By tierneybb
Friday was indisputably the best Nepal day so far. We have been warned of "bad Nepal days," when the chaos and clamor and complete otherness of this city will break us down, and we will want nothing more than to find a couch (a considerable task, especially if you expect it to be comfortable) and demand a mocha and faster internet. But after Friday I will take those blows knowing that this semester is more than worth it.
For our intensive Tibetan language study course, Friday is a review day, where after zipping through an existentially conjugated language at light speed we go back and do it all again in three hours. Perhaps it was how well we had all mastered the past, present, and future tenses all in four days, but more likely it was the glazed look in our eyes that made Thupten-la (-la is honorific and respectful) prance about saying TGIF and had Mingur-la bring out the guitar. But we learned Frere Jacques in Tibetan before Mingur-la started singing songs from his recording artist days and an older love song. We also reviewed the drinking song we had learned the week before, set to the Danyin traditional guitar that allows for a lot more swooping and dancing as it is played.
For our lecture we piled onto the purple tourist bus that shuttles us around the city when we travel for lectures: with 21 students, an academic coordinator, program manager, program director, her 6 month old daughter and her nanny, we make for quite a troupe of characters, and stand out pretty clearly from the low bustle of personal errands around us. From the bus we were lead down a dirt alley, as in most of my everyday life I had no idea where I was being lead. But it ended at the rear of a fancy restaurant with white linen table cloths in a Newari house-complex courtyard, we entered the building and climbed the stairs to a photography gallery. All around us were pictures from the People's War, the civil war that ousted the monarchy and pitted the police against Maoists for a decade before peace in 2008 established that neither side had won. More than just the violent images of shattered bodies and blown up busses (which of course were present), other images captured the grim reality of a mother cleaning blood off the curb before her store, of a Maoist woman sitting sentinel for a camp her brother's army unit will try to attack, children playing in bomb ruins, and students released from containment elated to be home.
As we absorbed the exhibit Kundra Dixit introduced himself and began our talk. A Columbia educated journalist, he returned from covering foreign wars to find his home embroiled in its own terrible conflict that changed his approach to the stone cold facts of journalism. He spoke of starting the project, and of the current state of political affairs with India, China, and not having an election or constitution since the interim government was installed after the war. The lecture so vividly brought to mind Sontag's Regarding the Pain of Others that I asked him about this Nepali produced and depicted exhibit, that toured the country immediately following the war, and was so successful it not only went international but began giving the exhibit books away for free. But Kundra insisted that the exhibit was something for the gaze of both those involved in the war and for those who had never heard of it. He described the intensity of reactions both by Nepalis who saw their own experiences captured, and by people in New Zealand and New York.
After a phenomenal lunch in Kundra's restaurant we again met Anil Chitrakar, the lecturer/engineer from our first week, for a tour of Patan. Anil lead us down the back alleys where bodies used to be taken so as to be removed out of sight from the main streets, into the local temples, and into a restored traditional house now serving as a guest house. But as an engineer he provided insight into how this city had survived for thousands of years of water surplus and shortage cycles, and how centennial earthquakes had destroyed a number of buildings but preserved the artisan knowledge required to replace them. Down in one of the public water sources that fascinate me so much, he explained the plumbing system employed by the city for thousands of years, and how locals had chosen to respect the snake god guardians of the wells with flames to test for lethal chemicals. Armed with two of my three film cameras (yes I know I'm ridiculous) I was constantly straggling behind the group as I waited to set up the perfect shots of all the fascinating facets of the city around me.
Our tour ended at the Patan Museum in Durbar Square, where we were given 50 Rs "drop-off expenses" (about $0.75) and sent off to explore or find our way back to Boudha. I had visited the museum a few weeks before to check out the art exhibits (and was told there were "no paintings there, this is an art museum girl" by the information desk) and from the restored palace of the museum was forced to buy a yellow tourist tag to mark that I had access to the city (which I had not been happy about, and involved guards playing "spot the white person" all day, but all the locals say it goes to a good cause restoring the city, but I hear too much about corruption to be sure of that). Anyway. After Anil's tour I was much better prepared to explore the city, and with friends set off to brave the bazaars and odd stores around the city, eventually peckish for a snack we wound our way into "The Melting Pot," which turned out to be not a fondue place, or indeed even a restaurant, but the most expensive and hippy store I had ever seen. It puts Boulder to shame for overpriced tie-dyed oddities. But behind the Melting Pot we found Cafe Swotha, an undeniable bliss of French cooking with Nepali traditions. For $10 I had fresh mint lemonade and pesto chèvre gnocchi, finished with a slice of Bhaktapur yogurt pistachio cake. We ate like kings. The owner kept swinging by to talk to us as it appeared to be a slow afternoon, and even gave us free lemon cake. By the time we dragged ourselves away from that paradise the sun was starting to set. Going back through Durbar square the pagoda-like roofs were silhouetted against the horizon and swarmed with people hanging out or doing end of the day prayers.
But the day was not over yet, luckily I had told my homestay I would not be home for dinner and would be quite late. As we walked over to the taxi stand to negotiate for a ride to another part of town where the group of students and our coordinator were meeting for pizza. Taxi prices must be agreed upon before entering the cab, and with a swarm of drivers offering their services one agreed to take us across town for 350Rs. However, as five of us squeezed into his cab (not too dissimilar in size to a mini cooper, with Caroline up front with the bags and the driver's burning incense at her feet, Jade on top of Amelia and squashed next to Joanna and me sort of sprawled across everyone's laps), the driver realized he had mistaken our destination for Thamel, the much closer tourist district. We offered to sing him some Tibetan songs to make up the difference, but he settled on 20Rs instead. At the other end of the cab ride we ended up at Sal's Pizza, but don't be fooled by the name, Sal stands for a name so ridiculously Nepali I can't even start to spell it, but "sal" is somewhere in there. The pizza was set on naan and made with yak cheese and hot peppers, and we sat on cushions around a low table recounting our various adventures around Patan.
By the time we left Sal's it was 8:30, and when we reached Boudha gate it was 9, an unprecedented late night out. The stars lit up the stupa and the streets were yellow pools of light from lamps, but hardly a soul was out. Three of us started down the gravel path towards my house with only headlamps to light the way, and the bobbing of other lights to announce others out as late as us. though certainly not dangerous, Boudha that late is creepy and strange, the refugee community doesn't generally risk conflict with the police for being out too late, so the front gate of my building was locked, and Tashi had to run down and get me. After my profuse apologies we worked together to relock the three gates and headed up to the apartment.