Kathmandu

Arriving at Kathmandu International Airport, it felt as though we had travelled interplanetally rather than internationally. The terminal was a far cry from the modern and sophisticated port that we had left behind in Dubai.

Entering the immigration hall we noticed signs exclaiming that we would need to purchase a $40USD visa in order to enter Kathmandu. The visa fee could be paid in US dollars, Euro, British Pounds or Australian dollars. This would turn out to be an issue as neither Krissy nor I had any of those currencies on our person. The only ATM in the barren arrival hall only dispensed the local currency, which for some unknown reason was not able to be used to purchase our way into Nepal.

As luck would have it (thanks to my lovely parents), I happened to have $200USD in my checked in luggage. This moment seemed as good as any to dive into my 'use only in emergency' fund. Thankfully the officials granted me entry into Nepal to go and retrieve my bags, so I left Krissy in legislation no-mans land and went to get the Yankee Doodle dollars. This too would turn out to not be an overly easy task. Kathmandu airport is how I would imagine New Plymouth airport would look after thirty years of neglect. The ancient baggage carrousel was on its last legs and could not complete a full rotation without breaking down. As a result it took over an hour for the flights baggage to be displayed. I fought through the crowds with the one trolley that I could find, not rusted to a number of its colleagues. Finally after a long time standing around looking over the heads of the locals (not hard), I retrieved our baggage and duly left Nepal to return to Krissy.

With the exception of the twenty immigration officials, we were the only people in the arrival hall. One of the officers happily took our money and passports and then asked us to take a seat and wait. When someone in a uniform at an airport asks me to do something, I do so without hesitation. I know how hard they can make your life, if they decide to. Not so Krissy, she berated the wee man, who didn't really speak a word of English. Eventually, after a pow-wow with the other nineteen officials, a spokesperson from the group informed us that the man who stamped the visas had gone to dinner and we would have to wait for his return. Time passed frustratingly slowly but we managed to see the funny side of what was an absurd situation. After three hours of trying, eventually the twenty first official returned and we were able to enter Nepal for the second time that night. Little did we know that this was an indication of what was to come later in our trip through Nepal.

Throughout our ordeal, a lovely shuttle driver from our hotel had been waiting for us outside. He helped us fight our way through a sea of insistent taxi drivers and whisked us away to our hotel. Krissy had organised for us to stay at Dwarika's Hotel as part of her travel writing. It can only be described as an oasis! Passing through a large ancient brick wall that has held out the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu for over eight centuries, we found ourselves amongst beautiful gardens and architecture. Water features and intricately carved wooden panelling was further enhanced by a level of service, neither Krissy nor I had experienced before. Simply put, we never wanted to leave.

Eventually a sense of traveller's obligation kicked in and we ventured out into the streets of Kathmandu. We left our island and passed through the fortifications. Instantly we were attacked by sight, sound and smell. Scooters and rickshas vied for position on dilapidated streets. We wandered through tight alleyways as Kathmandu closed in around us. We were carful to avoid stepping in the piles of excrement of those who had left it, dogs, cattle and people alike. Constantly watching where we were stepping meant that we would often miss what was going on around us, not that that was such a bad thing.

Around almost ever corner was a decaying religious shrine of some sort. Almost all of them were draped with those who had run out of options and it was all they could do to cling to some type of hope, or to chance religious sympathy in the form of a coin or two. As a result of this, many of these places of solace were barred with high fences, stealing away any chance of refuge; in turn excluding those who needed them most.

As if crossing a boarder, we entered the tourist district of Thamel. Streets widened and were lined with modern cafes and outdoor supply stores. If you needed any reminder that Kathmandu was boarded by some of the world's largest mountains, these streets of down and faux-Gore-Tex clothing, jogged the memory. I was in my element, bartering for all sorts of tramping kit to supplement my already generous collection. In the end I had to be dragged out by Krissy so that we could escape back to our sanctuary before dark. That night, whilst sampling a number of the very reasonably priced cocktails, we spent the night talking to a lovely elderly couple from Spain. They insisted that the next day we must visit a near by temple, which was of great religious significance to the Hindu community. We were told that it was a place where the ashes of the recently deceased were placed in a river, which would start their journey to the mighty Ganges River and their final resting place.

The next morning we set of in the direction instructed. We started to head down into a valley lined with small stalls selling everything from souvenirs to all sorts of unappetising and indistinguishable meats. As we descended the number of sidewalk beggars increased dramatically, as did the thick clouds of black smoke. Arriving at the temple complex we were asked to pay a 500 rupee tourist entry fee. We wandered in to investigate the source of the asphyxiating smoke. Neither Krissy nor I could have been prepared for what we would see. Lining the banks of a river, that I am sure doubled as an open sewer, was a number of funeral pyres. At varying stages burned the bodies of the recently deceased, draped in white cloth and various accelerants. Many of the pyres were surrounded by the love ones of the deceased. We watched as the eldest son placed the first flame in the mouth of his recently passed family member, followed in turn by a family hierarchy, each increasing the blaze. I am told that a dull 'crack' of the skull signals the release of the spirit from the body and the ashes can then be sent to the waiting river below to start their journey.

On the other side of the river, built like an amphitheatre, the temple buildings rise up the surrounding hills. Locals gather to watch proceedings, which operate twenty four hours a day. They gaze on, as one would a game of rugby, where there was no particular interest in the final outcome. This was a place I did not want to be. I was disgusted that I had paid to enter, as you would a theme park or other similar attraction. Groups of tourists smiled and posed for photos. I couldn't understand how those mourning were able to tolerate such an intrusion into the most private of moments. I felt sick that I was one of those invading their intimate moment.

It was a long and quiet walk home, passed the lines of elderly beggars, who I now looked on as waiting in line for their turn. I wondered to myself if they would have anyone to prepare their body with such care and take responsibility for the passing of their soul. So rarely are we confronted with death and the questions it provokes back home. Whilst I hated every second of the experience, on many levels I am glad I went along; however I hope I never have to again.

The next day was our last in Kathmandu before heading into the Himalayas. We changed hotels into a more backpacker like abode and join our group, who would accompany us on our assault of Mt Everest base camp. We were happy to be leaving the race of Kathmandu, but equally nervous about the task ahead.