The sun sets over the streets full of housewives buying vegetables for dinner. Motorcycles are in and out of the hustle and bustle. The cobbled alleys are slippery from last night’s rains; Elders watch the world go by from the ceiling in intricately carved Newari-style windows. There is a smell of fresh and rotten vegetables mixed in the air and the buzz of conversation reaches my ears.
My driver, his bone-thin body hunched over the handles of the ancient Indian-style frame, his slender legs causally pumping the block of wood as if they were street vendors, and sweat runs down his forehead as he rides the squeaky rickshaw between the crowd. From where I sit, in my Nepalese-style rickshaw, from my well-padded seat, I clearly see the scene before me. Nobody beats me, nobody bothers me to buy anything, in fact, I go unnoticed in the local crowd, and it allows me in my own time to see the sights and take and shoot my camera however I want in the endless sights and scenes that Kathmandu has to offer.
The cycling rickshaw is common in Asia as a local mode of transportation. Nepal has its own unique style of rickshaw that resembles a kind of Jinka attached to the back of a sturdy Indian frame bike. These two seated contraptions are worshiped by a colorful canopy, images of various Hindu gods, loud and comical sounding horns, typically made from plastic bottles and powered by the thin but deceptively powerful legs of a Nepalese driver.
Drivers range in age from the apparently old to those too young to reach street vendors properly. They are all poor and make a meager living from their daily work of transporting locals to market, hauling luggage, chunks of meat and water back and forth, and occasionally the lucky ones pick up the well-paid cargo of a foreign tourist.
Each driver is an individual character and they all have their own stories to tell from Baji (Old Man) who started out hauling buffalo carcasses from slaughterhouse to butcher shop and now spends his days in the most lucrative business of taking tourists from four star hotels, to Babu (little boy) who grew up on the streets when his parents died, collected rags to save money to buy a rickshaw and now sells upper class ladies to the market … and the thousand Indra’s, Keshaps, Deepkas and Biksahes in between . As varied as their stories are, they all have something in common, they all know this city intimately and they will all greet you with a welcoming smile and they will enjoy nothing better than showing off their Kathmandu as well.
My rickshaw passes the busy Asan market square and we arrive at Indra Chowk, where Lassie Whallla pours frozen chicks, fresh from local curd into two glasses and hands one to the driver and me. My driver introduced me to this place along with many other local favorites where to buy the cheapest and juiciest mangoes, where to eat the tastiest Momo (stuffed with meat), the sweetest tea, and the most delicious sekwa (barbecued meat skewers) from the city. .
Our next stop is the old buildings in Kathmandu Durba Square, we pass by Kumari Ko Ghar (house of the living Goddess), he calls her with his soft voice and the living goddess smiles at us briefly from her window where she will pass. most of his young life. We passed Kasmandap, the original building here, the name means “Kathmandu House” and this giant structure is said to have been built with the wood of a Sal tree some 800 years earlier.
Bordering the whitewashed walls of the royal palace, we stop at the Kaju Deval, a seven-tiered temple-like building. The driver relaxes as I climb the steep stairs in time to see the sun kiss the horizon behind Swayambunath (Temple of the Monkeys) perched on the hill, the Himalayas turning orange, then pink, then fading into darkness. The plaza below is now emptying out as the locals head home for Dhal Bhart (The Rice and Lentil Dinner).
Back in the rickshaw, we are going up a freshly paved boulevard, shops are pulling down the blinds for the night, and crowds of local Sekwa and Tass houses are passing by of middle-aged men having a drink of Raski ( local rice wine) on your way back. home to smartly dressed young men heading out for a cheap drink with their friends. Children are replaced by street dogs and homeless children flit into darkening corners inhaling the glue from old milk bags. As you turn a corner, the street lights are turned on again and the haunting tone of the seashells plays over the nighttime sound of Kathmandu.
The Buddhist area emits a sense of tranquility and security. The monks gracefully trace the steps around the stupa singing prayers and turning the Mani wheels. The aroma of butter candles and their soft light invite us to the Monastery. More monks sit chanting and the soft glow brings to life the golden figure of Buddha on the altar. We drink salted butter tea and feel our minds and souls relax. Many things divide us, the color of the skin, the richness of the cultural background and education, but Dipu and I are not that different, we are moved by the same things except that he drives the rickshaw and I sit in the back .
The Monks get up and leave and so do we, the rickshaw turns through the silent streets, back to my hotel. The day is almost gone, but no memories, they will never fade. I thank Dipu for unearthing the wonders of Kathmandu for me and I slip him some money, which he does not even look at, slips into his pocket and without looking back, he walks down the alley and vanishes into the streets of Kathmandu. ….. Me, just another tourist for him.