Road Rage

As the poor soul that is our subject maneuvers his motorcycle through the ruthless streets of Kathmandu, there is no rest to the thoughts that race through his mind:

What the hell is up with this stupid car? Get out of the way, you nitwit! The road is wide open… either speed up or let me through!! I’ve been trailing your ass for the last ten minutes. I’ve been on second gear all along, burning all my precious fuel — half of which I had to queue up all day for, and half of which I had to buy at double the market price. Where the hell do you get your fuel, anyway? Doesn’t look like you’ve had to go through much to get it. You aristocratic scum, get out of the way or I swear to God I’m gonna ram your ass!!

Finally, the road widens and our subject manages to overtake the slow car, but not before a confused bicycle cuts him off from the left. Our subject has to brake hard to avoid hitting the bicycle.

Holy crap! Where the hell did you come from? You dumbass! Why do they let imbeciles like you on the streets? You know what, I’m sorry I braked — I should have just rammed you head on. That ought to have taught you.

Our subject carries on and approaches a turn. His mood improves for he knows that this is a wide one-way street.

Finally — some space.

As he turns, he almost runs head on into another motorcycle coming towards him against the one-way in the wrong direction.

Jackass!!

Finally, a wide enough road ahead of him provides some relief.

Aah, at last, fifth gear!!

His joy, however, does not last. In the distance, in the middle of the street, a bunch of people are waiting to cross the road. They march on without any regard for traffic. Obviously, our subject has to slow down yet again.

You nincompoops — just holding your hand out is not going to stop my motorbike. And staring at me is not going to do it either. What is wrong with you people? Have you lost all power of reason? Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to think? Retards!!

Things will only get worse, and our subject knows this — for now he approaches a narrow alley — full of potholes, bumps, speed breakers — and big enough for just one car to pass through at a time.

God damn all this… bloody potholes… why even put gears above second on a motorcycle, really!! And why the hell do they need a speed breaker every 10 goddamn meters!!

As our subject goes through a turn in the alley, he encounters an urban motorcycler’s worst nightmare: a slow moving car in an alley. The motorcycler, in this case, knows he has no choice but to trail behind the car at half-clutch until the alley opens up.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!!

At this point, the car passes over a pothole and covers it up so our subject can’t see it. As soon as the car passes over, our subject’s motorcycle hits the pothole.

Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn, goddamn, goddamn!!!

Finally, with all of God’s graces, the alley opens up and moments of torment later, our subject reaches his destination. Parking, of course, is a whole different story.

Revisiting the attic

Well, Nepal has been a republic for a little while now. We don’t have a government yet — but who notices the difference anyway? At least we have a President — and a Vice President, also, for that matter — one who does not care much for our language, but a Vice President nonetheless — one that will live it up all he wants in Hindi in that nice little “palace” neighboring my favorite bowling joint. We have gone from being a dysfunctional monarchy to a dysfunctional republic. In principle, however, the latter is always better than the former.

I haven’t been to the attic atop Prithvi Narayan Shah’s Nau-Tale Darbar in Basantapur since I went there for the first time a couple of years ago and wrote about it in this very forum (see Bliss in the attic — http://www.everestuncensored.org/585/2006/06/04/bliss-in-the-attic/). Not that I did not want to go — a couple of things got in my way. The first and obvious one would be that I am as lazy as anyone can be. The second one would be the fact that a woman threw herself with her child off that very attic and killed herself. Since then, they don’t allow visitors up there. I am glad I did go when I had the chance, though.

Anyway, my own memories of the attic are pretty vague at this point. The couple of years in my life following that visit were pretty eventful and contributed towards blurring my recollections of the so called “bliss” I felt that I refer to in my original entry. I just stumbled on to the entry and felt its relevance given that we are now a fresh republic. I foresee some other schmuck like me visiting a museum someday that will inhabit the current vice-presidential “palace” and hearing voices of the vice-presidential spirit that will haunt it then. It will probably utter one of the following lines in its ghostly, pro-Indian voice.

“This is where I was headed when I was asked to do something stupid. I did as I was told. The mob arose and asked me to back down. I did the right thing. My own people slaughtered me, but the country was saved for you to live in.”

“This is where I was headed when I was asked to do something stupid. I did as I was told. The mob arose and asked me to back down. When I didn’t, they strung me up. What could I do? If I had backed down, my own people would have killed me — and trust me, they are way more ruthless than any lynch mob. Anyway, that is what led to the state of extreme anarchy that you currently dwell in.”

“This is where I was headed when I was asked to do something stupid. I did as I was told. The mob arose and asked me to back down. I didn’t, and nobody cared. You see, Nepal used to be much bigger than it is now, but that was what led to the gradual process that caused Nepal to split into all these bits and pieces — and that is eventually what led to all the genocide and ethnic cleansing that is going on right now… oh, not to mention the famine.”

I have been told I am overtly pessimistic, but I don’t think it’s my fault.

The butcher’s morning glory

I should really make more of the early mornings. I am generally a late riser (and a late sleeper as well, for that matter), owing mostly to my “laid-back” nature (that is what lazy people refer to themselves as nowadays). Let us just call me an “evening person” and leave it at that. Anyway, there used to be a time when I used to run in the early morning time (I know a lot of people who know me well will have a hard time believing it) or at least go out for extended walks. The mind is much more absorbent at this time. Consequently, I used to have a lot of “juice” that would inspire me to write. This notion led me to wake up early and take one of my good old extended mornings walks a few days ago. Looking back now, it seems it would have been a better idea to get out on my motorbike as I encountered a lot of petrol pumps on the way that were open for business. I was walking; petrol was available, the queues were really short – and I did not have my motorbike with me – I felt like an idiot – but that is beside the point.

Vocational discontent is something all people inevitably encounter at some point (or more) in their lives. You have been working in a given field on a given career track and possibly for a given employer for a number of years – monotony is bound to set in. You can’t help but wonder if there is something better out there – or if you’re simply in the wrong line of business. To me, for example, at times, my friends in other career tracks (mostly management) seem to have a lot more fun, seem to enjoy their work much more, and seem to hang out with much hipper crowds. This is probably just a perception issue, however (or maybe not — I don’t know). Luckily for me, however, at the core of it, I really enjoy what I do – so I manage to rectify any sort of occasional vocational discontent I encounter – plus my employers have been pretty good to me so far as well.

So, this morning, I was under a slight temporary spell of such discontent. As I was looping my thoughts around, I came across a closed butcher shop. It was very early in the morning; so the butcher shop was closed. From behind the shop, however, I could hear the morbid screams of goats and chicken that were being slaughtered. As sorry as I felt for the animals, I stopped then to think about the butcher.

Some job this guy has. What’s the first thing he has to do after waking up? Go out, pick some random animals out, and lop their heads off. In all fairness, if one really enjoys that sort of thing, it’s a different issue – I guess. But, really – what the hell was I complaining about? I sit on a comfortable desk all day, do stuff I enjoy, and get paid enough to contribute to my home expenses, add to my savings and still have disposable income left at the end of the day to have fun and maintain my lifestyle. This guy needs to slaughter defenseless animals every single day to make a living!

I then tried putting myself in the butcher’s position. Could I do it? Could I last? Coincidentally, I am one of those hypocritical wimps that enjoy meat, but are against animal cruelty and can’t bear to watch the sight of animals being tortured or killed. There was no way in hell I could ever do that. I counted my blessings and walked on. Who was I kidding? I love my job!

So, the next time you’re facing thoughts of discontent on the job, the thought of the butcher may help you – or it may not, if you enjoy murdering animals, I guess.

Angels of the Kathmandu night

Let us do a “guesstimate” sort of count. Let us factor in all classes and categories – from your average, wholesome types to the more, should we say, “niche”, “Gongabu” types. Leave the country alone, how many do you think are scattered across Kathmandu? A thousand, perhaps? Take a rough average of a head count of ten per joint – that brings the approximate total to about ten thousand “angels” who sparkle in the Kathmandu night, and maybe two or three thousand of their “guardian knights”, or, as we like to call them, “khalaasis”.

The scene here is quite different from the conventional idea of what we’re talking about that exists, say, in the United States or Europe. Well, there are some things in common – extremely bad beer at extremely high prices, people trying to hustle you left and right, and the one obvious thing – the primary objective, of course. But unlike over there, we have multitudes of “degrees” out here, with some joints being equally tasteful and sleazy at the same time.

You could perhaps compare what is over there to a nice, juicy steak. It’s a no-nonsense piece of meat; you know what you’re getting into and it’s all quite predictible. What is over here is more like a platter of khichadi, with all sorts of things mixed into it. Only God knows what they will be serving you with when you step in the door. It is an “interesting” experience, nonetheless – a bit like watching a movie that is so bad that you laugh at it so hard that you end up enjoying it.

Anyway, there really is no point to these paragraphs. After all is said and done, these “angels” do work hard and earn an honest living – maybe more so than we do. I think they deserve our respect, and maybe that they needed a mention somewhere. That’s all. Hell, sometimes I wouldn’t mind being a “khalaasi” myself – if you know what I mean.

Base Camp Chronicles: My Night in Hell — Where the Crow Came to Die

I was running as fast as I could, but the yak kept gaining on me. All of a sudden, I found myself in my lodge room. I jumped on the bed, only to discover to my horror that the yak had made it to the room as well. With all its fury, the yak jumped on me. That is when I woke up from the vivid nightmare with cold sweat all over my body. Perfectly horizontal on the bed, my head felt fine. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but I knew that there was something that was not right with my body. I decided to get up for a quick trip to the latrine. As soon as I left the bed, the entire room started spinning around me. I could hardly stand or walk straight. That is when it began– my night in hell.

It was the night before we were supposed to head for the base camp- we were in Gorak Shep, at an altitude of 5190 meters (approximately 17000 feet). Gorak Shep is the last stop before getting to Everest Base Camp or Kala Pathar. Lying in the foot of the beautiful Mount Pumori, it is a frozen lakebed with nothing but sand, ice and stones for miles around. There is a not a spec of vegetation – not a single weed or needle of grass. As if that were not enough, it is structured as a valley, so if you were to get sick with AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) over here (which is very likely when you are 5190 meters high with no vegetation and have had very little time to acclimatize), you would have to climb up and cross about five or six hills before you could start to actually descend.

Earlier that day, one of my friends had asked one of the locals what “Gorak Shep” meant. Gorak is the Himalayan black crow. It is larger and more agile than normal city crows and has a noticable gliding fashion– quite like that of an eagle. The word “Shep”, in the local language, means “to die”. Legend has it that a Gorak from Tibet flew over to Nepal and as soon as it reached this place, it dropped dead. So apparently this was a place where even the crow, a symbol of immortality in our culture, could not survive. This was also where what the route that the Dalai Lama dubbed “the steps to heaven” ended, implying that this was the beginning of heaven. Oh, it was heaven- alright: it was scenic, it was calm, and it was beautiful. It was hell.

Still earlier that day, while ascending from Lobuche to Gorak Shep, I had noticed quite a few people sick with AMS being escorted down to Lobuche. Now that I projected back, I realized that this route must have been the one where I had seen the most number of people descending due to AMS. I also remembered hearing about this guy from Dingboche (which is at a height of about 4300 meters, mind you) getting sick with AMS at Gorak Shep! All of this combined was in no way helping my psychological state.

I somehow made it to the latrine and back and lay myself down on the bed. I tried closing my eyes, but as soon as I shut them, I felt dizzy as hell, nauseaous and felt like throwing up. So I opened my eyes back again. It was dark. I lit my flashlight and looked at my friend over on the next bunk — he seemed to be sleeping soundly. As much as I wanted to help it, my mind started to recollect on the alleged symptoms of AMS: headache (I’d always had a mild one), dizziness (oh, boy!), vivid nightmares (remember the yak?), insomnia, loss of appetite, nausea, vomitting and so on. The words “pulmonary edema and cerebral edema” started to ring around my brain. The number “12″ kept coming back to me — 12 hours: that is how long it takes for a person to go from mild AMS to coma or death.

Sleepless, I lay there in the dark: thinking. My only wish was that I be able to spend the next four or five hours pass without getting any sicker. To hell with Base Camp: as soon as morning hit, I would descend to Lobuche. Around 2 AM, our trekking guide came knocking. Surprised, I answered. I was even more surprised to see him all dressed up.
“Good Morning, sir!”
“Good Morning? It is 2 AM!”
“What? I thought it was 5 AM! I have this terrible headache and I can’t get any sleep. I woke up and it just felt like 5 AM. Sorry, sir, please go back to sleep.”
Even the trekking guide, for whom traversing these altitudes was all in a day’s work — could not get any sleep!! I did manage to get some sleep, though — sometime during the twilight hours.

The next morning, my headache had somewhat subsided, but I was still dizzy. I asked both my friends how they were doing. Apparently, they both could not get any sleep either– both had terrible headaches and were dizzy beyond belief. My friend who seemed to be sleeping soundly was only trying to do so. If anything, their conditions were worse than mine. We had to reconsider whether we wanted to go on to the base camp or to descend to Lobuche. We decided to get some breakfast and see what our body told us.

With a weak and dizzy body and no appetite whatsoever, getting that bowl of porridge in through my mouth and down to my stomach that morning was as tough as anything. After breakfast, we all felt somewhat better, though not all that much. We reached a consensus: we had come this far, it would be disappointing not to reach the base camp. We would therefore make our way towards the base camp (5300 meters). If, on the way, any of us got any sicker, we would head back right away. In any case, once we were back from the base camp or from the middle, there was no way in hell that we would be spending the night in Gorak Shep. With what energy we had left, we would descend to Lobuche even if it was the last thing we did.

With what I can only explain as God’s grace, all of us made it to the base camp and back. As planned, we mustered up all our energy and made it back down to Lobuche (4950 meters). Boy, was I glad to get out of Gorak Shep!!

It’s a weird, weird place up there!

I went to Khasa last weekend. Khasa is a small trade-oriented town based on the area of Tibet that borders Nepal. It is a strange, weird place that can make you feel like you are trapped in some episode of the Twilight Zone. Where else can you find a place where water, beer and tea cost the same? You have the Tibetans, the Chinese and the Nepalese all living together in this place high up in the mountains. What the mixture gives rise to is not quite culture shock, but you honestly don’t know what to make of it.

Khasa is mainly popular to the Nepalese for two reasons: it is where you can get dirt-cheap (and I mean DIRT cheap!!) knock-offs of virtually everything that the global industry has managed to produce (I bought a Nokia N95 knockoff for less than a 100 dollars, and it came with touch-screen, Bluetooth, dual SIM, G3 capabilities — the works!). The second reason is that the streets are lined up with “over-the-counter” type shops where they really turn the red light on — if you know what I mean (sort of like a dirt-cheap knock-off of Amsterdam).

Anyway, I will let the pictures speak now. I’m not much of photographer; most of these were taken by my good friend Abishesh Joshi, along with some my other friends. Take my word on this though; it’s a weird, weird place up there!!