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The elf of Sligo
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An Irish lesson in fairies, giants, queens and Yeats
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Mondo Weirdo
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__ FESTIVAL TIME IN KATHMANDU .|. PAGE 2 OF 2

Toward late afternoon, the light became plain spectacular. While Pashupati temple itself was lost in backlight, the shrines and robes of the sadhus fluoresced with color. Smoke rose from dozens of devotional bonfires, diffusing the light in swirling clouds of smoke and ganja. One of Lord Shiva's aspects is as the greatest of ascetics and meditators; devotees evoke his otherworldly consciousness with alcohol, or by smoking vast quantities of hashish. Working on a contact high, overcome by the munchies, I bought a packet of roasted peanuts and sat on a bench overlooking the river.

After a minute I realized that my little peanut sack was folded from a scrap of paper discarded by a sadhu (nothing is wasted here). It was easy to tell; the whole sheet was covered with a fine Sanskrit scrawl. Sita Rama Sita Rama Sita Rama, it read: the names of the divine couple in the great Hindu epic, the Ramayana. This seemed an ominous receptacle for peanuts, and I contemplated how this omen applied to my own love life. But my meditation was short-lived. A shrieking monkey leaped to my side, scaring the piss out of me. He grabbed the peanuts and jumped away, taunting me from a nearby limb.

Sunset was gorgeous. The crystal peaks of the Himalayas emerged from the clouds, covered with fresh snow. Soon the steep lawns and small stone shrines were illuminated by countless bonfires. The tourists went home. As the stars emerged, I found myself one of the few quieras (white folk: literally, "clouds") on the temple grounds.

There was something wild and sinister about Pashupati that second night. Aside from the sadhus -- many of whom were wrapped up in blankets, or sleeping on the porches of the hostelries -- the place was populated mainly by teenage Nepali boys, outfitted in knock-off Bulls gear and black leather jackets. They were wild-eyed; many were drunk or stoned. Shivaratri is one of the few nights when anything goes, when all inhibitions can be dismissed. In odd corners, the blazing of small fires illuminated young locals puffing on clay chillums, under the amused supervision of squatting sadhus. Others formed tight circles, joking loudly or calling out to me. I grinned, nodded and moved on by.

Along the broad stone stairway leading up from the river, I spied a huge crowd. Hundreds of Nepali men and boys had gathered around a rough canvas pup tent, where a pot-bellied Shaivite was working them into a frenzy. The Penis sadhu! I pressed into the mob, wincing with amazement as the penitent clamped his dick into a set of long, narrow tongs -- and twisted it up like a rubber band propeller. The crowd cheered wildly as he released the tongs; I half expected him to take off. He followed this act by tying his member into knots. It wasn't a pretty sight, but hey -- the crowd loved it. Their feverish chants -- "Jai Nepal!" -- indicated that this seemed the zenith of manliness. In fact, the exact opposite must have been true; a pool cue probably has more nerve endings than this guy's schlong

As I watched, the crowd's pitch built to a crescendo -- the grand finale was upon us. As the mob shouted encouragement, the old man tested the weight of a big stack of bricks. I kid you not: They must have weighed 100 pounds. He wrapped them up in a cloth, secured it with a strap, and again clamped the tongs around his cock. He tied the strap to the metal tongs, tightened the strap, and -- as the crowed roared, surging forward like an El Niño undertow -- began to lift.

That's when it happened. Quick as lightning, I felt a hand dart into my front left pocket. I felt at once for my wallet; it was gone. But when I whipped around I saw only a seething crowd of Nepalis, pressing against me, cheek to jowl. Every eye was staring forward. Every hand was empty, or jammed into a pocket. "Look for someone looking at you funny," I thought cleverly to myself. But everyone looked at me funny.

It is amazing how diabolical everyone appears the moment after one has been pickpocketed. I realized instantly that nothing could be done; that I hadn't a hope in hell of getting my wallet back. But hope springs eternal, and I actually followed one especially unsavory character as he escaped the scene -- giving up when he, too, turned around and looked at me funny.

Finally I just had to laugh. I'd been taken by a pro. I knew exactly what was in the little Guatemalan purse: about 700 rupees, or 10 bucks. Providentially, my two most precious items (my Escorts 100 key and a little agate marble that my godson had given me) were still loose in my pocket. My main regret, of course, was that I'd been distracted during the climactic moment.

It was 11 p.m. when I left Pashupati, poorer but wiser, and zoomed back home through the damp and empty streets. But it wasn't until the next day that John Sanday, my architect friend, pointed out that my pickpocket had without a doubt been in the employ of the Penis sadhu himself: a cunning, chubby Fagan with his own band of Artful Dodgers.

Still, it's tough to hold a grudge against the guy. Whatever he earns, it's not enough.

March 1 brought another lunar festival: Lhosar, the Tibetan New Year (of the Tiger). Spent the morning on the huge white plinth of the domed Boudha stupa, listening to the blasting blare of copper longhorns and the bleating of thighbone trumpets. Monks in vivid maroon robes paraded a portrait of the Dalai Lama around the stupa, singing long-life chants and wearing high, frilled yellow hats that look vaguely like taxidermed sea anemones. The shrine and surrounding kora (the processional walkway circling the monument) were mobbed with Tibetans, all in their finest gear: bright woven chubas (traditional woven aprons) and heavy turquoise beads, gold earrings, magical striped zee stones, the fur of exotic animals on their cuffs, red blessing cords around their necks. Some were recent arrivals: refugees who had spent weeks or months crossing the Himalayas and evading the Chinese.

In Nepal, as in Manhattan, the New Year descends in an instant. As the astrologically auspicious moment fell, a huge shout built up. Ten thousand hands tossed tsampa (roasted barley flour) into the air, creating a sweet cloud that smelled like a kosher bakery. I threw a bit of the stuff at an old Tibetan man; he leaped on me like a snow leopard, rubbing the powder into my cheeks and hair. Rode home basted like a Shake 'n' Bake chicken, totally exhausted by the week's festivities. You know how it is: that oddly relieved feeling when these richly anticipated events are behind us.

I grounded myself later that evening, decompressing in the usual way: with a mushroom/salami pie at Fire & Ice, the best pizzeria west (or east) of The Original Ray's.

Life in Kathmandu! You can't beat it with a lathi -- er, stick.
SALON | March 20, 1998

Jeff Greenwald is Wanderlust's correspondent in Kathmandu. He is the author of "Shopping for Buddhas," "Mister Raja's Neighborhood" and "The Size of the World."