The Kathmandu Hoick
A spiritual expectoration
The work had been intense, and I was ready for a break. One day left before flying out and I was determined to get in touch with the mythical Kathmandu of my youth or at least youthful imagination. Prayer flags mingled with the lyrics of a well worn Cat Stevens record jostled alongside the taxi ride as we rattled down a deeply rutted street towards the steps of the monkey temple.
"Kathmandu, I'll soon be seeing you
And your strange, bewildering time
Will hold me down."
Being an enlightenment seeking foreign tourist, I was of course temple drawn and the Swayambhunath Stupa or monkey temple, was my destination of choice. I arrived at the bottom of the temple steps at dawn, the early morning rich with the sights and sounds of a waking city. Bird calls accompanied by flashes of colour, the raucous chattering of the monkeys climbing effortlessly across low hanging branches and into trees above. My spiritual awakening pending, I started up broad stone steps towards the Stupa, a place of pilgrimage for well over a thousand years and holy site for both Buddhists and Hindus.
"White warm light the dawn
And help me see
Old satan’s tree"
Three hundred and fifty plus steps to a hilltop temple is hardly a trek to Everest base camp, but for a less than sporty forty something, it was exertion a plenty. Forty-three forty-four, forty-five. By now the sun was edging its way above the surrounding hills, a deep smudge of crimson spreading across the valley draping the streets below in smokey translucent gauze.
Eight-five, eighty-six, eight seven. Looking ahead, the low morning sun cut shafts of light through the trees, scraping its glow across a discordantly modern steel hand-rail, beckoning the weary traveler forward to the golden domes and prayer wheels above. One hundred and fifty-one, one hundred and fifty-two. Sure, I may have needed a rest along the way, one hundred and fifty-three, fifty four. I might have leaned, huffed and puffed even grabbed the rail, but my spiritual awakening was pending and I was not about falter. Two hundred and seventy-six, two hundred and seventy-seven.
Above my position, a saffron robed monk appeared in front of the temple complex. Bathed in light and with measured calm he began walking towards the edge of the paved mount, a moment of tranquility to be savoured but then it happened, ‘anima mundi’ my Kathmandu moment arrived. Perhaps ten or so meters above my position and slightly to the side, the buddhist monk peered gingerly over the edge of a rather precipitous cliff face. I presumed he was there to contemplate the arrival of a new day, or perhaps perform some religious observance, but I was wrong.
Without warning the monk drew back on the most enormous guttural hoick I’ve ever heard, I mean it was a stonker, an expectoration so deep that even the monkees had reason to pause. And then a moment of true bliss as the monk launched his lurgi high into the air, high enough to clear the cliff, high enough to fall unimpeded deep into the valley below. It was spectacular moment of transcendent beauty as the early morning sun caught the hoick at the top of its arc blasting sunlight directly at the spiraling sputum as it hung in the air breathing the dawn before losing its forward momentum and languidly disappearing over the edge of the hill and out of sight. I was stunned, what a delight, what awe inspiring synchronicity and wonder. I stumbled on upwards towards the famed temple, but nothing could surpass the moment.
"Katmandu, I'll soon be touching you
And your strange, bewildering time
Will hold me down."
My enlightenment? Hard scrubbed in daily rituals of poverty, life in the back streets of Kathmandu runs counter to the cultural cliches embraced by foreign tourists like myself. So enjoy a rickshaw race through the monsoonal rains and let Kathmandu wash you clean. But if you’re looking for enlightenment to assuage your first world existential angst, can i suggest it’s the people who are the salve, not the stupas, pagodas or temples.
