Krazy Kathmandu

Another bus journey. This time leaving from the 'tourist' bus station. This pre-fix of 'tourist' not only means that your bus ticket will be twice the price of a ticket on a local bus, but it (in theory) means that it will take half the time or maybe one third of the time, or at least much less time. Arriving at the bus station was another reminder of the ability of peace time Nepal to develop and adapt to the new influx of tourists: Hot croissants and apple filled rolls loitered in front of me on wooden trays, as mobile baker boys frantically tried to sell their fresh produce before the buses departed. And 'buses' refers to over twenty buses. I was amazed at the amount of tourists. Backpacks piled with expensive trekking gear, or inexpensive copies, were stacked onto roof racks (no outside perches on these buses) while lines of touts tried to match tickets with vehicles.

The Ali Ba Ba Bus was found. Although it was the same price as the rest, it was also half the size and seemingly twice as old. We all piled in. Treeeeeeeeedle Tri Treeeeeeeeedling around every winding corner. The commission racket with the bus driver and the fancy road side restaurants were emphasised after an almighty three stops in under six hours: Pokhara to Kathmandu – upwards and downwards and with as many toilet and fried food stops as your wallet would desire. A beautiful journey, and although it is not quite as spectacular as a flight on a clear day, it is definitely far more conducive to meditation as the hours combined with the views of daily life trundle past the window revealing nature and its colonisers.

The fields were full of women who from an outsiders impression still seem to be the backbone of manual labour – building the roads, carrying bundles of wood with the help of a piece of cloth tied around their foreheads, working their khukuris at the side of the roads with tiny tots strapped to their backs, culling entire harvests with one old machete. When I have asked the opinions of Nepali friends as to why the it is the physically 'weaker' sex are the ones doing all the 'hard' work I am told that it still comes back to the 'hunting and gathering' division of labour: In the modern Nepali world they tell me, the men are more likely to be receiving an education and therefore finding employment in the cities where they will work in factories, offices or restaurants. So while the men are working their 'brains', women are left working their muscles and from the very young to the very old work by filling the roles of the farmers, construction workers and manual labourers. However, I am still not convinced, as I seem to see a highly disproportionate number of men sitting drinking Nepali cheya at the road side, working very hard at day time gambling...

Driving through the mountains while keeping an eye to the sky for a glance of snowy topped peaks, I really feel amazement at how so much of Nepal seems to be built on a carved piece of hill. The landscape is a patchwork of makoi, baat and alou fields, which seem to pile one on top of another, with terraces jutting out from each and every woman-made corner. Just like in Dhramasala, it seems to be defying the ethos of the mountains to cut them horizontal, and I guess nature has a way to rebalance gravity with the help of the monsoon rains and seemingly surprise landslides. Meanwhile, designer concrete houses stand newly constructed and complete with a tiled social statement of a roof. They stand in contrast to the landscape, and in contrast to the mud walls of the small traditional Nepali houses, which are often left looking unfinished – as the optimistic owners leave the 'roof off' in case future funds allow for the building of another floor.

There are potted flowers everywhere – standing outside window ledges, above doors, in rusty tin cans lining shop fronts. Their brightness distracts from the piles of discarded rubbish, and black plastic bags which seem to be trying to return to nature rather unsuccessfully, as the mix and mingle with the mud or stick to the concrete of the roads. The irony of the wave of environmental awareness which has washed over Europe and North America but evaporated over Asia, continues to make ripples even in the Ali Ba Ba Bus: Rows of educated and eco friendly tourists tut tut at the lack of waste disposal which spoils their view and pollutes the nature which we have all traveled here to see. Rows of educated people, spending money to explore the wild while listening to music powered by piles of non degradable batteries, and buying packets of imported Mars Bars, Kit Kats, Walkers Crisps and of course bottles of Coke, which all come wrapped up in plastic before being placed in another plastic bag. As a continuous traveller I am very conscious of my ecological footprint. But I wonder how to reduce my consumption as I watch women my age who will return to live in a room for a house and a whose entire life's wardrobe would fit into half of my rucksack?

The approach into the Kathmandu Valley is marked by a glance of the peaks from Lang Tang, which circle the ever growing city, leaving it sitting like a pile of eggs in the bottom of a great big eternal nest, perched high up on a tree, the branches of which are usually hidden by low laying clouds.

I notice many new factories lining the road, but the shops still look the same – with doorways so small that it must take a magician to manipulate the massive modern furniture inside. The heavy scented air is as cold as it is thick with dirt and incense. Back in the tacky tourist centre of Thamel, the onslaught of senses continue. Sounds surround me as men bellow in my ears advertising their 'cheap cheap' guest houses, trekking trips, chess boards and of course, tiger balm. Children high as kites cause havoc on the non existent pavements, climbing three at a time on stationary motor bikes, or entertaining themselves by running rings around frustrated security guards and every now and then running to a tourist to beg for money, water or food, or maybe just to have a cheeky hug/grope of an under dressed female. Rickshaws, taxis, mopeds, bikes and people all fight for their space on the tiny narrow lanes. These mobile beeps and shouts intermingle with the constant playing of Kathmandu's theme tunes of 'Om Mani Padhe Hum', while is accompanied by the whistles of the flute touts trying to tempt a buyer for their palm tree of instruments by playing them persistently from dawn to dusk. As the light fades into evening, these day time vendors are replaced by glassy eyed guys following you with whispers of 'Hashish' and 'Smoke'.

The buildings seem to have risen higher than three years ago, many have also acquired glass for their previously wooden and window-less frames. The walls and road sides are crammed full with signs, prayer flags and posters which sway in the cool breeze; a reminder – in case it was forgotten – that the mighty mountains rise above and around, waiting and seemingly intransigent to our frivolities and temporary lives at the bottom of a nest, on top of a tree in the middle of somewhere called the Himalayas.