Musings on Kathmandu
A traveler discovers what it means to feel truly alive in the sensory chaos of Kathmandu, caught between wonder and the uncomfortable reality of privilege.
I think I’ve fallen in love with the frenetic hustle of Kathmandu. The delightful smell of spices and curry mixed with bikes speeding through narrows lanes mesmerizes me. Shop keepers sell handwoven fabrics in every color of the rainbow. It’s a constant assault on the senses which makes you feel alive.
I see women with babies slung over their backs, men squatting, smoking cigarettes; the pungent smoke hanging lazily over them. Stray dogs, ribs visible beneath their discheveled coats, skitter away from locals but hesitantly approach foreigners seeking a moment of kindness. I offer my hand and am reciprocated with warm, tender eyes. Kathmandu is the opposite of San Francisco, my home. There, you can order everything and have it delivered. You can outsource your life. You can outsource the challenge of existing. Here, there is hustle. Here, you must work to survive. It’s intoxicating. Every day is a challenge. Your senses are
alert, not bottled into an app, mass produced for the ever-connected, but socially disconnected, world of Silicon Valley. I know I am a product of the digital culture, yet here I am alive. I must hunt to survive. It’s electric.
The constant horns become a symphony of the day. Everyone is eager to move on, whereas I, fresh from trekking in the mountains, move slowly, like molasses, between the bikes, and cars, and business men peddling their wares. I drift through the scene neither one with, nor apart, consciously choosing when I engage, and when I walk past with passive indifference.
Beggars hands reach for me. I make eye contact; they shrink away unaccustomed to being noticed. I wish them namaste but offer no coin. My currency is peace, not gold. They mask their disappointment yet they stand a little straighter. Confidence is worth more in the long run than a few rupee in their pocket. Yet I know everyone needs money to survive. Confidence doesn’t feed a family when night falls. My conscience is conflicted. I can’t outsource that.
I drift on, aware that I am only an observer here. At night I can wash the dust off my clothes and fill my belly with food. To me, Nepal is a curiosity, a trinket for my memory. Eventually I will move on too, but for now I savior the delights that surround me. I long for my guitar; to pick the strings and write a song to capture the emotion I feel. A coffee shop around the corner has one that patrons can play. It only have 5 strings, but I don’t mind. I walk towards it, music drawing me forward. This is travel. This is Kathmandu.