Birgunj to Kathmandu
Birgunj was the smallest town I had stayed in since leaving Armidale. There were a few main streets over a couple of kilometres which contained most of the local attractions. There were two Shiva temples, the lake, a busy bazaar, and the clocktower. The airport was well out of town and apparently there was a seldom used railway station somewhere nearby. There was no train line to Kathmandu.
Most of the tourists were Indians who could easily drive across the border and enjoy the cheap but excellent liquor and hospitality without a visa or any formalities. The Indian rupee was tied to the Nepali rupee at two to three; two INR to three NPR. The Indian economy has boomed since my first visit there but they had not shared this wealth with their neighbours. Nepal was emerging, sleepy eyed, from the middle ages with an almost feudal economy.
On the other hand there was something modern and quietly sophisticated about the Nepalis. They had one foot in the modern world and one in the past. I saw a few Nirvana tee shirts but they had nothing to do with any spiritual traditions or the concept of enlightenment attributed to Gautama Buddha who was born a hundred miles away in Lumbini.. They were about the Seattle rock band. There were no lungis in sight, or hats. The men’s clothes were colourless blacks and greys.
The food had a lot in common with India but there was meat. The Nepalese are not given to vegetarianism. Still there was plenty of good vegetarian food around for the tourists at very reasonable prices. There is a practice in Nepal of charging extra to foreigners but even the adjusted prices are cheap compared to most countries.
There was a public water hydrant across the road from the hotel where people would fill containers or wash their feet. There were stray dogs in the streets, as in much of Asia, but they weren’t hostile; they seemed to know their place and kept their heads down.
When I tried to get a rickshaw to drive me around town the driver refused. He told me I would have to take a bicycle rickshaw. I didn’t like the idea but it was the only way. Like the compulsory horse and carriage across the border, this rule was probably, I imagined, an old decree that saved the livelihoods of a class of workers who were being overtaken by progress and new technologies. In old Nepal the Kings made such rules to preserve the traditional culture. I travelled uncomfortably, bent over under the tiny canopy.
I visited a temple and the friendly Pujari smiled and inquired of my origins. He was unaffected, totally unlike the monks in Vietnam. He offered to pose for pictures and I have him in a few shots. The temple was relaxed and casual. The central deities were not grand or leafed with gold. They were small dark figures in deep recesses that were ancient and had that dour look of authenticity that comes from antiquity.
Since India everyone was curious about my nationality. They were always happy that I was from Australia. They had an interest in cricket, or family in Melbourne or Sydney and they would reply “Ahhh, Australia! Very good country!” and I would agree with a smile. They knew of people who had done well there, and they would nod their heads and say “but very expensive in Australia, very expensive.”
I obtained a Nepali sim card for my cheap Chinese phone in a office which had cube shaped cushions on the floor for chairs, a security guard and young attendants who spoke good English and tried to be helpful. The number I was allotted looked auspicious with lots of fives and nines and it worked. The rate, all inclusive, was cheap, almost negligible. I would be able to stay in touch while travelling. I was now ready to leave for Kathmandu.
I could fly to Kathmandu or take a four hour bus ride over a hundred miles of reputedly rough, pot holed roads. The fact that the short journey took so long meant the roads had to be bad. I didn’t like the idea of subjecting my electronics and guitars to such conditions and the flight was cheap, around a hundred dollars. There were flights going all day, but not at night. It would take twenty minutes and presumably the scenery would be impressive.
I bought a ticket at a travel agency run by some Indians. As usual I made sure in advance that the airline would take all my luggage without too much extra cost. Then I booked an apartment in Kathmandu, self-contained, not far from the centre of town, for a week. That would give me time to rest and make further decisions. I hoped to get involved in some music but I had no idea what would actually happen there.
The hotel arranged a taxi for me and after tipping the staff I received a nice send off as the suitcases were clattered into the boot and I managed the guitars myself with a little extra care. We drove through wide dusty streets towards the north. On the highway we passed a moving bus, on the roof of which was a man tying something down with rope.
We passed through an industrial area with grimy factories before we arrived at a small airport with a little waiting room and minimal facilities. There was a decent smoking room in a small separate building and portable plastic chairs in the waiting room which was adjacent to the tarmac. The lawns and gardens had not been maintained and looked a little scruffy. When the time came to board we simply walked out of the room and onto the plane. It was a twin propellor model with room for about a hundred people. It was parked close by and we climbed the short staircase and took our seats. There was an uncomfortable delay on the hot runway for some reason as we sat in the sweltering cabin but then we were off. The terrain was suitably mountainous and cloudy and in no time we were descending into Kathmandu.
In the tightly crowded baggage room at Tribhuvan Domestic Airport I struggled through some haughty Indian tourists to retrieve my various items and managed to get them outside, one by one, to where the reliably prearranged driver was waiting. He spoke some English, was relaxed and friendly, and we were into the heavy late afternoon traffic of Kathmandu, which took longer than the flight. My hosts were there when we arrived near the apartment, waiting to grab my bags and cart them through winding lanes away from the main road and into a four storey house whose traditional style, like a few other older houses crowded in amongst abundant foliage, contrasted with the modern concrete structures around it.