Guest Blog and Photos by Leah Olson
A garbled and static voice announces that through the windows on my right I should be able to see Mt. Everest. Everyone on the left side of the airplane rushes over, noses pressed against the already smudged plastic windows, taking pictures of the snow-covered Himalayan range. The far-right seats are now so packed with mountain enthusiasts that if we were in any other vehicle, it would surely tip over.
I glance through the window, ask myself whether or not I should snap a photo, and lackadaisically take out my camera. Pushing down on the camera’s button saps up my last iota of physical energy. So far, my journey to Kathmandu could be described as hellish, at best. Plane delays, four layovers, Chinese visa problems in Tibet, zero sleep, no food, and one missed flight. As I absentmindedly stare at the North Face-clad trekkers in seats 20J and 20K next to me, I forget for a moment where I am or where I’m going.
Bing. “Hello, please take your seats and fasten your seat belts. We will be landing at the Kathmandu airport in approximately 20 minutes. We hope you’ve had a pleasant flight,” one of the Chinese flight attendants informs me over the intercom in broken English.
“Oh, yes,” I think. “Kathmandu.” Now I remember.
Fifteen minutes later, as the plane is descending over the cramped Kathmandu Valley, I can’t help but repeat over and over in my head: “What the hell am I doing here? Seriously, what the hell?”
Kathmandu was my home once, three years ago, when I traveled here on a journey to find something, in fact, anything, different from home. I lived in Nepal for five months, working, teaching and traveling. Now I’ve gone and done it again: I found a job as the assistant editor and feature writer at a Nepali-owned, English-language magazine. This assignment will last one year, more than double my last stint. People often ask: “Why Nepal? Why Kathmandu?” But, at the moment, bleary-eyed, hungry, and way beyond the point of exhaustion, I honestly cannot remember.
Fast forward six hours. I’ve slept, showered, eaten and had several revitalizing glasses of excessively sweet Nepalese tea. A long-time Nepali friend shows up at my guesthouse, I hop on the back of his motorbike and we ride off into the controlled chaos, the glory that is Kathmandu.
As we drive through the city everything from three years ago quickly comes flooding back. We pass what used to be the blatantly copyright infringed bookshop: “Barnes and Noble.” The sign above the decrepit, hole-in-the-wall shop has now changed to “Summit Book House.”
Beyond this, however, things seem to be the same. The same hippie tourists are roaming the streets, dreadlocks hanging down their backs, the exact same embroidered tourist T-shirts are for sale, the same Buddhist chants blast from speakers, and the same crippled city buses are somehow still functioning.
We make a quick turn to dodge a tan-colored cow. Cows, which are considered sacred animals by Hindus, are allowed free range to roam anywhere they please, including the middle of the street.
As we drive, I notice that beggars seem to still be in all the places I remember from three years ago. On one familiar corner a blind women clad in a vibrant green and red sari holds a baby. In front of her is a tin begging bowl with some grains of rice and a few rupee coins in it. Further down the road sits an old man who once suffered from leprosy: his fingers and toes have disintegrated off his body, a side effect of the terrible disease. His limbs are now wrapped in gauze. The bandage on his right foot is yellow with puss due to an infection. I look away. While sights like these are disturbing and sad, they are also all too common in this city.
We finally reach our destination at Patan Durbar Square, somewhat of an equivalent to a “downtown” center that is packed full of traditional, carved wooden buildings from the 15th and 16th century. We sit with other young Nepalis and milk tea is served all around. I wipe my face after the long ride. The tissue comes away black from the dirt, dust and pollution in the air.
I learned the first go-around that Kathmandu is no easy place to live. It is difficult to find respite from the traffic, hawkers, drug dealers, pot holes, and the continuous general commotion. But, after being back for only a few hours, I am quickly remembering why I have a sometimes irrational love for this city.
Kathmandu may not hold the same charm as places like Venice or Hanoi, but it has its own unique character and personality. Amid the dusty brown Kathmandu alleys, intensely bright oranges, reds, and greens pop from women’s saris. Religion, whether it is Hinduism or Buddhism, is pervasive. Around every turn and seemingly tucked in every nook is a Hindu shrine, Buddhist stupa, or carved stone deity, while monks clad in crimson robes stroll down the streets.
Women crouch on street corners behind organized pyramids of vegetables and fruits: purple eggplant, bright red chili peppers, neon green limes, and white radishes. Walking in a straight line is a near impossibility as there are constant obstacles to dodge, whether it be a dog, child, rickshaw, taxi, or thundering city bus.
I sit in the lightless tea shop with old friends and finish my tea. The pungent smell of incense and frying samosas wafts through the air. Outside the tea shop a pack of vicious sounding dogs sprint by, aggressively chasing something.
I sit back as Basanta, the tea shop owner, places fresh glasses of steaming tea in front of us. The sound of the dogs, along with the sun, slowly fade into the night.
“Kathmandu…” I think. “It’s good to be back.”
To read more about Leah’s adventures in Nepal, check out her blog or follow her on Twitter. See what other trips UO students are taking in our online series, Blogs from Abroad.
