Freak Street, Kathamndu, Nepal

Freak Street, I'm not sure what came first the name or the freaks. Actually it was the freaks back in the ‘70’s but now the name alone attracts the continuing hoards of dread locks to the dead end. Do the residents make the street this way or does the street shape the residents?
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.

Tiger tails from the Western Terai, Nepal.

‘There is absolutely nothing to see or do in this boarder town.’ says the guide book. We stayed 3 nights; such long term residency practically made us locals. There was loads to do, including a wall of death. Moped riding, flip-flop wearing Nepalese, fearlessly going round like a rupee in a washing machine.

I've always wanted to do that, I really think I can, if ever there was a chance to try it,it was here and now but with sandals and baggy hippy pants in a remote town; I may be better off living with, thinking I can rather than discovering I can’t with this particular experience.

But I know I can do it. I'm going to build one when I get home. Scaffold planks and ratchet straps is all ya need. It’s got to be better than the ‘come round and see my hot tub’ line. ‘Come and see my wall of death, I’ll even put a pole in the middle for pole dancing. Fun for all the family. Yes these are the thoughts of an idol mind.
Then there is the longest suspension bridge in Asia,

which we climbed down from at a support mid way, hang on a minute isn’t the very point of a suspension bridge that is has no supports?

Anyway we paddled back to shore through the strong current of a Ganges tributary, not holy yet but Himalayan fresh; the cleanliness next to godliness.
It’s just stupid stuff but it’s really fun, it’s the unexpected sites and the spontaneous actions that make this element of travel exciting in a dumbed down kind of way. If foreign travel is a fair ground we are riding on the dodgems not the wall of death.
More juvenile that motorcycle travel but with less responsibility needed, means less to lose. When losing my balance will only mean losing my camera. As opposed to my Kazakhstan River crossing where I was lucky to only lose my camera.

And having the right travel companions is a plus too. The sort of people who climb off a suspension bridge like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do, which I suppose it is if you’re a manic street preacher. I'm not sure I would have considered doing it at all if I was here alone.
Obstinate travel, insolence in the face of recommendation. My 4th hand guide book is over 10 years old. It’s great. There are now more places to stay, more restaurants and better roads and services. Ok the prices have gone up but expectations are exceeded when you travel with information from the past. Wi-Fi was never a service back then, some things remain the same. If we had know the European government websites said ‘Don't go, it’s too dangerous, boarders are closed without warning, road blocks of burning tyres and sudden strikes the entire country stops, buses crash all the time and there are NO survivors.’ then we would still be here, just a little more appreciative of how easy the travelling and bus catching is. We happily ride on roof tops of the public buses, (depending on the type of crash this may be the safest seat) to National Parks where empty mud hut guest houses have reduced prices due to the majority of tourists having done research from this century and taking heed. More tigers for us, more rhinos.

Less travelled paths, off season, off the beaten track, off the radar.
‘You have come from India today?’
‘No, Mahendranagar’
‘Oh you came from India last night?’
‘No, 4 days ago’
‘Are you ‘aving a laugh? No one stays in Mahendranagar for 4 days’
‘We did, that's how come I can pronounce it’
I don't need a guide to show me round Buda’s birth place; but on a 13 hour walking jungle ‘tiger’ safari without him, I wouldn't have even noticed the tiger footprints let alone the tiger.

Its starts with dung, I really find it hard to get excited about shit, regardless of what bottom it came out of. The footprints in the sand stirred my enthusiasm a little more. But cynically I thought that it was not inconceivable that some ranger came this way this morning with a special walking stick that made big cat prints in the soft sandy soil, just to keep the tourists intrigued. Without the patients of the guide I would not have seen the hippos. Well I would have seen them I just wouldn't have known.
‘To the left of the island’ he kept saying
‘What the black island?’
‘What black island? No the grassy island, to the left of it’
‘Yeah, what? By the black island?’ Then the black island moved, it was hippos.

‘Oh right, I didn’t expect them to be so big.’ But I crept closer all the same.

Then came the long wait above the river in the shade of a bamboo tree, bush, sprout, whatever their called. We got to eat our ‘tiger packed lunch’ that out guest house had made for us. Anywhere else it would be called vegetable fried rice and chapatti and a ¼ of the price but packed in a kind of Tupperware, specifically designed for a jungle safari it was a ‘tiger lunch’ the most exciting cold rice you can possible have, hence the price. I’m surprised they didn’t feed us Frosties for breakfast. We were warned in advance this is where we would sit out the heat of the day, ‘so bring something to do’ I thought I would use the time to make a ‘tiger bracelet’
Out guide was fantastic. I knew it last night when he came and introduced himself. He was so softly spoken, like his trade required, his whole persona was quiet, calm and stealth-like and with his moustache, bucked teeth and visible cheek bones how can you mistrust anyone who looks like Freddy Mercury. When he is too old to be a guide, he has the perfect demeanour to work in a tiger museum.
He sat attentive for a while whilst I shuffled my uncomfortable arse in the sand. Then I watched him lean back and close his eyes, ‘Oh yeah’ I thought ‘the act is over now, sleeping on the job, I suppose this is a cat nap.’
Then the monkeys screeched from the trees. Freddy spoke monkey and knew exactly what they were saying. They were saying ‘Fuck me; there’s a tiger down there!’ they’re so bad. Freddy instantly translated and understood. He sat up and with excitement but no sound, he beckoned us to look. And one of only 14 Royal Bengal Tigers in an area of nearly 1000 square KMs, walked out of the bush and my cowardly sarcastic cynicism ran away.

His mussels heaved and his stripes looked like black tattooed flames on his rippling torso. Knowing he was the hardest bastard in the vicinity he nonchalantly walked into the river.

Slowly and fully alert he submerged himself up to his neck.

This wasn’t a tail disappearing into the undergrowth sighting; it was a 20 minute viewing of Mr. Tiger taking a bath. He yawned and looked around and slowly he exited the river on the other bank, our bank.

When the guides high five each other you know you’ve seen something rare. They only were flip-flops but they all have iPhones to record the event and tell each other where to be and what to see there.
Duly elated, the monkeys and barking deer, elephant evidence and python hangout was no match for our stripy sighting.
The heat stayed after the adrenalin had worn off and I was hanging like a monkey form a tree. Dragging my feet for the last tired walk out of the jungle and back to our mud hut home. This doesn’t bode well for the Himalayan hike to come.
An old Austrian couple complained that in 5 hours (they were too fat to do the full day) they only saw 2 rhinos and a tiger. I guess they wanted it all and they wanted it now. We sat with Freddy, viewed our photos on the laptop, drank a beer and talked tiger into the night.

Out here in the Western Terai, the locals greet you without a ‘rupee please’. It’s just ‘Namaste’ and it’s free of any request other than saluting the god in me.
Mud huts and thatch, homesteads of means but not excess. Cleanliness and order, neatly stacked logs, and hay, goats tethered, buffalo watered, children schooled, and bicycle is the only sight and sound of transport.

Its basic, simplistic and its lives up to the time that it stands in.

Every ditch has clear mountain water flowing through it. The rivers too are fast flowing with clear warm water; that is good for cattle, fish, bathing and laundry. All of which combine an element of recreation.

It doesn’t look like poverty it looks like survival and then some. No thrills, no excess, no needs not met. That's what it looks like to me, it’s what the smiles confirm, the friendliness ensures. It’s the impression I'm given and it’s what I take with me. Walking through the villages as the sunsets, heading to the elephant sanctuary; we were not treated as intruders nor tourists, just passing through and accepted.

You’ve got to watch those cheeky little elephantlets, they offer their trunk to shake your hand, and if you give them more that a finger they wrap their trunk round ya wrist and pull you towards them. They my only be babies but they are big and strong and to my elephant ignorant mind they are unpredictable.

On to the roof of another bus. The long, sun baked, wind dried, roof rack surfing journeys that my travel insurance company doesn’t know about. The trip only becomes uncomfortably hot when the bumps stop at another army check point and there is no breeze to take the heat away. It was Nepalese New Year, 2068, due to their months being Luna and not longer, never thought I’d make it to 2068. Everybody’s happy everybody waves, ‘Happy New Year’

Culture can look so appealing in a book. The temples of forgotten, the ruins of time which are the birth place and palaces where Buda spent his first 29 years. With oppressing heat and long walks, we saw what was essential and left the rest for the enlightened and the appreciative.
‘Let’s build a concrete square prison-looking building over the remains where once was the tree where Mrs Buda gave birth.’ Couldn’t she have gone up into the foot hills where it’s a bit cooler? Would’ve kept the flies off the afterbirth.
‘Let’s make it the least spiritual design we can come up with. A cube, a square concrete block. With scaffolding here and there.

And then let’s invite other countries to build a temple of their own within this complex of world unity.’
Some did, the French and Germans, (famous European Buddhist countries) not the British though. Perhaps we could contribute a railway, like we introduced to India, a little Nepalese lite rail to take the half hearted from temple to temple. Maybe with the profit we make from hosting the Olympics we can do that. It is for world unity after all.
In last night’s twilight, from the bus I saw the magnificent profile of sculptured elegance. It was the World Peace Stupa. It was the last site to see.

White concrete and marble steps. Now I'm not stupid, I've seen stupas’ before, but somehow due to its immense size I thought it just has to have an inside. But no, it was solid and so as we hurried round the burning floor trying to find shade to rest out blistering feet (out footwear obediently left at the entrance)

I wondered just why I couldn’t have been content to have just viewed world peace from a distance.
Mosquito infested room and no electricity, hot stagnant air. Heat at its peak before the monsoon breaks it. I stand in the shower waiting for the boiling water in the pipes to run cool but the plumbing is flawed and it never flowed. We don't want to spend another night here, when the power stops the fan turning, its too hot to get under a sheet and so with no turbulence the mozzies come and feast on your sweating flesh. Bugger that. Culture is cool but mountains are cooler we decided to elope from our enlightenment and 3 more busses, 3 more roof tops took us to a hill station for the night.

The tease of the hazy Himalayas is over we enter the misty little mountain town of Tansen. It consisted of narrow steep twisting streets of dark open fronted shops, usually with a sewing machine or primitive loom stood in the area of the dim dying day gloom. This is a weaving town. Ware the wresidents of weavers wrighteously wun their wittle wentures. They make the fabric that the hats are made of that most Nepalese men wear. Like tartan, it’s same same but different.
Being foreigners we were given the trusted room above the bank. ‘Quieter at night’ we were informed. We had our own private balcony and everything, well that was about it really. It was, I decided it was the perfect balcony to cut my fingernails off of. Later whilst waiting for my friends to use the ATM I realized I was right beneath out balcony and looked at the ground to see if I could spot little bits of me. I was lost in this ridicules diversion of awareness when a mature western couple walked past with and inquisitive ‘Hello?’ Sometimes it’s just not suitable to explain your actions as an introduction.
Being the coolest temperature I have experience since I left home it seemed appropriate to sample the local whiskey. A process I was doing surreptitiously in the restaurant, pouring said liquid into my tea and getting away with it nicely. Until, that is, the cup jumped from my hand and spilt its contents all over the table. The waiter must have known full well what I was up to, when his cloth mopped up the spillage of alcoholic fumes. Oops.
And then after 10 days of being the sites, we take a 6 hour roof top ride into the valley, Pokhara, back to where the westerners go.

Time to unpack the back pack and do what backpackers do, pizza and apple pie, essential fodder for the imminent Himalayan trek.