Taxis, Temples and a Tailor
Oh how glorious to not receive a wake-up call this morning. As I lounged
in bed, calm yet excited, my mind reviewed the things I needed to carry with me on my day as a tourist in Nepal. Most important, a bottle of purified water supplied daily by the hotel. Next, I needed to get money for shopping (Nepalese rupees & U.S. dollars) out of our room closet safe, although we found that many vendors took credit cards. A light jacket and of course, the travel pack TP.
Most mornings, I rushed through the hotel breakfast buffet, eating only for self-preservation, due to time constraints and the lack of appetite. But today, I had the time to enjoy the array of breakfast goodies in the
buffet. Omelets made to order with ingredients of choice, hand-squeezed juices in shades of red, gold, orange and yellow, freshly made pastries, hot and cold
cereals and several hot dishes with mysterious sounding names, but smelling oh so good.
My lingering in bed and at breakfast caused me to miss the departure of several other members of team Nepal for a return to the ancient city of
Bhaktapur. It turned out not to be a major problem as I was able to get an air-conditioned taxi to take me for the 40-minute ride at a cost of about $1.75. I relaxed in the back seat, watching the scenery and vistas pass as we left the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu for the green agricultural areas
of Bhaktapur.
The taxi dropped me off just outside the main city gates where the tourist fee of $10 US was paid. Just steps away from the outside of the gates was the
store of one of our volunteer translators from our clinic, days earlier. I tracked Madbi down and we would spend the next few hours together walking
the ancient city streets, seeing much of what the city had to offer.
Madbi explained that the tourist fee helped to cover the cost of restoration, repair and maintenance of the shrines, temples and streets. There was a notable difference between the state of cleanliness of the
streets of Kathmandu and those of Bhaktapur.
Understandably, nestled in the foothills of the majestic Himalayas at about 4,000 ft, the Kathmandu valley is earthquake prone. In the mid-1930's,
a severe earthquake hit the region, and many of the historical treasures of Bhaktapur had been damaged. All the repairs have been made, and the city restored to its original splendor. Based on the Nepal labor rates, the restoration accounted for over $100,000; think $1 mil if provided by US labor. Madbi told me that he and several others are licensed by the city to lead tourist to the various points of interest.
I was in fact on a personal mission. In addition to wanting to learn of this ancient city founded in the 12th century by King Anand Dev Malla, I was in search of a store to purchase a traditional outfit known as a Kurta. This constitutes pants, a matching or coordinating mid-calf length top and a long scarf worn around the neck, and flowing down the back. Of course, the scarf can be worn in several ways, including, as a shawl in cool weather, but over the shoulders is most common.
Nepalese women are traditionally smaller in stature and quite petite in comparison to my own central European peasant ancestry. This made it difficult to find anything ready made in the local shops. Madbi led me through narrow side streets away from the common square as we sought out a clothing/fabric shop. Off the beaten track, we passed by doorways and
storefronts where craftsman's squatting on the floor, hammered away on silver serving platters and display pieces. The rays of the afternoon sun reflected brilliantly off the sterling silver, as the silversmith tapped and turned his work in progress. The storefronts had walls of the typical handmade and dried brick, sometimes covered over or painted, but usually left in their natural state. Exposed wooden beams, upon which the flooring rested for the second level, supported the ceiling. Access to the second level was via a wooden ladder, leaned up against the opening to the second story - like a drop down ladder and attic trap door. As additional floors are added to house new extended families, another floor and another ladder are added.
We journeyed through the aging streets, encountering an area being torn down because of earthquake damage. Bearing a strong resemblance to a picture of the last major earthquake in Afghanistan, the rubble created a floating layer of dust weaving its way along the streets and alleyways.
A few blocks away, Madbi directed me into a small, but clean and orderly shop for women's clothes. Here, old world mixed with 2002 western attire as
Calvin Klein jeans, plastic gelly shoes and designer sweat shirts could be found stacked next to Saris and kurtas of silk and cotton.
Madbi translated for me as two young (petite, I might add) women looked amusingly at me (and my size). I couldn't blame them for giggling, when Madbi asked if they had any Kurtas to fit me...I think I surpassed their height and shape when I was 11 years old. After searching the shelves, they found one ready made outfit they guessed might fit. It didn't. The resolve, purchase prepackaged and pre-cut fabric for pants, top and coordinated scarf.
For my women readers...it was a variable "kid in the candy shop" syndrome as I looked at all the beautiful fabrics and color combinations. I found out that a tailor nearby could make the outfits for me and have
them ready the next day by 6:00 p.m. - delivered to my hotel at a cost of $2.50 (U.S) each. I struggled to not buy everything in the store, as the three packaged kurtas I selected ran $8 or $10 U.S. each. I settled for one everyday outfit out of polyester, one blue crepe with silver embroidered designs and a sheer patterned fabric with lining; each custom made kurta running approximately $10 - $12 US total, including delivery.
I was so excited until one of the young women suggested we take the pre-cut material to the tailor, and have him measure me in order to determine if
there was even enough fabric in the package to cover my ample form.
Two blocks over and around a corner, Madbi lead me into the first floor of a typical home. "Minding my head" as I stooped over to fit through the doorway, I observed exposed handmade bricks forming the walls, and wood covered with a layer of dust constituting the floor. A cot, for lack of a better term, nestled against the wall in one corner. It was made of slender
tree trunks (not cut lumber) nailed together with blankets and mats creating the "mattress". In another corner was a rudimentary cabinet with a woven
fabric covering the top. A couple of small wooden boxes - basic storage, were placed here and there as needed. It was relatively dark in the room,
but in retrospect, I believe I saw a window from the outside, which must have been covered over on the inside.
Naively, I looked around for the staircase, and of course, realized that the ladder in the far corner was my way upstairs. I looked at the well-worn rungs on the ladder as the top leaned against the opening in the second story flooring. Struck by the thought that OSHA would never approve these working conditions, I gathered myself together, secured my backpack and
began my ascent. Madbi had preceded me, as if to offer a helping hand to lift me up if I was unable to maneuver on the ladder. Minding my head and
stepping carefully from one rung to the next, I reached the top and the opening to the second story. As I straightened my body to a standing
position, my eyes caught a glimpse of my tailor, looking back at me with an inquisitive smile. Looking for all the world like a munchkin from Gulliver
and the Lilliputians, I towered over him like Magic Johnson standing next to Michael J. Fox.
Madbi explained the purpose of our visit and the little tailor looked me over carefully, and then reached for the slightly tattered, fabric tape measure
resting around his neck. As he started his measuring, he noted the different results in a well-worn tablet with notebook paper. It seemed as if this book was started years ago, having yellowing, dog-eared edges, and a collection of all the measurements of half the population of Bhaktapur.
Purposely ignoring this most amusing situation as to avoid embarrassment, I noted that the second story was a duplicate of the first floor, but this time I was able to look out a window. Stowed beneath the window was the tailor's sewing machine. It had no electrical parts and was exactly like the sewing machine my Mother had when I learned to sew many, many years ago. The footplate at the bottom, reminiscent of the foot pedals on a large church organ, helped generate the up and down motion of the sewing machine's needle. I noted an electrical cord hanging across the ceiling with a solitary light bulb suspended, and considered how much easier his job would be if he had a modern electric sewing machine like anyone of the three I have stored around my house and garage. I was feeling a bit like the ugly American until seconds later
when the power went out and we were standing in the darkened room with the window providing the only source of light. I couldn't help thinking what good would a modern, computerized sewing machine be with an unstable power source. With his antiquated system, at least he can do his work with or without electricity. Viewing the rest of the room, I noted that clothing racks hung around the perimeter, with men and women's clothing in various stages of completion suspended from hangers.
After a few minutes of measuring and re-measuring just to make sure his posted large numbers were accurate, he smiled and quietly told Madbi that
there was indeed enough fabric to make my Kurtas, as if not to embarass me. I was elated! I paid the $7.50 U.S. in advance for the making of the three
custom made kurta outfits including delivery charges, and chose not to barter the price, as is the normal custom.
Making my way down the ladder, which instantly reminded me greatly of the frightful descent down the pyramid steps of El Castillo at Chichen Itza in Mexico, I eagerly looked forward to doing the city tour with Madbi.
We were way off the beaten path and I was delighted to see the area of Bhaktapur where the people live their daily lives, unaware of the visiting tourists.
Long streamers of vegetables tied together like a rope of chilies were suspended from the 3rd floor windows. Madbi explained that this was the method used to dry fresh vegetables in order to insure these items for
consumption when the weather turns cold and the gardens have died. Somehow, when I’m standing in the produce section of my local markets in the middle of
winter, it never occurs to me that not everyone can just reach over and pick up fresh vegetables for a delicious dinner salad off the counters.
Meandering through the narrow streets, we passed several fields of lush green, with local farmers picking the fruits of their labor and tending to
the plants. As we passed through one semi isolated street, Madbi told me Muslins resided here. Looking slightly different in appearance from the Hindu/Buddhist areas of Bhaktapur, although I couldn't tell you exactly why, the streets comprised a mini-city with their own houses, businesses and shrines all contained in the two-block area. The city square, in which we held our eyeclinic days earlier, is built on a plateau. I didn’t realize this until Madbi began leading me through the back streets, which were formed by cobblestones, rather than the smooth, flat surface in the square. After walking hither and yon, I became aware that I was slightly out of breath due to the small, rolling hills, which housed the residential area. The incline, often gradual, but sometimes relatively steep caused me to catch my breath. No wonder almost everyone in town was slender and lean. Going to the store, to school or to the square to pray means in this conch-shell shaped city of four square miles, hiking the hillsides daily…not exactly like driving your car to the closest parking space by the store entrance!
Bhaktapur has three main squares, Dubar where our clinic was held; Taumadhi, where we had lunch on our clinic day; and Dattatraya – and each square exhibits unique shrines and temples of its own. The name of the city itself means “Devotees” and it is known for pottery and weaving (I’ll share more about this later).
We found our way back to Dubar Square, which also is the location of the palace with 55 windows. There are various versions of why the palace has this many windows, but nonetheless, it is outstanding for this fact alone. The windows are all beautifully hand carved wooden designs and are symbolic of the Nepalese art. Age has faded the wood, but serves to remind one of the antiquity of these cultural treasures.
Madbi wanted to show me the Erotic Elephant Temple, sitting slightly out of sight from the Palace. He fumbled with his English words to try and explain what I would see, yet not embarrass either one of us in so doing. I wasn’t positive, but I thought I understood something about woodcarvings of men and women in odd positions.
Next chapter…seeing the rest of Bhaktapur and the “Oh, my goodness, how do they do that?” carvings at the site of the Erotic Elephant Temple.
in bed, calm yet excited, my mind reviewed the things I needed to carry with me on my day as a tourist in Nepal. Most important, a bottle of purified water supplied daily by the hotel. Next, I needed to get money for shopping (Nepalese rupees & U.S. dollars) out of our room closet safe, although we found that many vendors took credit cards. A light jacket and of course, the travel pack TP.
Most mornings, I rushed through the hotel breakfast buffet, eating only for self-preservation, due to time constraints and the lack of appetite. But today, I had the time to enjoy the array of breakfast goodies in the
buffet. Omelets made to order with ingredients of choice, hand-squeezed juices in shades of red, gold, orange and yellow, freshly made pastries, hot and cold
cereals and several hot dishes with mysterious sounding names, but smelling oh so good.
My lingering in bed and at breakfast caused me to miss the departure of several other members of team Nepal for a return to the ancient city of
Bhaktapur. It turned out not to be a major problem as I was able to get an air-conditioned taxi to take me for the 40-minute ride at a cost of about $1.75. I relaxed in the back seat, watching the scenery and vistas pass as we left the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu for the green agricultural areas
of Bhaktapur.
The taxi dropped me off just outside the main city gates where the tourist fee of $10 US was paid. Just steps away from the outside of the gates was the
store of one of our volunteer translators from our clinic, days earlier. I tracked Madbi down and we would spend the next few hours together walking
the ancient city streets, seeing much of what the city had to offer.
Madbi explained that the tourist fee helped to cover the cost of restoration, repair and maintenance of the shrines, temples and streets. There was a notable difference between the state of cleanliness of the
streets of Kathmandu and those of Bhaktapur.
Understandably, nestled in the foothills of the majestic Himalayas at about 4,000 ft, the Kathmandu valley is earthquake prone. In the mid-1930's,
a severe earthquake hit the region, and many of the historical treasures of Bhaktapur had been damaged. All the repairs have been made, and the city restored to its original splendor. Based on the Nepal labor rates, the restoration accounted for over $100,000; think $1 mil if provided by US labor. Madbi told me that he and several others are licensed by the city to lead tourist to the various points of interest.
I was in fact on a personal mission. In addition to wanting to learn of this ancient city founded in the 12th century by King Anand Dev Malla, I was in search of a store to purchase a traditional outfit known as a Kurta. This constitutes pants, a matching or coordinating mid-calf length top and a long scarf worn around the neck, and flowing down the back. Of course, the scarf can be worn in several ways, including, as a shawl in cool weather, but over the shoulders is most common.
Nepalese women are traditionally smaller in stature and quite petite in comparison to my own central European peasant ancestry. This made it difficult to find anything ready made in the local shops. Madbi led me through narrow side streets away from the common square as we sought out a clothing/fabric shop. Off the beaten track, we passed by doorways and
storefronts where craftsman's squatting on the floor, hammered away on silver serving platters and display pieces. The rays of the afternoon sun reflected brilliantly off the sterling silver, as the silversmith tapped and turned his work in progress. The storefronts had walls of the typical handmade and dried brick, sometimes covered over or painted, but usually left in their natural state. Exposed wooden beams, upon which the flooring rested for the second level, supported the ceiling. Access to the second level was via a wooden ladder, leaned up against the opening to the second story - like a drop down ladder and attic trap door. As additional floors are added to house new extended families, another floor and another ladder are added.
We journeyed through the aging streets, encountering an area being torn down because of earthquake damage. Bearing a strong resemblance to a picture of the last major earthquake in Afghanistan, the rubble created a floating layer of dust weaving its way along the streets and alleyways.
A few blocks away, Madbi directed me into a small, but clean and orderly shop for women's clothes. Here, old world mixed with 2002 western attire as
Calvin Klein jeans, plastic gelly shoes and designer sweat shirts could be found stacked next to Saris and kurtas of silk and cotton.
Madbi translated for me as two young (petite, I might add) women looked amusingly at me (and my size). I couldn't blame them for giggling, when Madbi asked if they had any Kurtas to fit me...I think I surpassed their height and shape when I was 11 years old. After searching the shelves, they found one ready made outfit they guessed might fit. It didn't. The resolve, purchase prepackaged and pre-cut fabric for pants, top and coordinated scarf.
For my women readers...it was a variable "kid in the candy shop" syndrome as I looked at all the beautiful fabrics and color combinations. I found out that a tailor nearby could make the outfits for me and have
them ready the next day by 6:00 p.m. - delivered to my hotel at a cost of $2.50 (U.S) each. I struggled to not buy everything in the store, as the three packaged kurtas I selected ran $8 or $10 U.S. each. I settled for one everyday outfit out of polyester, one blue crepe with silver embroidered designs and a sheer patterned fabric with lining; each custom made kurta running approximately $10 - $12 US total, including delivery.
I was so excited until one of the young women suggested we take the pre-cut material to the tailor, and have him measure me in order to determine if
there was even enough fabric in the package to cover my ample form.
Two blocks over and around a corner, Madbi lead me into the first floor of a typical home. "Minding my head" as I stooped over to fit through the doorway, I observed exposed handmade bricks forming the walls, and wood covered with a layer of dust constituting the floor. A cot, for lack of a better term, nestled against the wall in one corner. It was made of slender
tree trunks (not cut lumber) nailed together with blankets and mats creating the "mattress". In another corner was a rudimentary cabinet with a woven
fabric covering the top. A couple of small wooden boxes - basic storage, were placed here and there as needed. It was relatively dark in the room,
but in retrospect, I believe I saw a window from the outside, which must have been covered over on the inside.
Naively, I looked around for the staircase, and of course, realized that the ladder in the far corner was my way upstairs. I looked at the well-worn rungs on the ladder as the top leaned against the opening in the second story flooring. Struck by the thought that OSHA would never approve these working conditions, I gathered myself together, secured my backpack and
began my ascent. Madbi had preceded me, as if to offer a helping hand to lift me up if I was unable to maneuver on the ladder. Minding my head and
stepping carefully from one rung to the next, I reached the top and the opening to the second story. As I straightened my body to a standing
position, my eyes caught a glimpse of my tailor, looking back at me with an inquisitive smile. Looking for all the world like a munchkin from Gulliver
and the Lilliputians, I towered over him like Magic Johnson standing next to Michael J. Fox.
Madbi explained the purpose of our visit and the little tailor looked me over carefully, and then reached for the slightly tattered, fabric tape measure
resting around his neck. As he started his measuring, he noted the different results in a well-worn tablet with notebook paper. It seemed as if this book was started years ago, having yellowing, dog-eared edges, and a collection of all the measurements of half the population of Bhaktapur.
Purposely ignoring this most amusing situation as to avoid embarrassment, I noted that the second story was a duplicate of the first floor, but this time I was able to look out a window. Stowed beneath the window was the tailor's sewing machine. It had no electrical parts and was exactly like the sewing machine my Mother had when I learned to sew many, many years ago. The footplate at the bottom, reminiscent of the foot pedals on a large church organ, helped generate the up and down motion of the sewing machine's needle. I noted an electrical cord hanging across the ceiling with a solitary light bulb suspended, and considered how much easier his job would be if he had a modern electric sewing machine like anyone of the three I have stored around my house and garage. I was feeling a bit like the ugly American until seconds later
when the power went out and we were standing in the darkened room with the window providing the only source of light. I couldn't help thinking what good would a modern, computerized sewing machine be with an unstable power source. With his antiquated system, at least he can do his work with or without electricity. Viewing the rest of the room, I noted that clothing racks hung around the perimeter, with men and women's clothing in various stages of completion suspended from hangers.
After a few minutes of measuring and re-measuring just to make sure his posted large numbers were accurate, he smiled and quietly told Madbi that
there was indeed enough fabric to make my Kurtas, as if not to embarass me. I was elated! I paid the $7.50 U.S. in advance for the making of the three
custom made kurta outfits including delivery charges, and chose not to barter the price, as is the normal custom.
Making my way down the ladder, which instantly reminded me greatly of the frightful descent down the pyramid steps of El Castillo at Chichen Itza in Mexico, I eagerly looked forward to doing the city tour with Madbi.
We were way off the beaten path and I was delighted to see the area of Bhaktapur where the people live their daily lives, unaware of the visiting tourists.
Long streamers of vegetables tied together like a rope of chilies were suspended from the 3rd floor windows. Madbi explained that this was the method used to dry fresh vegetables in order to insure these items for
consumption when the weather turns cold and the gardens have died. Somehow, when I’m standing in the produce section of my local markets in the middle of
winter, it never occurs to me that not everyone can just reach over and pick up fresh vegetables for a delicious dinner salad off the counters.
Meandering through the narrow streets, we passed several fields of lush green, with local farmers picking the fruits of their labor and tending to
the plants. As we passed through one semi isolated street, Madbi told me Muslins resided here. Looking slightly different in appearance from the Hindu/Buddhist areas of Bhaktapur, although I couldn't tell you exactly why, the streets comprised a mini-city with their own houses, businesses and shrines all contained in the two-block area. The city square, in which we held our eyeclinic days earlier, is built on a plateau. I didn’t realize this until Madbi began leading me through the back streets, which were formed by cobblestones, rather than the smooth, flat surface in the square. After walking hither and yon, I became aware that I was slightly out of breath due to the small, rolling hills, which housed the residential area. The incline, often gradual, but sometimes relatively steep caused me to catch my breath. No wonder almost everyone in town was slender and lean. Going to the store, to school or to the square to pray means in this conch-shell shaped city of four square miles, hiking the hillsides daily…not exactly like driving your car to the closest parking space by the store entrance!
Bhaktapur has three main squares, Dubar where our clinic was held; Taumadhi, where we had lunch on our clinic day; and Dattatraya – and each square exhibits unique shrines and temples of its own. The name of the city itself means “Devotees” and it is known for pottery and weaving (I’ll share more about this later).
We found our way back to Dubar Square, which also is the location of the palace with 55 windows. There are various versions of why the palace has this many windows, but nonetheless, it is outstanding for this fact alone. The windows are all beautifully hand carved wooden designs and are symbolic of the Nepalese art. Age has faded the wood, but serves to remind one of the antiquity of these cultural treasures.
Madbi wanted to show me the Erotic Elephant Temple, sitting slightly out of sight from the Palace. He fumbled with his English words to try and explain what I would see, yet not embarrass either one of us in so doing. I wasn’t positive, but I thought I understood something about woodcarvings of men and women in odd positions.
Next chapter…seeing the rest of Bhaktapur and the “Oh, my goodness, how do they do that?” carvings at the site of the Erotic Elephant Temple.
