Lost souls stay here too long, but its undecided exactly how long too long is. (I think it’s about 20 minutes) The hours pass slowly but the years slip by too fast. I've been here too long and only a week has passed. Rooms become vacant, occupied and vacant again. Residents become vacant and stay vacant. It’s an unhealthy environment; this place will shorten your life expectancy whilst simultaneously making it seem longer. It’s a waste of Nepal, wasters of Kathmandu. You can’t even see the Himalaya range through the haze of pollution, hash smoke, general apathy and confusion. It’s an intriguingly hopeless place. Everything is available on the street except, ambition, enthusiasm, improvement and responsibility.
The street is narrow; the minds despite chemical enhancement are not much wider. The buildings are tall; if you have a window at all, it’s not a view you see but a reflection. Pail faces peer out of dark rooms, it’s as close as they come to seeing the light.
There is no fresh air for a fresh conversation. No fresh faces, just dried lips and glazed eyes. And if something exciting does happen here, it’s probably very wrong.
The dogs bark all through the night and sleep in the road all day, mopeds hoot their piecing approach and no one takes any notice. It’s never quiet, only less noisy, the muffled mutterings of stoners on the stairs is audible when metal shutters have rattled down, with slamming doors the dog chores starts its night time serenade, until the street sellers join them for the last chores. Then shutters go up again for another day of horns and pipes of exhaust without silencers, with paralytic converters that block echoes inside the corridor.
The restaurants sell their city food, grown and imported from the outskirts of the city where the pollution is cleaner. The dealers push, the receivers loiter, the beggars cling and plead ‘need phone credit.’ The residents drag there listless bodies from roof top restaurant to hippy cloths shop to tattooist to the dodgy DVD seller. The shops too have no imagination; they sell hand crafts from a 20 year old worthless stock which has no use or desire. Grotesque masks, chipped and dusty, faded and cracked. The purpose of which I'm unsure of; to cover a wall or a face, they bare a strong resemblance to both.
A crumbling post of urine stench and faded graffiti supports a street light that doesn’t shine, neither does the shoe repair man who sits underneath it, he had to diversify from shining, to repairs of shabby sandals, which have suffered from a lifetime of lifeless shuffling.
Why am I here? Sometimes I think to myself, then I stop. Well its cheep. I'm sitting out my last few days awaiting the arrival of my departure date.
The further east I have come the worst this country has become. The memories of the clean simplistic beauty that were farming communities and the mountain awe are lost in this capital of despair. A nation of frustration, I can handle it, but the locals have had enough. It’s an embarrassing and humiliating first impression of Nepal for the majority; their plane lands in Kathmandu they don't arrive overland bad taste is the first taste. The electricity is on for 10-14 hours a day, usually during the low demand daylight hours. The water supply is intermittent. The petrol is limited and 5 hour queues for a 15 litre ration are the norm. The petrol stations are guarded by the army who have priority over the delegation so as to maintain the ability to immobilize when the inevitable rebellion starts. The roads are less crowded due to the shortages but still congested, inadequate and in a state of disrepair. Everything is. The busses are just tin on worn rubber. The river banks are rubbish dumps and the water runs black and bubbles with toxication. Everywhere is evidence that things were once better, but improvements have long been left to decay.
Freak Street has passed its sell by date and everything here is rotten. I think my room faces west; it’s hard to say, the sun provides light but not direction. Sometimes you notice the temperature but most of the time not. The buildings provide shadows but not security. When the street clogs with stupidity, the horns honk with impatience but not solution. Screaming at a wall, stamping on the ground, futile reactions change nothing. The blockage seeps with crusty careless contortionists and eventually everyone can go with the flow again. A traffic jam on Freak Street is like pressing pause on a loop tape. Freak Street exists because people come. People stay and people don't go. It’s always high season on Freak Street. I never want to come back here, but there lies the assumption that I can leave.
My breakfast repeats every morning, as does the scene through the stained glass restaurant window. When the water runs I fill my empty bottles for the flush that won’t refill. When the lights flicker I charge a battery. When the mood takes me I walk outside into the deranged bustle. Why am I here? So I can appreciate being anywhere else.
The taxis want my business but they have no fuel and I have nowhere to go. ‘You want to go somewhere?’
‘Yes’
‘So do me’
Dealers stand in the shadows and pace at my side
‘Want something?’
‘No’ well yes, obviously I want something, can you be more specific? Can you get my book published?
‘Good price for you, hash? Smoke something? Brown? Where from? I can get for you, hello? Where you go?’
‘For a walk’ I don't know, back to my room I suppose. At this phase of my life my addictions are legal, whiskey and noodle soup eliminate the need for a dealer, and I alternate my indulgencies daily, never mix ya drugs. ‘You want soup? I have long noodles, thick beef, very spicy. Whiskey? I have good bottle, easy to get cellophane off cap, good thread. Yes? You want? I get for you.’
When the light changes to low I go out to the Stupa in the square, where the obedient pay their entrance fee and the rest just walk past the hut, occupied by the bemused ticket seller who can’t believe the amount of people who pay money because a sign says to.
I sit with my zoom lens and photograph the comings and goings.
A few steps out of Freak Street and there is life and a reason to live it. It’s a market, it’s a meeting place, it’s a taxi stand, and it’s a thoroughfare; it’s a site to see. It’s alive and I sit on the filthy step and the chai man brings me the hot milky sweetness that I will miss the most. There’s inspiration beyond Freak Street. There is beauty and conversation. There’s architecture and a history from beyond 1970.
Why don't I leave? Because as long as I can get to the stupa I know I can, when I'm back I don't bother, when I do, I will wonder why I didn’t before and when I have... the parts I recall will be greater that the hole I was in.
Freak Street has come down from its trip and I've just finished mine.
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