Читать книгу Buddhas, Bombs and the Babu - Kerry Tolson - Страница 9

Utter exhaustion failed to capture any sleep. A constant racket of rumbling and banging pervaded throughout the night and now the awakening sounds of Kathmandu are taking over. The sharp cold air bites the tip of my nose. In the grey dimness of the room I can just see Mal’s face poking out of his cocoon. He looks at me, I at him.

‘Are you going to make it?’ he asks a hopeful lilt to his voice.

Yawning, I shake my head and snuggle further under the blanket. ‘But I’d love a cuppa too,’ I reply.

Sighing, Mal climbs out of bed. He’s wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, bright red with a smiling elephant and ‘nice trunk’ emblazoned across the front. ‘Cripes, it’s a bit chilly.’

But instead of putting on clothes, he sets up our small travelling metho stove to boil water for coffee. Then he wanders out of the bedroom, down the corridor to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, after pulling out bundles of clothing, books, a huge first-aid kit and various packets of soups, pastas and other freeze-dried provisions, he finally locates the tubes of coffee and condensed milk.

‘Did’ya pack enough crap,’ he grumbles, squeezing the sticky brown substance into cups. We’ve three backpacks, all filled to the brim.

‘You’ll thank me for some of that crap when we end up in some isolated one-goat village with only bean curd to eat.’

‘Humph.’ He hands me a cup. Steam rises from its sweet brown liquid and the heat instantly warms my still gloved hands. Boy, did I need those gloves last night.

‘Ta, darling,’ I say sweetly, and smile sheepishly. Sebastian is still asleep. How he had managed to slumber through the noise is beyond me. I put my cup on the floor and wriggle myself into jeans, pulling them over thick socks and thermal underwear while still cocooned in my down-filled sleeping bag. I climb out of bed and, with hands hugging the warm cup, make my way out to the rooftop garden. The sky is just starting to lighten. A bluish-mauve lustre illuminates the distant mountains.

Peering down from the roof I soon realise what had made the ongoing noise during the night. Yesterday a brick building stood next to our guesthouse, today it’s demolished, gone overnight. All that remains is a massive jumble of bricks, broken and smashed, with an intact toilet bowl sitting in the middle of it all. I can only surmise the whole demolishing was undertaken manually. There’s not a skerrick of motorised construction machinery anywhere, just a lot of sledgehammers leaning against a makeshift wire and hessian bag fence shielding the site from the street. The night workers call out Namaste to the day crew who are now coming onsite.

On the other side of the fence, the street is slowly becoming a hive of activity. Elderly women bent over small round straw brooms sweep copious amounts of rubbish into huge piles. Street children and rag traders scrounge through it, picking from its putrid mass: plastic bottles, tins and paper, all worth only a few rupees. In the process, they inadvertently scatter the leftovers back through the street.

A butcher’s cart clatters down the road. Carcasses, purple and bloodied, drape across its timber boards, exposed to the dust and grime. At least the air is cool... and it’s still too early for flies. Further along, a woman carries a huge metal jug on her head. Dressed in an exquisite red and green sari, she delicately steps around the scattered garbage, not spilling a drop.

Above, dawn has broken. A brilliant orange sun rises, bathing the sky in hues of soft pinks. The mountain peaks change from frosted blues and mauve to brilliant crystal white. In the distance, a stupa’s golden spire glistens and a tinkling of bells echoes across the valley.

‘This is so amazing,’ I sigh.

‘Mmm, it is pretty incredible,’ Mal whispers, his warm breath brushes my ear as he wraps his arms around my waist. He’s dressed in shorts and T-shirt. I shiver, as if feeling the cold more due to his lack of clothing. ‘Sebastian’s awake, let’s go for a walk.’

As if on cue, the gates to the guesthouse rumble open. The night before I was surprised, if not a little alarmed, to learn every night a huge wrought iron cage-like gate was drawn across the front door and firmly padlocked.

‘To keep out beggars,’ had been the owner’s answer when I questioned the need.

‘What about a fire or earthquake?’ I asked, ‘How do we get out?’

With a smile and a shrug, he’d replied, ‘It OK, all safe, we have roof garden.’

Wandering through streets, we ingest the wondrous pink light as it peeks between buildings and caresses the tiny metal temples, warming the tarnish gild of the deities. The franticness of the previous day is yet to dawn. No horns or motors can be heard, no yelling or haggling, no begging has begun. Instead, it’s the faint tinkling of bells, the occasional braying of a cow, or a passer-by’s soft Namaste.

And then there’s the hacking sound of spit being propelled onto the ground. Spitting. I am to wonder if it is a national pastime in Nepal. Everybody does it. Young children, old women, all the men. They all produce that growling sound of phlegm, summoned from the inner depths, a warning sign to watch out, a glob is about to be unleashed into the world. Talking to someone, asking directions, even haggling comes with an expelled spit-ball. At first I find it overwhelmingly disgusting, my stomach churns and it takes all my resolve not to throw up. I also find it embarrassing, not knowing whether to look disapprovingly at the hurler, pretend I haven’t noticed it, or casually point out to them their glob has just landed on someone’s foot and they should be a little more careful where they discharge. To them it’s just part of the natural course of things, similar to scratching your head or nose, or your crotch, which also seems to happen a lot here.

We come to Chhetrapati Chowk, an intersection of six roads leading to various areas of Kathmandu city and the valley. In the middle of the square stands a large rotunda and an information board displaying a very rough plan of the city. Leaning precariously on the rotunda is the dodgiest-looking power pole wrapped in a tangled mass of electrical wires branching in all directions. It amazes me any technician could locate a problem wire amongst this dishevelled mess, let alone be game enough to try repairs. The rotunda is the perfect perch for viewing the morning’s activities so we take up a position on its steps.

Three men, almost nothing to them, balance huge mounds of colourful plastic jugs, dishes and buckets piled into small round baskets on their heads and make their way along the street towards a market area called Asan Tole. Casually joining them is a fat brown cow with distorted horns. Ambling along, it’s completely oblivious to its human companions or the passing bicycles. Further along, two boys – children – push and propel an enormous cart precariously loaded to the hilt with boxes of what appears to be the latest-in-technology hi-fis. The boys’ agility impresses me, but I’m concerned about their lack of ability to see where they’re going, as they push the cart up an inclining street brimming with street stalls and a multitude of early morning shoppers. So much muscle. So much control. Such blindness!

Bored with people-watching, Mal and Sebastian decide they want to find food. Instead of appetising scents, we’re engulfed in an odour of blood, hoofs and horns when we stumble upon the butcher shops. This firmly establishes my resolve not to eat meat while in Nepal. One shop exhibits featherless whole chickens, complete with heads and feet, on an old dirty box sitting in the gutter. At another, a meat vendor squats in the gutter next to a large dirt-encrusted plastic bag displaying grotesque purplish-red lumps. A dog lies beside it, tail draped across the bag. Behind sits a small square crate crammed with live chickens. They cluck hysterically, registering their displeasure. At least one knows these are fresh.

A larger butcher shop, with eager clientele, sells goat’s meat. Two live goats tethered near the chopping block bleat incessantly, the poor things are probably wondering which will be next. Sitting on the block are the remains of one of their mates, its shaved head and horns displayed proudly on the corner. The vendor is doing a roaring trade. A customer picks up a chunk of meat, probe, feels its firmness, then points to the bit she wants. After slicing the requested piece from the bone, the vendor throws it onto blood-encased scales, then into a striped plastic bag. Having received payment, without wiping the knife or scales the vendor turns to the next customer and the process begins again. The sight turns my stomach. From now on, it’s tofu. Sebastian totally grossed out goes about holding his hands over his mouth. Mal, on the other hand, is intrigued and makes cheeky comments about how delicious the eyes and testicles might be. Sebastian, even more repulsed now, starts to gag.

Keen to escape the reality of Nepali butchering, we turn a corner and plummet into the noise and activity of the central Asan Tole marketplace. Now well packed with morning shoppers, vendors call out, enticing us and others to come over and smell, try and buy their interesting culinary delights. Thankfully, there are no more butchers in this street and we amble past fresh produce stalls of long yellow beans, short knobbly green gourds and piles of orange root vegetables, past pots of steaming lentil curries, little pastry parcels called mo-mo’s and stacks of flat bread and pappadums. Spicy fragrance swirls around us, the sweet citrus scent of coriander clashing with fennel’s pungent aniseed, blending into the delicate aromas of cardamom, along with ginger, cloves and cinnamon. It’s delicious.

‘Hungry?’ Mal casts an inspecting eye over the food stall offerings.

‘Famished!’ I reply. Woken by the enticing fragrance of spices, my stomach gives a growl. Directly across from where I am standing is a huge pot of steaming mo-mo’s the scent wafts through the air and dances on the tip of my tongue.

‘I’m not eating that,’ announces Sebastian pointing at a grey lentil soup. ‘It looks like wash-up water.’

Food is momentarily forgotten when I spy flashes of bright material waving in the slight breeze. Across the square sits an Aladdin’s treasure of carpets, bolts of material and beautiful jewellery pieces spilling out of tiny cave-like shops. I am in shopping heaven but as I caress a brightly coloured bedspread, I’m told I’m not to buy anything until the end of our trip.

‘There’s too much stuff to carry already,’ declares Mal. I smile sadly, but in my mind wonder if I can devise a way to stuff something of this size into one of the bags.

Taxi horns pierce the air, bike and rickshaw bells compete with the ringing of awning bells. Beggars, sellers, touts and women dressed in delicate saris mingle amongst the fabulous colours, disgusting fumes and cacophony of sounds. Rubbish piles once swept into neat mounds are now scattered and cows saunter down the street at their own pace. Kathmandu is well and truly awake, and alive.

Breakfast becomes brunch with danish pastries at the Pumpernickel Bakery. Afterwards we decide to walk to the hilltop stupa that glittered so brilliantly in the dawning sunlight. Packing a day bag, I load up with camera gear, including the ever-important tripod, guidebook, spare-long-sleeve coverings, snacks, first-aid kit and extra bottles of water. It looks as if we’re about to head off on an expedition into the mountainous regions, instead of an amble up a hill to a religious monument.

Mal, however, is more interested in what is happening back home, or to be more precise, what is happening at work. While I pack he dashes down to reception and spends seventeen dollars on a five-minute phone call to find out from our mechanics that everything is fine and we haven’t gone broke in the past forty-eight hours. Nothing has changed since his last phone call from the airport in Singapore, except the cars they’re working on.

Back out in the crowded street, we retrace our steps past a now very bustling Chhetrapati Chowk. A major traffic jam is taking place; taxis, trucks, tempos and rickshaws have all come to a grinding halt as everyone wants right of way and no one is willing to give it. Pedestrians wander amongst the wedged vehicles, some ignoring the constant horn blowing, others casting dismissive waves towards the impatient drivers. Edging our way through the pandemonium we turn right towards the Vishnumati River. As we draw closer, the horrendous foul smell of raw sewage mixed with the dust and fumes of the city assaults our noses. For the second time that day – and it’s still only morning – my stomach churns and Sebastian expounds loudly his disgust. This time Mal joins in the feelings of nausea.

Once mighty, the Vishnumati is now a trickle. Near black in colour, it is awash with rotting vegetation, garbage and rubble. A herd of feral-looking pigs wallow near the edge and in the middle lies a dead cow, grotesquely bloated, its head stuck in the mud. On one side of the riverbank sit rows of multi-coloured, two and three-storey cement houses. Some have little paved patios with table and chairs facing the river, their private little piece of ‘waterfront realty’. On the other side sit large cement blocks, several with smoking piles – the funeral pyres.

Looking down the length of the river I notice through the smog haze numerous swing and plank bridges brimming with people coming and going; some carry loads on their heads, others wheeling bikes. Under the nearest bridge, a person walks along the riverbed, a sack over one shoulder. They stop occasionally, bend down, pick something out of the putrid flotsam and put it into the sack. As the figure comes closer, I see it’s a young boy dressed in torn brown pants and ripped jumper. He doesn’t look more than six.

We walk to the other side of the bridge and watch a man squatting in the river. He scoops water into a basin, swirls it around, and then picks something out of it, like panning for gold, although, I’m sure it’d be safe to say that wouldn’t be the type of heavy metal found in this river. On the embankment another garbage picker scrounges through piles of plastic and paper. Such filth and poverty is heartbreaking and I feel a sense of despair when I read to Mal and Sebastian that this polluted sewer of a waterway is an important river providing water for drinking, washing and religious ceremonies.

‘Amazing,’ I mumble softly, shaking my head in shock and disbelief. I imagine the river’s spirit fervently praying for rain, begging a cleansing monsoon to come quickly, to reinvigorate its life source. However, it will have to wait until June, three months away.

Walking up hill towards the stupa we pass simple brick homes and small chai teashops brimming with activity. The streets are filled with groups of children laughing and playing, but mostly stopping people and traffic by holding them hostage and demanding a ransom before being allowed to pass. The children hold a piece of string across the road and ‘capture’ a vehicle. Once stopped, its horn doesn’t though, the children surround it, bang on its bonnet and window and call, ‘Rupee, rupee, rupee.’

Most of the drivers hand over the rupees, although some just wave their arms and try to keep driving the car slowly through the throng of children. When a vikram-tempo driver refuses to give in to one group, the children chase the tiny three-wheel vehicle, jump onto its back bumper and bang the vinyl roof. The vehicle keeps going and they disappear from view.

Pedestrians are not exempt from the ransom demands. Anyone walking along the road is up for grabs. The children run around with the rope, tie up and trap the person, refusing any release until the rupee handover. Sebastian and I receive this treatment too.

‘No rupees,’ I say laughing, trying to untangle the rope. Mal also tries to untie us, pulling the rope over our heads to help us escape, almost strangling Sebastian in the process.

‘Rupee, rupee, rupee,’ they yell. ‘You give rupee now.’

‘No rupee,’ Mal says firmly. The children’s voices become louder. Bystanders and passers-by laugh at the spectacle, some even try to shoo the children away from us.

As we escape from one group another troupe of would-be captors pounce upon us. Having read it isn’t a good idea to give to begging children as it encourages the practice, we keep refusing their demands. Finally, in order to get some peace, we give in and hand over a couple of rupees. Unfortunately, handing coins to one chanting group is an open invitation to others. Trying to run encourages them to pursue us relentlessly.

Later, during our evening dinner, I ask the waiter why the children are begging for rupees and being so insistent. ‘No madam, not begging,’ he answers earnestly, ‘no begging, money to buy firewood for festival.’ He tells us how it is an auspicious occasion and in celebration, sadhus come to Kathmandu to perform incredible feats of yoga, such as tying their penises into knots, hanging heavy objects off their sensitive nether regions or cringing displays of self-piercing with thorns. According to the waiter they have such intense mind control they don’t feel the pain. Sebastian and Mal are not convinced.

The children lose interest in us when we reach the base of the hill to the Swayambhunath Stupa, and their incessant demands become a distant memory as we stare at the beautiful scene surrounding us. I feel as if I’ve stepped onto a painter’s pallet. Sunny yellow roofs perch upon petite angular white homes and gompas, their windows and doors are painted in bright red, blue and yellow, all festooned in vibrant pleated valances and small saffron and maroon ribbon banners called dhwaja’s. Magenta-robed monks wander amongst the buildings, men in multi-coloured topis sit in groups and women dressed in wrap skirts and delicate short-sleeved cotton tops go about their day-to-day lives.

It is still a way to the stupa. We have two choices. Go up Monkey Road and run the gauntlet of its namesake, or climb a staircase.

I’m a bit nervous of monkeys, having been tormented by one as a child. Mum had taken us to the zoo in Melbourne, where a rather large mandrill with very bright blue bum cheeks took an instant dislike to my little brother and me. Screeching at the top of its lungs, it threw a stick through the bars, clonked us both on the head, then turned and gave us a ‘blue moon’. My wariness of monkeys was further entrenched during a trip to Monkey Forest, Bali when, in the process of trying to frisk me for my drink bottle and camera, one of the little devils caught its finger in the hem-knot of my sarong and almost ripped it off trying to get free. And to make matters worse, it wasn’t even a good knickers day. Monkeys and I are best left apart.

I choose the long flagstone stair route. With invigorated exuberance, we bound up the stairs, passing statues of Buddhas and gods, stone chaityas and a contented goat munching on marigold garlands. Above us, multitudes of prayer flags cover the walkway. Upon reaching the stone carving of Maya Devi giving birth to the first-ever Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, which isn’t very far up into the climb, I need to stop, gasping for breath. Behind the carving sit three massive Buddhas, one of which has two little girls playing on it. One of the girls nestles into the crook of the Buddha’s arm and claps her hands as her friend dances around the statue. They laugh and chatter in the dappled sunlight, their smiles and antics amusing the tourists who are taking their photos. The girls, however, totally ignore them.

The climb becomes more difficult and the statues and chaityas give way to rows of unrelenting vendors selling bells, thunderbolts and jewellery. Jingling items under our noses, they demand we look, insisting we haggle with them. No amount of ‘no’ and ‘go away’ placates them. However, karma is playing its game on the vendors. Sitting on the railings, in the trees and on the steps are groups of audacious and equally unrelenting monkeys. They scamper and jump, fight and chase each other, and in daring acts of bravado bound up to the vendor’s tables and attempt to steal the trinkets. When the vendors aren’t waving at the passing tourists to come and buy their trinkets, they’re waving their arms and hissing at the monkeys. In return, the monkeys shriek, hiss and bear their teeth. From here, the steps begin to narrow and extend straight up, very steeply.

Part way up, red-faced and feeling breathless, no make that ready to have a heart attack, I stop to look around. Suddenly Sebastian grabs my arm.

‘Mum, look at the girl,’ he says with alarm.

Sitting two steps up from us is a little girl aged about five, maybe six, years old, dressed in rags, dirty and torn. Her enormous brown eyes hold a haunted vacant stare. One arm held outstretched and in a pitiful voice, she pleads for alms. Lying across her lap, partially held up by the other arm is the tiny naked body of a baby. It appears lifeless.

Sebastian looks at me. ‘Is that baby dead? Why is she so dirty? Where’s her mum?’ His questions tumble out.

I can’t answer him. The sight is too confronting. I don’t know where to look. I stare at the little baby, then down at Sebastian. He looks confused. I feel as if he has just lost his childhood innocence, having witnessed this sight. My chest tightens, heavy as if a knife has been plunged into it. As I stare back at the child, utter hopelessness and despair wash over me. I find it hard to breath. Her pitiful voice continues pleading. I want to run away. Pretend she isn’t there. I also want to scoop them both up, take them home and give them hope. Instead, I rummage in my pocket for some coins, drop them into her little outstretched hand, then grab Sebastian’s hand and practically drag him up the stairs, away from the tiny child and baby. I am stunned. I feel shame.

Turning around to look at them, Sebastian again asks, ‘Where’s her mum?’ I keep dragging him upwards.

‘Don’t know, probably out begging too,’ I reply hurriedly. I want to forget them, to ignore the truth, but the lifeless baby’s face keeps flashing before my eyes. I don’t know what to do. I look around. The locals are ignoring her as well. Everyone is ignoring her. What do I do? What could I do?

‘Why?’ Sebastian’s voice breaks through my tormented dilemma.

I try to explain the child may belong to the caste called the Untouchables.

‘Maybe if she had a bath and clean clothes she wouldn’t be untouchable,’ he suggests.

‘No, they are a group of people,’ I try to explain. Do something! my mind screams. ‘This is how they live. Nepal doesn’t have a welfare system like at home.’ What, what can I do? my mind yells back.

‘Then maybe her mum and dad should join another group.’

If only it was that easy. God, I hope I haven’t scarred my child for life, exposing him to this.

Finally, we are at the top. An incredible panoramic view is our reward for such an arduous climb and for a brief moment the child and baby fades from my thoughts. Stretching out as if a protective wall against the rest of the world sits the snow-capped Langtang Himal. Towering, embracing, it cradles the sprawling, rambling red clay brick city and sage green valleys of Kathmandu. Even the grimy polluting haze rising from the city fails to dispel the beauty of this impressive vision.

Legend has it that originally the valley of Kathmandu was a huge lake with a beautiful lotus flower in its middle. So delicate and exquisite a bloom, the god Manjushri wanted it desperately. Determined to hold the blossom he plunged his great sword into the lake’s banks, drained it and created the valley from which rose the kingdom of Nepal. He also claimed the lotus as his own – well, that’s the Buddhist version. According to Hindu legend it was Krishna who plunged a great thunderbolt into the lake creating a massive gorge, releasing the waters of the valley. Not sure if he was after a flower, but whichever version is correct, there lay a fertile valley, its ribbons of rivers draining inwards, meeting the mighty Bagmati, a sacred river said to wash away the sins of its bathing pilgrims.

Guarding the entrance of the stupa platform is a huge dorje, the thunderbolt symbol representing male form, symbolising the destruction of all kinds of ignorance. In tantric rituals when the dorje is held in the left hand and a bell representing the female form, is held in the right hand, their interaction leads to enlightenment. I stare at it, wondering about my own ignorance. Did I seriously think I was going to find a Utopian land where the belief of detachment and compassion made everything perfect? Had I been so naive to what was real? I look over at Mal. I don’t think he saw the child, yet, as he stands there staring out over the city, he looks as if something has stirred inside him too, as if his consciousness has awoken.

Behind the dorje stands the magnificent Swayambhunath Stupa, its brilliant white dome topped by a spire of golden rings representing the thirteen degrees of knowledge required to reach nirvana, portrayed at the very top by a gold crown umbrella. Below the rings, the vivid blue kohl eyes of Buddha gaze in all directions, ever watchful over the Kathmandu valley.

In awe, I breathe in deeply, and then wish I hadn’t. There are joss sticks everywhere, poking out of the walls, out of the tiny shrines, lying on the ground. The pungent musk and sandalwood aroma blends with the scent of people, animals and spices. Wispy tendrils of smoke tickle my nose and I begin sneezing uncontrollably, so much so it becomes breathless wheezing. Wonderful, here I am at one of the world’s most magnificent shrines and it’s getting up my nose.

Walking clockwise around the stupa, we take in the ancient splendour of the accompanying temples. Their crumbling brick and carved timber facades showing the years of time provide a play gym for monkeys as they scamper up and down the fretwork.

In between sneezes, I gush over the carvings: row upon row of birds, intricate and exact in shape and size, carvings of godly figures adorned with decorative headdresses interspersed with delicate flower patterns and knotted lace work. Fragile art defying nature’s elements and withstanding the ages of time.

‘I can’t believe we are standing here,’ I wheeze to Mal. ‘This is so amazing. Can you believe this? We’re standing on something made over two thousand years ago, surrounded by the highest mountains in the world. Don’t you think this is amazing?’

‘I think it’ll be even more amazing if we don’t slip on the monkey pee.’

The monkeys are everywhere and have left their little deposits all around, but this doesn’t appear to worry the hordes of people who fill the stupa’s platform. Tourists and pilgrims alike prostrate and worship, while others sit in groups happily chatting, laughing and eating, creating a picnicking atmosphere. Small stalls line the platform, stuffed with trinkets and edible goodies. They compete with buildings surrounding the stupa housing small shops selling brightly painted wooden masks and prayer wheels.

On the western side, two bronze statues representing the river goddesses Jamuna and Ganga guard an eternal flame in an iron cage. As the worshippers stop at the flame they add more smoking joss sticks to the offerings, put their hands into the cage and stroke what appears to be red paint and then touch their foreheads, leaving a red dot – their third eye.

Across from us sits a gompa with an enormous mane over three metres high, and about as wide, sitting at its doorway. Intrigued by these prayer halls, I suggest to Mal we go inside. Instead, he sits down on a concrete block speckled in red paint and pulls out a handheld electronic Yahtzee game.

‘You go, I’ll wait here,’ he says and clicks it on. It flickers to life, whirling like a small pokie machine.

‘You’re going to play Yahtzee? Now?’

When Mal had spontaneously purchased and packed the little electronic dice game for our holiday, I’d been ambivalent about it. ‘Something to do at night when there’s no telly to watch’ had seemed a reasonable explanation at the time. But now? Hello! It’s not night and we’re not in a room with nothing to do. Sebastian sits down beside his dad and together they become engrossed in the game. I am stunned. Here we are, surrounded by the most incredible views and antiquities and they want to play an electronic game. This will not be the last time Yahtzee’s ‘doodle-up, dit, dit, dit’ sonata will echo against venerated temple stone.

Shaking my head, I wander over to the gompa, enter into its cool dimness and forget all plans of hiding the Yahtzee as I stare in wonder at a gold, six-metre tall Buddha encased behind glass, surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of smaller gold Buddhas in various poses.

The low bellow of horns and guttural chanting of monks echo hauntingly through the air, I follow it and find Mal and Sebastian at the rear of the stupa’s platform staring downhill towards the fluttering confetti-like garlands of prayer flags draping a monastery. To the other side above dry terrace fields sits the Kathmandu Natural History Museum. We debate whether to go there and reach a quick consensus that the stair climb to the stupa was more than enough exercise for the day. Well actually, the boys out vote me – Mal doesn’t want another ‘hard slog up’ another hill and Sebastian is refusing to look at any more ‘old things’.

Instead, we start to wander over towards the Karmapa Monastery. However, the multitude of monkeys nit-picking, scampering and fighting on the pathway change my mind. As cute as they look, I don’t fancy fending off their interest in our daypacks. I read to Sebastian the legend claiming the monkeys of Swayambhunath emerged from the lice that fell from the head of Manjushri.

‘Wow, he must’ve had an itchy head,’ he exclaims, ‘There’s soooo many monkeys.’

Taking a different route back to Thamel, we cross over the Vishnumati River and for a split second think we see snow spread across its banks. It’s wool. Masses of white fluff splay across the ground. Among it sit groups of women and children, the wool sorters. Huge hessian sacks stuffed with wool sit near the roadside. Children pull the fleece from the sacks and spread it over the ground, women pluck at the wool, removing burrs and other debris from it. When they are satisfied the burrs are out, they throw the wool to one side, pat it down and pick up another fleece. The size of area the fleece covers is enormous.

‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ I say in awe. And I thought picking ‘farmer’s friends’ and bindies out of socks was a pain.’

A mother with two young children captures my attention. As she pulls at the wool, a little naked boy aged about three helps her, concentrating intently on his task. The other child, a baby, is fully clothed and pulls himself up via her blouse. Thumb in mouth, he totters unsteadily a step or two across the wool then falls over, crawling back to his mother to begin again. Throughout it all, mother continues to sort the wool. I ponder, are these his first steps and at what age will he too be required to help his mother sort the wool?

‘Not walking any further!’ declares Sebastian. He stands firmly on the street corner, arms folded. His legs are starting to hurt after climbing up and down the stairs and a headache is forming from the constant horn honking and fumes. He’s also peeved with the relentless attention and demands of the children who are road-jacking everyone. All in all, he’s overwhelmed with culture shock.

I suggest we take a rickshaw back to Thamel. Mal takes one look at the flimsy three-wheeled contraption and firmly states the three of us couldn’t possibly fit in it, let alone allow the rickshaw-wallah to pedal our combined weight. Mal and I are not small people – mind you, we’re not enormous either – but he feels it’s cruel to subject all our weight upon one small, wisp of a driver. We look around, they’re all waiflike.

‘You and Sebastian go ahead, I’ll walk,’ he says. ‘Order me a coffee and danish when you get back to the guesthouse.’

‘Don’t get lost,’ I reply, climbing into the rickshaw with Sebastian. It’s painted in bright red and yellow swirls and has a ragged canvas top and a seat that tilts forward, almost tipping us onto the bike and giving me a wonderful ‘up close and personal’ view of the wallah’s bottom. I notice they ride in a half-squat position, rear thrust outwards. I don’t fancy being that close. I wedge my foot onto the small bar under the bike’s saddle and push myself into the back of our seat. The wallah clambers aboard and, without even looking, pulls straight out into the traffic. We weave in and out, narrowly dodging everything by millimetres. As if in a fit of road rage, our wallah rings the little bell on the handlebars constantly and calls out. I bet he’s saying something like, ‘Get out of the way, coming through, large bottom lady, can’t stop, can’t slow down or I’ll lose my rhythm.’

Before getting into the rickshaw I’d explained to the wallah we wanted to go to the Potala and had shown him the map in our guidebook. He’d looked eagerly at the book, nodded profusely and said, yes, he knew where it was, yes, he would take us there, yes, yes, yes.

Pedalling through the congested streets we travel quite some distance. After what feels like ages, with no familiar landmarks I pull on the wallah’s shirt, indicating for him to stop. ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

He looks a tad confused, takes a fleeting look, points and begins pedalling again. He’d make a perfect taxi driver back home.

Soon it becomes apparent we’re moving further away from Thamel and towards the outskirts of Kathmandu itself. The shops look more industrial. The roads are larger and even busier, with Tata trucks and buses roaring past, almost blowing us over, their diesel fumes stinging our eyes and throat. Suddenly two trucks, side by side as if in a drag race, bear down on us, horns blaring. We veer violently onto the dirt verge and narrowly miss sideswiping a parked bus. As the trucks thunder past, everything shudders and I curse, loudly. I notice a huge bus station across the road. Feeling ever so slightly panicked, I stop the wallah and show him the map again, demanding to know, ‘Where the hell are we?’

He looks at it, scratches his head, shrugs, turns the rickshaw around and we begin pedalling back the way we have come.

In hindsight, he probably couldn’t read English, let alone make head or tail of the map in the book, and chances are there’s more than one Potala Guesthouse in Kathmandu. After a while we come to a familiar-looking street.

‘Stop, stop,’ I yell. ‘We’ll get off here, thanks.’

‘I take you,’ he replies. ‘Up there.’ He points up another jam-packed street.

‘No, here. We’ll get off.’ I’m feeling frazzled by the harrowing ride and decide we’ll find our own way on foot. Standing on the street corner, Sebastian and I look for a street sign or a landmark building marked in the guidebook, at the same time shrugging off the pleas of begging, ‘you buy’ and ‘ransom’ demanding children. We’ve also become an attraction for a group of young men who crowd around us wanting to look at the page we are trying to decipher, our heads all butting against each other. Finally, finding a landmark and realising we’re just two streets away from our guesthouse, I relax and we make our way through the teaming streets to ‘home’. I’m in desperate need of a drink, of the alcoholic kind.

Meanwhile Mal had arrived back to the guesthouse quite some time ago. After waiting awhile for us, he popped across to the bakery for his coffee and danish, then located a bus station. I could have saved him that trouble. Now he was relaxing in the rooftop garden, a beer in one hand, his Yahtzee game in the other, totally unfazed at our lateness.

‘Have a nice ride?’ he queries.

‘Yeah, dad, it was fully sick!’ enthuses Sebastian.

‘Yeah sure, amazing,’ I mutter under my breath.

That evening as we dine at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Tridevi Marg strip, the air is heavy with smoke, making it hard to breath, with visibility beyond a hundred metres almost non-existent. Most of the people in the street are wearing facemasks or scarves across their mouths. By time our food has arrived, Sebastian and Mal are coughing repeatedly and my head throbs, as if someone is using it as a damaru, one of those hand drums with beads that repeatedly go doink, doink, doink. I ask our waiter, a wonderfully attentive chap with a brilliant smile barely visible through the smoke, why the air is so thick.

‘Maha Shivaratri, Lord Shiva’s birthday,’ he replies. ‘Fires all over Kathmandu, many celebrations.’

It looks like the road-jacking children have succeeded in extorting enough ransom money to set the whole place on fire.

The biggest celebration and ceremony is at the Pashupatinath Temple, a huge Hindu temple on the other side of the city. We decide not to go. The smoke is so thick we can barely see, let alone taste the food we are eating and, if truth were told, I really don’t relish another taxi or rickshaw trip through the streets of lively Kathmandu.