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.
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.
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