And the rains came

Kathmandu is pretty elderly; records go back thousands of years. Its official history has many yawning holes but, thankfully, Hindu/Buddhist legend is on hand to fill them in. Any event in such folklore happens on a cosmic scale – I doubt Shiva could make himself a cup of tea without drowning a continent – and the foundation of Kathmandu is no exception. I guess they need blockbuster birth stories, the cities of Nepal, otherwise everyone would pack up and leave for a holier city. Anyhow, Kathmandu’s story is no slouch:

The Kathmandu Valley was, back in the misty mists of time, a snake infested lake. Ninety-one aeons ago – to be precise – an immaculate lotus flower appeared on the surface, which the gods declared to be Swayambhu (‘Self-Created’), the abstract essence of Buddhahood. When who should rock up but Manjushri, the bodhisattva of knowledge. Drawing a very long sword, he cut a gorge at Chobar, south of Kathmandu, to drain the lake and allow humans to worship Swayambhu. As the lake receded, the lotus settled itself on a hilltop. There, Manjushri built a shrine, before hopping down to rid the valley of snakes and establish its first civilisation. Just like that.

The site of this epic feat of drainage is commemorated by a giant stupa, which sits on the hilltop with a view over all of the Kathmandu Valley. Around it are a fair few temples, guarded by cuddly stone lions. The whole complex, though officially called Swayambhu, is popularly referred to as the ‘monkey temple,’ due to the large amounts of – yes, you guessed it; gold star for you. But this name rather undersells the importance of the site; it’s rather like calling London’s St Paul’s Cathedral the pigeon cathedral. But, then again, monkeys are a bigger crowd-draw than pigeons. Frankly, I can’t fathom why anyone finds monkeys endearing. It is one of life’s greater mysteries, like the murder of JFK or why anyone likes Blackadder. Monkeys are vile, ugly little delinquents, who’d sooner rob you blind than pose for your camera. But they are encouraged in Nepali temples, being living, shitting incarnations of the god Hanuman.

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On the outskirts of Kathmandu, near the airport, is Pashupatinath – officially Nepal’s most auspicious place to hang out. Something of a shrunken Benares, it’s an ancient – what the fuck isn’t in Nepal? – temple complex that sprawl along ghats (stone terraces) either side of the Bagmati River. As with Benares, these are cremation ghats; dead loved ones are trussed up in patterned cloth, set on a pedestal topped with sandalwood (to flavour the smell) and put to flames while a pandit mumbles Sankrit verses. The ashes are then spilled into the river, to drift into a new body or – if the deceased was an exceptionally diligent Hindu – achieve Moksha (Nirvana). This stretch of the Bagmati River is the best place in the land for your ashes to find themselves; it ups your chances of Moksha immeasurably, even if you’ve spent your lifetime machine-gunning cows. I witnessed a cremation myself. A Nepali woman was crying hysterically and beating her forehead. I tiptoed past awkwardly. And, I must say, for a sacred river the Bagmati is pretty smelly – at that time it was a muddy, rubbish-strewn, pre-monsoon trickle.

From Pashupatinath I walked a leafy route to Boudhanath, second to Swayambhu in Kathmandu’s stringent stupa hierarchy. On the way I passed a temple called Guhyeshwari; the name comes from the Sanskrit: guhya (vagina) and ishwari (goddess). That’s right: the goddess’ vagina. It’s strange, considering the prudery that prevales in both Nepali and Indian society, to come across such naked sexuality in their religion. Shiva, after all, is commonly represented in temples by a chunky, erect phallus. I wanted to get a look at the temple, pay my respects, ring a bell or two, that sort of thing. But a sign at the door sternly declared ‘Entrance only for Hindus.’ So, yes, I was not allowed inside the goddess’ vagina. Such is life.

You’ve probably seen Boudhanath stupa on a postcard somewhere; you know, the one with the painted eyes and prayer flags radiating off the spire into the surrounding square – give it a google. I arrived there in time for evening prayers. The local – mostly Tibetan – community had poured out to pace round the stupa several times, mumbling that ubiquitous Buddhist mantra: om mani padme hum; the jewel is in the lotus, roughly translated. Joining the throng was like being swept up in a whirlpool. We moved clockwise, of course, as you should while walking round any stupa – a law that also applies to spinning prayer wheels. You could climb up to a lowish level of the stupa itself, but a sign near the steps stated a rule: no entering animals. Dunno, maybe it’s a problem round here.

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There is a great deal of toil that goes in to a monthly current affairs magazine, especially when the office is a cosy team of about ten. Overtime is often mandatory, and the weekends are divided up: the two after publication are free, while on the next two we’re asked to sacrifice a day, maybe two. So, with the July edition (go read it) wound up last Tuesday, the coming weekend was an opportunity to escape Kathmandu – to run to the hills, literally (albeit on a clapped-out bus where burnt-out speakers played obnoxious hindi film music; honestly, I’ve tried to like Bollywood music, really I have).

Negotiating the Kathmandu bus station was like drowning in a pit of slime. Asian bus stations are invariably theatres of torment; this one was par for the course. As a monsoon shower beat down, I weaved between revving buses, trailing through mud, fumes blowing in my face, in the hope of finding a bus that might – just might – be headed to Dhulikhel.

Kathmandu spreads in a sweep of bland suburbia to the far reaches of the Kathmandu Valley. But once the bus has gone over a hill or two, the natural beauty of Nepal disrobes itself. Really, it’s a stunner. The land in the central hills is heavily cultivated, defined by those iconic rice-terraces that rise in stacks up steep hillsides – actually a sign of agricultural desperation; a chronic shortage of space. The land is green, very green. Densely populated, too; the hillsides are parcelled up into infinite little allotments, attended to by women and often young children, wading through rice paddies and bending to pluck their crops, wicker baskets on their backs. Picturesque scenes that belie lives of hard, unremitting drudgery. For anything close in Britain, you’d have to turn to Thomas Hardy.

Dhulikhel is a nice sort of town. That’s all that’s really to be said: it’s rather nice. Though the old town has some fine Newari temples, carved window doors and window-frames to go admire. The guest house I stayed in was a charming, rickety little thing, one of those places that exists forever on the verge of collapse. In the evening I got chatting to the owner, a kindly old man in a traditional Nepali waistcoat and cap; both probably hadn’t been washed this century. I rather pompously announced myself as a journalist; it made for better conversation. After a while he showed me a Nepali newspaper from a few years back, with an article about young men who’d gone missing during the ten-year civil war between the Maoists and the state, which ended as recently as 2006. Featured was a montage of photos of missing young men. He pointed at one of them, a boy of about eighteen – his son. No one had seen him in over five years; he was presumed dead. ‘I am one of the many suffering,’ the old man said.

Next day I determined to walk – or, rather, trek – from Dhulikhel to the town of Panauti, passing the stupa of Namobuddha on the way. Towards the beginning I climbed up a hill to a Kali shrine – venerating the cruel destructive aspect of Parvati, Shiva’s consort. It’s supposed to be a viewpoint, with views of the high Himalaya in the far-distance. But with the early-morning monsoon mist, I could only see a few yards in front of me. Nice little shrine, though.

As I walked on the mists parted, revealing some pretty stunning views – I would go in for superlatives, but that would be a naff. I passed many bucolic little villages along the way, where kids seemed to leap out of hedgerows and demand both ‘sweeties’ and ‘one photo, please.’ I declined. There was something about taking pictures of little kids and then handing them sweets that seemed a little, erm…how shall I put it?

The mists returned a few hours later. And then came the rain. Big rain. I got really – really! – wet. Cold, too. I’d left my raincoat in the Himal office in Patan. When I began to fear pneumonia I dived into a low peasant hut to wait things out. A woman sat with a small child on a dirt floor, nodding at me while I shivered.

The rain finished, eventually, and the mists dispersed to allow sweeping views of the countryside. On I went to the Namobuddha stupa – a squat little thing, really. But, for Tibetans, it’s one of the three holiest pilgrimage sites south of the Himalaya. It commemorates the compassion of a young prince who, one fine morning, stumbled across a ravenous tigress about to eat a little child, and offered his own flesh in its place. After spinning a few prayer wheels, I trod on to Panauti, a village at the confluence of the Punyamati and Roshi streams. All such confluences are sacred in a Hindu landscape – Benares being the most famous example – and Panauti boasts stone ghats much like Pashupatinath, where the dead are ritually burnt and swept away.

I caught the bus back to Kathmandu, exhausted, and still a little wet. When I reached my flat a power cut was in action – or rather, inaction. I fumbled in the dark for candles. It had begun to feel like home.

And so ends this week’s post. Bye for now.