Chapter Nine - Questionable Spring Rolls and the Thirsty Monkeys

And so we exited the stone walled palace, bound for our next destination - the Swoyambhu stupa. This monumental giant was set upon a rather large hill that jutted out of the relatively flat ground of the surrounding area in the distance and while not knowing exactly how to get there, we at least had a very obvious landmark to work towards. As we walked down the road separating the military and the museum complex, it appeared that the small children were also done for the day and soon we found ourselves swamped by the noisy and inquisitive minion horde as they burst forth and skipped and shouted with a general disregard for all commands from the supervising adult that was left in their wake. As would continue to be a tradition, a small child befriended my dear companion and engaged her in conversation about universities and their future wish of study. It was apparent that the benefits of higher education had been engrained sufficiently upon the populace and they were aware of its ability to drag them out of the sheer and palpable poverty surrounding them and into a better life. I continued to chain smoke cigarettes during their one-sided questionnaire as I was not being drawn in as a result of no enquiries being directed towards myself and also by the enchantment that Sarah had on the small ones. Arriving at the broken stone intersection that lay ahead of us, our paths diverged and upon the gifting of token key rings, we departed and slowly made our way towards the looming templed hill on the horizon.

The thick layer of dust in this part of town swirled in the air as vehicles zoomed passed and bouts of uncontrolled coughing were interjected with the inhalation of tobacco. The air quality was not overly helped by the road works and sewer reconstruction efforts that were taking place along our chosen road side. Such sanitation efforts were overseen by the military as we meandered alongside the outskirts of their training facility as the street puppies danced amongst the weeds and weaved their way through the barbed wire that separated us from their grounds. Skipping over the loosely hung and sporadic barbed wire that would occasionally wander over the undulating pathway, we once again were greeted by quizzical stares from the local populace. In their sensible clothing and foot ware, the wandering gypsy beast and myself must have looked rather out of place, or at least would have provided some form of novelty value with our patchwork clothing and brightly coloured ponchos.

Once again the pangs of hunger made itself known and it could no longer be starved off by the inhalation of nicotine treats . . . it was time to find ourselves some food. We stopped at the first establishment we came across, a roof top café, where we tried to draw attention to ourselves to gain service but to no avail. The waitstaff-come-chef was busily cooking for the group of guests that had already occupied the prime roof top portion of the limited seating arrangements. Upon realising that we would not be getting any food any time soon - nor the seats in the sun with the view that we had desired - it became obvious that it was time to push forward and find another establishment. It was at this point amidst the delirium of hunger and low blood sugar that upon closer inspection of the interior of the café, I witnessed my first genuine culture clash. A monk on Facebook. In his brightly coloured red cloak, shaved head and sandals, he occupied one of the computers against the wall with his back towards us and must have overheard our delighted gasps and giggles as we took in the glorious sight before us. Hiding behind a pillar with camera in hand I acquired documentation at what was, in our throws of hunger, a vastly amusing vision of a sheepishly grinning holy man transcending and combining millennia of traditions. No longer was a monk expected to live in a time of isolation on a desolate mountainside, devoid of the outside world and its perils.

Laughing, we frolicked with glee up the path and soon found ourselves at the base of the mountain, confronted with a small restaurant wedged between crumbling textile sellers and I decided that I would indeed throw fate to the wind and test the will of the gods. I had always been told to eat at places where tables were filled, as this indicated not only popularity and good food but also the element of hygiene. Devoid of patrons but with walls filled with rock and roll and heavy metal memorabilia, I decided against better judgement from both my dear companion and the small voices of rationality in the brain and decided that it would be here that I shall dine. Ordering a mixed fried rice and combination spring rolls for myself and a side of potato chips for the she-beast, our waiter became a chef and with not too much delay my meal was served, albeit without the spring rolls. Thankfully the suspect mystery meat mixture fried rice was of abundant proportions and filled the cavity once occupied by cheap cigarettes. Other travellers became enticed by the pale faces occupying the front tables and also entered our feast domain and made themselves at home. Upon completion of this meal and being ready to leave . . . the spring rolls finally made their appearance. Not wanting them now but being of such pleasant disposition, they were graciously accepted, paid for, put into napkins and mashed into our pockets to be taken along on the journey to the temples, where they were to be given as offerings to the stray animals that undoubtedly inhabited the area.

Under the wisdom of my companion, and her innate ability to gain temporary sustenance from barely nibbling at the chips that were on offer, we absconded to the deli across the road to resupply with the essentials. Bottles of water, Pringles, chocolate bars and to give Sarah the boost of energy that she had been so deprived of, counterfeit Red Bull. Or 'Gold Cow' as it was known here. My novelty purchase, which would become one of my blessed acquisitions was a combination cigarette lighter and led torch gadget for the paltry sum of three for one dollar. Investments made, we circled the base of the hill in an attempt to find entry to the upper levels of the monolith. The first stone archway that we came across was highly decorated with visages of Buddhist images and seemed to be a logical start. There were some stairs that spiraled upwards into the unknown but at least appeared to be as good as any at this stage. Unfortunately it became apparent that this was not to be the case, and in fact led straight back towards our starting point of the questionable restaurant by means of a elaborate gantry sided by a series of prayer wheels.

Circling once more and passing said first entrance, we finally found ourselves at the legitimate entrance of the bottom of the hill where there were several small stupas scattered amongst the buildings that hugged the road side. Offerings were made by the various people that passed through the tall stone gates and traffic slowed to a halt to let the local population of monkeys run across the roads. For the Swoyambhu stupa was indeed known to the local populous as the “Monkey Temple and the namesake in itself became blindingly evident as the plethora of monkeys that inhabited the local area, be it hiding in the bushes and trees or running across the roof of the local police station, swarmed the area with reckless abandon. We sat down on the side step of the road to watch the spectacle before us. Monkeys danced across power lines and teased the stray dogs below them, leaping over the top of cars whilst stealing food stuffs from the sides of the road with impunity. It was here that my physically drained and starved comrade began to delve into her can of Gold Cow power drink. Sneaking a sip myself, the full strength taurine and caffeine mixture surely was a pep up in the realm of cheap amphetamines if nothing else. Bidding myself no more, Sarah sipped away as my requirements for nicotine took hold and we each indulged in our own collective vices. Whilst sitting on our step beside oversized copper prayer wheels, a group of crimson clad monks passed by quietly and made their way up the towering stairs behind us towards the stupa. It was clear that it was time to follow the pseudo holy procession and make our own pilgrimage to the top of the small mountain, where we were promised to have a wide vista view of the city and be immersed in the millenia old temples.

The crumbling steps ahead of us began at a relaxed pace, being rather spaced out and allowing for a leisurely trundle, as arrangements of smaller stupas and statues jutted out of the hillside in what could have been described as the remnants of geometric patterns. Rushing through the foliage on the outskirts of the ascending pathway ran families of monkeys, screeching with delight as they played the role of acrobat, swinging their way through the trees and onto the hand rails that ran the course of the path. On the flatter sections of steps, tiny stalls had been set up by local hawkers, peddling their wares to the unsuspecting tourist. We decided on novelty head ware at one such stall, unsure if they would be gifts for back home or just hilarity to wear out whilst drunk on rum later on. A fatal mistake. For upon seeing us part with our money on needless and useless crap at the previous tables, the final hawker, with his menagerie of nick nacks and crap statues was eager for our attention. As he was biding his time until we would undoubtedly stop and inspect his table of variety, the persistent shop keeper methodically went over his assortment of goods and vocalised the price of each, querying if we would like two or more. I waved him off and made my way up the steps. Sarah, unfortunately, was blissfully unaware of this exchange as she found herself enchanted by the singing bowls, turning the wooden stick around the rim of the mass produced bowl, allowing it to vibrate at an audible tone. Jumping at the chance of a quick sale for the afternoon, he put on his classiest front and engaged Sarah into the bargaining process.

Since we had not just arrived that afternoon and had a vague idea of suitable prices, it was quickly obvious that the afternoon lucky price being put on offer was indeed extortionate for its true value. Speeches indicating that the bowls in his possession were made of five different metals and manufactured by hand in an ancient process which merited its price fell on deaf ears, as this process was indeed ancient and had not been practiced for generations. Sarah, in her humanitarian kindness, was unable to pull herself away, but still looked at me in desperation and hope for an escape. Again waving our street seller away and taking Sarah by the hand, I disengaged the exchange and pushed her gently up the hill. Such aghast was felt by the seller of bowls that the prices suddenly dropped dramatically. Not to a logical level however, but still vastly under his previous best pricing. Feeling the urge to barter swelling inside me, I counter offered with a deeply undercut price and the exchange began in earnest. Feigning a combination of genuine disinterest and a penchant for walking away and shooing Sarah further along, not to mention the fact that we were beginning to draw an audience amongst the other pilgrims on the trail, our man relented and settled on a fairly realistic price. Although I did not particularly want the singing bowl in question, having done the barter dance, a singing bowl was nonetheless acquired and we were once again free to make the ascent up the foreboding stairway ahead unaccosted.

We continued our way up the ever increasing inclination of the steps leading up to the stupas and we found ourselves waining in energy. As neither of us were particularly sporty people, such exertions of energy required stops to catch our breath with cigarettes and the consumption of more 'Gold Cow'. It was at one of our spontaneous breaks that the monkeys began to congregate around us, no doubt smelling the spring rolls that were still stuffed inside our backpacks and pockets. Leaping overhead between the trees and corralling us as we walked, we soon found ourselves surrounded and vastly outnumbered. One larger monkey with a little more confidence than the others crawled across the handrails and reached out and snatched the can of caffeine infused drink out of Sarah's hand. With a hiss from the primate and a wail from the she-beast, the exchange was complete. With new found adrenaline the lagging energies were quickly recharged and Sarah began to race up the steps. I threw the last of my biscuits in a wide berth behind us and followed Sarah up the hill as the monkey overlords scattered and were preoccupied by the flying foodstuffs enabling our escape. The standard monkeys were bad enough without having to negotiate with one that was soon to be hopped up on caffeine and looking for it's next fix.

Finally upon reaching the apex of this monastery built on the mountain, we elected to go to the sidewall and to once more catch our breath. Obviously this was also the required time to chain smoke another couple of cigarettes to get the blood pumping again. Standing before a low stone wall, there before us was an uninterrupted view of the Kathmandu basin, a rolling and brightly coloured city of stone and concrete encapsulated by snow capped mountain ranges. The large stupas behind rose a dozen meters into the air and was hemmed by various strands of coloured flags and skirted by a ring of metal prayer wheels. As is expected by tradition, we walked the circumference of the stupas in a clockwise direction, spinning all of the metal wheels. At certain points this procession would be halted either due to a blissfully ignorant tourist going in the opposite direction or by a family of monkeys that had made parts of the temple their home and would jump out and scamper across the stone yard at will and jump over the sleeping stray dogs at random. Due to our previous engagement at the museum, it was already verging close to closing time for the quaint market area perched on the side of the temple and as the locals and tourists began to pack up and leave, we found ourselves exploring the other sections of the temple complex in a much more relaxed and quiet manner. Whilst the site itself did not have a closing time or curfew this meant that, while we would not be thrown out, we were definately on our own to contend with the rival gang warfare being waged between the wildlife. Moving through the complex, we were greeted by more schools of monkeys as they made their way back to their nocturnal homes, scampering over statues and strays, leaping fences and low walls. The symphony of haunting monkey noise could be heard echoing all over the grounds.

Quickly the night engulfed the temples and we made a judgement call that it was probably time to leave the lovers and religious to their mountain sanctuary as we descended the gentle slopes of the opposite side of the hill. At the base of the stairs, it soon became apparent that we had arrived back to the suspect cafe that we had started off at – twice - and our complete unwillingness to walk back over the other side of the river suddenly became overwhelming. It didn't help that we were completely unaware as to exactly where we were in relation to home. As we stood on the road side contemplating our next move, one of the small hatchback taxis pulled up beside us and we were assured that Freak Street was a known destination and he would take us there for the paltry sum of a couple of dollars. And let’s face it, with that convenience on offer, who could complain or deny the service?

The traffic had built up around the city as locals made their way towards home and whilst our driver was vocally confident that he knew about all of the side streets and had the access to get us to our destination in a timely manner, it should have been a clear indication that the dude probably didn’t have any of these things. Either way, we weaved across the roads as if there were truly no rules to obey, skirting between cars and motor bikes beeping horns at the local pedestrians going about their day on what passed as side walks. Driving in Kathmandu is a game of millimetres. The narrow streets and blind corners that dominate the residential areas are sporadically paved and uneven at best, with open storm water channels dropping off the side lines of the road or occasionally covered in pieces of timber. Combined with the plethora of motorbikes through zipping where they can while vans and small and large four wheel drives alike would also attempt to bully their way through absurd spaces that could logically not accommodate them. Many times on this journey towards the safety of our run down hotel, we would find our car barely scraping past walls and occasionally knocking into motorbikes and pedestrians whilst trying to oblige to the domination of larger forms of transport.

Finally we crossed the river and found ourselves on the one way roads that would run freely and the journey continued unabated. We arrived at what we were assured was Freak Street and out of apathy and exhaustion, we paid our man and let him on his way. Taking in the surrounds, it quickly became clear under the fluorescent lit darkness that this was the stupa and temple district that we had passed at the beginning of our walk this morning. Knowing that we were only approximately twenty minutes walk south from home it seemed logical at the time to make haste and be on our way. The night threw cascading shadows over the winding walls and from the stupa square, the numerous side streets spilling out in every direction all looked the same. After subsequently taking the wrong route and winding back at the start of this confusing labyrinth numerous times, we finally found our way to the pungent river once more . . . only this being west and we were wanting to be north. We trekked forwards under the pale moonlight, absent of any street lights, and found our path lit by the subtle glow from groups of locals huddled around small road side fires, fuelled by the copious amounts of rubbish spilling out of the various vacant lots.

Bypassing the unseen dangers and myriad of smells of the back alleys, my companion found herself nearing a hypoglycaemic attack due to the previous event of monkeys stealing our only supplies and so with sweet reassurances that I knew the way and a hail of “not much further now beast”, we finally made it back to where we knew we should be. The bright lights, hash dealers and cacophony of noise greeted us as we emerged, scraping our feet into the tourist district and subsequently made our way to the safety of our prized Jessie James restaurant to devour our equal weight in buffalo wings and bowls of pasta. Being sufficiently sated, we made our way back through the side streets to our crumbling abode and with the exhaustion of the day found sleep willingly with the help of whisky and copious amount of gummi bears. At least I did. For again, as would be tradition, Sarah stayed up much longer into the night with the delirium of insomnia.