The First Day in KTM That night, sleep was all upside down. Keep in mind that our internal clock had just turned 180-degrees and that, only two days before, the dark of night here in Kathmandu was the middle of the day in Michigan. Trying to sleep that first night was one of those never-quite-drifting-off affairs, not helped by the jet-lag that we were experiencing, the strange smells and sounds. Just before dawn, all of the surrounding monasteries (like right next door) began sounding gongs and chanting. Then came sets of Tibetan horns, the ones that sound like oboes and the deep bass rumbling ones. And then the dawn. It was almost eerie, but beautiful, listening to that first dawn in Kathmandu. I was so tired and yet so awake. But rest, I could not. We had already accumulated real problems. Because we had been delayed two days on our trip, we had lost the three-day safety zone we needed to apply for visas for India and Sikkim. We almost lost the time needed to get our Chinese group visa for Tibet, but that had been taken care of by paying a bunch of extra money. We were to fly to Tibet the next day, but whether we would get to visit India when we returned was another matter. The three-day waiting period for that visa application had now vanished. Worse, this one day we had left was a Nepalese strike day, something we would come to know only too well. It seems that the government of Nepal is trying to create a value-added tax (VAT), something like they do in the United Kingdom and many other countries. It is perceived as a real hardship by the people and they had organized a series of national strikes in protest. On strike days, no motor traffic (cars, buses, etc.) would be allowed, thus strangling business for that day. The penalty for violators was stoning of the vehicle. The result was that we were stranded in our hotel area, unable to take any action on our Sikkimese visa. The embassy office was some 7 kilometers away. As for our Tibetan visa, the tour guide had arranged for a courier to come by bicycle to pick up the rather large sum of cash we had to deliver to him and carry it through the streets of Kathmandu. Trusting this much cash to an unknown carrier in itself worried us. In the end, the main guy came himself to get his money, including the extra cash we had to pay to the Chinese to do all this at the last minute. I asked the man if he could help us get the Sikkimese visa, but he just shrugged his shoulders. Sorry, he could not help. If I could somehow get to the Indian Embassy at the center of downtown Kathmandu, something still might be done, he suggested. There was still time, but it would have to be done right away. I was suffering from sleep deprivation, jet-lag, culture shock, and I had not had any breakfast, but I was unwilling to give up on visiting Sikkim, because Gyaltsap Rinpoche was there, a lama I had always dreamed of meeting. I resolved to find a bicycle and go to the Indian embassy myself, that morning. My wife, who couldn’t believe I would attempt the trip, was too beat to come with me, but my 21-year old daughter Michael Anne was game. We would go, no matter what. At first, no one seemed to even know where the Indian embassy was, much less be willing to accompany me there on a bicycle. However, I managed to find one man about my age who knew and he said he would go with us. As for bikes, all we could find were some not-too-bad old-style one-speed American bicycles, you know, the kind with foot brakes and one loop of chain. No ten-speeds. As for the man who would guide us, well, it turned out that he really had in mind his young (perhaps 12-year old) son for the trip, not himself. And so the three of us, with the young boy leading us, in a sort of Mary Poppins kind of way, started out on the 7 kilometer trip through the streets of Kathmandu from Boudinath (where we were) to near the royal palace where the Indian Embassy resides. One lucky thing was that there was no traffic, so the normal dangers of Kathmandu were reduced to military vehicles and the odd car or truck that dared break the strike. And of course motorcycles and motorscooters. On the down side, the streets were unbelievably potholed and rough, not to mention the ever-present dust. On the other hand, I got an instant introduction to Kathmandu culture, close up. I was so tired and zoned that the whole thing was quite beautiful, if somewhat surreal. And so, through the streets we went. Everywhere there were people and animals, with shops crammed in any available space, one next to another. Often a shop was little more than an old bucket for a seat and one jar full of something or other (like hard candy) for a store. A single jar. And there was this sense that everyone was everyone else’s customer, if that makes sense. Let me try that again. It seemed to me that there were no store customers from outside the neighborhood, but that everyone was just kind of hanging out in each other’s store, like one extended family. It was like kids selling lemonade on the streets, gone mad. We reached the embassy, and my body was almost vibrating on its own after the ride and the exertion. We had the young boy look after our bikes, while Anne and I went through the long procedure to apply for the visa. The process would take ten days, which is why we had to do it now, before we left for Tibet, so that the visas would be ready when we returned. Forms and officials, more forms, and, of course, the waiting. At last, the head honcho explained to me how, really, it was impossible for me to get what I wanted, but that he, on the day that I returned (a Saturday = holiday), would interrupt his day off and come down to this office and, unofficially, complete our visas so that we could fly out the next morning. He would do this for me, if and only if I could reach him before noon of the day we returned from Tibet. With that news, fees already paid, and forms filled, we headed back up the long road to Boudha, this time mostly uphill. I did make it back, covered with sweat, exhausted, hungry, but exhilarated. My butt was bruised and sore for many weeks from that ride. Margaret was so proud of me and so amazed at my going. We got to meet Ward Holmes (of the Tsurphu Foundation) and Gloria Jones (secretary of Thrangu Monastery) for a late lunch. Things were cool. I liked this Kathmandu place. Just to complete this story, when we came back from Tibet I was able to get in from the airport (through a strike zone) and phone the embassy official just barely before noon, and arrange to meet him in his office, which I did. Taking a cab this time, we met and he completed our visa for India and Sikkim. He never asked for any money, but I gave him a good sum anyway, for the idea was in the air. We ended up (when he found out I was an astrologer) discussing very abstract spiritual philosophy, while filling out the forms, something that I believe every Indian, at least Brahmins, are fully able to do. Here I am slipping him money under the table and he is telling me about my soul’s journey through time. That’s India. ...back to the opening page go on to the next story...