Pokhara's Peace Pagoda

Peace Pagodas. A visit to another one. Another hike up another hill. But this time rather than overlooking the cooling clouds hugging Darjeeling, the Peace Pagoda was surrounded by the white fluffy clouds of the Himalayas, warming the 7000 plus meter peaks. Below in the green terraced valley stretches out the city of Pokhara. Is it really so massive? Where do all the houses hide when I walk past the green hills and muddy lake? Does Fewa Lake provide so many crooked corners for all of these little concrete blocks to pile unseen by those strolling along the main tourist trail? What spreads out before me is one of the largest cities in Nepal – a tourist hotspot, that continued to attract backpackers during the conflict while at the same time reeling in thousands of internally displaced nepalis throughout the region. People travelled to Pokhara looking for employment or to escape the fighting in the more rural regions.

As I sit in the shade of the stunning white Japanese Peace Pagoda, surveying the city below and the mountains above, an old Nepali man approaches. He is wearing old flip flops which are flip flopping off and on his feet. His head is capped with the traditional Nepali embroidered topi, and he wears a tweed waistcoat over a T-shirt telling all to 'Visit Malaysia'. He squats down by my side and begins to talk. He lives next to the Peace Pagoda. He complains about the number of tourists. I agree. Although I wonder why he wants to talk to me if he has an aversion to tourists? There seems to be a constant stream of people who have rowed across Fewa Lake and then hiked through the jungle to share this view. This popularity is a reflection of the tourist boom which has hit Nepal in 'peace time'.

There are now many more tourists than in 2005. Many more. Since the formation of the new Maoist led Communist Government of Nepal in April this year, there has been a renewed influx of richer, older and even younger tourists. Pre arranged package tours of older 'luxury trekkers' and young rich parents hike around with toddles stacked into new North Face baby carriers. Such groups have flooded the new 'safety' of this imagined Shangri-La. As a result, it is now expensive to be a backpacker in Nepal. As with tourists hotspots throughout the world, the popularity of a destination brings a here massive hike in prices. India now seems incredibly cheap in comparison, and Pokhara is even taking on a resort like feel.

As young little people wearing 'yak yak yak' t-shirts, baseballs caps and faces painted extra white with sun block trek up to visit the Peace Pagoda, I think of the long haired rasta Nepali girl I saw this morning. She was filthy, with filthy dreads and no 'guardian' in sight, only a smaller dirtier child who seemed to be in her care. Such street children have also flooded the city in recent years. During the two decade conflict, children were either trafficked, ran away from forced recruitment or more commonly, were drawn towards its magnetic promise of employment. It is of no surprise that the city seems to be spreading before my watching eyes, and I wonder about the more practical problems of infrastructure, water provision and waste disposal, let alone the cultural tensions which both the tourists and the Nepali youths must be bringing.

These cases of internal displacement will not disappear with 'peace', especially as in the words of my Nepali friend, “the government has too many other problems to deal with right now”. However, these parallel worlds seem to continue as the children staff the kitchens or tout on the streets and the tourists pay triple the price of three years ago for 'original' souvenirs mass manufactured in Pokhara's back streets.

I ask the old man sitting next to me if he ever needs to go to the city – although it is just a few hundred meters below, it seems like it would be quite an adventure for him. He replies 'sometimes'. But he grows his own crops: Ahlu, makai, daal, baat. As if he has read my mind, he confides that his worry this year is 'pani': The monsoon did not bring enough rain, and now as the sun burns down from the clear blue sky, he is worried about his rice. I watch as tourists enjoying the beautiful day, huffing and puffing towards the pagoda, camera's dangling from wrists, dispose of their plastic pani bottles in the burnt out bins that lay around the well watered gardens.

I wish Namaste to the old farmer, who despite his aversion to tourists, does not reveals his original attention for joining in my meditations by asking I would like to buy some of his home grown marijuana.