Tales from Thamel

It took almost two hours of queuing to get a visa. I thought it would be far easier at the airport - sadly, everyone else on the flight thought exactly the same. I passed the time pretending I understood French to a strange lady who spoke fast and looked intently at me. Luckily, all she wanted in turn was an occasional sympathetic murmur, which was good as I had no idea what she was talking about. Time passed slowly, we shuffled forward, but the process itself was rapid and very friendly. Luckily, Julie was still waiting, sandwiched between the front of the crowd and a large pane of glass. She had hoped that the colourful looking person she'd glimpsed on a telescreen was me.
It was great to see her, her flat was lovely and sleep even better.
The rest of the week passed slowly and quickly; we lazed around, went sightseeing and started the whiskey. On the first day, of course, we had to visit Thamel, hippie-home of the 60s. The small streets were jammed with scooters, walkers, trishaws (cycle-rickshaws) and cars. The cars had a unique quality, like the night-bus in Harry Potter - the ability to squeeze into the tiniest space at high speed. And with huge noise. Every vehicle worthy of the name had a demi-decibel horn; people blew their horns to warn others, to accelerate, to complain if people accelerated, to slow down, to complain if others slowed down, when they reached junctions, when they went round a bend, when others went round a bend - and for the sheer joy of making a very loud noise!
Shops were packed with 'big-name ' goods, jewels, necklaces, books, clothes, carpets - and, of course, Buddhas of every name and type. Julie hurried me through all of this - we had to reach our travel agent to get our tickets and our itineraries for Bhutan. Not yet ready. It was Dasain, the most important festival of the year when people took up to 10 days off work - and it was the same in Bhutan, so he could get no response from his colleague there. He shrugged helpfully and promised us his utmost effort. Still, we had a week.
And it was time for my new image. I had travelled light (16.5 kg in my main bag, 6 in the other) and not brought many so-called essentials, knowing I could buy them easily in Nepal. I had the clothes I had travelled in, a long skirt - and that was it. It would be easy to clothe myself. Sadly, I had forgotten that essential aspect of fashion - clothes sizes. I chose a smart pair of trousers. Size? Medium or large. OK, tried on the large - well, I tried to try on the large. Fitten snugly around my legs, then stuck. Embarrassing. Shop assistant tactful, but unhelpful. "Sorry, madam, we do not have anything bigger." Next shop - lovely top. XL. No use. "What do you have in XXL?" I asked humbly. "Sorry, madam..."
Hopeless. I looked for something, anything. And then I found it- the perfect image. Loose-fitting beige cotton shirt with a round neck, plus these really baggy trousers that you can crouch down in. They had a soft reddish shimmer to them. I changed immediately and sauntered the lanes of Thamel feeling at home. I had arrived.
We set off for Durbar (Palace) Square, the amazing town centre of Kathmandu, filled with temples, shrines and ancient buildings. including, of course, the palace, then it started to rain - no, deluge! We had to nip smartly into a doorway and watch the alleyway turn into a stream. The rain almost stopped, we set off and three minutes later it all happened again. But this time, soaked, we were rescued by a tri-shaw driver. His vehicle was protected from the rain by an artistic display of blue plastic and we rode in state, trying to assure ourselves that -yes- we had both lost weight recently and -no- of course we weren't too heavy. He pedalled us rapidly through twisty, sodden streets and, there we were. Durbar Square.
We were pounced upon by two smiling young priests. "Welcome to Durbar Square. Please have a lovely time here!" they enthused as they dabbed our foreheads with a smudge of bright red colour. We had been blessed. And we would have to pay for it. "And now you will make a donation to our temple of 200 rupees (about £1.75)."
"No we won't. We live here.." We gave them about 50 rupees and left them to attack the next unlucky tourists. But the square itself was quite horrible. The beautiful buildings and shrines were insignificant against the mass of people, noisy traffic and general litter and mess from the market. Vehicles shoved through the crowds, sellers squatted in front of vegetables displayed on the ground and the only way to get around was to push through, feet squelching in muddy disgusting footways. I vowed not to return there; this was a different place to the lovely, haunting square that I had visited only 8 years ago.
We knew that on Sunday the Square - and many others - would be used to sacrifice animals. Accounts tell of the square running with blood; many animals are killed and their blood used to decorate vehicles, shop-fronts, even tools of the trade - to ensure protection and prosperity. Jlie and I thought we might stay in on that day.