Namaste as the Nepalese Say - Day One


Namaste. Say it; it's a lovely-sounding word: “Namas-tay”. Beautiful. That the Hindi word for "I bow to you" is so dainty conflicts completely with landing in Kathmandu, undoubtedly the most shambolic international airport I've ever stumbled into. After a four hour flight (part of which was spent talking to a Gurkha who used to serve on the Royal Guard in Balmoral; another of which was discussing the finer points of the UP with a New Yorker) I'm asked to pay for a visa on-landing. That's not unusual in itself; neither is being asked to provide a passport-size photo. But the fact that the photo booth is a wee guy with his own digital camera is a little weird. Next there's an almighty scrum outside as I emerge blonde and presumably wealthy-looking. Six wee guys clamour round – I actively have to shoo some of them away from my bag a couple of times as I look for someone with my sign. Thankfully I find him, despite a comic misspelling of my name.
After fending off several begging requests from the Oompa Loompas, we set off into Kathmandu, which quickly establishes itself as the most squalid city I've ever seen. Worse than Colombo, even. People toss rubbish directly from their front doors into the street. Some are kind enough to set it on fire, which along with the diesel fumes (most cars appear to be over 20 years old) make for some pretty putrid air. Those who can afford it have face masks; those who can't seem past caring. Although I won't be spending long here, it's hard not to worry that this is an impossible, festering shit hole... Perhaps not surprising given that Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world, with a lower GDP than Haiti, Burma and Uganda.

*Photo: Wee Mo
Passing a series of security guards who insist on saluting me, I check into the hotel and breathe a sign of relief that Wee Mo (having flown separately) has found her way safely and is now out and about taking pictures. When she gets back we head off to Thamel, a tourist district of tight streets, some noisy but polite hawkers and some horrible begging wee bastards, one of whom walks up huffing a bag of glue with his hand out. Fagan's report: slap-dash and careless. Kathmandu doesn't have the luxury of street lights so what spills from the shops is all we have to lead us and a number of those are running on car batteries or smokey generators.
Also, coming as a total surprise are the drug dealers, whose shady patter is initially lost on me. Some of them are even punting opium – such novelty! The population here has doubled to five million in the past seven years as people from rural areas sought refuge from a dangerous insurgency and Kathmandu is crumbling under their weight. The city is still alive, but much in the same way as bacteria, poisonous and fragile. Make no mistake: this is real deprivation, the worst I've ever seen. Worse, even, than Killie.
Then, just when it seems that all is lost, we see something totally unexpected: an art gallery. Then another. Then another. Then a shop selling traditional paper. And clothes, so many clothes. It turns out that, in this part of town at least, there's a bit of soul – a desire to impress. While people do shout their business in our direction, they also understand the meaning of “no thanks.”
After a bit of dinner, a chat with some locals and some traditional music (as well as a couple of casual power-cuts) we feel a good deal better about the whole place and head back to the hotel for an
early night.

The next morning, we set off for a mammoth drive to Royal Chitwan National Park, but not before stopping off at Swayambhunath, the Monkey Temple. As we're expected in the extreme south of the country in just a few hours, we don't have long to spend, but try to make the most of the time we do have. Infuriatingly I've forgotten my camera, so have to make do with sharing Wee Mo's digital and Big Professional one, which is a rare treat.




Twenty minutes later, we set off for the royal park, through dramatic valleys, over roads that suddenly disintegrate into dust and past schools with amusing aspirational titles like Bright Future Secondary and Ideal Model School. Even funnier, just before we arrive at our destination, we pass under a sign advertising an elephant race and very nearly run over a cockerel that bolts across the road and straight onto the back of a chicken. Crazy bastard was willing to die for a
quick pump.