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As we stepped out onto the street, I gazed across the city and took a deep breath. It was cool outside and strange scents drifted through the air, not at all unpleasant, but different and hinting at the adventure we were about to begin. I looked down at my watch. It was nine p.m. and we had just arrived on the doorstep of the Himalayas -- Kathmandu, Nepal. My friend Tad and I had been planning this trip for months. He looked over at me, grinning, and said, "Hey man, we're here!" Across the parking lot, a couple of men were standing next some old beat up cars, so we headed toward them. The lot wasn't paved, just packed dirt, and as we made our way across I stepped in something soft, real soft. I didn't even want to look down. Tad laughed. It was just like him not to warn me. Three elderly men passed a pipe back and forth while they talked quietly. As we drew near, one of them looked up, handed the pipe to his friend, and waved to us. He was dressed in a well-worn, brown wool coat, gray trousers, and a blue and white knit cap. His face was lined and tired looking, but his eyes sparkled with the look of a sale about to be made. We talked; his English was excellent, and he told us that he had a small hotel near the shopping district. Since we were friends, the price was only 100 Rupees, about four dollars. He said he would give us a ride. I was skeptical, but we climbed into his car anyway. It was getting late and we were tired. We bounced along pot-holed, dimly lit, dirt streets that wound between buildings placed much too close together. Doorways and windows were a blur as we rocketed along the road. I was certain we would encounter disaster at each turn. The driver, however, seemed unaware of our discomfort and merrily blasted his horn every few seconds while he pointed out things of interest to us. I'm sure the constant horn blowing was a welcome sound to those unfortunate people who lived along this route. After a twenty-minute ride, the car swerved sharply into a side street and bounced to a stop in front of our hotel. The sign said, "Annapurna Guest House." Candle light flickered warmly in the windows and a matronly woman stepped out to greet us. Before we could get out of the car, she had opened the trunk and was struggling to carry our backpacks up the stairs. Tad tried to help her, but she wouldn't hear of it and within moments had deposited the packs outside our room. She reached inside and flipped on the light switch. A bare lightbulb hung from a cord in the center of the shadowed room glowing faintly. I looked in and could see two narrow beds, a toilet with no seat, and a wash stand. "The shower is down the hall," she said, "and there isn't any hot water." The accommodations were less than I had expected, but adequate, so we agreed to stay. Thanking the woman for her help, Tad closed the door, while I broke open the bottle of bourbon I'd been saving and poured us some drinks. Tomorrow would be a busy day. With a toast to adventure, we climbed into our beds for some much needed sleep, or so we thought. Throughout the night the dogs in our neighborhood were in raucous concert, howling and barking at some imagined threat. At times they were almost musical though never entertaining. Brief interludes of quiet would lull us into a false sense of hope, but it was always short lived. Restful sleep was not going to happen and I found myself contemplating various grisly ways to eliminate these beasts. Somehow, I fell asleep. A door slammed shut. I opened one eye and peered out the window. The sun was just breaking over the rim of the distant mountains, it's golden shafts of light bathing the city in a warm glow. Sunrise, by some strange coincidence, was the same time that all the dogs went to sleep. I had already decided that the first dog I caught sleeping was going to catch a boot in the backside. The air in our room was cold too, so cold that I could see my breath. I didn't want to get up, so I lay in bed for a while contemplating what this day would hold in store for us. My stomach's rumblings reminded me that it had been some time since I'd eaten. No sense wasting the day in bed, so I woke Tad up and suggested we go out for breakfast. The place where we stayed didn't have a kitchen. I asked the boy at the front door where we could get something to eat. He pointed down the road saying that there were many places, that way. As we walked along it began to rain lightly. Very few of the streets were paved and they quickly turned to mud. There were animals everywhere. It seemed more like a barnyard than a city. Cows, dogs, cats, chickens, and goats roamed freely along the streets. Cows, sacred or otherwise, were the biggest nuisance. They would pause, lift their tails, and leave their private calling cards deposited everywhere for the unwary traveler to step into. Sort of announcing to all, their recent passing...literally. The ground was covered with shit and it wasn't just from the animals either. I saw people stop, hike up the long robes they were wearing, and take a dump in the gutter. Modesty didn't seem to be one of their virtues. Rounding a corner, we came upon a man who was in the process of slaughtering a cow right in the middle of the street. He was hacking it to bits with a huge Gurkha knife and throwing great hunks of bloody meat into his shop. Tad and I walked closer and peering in, we saw a big stone slab lying on the ground. It was piled high with meat that two young boys were cutting into smaller pieces. Blood ran in rivulets onto the dirt and flies swarmed through the air to feast on this free meal. We looked at each other and simultaneously cried, "Fried rice!" We wandered past a number of restaurants. Most of them looked as if they were nothing more than a bit of lumber hurriedly nailed together and about to collapse at the slightest touch. Then we came upon one that was different. The door was ajar revealing a beautiful hardwood floor. Quaint wooden tables covered with white linen table cloths were arranged around a central fireplace. The most striking thing of all was how clean everything appeared. We went inside and sat down. Fortunately, the menu was printed in both Nepali and English. I wasn't up to any more surprises this early in the morning. We ordered fried eggs and potatoes, a plate of fresh fruit, and some coffee. This seemed safe. Almost no one served brewed coffee, instant was all they had and for some reason our waiter seemed to think it was necessary to put 3 to 4 spoonfuls into each cup. It was so horrible! The rest of the food was pretty good though and they served a coarse black bread that I really liked. When we had finished eating, we continued our stroll. A path curved around behind the restaurant. According to our waiter, it led to the local vegetable market where people bartered for the things they needed. Rounding the corner of the building, we saw a grizzled, barefoot old woman, squatting down next to a ditch full of water the color of dead leaves. Pots, pans, plates, and silverware were stacked around her. I watched, as a sickening acid-feeling crept into my guts. These were our breakfast dishes. She placed a pan in the water and with a handful of mud scraped from the ditch, began to scrub it clean. I could only think of the people and the animals that I had seen using the street as a toilet. It wasn't hard to visualize all the excrement dissolving in the rain and running into the ditch where she was cleaning the dishes. I'm glad we had the foresight to get hepatitis and cholera shots before starting our trip. At this point, we didn't know what was safe to eat or even where. We tried to make sure our food was cooked properly, but we had no control over the cleanliness of the dishes. The best we could do was to select the cleanest looking establishments and hope for the best. Even that was a gamble, as we later found out. This concluded our first morning in Nepal and we set off on what became a most interesting trip.
Author's Note: |
