24. Shitty Shitty Bang Bang

I know I'm becoming part of the landscape because events that a few weeks ago I would have immediately blogged on about for their insanity, now seem relatively normal. The extraordinary becomes commonplace, where ever you find yourself. So I'm going to do more daily blahs, before they fade into part of the general experience.

Living in a foreign culture, with a foreign language, food, currency and customs is difficult at the best of times. Add to this the constant insanity of traffic, where crossing the road is like walking into a dodgem car race, and walking down a quiet lane can give you an accidental bikini wax when a motorbike presses you up against a rough wall. Or realizing that yes, that is actually a pink painted cow sharing grains with squabbling pigeons in the main city square. Or that it is quite conceivable that you could start hallucinating for a Salad Nicoise and a firm carrot. That it's fairly standard to run the traffic gamut with your large bag of mouldy laundry in your backpack, stumbling into a dark hole in the wall where, between customers, the two launderers play noisy checkers as seven people watch over their shoulders: and your clothes are always ready on time, smelling of massage oil and smoke.

It's mid afternoon; I've come back from street walking to rest my feet, wash my hands and eyes, and go to the loo.  The weak sun curled up on the bed next to me is glorious. It's been foggy the past few days, dainty fingers lick my windows and try to gatecrash into my room, curling tentacles dance on the tiled roooftops and nobody has hung out their washing.  I know the mountains are still there because there are curled, faded posters of the Annapurnas on my wall to remind me of where I am. 

Every day, every hour, the spectacle at my ankles changes.  My roadmaps are not only shonky, spitting electrical wiring above, or the waft of cinnamon from the donut stall; there's a circus at my feet that changes it's performance to suit the weather.   The stray puppies I've been watching daily, squirming around the belly of their mother are now walking - or toddling - and causing huge headaches for their stoned street kid owner, who has leprosy,  because he now has to be in ten different places and under a hundred hurtling sets of wheels to protect them. Today I gave this desperate kid some fruit from my fruit seller (who now knows what I want, and now charges me local price) because yesterday the kid was beaten by his pimp because I gave him 100rp ($ 1.20) for food for the puppies.  Yes, I did say pimp.  These kids are also used for fodder.  It's a mean, mean world out there.

Street kid I pass every day and feed occasionally

I have a regular rickshaw driver, who waits for me at the corner of my lane, usually snoozing on his handlebars, around the same time every morning to take me where I want to go, or anywhere.  I don't know his name, he doesn't know mine but we're overjoyed to see each other.   Wizened, wrinkled, crinkled and dusty, he leaps to greet me, and I'm amazed at how his skinny legs, poking through his threadbare jeans, pedal his ramshackle bike as fast as they do.  His feet are calloused and gnarled, burned and blistered.   He must be 35.   The colourful plastic canopy tingles and jingles as we hurtle across corners and dodge pyramids of oranges on our way to Durbar Square, past the garland sellers, powdered Hanumans, plastic eating cows and popcorn makers. When we stop to buy fruit, I always let him choose what he wants. 

It's mid morning; yet many of the ancient carved shutters are still padlocked to their eyeballs, even though nobody steals anything here. Souls are too precious to mess with. People are sweeping their old steps with jagged bristles of straw; or sluicing their entrances with disinfectant. I saw a goat on a bicycle, I saw a man with a tarp on his head carrying a fridge.  My rickshaw driver and I laughed at the newspaper seller shouting the headlines at the top of his head as he raced past on his bicycle.

I heard Om mane Padme Hum over and over and over and over, which always reminds me of D but this time my eyes didn't sting. I saw a traffic cop in a very smart blue and gray uniform, with peaked cap and epaulettes, get back onto his white girl's bicycle after harassing a taxi driver for driving on the shady side of the road. I said Namaste every three seconds: I was propositioned for hasish, drugs, dope (no no no)! because they've given up trying to sell me pashminas, dear human, just feel me. My jacket got caught in the spokes of a rickshaw when he pedalled past me; it took two fleet footed bronze buddha sellers to run after him and retrieve my clothing. I found a dentist, advertised by a large set of false teeth painted on a sign below some flopping green shutters, in case I need one next time a taxi goes over a speedbump and then into a pothole. 

I bought a monthly visitors permit, (photo included), to roam the historic sights. A monthly permit costs the same (photo included) as a day pass, but nobody knows that except us locals. This involves standing in a queue of one for about twenty minutes, while the official finishes picking her teeth and fossicking for something extremely valuable in her left nostril, then cleaning her ear with a rolled up rupee note, after which everything is stamped in quadruplicate.

The beggars have given up tapping me on the arm (yes it is possible to pat your mouth and rub your stomach at the same time). I'm no longer swamped by Tibetan bag sellers when I dismount - with more grace than the first bruising time - from the rickshaw who has redecorated his Vee Hickle from the proceeds of my morning adventures, with five bunches of blue plastic flowers, a green tinsel fringe, a snowdome of Hanuman, colored bicycle lights and flowing streamers. Ingeniously, he uses an upended empty plastic hand cream bottle with a semi-blocked nozzle as a tooter.

(I blend in totally of course: a fat camera slung over a K-tart tee shirt with an art deco design; a leather bag with too many zipped pockets so I'm always scrabbling around in the wrong one looking for my lip ice or tissues or sunscreen; red curly hair, myopic when it comes to deciphering the rupee notes because their denominations have rubbed off; giant bottle of water tucked in the top of my churidar, and silver Hush Puppies with velcro straps. These were a serious fashion mishap but every night my feet thank me.)

The sadhus recognize me now and we give each other a nod and a wink and a charlatan-like blessing, and they no longer harass me for photos or payment thereof. The guards with their fixed bayonets and metal helmets and camouflage outfits pose from the back of their riot vehicles (I'm too scared to ask what they're doing there) and the persistent vendor who every day has tried to sell me fake lapis beads has now given up. 

On the way to fetch my pure cotton Kurta and Churidar (not ready yet come back later) I'd ordered from a hole in the wall I was lured into because it looked like a cave of silky delights, I wandered down another dark cobbled lane, pocked on either side with stalls selling ceiling high ropes of  mala beads - rudraksha, sandalwood, rosewood , bone, seeds. I wandered further until the alley opened to a square, in the center of which was a Stupa, with its beatific face and Inscrutable Eye staring down onto a ceremony that was taking place in honor of a man turning 108. Now even in our culture this is some age - but here, to be the same age as the number of beads on a Mala, well that's pretty special. What a carryings on!  A large fire was burning, leaping coils of smoke into the air, into which all manner of things from money to rice to petals had been thrown. The air was choking thick, making everyone cough, and almost killing the guest of honor who needed to be fanned with fronts of scorched branches to revive him. 

"The Prince" in Emperor's clothing - descendant of Mr 108

Our decigenarian plus 8 wore a heavy fitted waistcoat of red and gold brocade with fringes, and ropes of marigolds around his neck. As the smoke increased, the heat increased, and his family members, all dressed in orange and with enough gold to sink the Bounty, assembled through the wobbling heat, to pay homage.  Clearly overwhelmed by the hullaballoo, the heat, smoke and his possibly premature cremation, he sank lower and lower in his plastic chair until almost supine, he had to be propped up by five family members fanning furiously. 

A ten piece brass band, conducted by a discordant cousin of the birthday boy and orchestrated by the local village high school in crisp ironed shirts (Holi Hanuman, how they love their uniforms here) had struck up an ear splitting racket, in hot contest with a ten foot long trumpet purloined from the neighbouring monastery, a painted kettle drum and crashing cymbals "playing" near the Thanka shop . Dogs whined with miserable, desperate eyes, trailing their tails between their legs as they sought shelter underneath plastic chairs promising to collapse under the weight of decades of chapati that had attached themselves to the posteriors of so many women. Children scampered like monkeys over people, props, and parents,  and the few tourists who'd wandered in were soon having a "could this be tear gas?" moment. Mr 108 eyes glazed over and he slipped quietly to the floor, foaming at the mouth. A family member dropped the wad of rupees and the bucket of rice he was holding, snatched a folded Nepali newspaper (who has been assassinated today? Japan? What Tsunami?) from the hands of a tourist, and began fanning our unfortunate Birthday Boy as if both their lives depended on it.

Mothers of "The Prince" or daughters of Mr 108

Behold! A commotion from the rear - the motley musicians were hurriedly disbanded to allow an enormous green velour sofa, resembling a combination of a wooden long boat and a sleeping bag, to be placed at the plump, panting shoulders of Mr 108 so that he could recline in comfort amidst the smoke, fumes, incense and rice buckets.  The five flushed bearers, mopping their armpits and brows with their scarves, were complaining how this Velvet Throne had been manipulated down the six flights of stairs from the stateroom of a nearby cousin, hauled past the cars and gawping children and dragged here. 

Another red robed relative threaded a straw between Mr 108's gaping lips to hydrate him. His son ("The Prince" - stage whispered the Official No 1 Photographer as he edged me off the steps) seemed a little put out that his show was being stolen - ai - all that festival planning.  But he kept his cross-legged position on the floor, continued feeding the fires and receiving money and scattering rice on the heads of those genuflecting to him, while looking more and more disturbed and put out that his ascendence was probably taking second place to a a Major Decline.  Now his minions were wrapping Mr 108's feet in cold compresses which were scarves dipped in ice water from the catering table.  He had been disrobed of his brocade jacket and the crown he had been wearing, which resembled a half coconut with gold tinsel in the shape of a trident on its top that now rested on a tray at his red-powdered toes.

A fistful of rupees

There're always the moments as a photographer when your camera takes over as boss:  and here I was, happily, again.  As I was fumbling with my lenses and trying not to get asphyxiated by the smoke and sweating guests, or trodden on by a handful of squirming children more interested in how a lens was changed than a 108 year old man breathing his last, a Tibetan man attempted to sell me hand painted gold leaf thankas and a cousin was trying to explain the purpose of prayer wheels. Then tin platters of Maasko Bara, Dahl Bat, JuJu Dhau, Gundruk, and Chataamari, amongst other traditional Nepalese feast fare, were brought in careful convoy by female family members.  These were served to the male relatives, sweating on plastic chairs in the outer circle where there was a chance of unpolluted air. Offerings of butter oil and petals and grains of rice, as well as hard boiled eggs were added to the donation piles.  My stomach grumbling with hunger,  I took my cue to leave when the band marched off noisily with their prehistoric instruments and brandished a bristle of leaves attached to a long pole at anyone who got in their way.

All in a day's viewing

Latest wrist cuff fashion fit for Mr Prince

A handful of grains for a blessing

I staggered off, my eyes streaming, back into the main lane, back to my mission of finding some raw silk to make several kurtas and churidars. (tunics and long jodhpur leggings). Vendors sat outside their shops on enormous white cushions, reading the paper, with backdrops of  bolts of rainbow fabric irising to the ceiling. Do you have raw silk? The answer was always a shake of their head and eyes back to the paper. I soon realised if I wanted service I'd have to remove my shoes, clamber across the big white pad, and pull out the bolt of fabric I wanted. Nobody understood that I wanted to buy a few metres of sari fabric and cut it to make a Kurta set. Are you mad? Their frown implied.  To cut up silk is sacrilege!  And trying to find some fabric that isn't dense with gold thread, mirrors, flowers, heavy embroidery and lurid as one of my migraines - impossible. Is this cotton? Yes. Is this silk? Yes. Is this wool? Yes. Is this polyester? Yes. Well, how can it be all at once? Yes. So I crumpled and sniffed and scrunched and made up my own mind. I decided what I'd pay - ten times that of locals, for sure - so a quick start high, end lower negotiation, a nod of the vendor's head, and the bargaining bit was out the way.

Not the rigid digit measurer - tailor No 2.

When I catch a glimpse of myself in the windows of shops, I realise how UGLY I'm dressing:  jeans and t shirts are not nice, not smart, not elegant, not glamorous, but they are functional.  I want to wear clothes are that more colourful, that move more easily, that are more feminine.  Most of the fabrics I've seen are gaudy, stiff and would probably catch alight if too close to an exhaust.   So I've been scratching through the lurid textiles and colours to find beautiful fabric art and have been rewarded with fabulous richly hued silks, ethereal cottons and gossamer-like blends. Because I'm not a tourist who'd spend money on "I visited Nepal" wool yak and yeti knitted hats with pom poms, or harem clown pants made of hemp, or felt do it yourself scratchpad jackets that will go oh, so well with hiking boots and knock off fleas North Pole jackets, I'm running that gamut of having something made. Especially for Me.  I thought I would just have to be measured. But I soon discovered I'd have to be brave. And resilient. And Persistent. And stubborn. And Determined.  And prepared for Another Nepalese Adventure.

I also have to risk being fondled. It's a bit like being pick pocketed, but with fingers you can feel, and not nearly as stealthily or fast. Once I'd chosen my silk bolts, of slate, burnt orange, olive and aubergine, the male tailor jostled his female assistant out of his way and flicked open a dog eared spiral bound notebook.  He took a pencil from behind his ears, and removed  his curled tape measure from his neck where he'd been wearing it like a stethoscope.  He began with my boobs, closing the measurement in my crease. He frowned.  He remeasured.  He smiled. He wiped his glasses. He wrote and erased. He clucked, pursed his lips, remeasured.  He inspected his tape measure to see it wasn't telling lies. He wrapped the silk around my chest, unwrapped it, and measured me again. He measured me above and below and in my mid nipple line. He measured my armpit circumference again and again, putting his hand inside my armpit sleeve, almost cupping my boob, and again peered myopically at the tape measure that was stretched across my nipple. Then he measured my inside leg. He wiped his beaded forehead with his cuff.  A little rush of an adventurous thumb there, oops, better redo that part; he didn't know my inside leg went THAT high - and he's lost concentration of the measurement at hand, so to speak. Does he really need to measure my ankle?  With his thumb and forefinger? Does he need to measure from my navel to my lotus flower?   Ah well, this  may be as lucky as I'll get this month! 

If all goes well, I will be happy owner of four tunics and four churidars in four days.  Vi Shall Si.

A blank canvas for my jewellery. The sari's I'll have cut to make tunics and shawls.

I must finish this post with a description of the taxi driver who drove me down from the Korpan monastery yesterday, where I'd gone to take photos of the monks during a festival which was due to have begun on the 15th. I got there too late in the day; the festival began that night, I'd been warned that I should stay indoors because the radio-activity from Japan was heading to Thamel.  

I chose him for my safe return because his engine was running, his rate was reasonable, and he knew where Thamel was. No problem, get you home quick quick madam.

 Driving down winding mountains at sunset with a thick cloud of something burning my eyes, the conversation went as follows:

You have chillin?
Yes, Two. You have?
No have wive. No have chillin. I like to paaaaaaaaaaarty! Wive make you BOOOOOOORing! Wive make you ANGRRRRRRRY! Wive make no Whiskey HA HA! You have two chillin and you so strong! (He pinches my wrist, rubs the inside where the skin is white.) You make nice smooth strong! You have very happy! (He breaks into song - "I like to Move It, Move It, I like to Move it, Move It). You like drinkee?

No.

I like whiskeee! I like big bottle whiskee! I like you strong stretch. (Takes hands off steering wheel) "I like to Move It Move it. I like to Move it Move it "(Doing the circular locomotion with arms, thrusts hips while driving, rubs my skin which I have tried to cover up with my camera)" I like parteee! You like partee !!! You like I make you Shitty Party?

No. (I'm trying to work out how to climb into back seat of van while going rapidly down a mountain)

Yes! I make you shitty party! 1 You drink big whiskee! You Make Move It Move it ?! You want to move it move it! (Pause) You have hasbeen?

YES (This lie about having a husband I perpetuate although it chills my blood to do so).

You have usbin there, you have you visit shitty here, you have big fancy KAMERA you lonely you no have I like to Move it Move it Nepali boy whiskee partee your hotel?

NO!

What your name? (Grins) Smooth stretch? You buddhist? You Hindu?

Maya. I'm Buddhist.

Good! I like buddhist whiskee party shitty I like to Move it Move it, I like to Move it Move it ... (thrusts hips, pinches my skin) I no like Hindu! Very dirty shitty many peoples. You very strong stretch I like, how old you? You 42?

YES!

Here many people very old 42, you have usbin there, yu 42 here, you no have fat stretch, why no whiskee shitty party bang bang nepali I Like to Move it Move It I like to Move it Move it (thrusts hips) shitty? I 28.

I try to change the direction of this "conversation". I point to the disgustingly congested river of Kathmandu, the Bagmati. Or Bogmati, my name. Is that the Bagmati?

Yes! Soft stretch! I like to call MAYAAAAAAAA !! It mean LOVE YOOOOOOOU! Move it, move it (thrusts hips), I like to Move It Move It! (arms circling) Very dirty river, just like Hinduuuuuuuuuuus! Very dirty no Move it Move it! I take you short cut? You like to sing?

NO! Take usual road back to Thamel!

Yes, I take short cut.

We do, he gets lost. He backs his van between the Bogmati, a few pigs, some scattering chickens, piles of bricks and a compost tip. I feel flutterings of real fear. He leans over me, and locks the passenger door. I unlock it.

You not like Move It Move it, I like to Move it Move it? (thrusts hips) Why you no like whiskee drinkee paaaaaaaaaaarty! He pinches my wrist. You no like old 42 you young strong stretch Move it Move it?

I pull out my mobile and pretend to dial.

He gets back on the road.

Now he's singing insane Nepali songs; Indian Songs. He says - you very firm stretch. You very not old. Here 42, old wimmin. Two chillin and you firm stretch!

We slide off-road towards a roadside fruit vendor, towards a tourist is about to risk his life buying his last watermelon as we lunge towards him. The vendor takes dusty flight. The tourist drops the watermelon, which explodes when it hits the ground.  Our loose fender clips the cart which topples, spilling a wave of bursting watermelons that turns the dust pink and frothy.  

My driver screams with delight.  

YEAAAAAAHHH!  He screams again, holding the steering wheel as if he's trying to control a bucking broncho.  You have watermelons!  You have two titty watermelons!  His hand lunges off the steering wheel to grab my boob.   I smack him away.

PAAAAAARTY! I like watermelons!  (Thrusts hips. Leers at me, drooling ..)   I like whiskee watermelons! (Pinches my wrist) You not like I like to Move it Move it I like to Move it Move It? (thrusts hips). You no watermelon whiskee parteeeeeeee shitty Move it Move it Nepali? 

FUCKING SHUT UP  I finally find my tongue to scream.

A moment's shocked silence.  Both hands back on the wheel.  "You no like my shitty?"

He's silent for the three minutes left to my hotel.  I'm so excited to see the driveway, I almost fall out of the van.  I throw a handful of crumpled rupees, plus tip for the sheer lunacy and story value of the ride,  through the window. I grab my key from the lobby and rush upstairs. From the rooftop, as I unlock my door with shaking fingers, I look down the six flights and see him still in the driveway, peering up to my door, leering. Gears grate as he belches out of the lane, and I think I hear the strains of shitty shitty bang bang Move It Move it as he grinds and bumps away into this big noisy shitty of Kathmandu. 

I did move it, move it, that night. The television, laundry basket, two suitcases and a lamp, against the door.

And then I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, hugging myself because this is yet another story that nobody would ever believe.  So I wrote it down, quick as I could, verbatim. 

Dare I suspect that I may be getting my groove back? I have to start somewhere!

Awesome.