Namaste

Standing at the corner of a busy street, my figure attempts the impossible task of blending in. Able to gaze over the tops of hundreds of heads bobbing and swaying in all directions, my eyes follow the dust and smoke whirling together to form elaborate spirals and plumes of brown and gray that blot out what is probably a vibrantly green hilly landscape that engulfs the city. Every sight to behold is masked in a sepia tone hue that never fails to induce a subconscious urge to cough. The businesses, topped with homesteads and apartments, that line the streets all jaggedly meld together, each one the same; roll-top, metal, front door, dust covered merchandise, and everyone obstinately walking past.

With the sun beating down on my back, I begin to feel warm. Or perhaps I'm nervous. Despite having only walked five minutes from my homestay house, this feels like a new world; the third world.

Disobeying my conscious efforts to maintain a vigilant eye around me, I look down to my left and notice two dogs lying in the dirt. Tag-less, spiritless, and probably nameless, they completely ignore me and every other moving object. Only the horn of a motorcycle, signifying impending doom, grabs their attention. Apathetically, they rise to their paws and trundle to a pile of trash. Pressing their snouts deep, they search for scraps. No dice; on to the next pile.

Locals begin to watch me now. I've become the spectacle. Especially when I shout "Boudha?" to the boy hanging out of the side door of a local bus puttering past, and he shakes his head no. The next bus comes and I shout "Boudha? Jorpati?" Another shake of the head from the fare collector hanging his whole body out of the bus as it lumbers past. More buses. "Boudha?" More shakes.

Obviously, this guy's a tourist.

Rounding my tenth or eleventh attempt at snagging a bus ride to Boudha, I'm beginning to lose hope. Visiting the Buddhist Stupa, Boudhanath, in Boudha on my own was my only goal for the day. Accomplishing that was becoming unlikely. Perturbed and disgruntled by standing helplessly on the side of the road, I began to walk towards Boudha. 

My third day in this foreign place, I was still a baby to this culture. Bamboo scaffolding, restaurants preparing meals by woodfire on the pathways, speeding buses with dozens of passengers on their roofs, stray dogs, burning trash, piles of bricks, the disconcerting symphony of honking motorbikes. It all triggered feelings of bewilderment and discomfort.

Overwhelmed by a sudden urge to move along more quickly, I spot another local bus. Locking eyes with this bus's fare collector, I shout, yet again, "Boudha? Jorpati?" Head shakes again. I keep walking.

On the other side of the road, I witness another symptom of the disease that is plaguing this nation (the first symptom being the difficulty I am facing in finding a Boudha-bound bus). A line of motorbikes stretches down the Ring Road farther than I can see. Mirrored against that is a separate line for micro buses, and yet another line for local buses. Each vehicle has only one person inside. This person, waking up periodically to drive forward several meters, has been delegated the responsibility of fueling up. Due to a political dispute between this developing nation and their
extremely influential parent nation, India, a fuel shortage (crisis) has limited the amount of petrol that any single vehicle can purchase at one time. This extremely necessary rationing of fuel, has resulted in long lines, high prices, and fewer vehicles on the road.

I take a picture of the seemingly infinite line of vehicles spanning out beyond the horizon. It is an absurd sight. After checking my phone to verify that I got the picture, I feel the ominous presence of eyes falling onto me. Locals gawk at their own absurd sight: a towering caucasian westerner holding his cell phone high in the air, standing out like a white water tower looming in the middle of an endless field of corn.

I gave up on getting to Boudha. Nepal won that day. In the infancy of my visit, getting a grip on traveling within Kathmandu felt insurmountable. Feeling capable of doing anything felt so far. How did the gears of this nation turn? Everything felt backwards. Everything felt dirty. Everything felt worn out, wasted, withered, and dry. Time moved fast, and time moved slow. People were in a hurry, as other people loitered. Each day, without falter, noise flooded the streets; all the way up until the very end of the day, as if a powerful deity struck down his fist and shouted, "Enough!" And the city became silent.