Imagine if you took the straight, even, mechanical, repeating streets of downtown Manhattan, so clearly marked and easy to distinguish and direct, and and placed them all into a giant blender along with some temples, dust, prayer flags, wires, and counterfeit merchandise, and blended on high for 30 minutes, then poured out all the contents between a bunch of very tall Himalayan mountains: this would be Kathmandu and its surrounding valley.
I was more than a little terrified to tear off on a bike into those streets. Traffic rules do not exactly exist in Nepal. I mean, they exist, but about like the drinking age in Europe, or like my parents rules against their dogs getting on couches. Traffic flows on the left side of the road, mostly. Sometimes, traffic lines or plants bifurcate the streets, but only sometimes. Pretty much, the Nepalis on the road are left to their own devices, policing and directing themselves through the frequency and persistence of their own car-horns.
When we left the hotel, keeping with the difficulty of anything Nepali, it began to rain. You can look at a map all you want but I am quite positive that the cartographer(s) in Nepal (only one company produces every map in Nepal) take artistic liberties whenever they damn-well-please, including the straightness of streets, and especially the distances of those supposedly-straight-streets. Anyways, we managed to escape Kathmandu proper, ending up on one of the less-traffic-heavy old roads heading towards Bakhtapu. The rain was more welcome than I would have ever expected. First, the heat was somewhat tampered, and second and most importantly, all those tons and tons of dust were relegated to mounds of muck on the sides of the road. This leg of the journey turned out to be by far the easiest. It was a gently sloped fairly straight road all the way into the town. I had plenty of time and energy to think about my surroundings. These can be basically simplified into a small list: wires, stray dogs, stray people, dirt, advertisements, and poverty.
The wires are everywhere, going in all directions, seeming to originate from the ground, the sky, houses, other wires. Randomly placed poles (sometimes) hold these wires off of the ground, and there are a lot of them to hold. I don't know why each pole has 30-50 separate wires converging towards and diverging away from itself. Power outages, lack of power, no power; these are all common occurrences in Nepal, so they certainly don't have the surplus of power these wires would seem to suggest. At this point, I think the wires have somehow seeped into the aesthetic of Nepalese architecture, and 90% of the tubes are conducting nothing but their own weight around the Kathmandu valley and on to the rest of Nepal. That, or someone or group of someones is just randomly placing impotent wires everywhere just to mess with people. It beats me.
Stray dogs I will (sadly) be talking of shortly. For the stray people, see for reference any medium to large city in the United States.
I think I've sufficiently covered the dirt.
The advertisements are probably the most surprising thing of all. It's funny to me that America bears the cross of alleged over-advertisement and being a nation ultimately sold out to corporations and their inexorable train of profits. The advertisements are literally everywhere in Nepal. It's hard to know who exactly the 6x10' Minsk Cherry Apple Vodka billboard on the side of a 3 mile hike to the top of a mountain is aiming at, but damn if they might as well not try right? Lest anyone think the Coke/Pepsi debate is even close to settled, please take a walk through any Nepalese village, I assure you it is alive and well. Stores are lined side by side with their awnings alternating their white-washed Coke and Pepsi signs back and forth in what must have also joined the Nepali Aesthetic. Not to even mention that every single stores sales the same 20-30 items of soda, potato chips, and cookies. Most likely 1Liter bottles of both Coke and Pepsi can be found in any one of these shops. The shops don't even have names, they don't advertise themselves, just whichever large corporation gets to them first. On our trip up the mountain, I believe Tuborg, a Danish beer company, took first place for most square footage of advertisement space occupied. This includes entire 3 story walls of houses painted (not stores, people's own homes, where they pick up some rupees to stock a few beers for whatever random traveler just happens to stop by too scared of the water and just thirsty enough and to buy a beer). If we're talking Nepal-at-large, the cell phone company Ncell has to have actual non-zero numerical percentage points of the Nepalese landscape covered in its advertisements. Ncell seems to have monopolized not only the cell-phone market, but also the color of purple. Every few houses we'd pass there would be a roof entirely painted that horrific shade of purple, and without fail we'd see a little rack of Ncell cell-phone cards for sell. This wasn't in downtown Kathmandu, this could be on the top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but farms and more advertisements around. It honestly makes no sense.
The poverty is hard to convey. I would come to find throughout my trip that most of the wealth in Nepal appears to be focused in Kathmandu and its valley, but despite this the poverty still screams out to your mind from every direction. Poverty is the over-arching theme that connects all of the last few topics. The living motif of an entire nation. People have to give in to the advertisements because it's one of the only ways to get money. The stray dogs exist because the people are struggling enough to feed themselves,. The wires, hell, who knows about the wires. I've thought a lot about the poverty of this nation while I've resided in it. It's hard not to think about when it pervades your environment so thoroughly. It's certainly not because of the people's work ethic. If anything, this trip has given me more faith in the hardiness, ingenuity, and perseverance of the human race than any other experience of my life.
And yet, when you're on your 5th mile seemingly straight up a mountain, and you see a little girl running at you smiling and shouting "Hi how are youuuuuuu," or a family staring in the most genuine expression of interest humans can produce, you cannot help but shudder with happiness and amazement. It's the kind of happiness that utterly dissolves whatever meaningless trifle you are or have ever worried about. And no matter what the job is, farming the mountains and valleys, selling cheap fabrics and counterfeit hiking gear in downtown Kathmandu, running a boating service along the Phewa Tal lake in Pokhara, maintaining a hostel at the top of the mountain, these people work hard. They're at their shop/hostel/farm right after the sun rises (5am by the way), and they are there past when it goes down, always willing to sell, entertain, or work through whatever ridiculous weather presents itself. And those same people are there the next day, and the next, and the next. Work ethic does not, and I cannot believe it ever has, contributed to the state of wealth of this country. My only idea is that the geography has ensnared and limited the entire nation. Ceaseless mountains and valleys make infrastructure all but impossible to perfect. To bring in goods to Kathmandu from the surrounding area requires short trucks (18 wheelers simply cannot exist on the winding roads) going 2500 feet straight up a mountain. There are no "highways," and there is no way of creating them. A rapidly altering climate, including monsoon season, means that the path straight up the mountain is alternately covered in snow, soaked with mud, or stopped by landslide. While taking all of this in, it's a wonder the country has come so far. It's a wonder they weave the tons of wires through treacherous impasses and mountainsides at all. It's incredible that they can supply enough food throughout the country that people can exist in the far reaches.
Anyways, we made it out to Bhaktapur, and it would turn to be by far the easiest part of our excursion. A little bit about Bhaktapur from the handy dandy internet and my own hard-earned knowledge. A world heritage site, Bhaktapur is one of the best kept and preserved ancient towns within the Kathmandu valley. It is full of ancient monuments, palaces, and ornate decorations, mainly in the main square (called Durbar Square in Nepali). While attempting to enter, we were stopped at the entrance and were told to pay 15 dollars to enter. We met a similar scene in Kathmandu. It basically ends up as two guys in a shack halfheartedly attempting to stop all of the white people and make them pay.
Not the types who fawn over monuments and palaces and artwork in the first place, we said nah. Instead we went the other way, biked down some side streets and took a 10 minute detour and came around the back way, free of charge. While in the back alleys of Bhaktapur, it feels more like a medieval town in the European Alps than as if you're 10 miles away from Kathmandu, Nepal. We stopped at a coffee shop so we could leave our bikes and walk around, and grab some caffeine for the trip up the mountain. There we met a man from Bangladash who noticed we had our bikes with us (not too difficult a task, as they were the only non-motor bikes, possibly in the whole town), and shared that he just biked up and came down from Nagarkot, our eventual destination. He let us know that it was really no big deal, a short hop, skip, and a bike up the slope. This assuaged our fears, which at this point had been pretty substantial.
So we set off from Bhaktapur full of curry and caffeine and anticipation and sweat. The rain cleared as we set off and soon it was a beautiful sunshine-filled afternoon. At the outset the gradual incline through the farmland and quaint villages and cottages made us feel like the Bandledashi man was right, this was going to be alright after-all. False hope never tasted so bitter. About 30 minutes later the Mountain hit us. Shannon and I are in pretty decent shape., but nothing could have prepared us for this mountain.
At some point, what seemed like hours later, is when we started assuming every little collection of greater-than-2 huts had to be Nagarkot. We had to be there soon. There was simply no way that it was much further. Then we saw the sign, Nagarkot - 10km. 10 kilometers really is not that far. 6.2137 miles. In a car on a straight interstate that would take about 5 minutes. Even in a bike on a flat track on a leisurely stroll it wouldn't take much longer than 30 minutes. But this was no flat track, and it was certainly no leisurely stroll. Nagarkot is 7000 feet above sea level. Kathmandu lies half as many below. The vertical difference between these two locations is made up almost solely within that last 10 kilometers. The challenge was just beginning. I will not go into any further details on that last 6 miles. It's too painful to recall. We both agreed that it was one of the most physically difficult things we've ever done. We finally walked our bikes across the threshold and into the town (because by now, our butts were numb, our legs were worse, and honestly, fuck biking), helped being pushed by a spectacled Nepali child. We made it even further up the mountain to our hostel, The Hotel at the End of Universe. After a cursory washing (we could not bend over or practically move), we went up to the hotel teahouse and restaurant in time for one of the most spectacular sunsets I have ever witnessed. There is a reason we expended so much effort to get to this village of less than 5000 people - it is well known for being one of the best viewpoints in all of Nepal. The Himalayas formed the backdrop of the sky along the north, and somewhere along the east, though I could have never pointed it out, lay Mount Everest.
We thought with exhausted our bodies were we would sleep like corpses, but again, nothing in Nepal comes easy, least of all sleep when you most want it. Our shack had no window screens, and no fan. It's slightly cooler up on the mountain, but nothing can nullify that Nepalese heat. It took hours to even fall asleep, and when we woke up at 3am it would be for good. So when life gives you lemons hike up a mountain. We walked around the hotel area for a bit, got some tea, and sat off for a tower lookout about 3 miles to the south on a paved trail. On a clear day, this tower was supposed to provide a 360 degree view including one of the widest views of the Himalayas, as well as a panorama of the Kathmandu Valley. Unfortunately the sky was beset with clouds and fog and haze. We walked on all the same, because the other choice was to throw our tender gooches back on those bikes and roll down the mountain.
Our short hike turned out to be the start of the most depressing event of our entire trip. As soon as we began to hike up the mountain a small white dog, with fleas, flies, and bugs I have never seen before crawling all along her bruised and scabbed skin began to follow us. We didn't do anything to make her follow us, other than say hey and not yell at her to leave us alone. That's apparently enough for a Nepalese Street Dog. Mistake number one. She followed us the entire 3 miles up the mountain. Eventually, we did what no one should ever EVER do in this situation, like naming the goat you're about to slaughter and eat, we named her. Raggedy Anne (don't worry, though I ate a few slaughtered goats in Nepal, we did not end up slaughtering and eating Anne). Mistake number 2. And then we did what every sleep deprived, jet-lagged, compassionate, dog-loving travelers would do, we bought some 20 cent cookies and fed her for a job well done of climbing an entire mountain. Mistake number 3. She followed us all the way back to the hotel, up to our room, up to the desk as we checked out, and back down to the road when get onto our bikes. We probably used a bit of purposeful deception to lessen up the morally agonizing situation we had managed to land ourselves in, but we were convinced as soon as we got on our bikes and started pedaling down the mountain, Anne would understand and stay put. Mistake number 4. She sprinted after us. We could not shake her off. There was really nothing we could do. There were no shops that we could buy some more cookies and leave them for her and bike away, and even if we could, no Nepalis would want some white people running another stray dog onto their property and leaving it. That's yet another mouth they have to feel guilty about leaving empty. We were emotionally entrenched enough with Anne to scream and yell and run her off after we'd come this far, and she would be so far from home down a mountain anyways. And it's not like we could let her follow us the 20 miles back to Kathmandu.
It was a very emotionally distressing and confusing time. On the one hand, we were doing something really cool. We were on mountain bikes riding down a rocky mountain trail with breathtaking views of the Kathmandu Valley from the opposite side, with heart stopping sheer drop just 3 feet away at times. On the other hand, a rocky mountain trail was not exactly the most comfortable thing to be biking on with an extremely sore buttocks. On the other OTHER hand, we were riding with one eye looking at those sheer drops, and the other look back checking for the sight of Anne sprinting after us, exhausted, hot, and thirsty. You could not look forward without the overwhelming sense of dread at knowing if you turned around you would either see her still following, or even worse, she would be gone and you would have to worry and wonder if she was okay.
Eventually we gave her the slip, painful as it was. We hit a stretch of paved road downhill and sped off as fast as we could. When we looked back all we saw in the distance were elderly Nepalese women carrying bales of corn on their head, or Nepali children herding goats down the mountain. It was both a relief and a tragedy.
Finally we were getting closer and closer to Kathmandu. The bike ride down the mountain turned out to be more difficult than we imagined. In my completely stuporific mindstate the night before, I had envisioned one long, straight, paved, constantly downward-sloped, guilt free road and we would rest gently on our bicycles and it might very well take us directly into the hotel room and onto the bed. What we got instead was a long, curved, rocky, emotionally distressful road that sometimes even went uphill. It was awful. I never signed up for that. I never thought it would end. I certainly couldn't see how the hell I was going to get that bike anywhere near Kathmandu, much less navigate the chaos of traffic once I did.
We started passing little villages, then little towns in quick succession, then all of a sudden, we were in a full blown, smog filled city. We gave up. We couldn't take it anymore. Our entire bodies screamed, muscles creaked, lungs coughed, we gave up. We stopped and got some coffee and food. We were about 5 miles away from our hotel. We had stopped at, fairly serendipitously, right where we were planning on stopping anyways: Boudha. It's one of the largest temples, or "Stupa," in the world. It's beautiful and awe-inspiring, but honestly, I just couldn't manage to give a shit about it. I was too tired and just wanted to lay down in a bed. We left, and Shannon managed to hail down a local City-bus. We thought it would be impossible for a local bus to pick up two white people, especially with bikes in tow, but sure enough they stopped. A kid who could not have been older than 15, and smaller than Shannon, somehow lifted up our bikes one at a time and carried them up a ladder and threw them on top of the bus, and we took off. I was too tired to worry about the very real possibility of our bikes flying off the top and hitting some poor hapless car behind us.
Not too long afterwards we managed to walk the bikes from the bus lot the 30 minutes back to our hotel. No matter how tired we were though, and no matter how comfortable the bed was, it could not shake the pervading anxiety of Anne. Where was she? Was she hot? Did a family find her and feed her/water her/take her in? Did she make it back up the mountain? Even now, is she okay?
