Читать книгу Buddhas, Bombs and the Babu - Kerry Tolson - Страница 7

Shades of auburn, henna and caramel stretch across a parched terrain desperate for revitalising monsoonal rains, its contours scribbled with black ribbon roads, pitted by hillocks and drab woodland thickets. Cutting deeply through the bleakness, coursing towards the Bay of Bengal is the Ganges River, its dark mahogany waters feeding life-giving blood to the villages and townships that straddle its wide banks. A graffitied landscape peppered with clouds of factory smog, fusing into a dull brown haze that covers India. In the distance, shimmering against dusky blue skies emerges a band of the earth’s most precious gems, the Himalayas. Clouds bundle beneath the startling white peaks, shrouding their landmass, hiding our destination, building the anticipation of our first glimpse into an eternal kingdom: Nepal.

Ding!

‘This is your captain speaking.’ A strong, clear voice comes over the loud speaker. I instantly picture the stereotypical pilot – dashing, chiselled jaw, thick black hair, long lashes – just like the chap from the Flight Centre ad, only younger.

‘I trust you are having a pleasant flight. We are making good time and will be landing five minutes early. If you look out to the right side, you will see a very clear view of the Himalayas. Feel free to get up and look across for the next ten minutes. We are flying at an altitude of…’

Poof. The rest of the announcement disappears as a rush of blood and pounding heartbeat echoes in my ears. Horrified, I watch passengers on the left of the plane scramble across seats to catch a glimpse of the mountains.

‘Ohmigod! We’re gonna flip,’ I shriek. Forget dashing, the pilot’s a brainless dolt! Where’d he get his licence, from a packet of Aeroplane Jelly? Visions of the plane plunging, crashing wing first into the ground dance across my eyes. It’s taken a lot to physically place myself into this piece of flimsy aluminium tubing. The last thing I need is this.

Necks craning, hands trying to get a steady hold, they lean across, all wanting to see the band’s crowning jewel, Mt Everest. There’s not enough room and in the pushing and shoving fray, I feel my hair caught in somebody’s grip. Excited, hot, panting breath wafts against my neck. I hear a throaty moan. I hope this chap’s excited about the mountains outside and not the peaks in my blouse. A thin man politely asks if he may lean further across to get a photo, then practically sits on my lap. He has a bony backside and it needles. Momentarily, my panic switches to annoyance.

With so much shuffling and pushing, my panic returns and I search for the flight attendants, hoping – no praying – they will tell everyone to sit down. That way the plane won’t tip over and we won’t all die. Logically I know that’s not going to happen, but sometimes, I am not a rational thinker. Just my luck, finally the chance to travel and now we’re going to crash.

I always wanted to go to Nepal.

As an eight-year-old, Tintin and Snowy had taken my imagination on a wild trek across the roof of the earth and introduced me to a wondrous city called Kathmandu. Two years later I stared into the hypnotic blue eyes of Michael York and dreamily followed him to a utopian land high in the Himalayas in the seventies movie Lost Horizon. However, it was a family whisper that stirred my desire. Way back when, my grandfather had secretly visited Nepal. A soldier in India, he’d befriended a Gurkha and, during a leave grant, had spirited away to this hidden kingdom. I’d only ever heard my grandfather speak of this journey once in passing, and his description of a mystical place, where closing your eyes could transport you across caverns, buried deep into my subconscious mind. It consumed me.

Growing up I preferred National Geographic to Dolly Magazine, at odds with my girly school chums. Whilst they plastered posters of Bay City Rollers and Shaun Cassidy on their walls and drooled over boys with mullet hairstyles driving decaled panel vans, I was busy sticky-taping pages from an atlas to my ceiling and ogling at a pin-up boy who wore a gourd over his willy. I couldn’t wait to be old enough to apply for a passport in my own right and disappear into life’s wilderness.

At fifteen, much to the delight of my teachers, I’m sure, I left school with my only pass, Geography, and took any job available. For a country girl from out west whose only qualification was knowing Long Ears and Short Ears weren’t characters out of Noddy in Toyland but a group of people from Easter Island eons ago, career opportunities were scarce.

Reduced to crappy jobs such as milking cows (up to my knees in crap), babysitting (changing crap), mucking horse stalls (surrounded by crap), and picking strawberries (no crap, just back-breaking), I was so desperate to earn the dollars I even took on de-horning cattle (absolutely covered in crap… and blood and mucus and, on my part, vomit). At least I didn’t need to worry about makeup or looking cute. Instead, I planned. I planned how I would immerse myself in a country, discover its essence, its history, its life and its foibles. I planned to be a gypsy, dancing across the contours of borders, singing different tunes, wandering an open road and flying across a sky of uncountable stars.

Finally the time had come. Nineteen, cashed up and gripping passport in hand, I was just about to take flight when I crash-landed in love with a man whose size eleven feet were planted firmly on the ground.

Mal – outgoing, witty, a typical country ocker who called a spade a shovel and thought men who wore pastel were confused (it was the early eighties). Growing up in a large close family in a small tight-knit community, the virtues of work, work and work until you bloody drop dead were firmly instilled. If you wanted something done, he was the man to call. Dependable, available. Always available because he was always there – he never went anywhere. He had absolutely no desire to travel, not even around Australia.

His only inquisitiveness of the sub-continent came when the Aussies were playing Pakistan or India in the cricket. If the Aussies were beating them, fantastic. If they were beating the Poms, even better. As for Nepal, ‘Sorry, they don’t play cricket, so don’t care’

We were so different. He wanted a home, a business and kids. The best-laid plans can disappear in a puff of smoke. Mine exploded! Before I knew it, marriage bells had rung and nappies were being wrung out. Any discussion regarding travel, no matter how long or short a trip, gave birth to Mr Dependable’s three other personas – Mr Responsibility, Mr Cautious, and Mr Procrastinator.

Mr R argued well, always tugging the motherly guilt strings. Good parents don’t drag their bubs to strange foreign countries and subject them to even stranger people and odd food. They stay home, earn a living and make sure bub is well fed, warm and has loads of comforts. Then Mr C would pop his head up espousing the dangers of travelling; bizarre diseases, weird doctors and perilous forms of transport. What if something happened? We’d be too far from home for help. Mr P declared it all too hard. How would you wash nappies, blend baby food, or even get a pram into the travel luggage? No, too much bother. We’ll have to wait until the heir is older.

Years drifted by and we had slipped into the shackles of house repayments and running a business – working long hours, watching every cent, trying to turn the shack into a castle. The bub became a precocious, inquisitive pre-schooler constantly on the go, showing signs of independence. You know the type – turning five, going on twenty.

Whenever the subject of travelling was broached, Mr R returned with a list of reasons why we couldn’t. We had to commit (I felt as though I’d been committed) not just to the business and the house, but also now to the schooling of the tear-about rugrat. Then he too could get a good, responsible job and a mortgage, just like his dad. The dependable rock was firmly entrenched. Mal loved his job as a mechanic. He loved his business. It needed him and he couldn’t afford time away, not even for a short holiday.

I couldn’t even get the rallying support of family, mine or his. The Crepehangers, my doom-and-gloomers constantly reminded me of my responsibilities. ‘You can’t take a child to one of those countries,’ they’d exclaim. ‘He’ll catch lots of horrid diseases; eat disgusting food like dog, rat, fried cockroaches or, heaven forbid, duck embryo. He might get trampled by rampaging animals, or by people who throw tomatoes at each other at weird festivals. And where would he sleep? Not with all those smelly, ferally backpackers you find wandering the world. What if he was kidnapped, run over, lost?’ Gosh, none of these things could ever happen in Australia, right?

Before I knew it, I was mid-thirty, living the Australian dream, shopping my life away, a wallet full of plastic, a beautiful house near the beach crammed with stuff, two-plus cars in the garage and a small business, struggling, but viable. I had it all. Well, didn’t I?

Consumed with wanderlust I devoured every travel book I could get my hands on and pleaded for friends and acquaintances to give me every detail about their trips, never mind how minor. My friends began to hide their holiday snaps from me. Most people run a mile at the suggestion of a slide night. Not me – I’m there an hour early.

‘Why don’t you take a trip by yourself?’ A friend suggested. ‘Lots of women travel solo. It’s so common these days.’

‘Yes, I know, but I want to share my discoveries and misadventures with my significant other,’ I’d cry in frustration.

Travelling with another, particularly your beloved, guarantees always having someone to help carry your baggage, especially after purchasing wonderful ‘can’t-live-without’ bargains found in quaint shops down ‘we’re lost and it’s your fault’ laneways. Someone to share the responsibility of looking after the passports, tickets and other important documents and to pat your forehead when you’ve contracted the Quito Queasies.

Above all, I wanted the romance: holding hands whilst oohing and aahing over breathtaking sunsets with ancient backdrops, someone to tango-dip me under starry skies, to share a cheeky skinny-dip in a blue coral lagoon while palm fronds waved from icing-sugar beaches.

If truth be told, I was afraid. Not of travelling on my own, but afraid I would enjoy it so much on my own, I wouldn’t want to come back. Afraid that when I returned I’d resent he hadn’t come, or he would resent me for actually going, leaving him, them, behind. How could I do it and not feel guilty? Most of all, I was afraid to grow old with Mal and not have the intertwined memories of journeys shared.

The craving was like an abyss – bottomless, dark, huge and frustrating to try to get over. When cyberspace fell into my black hole, my obsession spiralled and every waking moment revolved around roaming. Possessed, I scoured the fledgling travel sites, ‘stalking’ other travellers, vicariously living through their stories.

One day there was an earth tremor and the rock moved. Maybe it was because the house was filling up with guidebooks or my addiction with travel websites into the wee hours was ruining things on the romance front. More likely it was my cone of silence that had settled upon the household as I stewed more and more on the extended working hours Mal was undertaking and the role of lone cheerleader parent I had found myself in. I felt like a single mum but in reality was a laundress-cum-short-order-cook to the invisible man. The bubbling sulphur of anger exploded and instead of suggestions to pack a backpack, the threat of packing cases and moving boxes loomed. An agreement of a holiday somewhere safe, secure, and easy was reached and, before he could change his mind, I’d whipped us onto the cheapest flight I could find and whisked us all off to gently stumble around Bali.

We returned home joyous. Work hadn’t collapsed with Mal away, the rugrat didn’t get lost, trampled, or squashed (although, he did get us picked up by a vanload of prostitutes outside of Denpasar, but we won’t mention that to The Crepehangers) and I had a stamp in my virginal passport, now in its second edition. Mal was keen to try somewhere further afield and for a little bit longer. One stipulation – nothing too demanding.

Skirting the mountains, our plane dips through layers of thin cloud. Directly outside our window, dry terraced fields clinging to precipitous slopes come into view. Holding my breath in fear and fascination at such landscape being so high and close, I gasp as I catch a glimpse of a farmer and oxen ploughing a field, followed by mud huts dotting the terraces. Sebastian crushingly grips my hand, sending a sharp pain up my arm. I pat his hand feebly in a gesture of reassurance. Shit, I hate flying! Kathmandu appears – muted, dull, and sprawling.

With a sharp thump, the plane touches down and coasts along a tarmac that feels as if it’s full of rocks and potholes. One look at the airport terminal and I’m not surprised at its roughness.

‘Mum, it’s just a pile of rubble!’ exclaims Sebastian, peering out the window at what represents Nepal’s Tribhuvan International air terminal. ‘It’s all fallen down.’

He’s right. It’s hard to tell if the terminal is under construction or it’s in complete dilapidation.

Armed soldiers appear. Stationed everywhere, some are standing, others walking. They all have very large guns. Four wait at the bottom of the rollaway stairs as we disembark, herding us into a rickety bus missing most of its windowpanes and seat padding. There isn’t enough room for everyone and some of the passengers must go back up the stairway where they are told to wait until the bus returns.

I sit down on the hard timber seat and look around. The terminal entrance is only metres away from us and I cannot see another opening. ‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’ I ask Mal.

‘Buggered if I know,’ is his reply.

‘Hey dad, are those real guns?’ whispers Sebastian. He stares wide-eyed at a soldier standing near the bus.

‘Yeah, but they’re not gonna do much with them. Antiques, point three-o-threes, probably from the Second World War.’

We drive towards the rear of the plane and catch sight of soldiers frisking two tiny sari-clad women holding household vacuum cleaners and a mop – the cleaning staff. Having reached the plane’s tail the bus does a complete U-turn and takes us back the way we came, past the soldiers who are now inspecting the vacuum cleaners, past waiting passengers crowded on the stairway watching us with amusement, and past the nose of the plane which now has a man waving what looks like a stick of incense at it. The bus stops at the terminal’s entrance and the driver motions at us to disembark.

‘Welcome, entry, you go,’ he says with a smile and points to a long dark corridor. I’m both surprised and delighted the driver speaks English. I’d been wondering if English was spoken in Nepal. Among the three of us, we know one Nepali word – Namaste, hello.

As we enter the corridor, two girls in front of us stop and one pulls out a camera. However, before she can get the cap off the lens, a soldier brandishing his rather ancient but lethal-looking weapon runs over and pulls the camera away. He sternly waves us all into a windowless, dimly lit tunnel.

The presence of soldiers lurking in the shadows gives an ominous atmosphere to the terminal as we line up to pass through customs. It becomes a long wait and everyone is subdued. Further down there seems to be a problem with someone’s papers and a fast, furious conversation in hushed tones is taking place. Suddenly a loud thud echoes out. Mal and I both jump, then laugh nervously, realising the thump is only the stamping of a passport. We had built ourselves up to be ready for a colourful, noisy arrival, perhaps with a few touts offering their services. Khaki and guns were the last thing we expected. After all, aren’t we supposed to be in a land of peace, love and happiness?

It turns out, two months prior on Christmas Eve, an Indian Airlines plane was hijacked at Tribhuvan Airport. The hijackers brazenly disembarked from one plane, walked across the tarmac, and boarded an Indian Airlines flight awaiting departure. One hundred and seventy-eight passengers and eleven crew members were held hostage for eight days and taken on a bizarre ‘holiday’, flying to India, Pakistan and around parts of the Middle East before finally landing in Afghanistan. Well I suppose, that’s one way of getting a stamp into your passport. In light of the hijacking, Nepal upgraded security at the airport; hence, the heavy presence of soldiers and a bus tour of the tarmac.

Once through customs, we securely clip on our backpacks and step out of the terminal into blinding sunlight, a swirl of dust and the waiting throng of yelling, grabbing, and demanding taxi touts and porters. Now this was more like it. Anticipated chaos! However right now we don’t need any of them. Instead, we’re to meet two friends in the airport departure lounge, due to fly back to Australia.

Looking for a quick escape from the touts, we make a dash towards two large glass doors between the departure and arrival terminals and almost crash through the glass panes. They’re locked tight. Mal pushes the doors again and the glass wobbles. A guard steps forward and points us towards the car park, at the same time shaking his head as if to say, ‘Dopey tourist’.

‘Want to go in there,’ I say, pointing at the doors. Through them, I can see a calm orderly room with people quietly waiting in line. The guard points towards the noisy jostling hordes.

‘Can’t we go through here?’ I ask. The guard remains unmoved, hand politely directed outwards. Reluctantly we walk out to the car park area and into the touts’ waiting arms. They are aggressive. We brush off their grappling as we steadfastly push through, heading towards ‘Departures’. Realising we are going ‘the wrong way’, the touts yell even louder and try to stop us by standing directly in front of us.

‘You go wrong way, sirs, madam. This way,’ a tout shouts and grabs Sebastian’s backpack. ‘I take,’ he adds, pulling the pack and dragging Sebastian backwards towards a car.

‘Hey, let go… Muuuummm!’ he calls, a hint of fear in his voice. I spin around, grasp his hands and begin a tug-of-war with the tout. I win.

We run towards the departure doors, they chase us. Once inside we watch them push their faces against the windows. This area is off limits to the touts. They tap at the glass and call for us to come out. We refuse. They continue peering into the terminal at us, knowing we will have to come out eventually.

Our friends haven’t arrived, so we sit down on our backpacks and take stock of what has just happened. My head is reeling. In the space of less than an hour, we’ve gone from smiling aircraft staff to gun-toting soldiers and manhandling touts. Feeling a little panicky, I look at Mal. He glances back, giving a half smile. He too appears a little uncertain. Sebastian on the other hand is waving at the touts and laughing, ‘Ha ha, they can’t come in here.’

Half an hour later, our friends arrive. Rushing in, dishevelled and distraught, they are crying uncontrollably and my mind goes into overdrive.

‘Oh my God, what’s wrong?’ I ask, alarmed at the sight of them.

‘Nothing, we had a great time,’ says one with tears running down her cheeks. She flings her arms around me, nearly concussing me with her bright purple velvet bag sporting an Om sign, and filled with something metal, and clanging. Bells?

‘Fabulous, fabulous,’ cries the other, ‘but we’re so late. Tell you all about it back home.’ She hugs Mal, then turns, mumbles something about Boudha and hugs me with such force I’m left breathless. As she pulls away, they both look at each other and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Before we can ask anything more, they rush through the airport scanners in a flurry of coloured bags, scarves and more tears, leaving us staring after them stunned and bewildered.

I turn to Mal, ‘What the hell was all that about?’

Mal shrugs, and looks out the glass doors to the car park. He says slowly, ‘I hope you’re ready. I think we’re the only ones left.’

We are devoured in a sea of arms grabbing and pushing.

‘Good taxi,’ yells one.

‘No, I have better,’ hollers another.

‘I have big taxi and very good price,’ interjects someone.

I remember seeing a counter outside the Arrivals door with a sign advertising taxis to the iconic Kathmandu Guest House for a set price, the princely sum of two hundred and fifty rupees (just five Australian dollars). Perfect! The KGH is already on my ‘one day I’m going to do list’ and with nothing pre-booked – that’s right, we’re free-falling into my lost horizon – a prepaid taxi will take us directly there, without an argument, or so we think.

We’d been told any backpacker worth their weight in baksheesh and bribes knows hotels give taxi drivers a commission to bring them the tourists. Usually this commission is geared into the price of the accommodation. Understandably, or maybe deviously, some drivers will tell you everything and anything to entice you to ‘his’ hotel, such as, the place you want is closed, burnt down, fallen down, blown up or doesn’t even exist. They may even drive you round and round until you give in or just get out.

After paying the man at the counter the fare, we watch with fascination and amusement as he begins an animated haggle with the touts. Arms wave about and lots of fast dialogue and pushing ensues. A small, wiry, moustachioed youth (glancing around, I notice most of them are of small, wiry build with jet-black hair and thick seventies-style moustaches) in baggy trousers and a colourful waistcoat wins the ride. As he leads us towards the taxi, yelling excitedly about his win and waving the green booking ticket in the air, we’re followed, pushed, shoved, and jostled along by all the other touts.

‘That’s a taxi?’ I exclaim as we stop next to a little beaten-up orange Mazda with ripped seats, missing door handles and a battlefield of dents. Perched on its dashboard sit oodles of little idols and colourful objects that wobble and tinkle, and I’m sure won’t allow much view through the windscreen.

Getting into the taxi becomes a feat of wills. Still surrounded by jostling touts, Mal removes his bag and throws it into the boot of the car. As he turns to take mine, someone declaring he will be our porter and can get us a better taxi whisks the bag out.

‘No thanks, mate, give it ’ere,’ Mal grabs it back from the ‘porter’ and shoves it into the boot. Quick as a flash, it’s whisked out.

Laughing, ‘Nah, mate, nah,’ Mal retrieves the bag and returns it to the boot. Two seconds later, it’s out again.

‘Bloody hell!’ Mal snatches the bag with such force he almost pulls the ‘porter’ chap over. Throwing it into the boot, he growls, ‘Leave it,’ and lifts his foot onto the bag to stop its removal. With one foot up and precariously balancing on the other, Mal tussles with another ‘porter’ who is trying to take the pack off my back.

Meanwhile, Sebastian is having his own wrestling match. Released of my pack, I push Sebastian into the back seat of the car, grab his pack off a ‘porter’ and follow, pulling the door shut.

The ‘porter’ knocks on the window, ‘Rupee, madam, rupee?’ he calls.

Sebastian is stunned. Men bang on the side windows and one chap climbs into the front passenger seat.

‘This is crazy, mum,’ he giggles.

‘Bloody ridiculous.’ I too start giggling.

Up front, our driver jumps in and starts the engine. Another self-proclaimed ‘porter’ climbs into the front passenger seat – there’s no room for Mal. Having stashed the bags in the boot, Mal now stands at the car door and stares half-bemused, half-stunned at the two men sharing his front seat. He laughs aloud.

‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’ He points to the tarmac. ‘Out, please.’

‘I your porter,’ replies one.

‘No, you’re not, out... now.’

‘Porter, sir, porter.’ They both refuse to get out. Mal continues pointing at the tarmac. It becomes a standoff. From the backseat, I tap the closest one to me on the shoulder.

‘Please hop out,’ I ask ever so nicely. He ignores me. Sebastian starts laughing. The chap outside my window keeps tapping and requesting rupees. All the other touts crowd around the taxi.

Now losing patience, Mal grabs the first chap by the scruff of his shirt collar and hauls him from the car, then does the same with the second. Both protest very loudly, declaring they are our porters and must come. Seat cleared, Mal jumps in but before he can close the door, the second ‘porter’ climbs onto his lap.

‘I come, I take bags.’

‘Bugger off,’ laughs Mal and tries to push the ‘porter’ off his lap. The porter braces himself against the doorframe. ‘Get off,’ and with a huge shove Mal pushes the ‘porter’ out of the car and onto the ground. Mal grabs the door to close but the other ‘porter’ holds it open. Turning to the driver, Mal yells in his best ‘get-away’ voice, ‘Go, go, drive now!’

With a hard yank, he pulls on the door, causing the ‘porter’ to head-butt it as it closes. At the same time, the driver accelerates and we shoot away, narrowly missing a couple of touts loitering near the front of the car. I’m horrified at Mal’s ‘manhandling’ but can’t help myself and I burst into giggles, along with Sebastian.

Horn honking, we drive at neck-breaking speed through the rough and tumble streets of Kathmandu. There are people, cars and animals everywhere and as the car swerves to miss them all, we’re tossed about inside. At first I forget to breathe, tensing up at the near misses. Realising I’m starting to feel faint (and probably turning blue) I exhale and look at Sebastian who is sitting next to the window, staring wide-eyed at everything.

‘Mate, put your bag next to the window and you sit in the middle,’ I instruct. Visions of the car being sideswiped nearly become a reality when we narrowly miss a small van.

‘I don’t want to. Oooh, look at that man. He’s got no clothes on, and he’s got white stuff all over him.’

I breathe in sharply as we veer away from another close call, this time with a three-wheeled contraption. I catch myself pushing my foot down onto the floor and feel metal crackle under my shoe. The floor is a tad rusty. ‘Shit,’ I mutter.

Suddenly I realise, it doesn’t matter how many times I step on the imaginary brake or close my eyes, the near misses are still going to happen, OK, just breathe. In, out, in out. Relax. Go with the flow. By going with the flow I tell myself I may actually enjoy the sights and possibly the thrills.

Our taxi fights for road space with all manner of transport. Vikram-tempos, small three-wheeled death-traps running on kerosene that belch toxic black clouds; copious bicycles, all antique and rickety-looking; enormous rumbling trucks, garishly decorated with swirls of paint and jangly things obscuring their windscreens; and multicoloured rickshaws, loaded to the hilt with passengers and goods. I am horrified yet fascinated to watch the rickshaw-wallahs edge their way through the fumes and traffic with these heavy loads. Probably only in their mid-thirties or forties, the men look so fragile and ancient and they pedal along as if on a quiet country road.

On and off the sidewalks amble people from all walks of life. Kohl-eyed Nepalese and Indian women in swirls of pink, blue and red saris, men in both western and traditional clothing, their heads adorned with colourful little embroidered hats called topis, beggars marred with twisted limbs and lesions, children with smiling faces and, of course, masses of foreigners. Colour and vibrancy is everywhere.

Accompanying it all is a constant rumbling and honking. In fact, I think our driver’s right hand is permanently glued to the horn. It never stops honking, whether there is someone or something near us, or not. The horn blows longest and loudest for the one major obstacle on the road that it is so imperative for the driver to never hit – the ever wandering, ever abundant and always sacred cow. They are everywhere. They stand in the middle of the road, they peer into shop doors, they munch on bits of greenery at the vegetable stalls, block laneways and take up resting spots on the pavement, forcing all and sundry to walk around them. Big black muscular bulls, small docile doe-eyed heifers, sprightly young calves, loitering bovines – all without a care in the world, acting as if they own the world. We have entered cow utopia.

As we go hurtling through bustling overflowing streets to even more congested alleyways brimming with everything and anything – including a chap who carries a toilet bowl upon his head – our driver decides the Kathmandu Guest House is not for us and strongly offers suggestions of other establishments. According to him, he has a much better, cheaper, closer guesthouse for us. However, I have dreams of entering the world of the intrepid traveller and in my readings and fantasies of Nepal, the Kathmandu Guest House loomed large. After lots of ‘noes’ on our behalf and constant ‘yeses’ on the driver’s, we finally arrive at this fabled establishment.

Stepping out of the taxi, I haul my bag onto my back and feel a surge of excitement bubble up. I’m standing at the gates of the hippy trail and I want to yell out ‘Cooee, I’m here.’ Ok, so it’s thirty years too late and the hippy has become yuppie, but better late than never!

An institution of the London-to-Asia overland trail in the sixties, the Kathmandu Guest House embraced not only the bohemian traveller, but was, and still is, a launching pad for many a Himalayan expedition. A former Rana palace, it sits smack in the middle of Thamel yet, set back from the main street behind a large fence its private, leafy courtyard gardens are a tranquil oasis in a sea of bubbling life. It’s perfect for taking a minute to work out our next step.

We order coffees and juice, pull out our map and guidebook, and try to gain our bearings. I’m so excited, the hustle and bustle of the street is beckoning me, I want to take it all in. But first, we have to find somewhere to sleep. It’s nearly four o’clock and the air is beginning to cool. Mal pops into reception to check the room prices. They’re too steep for our intended budget.

To get Mal to agree to a trip to Nepal, I had to convince him we could do it for next to nothing. I’d come across a chap who had regaled me with stories of how he’d travelled in Nepal for almost six months and spent only a few hundred dollars. Wow, I thought, Nepal is that cheap? Fantastic! We should be able to enjoy a great one-month family expedition for around a grand. Of course, what the chap hadn’t told me was that you need to stay in fleapits, eat nothing else but dal-baht, take the local transport only and don’t buy all those fabulous bits and pieces. Oh, and most importantly, don’t have an eleven-year-old trailing after you.

Mal steps out into the street to investigate other guesthouses and is immediately besieged by touts and swept away in a surging sea of offers. I anticipate a long wait, but he’s back within minutes, beaming.

Our new home for the next few days will be the Potala Guest House, owned by a lovely Tibetan family. I develop a soft spot straight away for this little abode. After all, anything named after Tibet’s holiest palace, the former historical home of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, has to be auspicious and I take this as a sign of good luck for our trip. This Potala is a very narrow building of about five floors, accessed by an iron staircase to the reception area, which also serves as the family’s sitting room. Decorated with paintings of the real Potala Palace and portraits of Tibetan herdsman, pride of place is given to a small shrine overlooked by an image of the always-smiling Dalai Lama.

We’re given a small, sparse, ultra-clean room on the top floor, much to my delight. Before leaving home, I was warned of the haphazard building codes of Nepal. Apparently, it’s not unusual for buildings to fall down and, just to make me feel really safe, Nepal is earthquake-prone. If that was the case, I didn’t want umpteen floors falling on top of me. ‘But,’ Mal points out, ‘we’ll be further away from the bottom for a quick escape.’ Breathe deep. In, out, in out. Go with the flow.

It doesn’t take long to explore the room – three single beds and a table. The light switch works and so does the lock on the door. The only window in the room is a narrow strip of glass almost at ceiling height. One has to stand on tiptoes, on the bed, to look out. Down the hall near the stairs is a communal sink for teeth cleaning and next to it a door leading to a tiny do-not-turn-around and don’t-drop-the-soap-or-you’ll-get-stuck communal shower. It only produces cold water. A sign on the door asks you to think of your fellow travellers and limit the time spent in the shower. No risk of bathroom-hogging here. Taking a cold shower in a broom closet is definitely not on my indulgence list.

At the end of the hall is a rooftop garden providing a wonderful but smoggy view of Thamel’s surrounds and a hazy sight of a distant hilltop stupa. I give Mal the thumbs up. The Potala may be basic, but it’s clean and cosy, and for just five Aussie dollars a night, it’s perfect.

Eager to discover this chaotic vibrant city, I pack my camera gear (which includes a full-size tripod that weighs a ton and needs a degree to operate), guidebook and map into a small daypack. It’s almost five o’clock but Kathmandu is still pulsating. In the slowly lowering afternoon sun, swirls of dust rise from the road, music drifts out of bars and small street stalls waft the pungent smell of curry. Delicious!

Kathmandu is one of the oldest cities in the world, emerging from antiquity, living its history every day and following a date line set for the future. As we in the west celebrate reaching the millennium, Nepal is already in the year 2056. Kathmandu’s original inhabitants, the Newars originated from an ancient Mongoloid peoples, the Kiratis and are said to be the creators of Nepal’s historic civilization. Arriving in the valley somewhere around 700 BCE they brought with them the Buddhist culture and reigned supreme for twenty-eight kings until the invasion by the Licchavis, an Indo-Aryan people from northern Indian. With the Licchavis came Hinduism and the caste system that remains today. Before the Shahs unification of Nepal in 1768, the kingdom of Nepal only comprised of Kathmandu and its surrounding valley, which was conquered, ruled and reconquered many times over by various dynasties, until the Malla kings took rule in 1201 and dominated for six centuries though not always united. In 1482 the valley spilt into rival Malla kingdoms and the kings competed with each other resulting in a spree of construction of temples and palaces. The cities advanced becoming living museums, filled with incredible arts and architecture, learning and religious prowess – and we are standing in the middle of it! I’m so excited, I pinch Mal on the arm.

Strolling through the bustling streets, eyes wide open, mouths agape, we’re engulfed in a cacophony of sights, smells, noise and touch, all fighting for dominance. Even the air has a taste to it – mustardy and tangy. It’s actually not that nice but I don’t care, it’s exotic. From all directions, we’re bombarded with wonderful and weird things from overly-keen hawkers. Our cheery ‘no thanks, mate,’ soon becomes a plain and simple ‘no’ that fades into little more than shaking smiles. The narrow, tightly packed streets overflow with people, rickshaws, carts, motorised and hand pushed, all fighting for road space and competing with cars. Regularly we come across a cow resting in the middle of the road, chewing its cud, and taking no notice of the honking traffic around it.

The cows fascinate Sebastian. Coming from a coastal sugar-growing area he doesn’t see too many bovines wandering around back home. The other creatures wandering all over the place are dogs. Scabby, mangy and half-starved, they rummage among rubbished laneways. An elderly woman with a blue nose ring and bright red dot on her forehead chases a tumbling pack of three fighting over scapes from her shop front. ‘Hey Mum, this place should be called Dogmandu,’ announces Sebastian as they scuttle past him.

‘Stay away from them. Rabies,’ I reply. I wonder what happens if we are bitten? In my naivety and excitement, I hadn’t given a skerrick of thought about vaccinations. Maybe the Crepehangers are right: I am irresponsible.

The multitude of shops lining the streets sell everything from carpets, colourful clothing and brass Buddhas to plastic dishes and buckets – blue seems to be the favourite colour. Every second shop boasts ‘Internet’, ironic considering internet cafes are a rarity in my modern hometown. Fighting with the advertising placards hang fabulous cotton spreads embellished with Om and Yin Yang signs. A mass of brilliant colour, they wave about in the dust swirls, flapping along with strings of prayer flags and the flag of Nepal. And amongst it all, piles of rotting garbage overflow gutters and mount against the walls.

We enjoy getting lost in the rabbit warrens of Kathmandu, following streets, turning corners. Down one laneway we come across road repairs. A deep long gaping hole smack in middle of the road reminds me of a freshly dug grave, and not a single worker or warning device in sight. We trample over the rubble and are met on the other side by a Sadhu, a holy man, dressed in a bright orange robe. He wants to bless Mal. Mal doesn’t want to be blessed but the Sadhu goes ahead anyway, rubbing a red dot onto Mal’s forehead, murmuring something exotic, and then proceeds to ask for rupees.

Nepal is a blending and melding of an amazing mix of races and ethnic groups and the kaleidoscope of cultures is evident everywhere we walk. At first I’m surprised at how many foreigners, Western and Eastern, are wandering about, but this is soon washed over by the immense evidence of worship and tolerance of the differing religions. Scattered everywhere are small shrines and deities of both Hindu and Buddhism, mixed with Muslim and Christian places of worship. Faith is life here. Occasionally we come across a small Hindu shrine with red paint splashes and lots of little oil lamps around it. People stop, light a lamp, touch the stone deity and ring a small bell, releasing delightful tinkling sounds into the vibrations of the street life. Some leave pretty red, yellow or white flowers, others offer small dishes of rice.

We soon find ourselves at the striking Thahiti Tole Stupa that appears to double as a roundabout for the traffic. Surrounded by garbage and dust, this little stupa has bright yellow cylinder-shaped prayer wheels set into its walls. When spun, the wheels release prayers into the cosmos. Constructed in the fifteenth century, folklore claims the stupa sits over a pond of gold, but another legend asserts it’s a pit filled with snakes. Perhaps they are guarding the gold. Above its dome, the lid-lowered eyes of Buddha peer through masses of colourful prayer flags fanning out from the centre point to the surrounding jumble of buildings housing shops and homes. They flap in the breeze, releasing prayers of peace, hope and love into the universe.

We walk clockwise around the stupa, turning the prayer wheels with our right hands and I whisper the mantra ‘Om Mane Padme Hum’, Hail to the jewel in the lotus. Stopping for a photo opportunity, we’re immediately propositioned by a rickshaw-wallah for a fare. Although we decline he continues to offer his services and even after explaining we’re enjoying our walk, he continues to follow us down the street, calling out, ‘You want rickshaw, you need guide?’

We walk, he follows. We duck into a shop to try to get away, only to find ourselves in another sales situation. Selling jackets, shawls and big hairy boots, I delve into the knits. They smell a bit funky, musky, almost goatish, but are so soft. I find some beautifully knitted gloves, light as a feather yet very warm. It’s time to try our first attempt at haggling on Nepali soil.

Mal loves bargaining and will happily do it for hours. His jovial, playful manner always sees him rewarded with some great bargains, leaving the seller still smiling. I, on the other hand, am hopeless. Embarrassed paying so little for items that probably took the person forever to make, I always want to give the seller the first price they suggest, even if it is exorbitant. I remember once in Bali, after successfully haggling down the cost, giving the seller more than the original price and telling her to ‘keep the change.’ Even Sebastian mastered the art of haggling in Bali, and the vendors found it delightfully entertaining. At the end of the sale, they would grin widely and say, ‘He good, he very quick, he good luck.’

Travelling with Sebastian gives us even more attention than a normal tourist may receive, his blond hair and dimples a fascination to many. In Nepal I will find myself regularly praised for having a son, very important in a country that prizes boys above girls. Sebastian handles the attention in his easy-going way. Rarely shy, he’ll happily chat with the locals and occasionally becomes cheeky and mischievous.

Hours later, after a mouth-watering meal at a local restaurant costing a grand total of three dollars, we collapse onto our thin mattresses and fall into what I hope will be a deep restful sleep. We’ve been on our feet since four in the morning and I feel as if I’ve already lived a week in this one day. As I drift towards sleep, my hands and feet snug in cosy Himalayan sheep wool knits, my floating thoughts are of something a close friend had said to me before leaving home.

‘Nepal – it will awaken your inner self,’ she said with a sagacious smile, ‘and it will change you in ways you won’t have imagined.’

I feel sure this is going to happen. I see it in my dreams.