Thamel

The call of Kathmandu is mythical and unexplainable.  It is heralded in songs by 70’s rock bands and the hippies of the 60’s longed for the freedom promised in Kathmandu.  I too have fallen victim to the pull of this strange city.  Every day I attempt to identify the origins of this attraction and wandering the streets of the historic Thamel district the question lingered in my mind.  What makes Kathmandu irresistible?

Buildings stack together, tightly – awkwardly built. The upper stories appear to lean in over the street and brightly colored signs fill every inch of visual space.  My chest grows slightly tighter as we step through dirty streets avoiding tourists and beggars alike.  This neighborhood always draws my memory to a road trip game my husband and I play.  We try to hold our breath for the duration of any tunnel we pass through.  It is our contest and this neighborhood makes me want to take a deep gulp of air holding my breath, my cheeks puffed out, hoping to see the narrow gap of light at the end of the street.

Trekkers frequent this district and they come in two varieties.  The first wear North Face water resistant gear.  Their pants zip at the knee and their backpacks are either pristine with newness or covered in patches advertising world-wide adventures.  They need to conquer a mountain.  They want to gobble it up and place a flag of ownership in the soil.  We join this group picking through Shona’s Trekking Store.

The store is barely bigger than a walk in closet and too small to fit an automobile.  The concrete floors are stained black from urban grit trekked in on dirty boots.  The walls, ceiling and even the front door are crammed with items available for purchase.  My friend picks out her own set a knee zip pants and she slips to the back corner of the shop to try them on while the Australian owner jokingly offers to stand guard against male pedestrians.

Our car is heavy with Trekking gear.  In a few days we will look like the first kind of trekker with our sights locked on a mountain.  The second kind of trekker is something very distant from us.  These trekkers are falling apart.  I see them wandering the streets and they are sustained on dreams.  They wear severely frayed clothes, and broken down shoes.  Every inch of their bodies and gear seem speckled in trail dirt.  They are living off of pennies, eating rice and their vacant eyes seem constantly hungry.  They have come to be part of the mountain.  They want the mountain to swallow them whole and all of the hardship is  only a small price to be part of this bigger thing.

Looking through this tunnel street I feel a puzzled. Thamel is a deep labyrinth and the visitors here have their eyes set on a narrow vision.  They desire to either consume or be consumed.  Standing there on the curb I realize I am on the brink of one or the other and neither seems completely attainable but both seem endlessly appealing.  I can’t help but feel their draw is not entirely noble but instead embody some equal quality of self absorption.  Perhaps Kathmandu is simply a guilty pleasure, delicious to the senses and healing to a searching soul.