The sun sets over streets packed with housewives buying vegetables for dinner. Motorbikes weave in and out of the hustle and bustle. The cobbled alleys are slippery from last night’s rains; elders watch the world go by from above in intricately carved Newari-style windows. There is a smell of fresh and rotten vegetables mixed in the air and the murmur of conversation reaches my ears.
My driver, his bone-scrawny body hunched over the handlebars of the old Indian-style frame, his sinewy legs casually pumping the block of wood like street vendors, sweat running down his brow as he steers the screeching rickshaw through the crowd. . From where I am sitting, in my Nepalese-style rickshaw from my well-padded seat, I clearly see the scene in front of me. No one pushes me, no one hassles me to buy anything, in fact I blend in with the local crowd, allowing me to see the sights and snap and shoot with my camera as I please in the endless sights and scenes that Kathmandu has to offer.
Cycle rickshaw is common in Asia as a local means of transportation. Nepal has its own unique style of rickshaw which resembles a kind of Jinka attached to the back of a sturdy framed Indian bicycle. These two seated contraptions are all worshiped with a colorful canopy, images of the various Hindu gods, horns with a loud, comical sound, normally made from plastic bottles, and are propelled by the spindly but deceptively powerful legs of a driver. nepali
Drivers range in age from the seemingly elderly to those too young to reach the pedals properly! They are all poor and make a miserable living from their day job of driving locals to market, carrying luggage, bits of meat and water back and forth and occasionally the lucky ones pick up a well-paid foreign tourist’s cargo! !
Each driver is an individual character and they all have their own stories to tell from Baji (the old man) who started out transporting buffalo carcasses from slaughterhouse to butcher shop and now spends his days in the more lucrative trade of taking tourists from one place to another. . the four star hotels, to Babu (Little Boy) who grew up on the streets when his parents died, collected rags to save money to buy a rickshaw and now sells high class ladies to the market… and the thousand Indra’s, Keshaps, Deepkas and Biksahes in the middle. As varied as their stories are, they all have something in common, they all know this city intimately and they will all greet you with a welcoming smile and enjoy nothing better than showing you their Kathmandu too.
My rickshaw clears the crowded Asan market and we stop at Indra Chowk, where Lassie Whallla serves frozen lassies, freshly made with local curd, in two glasses and passes one to the driver and me. My driver introduced me to this place along with many other local favorites where to buy the cheapest and juiciest mangoes, where to eat the tastiest Momo (meat-stuffed junk), the sweetest tea, and sekwa (barbecue meat skewers) plus delicious in the city. .
Our next stop is the old buildings in Kathmandu Durba Square, we zoom past Kumari Ko Ghar (house of the living Goddess), he calls out to her with his soft voice and the living goddess smiles briefly at us from her window where she will spend most of her time. of his young life. We pass Kasmandap, the original building here, the name means “Kathmandu House” and this giant structure is said to have been built from the wood of a sal tree some 800 years earlier.
Skirting the whitewashed walls of the royal palace, we stop at the Kaju Deval, a seven-tiered temple-like building. The driver relaxes as I climb the steep stairs in time to see the sun kiss the horizon behind Swayambunath (Monkey Temple) perched on the hill, the Himalayas turning orange, then pink, then fading with darkness. The square below is now emptying out as the locals head home for Dhal Bhart (the rice and lentil dinner).
Back in the rickshaw we head down a newly paved boulevard, shops are lowering their shutters for the night and the local Sekwa and Tass crowds are changing from middle-aged men having a shot of local Raski (rice wine) on their way back. home to stylishly dressed youngsters heading out for a cheap drink with their friends. Children are replaced by stray dogs and homeless children prowl in the dark cornered inhaling glue from old milk bags. As you turn a corner, the street lights come on again and the haunting tone of a conch shell plays over the nightly sound of Kathmandu.
The Buddhist area gives off a sense of calm and security. The monks gracefully follow the steps around the stupa chanting prayers and turning Mani Wheels. The aroma of the butter candles and their soft light invite us to enter the Monastery. More monks sit down to chant, and the soft glow brings to life the golden figure of Buddha on the altar. We drink salted butter tea and feel our minds and souls relax. Many things divide us, skin color, cultural richness and education, but Dipu and I are not so different, we are moved by the same things except that he drives the rickshaw and I sit in the back.
The monks get up and leave and so do we, the rickshaw spinning through the silent streets, back to my hotel. The day is almost gone, but not the memories, they will never fade. I thank Dipu for showing me the wonders of Kathmandu and I give him some money, which he doesn’t even look at, he puts it in his pocket and, without looking back, walks down the alley and vanishes in the streets of Kathmandu. ….. Me, just another tourist for him.