On the Other Side of the World

Another Spring

White bird over the grey river,

Scarlet flowers on the green hills,

I watch the Spring go by and wonder

If I shall ever return home

On the other side of the world, Chris is dazed by the morning sun, and more particularly the stench that clings to the air. He mentions this to me as he downs a half dozen ibuprofen tablets. "Is this how Kathmandu always smells?" he asks.

"No. But after a heavy downpour all that garbage lining the street is washed into the river; the same river you’ve been staring at the last ten minutes. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?" Chris shakes his head slowly.

"I’ve been thinking about our upcoming trek. Are you sure we won’t run into any Maoist rebels. I heard a few stories about them last night at the Rum Doodle restaurant."

"Don’t be silly!", I reply, "Those attacks occurred far to the West, near the Indian border. We are trekking in the Annapurna Himal, up North."

Chris nodded his head. "So what were you saying?" I repeat my suggestion that we make our way back through Durbar Square, down Freak Street, and up to our hotel for lunch.

"I’ll follow you."; he replies. Chris had woke me early this morning from my most comfortable sofa in the lobby of the Kathmandu Guest House. His plane had landed in the wee hours of the morning after a long delay in Hong Kong. The woman at the desk eyed me peculiarly as I stretched.

"Why you no sleep in your room?"; she asked me.

"Because I arrived very late and no one was here."; I responded

She nodded apparently understanding. "Your rooms are now ready. I show you."

So after a few hours of rest, Chris and I had taken a walk around Kathmandu under a cloudy sky. We had visited the monkey temple, also known as Swayambhunath, then the market area around Durbar square, and finally the Old Royal Palace built in 1672.

It was close to three and we still had not had lunch. Tomorrow we would be leaving Kathmandu on a six hour bus ride to the town of Besi Sahar. From there we would walk for perhaps four or more hours until we reached our first camp site. It would be tough for both of us. Ten more days would bring us back to Kathmandu in time to catch our plane to Europe. From there nothing was certain. Nothing at all.

The afternoon passed into evening as I walked up the two flights of stairs back to the Rum Doodle restaurant. There were postcards to be written, e-mails to send, and of course beers to be consumed. Pasang, our guide, joined me sometime after eight, and Chris sat down soon after. There was little in the way of conversation. Chris asked about the upcoming day, trail conditions and the weather. I wondered if we’d be back in town in time for the Dasain festival. Pasang assured me we would. Near midnight I excused myself. I was still jet-lagged, and the morning would begin at sunrise once again.

the mad innkeeper
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