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KATHMANDU - Nepal September 24th – 29th
For the world is wondrous large
Seven seas from marge to marge
And the wildest dreams of Kew
Are the facts of Kathmandu
Rudyard Kipling
The welcoming party at Kathmandu airport was impressive. Lines of colourful, elaborately dressed dancers (some wearing large masks which reminded us of Chinese lion dancers) were accompanied by traditional Nepalese instruments. The whole occasion very striking and photogenic – but it was not for us. We had arrived on the day most of the competitors for the South Asia Games were descending on Kathmandu and the airport was alive with security people and police. No doubt they were desperate to avoid any confrontations between Indian and Pakistani groups or Sri Lankans and Indians or Burmese ... the possibilities for disagreement seemed endless once we realised what was going on! However, all of this made for quite an atmosphere as we waited in the immigration queue, thanking our lucky stars that we had visas already stamped in our passports – the queue was enormous for those applying there and then. Nepal is a fast-growing tourist market and we heard many European and Transatlantic accents around us.
The Trinity rep was waiting to meet us. A slight young man, in his early thirties, with a moustache that seemed over-sized for his small features, and wearing a pony tail and cut down baggy jeans, Bimal Rai was unlike any other Trinity rep I had ever met. He greeted us somewhat deferentially – Pat thought he was just a little in awe – and led us out to the car park. We soon found ourselves installed in a taxi/van with various porters and boys struggling with our cases. When the van refused to start, there was much shouting and wrangling until eventually we were bundled out and into a second vehicle that trundled off, bouncing around on the pot-holed road. No change there then. Bimal asked about our stay in Darjeeling and it appeared that, like Mani Shanta, his father was a Gurkha (pronounced Gorka), his home was Darjeeling and his mother came from Kurseong. He was very keen to explain why we would not be staying at the Yak and Yeti, the hotel identified on my itinerary, telling us that his friend had been able to get a very good rate at the Radisson and that he hoped we would like it.
After the grime and clammy claustrophobia of Calcutta streets, Kathmandu seemed spacious. Being in a valley, its air, unfortunately, is far from clean but at least something was being done about it. Bimal explained that the auto-rickshaws, the main cause of the pollution, were, by law, being phased out and electric vehicles were being introduced. This scheme, he told us, was partly financed by "your Mr. Blair". Cynically, I asked how many planes and tanks the Nepalese government had to buy in return but apparently this was "no-strings" aid, representing the special relationship Britain has with the Nepalese because of the dedication and loyalty of the Ghurka regiment.
Bimal could have no worries about our reaction to the Radisson hotel – this was the 5-star luxury we loved and we were elated. Extra security was in place at the entrance because many of the officials for the games were resident. It was strange walking through a metal detector to get inside a hotel. However, the greeting from the staff was as sunny as the weather. There was a welcoming drink at reception and our room had a splendid view over the southwest of the city to the hills beyond. Before anything else, we did the British thing – made some tea – and just sat admiring the view, glowing with pleasure.
Thus refreshed, we went for a walk that took us past the Royal Palace, home of the King and Queen of Nepal. The pollution was even worse than I had expected and I spent most of the trip with a handkerchief tied over my nose and mouth. Our destination was the Yak and Yeti hotel. We had only learnt of the change when we were in Calcutta and, since all the itineraries we had left with family would have this address, we wanted to check for post and to arrange for the hotel to keep any which came over the next week. In the same class as the Radisson, the Yak and Yeti had larger grounds, was a little more central and had a history. It had been the home of Maharaja Jung Bahadur Rana, when he was Prime Minister of Nepal in the late nineteenth century. Lal Durbar (Red Palace) was set amongst lush, green grounds and bore all the hallmarks of Victorian architectural quasi-classical opulence tempered by Nepalese features in its roofs and windows – Jung Bahadur had visited London in 1850. With a modern wing added in the 1990s, the building was an uncertain mixture but, as we strolled through the hotel, catching glimpses of the chandelier-hung royal reception rooms (now banqueting halls) and of the Naachghar restaurant with its own proscenium arch theatre, it was not difficult to understand why the claim was made that this was Kathmandu’s finest. The management was very cooperative and promised to alert us at the Radisson if any post should arrive.
Despite the pollution, we both felt that we would enjoy this city. The streets we had seen were quite clean and tidy, there was space and there were no beggars honing in on white faces. After showering off the street grime, we had a delightful meal in the Olive Garden restaurant – the Italian food was excellent and made an enjoyable change to our diet. After dinner, we wandered out on to the terrace to orientate ourselves and happened upon a private function. Tables were laid out across the lawns at which guests were enjoying what looked like a luxurious buffet. The dinner music was provided by three Nepalese musicians playing, respectively, a type of flute, a double-headed drum and a string instrument. We stood listening, in a sense quietly gate-crashing, because I was immediately taken by the folk sound – monodic even when the three players burst into lusty song; simple music with occasional cross-rhythms but immediately infectious not least because of the obvious enjoyment emanating from the performers. At times like these, I muse on the fact that, for all my life-time of dealing with crotchets and quavers, C#s and naturals, trying to get them in the "right" order or coaxing orchestral or choral musicians to perform them in an interesting and accurate manner, and for all that art music can plumb greater depths and soar to greater heights than mere words or pictures, I am transfixed by the sincerity, the openness and "realness" of authentic folk music such as these three Nepalese were presenting. The guests at table were ignoring the group. As any player of "dinner music" knows, one way to get the diners’ attention is to finish a piece by getting faster and louder for a spectacular final flourish. Most of these songs and instrumental pieces seemed to finish in this way but the only reaction was from Pat and I, and we only felt we could mime the clapping since we were uninvited guests. Between and during the items, it was obvious that the trio were aware of our interest – Pat, with good-humoured irony, suggested that their CDs might be on sale. The flautist beamed even more than the others and kept pointing to something in his hand and gesticulating to me. Thinking they wanted me to join them on some small percussion instrument, and ignoring the diners, I crossed the lawn and climbed up on to the raised, carpeted area where the musicians were sitting cross-legged. What they had been waving was, indeed, a cassette recording, which I purchased for Rp300. On learning more of their background, the money was happily spent.
The leader, and player of the stringed instrument – a sarungi – was called Buddiman, the bassuri (flute) and madal (drum) players were brothers and all were from the Gandharba caste who live in a remote mountain region of Nepal. The recording was a result of a government-sponsored community project to raise money for education and improvements to social infrastructure. None of the three had any formal education, yet their English was amazingly fluent – "We learn off the streets". They had made their own instruments; bamboo, of course, for the six-hole bassuri but the sarungi was shaped from a single piece of wood, hollowed out for a resonating box. Two strings tuned to the same note were used for the melody line and two others, one either side, provided a sympathetic-vibrating drone. They let me try the sarungi (guests and diners were now totally ignored and Pat had joined me) and when I explained that I was a musician dealing in Western music, Buddiman, with a mile-wide smile, took the instrument and, with a deft turn of the tuning peg, played a C major scale to the great delight of his companions. They had been taught by their fathers and grandfathers in the time-honoured folk tradition. I then tried the madal and, getting the hang of stroking the edge of the drumhead to produce a lovely ring, I joined them in an informal jam session. My attempt at sitting cross-legged was a dismal failure but we promised to send them copies of the photos Pat was taking of this impromptu performance. I don't think they stopped beaming with delight at the genuine interest we showed in them and their music.
After this wonderful introduction to its people and its culture, we retired that night with very good vibes about our forthcoming days in the fabled city of Kathmandu. Would we, though, find the "one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu” of J. Milton Hayes’ renowned poem?
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My first day's work was at the British Embassy, location of the only instrument in the whole of Kathmandu suitable for piano examinations. This anonymous grand had certainly seen and heard better days and it made me wonder about the quality of the pianos the candidates used for practice and for their lessons. Part of the answer came when I realised that I was examining several English children, presumably progeny of the Embassy staff, in which case this was probably the location of their lessons and practice periods. The elaborate security procedure – entering a small gatehouse, doors locked behind and then, via an intercom, being allowed to proceed through a further set of doors – seemed somewhat ludicrous as any terrorists or ne'er-do-wells could have circumvented the building and the procedure by running past the barrier. There was one Grade VIII candidate, an adult, who turned up in order to tell me that she was too nervous to take the exam and that she would try next year. I gathered that she was the teacher of many, if not all, of the other candidates.
Having finished mid-afternoon, we were able to have a siesta before meeting up with Bimal's friend and fellow guitarist, Santosh. Shorter, round-faced and a little stouter than Bimal, his features suggested Chinese family origins. Where Bimal's English was passable, Santosh was fluent. For this reason, and because Bimal had pupils to prepare for the following day's exams, Santosh had been detailed to look after us. A very personable and confident young man with a gleeful smile, he worked for the American Educational Foundation based at the USA embassy. His main task was organising the applications and interviews for Nepalese Fulbright Scholarships for study in the States – some six to eight, men and women, are sent each year. We soon realised that this job was great currency in Kathmandu – working for the Americans opened doors. It explained why he was made so welcome at our first port of call – a travel agent on Thamel St. We had expressed a wish to book for a flight alongside the Himalayas, seeing Everest and its neighbouring peaks, which had been recommended by friends in England. We followed Santosh's advice to take the earliest Sunday morning flight, 7.30, and there was much banter between Santosh and the agent, Pratik Basu, about guaranteeing fine weather, best seat on the plane etc., all of which we took with a pinch of salt. With a window seat for each person, there could hardly be the "best" seat on the plane. Or could there?
By the time we had finished this transaction, it was getting dark and raining a little. Santosh suggested taking us to a hilltop viewpoint to see the lights of the valley laid out beneath us. The actual point he made for was the gigantic Swayambhunath Stupa (Buddhist monastery) and, on leaving the car for the short walk to the very top of the hill, the rain mattered little because the view was indeed beautiful. The stupa itself is 2,200 years old and contains the second largest image of Bhudda in the world. (It hardly seemed fair to mention to our host that we had, in fact, seen the largest, on Lantau island in Hong Kong.) With the little creatures swarming over the walls and in the nearby trees, it was not difficult to realise why the stupa is also known as the Monkey Temple. The enormous eye of Buddha, painted on the upper walls of all such buildings, could just be made out and this, plus the quietness save for the chattering of monkeys, the sound of chanting and the gentle clash of cymbals, made for an eerie serenity. During the day we would have been pestered by hawkers, so we were grateful to Santosh for bringing us at this magical hour. The buildings were festooned with prayer flags, some looking very ancient, and we passed several groups of orange-clad monks, one of whom rather spoiled the devotional atmosphere by clanging together the empty Coke bottles he was carrying. We also noted the Nepalese flag which, Santosh explained, is the only national flag that is not straight-edged, being made up of two red, white and blue pennants.
Dinner that night was in the hotel coffee shop that carried the mystifying soubriquet "The Fun Cafe". The designer’s idea of fun (which, I must say, had something of the desired effect) was to cover the walls with such a diversity of styles in painting and photography as to suggest someone had great fun thinking up the selection. There were reproductions of Mondrian and Kandinsky alongside 1930 Vogue and New Yorker magazine covers next to French Impressionists beside a nineteenth century poster for a French circus, some Cubism and a contemporary photo of Manhattan. On this particular evening, aside from the eye-catching walls, we were able to enjoy some traditional Nepalese dance performed for a large party of French tourists. The food was excellent, too!
Bimal had told us that he would call for us Saturday lunchtime to take us out and so we used our time in the morning taking photos from the roof where the views of the surrounding hills were delightful. We also noticed how very many of the homes and business premises had solar panels. These were heating water in the large tanks alongside and in some cases, water and steam was shooting out the overflow pipes. From what seemed like every other flat roof, men and boys were flying kites, a national pastime. They were a riot of colour against the blue sky and of all shapes and sizes – traditional box kites, simple diamonds, some in the shape of birds. We easily picked out the distinctive beehive shape of Swayambhunath at the top of a hill in the mid-distance.
Back downstairs, we made for the hotel's business centre, checking e-mails and catching up on news of immediate family, sick relatives and friends. When Bimal rang to say that he would see us at 5.30, we made off for the centre of the city. The place was abuzz because the Games were being officially opened that afternoon and many streets were already lined with people hoping to get a glimpse of the King and Queen who were to attend. The taxi dropped us at the very busy Durbar Square, a tourist magnet. This meant that we were immediately accosted by hawkers in Basantapur Square. The area had previously housed the stables for the royal elephants but now sellers of all manner of trinkets, carvings and bangles descended upon the visitors. Most of the hawkers we could ignore but those selling "genuine Tibetan flutes" caught our attention – with their instruments fixed on the long pole, sticking out at angles like a flue-brush they were difficult to miss and we finished up buying one for our flute-teaching daughter-in-law. The seller came down from Rp1200 to Rp500 (£5) and I still probably paid more than was necessary.
In Durbar Square we found a plethora of temples and monuments, most 300–400 years old but the most ancient dating from the twelfth century. On our right were the red brick walls of the old Royal Palace, inset with latticed windows and dark wooden struts on which there were superb carvings of various gods and idols. There were also some erotic scenes, included, we learned, since the goddess of lightning, being a virgin would thus be repelled. Certainly, these scenes were more artistic than a common or garden lightning detector fixed on the top of a tower! Many of the buildings and temples were a mixture of Hindu- and Buddhist-style carving. Vishnu and his winged guardian Garuda co-existed alongside Buddha, and the style of roofing belonged more to the stupas than to Hindu temples – there were no gopurams one would expect at the entrance to temples to Shiva and Parvati. We wandered, rubber-necked, among these amazing structures, occasionally lowering our gaze when a particular stall caught our eye. One such, with dozens of foot-high puppets on display, was particularly photogenic. Directly ahead of us as we walked through the square was the Kumari Bahal, richly decorated, with gilded windows and intricate wood-carvings. This is the home of Nepal’s unique institution, a young girl of the Newari caste who is worshipped as a “Living Goddess”. From time to time, she makes an appearance at an upper window, “dressed in red, her eyes lined with black kohl and her hair pulled up in a top-knot”. No appearance this day.
Both in the square and in New St. and Thamel St., the thoroughfares were crowded and we could not imagine why traffic was allowed in these ancient streets. The taxis and rickshaws just added to the confusion. As usual in these crowded situations, Pat was singularly unimpressed, though by now not surprised, at the way men would chauvinistically barge past her, often spitting or sniffing that dry, back-of-the-throat sniff which is perfectly acceptable in Asia but which both Pat and I find revolting. A doctor friend of mine assures me there is no medical term for it other than "hawking".
Wandering further afield, we came across a large, open, grassy area, presumable Kathmandu's Maidan, where young men and boys were playing football and cricket. Because of the Games ceremony, even the pavements by this open ground were heaving with people. Reclining, cud-chewing cows sometimes blocked our way – we watched many Hindus touch the cow and then touch their foreheads or chests. These sacred cows generally have owners who milk them and set them loose to feed for free on the streets. Bulls are mostly ownerless because of the Hindu custom whereby, eleven days after a man’s death, his son chooses a bull calf, brands it with the trident of Shiva and sets it free as a living memorial. We noticed that some pavement sellers seemed to have little more than small plastic bags with mothballs in them – not being of the drug culture, were we being naive? There were chickens crowded into tiny wicker contraptions at our feet plus ducks and cockerels tied by their legs in bunches.
By now, our own legs were beginning to feel the impact of so much walking in the heat and, against our finer feelings for our fellow man, we decided to let a cycle rickshaw take us back to the hotel – more ecologically sound than a taxi, of course, and financially sound for him and us. But we both felt uncomfortable, not merely because we only just squeezed side by side into the double seat (not designed for Western hips) nor just because, in these contraptions, one feels very vulnerable with the traffic flying by on both sides, but because the poor chap, though not by any means elderly, had to struggle to keep the contraption moving with our combined weight behind him. And he was not trying this on for a bigger tip – he was sweating buckets by the time the Radisson hove into view.
That evening, Bimal took us shopping to Indra Chowk and Shiva Mandir, areas overflowing with purveyors of carpets, shawls, jewellery, carvings and all the paraphernalia of tourism. It seemed to us, however, that most of the Caucasian and Japanese faces were on the street rather than in the shops. During the window shopping of the previous days, we had been very taken with the idea of treating ourselves to one of the Tibetan prayer paintings which were being thrust at us from every shop window and doorway. Called thankas (pronounced "tankas"), the paintings would be found in Buddhist stupas, schools and homes. Executed on a silk "canvas", the pictures are usually highly detailed and full of Buddhist devotional symbols. They are hung from a round pole with a protective silk cover that would be lowered when the thanka was not being used for devotions. The sizes varied, as did the prices, but Bimal was able to take us to a shop on Thamel St., whose owner he knew, and protracted negotiations began. We had first to settle on a size and a basic colour. We talked to a German girl who was similarly searching although, as she was in Nepal for some time, there was no pressure on her to choose without full consideration. The owner spoke to us in English and sometimes he and Bimal spoke to each other in Nepalese. He kept insisting that the workmanship was "so fine" on the one we had finally chosen. With this, we did not disagree, but there was much shaking of combined Wiltshire heads and interpolations from Bimal as we moved him down from US$110 to $80. As part of the haggling game, he appeared reluctant to "give" the thanka away at that price but we were not so naive as to believe that he was not fully satisfied with the sale. For our part, we were delighted with such a special piece of artwork destined for my music room in Sheffield, and not even the torrential rain during our search for a taxi could dampen our spirits.
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When the booking agent had said earlier in the week that we would be picked up at 6am for our 7.30am one-hour Himalayan "joyride" from an airport that was only twenty minutes away, I had raised a mild protest – it was Sunday morning, after all. I had been assured that this was indeed necessary and thus we were both ready when Pratil Basu, Santosh's contact from the travel firm, drew up outside the Radisson on the dot at six. "I come myself – I like to look after my friends." He took us around several "back doubles" on the way to the airport and we were surprised how many people were up and about, beginning their day in bright sunshine. At the terminal, our driver took over the seat allocation – we must have been the first to check-in – and we settled down to wait. There seemed to be three types of traveller in the departure lounge. The backpackers, all singlets, cut-down jeans and ear, nose and eyebrow decorations, were being entertained by the juggling of one of their number as they waited for their flights to Thailand or Myramar or into India. The serious trekker, all boots, haversacks and walking poles, sat studying maps. Some of these would be making for the landing strip high up in the ranges near Everest, established for those who had not the time or the inclination or the strength to take on the arduous three-day trek. And then there were the softees like ourselves, all casual clothes and cameras – and mostly Saga-age.
As we walked across the tarmac, the clouds towards the mountains looked depressingly thick. Our Buddha Air plane (at least we would have someone's god with us) was a nineteen-seater Beach 1900D jet-prop, with each seat in a window apart from the centre back. This seat was empty. Either side of it sat one Trinity examiner and his wife. The best seat in the plane? At the back? The take-off was smooth and we were soon racing over wooded, terraced hills with clusters of matchbox dwellings clinging to their sides. Next, we were climbing through the cloud layer. When we emerged, there was a corporate gasp as the sight of the Himalayan range, the highest mountains in the world, shot into view, gloriously sun-lit against a vivid blue backdrop. "Awesome" has currently become an over-used, an ill-used, word in the vocabulary but it is the only word which describes the scene, not so much below as beside us – we were flying at 25,000 feet. Within minutes, we seemed so close to the peaks that, had there been climbers on the snowy wastes, we would surely have been able to see their Nike logos.
Our cabin attendant, distributed diagrams of the ranges and helped us identify Langtang Lirung (23,700 feet) and Shisha Pangma (26,300 feet) and Phurbi-Gyhachu, a mere 21,700 feet. Before we reached “the mighty one”, there were another ten of these towering white cones to identify and to marvel at. Before long, the attendant began inviting passengers in turn, starting with the front pair, to move up into the cockpit to take photos through the larger, panoramic windows. The ranges were to the left of the plane, where I was sitting, and we now began to see the value of the back seat – Pat could slide across and share my window. And we fully realised why we had been picked up so early to check in first, when it was our turn to go into the cockpit. We were at the closest point to Everest – the pilot began his turn as I was there, able to take photos from more than the single angle of approach to which others had been limited. We had, indeed, been in the best seats!
On the return leg, the mountains were Pat's side and, as our photos later showed, the changing light produced some spectacular effects on the ranges. We looked into deep crevasses, watched the sun play on vast sheets of ice or produce a rippling effect where the snow had been whipped up by the wind. The hour passed very quickly, but, because of VIP operations on the ground in connection with the Games, we were kept in the air circling Kathmandu for an extra fifteen minutes. This bonus time helped us to appreciate the size of the city although it was not possible to pick out too many landmarks. Before we landed, we were each given a photo of Everest and a Certificate to prove we had "been there" – we declined the offer of buying the T-shirt.
Pratil Basu was waiting and was obviously genuinely pleased that we were talking so excitedly about the trip. He even politely refused a tip which Santosh later explained would be because he would want Santosh to put more work his way and needed to be seen as ultra efficient and cooperative. His patience was tried, too, by the delays on the way back to the hotel. Many streets were closed because the women's marathon was being run. When we were two blocks from the Radisson, we got out and walked so that he could turn round and head off home – the race was coming right down the road near the hotel and we saw several of the 26-mile runners, one in bare feet.
As with the previous day, Bimal's idea of calling for us at "lunchtime" was leaving a message to postpone things until 5pm. I began to wonder if he was conversant with the terms "lunch" and "teatime". However, once we realised we were on our own, we quickly planned a route to look at three different temples mentioned in LP. The hotel taxis were ridiculously expensive and we went out on to the street and negotiated a fair price for what turned out to be a "wreck" – uncomfortable seats, windows which would not close properly and with a roof which, we soon discovered, was not rain-proof. However, the driver was a very cheerful guy who chatted to us as best he could. I showed him a map and pointed out the names of the three sites. It took him some time to realise what I meant as, not being able to read the map, he was relying on my rather poor pronunciation of Charumati, Boudhanath and Pashupatinath. The first of these was approached through some very poorly maintained roads and back streets. It was a small stupa, too intimate for us to enter, apart from which, there seemed to be some sort of ceremony taking place with a large group of women sitting on the floor in the shelter of the overhanging roof. Our driver's English was not good enough for explanations and we wished we had Santosh with us. Boudanath Stupa rivalled Swayambhunath (The Monkey Temple) in terms of its enormous golf ball roof and is one of the largest Buddhist stupas in the world – the diameter of the building is well over 100 yards. Its origins are obscure but parts are thought to date from the 5th century. The roof was topped by a short white tower, the harmika, with the eyes of Buddha – "always watching" – painted on the side and was climaxed by a golden Buddhist symbol. There was a 15-yard wide, hawker- and beggar-free cobbled walkway all round the totally circular building and, in what acted like a secondary outer wall, there were shops selling thankas, pictures, cards and other touristy paraphernalia. Rain was falling slightly and there were very few local people around, let alone tourists. Small boys played in the puddles, others played ball. The main activity centred on the prayer wheels set into the outside walls of the stupa. I calculated there must have been between 550 and 600 of these and monks, women clutching prayer beads and one or two men, were constantly walking round, clock-wise I noticed, spinning the wheels as they went. Inside a small entrance sat an elderly monk to whom we paid Rp10 and to his left, inside a small chamber was a dwarf colleague who was pushing round a large prayer wheel of the size Mani and Shanta had shown us in Darjeeling. We could also see enormous iron bells. Not allowed inside, we climbed up two sets of steep steps to reach the sloping roof of the stupa, looking across the city through the forest of fluttering prayer flags which were strung at every angle on the roof.
That day, we saw two sights that we will never forget. The first had been that moment when the Buddha Air flight burst through the clouds to reveal the Himalayas. The second was when we got out of the taxi and walked down into the most sacred Hindu shrine in Nepal – Pashupatinath. We had not had time to read up too much about the temple and had no idea as to its significance. Pashupati, another incarnation of Shiva, was “Lord of the Beasts” and became the divine protector of Nepal. What greeted us was the sight of five funeral pyres on concrete platforms by the side of the holy river Bagmati – sacred because it flows directly from the Himalayas – for Pashupatinath is Nepal’s most renowned cremation site. The inner part of the temple was signed as "Strictly Hindu only" but the part by the river was open to all. With our Western "respect" for the dead and our hushed manner of talking about burial or cremation, we found it a profound culture shock to stand watching while pyres burned, with relatives dipping sheaves of grass into the river before adding them to the flames – this was to create more smoke, the more efficiently to take the soul on to its next incarnation. Further along, an official (known as a dom), was sweeping the remains of another pyre, bones and half-charred timber, into the river. Traditionally, the dom is allowed to keep any gold rings or fillings from the ashes as payment. Further along again, a white-shrouded cadaver lay on the ground awaiting the arrival of family. The tradition is for the eldest son to light the first flame. A pyre was being prepared nearby. Not quite fully covered, the alabaster feet were still gruesomely visible.
The area was a mass of buildings, large and small, both sides of the river. Attached to the temple was a hospice and it would be thought of as most auspicious for a family member to die so conveniently close to the Bagmati. As we crossed the bridge, small boys were diving from the parapets into the dirty waters as if at the local lido. Many locals, as well as visitors like ourselves, were holding handkerchiefs to their faces – the smell from the burning pyres was appalling. Monkeys ranged everywhere, some mothers with babies clinging to their tummies, "top dog" males chasing off younger upstarts with much screeching and baring of teeth, others just sitting and making social contact by de-fleeing each other. Among all this activity, many sadhus, the religious hermits who dedicate their lives to Lord Shiva, were in evidence. Some wandered about, others just sat, their shoulders covered by saffron-coloured rags, faces painted in red and white and orange. Their hair was often very long, in dread-lock style; legs were spindly and they always carried a stick to support themselves. One such man had positioned himself in a small, stone niche, providing a perfectly balanced picture. We were told, by a young man, a potential guide, that this sadhu, along with many others, smoked a great deal of marijuana and, as such, would not be cremated but interred because there would be no prospect of re-incarnation. Many tourists, including ourselves, took photos of the man, much to the chagrin of the nearby snake charmer who, before long, gave up, closing the lid of the snake's basket and moving off to find a better "pitch".
We wandered back to the taxi still reeling from the shock of seeing these ceremonies and the sadhus so close at hand – totally unexpected. Before we left, we caught sight of a group of four or five children outside the temple, all rather ragged and barefoot. They were playing what looked like "Farmer's in his den", holding hands in a circle with one child in the middle. Our daughter-in-law studies, and has published books on playground games, and I could not resist taking a quick snap. I was not quick enough to do this unobserved and the children rushed over, not wanting anything other than the fun of having their photo taken again. Their unsophisticated happiness was heart-warming. They immediately stood in a row, but Pat organized them into their circle again for an action shot. When she rewarded them with a Rp10 note and indicated it was for all of them to share, they squealed with delight and rushed over to a group of men sitting by the side of the road. We were a little disappointed to see that they handed over the note to one of the men but our driver and a passer-by assured us that he would change the note and that they would each get a couple of rupees. They were both amazed how much we had given -1
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When, as a youngster, I would get up late, one of my father's pet dicta was to point out that, "the best part of the day had gone". I could not help feeling he would have been pleased with me that day when, through getting up at 5.30am, Pat and I had been able to fit in so much. And we were not yet finished. When we reached the hotel, Bimal and Santosh were already there, waiting to take us out shopping and for further sightseeing. We jumped into Santosh's car and were soon in Bishal Bazaar – renamed “The Supermarket” – quite a modern shopping mall that contained Kathmandu’s first escalator. Here, we bartered for an umbrella. With the Nepalese rupee worth only 1p as against the Indian one and a half, it made sense to buy such items in Kathmandu. Likewise, because of the number of presents we were being given and buying, it had become obvious that we would need another suitcase so we approached a shop owned by an extremely large, flamboyant gent sporting earrings and, incongruous in a Nepalese, orange shoulder-length hair. Everyone seemed so friendly that we got the impression this character was well known to our companions. The bartering was noisy and very good humoured and we were very pleased to obtain a substantial-sized case for Rp2,000.
Once these purchases had been deposited in the car, we moved on to Durbar Square where some of our queries from our own excursion there were answered. Santosh explained that "kathmandu" means "wooden temple/pavilion" and he was able to fill in more detail as he pointed out the traditional carvings on the oldest of these buildings. A group of men sitting on the ground in front of a large brass statue of Buddha were preparing offerings in their array of little dishes (various coloured powders and other substances) over which they would drape some threads. Placing some of this in what looked like pieces of paper taken from sealed plastic bags, the men would hand this to passers-by, usually women, who would in turn hand it to some men standing on a ledge near the face of the Buddha. As they stuffed the packet into the gaping mouth of the statue, they would give the women a flower whose petals they would fix in their hair. Santosh's explanation was limited to "It is all a significant part of their worship. It is done in so many ways in Buddhism", which we took to mean, "I don't really know what that is all about".
The square was heaving with people and we soon realised why – the King (together with the Queen) was hosting a reception at the old palace that had formerly been the residence of his father. (This latter gentleman had been very much a "people's king" and would often be seen about the city in a humble rickshaw.) The place was alive with police and we climbed some steps at the base of the Jagganath temple as people were cleared from the congested pavements and roadway. Every few minutes, police-escorted ambassadorial limousines, bearing flags of various countries, would sweep forward with VIPs for the reception and the crowd grew thicker by the minute. Santosh and Bimal told us that the present royal couple were held in great respect by their subjects and this led on to discussion about our own UK royals. They said that the whole of Kathmandu was glued to the television for Diana's funeral – "What a spectacle it was!" said Bimal. Tempers began to be frayed by police insistence that nobody should encroach upon the highway. There was quite a contretemps between the officers and a group of young men bearing flaming torches and a large effigy of Ganesh, the elephant-headed son of Krishna, as the worshippers insisted on their right to continue their procession. Amidst all this, the rain started to fall and we decided to abandon our attempted glimpse of Nepalese Royalty. We tried to retrace our steps but were barred by the police. Santosh pleaded that I was a businessman with a 9pm flight to catch but this ploy cut no ice. We were forced to trampse round some very narrow, dark and, by now, sloshy, back streets to circumvent the route of the procession. This brought us out on to Friek St., which was the centre of the Beatles-inspired Hare-Krishna-hippy scene in the 1960s. Our day of mountains, temples, shopping and Royal-watching was completed after dinner by a less fascinating activity – watching Tottenham Hotspur play Wimbledon live on TV!
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My remaining two days of examining were at the Shuvatara School where Bimal carried out a lot of his music teaching. The 450-pupil school, from infants to A-level students, was opened ten years before with educational goals set out in the elaborate school brochure as “learning to know, learning to do, learning to be, and learning to live together”. Shuv is Nepali for auspicious and tara is a star but, unfortunately, the standard of the Electronic Keyboard candidates did not live up to these expectations. As in Calcutta, it was apparent that the teacher(s) concerned had not grasped the necessary concepts for some of the tests. The guitarists were somewhat better. My examination room was the school library. Above and in front of me on the wall was a homily which read "Reading make (sic) a full man, conference a ready man and writing an exact man". The author quoted was "Francis Baconian" and I could not help wondering how Nepalese children coped with such subtleties of the English language. This also reminded of a question Bimal had put to me about the Percussion syllabus that he was hoping to start work on with a drummer and some pupils. The titles of some of the suggested compositions for these exams are all puns of one sort or another – “Brushin' around" for example or "Para-shoot". "Please sir," Bimal had said very suddenly one day in the car, "what is Hilda? I have looked it up in my music dictionaries and so has Santosh at the Embassy. We thought it was a girl's name so what has it got to do with music?" Bimal was mystified by the title for the Grade One composition, "Waltzing with Hilda". Explaining this was not easy.
On each day, Bimal and some of his colleagues took me to lunch at the International Club, a short walk down the road. This establishment, Bimal told me, was "owned by the school" which apparently also owned two bakeries and two other restaurants in the city – something, perhaps, for British inner-city school to consider in terms of diversification.
My final candidate of the Tuesday afternoon was Bimal himself. It is always slightly awkward for the examiner when the person who has been dealing with all the arrangements, including personal, non-TCL ones, enters the examination room. Although one knows that one's judgement will be completely unbiased, the feeling of discomfort is on both sides. In Britain, the situation can be avoided because a rep would enter at a centre other than his/her own. But Bimal could hardly be asked to go to Darjeeling or Calcutta. Once the exams were over, I attended a brief teachers’ meeting which included the inevitable tea and sweet cakes. It was, as in Calcutta, difficult to get much reaction from the teachers. Several, no doubt, felt inhibited by their lack of authoritative English so I found myself facing a somewhat grim audience. The proceedings had been presided over by the Headmistess,Mrs. Gurung, whose command of English was impeccable, and the event ended with the presentation to the examiner of a topi, the ubiquitous small, patterned, Nepalese cap, plus a garland of flowers, both of which I kept on in the taxi back to the hotel. I also received a beautiful shawl for Pat. The teachers and students were now full of smiles and were busy taking pictures and waving me off. Bimal sat in the front of the taxi and was rather quiet and I guessed why. The journey seemed to be dogged by clogged up roads, and the "short cuts" initiated by Bimal were not – we were further snarled up on lanes barely wider than the vehicle. Eventually, he could not resist bringing up the subject and said "Oh well, sir, you might as well tell me that I have failed and I will have another go next year." I had decided I was going to break the news to him at the pre-arranged dinner with Santosh and Pat later that evening but, thinking that was just a little melodramatic, I told him that he had, in fact, passed. He whooped with delight, much to the astonishment and consternation of the driver, who would not have been party to the discussion, and, if he had been able to reach me, I'm sure Bimal would have given me an enormous hug.
Pat was in Reception to meet us and, after taking in the sight of her flower-bedecked and topied husband making a dignified entrance, she could tell from Bimal's face what had happened. I just said, "Meet Bimal Rai, ATCL" and he accepted her congratulatory hug and her obvious pleasure with some delight. Later, over dinner at the Chinese Room in Durbar Margh, we discovered that Bimal, who had waited at the hotel for us to shower and change and had therefore not been home, had not phoned to tell his wife the result of his exam. "The Nepalese way", he said, very seriously, "is to pass on good news face to face". We were both so pleased for him, as was Santosh. They immediately began talking about how they could get Bimal a better guitar, and how they would do more hotel work playing duets, which had apparently proved very popular. We felt sure that Santosh, with his contacts, would be able to get an instrument possibly from America. Bimal's enthusiasm for western music, for his teaching and for his involvement with, and desire to build up still further, the Trinity centre, was touching.
Over our final night-cap in the Fun Cafe, we looked through the present Santosh had left with us – a detailed travel book on Nepal similar to LonelyPlanet, which showed us how much more there was to see of this lovely country; the trekking in the foothills past stupas and villages; the parts of Kathmandu we had not had time to see; holiday resorts further up the valley such as Pokhara and Pardi. One of the waiters, Anand – his name, he told us, means Happiness – brought us a chocolate torte "with my compliments and in the hope that we might meet again". If only...
Santosh had one last place he wanted us to see the next morning before we made our final preparations for departure. We drove, through quite heavy rain, out along appalling roads to the far suburbs. On the way, we passed the Nepalese National School, set up by the British some eighty years ago but now managed by Nepalese. We were making for the village of Narayanthan where, before long we were standing beside a six-metre-long sculpture of a sleeping Vishnu. Hinduism’s great creation myth revolves around Vishnu in the form of Narayana “Lying on the waters” and this prostrate statue was wreathed in the beautifully carved coils of the nine-headed serpent, Ananta, whose hoods seemed to form a crown around the head of the god. It lay inside an open sided temple, Budhanilkantha. The sculpture was consecrated in the 7th century and carved from a single block of black stone not found in the Kathmandu valley – presumably dragged to this spot from afar. Curiously, the statue seemed to float in the water and the half-smile on Vishnu’s face reflected the mystery surrounding the environs. A brahmin priest was sitting in one corner of the temple quietly intoning and a young girl, who we took to be mentally handicapped, put flower petals on our heads, for which Santosh gave her money. Being so early in the morning, and with so few people around, the snake-wreathed Vishnu, the brahmin, the poor, unfortunate youngster and the light rain provided a surreal atmosphere for this, our last Nepalese experience.
Later that morning, when we were packed and ready for our taxi to the airport, Bimal arrived, as arranged, to pick up the report sheets on his centres candidates – "the results". He brought with him his adorable little four-year-old daughter Pavana – "after the dance", explained Bimal. She was wearing a white and mauve frilly dress, bright red plastic sandals and her hair bunches were topped by two red ribbons. She came with us to the airport, sitting solemnly between Pat and I on the back seat – I think the taxi ride was something of a treat. Our farewells were warm and sincere and I promised Bimal that he could keep in touch through Santosh's e-mail should he want any help or advice. Soon, we were lost in the pandemonium of the departure lounge. The airport seemed be without monitors to inform travellers from which gates aircraft should be boarded. The morning was growing very hot and there was a lot of noise from young South Asian Games competitors. We pondered on this, the downside of travelling in this part of the globe but decided that it was a small price to pay for the sights, sounds and experiences of the last six days.
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