmandu took us down a number of brick-paved streets. These look quite cool, but don't provide the most even surface for your suspensionless bicycles, or your tiny Suzuki hatchback taxis. We also saw a mangy cat chewing some carpet.
Back in Thamel, we found a bakery. Hooray! And not only did it have delicious baked goods, it also had a crazy little old lady, with some probable non-human DNA, wrinkled face plastered against the window from the outside. She managed to convey to us her preferred nommage - a chocolate donut - and her prune-like face split into a HUGE toothless grin as she saw us preparing to buy it for her. Lovely Wife then had the presence of mind to haggle with her, and both parties seemed pretty darned happy with the eventual donut-for-cuddlephoto bargain.
We get all Zen on things, and pay for cuddles
Long Version:
Our first Buddhist stupa was, as it turned out, one of the biggest in the world: Boudhanath. As a spiritual nonentity and void, my favorite bit was when the small, heavily-wrapped child waddled as fast as its stumpy little legs would carry it through the midst of a large herd of pigeons. The room-sized prayer wheel was pretty cool too, especially when it was being cleaned by the dwarf.
It's kind of surprising that the Buddhist practice of automating prayer, through prayer flags (prayer written on cloth, hung from wire, blown by wind = prayer done) and prayer wheels (prayer written, carved, or stamped in metal on a cylinder, mounted vertically and spun on an axis by passing hands = prayer done) has not been adopted by god-botherers in Western nations - you'd think that lazy people who limit their religiosity to lip-service and proselytising would be prime candidates for a system that allows one to build one's prayer stats without ever taking one's eyes from one's 80-inch television.
The taxi journeys around Kathmandu took us down a number of brick-paved streets. These look quite cool, but don't provide the most even surface for your suspensionless bicycles, or your tiny Suzuki hatchback taxis. We also saw a mangy cat chewing some carpet.
Back in Thamel, we found a bakery. Hooray! And not only did it have delicious baked goods, it also had a crazy little old lady, with some probable non-human DNA, wrinkled face plastered against the window from the outside. She managed to convey to us her preferred nommage - a chocolate donut - and her prune-like face split into a HUGE toothless grin as she saw us preparing to buy it for her. Lovely Wife then had the presence of mind to haggle with her, and both parties seemed pretty darned happy with the eventual donut-for-cuddlephoto bargain.
Delicious Discarded Items
Short Version:
Monkeys! Naughty monkeys!
Long Version:
From the Pashupatinath Temple, we sidled around the bottom edge of the Deer Park and into a cluster of small temples.
Linga abounded.
And there were monkeys.
The first one we saw was stealing and eating the orange and yellow flowers that devotees had left as offerings. Naughty monkey!
The second and third appeared together; a baby clinging to its mother. They too were snacking on religious offerings. More naughty monkeys!
And then they were everywhere; in the trees, not in the trees... everywhere! Big ones, little ones, raw-bottomed ones. Squabbling, grooming each other, staring into space, eating. Lots of eating. Flowers, bits of tree, dirt, unidentifiable objects, shoes. Nom nom nom nom nom. Delicious shoes.
We descended a series of switchback corners and were spat out onto a broad, tree-lined avenue. With more monkeys. One tried to steal an old man's flower necklace. Failed. Lucky not to be hit with a stick.
A bridge took us back across the river towards a bright orange monkey-god statue, at and near which groups of women were worshipping and bathing. Monkeys, too, were frolicking in the waters, and operating in competition with the human trash scavengers for prime - and especially edible - discarded items. Nom nom nom nom nom.
Monkeys! Naughty monkeys!
Long Version:
From the Pashupatinath Temple, we sidled around the bottom edge of the Deer Park and into a cluster of small temples.
Linga abounded.
And there were monkeys.
The first one we saw was stealing and eating the orange and yellow flowers that devotees had left as offerings. Naughty monkey!
The second and third appeared together; a baby clinging to its mother. They too were snacking on religious offerings. More naughty monkeys!
And then they were everywhere; in the trees, not in the trees... everywhere! Big ones, little ones, raw-bottomed ones. Squabbling, grooming each other, staring into space, eating. Lots of eating. Flowers, bits of tree, dirt, unidentifiable objects, shoes. Nom nom nom nom nom. Delicious shoes.
We descended a series of switchback corners and were spat out onto a broad, tree-lined avenue. With more monkeys. One tried to steal an old man's flower necklace. Failed. Lucky not to be hit with a stick.
A bridge took us back across the river towards a bright orange monkey-god statue, at and near which groups of women were worshipping and bathing. Monkeys, too, were frolicking in the waters, and operating in competition with the human trash scavengers for prime - and especially edible - discarded items. Nom nom nom nom nom.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
God's What?
Short Version:
We explore Kathmandu, and check out the Pashupatinath Temple
Long Version:
Our first night in Kathmandu was a noisy night in hard single beds, with a no-hot-water bathroom attached. This was followed by a room-change negotiation with hotel management, which in turn led to a sunny rooftop penthouse room. With hot water. And views. And, as Lovely Wife put it, if you have to be sick*, better to be sick in a nice place than in a grim, unpleasant, noisy one.
From our rooftop perch, we** did some eyeballing of people going about their daily business. Said business bore both similarities and differences to life as lived in other places; brothers scrapped energetically across multiple rooms until halted by their spoon-wielding, baby-carrying, sari-clad mother; a small child watched Kung Fu Panda on a small TV in a dimly-lit furnitureless room above a combination restaurant/grocery store where chain-smoking men sat talking deep into the evening. No nudies spotted, unfortunately.
The tourist bit of Kathmandu is called Thamel, and it's quite nice. Especially compared to other bits of Kathmandu. We spent a few days in Thamel, getting gear sorted for the trek, wandering from overpriced trinket store to overpriced trinket store, familiarising ourselves with the location and operating principles of the Indian embassy (more on that later), and getting to know our guide-to-be while seeing the sights of Kathmandu, starting with the Pashupatinath Temple. As non-Hindus, we weren't allowed inside the temple proper, but the gatekeepers were more than happy to take our money (again, significantly more for tourists than for locals) and the parts of the sprawling complex on the far side of the Bagmati River were open for us to wander at will. The complex climbs uphill*** from the river in a series of ramps and steps, from terrace to terrace, and eventually to the lower edge of the Deer Park, where various deer spend their days stuffing their cute little faces with bits of greenery handed through the fences by tourists.
The hillside terraces housed various temples, smaller and less holy than the main attraction. Many of the smaller temples had one or more of the following:
- bells, for ringing or taking photos of, depending on your ethno-religious background
- statues of cows, weatherworn and often kind of cute
- statues of the Shiva Lingam, for worshipping or tittering at****
- holy men (sadhus), for sneakily not paying to take photos of
- beggars, for not giving moneys to
We managed some sneaky unpaid photos of sadhus. And some sneaky unpaid photos of crippled, arthritic, leprous beggars. But none of the funerals, despite the fact that there were a lot of them happening, and that they were quite far away from where we were, meaning the chances of being caught snapping something we oughtn't were pretty low - unlike the beggars and sadhus, who yellingly waved mutant club fists and gestured benevolently, respectively.
We saw funerals at many stages from our perch on the far side of the river, from the decoration of the platform and the preparation of the body, through the participatory, wailing and gnashing of teeth stages, to the dissipation of the last wisps of smoke rising from the expired pyre. People were bathing, clothed, in the waters of the Bagmati. Most of them seemed to be men - the women, as it turned out, were upstream, near the monkeys.
* = Delhi Belly is real, and unfun. It's not dissimilar to the Montezuma's Revenge we encountered in Mexico
** = May have just been me
*** = At the time, we thought it was quite steep. It's likely that our guide was more than just a little horrified by our reaction
**** = Shiva Lingam is one of the most commonly found worship symbols throughout the Hindu world. Literally translated, it essentially means "God's Cock." Someone in rural southeast Auckland, NZ, decided it would be a good name for their cattery (Shiva Lingam, that is, not God's Cock. I'm not entirely certain that the NZ Companies Office would allow the registration of "God's Cock Cattery," or, indeed, "God's Cock [any type of business]." Can someone please try, and let me know how you get on? Thanks), which has always been a great source of amusement on Hunua bike adventures.
We explore Kathmandu, and check out the Pashupatinath Temple
Long Version:
Our first night in Kathmandu was a noisy night in hard single beds, with a no-hot-water bathroom attached. This was followed by a room-change negotiation with hotel management, which in turn led to a sunny rooftop penthouse room. With hot water. And views. And, as Lovely Wife put it, if you have to be sick*, better to be sick in a nice place than in a grim, unpleasant, noisy one.
From our rooftop perch, we** did some eyeballing of people going about their daily business. Said business bore both similarities and differences to life as lived in other places; brothers scrapped energetically across multiple rooms until halted by their spoon-wielding, baby-carrying, sari-clad mother; a small child watched Kung Fu Panda on a small TV in a dimly-lit furnitureless room above a combination restaurant/grocery store where chain-smoking men sat talking deep into the evening. No nudies spotted, unfortunately.
The tourist bit of Kathmandu is called Thamel, and it's quite nice. Especially compared to other bits of Kathmandu. We spent a few days in Thamel, getting gear sorted for the trek, wandering from overpriced trinket store to overpriced trinket store, familiarising ourselves with the location and operating principles of the Indian embassy (more on that later), and getting to know our guide-to-be while seeing the sights of Kathmandu, starting with the Pashupatinath Temple. As non-Hindus, we weren't allowed inside the temple proper, but the gatekeepers were more than happy to take our money (again, significantly more for tourists than for locals) and the parts of the sprawling complex on the far side of the Bagmati River were open for us to wander at will. The complex climbs uphill*** from the river in a series of ramps and steps, from terrace to terrace, and eventually to the lower edge of the Deer Park, where various deer spend their days stuffing their cute little faces with bits of greenery handed through the fences by tourists.
The hillside terraces housed various temples, smaller and less holy than the main attraction. Many of the smaller temples had one or more of the following:
- bells, for ringing or taking photos of, depending on your ethno-religious background
- statues of cows, weatherworn and often kind of cute
- statues of the Shiva Lingam, for worshipping or tittering at****
- holy men (sadhus), for sneakily not paying to take photos of
- beggars, for not giving moneys to
We managed some sneaky unpaid photos of sadhus. And some sneaky unpaid photos of crippled, arthritic, leprous beggars. But none of the funerals, despite the fact that there were a lot of them happening, and that they were quite far away from where we were, meaning the chances of being caught snapping something we oughtn't were pretty low - unlike the beggars and sadhus, who yellingly waved mutant club fists and gestured benevolently, respectively.
We saw funerals at many stages from our perch on the far side of the river, from the decoration of the platform and the preparation of the body, through the participatory, wailing and gnashing of teeth stages, to the dissipation of the last wisps of smoke rising from the expired pyre. People were bathing, clothed, in the waters of the Bagmati. Most of them seemed to be men - the women, as it turned out, were upstream, near the monkeys.
* = Delhi Belly is real, and unfun. It's not dissimilar to the Montezuma's Revenge we encountered in Mexico
** = May have just been me
*** = At the time, we thought it was quite steep. It's likely that our guide was more than just a little horrified by our reaction
**** = Shiva Lingam is one of the most commonly found worship symbols throughout the Hindu world. Literally translated, it essentially means "God's Cock." Someone in rural southeast Auckland, NZ, decided it would be a good name for their cattery (Shiva Lingam, that is, not God's Cock. I'm not entirely certain that the NZ Companies Office would allow the registration of "God's Cock Cattery," or, indeed, "God's Cock [any type of business]." Can someone please try, and let me know how you get on? Thanks), which has always been a great source of amusement on Hunua bike adventures.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Kathmandu! (Is Not a Shop)
Short Version:
Kathmandu has its own filth
Long Version:
Tribhuvan International Airport is made of red bricks. That was unexpected.
The queue for visas was long. Two women appeared at intervals and walked up and down the line, stapling photos to application forms for people. One was lovely, the other scary. Pretty sure the scary one deliberately put the staple in the middle of the Puppet forehead.
Visas acquired, it was outside, where a man holding a PHARO sign bundled us into a van and drove us through various bits of Kathmandu to our hotel. There was a lot to take in - we'd been warned that we were going to be hard-pressed to determine whether buildings were in process of being built or knocked down, and that was not only true but applied to almost every building we saw, although not the Royal Palace, where in 2001 Crown Prince Dipendra massacred nine of his family before putting an end to himself as well (his uncle, Gyanendra, succeeded the throne, and remained in power through to the end of the monarchy - replaced by a form of democracy - in 2006). The palace is now a museum.
We also passed the most polluted river we've ever seen. Holy heck, the water was FILTHY! Dark grey and semi-solid, with chunks. Ewwwwww!
And then the streets got cleaner, the number of pale faces in the hordes of people we were passing increased, and then we arrived at the International Guesthouse, where we were staying for a couple of nights before setting off to walk around/up/down some hills...
Kathmandu has its own filth
Long Version:
Tribhuvan International Airport is made of red bricks. That was unexpected.
The queue for visas was long. Two women appeared at intervals and walked up and down the line, stapling photos to application forms for people. One was lovely, the other scary. Pretty sure the scary one deliberately put the staple in the middle of the Puppet forehead.
Visas acquired, it was outside, where a man holding a PHARO sign bundled us into a van and drove us through various bits of Kathmandu to our hotel. There was a lot to take in - we'd been warned that we were going to be hard-pressed to determine whether buildings were in process of being built or knocked down, and that was not only true but applied to almost every building we saw, although not the Royal Palace, where in 2001 Crown Prince Dipendra massacred nine of his family before putting an end to himself as well (his uncle, Gyanendra, succeeded the throne, and remained in power through to the end of the monarchy - replaced by a form of democracy - in 2006). The palace is now a museum.
We also passed the most polluted river we've ever seen. Holy heck, the water was FILTHY! Dark grey and semi-solid, with chunks. Ewwwwww!
And then the streets got cleaner, the number of pale faces in the hordes of people we were passing increased, and then we arrived at the International Guesthouse, where we were staying for a couple of nights before setting off to walk around/up/down some hills...
Really, I'm a Lady!
Short Version:
Onwards and upwards, eventually.
Long Version: Delhi was fun, but we were ready to leave by the time it was time to leave. Old hands at Delhi after four days, we watched with interest as an increasingly excited mob formed around a newly-arrived and rather bemused-looking Westerner seeking transport, and then we were retracing our steps over the railway tracks and down to the Metro station for the journey to Indira Gandhi International airport.
We travelled by Metro a lot while in Delhi. It's easy, convenient, and cheap. They even have one car per train reserved for ladies only! It is possible, we discovered, for men to travel in this car. However, one becomes the target of many, many staring eyes. It's a bit uncomfortable, even when one's been spending most of one's time with many staring eyes following one's movements because one is a) not Indian AND b) have tattoos OR c) are attractive. In the ladycar, some of the stares were glares, others seemed amused at the not-very-brightness of the foreigner.
Delhi is a hazy-aired city, and the Airport Metro Express affords some grand views of various towers marching into fog/smog/other-shrouded distance beneath a big orange sun. Birds of prey wheel overhead in many places, engendering wonderment about just what - or who - they might be eyeballing from above and preparing to rend and devour.
And then we reached the airport, and made it as far as the doors, where we queued before a gun-toting, moustachioed soldier who wanted to see passports and tickets before we were allowed in. Once we produced the documents, he told us we had to go to the next door along, because the check-in desks for our airline were in that direction. Given that a) there was a queue at the other door and b) once inside the door we could have walked across to our check-in counter in well under a minute, we contemplated an objection. Briefly. Then we queued at the other door. The gun-toting, moustachioed soldier at the head of that queue looked good and hard at both of us before allowing us through, probably on one hand trying to reconcile the clean-shaven, short-haired passport Puppet with the hairy version in front of him. Suspect that on the other hand he was just checking Nene out.
Check-in itself was comparatively painless, especially compared with the multituinous security checks and red-tape we then had to endure. One of the security goons decided he did NOT like the cut of the Puppet jib, and it took three walks through the sensor gate, one extra-throrough pat-down, and various clothing-removals before we were through to the departing passenger area, where we found... MORE SECURITY CHECKS!
Finally, they let us onto the plane, and into the sky, and back to earth at Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu, Nepal
Onwards and upwards, eventually.
Long Version: Delhi was fun, but we were ready to leave by the time it was time to leave. Old hands at Delhi after four days, we watched with interest as an increasingly excited mob formed around a newly-arrived and rather bemused-looking Westerner seeking transport, and then we were retracing our steps over the railway tracks and down to the Metro station for the journey to Indira Gandhi International airport.
We travelled by Metro a lot while in Delhi. It's easy, convenient, and cheap. They even have one car per train reserved for ladies only! It is possible, we discovered, for men to travel in this car. However, one becomes the target of many, many staring eyes. It's a bit uncomfortable, even when one's been spending most of one's time with many staring eyes following one's movements because one is a) not Indian AND b) have tattoos OR c) are attractive. In the ladycar, some of the stares were glares, others seemed amused at the not-very-brightness of the foreigner.
Delhi is a hazy-aired city, and the Airport Metro Express affords some grand views of various towers marching into fog/smog/other-shrouded distance beneath a big orange sun. Birds of prey wheel overhead in many places, engendering wonderment about just what - or who - they might be eyeballing from above and preparing to rend and devour.
And then we reached the airport, and made it as far as the doors, where we queued before a gun-toting, moustachioed soldier who wanted to see passports and tickets before we were allowed in. Once we produced the documents, he told us we had to go to the next door along, because the check-in desks for our airline were in that direction. Given that a) there was a queue at the other door and b) once inside the door we could have walked across to our check-in counter in well under a minute, we contemplated an objection. Briefly. Then we queued at the other door. The gun-toting, moustachioed soldier at the head of that queue looked good and hard at both of us before allowing us through, probably on one hand trying to reconcile the clean-shaven, short-haired passport Puppet with the hairy version in front of him. Suspect that on the other hand he was just checking Nene out.
Check-in itself was comparatively painless, especially compared with the multituinous security checks and red-tape we then had to endure. One of the security goons decided he did NOT like the cut of the Puppet jib, and it took three walks through the sensor gate, one extra-throrough pat-down, and various clothing-removals before we were through to the departing passenger area, where we found... MORE SECURITY CHECKS!
Finally, they let us onto the plane, and into the sky, and back to earth at Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sights, Sounds, and Smells
Short Version:
Stuff we did/saw/heard/smelled in Delhi
Long Version:
Raju had a moustache, and pants that he kept pulled up high. He drove us around Delhi in his little silver hatchback, which backfired and stalled at irregular intervals, severally in the middle of major intersections*. The radio turned itself on and off at random intervals. When on, it played a fairly random assortment of more or less musical music. With and without him, we did/saw/heard/smelled some Delhi stuff, including...
...a motorbike v car crash. The car driver took the motorbike keys so the bloke couldn't disappear. The motorcyclist seemed unsurprised and remarkably relaxed about that.
...a snake charmer became less-than-charming when the fat middle-aged Australian woman refused to pay him for the photograph she'd just taken of him and his charming charmed snake. We were hoping he'd encourage the snake to attack her, but he didn't. Boo, hiss!
...many, many schoolchildren, many of whom wanted their photos taken with us. Nene was especially popular with teenage boys, possibly because the top button of her shirt kept falling open.
...kids weeing in gutters
...men weeing in gutters and against walls
...swastika symbols galore
...people throwing orange and yellow flowers at statues of gods and goddesses
...the Continental Surgical Emporium
...many monumental edifices, historical buildings and complexes, some of which were actually quite cool. Statesman House was rather excellent, as were India Gate, the sprawling Humayun's Tomb complex, the tranquil Lodi Gardens, the Qutab Minar complex,and the memorials to the variously assassinated Gandhi statesmen and women
...special queue systems for non-Indians. We joined the lengthy queue for the shoe storage counter at the Laxmi Narayan Temple, for example, but were spotted as the infiltrators we were and redirected to a separate Westerner-shoe-storage environment, with padded seats upon which to sit while removing one's Westerner shoes, lockable lockers for storing one's Westerner non-shoe valuables, and direct access to the gift shop, where one could spend ones Westerner moneys.
...many governmental buildings, all of which are huge (suspect grandiosity = prestige in some inter-departmental importance war). The Engineer Corps building was next door to the Tuberculosis Hospital
...our second huge, striking, beautiful, nonagonal Ba'ahai House of Worship in as many months, after the one in Samoa. The Delhi House looked like a symmetrically improved Sydney Opera House, and is beautiful
...statues of mutant animals
...special entry fees for non-Indians. Many places that were charging for entry did so on a multi-tier cost basis. Usually this meant 10 rupees for Indians, 250 rupees for others
...flower sellers thronging the streets early in the mornings
...the sun rose and set hugely and redly in a murky sky
Also in Delhi, we:
...took a free and exciting high-speed pillion ride on a scooter through the Main Bazaar at Pandar Garj (Lovely Wife didn't attend this event, despite the South Asian penchant for multiple passengers on mopeds)
...met some Canadians, an Australian, and a Persian. The Persian was one of the most unique-looking people either of us had seen for a long time
...had to get our shower drain unblocked by a minion on a daily basis.
...drank coffee that was "enriched by the goodness of mushroom extract"
...paid to wee in a nice, clean toilet with relaxing music
...took tuk-tuks, but not as often as we should. The walk from the Metro to Qutab Minar was shit, although the mad guy was entertaining. The tuk-tuk ride back was quick, fun, and cheap. And the driver had a good beard
* = NZ has no major intersections. Delhi has major intersections!
Stuff we did/saw/heard/smelled in Delhi
Long Version:
Raju had a moustache, and pants that he kept pulled up high. He drove us around Delhi in his little silver hatchback, which backfired and stalled at irregular intervals, severally in the middle of major intersections*. The radio turned itself on and off at random intervals. When on, it played a fairly random assortment of more or less musical music. With and without him, we did/saw/heard/smelled some Delhi stuff, including...
...a motorbike v car crash. The car driver took the motorbike keys so the bloke couldn't disappear. The motorcyclist seemed unsurprised and remarkably relaxed about that.
...a snake charmer became less-than-charming when the fat middle-aged Australian woman refused to pay him for the photograph she'd just taken of him and his charming charmed snake. We were hoping he'd encourage the snake to attack her, but he didn't. Boo, hiss!
...many, many schoolchildren, many of whom wanted their photos taken with us. Nene was especially popular with teenage boys, possibly because the top button of her shirt kept falling open.
...kids weeing in gutters
...men weeing in gutters and against walls
...swastika symbols galore
...people throwing orange and yellow flowers at statues of gods and goddesses
...the Continental Surgical Emporium
...many monumental edifices, historical buildings and complexes, some of which were actually quite cool. Statesman House was rather excellent, as were India Gate, the sprawling Humayun's Tomb complex, the tranquil Lodi Gardens, the Qutab Minar complex,and the memorials to the variously assassinated Gandhi statesmen and women
...special queue systems for non-Indians. We joined the lengthy queue for the shoe storage counter at the Laxmi Narayan Temple, for example, but were spotted as the infiltrators we were and redirected to a separate Westerner-shoe-storage environment, with padded seats upon which to sit while removing one's Westerner shoes, lockable lockers for storing one's Westerner non-shoe valuables, and direct access to the gift shop, where one could spend ones Westerner moneys.
...many governmental buildings, all of which are huge (suspect grandiosity = prestige in some inter-departmental importance war). The Engineer Corps building was next door to the Tuberculosis Hospital
...our second huge, striking, beautiful, nonagonal Ba'ahai House of Worship in as many months, after the one in Samoa. The Delhi House looked like a symmetrically improved Sydney Opera House, and is beautiful
...statues of mutant animals
...special entry fees for non-Indians. Many places that were charging for entry did so on a multi-tier cost basis. Usually this meant 10 rupees for Indians, 250 rupees for others
...flower sellers thronging the streets early in the mornings
...the sun rose and set hugely and redly in a murky sky
Also in Delhi, we:
...took a free and exciting high-speed pillion ride on a scooter through the Main Bazaar at Pandar Garj (Lovely Wife didn't attend this event, despite the South Asian penchant for multiple passengers on mopeds)
...met some Canadians, an Australian, and a Persian. The Persian was one of the most unique-looking people either of us had seen for a long time
...had to get our shower drain unblocked by a minion on a daily basis.
...drank coffee that was "enriched by the goodness of mushroom extract"
...paid to wee in a nice, clean toilet with relaxing music
...took tuk-tuks, but not as often as we should. The walk from the Metro to Qutab Minar was shit, although the mad guy was entertaining. The tuk-tuk ride back was quick, fun, and cheap. And the driver had a good beard
* = NZ has no major intersections. Delhi has major intersections!
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
City of Things
Short Version:
Chaos. Carnage. Things.
Long Version:
Our hotel room had no windows. It did have a fishtank though. Probably better than a window, to be honest, given the chaos taking place outside at all hours of day and night.
Even the animals were pulling loopy moves; from the hotel's rooftop restaurant, beneath a sky chock-full of wheeling, diving black kites*, we watched a slender cat attack a long-tailed chipmunk. It missed, nearly falling off the roof. Then a dog tried to eat the cat, but was chased by another dog. Bemused, we ate curry.
Eventually, we braced ourselves for the chaos and the carnage and set off out into the madness again.
There were a lot of people with things to sell. To us, preferably. Some of them were quite vehement about it, despite repeated avowals of extreme disinterest. And as soon as one extricated oneself from the clutches of one thing-seller, there was invariably another right there, ready to sell you THEIR things. And another. And then three more. Not waiting politely for their turn, either, because the only people who wait politely for their turn for anything in Delhi are newly-arrived NZers.
So, things. For you, the things. Cheap cheap. In fact, special price for you, my friend, because you are my friend, because you are from New Zealand, special price New Zealand, very nice country, Black Caps, rugby. You have very nice tattoos, my friend. Come look my things, best things, cheap cheap for you.
No. Fuck off. Don't touch me. Go away. Don't want your things. No. No. No. No.
Luckily, there was not-dying-from-traffic to concentrate on, to take minds off thing-selling people. Anyone who thinks the driving in Tauranga, or Auckland is bad, you're... well, actually you're absolutely correct. NZ drivers are appalling. Delhi traffic is different; it's bigger and scarier, and stinkier and generally mayhemic, but once past the initial pants-shitting stage, it starts to make sense, and then it starts to seem like an almost rational system. It'd never work in NZ, though - NZ drivers, cyclists and peds are all too selfish and too arrogant.
And all through the madness, cows wandered serenely, stopping at intervals to eat... well, things. Not grass, for grass there was none. Things. Some identifiable, others... not so much so. Some raw, some... you get the picture.
Delhi - City of Things
* = Birds, not string-controlled human-constructed flying items
Chaos. Carnage. Things.
Long Version:
Our hotel room had no windows. It did have a fishtank though. Probably better than a window, to be honest, given the chaos taking place outside at all hours of day and night.
Even the animals were pulling loopy moves; from the hotel's rooftop restaurant, beneath a sky chock-full of wheeling, diving black kites*, we watched a slender cat attack a long-tailed chipmunk. It missed, nearly falling off the roof. Then a dog tried to eat the cat, but was chased by another dog. Bemused, we ate curry.
Eventually, we braced ourselves for the chaos and the carnage and set off out into the madness again.
There were a lot of people with things to sell. To us, preferably. Some of them were quite vehement about it, despite repeated avowals of extreme disinterest. And as soon as one extricated oneself from the clutches of one thing-seller, there was invariably another right there, ready to sell you THEIR things. And another. And then three more. Not waiting politely for their turn, either, because the only people who wait politely for their turn for anything in Delhi are newly-arrived NZers.
So, things. For you, the things. Cheap cheap. In fact, special price for you, my friend, because you are my friend, because you are from New Zealand, special price New Zealand, very nice country, Black Caps, rugby. You have very nice tattoos, my friend. Come look my things, best things, cheap cheap for you.
No. Fuck off. Don't touch me. Go away. Don't want your things. No. No. No. No.
Luckily, there was not-dying-from-traffic to concentrate on, to take minds off thing-selling people. Anyone who thinks the driving in Tauranga, or Auckland is bad, you're... well, actually you're absolutely correct. NZ drivers are appalling. Delhi traffic is different; it's bigger and scarier, and stinkier and generally mayhemic, but once past the initial pants-shitting stage, it starts to make sense, and then it starts to seem like an almost rational system. It'd never work in NZ, though - NZ drivers, cyclists and peds are all too selfish and too arrogant.
And all through the madness, cows wandered serenely, stopping at intervals to eat... well, things. Not grass, for grass there was none. Things. Some identifiable, others... not so much so. Some raw, some... you get the picture.
Delhi - City of Things
* = Birds, not string-controlled human-constructed flying items
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