Kathmandu-3
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
Go Back! Go back! Unless you fully grasp the nature of numerical progression, the puppies may starve. Read Kathmandu-1 and -2 first, it works better that way. If at all.
Powered only by divine serenity, the 3 litre diesel Merc took them to Pashupatinath Temple which, as you'll already know, is one of the most sacred Hindu shrines in the world. Words probably do exist to describe this place. A more appropriate name for the areas accessible to non-Hindus (O.K., tourists like Spot-on) would be "The Tourists' Heaven for Viewing Public Humiliation and Stuff". (In fairness to a large and respected portion of the world's population, Spot-on could only assume that the inner sanctum, denied to non-Hindus, holds some real religious meaning. The periphery, the area accessible to comfy-shoed, camera-toting tourists, left him in need of counseling. Again.) Surendra locked the car and made it clear that this time he was going to accompany his passenger. The first stop was the tourist stalls at the entrance where Spot-on battered, sorry 'bartered', a trader into accepting an offer of 100 Rupees (£0.98) for a string of sandalwood and granite prayer beads. He didn't buy them, he was just practicing. Surendra's eyes flared up - he showed his passenger his own prayer beads, identical to these, for which he'd paid Rs125.
The next trader to feel the steel of the project manager's procurement procedures dealt in genuine fossils: on close inspection, all of the ammonites were exactly the same shape and size, only the rocks in which they were formed those many millions of years ago varied in shape. The dealer was congratulated on the quality of his fakes which Spot-on deduced were made from moulded clay liberally kneaded with diesel before being blast kilned. 'Silly faker, doesn't he know we all do that in England.' In deep embarrassment and after much rummaging around in boxes, the fossil dealer finally produced something of interest and Spot-on walked away with a knick-knack he'd only ever seen in museums - a Buddha's Eye . He had no idea what they are or how they're formed, but was now the owner of a lump of (real) rock cracked open to reveal a brass-coloured pebble about the size of a bantam's egg. Rs200 and worth every (tourist marked-up) penny. Then it got silly. Three thin, tall, old guys were squatting in filth, wearing tattered robes and o.t.t. make-up; these, Spot-on was assured, were living gods. 'They smoke hashish and never eat or drink anything.' Long hair, flowing beards, robes = gods, no doubt about it. Squatting barefoot in filth, made-up like tarts and smoking hash - come right, you're having a larff, aintcha?
"Gods" said Surendra emphatically. "Balls" said the tourist, clutching Buddha's Eye outside a Hindu temple.
Crossing a bridge, in order to get a vantage point for the next wonder of the world, the tourist was afforded the opportunity to educate beggars and street merchants in simple English: accepting that they had difficulty getting their tongues around the phrase 'I have absolutely no need in my life for crap of that type' it was necessary to abbreviate the phrase to the foreigner-friendly response widely used in Jalan Petaling, Kuala Lumpur. Within minutes, 10 or 15 small beggar/seller types had joined our little party, chanting 'No need, lah - no need, lah' whenever a new vendor appeared. (Future Researchers are requested to ascertain whether the phrase achieves permanent street-cred.) Surendra stopped Spot-on on the bridge over a mucky river and pointed-out two short piers on each side of the river. On the right were two platforms for meditation - no problem with that: well above the water, large enough to allow a meditator to levitate a little - to topple over even -without getting wet. Great idea. Well done guys. On the left, directly opposite each meditation platform, were two similar platforms. One was reasonably clean; the other had the residue of a poorly-constructed barbecue scattered over its surface. 'Holy?' asked the project manager, uncertainly. 'Very holy?' Surendra pointed to the far platform "Here they burn the Royal Family".
Now, he'd read that Nepal had problems with Maoist insurgency, but the Foreign & Commonwealth Office's 'Advice to Travellers' made no mention of purging the Royals in so off-handed a manner. 'This one' said Surendra, pointing to the barbecue 'is where they burn rich people'. On the steps between the platforms was a dead rich bloke, covered in a petal-strewn, dye-stained cloth. This afternoon's work for the crematorium. These were public cremation platforms. Busy public cremation platforms. 'These people' said the driver, pointing to a listless crowd of locals hanging over a balcony above us 'will be burned over there, downstream side of the bridge. Because they are poor.' Poor they may be, but that's no reason to go about burning them willy-nilly! Have a heart old chap. Dear me! Surendra laughed dismissively - 'They are sick people, waiting to die. They will die soon then they will be burned over there.' Oh, okay then, that's fine. He didn't wave to them, those people who came to live above the place at which they would be burned. 'Given fore-warning of my own demise' thought Spot-on 'I might choose an alternative way of spending my last few days on earth. I'd probably arrange a test-drive in a TVR , for instance - or get around to joining a gym. '
Above the steps leading to the mucky river is a row of 10 or 15 little shrines with what looked like highly-polished large walnuts on plinths in the centre of each. 'And these?' he asked, dreading the response. 'These are lingaams' said Surendra. Good, fine, thank you. He was about to move on, having taken the expected photograph - down the centre, aligning the lingaams - when the driver gave more (totally uncalled for) information. He advised Spot-on that a lingaam is a representation of a willy: a barren woman would become fertile by squatting atop each of these things in sequence, chanting prayers and the like. A waist-down kit-off condition was favoured for best results. The tops of the lingaams were indeed extremely well-worn, so investment in the Kathmandu branch of Marks & Spencer is not advised. As a professional project manager, whose job depends on blinding insight and talking quite quickly, Spot-on pointed out that privacy was something of a concern, as each shrine was inhabited by at least one prone male of uncertain sobriety and life expectancy. 'Cheap hotels', the driver laughed.
Denied access to the only hope of a real experience at this site - the temple itself - he was about to leave in despair but Surendra had other ideas. Why leave nauseated when sickeningly bad taste is just around the corner. Spot-on was invited to meet an Englishman - not a major treat, he'd seen them before. The Englishman he met was caged (no, really) in a small room with an iron-barred gate. The English god was tall, bearded, dirty, dressed like a prat in flowing robes and grinning - actually simpering is a better description. 'This god does not smoke hashish', said the driver. ' Well of course not you oaf, he's British!', said the tourist. 'Nor does he eat or drink anything but milk'. For heaven's sake! At no time in his life had the tourist consciously sought the company of any such deviant. Apparently the fool is 51 years old, English, has never had a haircut, has neither eaten solid food nor touched any drop of liquid other than milk! Ag ciiiiisss man! Following the local building bye-laws, the lavatory in his cell probably discharges into the mucky river below. I wish I hadn't used the word 'discharges' there. It was not certain whether this god's weak smile was really a plea for doughnuts or for an airline ticket - either way, there's no room in the civilised world for people who've chosen to fall that low. Avoiding the temptation to wish him an early demise and release from his torment, Spot-on turned and walked away. There was, however, one further marvel to behold; a tout appeared, enthusiastically offering - for a small fee - to show him a god who could "lift 50 kaygee by dick". The mime which accompanied his spiel left Spot-on in no doubt as to this god's talent. Now, call him old-fashioned, call him a conservative - but a chap has principles! Whilst not by any means a saint, he'd made a vow to stand before St. Peter with a clear conscience. Asked, on the Day of Reckoning "Have you ever killed a man in anger?" he will reply in the negative. "Done any coveting, you know - donkeys, another man's wife, that sort of thing?" A shake of the head will suffice. Asked "Have you ever been to a Michael Jackson concert?" the project manager can proudly deny that temptation. So having come this far in life's journey without paying to see a man do silly things with his penis, Spot-on felt that his sense of decency required him to flee to the car, hoping to rediscover the earlier serenity. On the way back, the driver explained that he had accompanied his passenger on this part of the trip because the people there are bad people.
"Mad people", the tourist replied.
Take a day off tomorrow, you deserve it. Stay up late and read Kathmandu-4. You never know, it might be worth it.
Powered only by divine serenity, the 3 litre diesel Merc took them to Pashupatinath Temple which, as you'll already know, is one of the most sacred Hindu shrines in the world. Words probably do exist to describe this place. A more appropriate name for the areas accessible to non-Hindus (O.K., tourists like Spot-on) would be "The Tourists' Heaven for Viewing Public Humiliation and Stuff". (In fairness to a large and respected portion of the world's population, Spot-on could only assume that the inner sanctum, denied to non-Hindus, holds some real religious meaning. The periphery, the area accessible to comfy-shoed, camera-toting tourists, left him in need of counseling. Again.) Surendra locked the car and made it clear that this time he was going to accompany his passenger. The first stop was the tourist stalls at the entrance where Spot-on battered, sorry 'bartered', a trader into accepting an offer of 100 Rupees (£0.98) for a string of sandalwood and granite prayer beads. He didn't buy them, he was just practicing. Surendra's eyes flared up - he showed his passenger his own prayer beads, identical to these, for which he'd paid Rs125.
The next trader to feel the steel of the project manager's procurement procedures dealt in genuine fossils: on close inspection, all of the ammonites were exactly the same shape and size, only the rocks in which they were formed those many millions of years ago varied in shape. The dealer was congratulated on the quality of his fakes which Spot-on deduced were made from moulded clay liberally kneaded with diesel before being blast kilned. 'Silly faker, doesn't he know we all do that in England.' In deep embarrassment and after much rummaging around in boxes, the fossil dealer finally produced something of interest and Spot-on walked away with a knick-knack he'd only ever seen in museums - a Buddha's Eye . He had no idea what they are or how they're formed, but was now the owner of a lump of (real) rock cracked open to reveal a brass-coloured pebble about the size of a bantam's egg. Rs200 and worth every (tourist marked-up) penny. Then it got silly. Three thin, tall, old guys were squatting in filth, wearing tattered robes and o.t.t. make-up; these, Spot-on was assured, were living gods. 'They smoke hashish and never eat or drink anything.' Long hair, flowing beards, robes = gods, no doubt about it. Squatting barefoot in filth, made-up like tarts and smoking hash - come right, you're having a larff, aintcha?
"Gods" said Surendra emphatically. "Balls" said the tourist, clutching Buddha's Eye outside a Hindu temple.
Crossing a bridge, in order to get a vantage point for the next wonder of the world, the tourist was afforded the opportunity to educate beggars and street merchants in simple English: accepting that they had difficulty getting their tongues around the phrase 'I have absolutely no need in my life for crap of that type' it was necessary to abbreviate the phrase to the foreigner-friendly response widely used in Jalan Petaling, Kuala Lumpur. Within minutes, 10 or 15 small beggar/seller types had joined our little party, chanting 'No need, lah - no need, lah' whenever a new vendor appeared. (Future Researchers are requested to ascertain whether the phrase achieves permanent street-cred.) Surendra stopped Spot-on on the bridge over a mucky river and pointed-out two short piers on each side of the river. On the right were two platforms for meditation - no problem with that: well above the water, large enough to allow a meditator to levitate a little - to topple over even -without getting wet. Great idea. Well done guys. On the left, directly opposite each meditation platform, were two similar platforms. One was reasonably clean; the other had the residue of a poorly-constructed barbecue scattered over its surface. 'Holy?' asked the project manager, uncertainly. 'Very holy?' Surendra pointed to the far platform "Here they burn the Royal Family".
Now, he'd read that Nepal had problems with Maoist insurgency, but the Foreign & Commonwealth Office's 'Advice to Travellers' made no mention of purging the Royals in so off-handed a manner. 'This one' said Surendra, pointing to the barbecue 'is where they burn rich people'. On the steps between the platforms was a dead rich bloke, covered in a petal-strewn, dye-stained cloth. This afternoon's work for the crematorium. These were public cremation platforms. Busy public cremation platforms. 'These people' said the driver, pointing to a listless crowd of locals hanging over a balcony above us 'will be burned over there, downstream side of the bridge. Because they are poor.' Poor they may be, but that's no reason to go about burning them willy-nilly! Have a heart old chap. Dear me! Surendra laughed dismissively - 'They are sick people, waiting to die. They will die soon then they will be burned over there.' Oh, okay then, that's fine. He didn't wave to them, those people who came to live above the place at which they would be burned. 'Given fore-warning of my own demise' thought Spot-on 'I might choose an alternative way of spending my last few days on earth. I'd probably arrange a test-drive in a TVR , for instance - or get around to joining a gym. '
Above the steps leading to the mucky river is a row of 10 or 15 little shrines with what looked like highly-polished large walnuts on plinths in the centre of each. 'And these?' he asked, dreading the response. 'These are lingaams' said Surendra. Good, fine, thank you. He was about to move on, having taken the expected photograph - down the centre, aligning the lingaams - when the driver gave more (totally uncalled for) information. He advised Spot-on that a lingaam is a representation of a willy: a barren woman would become fertile by squatting atop each of these things in sequence, chanting prayers and the like. A waist-down kit-off condition was favoured for best results. The tops of the lingaams were indeed extremely well-worn, so investment in the Kathmandu branch of Marks & Spencer is not advised. As a professional project manager, whose job depends on blinding insight and talking quite quickly, Spot-on pointed out that privacy was something of a concern, as each shrine was inhabited by at least one prone male of uncertain sobriety and life expectancy. 'Cheap hotels', the driver laughed.
Denied access to the only hope of a real experience at this site - the temple itself - he was about to leave in despair but Surendra had other ideas. Why leave nauseated when sickeningly bad taste is just around the corner. Spot-on was invited to meet an Englishman - not a major treat, he'd seen them before. The Englishman he met was caged (no, really) in a small room with an iron-barred gate. The English god was tall, bearded, dirty, dressed like a prat in flowing robes and grinning - actually simpering is a better description. 'This god does not smoke hashish', said the driver. ' Well of course not you oaf, he's British!', said the tourist. 'Nor does he eat or drink anything but milk'. For heaven's sake! At no time in his life had the tourist consciously sought the company of any such deviant. Apparently the fool is 51 years old, English, has never had a haircut, has neither eaten solid food nor touched any drop of liquid other than milk! Ag ciiiiisss man! Following the local building bye-laws, the lavatory in his cell probably discharges into the mucky river below. I wish I hadn't used the word 'discharges' there. It was not certain whether this god's weak smile was really a plea for doughnuts or for an airline ticket - either way, there's no room in the civilised world for people who've chosen to fall that low. Avoiding the temptation to wish him an early demise and release from his torment, Spot-on turned and walked away. There was, however, one further marvel to behold; a tout appeared, enthusiastically offering - for a small fee - to show him a god who could "lift 50 kaygee by dick". The mime which accompanied his spiel left Spot-on in no doubt as to this god's talent. Now, call him old-fashioned, call him a conservative - but a chap has principles! Whilst not by any means a saint, he'd made a vow to stand before St. Peter with a clear conscience. Asked, on the Day of Reckoning "Have you ever killed a man in anger?" he will reply in the negative. "Done any coveting, you know - donkeys, another man's wife, that sort of thing?" A shake of the head will suffice. Asked "Have you ever been to a Michael Jackson concert?" the project manager can proudly deny that temptation. So having come this far in life's journey without paying to see a man do silly things with his penis, Spot-on felt that his sense of decency required him to flee to the car, hoping to rediscover the earlier serenity. On the way back, the driver explained that he had accompanied his passenger on this part of the trip because the people there are bad people.
"Mad people", the tourist replied.
Take a day off tomorrow, you deserve it. Stay up late and read Kathmandu-4. You never know, it might be worth it.
