We Sit Here Stranded But We're All Doing Our Best To Deny It - PART 2

May 4-5, 2010
Kathmandu, Nepal

DAY 2

I tried to sleep but didn’t do much besides toss and turn that night. The streets were somewhat quieter than before, but sounds of angry mobs and propaganda shouted through bullhorns cut through the silence from time to time. I awoke again at some ungodly hour of first light, only to see that the two places selling bottled water the day before had been padlocked shut. My guest house unfortunately did not have a restaurant, so I was out of luck for any kind of food. I found a man with a banana cart hiding under a tarp. At first I thought he was closed up for business, but then noticed the two sandal-clad feet next to the wheels. My English pleas of, “BANANA PLEASE I’M HUNGRY SIR PLEASE SIR” must have been a dead giveaway that I was not a baseball bat -wielding Maoist, and the man crept out from under his tarp and sold me a small bushel of baby bananas. That, along with my dwindling supply of trail mix and half a chocolate bar, would be my nourishment for the next two days. Luckily, I still had water purification tablets, so I filled my bottle from the tap and took my chances. By some small miracle, I was able to bribe a kid to score me a sim card for my phone, which is illegal in Nepal for foreigners (terror concerns, I guess) and managed to get a few texts out to friends back home. With internet and phones down, that was my only means of finding out anything about where my airline office was located. (Thanks, Ayana. You came through big time with that.)

I was feeling pretty lost and the man who ran my guest house must have noticed. He asked to see my plane ticket, which had a scheduled departure date of 6 weeks from the day. That obviously would not do. He hipped me to a little secret: I was on Silk Air, which is owned by Singapore Airlines. The main office of Singapore Airlines never closes during strikes. He would have called, but his cell phone was not working and I was scared to let him know I had an illegal cell phone, lest he be a government or Maoist sympathizer and have me thrown in prison. So, my only option was to take to the streets and walk to the airline office. He took out a tourist map (note: not to scale), drew some arrows, and sent me on my way with instructions to bribe the riot police that would surely be outside the building, and make sure they took me around back, where I’d be able to scream up to an open window.

Funny thing about being alone and desperate...survival mode kicks in. I think mine kicked into overdrive, and I left more determined than ever to get where I was going. Out into the streets I walked, one of the few white folks (and certainly the only solo white female) around. There were long stretches of empty boulevard that led to random demonstrations of hundreds of screaming people dressed in red. Men were wrapped in hammer & sickle flags, people had baseball bats and bottles; I saw a molotov cocktail get shot into the street for no reason, but I was fearless. I was hungry, hot, and pissed off and I wanted to be on a plane and out of the country. Sure enough, about 4 miles away, was a little strip with all the airline offices. Everything unfolded as I was told it would. Bribes paid and padlocks opened, I found myself knocking on the door of Singapore Airlines. I was greeted by a young Singaporean man with a smile who offered me a chair and a bottle of water and simply said, “When would you like to leave?” I could have hugged him but I was too amped up to offer any emotion. “Today, please.” Sadly, there was no flight today. Next flight out was 6PM tomorrow. So, I was stuck in Kathmandu for another night, but would be on my way to Singapore in one day’s time. That was the best that could be done, and I accepted it.

New plane ticket securely protected inside my money belt, I ventured back out into the streets. The nearest demonstration was growing as was the tension in the air. I saw an old man on a bicycle and thought that’d be a nice way to get around town - until I saw a teenager throw a stick into his spokes and knock him down. Apparently, when the Maoists say “no vehicles,” they really mean no vehicles of any kind. This was my first real inkling that shit was gonna turn ugly, and soon. I was angry that I was stranded, angry that an old man just got hurt, angry that I was hungry, angry that I could have still been in the mountains avoiding this mess, and angry that I would not be doing my volunteer work. Harboring anger is rarely good, but on this afternoon it was what I needed. I was alone on the other side of the world at a volatile and potentially dangerous time, but I am sure I had a look on my face that said “stay the hell away from me.” If anybody approached me I would have clawed their eyes out without thinking twice. A couple of beggar kids got a little bit too close, and when one of them touched my pant leg I grabbed his wrist so hard I almost broke it. I threw him aside and he hit the ground, upon which I spit. (At this moment I realized, maybe it’s a good thing I wouldn’t be working with children in the immediate future.)

I was full of venom. I wanted an ice cold beer and a good meal. I wanted to be able to get in touch with friends and family back home. I wanted a newspaper in English. I had a headache from not really eating for two days, and my remaining banana was in my room, a few miles away. I smelled something that made my head swoon...and thought I was hallucinating. Lo and behold, a woman was squatting at the corner over an open flame, popping corn on the street. She was far enough away from the closest demonstration to remain undetected long enough to make a quick buck. I started to salivate and my stomach started to roar. I HAD to get some. I was obviously not alone in this sentiment, as a ravenous crowd quickly grew around her. I did the only thing I could do. I pulled the white card. I’d done it a couple of times in India and hated doing it - but I was desperate. I cut the line in front of 20 Nepalis with a US dollar bill in my hand. I got my newspaper cone full of popcorn (and a new following of about 8 beggar kids) thanks to George Washington and the color of my skin, moments before the cops came over and shut the woman’s little operation down. It was not my proudest moment. Turns out there was so much chili powder on the popcorn that I started choking. Instant karma got me right in the throat.

Night two proved to be more difficult than night one. Since the demonstrators had gone around to the stores/restaurants that had opened between the sanctioned 6-8pm hours the night before with threats of fire, beatings and death, nobody opened. There we were, hundreds of hungry westerners lining up outside restaurants and pubs at 5:30 and come 6PM, none of them were opening up. I saw one dreadlocked woman panic and run off screaming down the street. I talked to a couple from New Zealand who had managed to buy some beer right before the strike and they invited me back to their place to get tanked. (I declined). I walked around in the fading light weak and hungry and just tried to listen. Finally around 7PM I heard whispers of a momo (dumpling) place that was open and still had fresh vegetables. I followed a couple of british dudes who were clearly not wanting to give up the secret location lest it become mobbed (luckily the streets were so dark, and I so stealth, they never noticed me trailing them). Sure enough, the restaurant was open. They were, however, out of momos. But, they did have internet, electricity, and dal bhat. They charged me triple the normal price for both, but I didn’t care. I was able to secure a hotel room in Singapore and get some nourishment. I was lucky; a lot of people went hungry that night, Nepalis and Westerners alike.

My last day in Kathmandu was one of total frustration. While I’d had Phurba help me negotiate a bus to Thamel, today I had to get to the airport on my own. Though my flight was not till that evening, there were thousands of people trying to get out of town and who knows how many more thousands at the airport. The buses were supposedly only allowing passengers with paper tickets on (I kept my last hundred dollar bill at the ready just to be sure). Rumors were floating around about pick up stops. I’d scoped out a few the day before, but the problem was they kept changing. Nothing was definite. I had figured that the 10 am bus would be a good target time. Even if it was 2 hours late, that would leave me 6 hours to make my flight. I had hoped to hire a rickshaw to take me and my heavy bags the 20 blocks or so to the bus pick up point. The rickshaw dudes must have been spooked too, because today they were nowhere to be found. I thought about asking the quasimodo bellhop kid from my guest house, but he a) might have crippled under the weight of my bags and b) was nowhere to be found either. So I suited up and painfully walked to the bus stop alone and very slowly. Of course, it was packed with panicky and pissed off travelers. I knew it would be a fight to get on, and after an hour wait, it was. The ugly side of humanity really shows itself in times of trouble and I was shoved, almost toppled over, even kicked. I kicked that bitch back so hard she didn’t make it on the bus. She also got the meanest middle finger I’ve ever given anyone. I hope she and her filthy, smelly boyfriend are still stranded there - and with herpes. I pushed my way onto the bus, one of the last ones to get on. It was standing room only.

Just as I’d resigned to the fact that if we got into an accident, I would surely die, I felt a warm, slimy hand take mine. A tourist police officer was seated in the front row (said seat designed for one) and he pulled me down next to (and virtually on top of) him. If this happened in New York, I’d have every newspaper, the ACLU, the mayor’s office and my congresswoman trying to get his badge. But, considering the circumstances, I turned on the charm and flirted with him, enduring his blinding breath and creepy advances all the way to the airport. While batting my left eye in his direction, my right eye was firmly planted on what was going on outside. Up to that point, the demonstrations remained “peaceful.” Our bus repeatedly had to stop to circumvent random protests, and as we drove past each one, without fail, we were chased by men with baseball bats, beating the outside of the bus. Bottles were thrown (thankfully none exploded) and what might normally be a very loud group of travelers thrilled to be getting out of dodge was totally silent with fear. I knew a violent outbreak was imminent. (Subsequently, the demonstrations turned violent the next day, with several protesters and police officers killed.)

I bid a fond adieu to my would-be Nepali police lover, gave him a fake email address and tossed his number in the trash as soon as he was out of sight, then took my place in the painfully long cue to enter the terminal. Once inside, I stood in another painfully long line to check into my flight. Naturally, they still had my reservations for a June departure and I had to fight tooth and nail to get on the plane. Finally someone from another airline suggested the idiot behind the counter just call the airline (apparently my suggestions for him to do the same did not carry the same weight) and after two hours, I had my ticket out of Nepal. I was wary of the man on the same flight as me checking drums of what appeared to be fuel as luggage, but when I mentioned it to security they laughed at me. Guess the motto “if you see something, say something” gets lost in translation in places with compromised security. Hoping there was to be no bomb on my flight, I headed for the gate.

Our takeoff and ascent to altitude was horrendous and turned the entire cabin into white knuckled flyers. Once we leveled off, though, the turbulence stopped and I was able to see the Himalayan range at sunset in the distance...and was glad to be leaving it. Mealtime rolled around and I ordered a tea. The Australian woman next to me shrieked in horror, “Oh dear, don’t you know that Silk Air has the worst tea in the sky?” I admitted that I was unaware of this fact. She suggested I join her in some wine. Not too many people on the flight were drinking, so the flight attendant gave us the bottle. We drank it fast and hard, and after not drinking for 3 weeks, I was bombed after a couple of glasses. I said good riddance to Kathmandu and passed out in the afterglow of a cheap Australian Sauvignon Blanc, very happy to be headed to Singapore, a country so clean gum was said to be illegal.