Life in the Raw Lane: Nepal

By Keith Lowry

The Gifts of a Glimpse.

There are countries in the world 

you may never get the chance to see. For 

the longest time, Nepal was one such land.

Fascinati

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Lowry
• Release date: Apr 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9783981979077

Keith Lowry

Retired Irish / Canadian freelance journalist/cameraman/field producer

Book preview

Day 1

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The view from my window was that of a bleak, endless world made entirely of sand, one where human survival appeared virtually unimaginable. Occasionally however, a sign of life would emerge in the form of a flash of sunlight reflecting off a tin-roofed house impossibly located in the middle of nowhere. What I took as a sign of the times was that rather than thinking it the domicile of a fiercely determined hermit or a misanthrope par excellence, initial suspicions flowed towards the likelihood of it being a terrorist training camp. Otherwise the landscape was nothing more than relentless shades of browns and oranges that frequently resembled a high school geology map. Lulled into a stupor by the unchanging scenery, I was about to doze off when suddenly the topography shifted into a spellbinding array of plateaus, canyons, and dried-up river beds. But no sooner had that panorama riveted my attention, the desert regained control, the scorched air over its flat plain creating a white haze over what I assumed had to either be Afghanistan or Pakistan.

Eventually able to fall asleep, I awoke to the sight of green-carpeted mountains and the announcement we would landing in Kathmandu in twenty minutes. Almost immediately, isolated hamlets started to appear along the precarious-looking ridges and slopes of what I would later learn was the Kathmandu valley. The closer to the city, the larger the villages became, many encircled by rice-filled terraces that turned the terrain into a colourful weather map complete with isobars. As the plane continued its descent, arcing around the northern end of the valley, Kathmandu finally came into view. Severed by the Bagmati river running through its core, the cityscape was filled with miniature, multi-coloured, chest-of-drawer houses, bordered by a patchwork of dried-out fields, all barely visible thanks to a thick blanket of brown smog.

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For a city home to over a million people, the airport was surprisingly small. I emerged from its crowded, chaotic terminal to see a long line of people huddled behind a metal railing, all vying for attention with hand-written signs. Assuming the role of a TV game show host searching for a contestant, I scanned the notices until recognizing my name in the hands of a young Nepali man. After shyly introducing himself as Sejun, an associate of the family I was scheduled to stay with, he led me to a nearby taxi stand, haggled with the driver, and loaded my substantial luggage in the trunk of a battered cab.

No worry. Taxi take you to Nagarjun Sejun explained before clasping his hands and bidding me adieu.

The fifty-minute drive across the city provided my first close-up view of the lego-type structures seen from the plane. Taller and narrower than I’d imagined, the buildings conjured up the improbable image of a row of windowed bowling-alleys arranged vertically side by side.

Being mid-afternoon on a Friday, the streets of Kathmandu were a madhouse of activity, not unlike the results of an ant hill being kicked accidentally, albeit with more accompanying noise. Scurrying pedestrians competed for space with mopeds, cars and buses that had been largely left to their own devices thanks to a dearth of traffic lights, lane markings or other signs of controlled order.

"Clearly not a place for the weak-hearted or people who treasured their side-view mirrors," I thought, as vehicles skirted past at considerable speeds, often coming within millimetres of us.

Prior to departing Germany, I’d read that Nepal was considered to be one of the world’s poorest countries. I hadn’t given much thought as to how that might translate in terms of where I’d be staying, that is until I climbed out of the taxi and was confronted by an apparition I hadn’t expected. I’d come to Kathmandu with the notion that living with a family would offer a first-hand glimpse of normal daily life. But as I stood there in the barren street, staring up at a row of identical-looking houses crammed into a gated enclosure that could have easily passed for a modern, bland suburb in North America, it seemed incomprehensible that this was anything close to normal. What was to be my home for the next few weeks was located in one of many aptly named colonies, that had sprouted up following the disastrous earthquake of April 2015. Mine happened to be in the suburb of Nagarjun, a semi-rural neighbourhood on the outskirts of Kathmandu, surrounded on three sides by low lying forested hills.

The door to house # 12 was answered by a thin, frail-looking man, dressed in a caftan and traditional Nepali hat known as the Dhaka topi. His deeply lined face and hunched stature suggested someone well into his seventies.

Namaste, my friend, he said in heavily accented English, stepping aside to beckon me in. Welcome, please come in. I am Shalva. Gesturing me to leave my bags and boots in the marble-floored hallway, he led me into the dining area to introduce me to a shy woman, who appeared to be years younger.

This is my wife, Devna, Shalva announced, as his partner extended her hand but refrained from looking at me. Milan is not home yet, but we expect him any moment. Would you like something to eat or drink in the meantime? My wife can fix you something, he added, inadvertently exposing me to the pecking order of the household.

Perhaps a glass of water, but nothing to eat thank you, I said. I had something on the plane not too long ago.

Although exhausted from the accumulated flight time, I felt it only polite to take a seat across the table from Shalva and engage in a round of small talk, while Devna went off to the kitchen. In what I hoped would not turn into a lengthy conversation, I started off by asking Shalva how he had come to speak such good English.

I worked as a guide for foreigners in the mountains, he said with an air of pride. I learned the language from them. I am retired for many years now but try to practice whenever I have the chance.

So you were a Sherpa then? I asked, my curiosity piqued.

No, no. I was a guide, Shalva corrected with a grin. A Sherpa is someone from the group of Nepalis who live high in the mountains. I worked with many Sherpas. They are well known for their mountaineering skills.

That’s something I’m hoping to do while I’m here, I told him.

I’m sorry?

To trek in the mountains, I explained. Perhaps when I’m not feeling so disoriented, we can talk about different routes.

It would be my pleasure, Shalva answered, as Devna meekly placed a tall glass of water in front of me and quietly slipped away.

After our conversation petered out, I was escorted to my top floor room and able to catch a couple of hours of much needed sleep, during which I half-dreamed I’d felt a series of mild tremors. It was just after seven when I came back downstairs and met Milan, Shalva and Devna’s son and the friend of the friend who had arranged for my stay. Despite his good command of English, Milan was not one to partake in small talk, limiting his welcoming comments over dinner to the news that the worst thing that parasites in the drinking water could do was cause diarrhoea. It was not particularly comforting news, given that his mother had just filled my glass from an open jug she’d obtained from the tap.

Dinner that evening was also my initiation to the mainstay of the Nepali diet, Dal Bhat, roughly translated as rice with lentils. Having noticed the lack of cutlery next to my bowls, I was about to ask for a fork when a glance at Milan and Shalva revealed that the meal was to be mixed and eaten with one’s fingers.

Still feeling captive in the jet-lag zombie zone, I managed to excuse myself shortly after the meal and tumble into bed, too sapped to be perturbed by the persistent barking of a single dog echoing across the valley. It was just as sleep was pulling me under however, that a loud, high-pitched whine started up just outside my window. Convinced that my tolerance was being tested, I lay there listening to the peculiar sound continue unabated for at least fifteen minutes, before being forced out on to the balcony to investigate. The noise seemed to be coming from the bushes in the garden below, but with nothing to scare off whatever was making the racket, there was little choice but to return to bed. Much to my relief, the irritating din ceased a short time later, allowing me to drift off amidst the pleasing knowledge that the morning would arrive with renewed clarity and a deeper appreciation of being in Nepal.

Day 2

Next morning at breakfast, I was treated to my first helping of Guave, a tropical delight, as Shalva described it, with a taste somewhere between an apple and a fruit I couldn’t place. Grimacing over a texture never before encountered, I immediately hoped it would be my last as I struggled to discreetly swallow. Hoping to distract myself from the unpleasant sensation my taste buds were experiencing, and the thought of having to take a second mouthful, I asked Shalva for an explanation as to the possible source of last night’s nocturnal disruption.

It is an insect, he said. Actually, it is hundreds of them.

What kind of insect sounds like that? I wanted to know. They sounded like screeching violins in a horror movie.

I’m sorry. I do not know what you are talking about, he replied with a befuddled look. They are ‘Krikaṭaharū. In English I believe they are called crickets.

At that moment, we were joined by a somewhat groggy Milan.

Good morning, he said, taking his place at the table. I hope you slept well. Do you have any plans for the day? If you like, you can come with me into the city this morning and I can drop you off near Thamel.

I don’t have any plans, but don’t you have to get to the office?

Glancing up at the clock, which was already well past ten, Milan assured me there was no reason for hurrying, bringing to mind a comment I’d heard before leaving Germany which had described Nepalis as possessing a different work ethic than Europeans.

Sounds good, but what exactly is Thamel, I asked, as Milan received his morning meal without so much as a thank you.

It’s the tourist district of Kathmandu, he explained, flashing a set of brilliant white teeth, that contrasted starkly with his brown skin and jet-black hair. There’s plenty to see and do there, but perhaps you’d like to come and meet the people I work with first. They’re always looking for a chance to practice their English, he added, helping himself to a heaping portion of Guave before shovelling it into his mouth with his fingers. With Milan’s ability to communicate in temporary limbo, and Shalva and Devna having drifted off to other parts of the house, I took advantage of the situation to glance around at my environs. As on the evening before, the kitchen struck me as bleakly utilitarian, with no sign of the wall hangings or knick-knacks that tend to personalize a room. What did catch my attention however, was a pattern of dots and streaks splattered on the wall above the garbage can, evidence that not a lot of care or aim had been taken when disposing of refuse and leftovers.

I don’t get a helmet? I asked, when Milan directed me to the back seat of his moped shortly after noon for what was destined to be a death-defying ride into the city.

No…sorry. I’m used to travelling alone. The most I can offer is a mask against the dust. But don’t worry. I will not drive as fast as I normally do, he assured with a grin.

Despite his promise, once underway it was difficult to rid myself of the vision of my head being smashed like a pumpkin hitting a telephone pole every time we swerved and I strained to stay on board. The deeper into the city’s core we drove, the more apparent it became that in certain sections of Kathmandu cleanliness had been pushed down a few notches on Pavlov’s hierarchy of needs. That was particularly noticeable as we ran alongside the ruined waterway Nepalis imaginatively referred to as a river. While it may have been a pleasant tributary at one time, years of having trash dumped into its waters and on to its banks, had turned the steel-grey rivulet into little more than a putrid, clogged canal, accompanied by sharp, biting odours. The only word that came to mind as we paralleled the shoreline for a short distance was ‘shameful.’

The condition of the Bagmati river was not the only example of thoughtless excess witnessed that first morning. On the plane I’d read that Kathmandu had a population of around one and a quarter million, a fact bolstered by the seemingly endless line of cars and trucks backed up on one of the major thoroughfares.

Much as had been the case in Phnom Penh, here, the absence of traffic signs, lights or lane demarcations had prompted a surplus of impatient moped drivers to casually weave their way through the stalled traffic, often retreating to the opposite side of the road, ignoring such minor obstacles as on-coming traffic. Adding to this cauldron of street life were hundreds if not thousands of pedestrians and cyclists swarming the sidewalks, sharing space with numerous, oddly passive, skeletal ‘wild dogs’ roaming rampant. As one might imagine, the accompanying soundtrack to the mayhem was omnipresent.

As a result, it was with no small degree of relief that we left the tumult of the main road to enter a quieter residential neighbourhood packed with small apartment blocks and multi-family houses. After weaving our way through numerous streets and alleyways with what seemed no logic, we turned into a narrow lane only wide enough for a single vehicle and eventually arrived at the office.

Man…am I glad that’s over, I told Milan, as I swung off the moped and began to brush away the thick coating of dust that had collected on my clothing. I must look like I just stuck my finger in an electric socket, I complained, while patting down my stiffened, windswept hair. At least I had a mask.

As requested, I left my boots at the door and followed Milan into a sparsely furnished office on the main floor of the three-storey building where a trio of staff members was waiting to be introduced. All three were wearing heavy sweaters or outdoor jackets despite it having been at least twenty degrees outside. Amongst them was my airport greeter, Sejun.

Sejun, you know, Milan acknowledged, as Sejun smiled, clasped his hands and offered a friendly Namaste.

The next in line was Daxa, a petite, pretty woman who looked patently too young to be the financial officer. Seemingly too nervous to say anything, she merely smiled, bowing slightly as she shook off a quivering chill. The last to be introduced was Binsa, older than her two companions and someone Milan was clearly proud to present as his executive secretary. It seemed a bit odd that such a small staff had warranted these titles, and I couldn’t help wondering what designation Milan might have deemed for himself.

Once introductions had been completed, Binsa assumed a take-charge stance, initiating a round of small talk that included the requisite, what part of Canada are you from, how long are you staying in Nepal… what do you do? Showing little interest in my answers, Milan moved behind his cluttered wooden desk and began ruffling through a stack of papers. It wasn’t until I happened to mention having been a cameraman that his ears perked up.

You were a cameraman? he asked, coming back around to the front of the desk. Did you ever work on any feature films? he added eagerly.

Some documentaries, I told him. "But never on a feature. Why do you ask?

This is interesting for me. A couple of friends and I are developing a script for a film. We do it in English. It would be great to have a native speaker with film experience take a look at it.

Does this have to do with your work? I asked, glancing briefly at Binsa, Daza and Sejun, who looked somewhat disinterested in the subject. I’m sure you know that feature films are anything but cheap to make. Have you already got funding for it?

No, and no, Milan said, visibly stiffening. "The film is still in the planning stages and has nothing to do with what we do here. Our job here is to help set up drug advisory centres in different parts of the country. Drug abuse is a big problem in Nepal, especially in areas like the Kathmandu valley.

And the theme of the film?

That is something we must talk more about at home.

Having decided the discussion was at an end, Milan dismissed the two women and suggested that Sejun take me to Thamel.

What followed was a fifteen-minute ride much less treacherous than what I’d experienced with Milan. Upon reaching Thamel, we entered a labyrinth of narrow, dark, identical-looking alleyways where once again cars, motorbikes and pedestrians battled it out for supremacy under a ceiling of fluttering prayer flags. Once dropped off in the midst of the swarm of humanity, I decided to by-pass the myriad of souvenir shops and trekking stores lining the streets, to head for the famed Durbar Square. One of three sites in the Kathmandu valley bearing that name, the face of