The Nepali holy day is Saturday, making Friday here share the same stigma that it does in the United States. I had caught the cold going around Kathmandu a few days earlier, but was feeling a little better. Throughout the day, I shared the American adage, “Feed a cold, starve a flu.” Or at least that what I remembered it to be, so that was the plan for the day. I woke up late to ensure enough rest to fight off the cold and started the day with some tea. Getting out to the street, I realized that I definitely needed to eat a big breakfast before meeting my friend at the Royal Palace, which had been converted into a museum only 1 month ago. I knew just the place to go, the nearby Australian restaurant visited almost exclusively by tourists. With time running out, a non-Nepali restaurant was my only chance of eating breakfast in less than 1 hour. With my cell phone out on the table keeping time, I had my ‘Red Dingo Big Breakfast’ of 1 hash brown, 2 eggs, 3 sausages, 2 slices of toast, 1 grilled tomato, 1 cup of beetroot juice, and 1 pot of ginger tea.
After breakfast I needed a quick taxi across town to be on time at the Royal Palace. Knowing that there are slow taxi meters for locals and fast taxi meters for tourists and that I can’t yet tell the difference, I negotiated my ride before getting in the taxi. At the Royal Palace, I got in the already long line to take the tour. Having been open for only 1 month, all of the locals want to see the palace more than anyone else. My local friend had told me rumors that lines were 2-3 hour waits. After 5 minutes of waiting, my friend joined me, we were about 100 people back and the museum opened in 1 hour. After a few minutes, a traffic police officer walked by and informed us that we were in the Nepali line and that we needed to go to the tourist line. There, we were second in line, although my tourist museum tour rate was 5 times my Nepali friend’s rate. We sat in line, lamenting that we had shown up so early. We did get a laugh about how my friend didn’t have to wait for 2-3 hours because she was my ‘guide’ and could wait in the tourist line with me.
Inside the Royal palace was the guided tour with no photography allowed. We were the first tourist group in that day and we were led through some of the various rooms that ran the spectrum from ordinary to extraordinary. Some rooms looked like a nice 1940s American home, other rooms had forty foot ceilings with paintings, carvings, silver and gold statues, and extravagant taxidermy that has long since been outlawed. During the tour I learned why it’s best to keep Nepali and tourist groups separate, and it’s not the language barrier. I could see the look of discomfort on most westerners faces as they were subject to the Nepali definition of personal space when a local group caught up with us and crowded through. I spoke with an older Canadian man, joking about keeping the two groups separate at the same time as local elderly grandmothers and schoolchildren alike bumped against us passing through the room. Later, when it was just tourists again, we were shown the area where the royal massacre had taken place 8 years earlier. The building had been torn down, but they had marked in the foundation and in the nearby garden where each family member had been murdered. Even the bullet marks in concrete walls and statues were pointed out. Shortly after, the tour concluded and we left, satisfied with the Royal Palace tour but longing for some photos to take with us.
It was around lunch, and I explained to my friend that I needed to eat a lot so we should go to a restaurant instead of her house. I didn’t want her mother to have to cook to fill my appetite for cold-curing calories. Walking into the nearby tourist section of town, she led me to a place to eat that seemed a little familiar. After a few minutes, I realized that there was a picture of it on one of the few color pages in my guide book. I ate a large plate of Indian curry and rice to satisfy my appetite. We parted ways and I headed for Ratna Park to catch a bus home. Looking over the streets as I walked, I realized that it was the time of day when walking was faster than a taxi or bus, so I walked about an hour back to the guest house, to rest for a while.
At the guest house I enjoyed more cups of tea and hot water, relaxing from the long morning. This time when leaving the house, I had plenty of time to get to my destination, right next to Ratna Park. I was meeting a retired ex-Pat and a young Nepali NGO worker and going with them to the big concert of the night. A French jazz band was in town and their posters had been up all over the city for the past month. Walking to the nearby roundabout I saw a microbus pulling away so I ran and yelled, “Ra-ta-na”, and the microbus stopped. I got on and was pleased with the decent amount of room, as this one surprisingly wasn’t over-packed to the point that necessitates standing inside. Arriving at our meeting point an hour early, I took a short walk over to the main square. There, street merchants sell the same statuettes and figures to passing tourists. Having 11 months to go in Kathmandu, I wasn’t interested in buying anything, only seeing how low a price I could get. I had fun walking from vendor to vendor seeing how much lower the prices got the further I walked away from each one. Every one had the same final pitch, “How much do you want to pay?”
Easily on time, I met up with our small group and we walked over to the “Army Club Auditorium” where the concert was held. Buying tickets at the gate, we opted for the more expensive of the two types, this one labeled ‘Front Rows’. Knowing the Nepali NGO worker’s monthly salary from dinner two nights ago, there was no way I was going to let her pay for her own ticket. Paying for her ticket and mine we all went in at the advertised concert start time, which in Nepal means showing up extremely early. Walking into a nearly empty concert hall we decided to sit in the first row. As we conversed about NGO work in Nepal, the room slowly filled with people, mostly French nationals and their local friends. The people who took the two reserved seats next to us turned out to be the French ambassador to Nepal and his wife. After many thanks from the jazz conservatory promoters and a short speech from the ambassador, the concert began. Without a doubt, they deserved their reputation as one of France’s best jazz groups and their award for the 2006 best jazz band in France. The saxophonist and trombonist were remarkably skilled, the drummer was soft and articulate, and the guitar player fit seamlessly into everything. The best song of the night was the encore where the already amazing bass player strung together a scat that was by far the highlight of the evening. After an hour and a half of jazz that was on par with the best New Orleans clubs, everyone left pleased with the show. Refusing to call an end to the night at 8:30, the retired ex-Pat asked us if we were up for dinner. We wound up back in the tourist section of town at an infamous Pizza and Ice Cream restaurant. Looking around inside, I told our group that I felt like I was in San Francisco more than Kathmandu. The young Nepali woman added that this restaurant was known to be the crown prince’s favorite place to eat pizza. The three of us ate well and talked more about NGO work, cultural nuances, and local savoir faire. The night coming to an end, we parted ways and I got a taxi home, accepting the higher nighttime rate.
Getting back to my room at the guest house I added up the expenses for the day. Breakfast at the nicest first world restaurant in my neighborhood, a ticket to the most popular new attraction in the country, lunch at the only photographed restaurant in my guide book, two tickets next to the ambassador from France at the biggest advertised concert in the city, dinner at one of the crown prince’s favorite restaurants, and taxis to quickly take me between them all. Final price on the day was about $50.
The outlook for today, probably $10 or less, but it is a different feeling to know that some of the experiences that are out of reach in the United States are well within reach here in Kathmandu. Sometime before I leave, I need to remember what hotel boasts the clay tennis court. I need to check that one off of my bucket list and I think that one’s much closer to my reach here in Nepal.
(For my adventure traveling granola eating friends, I’m sure that you’re annoyed that I talked about bucket list items in my reach and haven’t mentioned Annapurna or Everest. I didn’t forget. I’ll save those blog entries for later in the year. For now it’s French ambassadors and clay tennis courts.)
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