KTM, City of Candles

I realize now that because of the amount of time I have spent so far in KTM, I am becoming lazy in my documenting my interpretations of life around me. Strange, its almost as though the closer we get to understanding or simply seeing a culture, the less we take note of our surroundings. If Ive been negligent in my writings, maybe it is because I have been living the blissfully dull life of an ex-pat living in KTM. Instead of sightseeing, I see Brianna for chai. Instead of souvenir shopping, I shop for groceries, Instead of being an anonymous faceless stranger, I am recognized in the small hectic streets of KTM. The narrow streets which positively vibrate with foot traffic, rickshaws, motorbikes and cars certainly take some getting used to for the majority of us who are too accustomed to our streets, cushy with sidewalks, stop signs and well, laws. You can tell how long someone has been in Asia by the way they navigate traffic. Some people, newbies, well call them, will wait until the coast is safe and clear. Those with experience know that this moment simply does not exist. I rest my hands on the top of taxis, push rickshaws, and narrowly escape broken toes countless times during a simple trip to the store. I always know exactly where I'm headed in Thamel, therefore I walk with conviction. This is acceptable, until I realize one day that I was becoming increasingly agitated with other foreigners whom expats sneeringly refer to as "package tourists", those camera toting, khaki wearing, loud talking tour sheep. But am I really so different? I am so instantly ready to set roots and become a member of a community that Ive climbed atop my high horse and am instantly prepared to judge those who have only spent a few days fewer in KTM than myself. In many ways, KTM was a peculiar choice for fate to drop my in for three additional weeks. It is a loud, hectic, dirty city pregnant with tourists and thus, touts and shopkeepers, fluorescent dollar signs shining in their eyes. On the other hand, KTM reminds me a bit of college. There are tight cliques that occupy certain bars whose reputation changes constantly, the constant turnover of people makes the possibility of meeting anywhere from ten to thirty people a night a certainly, and life revolves around the nighttime. The expat phenomenon has existed in KTM since the 70's, and Ive met old burnt- out dead heads, politically rabid UN employees and young adventure seekers in the bright, Vegas-like streets of Thamel, KTM's downtown tourist hub. All in all, it seems an unlikely city to be serendipitously stuck in. I listen to my fellow travellers tales of hiking in the KTM valley or rafting around Pokhara, and for one moment, I envy them, but only for one moment. I have officially been on the road now for fifteen weeks, and I have heard that the four month mark is decidedly the roughest hump to pass. Don't get me wrong, I want nothing more than to be another temporary citizen of KTM, wandering as an aimless tourist for two, three days, but I was certainly craving a sense of community that this city readily provides. I had a bbq with people I have not known more than one week, some no more than one hour, but I hug them like were best friends. And just like my torn feelings for KTM, the country itself seems to be consisting of its own dual nature. Take something as simple as baskets. Strong virile women carry long grasses and bamboo in cone shaped baskets that press upon their bent backs, held up by a thick strap which cradles low across the basket and loops up to their upper foreheads, causing them to keep their heads down low, strips of bamboo and long grass droop over the lip of the basket, striping their faces. The same baskets are inverted to become a home for loose chickens at night. Six year old girls in the city with painted eyes to match the kumari, a beautiful young "living goddess" who passes through childhood behind shut carved windows in the noisy din of Durbar Square, before losing her divinity by means of loss of blood or baby teeth. Only then is a new Kumari chosen at the age of two by successfully fulfilling a long list of requirements consisting of but not limited to having thighs like a young deer and showing fearlessness when placed in a room full of severed animal heads. Meanwhile, six year old in the countryside are transformed into young mothers, swaddled infants strapped to their backs, collecting fire woods in the pine forests away from the large city in KTM valley. Fine garments reserved for prestigious business men and women, when discarded, are turned to shreds by young children in villages down by the river side for both entertainment, and household rags. Small family dwelling open up during the day to feed hungry travellers, distinction between home and restaurant only indicated by a sheet hung over the doorway. Children are both our beloved youth, and you indispensable translators. Bicycles more people and are used to sell fruit, large circular baskets replace the seat, carrying papaya, bananas, and green mandarins, all arranged artistically, the handlebars looped with scales and bags of weights. Temple squares are a place of worship and a venue for the most amusing people watching. Ill be better about checking in in the future, folks. kiss kiss.