2069, year of movement

The first day of 2069 began with a phone call. Ring, Ring. I lay in bed, contemplating the phone call, who could be calling. Ring Ring. Wondering whether I should answer it, ring ring, thinking about how pleasant the ring tone on my phone is, how unobtrusive and tuneful. My first fancy phone after so many years of having the cheapest phone possible, with a kind of misguided pride. One of the things I like about this new phone is the brand name: HTC Wildfire. A fitting name for a spaceship, wildfire, but for a phone it's ridiculous, and also implies unpredictability and hazard.

Eventually the ringing stopped, but curiosity got me out of bed to check whose call I missed. The previous night I'd made plans to go to Bhaktapur and see the great chariots being pulled, a kind of tug-of-war challenge to see who can pull the chariot back to their village. Once again, this could be completely incorrect, this explanation was pieced together from many different people, each with their own version. Many people told me that every year someone dies in this chariot-pulling event. In the night-time, when I heard this from behind my drunken shroud, I was really interested in having a look, but this morning the world had become sharp-edged, each noise startlingly acute, each step made with exceeding care. It was not a day to schlep across town just to watch someone get unnecessarily crushed by a towering wooden chariot.

They have been building one of the chariots near my place. The ingredients lie there by the side of the road, wooden wheels the size of dinner tables, long planks of timber, piles of willow-branches which lie soaking in a pool of water. It's a bit like freeway roadworks. I never catch anyone actually doing anything, but every time I walk past, a little bit more has been done.

Last year, New Year's Eve took me by surprise. We had been warned about the one in April, but last November on the final day of Tihar, the festival of lights, my friends and I chanced upon an epic party at durbar square. We danced with the locals, watched bizarre performances on the outdoor stage. All of a sudden, someone started ringing a giant bell and everyone begain shouting  'Happy New Year!'. My initial thought was that they were even more drunk than I'd suspected. I realised much later, that this was the Newari calendar, Newars are the traditional ethnic group of Kathmandu valley, there are a huge number of Newari families, and the Newari culture is still going strong in places like Patan, where I live.

Two months later, a more familiar New Year's Eve, this time I was back in Australia, at a different kind of festival, Woodford. I was at the time completely head over heels and falling into a kind of love which is proving surprisingly strong, startlingly durable. I had all but turned on that cliche of love, that eulogized, mythologized, commodified love. I was starting to agree with my friend who'd had the rug pulled out from under him, after years of love and devotion had made him forget that rugs can move. There, on the park-bench across the road from the Evelyn, he and I shared a longneck, whilst he spoke in his sure-footed way. On that night so many years ago, he debunked love. As I recall, the ground trembled a little as he spoke.

"Ivan. Love is bunk."

And after slipping from rug to rug, I was inclined to agree with him. But as intangible and uncertain as it is, it cannot be denied or debunked. Not for long, at least. And now here we are, on Friday the 13th of April, 2012, and also the 1st of Baisakh, 2069. Every New Year's Eve has been different, this last one just last night situated around a kitchen table with the landlord's family and friends, drinking raksi and singing raucously, the New Year's Days have all been similar in their softness, their slowness. A gentle approach to a year, a door slowly opening. When a year is as action-packed as these last few have been, it pays to take at least a day to tread lightly.

the tiger's whiskers

Wild haired man, coated in a thin layer of dust, t-shirt the colour of dust, trousers dust-coloured. Hair styled by the dust, into a permanent electric shock. The striking contrast of the white shiny technology in his hands, something like an iPhone. We, the circus students and I, were over here, by the pipal tree, traditional meeting place. He was over there, by the little shanty-shop, a familiar tarp-and-bamboo-pole kind of place, selling a weird assortment of items. Stationary could be bought there, and biscuits too. Also, no doubt, Chahi Kahi, or whatever it's called - the tobacco which is neither smoked, nor chewed, but slipped underlip. My German and Scandinavian friends are crazy about the stuff. The wild-haired man was filming my juggling with his white shiny device. When I noticed, I turned my back to the camera, he circled and I turned, and so we danced, what a charming moment, his friends were all laughing, but I noticed that the circus kids were beginning to get uncomfortable, so I stopped. Wild haired man approached me, with a smile, and a knife in his hand. I looked questioningly at his smiling, childlike face, and back down to the knife in his hand. A kind of kitchen knife, I thought maybe he didn't realise that the cutting part was pointed directly at me. Yes, he realised. He wanted me to keep juggling. "Or what, you'll stab me?", I asked, trying to maintain the humour of the situation, so that I wouldn't start shaking. He just kept telling me to juggle, kept pointing the knife at me, with that maddening smile. I fixed on the smile, smiled back, for the first time thankful for the super-polite Nepali taught to me by my lovely teacher. "Enough, brother, I'm finished." I told him. And again, bhayo bhaai, siddhiyo, siddhiyo.  What happened? There was no climax, this situation just stretched out for an impossibly long time - although in reality it was probably only 5 minutes - me smiling at him, putting away my juggling balls, himself smiling at me, knife in hand, making stabbing motions, in case I didn't know what it was for.

I couldn't tell you how or why, but he went back to his friends, still looking back over at me occasionally and making little knife-stabbing gestures and smiling.

Less than two months left in Nepal. Time to bring in all of the heart's moments, the anecdotes and the realisations, and to try and form something out of them. A souvenir of Nepal, made out of interesting moments. Now that the end is in sight, the heart is lighter, the things which were frustrating are now funny. This could also be something to do with not being broke, or something to do with the return of sunshine. The salad days.

The other day, whilst I was walking through the labyrinthine alleys of old Patan, I saw an old lady lean out of the third floor window, and lower a key on a long piece of string, to the young lady waiting on the street below. As I got closer, I noticed that it was not one piece of string but many small pieces of string tied together. Indeed, this seemed like a perfect analogy for Nepal. It is incredibly difficult to find a long piece of string, but you can have all of the small pieces of string you like, so long as you have the time and patience to tie them together. If you get too attached to the idea of a nice, smooth, long piece of string, then Kathmandu will drive you absolutely mental.

Once you see past the unnecessary obstacles, the lack of materials, reliability, authentic information, you start to see that in some ways, the chaotic nature of this place grants a certain freedom unheard of in the places we know. Why, you could find some tarp and some old pieces of bamboo, build a little shop on the side of the road, and style yourself as a small-business retail manager!

Tomorrow, I will try and get some handstand chairs made up, To get something made out of wood here should be cheap and easy, as carpenter's shops are everywhere. All the same, I will remember about the string.