Salon Wanderlust | Looking for Kathmandu

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T A B L E_T A L K
Discuss the ins and outs of travel in India in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
Landing the Big One
By D.T. Max
Fishing and frolicking in Cabo San Lucas
(02/25/98)
Arigato, Nagano
By Cintra Wilson
Weird TV, naked hot springs and the big heart of Japan
(02/24/98)
Tara and Michelle are great and I am a worthless protozoa clinging to their skates
By Cintra Wilson
(02/23/98)
Lost in Nagano
By Cintra Wilson
Our correspondent's innocent search for the men's slalom turns into an amazing half-day odyssey
(02/20/98)
Figure skating shocker
By Jonathan Broder
Lipinski upsets Kwan to take the gold. What happened? Skating expert Christine Brennan analyzes events on -- and off -- the ice in Nagano
(02/20/98)

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LOOKING FOR KATHMANDU+|+PAGE 2 OF 2

I'm sharing a ranch-style brick house with a friend named Chrissie, a lithe British woman who runs a yoga studio in the converted warehouse next door. Her class schedule leaves her plenty of free time. Yesterday afternoon, when I got home from Mike's, we climbed into her rust-mottled 1984 Accord and drove beyond the Ring Road, bound for the greenery of Raniban.
Chrissie has just quit smoking, an achievement that smacks of irony here in Kathmandu. We made our way toward the Queen's Forest within an umbra of soot and dust, chugging uphill behind motorcycles, blue Vikram tempos (banned in India for their heavy-metal exhaust) and huge panel trucks spewing black diesel fumes into our windshield. The trucks were gaily painted, and upon their mud flaps appeared a cheery request: "Horn, please." But the old Honda honked like a geriatric goose and none of the vehicles gave way.
Past the Balaju Water Gardens and the Zoo, the traffic eased some, but the road got worse. There were no potholes; the road itself was a pothole, with occasional patches of asphalt. We rattled over the dips and skidded through loose gravel, the car shuddering and creaking. By now we were thoroughly exhausted.
"It's incredible what you have to go through," sighed Chrissie, "for a bit of fresh air and exercise."
I nodded. "It's as if, to achieve sexual fulfillment, you had to spend 45 minutes rubbing yourself against a cheese grater."
We arrived at the border of the Raniban. A funky map marked the main gate, but we parked at another entrance a mile or so beyond. A narrow dirt trail led into the forest. An old man in a yellowed darwa sarwal ran up to sting us with a five rupee (about seven cents) admission fee. We paid him, took our admission chits and walked off into the forest.
For the next few miles we saw virtually no one, just a few young girls mincing along the trail with bundles of freshly cut firewood on their backs, supported by tumplines drawn across their foreheads. Scythes hung from their waistbands. The sight surprised me. Cutting in the Queen's Forest is tightly controlled; most of the trees we passed, stands of narrow birch and rough-barked sal, were undisturbed and had been so for generations.
After an hour of walking we came into a clearing and saw a small village perched on a ridge ahead of us. It looked astonishingly rural for being so close to the city; there were maybe two dozen mud-walled homes, some with tin roofs. Chickens, dogs and throngs of half-naked children (the bottom half; it saves on diapers) ran around -- as far as they could, that is, without falling off the edge of their world. As we entered, a dilapidated shack caught my eye. Plants sprouted from the tile roof. The worn wooden door was marked with a single English word, written in cursive script: Beauty.
It was corn season. We found the adults squatting around mats in a sunny central courtyard, winnowing big yellow kernels in a woven straw nanglo. They greeted us without suspicion, but quizzically; as if we'd taken a wrong turn on our way to Goa.
I pronounced a few words in Nepali, and their mood changed to boundless hospitality. We had arrived, they declared, in Sunigoan, or Surigoan, or Sudigoan: a bit of nasal confusion there. Whatever, it was a real find, a village of characters. A middle-aged woman with smart eyes jangled a dozen keys on a cord; nothing in the whole place, however, seemed to be locked. An old man pressed a bag of corn in our hands; his smile revealed a single, central tooth, long as a piano key. His rakish topi -- the traditional Nepali cap -- was so frayed and faded it might have been sewn from Methuselah's loincloth. It had a wizened perfection, like an ancient Japanese bonsai; I wanted to buy it right off his head.
Inspired by my current reading -- Saul Bellow's "Henderson the Rain King" -- I turned to Chrissie. "This is really a great bunch of Nepalis," I said. "I love them."
Still, there wasn't a lot to do in Sunigoan; even less, no doubt, at night, which explained the hordes of children. After making a full circuit of the place (which took less than five minutes), we departed the way we had come. A crowd of kids lined up to see us off; it worked out to about 40 per household.
"I'll come back," I promised the old man, "and bring you a new topi."
"You might take a case of condoms as well," whispered Chrissie.
This set us to thinking about Sunigoan by night. There couldn't be a lot of privacy. The love grunts of one's neighbors, we reasoned, must be as familiar as their voices; on summer evenings the place probably sounded like a pond full of bullfrogs.
"A village named Beauty," Chrissie reflected poetically as we left. I didn't tell her I'd also spied the word "Parlour," tucked behind a hedge.
Walking back, I had a nagging feeling. Something about the village had struck me as odd. After a few minutes, I put my finger on what it was. "Chrissie -- that's the first village I've seen, anywhere in Asia, that doesn't have a Coca-Cola sign."
She stopped in her tracks. "My God! You're right."
Fifteen minutes later, we saw three men walking up the trail toward us. One of them carried something odd; it looked, at first, like a narrow silver trombone. As we got closer, the true nature of this cargo revealed itself: a television aerial. It could only be going to Sunigoan.
It was indeed, the men nodded with satisfaction. Today the aerial; three days hence, the television. No longer need villagers content themselves with gossip, chickens and sex. Beginning Friday, they could watch "The X-Files" as well.
"Well," noted Chrissie, "one thing's for sure."
"What's that?"
"There's enough popcorn to go around."
The encounter made us feel giddy, as if we'd snuck in under the wire. Like seeing Robin Williams before he got famous, or visiting America three days before Columbus. We bumped back into town as the sun melted behind Nagarjun Peak, the layers of noise thickening around us.
SALON | Feb. 26, 1998
Jeff Greenwald is the author of "Mister Raja's Neighborhood," "Shopping for Buddhas" and "The Size of the World."


- - - - - - - - - - T A B L E_T A L K Discuss the ins and outs of travel in India in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Landing the Big One By D.T. Max Fishing and frolicking in Cabo San Lucas (02/25/98) Arigato, Nagano By Cintra Wilson Weird TV, naked hot springs and the big heart of Japan (02/24/98) Tara and Michelle are great and I am a worthless protozoa clinging to their skates By Cintra Wilson (02/23/98) Lost in Nagano By Cintra Wilson Our correspondent's innocent search for the men's slalom turns into an amazing half-day odyssey (02/20/98) Figure skating shocker By Jonathan Broder Lipinski upsets Kwan to take the gold. What happened? Skating expert Christine Brennan analyzes events on -- and off -- the ice in Nagano (02/20/98) Browse the Feature archives		LOOKING FOR KATHMANDU+\|+PAGE 2 OF 2 I'm sharing a ranch-style brick house with a friend named Chrissie, a lithe British woman who runs a yoga studio in the converted warehouse next door. Her class schedule leaves her plenty of free time. Yesterday afternoon, when I got home from Mike's, we climbed into her rust-mottled 1984 Accord and drove beyond the Ring Road, bound for the greenery of Raniban. Chrissie has just quit smoking, an achievement that smacks of irony here in Kathmandu. We made our way toward the Queen's Forest within an umbra of soot and dust, chugging uphill behind motorcycles, blue Vikram tempos (banned in India for their heavy-metal exhaust) and huge panel trucks spewing black diesel fumes into our windshield. The trucks were gaily painted, and upon their mud flaps appeared a cheery request: "Horn, please." But the old Honda honked like a geriatric goose and none of the vehicles gave way. Past the Balaju Water Gardens and the Zoo, the traffic eased some, but the road got worse. There were no potholes; the road itself was a pothole, with occasional patches of asphalt. We rattled over the dips and skidded through loose gravel, the car shuddering and creaking. By now we were thoroughly exhausted. "It's incredible what you have to go through," sighed Chrissie, "for a bit of fresh air and exercise." I nodded. "It's as if, to achieve sexual fulfillment, you had to spend 45 minutes rubbing yourself against a cheese grater." We arrived at the border of the Raniban. A funky map marked the main gate, but we parked at another entrance a mile or so beyond. A narrow dirt trail led into the forest. An old man in a yellowed darwa sarwal ran up to sting us with a five rupee (about seven cents) admission fee. We paid him, took our admission chits and walked off into the forest. For the next few miles we saw virtually no one, just a few young girls mincing along the trail with bundles of freshly cut firewood on their backs, supported by tumplines drawn across their foreheads. Scythes hung from their waistbands. The sight surprised me. Cutting in the Queen's Forest is tightly controlled; most of the trees we passed, stands of narrow birch and rough-barked sal, were undisturbed and had been so for generations. After an hour of walking we came into a clearing and saw a small village perched on a ridge ahead of us. It looked astonishingly rural for being so close to the city; there were maybe two dozen mud-walled homes, some with tin roofs. Chickens, dogs and throngs of half-naked children (the bottom half; it saves on diapers) ran around -- as far as they could, that is, without falling off the edge of their world. As we entered, a dilapidated shack caught my eye. Plants sprouted from the tile roof. The worn wooden door was marked with a single English word, written in cursive script: Beauty. It was corn season. We found the adults squatting around mats in a sunny central courtyard, winnowing big yellow kernels in a woven straw nanglo. They greeted us without suspicion, but quizzically; as if we'd taken a wrong turn on our way to Goa. I pronounced a few words in Nepali, and their mood changed to boundless hospitality. We had arrived, they declared, in Sunigoan, or Surigoan, or Sudigoan: a bit of nasal confusion there. Whatever, it was a real find, a village of characters. A middle-aged woman with smart eyes jangled a dozen keys on a cord; nothing in the whole place, however, seemed to be locked. An old man pressed a bag of corn in our hands; his smile revealed a single, central tooth, long as a piano key. His rakish topi -- the traditional Nepali cap -- was so frayed and faded it might have been sewn from Methuselah's loincloth. It had a wizened perfection, like an ancient Japanese bonsai; I wanted to buy it right off his head. Inspired by my current reading -- Saul Bellow's "Henderson the Rain King" -- I turned to Chrissie. "This is really a great bunch of Nepalis," I said. "I love them." Still, there wasn't a lot to do in Sunigoan; even less, no doubt, at night, which explained the hordes of children. After making a full circuit of the place (which took less than five minutes), we departed the way we had come. A crowd of kids lined up to see us off; it worked out to about 40 per household. "I'll come back," I promised the old man, "and bring you a new topi." "You might take a case of condoms as well," whispered Chrissie. This set us to thinking about Sunigoan by night. There couldn't be a lot of privacy. The love grunts of one's neighbors, we reasoned, must be as familiar as their voices; on summer evenings the place probably sounded like a pond full of bullfrogs. "A village named Beauty," Chrissie reflected poetically as we left. I didn't tell her I'd also spied the word "Parlour," tucked behind a hedge. Walking back, I had a nagging feeling. Something about the village had struck me as odd. After a few minutes, I put my finger on what it was. "Chrissie -- that's the first village I've seen, anywhere in Asia, that doesn't have a Coca-Cola sign." She stopped in her tracks. "My God! You're right." Fifteen minutes later, we saw three men walking up the trail toward us. One of them carried something odd; it looked, at first, like a narrow silver trombone. As we got closer, the true nature of this cargo revealed itself: a television aerial. It could only be going to Sunigoan. It was indeed, the men nodded with satisfaction. Today the aerial; three days hence, the television. No longer need villagers content themselves with gossip, chickens and sex. Beginning Friday, they could watch "The X-Files" as well. "Well," noted Chrissie, "one thing's for sure." "What's that?" "There's enough popcorn to go around." The encounter made us feel giddy, as if we'd snuck in under the wire. Like seeing Robin Williams before he got famous, or visiting America three days before Columbus. We bumped back into town as the sun melted behind Nagarjun Peak, the layers of noise thickening around us. SALON \| Feb. 26, 1998 Jeff Greenwald is the author of "Mister Raja's Neighborhood," "Shopping for Buddhas" and "The Size of the World."