The Waiting Land (7 page)

Kay and I then had tea with Penjung and his wife and four daughters. The rain was cascading down both outside and inside their flimsy tent, where we sat cross-legged on filthy bamboo matting while chickens pecked around us, and Penjung’s wife coughed incessantly, and a baby with dysentery whimpered in one corner; yet Tibetans are never as gloomy as their conditions might warrant and my happiness at being back among these people was undiminished by the surrounding squalor.

When the downpour temporarily ceased we slopped our way back to the village through slippery, ankle-deep mud – and there we found a broken-down jeep, with which two mortified Peace Corps boys were frantically fiddling while the Stebbinses sat on wooden benches in a
bazaar-stall, looking blissfully happy. (At the time this happiness seemed to be a brilliant exercise in diplomacy, but later I discovered that both are quite capable of enjoying such misadventures.) Kay immediately invited them to her room, where we talked – above the roar of the wind, the crash of thunder and the rattle of hail – until seven o’clock, by which time it had become evident that the jeep was very severely incapacitated. However, the Stebbinses are unusually adaptable Americans who genuinely love Nepal, having now been here seven years, and they adjusted without difficulty to the prospect of dining and sleeping in The Annapurna. When we had been joined there by four sheepishly apologetic PC boys, Kessang produced a quite elaborate Tibetan banquet – which astonished everyone, for food is scarce at this season and most things have to be imported from India. In the end we had quite a party, enlivened by ambassadorial gin, Nepalese
rakshi
, Tibetan
chang
and Irish whiskey – a combination which may reasonably be expected to produce some rather interesting variations on the hangover theme.

Apart from these PC boys the only other Westerners in the valley are the three medical missionaries in the Leper Colony beyond the airfield, the eight medical missionaries in the Shining Hospital north of the main bazaar and the MacWilliamses, a young New Zealand couple (he is a sheep-breeding expert with FAO) who live on the outskirts of Pokhara Bazaar.

Before retiring I went out to the field and from there saw a vision of such supreme beauty that momentarily I wondered if it could be real. To the north, under a clear sky and a high-sailing moon, the whole Annapurna range stretched in one massive white tumult and, dominating the range – seemingly dominating the world – was the sharp-peaked, austere and infinitely lovely Machhapuchhare, home of Pokhara’s tutelary deity. One should not try to trap such splendour in mere words, but beneath the moon, in the utter stillness of the valley, all those silver snows burned coldly with an overwhelming, undeniable life and spirit of their own. This silent, vital grandeur almost compelled me to kneel down and worship; and perhaps if no inbred self-consciousness intervened and it were possible to do so I would be all the better for it.

I awoke at 5.30 to hear the familiar, soothing hum of Tibetans saying their morning prayers, and when I went to wash at the tap in the field the eastern sky was orange and the sun’s first rays were firing the tip of Machhapuchhare. Then the new light spread rapidly over the entire range, tingeing the snows with nameless colours – to gaze on these mountains almost lifts one off the ground with joy.

This valley, which lies only 2,500 feet above sea-level, is considerably hotter than Kathmandu. Its population is estimated to be between 12,000 and 15,000, and apart from Kathmandu it is the only level stretch of land north of the Terai. Being at the converging point of most routes from central and west Nepal to India it has a certain importance as a trading centre, yet it does not seem nearly as prosperous as the more fertile Kathmandu Valley.

From Pardi the valley opens out to the south-east and low foothills are visible in the distance; to the south-west the hills are near and covered with dense green forests, and at their base – a few moments’ walk from Pardi – lies the long, emerald-green lake which gives this valley its name. (
Pokhara
is the Nepali for lake.) The beauty of the place is incomparable, with sub-tropical vegetation flourishing on every side directly beneath the cold white lines of the snow-peaks, and it is not surprising that the Nepalese hope eventually to develop it into another Kashmir.

However, on a more practical plane Pokhara does have its
disadvantages
at present. The prices of obtainable essential commodities are astronomical, and as most supposedly essential commodities are unobtainable at any price one soon learns to regard them as inessential, which is very good for one’s pampered Western soul. Sugar is half-
a-crown
per pound, tiny eggs are sixpence each (it takes three of them to make what looks like one scrambled Irish egg), small potatoes and onions are fourpence each and no other vegetables or fruit are to be had at this season. Fresh milk, butter, cheese, meat, bread and flour are all unobtainable, so rice, dahl, dried beans and eggs must therefore be our staple diet – and for luxuries we can import from Kathmandu
Indian instant coffee of a peculiarly vile variety and stale Indian Cadbury’s chocolate at one-and-sixpence per very small bar. Just now excellent Russian sweetened condensed milk is available in the local bazaar at four shillings per pound tin, and recently good quality Chinese tinned jam was also available; but the supply of these ‘propaganda-type’ goods is very uncertain. Occasionally Kay treats herself to Indian cream-crackers at seven-and-sixpence per pound – a good example of ‘give them cake …’ One feels that the Nepal Tourist Bureau could use this situation as a new advertising gimmick aimed at overweight Westerners – ‘Enjoy the Breathtaking Beauty of Pokhara Valley and Regain Your Figure!’

Today Chimba told me that I could soon move into a room at the lower end of Pardi Bazaar – for a rent of fifteen shillings per month – so this afternoon I went marketing in the main Pokhara Bazaar. From Pardi the rough track climbs all the way, past neat two- or three-storey Brahmin, Chetri and Gurung homesteads, their ochre walls warm against a freshly-washed background of maize-fields, bamboo-clumps, banana-trees, orange-groves and many other trees and shrubs unknown to me. Everywhere smug black cattle roam free, blatantly conscious of their sacred status and looking a lot healthier than their Indian cousins. It seems lunatic that we have to buy tinned milk from Russia in a valley overrun by herds of healthy cows; but I can see that these cattle are not bred as milkers: their udders are completely undeveloped, so the little fresh milk that is used by the locals must come from buffaloes.

An hour’s unhurried walking took me to the centre of Pokhara Bazaar, and at once I fell hopelessly in love with the place. Its attraction is not easy to define: one cannot claim that it is especially beautiful, or colourful, or gay, or exotic – but as yet it is utterly
itself
, a small Nepalese town (or Nepal’s second city, if you wish) where one feels immediately and intimately in touch with an ancient, strong tradition that still determines every action, thought and emotion of the local people. One may be aware that in the course of many centuries much of this tradition has become distorted, and therefore socially damaging; yet the basic stability and tranquillity inherent in such communities – despite the perennial anxieties of debt, disease and political unrest –
appeal most powerfully and significantly to our tradition-bereft Western hearts.

On either side of Pokhara’s ‘Main Street’ stand dignified, three- or four-storey tiled houses, their ground floors open-fronted shops, and from any given point on any of the town’s streets or alleyways at least one dilapidated but much-frequented Hindu shrine is visible. At various corners squat ragged hawkers, with their pathetic stock-
in-trade
of gaudy Indian glass bracelets, small religious oleographs, bunches of safety-pins, flimsy combs, heavy bead necklaces and sundry other trinkets spread on the dust at their feet; it is to be hoped that they are not dependent on their sales for a living. Then, halfway up the Main Street, one is startled to see the carcass of a large motor-truck. There are now six or seven small Willys jeeps in the valley, but as all vehicles have to be flown in I was fascinated by this remnant of someone’s over-optimism; considering the nature of local tracks and the absence of local mechanics it is not surprising that the truck died young.

Even by Nepalese standards the surface of the Main Street is incredibly rough: it looks as though it had been torn up by some enraged god who was determined that no one should ever again be able to walk in comfort through the bazaar. And sure enough I was told this evening that it had indeed been deliberately torn up a few years ago, when the local authorities were afflicted by delusions of grandeur and yearned for a ‘with-it’ paved road. However, by the time the previously tolerable track had been turned into this present inferno of boulders and chasms the authorities had recovered from their delusions and lost all interest in paved roads – so the inferno remains.

At first sight Pokhara Bazaar appears to be quite an impressive shopping centre: but a brief scrutiny reveals that its stock is virtually limited to cloth, cigarettes, matches, pens, electric torches, lanterns, saddlery, kerosene oil, rice, dahl, dried beans, dust-tea, rock-salt, sugar, biscuits and Bournvita at fifteen shillings per quarter pound. I tried to buy a small oil-stove for cooking but none was available so I returned with only two enamel mugs, three little aluminium bowls in lieu of plates, a tiny kettle, a slightly larger saucepan and three teaspoons – all
of the most inferior material though they cost me thirty-five shillings.

Almost everything in the bazaar has come from India (though the rock-salt still comes from Tibet), which perhaps explains why I paid for my purchases by
weight
. The system by which they were weighed was most intriguing – even foreigners who have lived for years in Nepal can’t begin to comprehend it, though the Nepalese themselves take these proceedings quite seriously. To begin with little shapeless lumps of metal are thrown onto the scales by the handful – and then, if these prove unequal to the occasion, the merchant casually leans forward, without bothering even to uncross his legs, and picking a few stones off the ground throws them, too, on to the scales. But I feel that somewhere there is method in this madness and I have no suspicion of being diddled. Indeed, I was very gratified today when on two occasions merchants handed me back excess rupee notes which I had given them in error because of my ignorance of Nepali. Such gestures do a lot to make one feel at ease in a new environment.

This evening, at sunset, I went for a swim-cum-wash in the lake, which was too hot to be refreshing, though with the aid of carbolic soap it served to remove sweat and dust. Even by strictly controlling one’s imagination it is impossible to believe this lake to be clean; yet at present it is our only source of drinking-water, so quite a lot of expensive kerosene will be needed to boil the brew before use. It is rather annoying that so many Nepalese favour the edge of the lake as a latrine – obviously because they can then jump straight into the water and combine a swim with the ritual washing enjoined upon Hindus after defecation. But the abundant consequences of this habit diminish even my enthusiasm for swimming. Incidentally, one good result of nomadism is that the camp here has always been kept spotless – providing quite a contrast to the many Tibetan camps in India, which tend soon to become revolting manure-heaps. These Tibetans are so used to the hygiene of camping that even the hobbling grandparents and toddling infants go far over the fields each morning, and every day the whole camp is cleared of litter and swept as clean as a Mayfair street. 

It is a (long) month today since I left London and I’ve just now moved into my new home, after a week of inexplicable but not unexpected delays. (I reckon that at least half one’s time in Nepal is spent waiting for something to happen that probably won’t happen until tomorrow, or the day after – if ever.) This unfurnished apartment is in a fairly recently-built semi-detached house and it measures some twelve by fifteen feet – very nice too, apart from an excess of rats. Just now a glitter caught my eye, and looking up towards the crude wooden beams that support the flat
corrugated-iron
roof I thought at first that I was seeing fireflies or glowworms: but then I realised that three monster rats were peering speculatively down at me – no doubt wondering how securely the new tenant would lock away her food supplies.

The mud-floored lower room, where Leo lives, is designed as a ‘shop’, with a few rough shelves facing that double-door which one bolts when coming in for the night and padlocks when going out for the day – though this latter precaution is ludicrous, as almost every padlock in Pokhara answers to the same key. From the lower room an unpredictable bamboo ladder gives access to my wood-floored
bedsitter
, through a trap-door without a door. A thin partition separates this room from its twin over my landlord’s shop and there are such wide spaces between the planks of the partition that all my sounds and movements are audible and visible to Thupten Tashi, the young Tibetan teacher who is my neighbour. As I write Thupten is holding a night-class in English grammar for some of the more studious older children and a moment ago they were all solemnly chanting ‘Where
did
you
went
? Where
did
you
went
? Where did you went?’ But one can’t stand this sort of thing for long so I interrupted with a cry of anguish – ‘Please, Thupten – Where did you
go
!’ Not that I blame Thupten; the other day I saw a Nepali-English primer full of ‘quotable quotes’ – e.g., ‘He is a girl,’ ‘This is a pictures on the walls.’

My unglazed, wooden-shuttered window is large by local standards – four feet by three – and it looks south across level farmland to a green curve of wooded hills. Two little niches at eye-level in the outer wall (designed for religious emblems) hold my kitchen utensils and toilet articles (i.e. toothbrush and paste), and I’ll sleep in a corner on a bamboo mat; at this season bedding is unnecessary, and before the cool weather comes I hope to have bought a flea-bag from one of the homeward bound mountaineering expeditions. My furniture consists of a new table and stool which were very promptly and quite skilfully made for me by a carpenter in Pokhara. I also have a wooden box as food-cupboard and an empty four-gallon kerosene tin to hold my drinking-water. (These square tins are sold at two shillings apiece in the bazaar, and because they are easily carried on the back they have become the most popular local water-containers.)

Tonight I feel very well-adjusted to the world around me: the camp is almost opposite and I can now hear the Tibetans enlivening their evening with some communal singing, while next door Thupten’s pupils are giggling wildly – obviously they have too much horse-sense to take his English lesson very seriously. It would be hypocritical to pretend that I could live happily ever after in this state of Noble Savagery; yet at the moment I am more than content to have so decisively Got Away From It All.

I find it extremely difficult to keep track of days and dates here – not that they matter very much. Yet for official purposes one does
sometimes
need to know the date and this aspect of life in Nepal is chronically confused by the fact that the Nepalese month begins in the middle of our month and that both calendars are used
indiscriminately
by English-speaking Nepalese, who rarely explain which
system they happen to be using on any given occasion. This can – and does – lead to unspeakable mix-ups: yet it also provides an excellent excuse when Nepalese officials break their appointments, which they do rather more often than they keep them. Then they can say, with an air of indignant innocence, ‘Oh, but
I
meant
our
twenty-third – and that isn’t till next Friday week!’

Recently I have been negotiating for the employment of some of the Tibetans on the Indian Aid Hydro-Electric Project and today, on visiting the work-site, I made a wonderful discovery. This site is about 300 feet below the average level of Pokhara plain, in a very hot gorge through which a small river flows from the lake, and after my
discussion
with the Indian foreman I went hopefully to investigate the river. What I found far exceeded my hopes – a perfect
swimming-pool
, about 150 yards long, 10 yards wide and 20 feet deep. The pool is only five minutes’ walk from the work-site, where my duties will often take me during the weeks ahead, yet comparative privacy is ensured by a high, grey cliff on one side and a sheer, forested mountain on the other. The water is a clear green and less warm than the lake; also one can persuade oneself that it is less filthy, because of its movement – and certainly it feels much more refreshing. I spent the lunch-hour swimming happily up and down the length of the pool, since it is now far too hot to eat anything at midday; but unfortunately the very steep climb up from this gorge leaves one again pouring sweat by the time one reaches level ground.

Today, near the river, I saw my first Nepalese snake. Here there is a wide stretch of rock-slabs, glittering with the distinctive local deposit of mica, and while I was walking over this my concentrated thinking on labour-relations was suddenly interrupted by a most curious noise as a snake at least six feet long swished away over the rocks from under my very toes. It travelled fast, its dry scales sounding like a distant swarm of bees, and I just had time to observe that it was olive-green, with brown markings, before it poured itself into a crevice between two boulders. When I came out of the river I looked – cautiously – into the crevice and it was still there, doubtless saying to itself that it didn’t know what the world was coming to, with all these dangerous
humans clumping about, disturbing an innocent reptile’s sunbathe.

This afternoon I cycled up to Pokhara Bazaar to attempt to sort out three different accounts at the local bank. The building is guarded by two heavily-armed, sloppily-uniformed and chain-smoking soldiers of the Nepalese Army, and one penetrates to the office by crossing a dim, derelict ground-floor shop premises and climbing a dark, trembling staircase. Some ten individuals staff the low-ceilinged, dingy cavern which one assumes to be the office – but only one of them, so far as I could judge, is literate in any language. If it is accurate to say that banking is in its infancy in Nepal, then this establishment is very decidedly a cradle. Yet as a person inside a glasshouse I shouldn’t throw stones: my own ignorance of the financial world is total, which made the afternoon’s transactions very trying indeed. I had to fill in countless forms to send to Dublin and London, but as they were all printed in Nepali it is difficult to imagine them achieving the desired effect at the other end, and I have a nasty suspicion that since neither I nor the young manager really knew what we were trying to do they were probably the wrong forms to begin with.

This evening Kay lent me her table-thermometer to enable me to see the worst, and now, at 9.30 p.m., my room temperature is eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and all the time I am mopping sweat off my face, neck and arms. Yet one shouldn’t complain – this is moderation compared with current temperatures down on the Indian plains.

Like most Asian peoples the Nepalese are very curious about any foreigner’s way of life and their respect for privacy is nil. During this past week they have been coming in droves to inspect my room and their dismay at what they see vaults all language barriers. After one quick look they intimate that it is altogether wrong for me to sleep on the floor, to do my own cooking on a tiny temperamental stove and to wash myself and my clothes in the river. They point out severely that I should have at least one servant and a bigger room with a more tractable stair, a mud floor and a cool grass thatch. So far my Nepali vocabulary consists of one word, meaning ‘good’, and
gesturing widely I repeat this adjective – at first cheerfully, then firmly and at last, as their indignation grows, almost aggressively, in self-defence. But my enthusiasm fails to quell their disgust, and when they finally withdraw I can hear their condemnations being repeated to passers-by in the street below.

European adaptability might be expected to promote harmonious race-relations, but I can see that in this country it does nothing of the sort. Instead the Nepalese suspect the integrity – or perhaps the sanity – of a European who fails to maintain European standards, either through preference for the simple life or through lack of cash. They cannot conceive of any European
choosing
to live on their level – or below it, as all but the very poorest Nepalese families have servants of a sort about the house – and obviously they are embarrassed by a memsahib ‘going native’. So now I am realising sadly that in such a class-conscious and conservative society ‘going native’ is the longest way round to integration.

Our local mail system is thrilling. A Nepalese postal service does exist in theory, but as no one cares to test it in practice the British Embassy very nobly sends a mail bag by plane on Fridays, for the benefit of the missionaries, Kay and myself. Both hospitals are some distance from the airfield, so Kay and I have permission to break the seal when the bag arrives and sort out our own mail before Joseph, the wiry little Magar servant, trots away with the sack over his shoulder. Undoubtedly this ritual is the highlight of our week; it is most exciting to squat on the dusty airfield, beside a large pile of envelopes and packages, and eventually to discover the few familiar and precious envelopes addressed to oneself – a much more gratifying system than the dull process of having letters pushed through one’s letter-box. But naturally there is no certainty about which flight The Bag will come on, and at 10.30 a.m. today, when I saw a speck in the eastern sky, I went hurtling off to the airfield on Leo only to find that The Bag had not been put aboard this plane. Nor did it come on the next flight, which landed at 1.40 – but two hours later we saw with joyous relief our beloved canvas sack being tossed into Joseph’s arms, from the last plane of the day.

For a variety of reasons I find myself having to spend a prodigious number of hours each week simply awaiting the arrival of planes. Luckily one cannot tire of a place where horsemen on richly caparisoned steeds may frequently be seen galloping across the
airfield
– briefly framed by the wing of a Dakota – with bells ringing a wild harmony and hoofs pounding an exultant reply; or where, under blue skies, a dozen women in swirling crimson skirts gracefully pace the length of the field, half-hidden by their baskets of sweet green grass and their enormous golden wickerwork sunshades.

Another diversion is provided by the Gurkha soldiers. Sometimes one sees scared, barefooted youths from remote hill villages coming to the airfield, carrying battered little tin boxes of meagre possessions, on their way to join those elder brothers, cousins and uncles who are ‘doing well’ with the British Army in Hong Kong, Borneo or Malaya. Then one often sees Gurkhas returning on six months’ leave, after three years’ service, and invariably they look sensationally spruce among their welcoming family. The grimy stay-at-homes wear unwashed, fraying garments, while the well-scrubbed soldiers are attired in starched, neatly-creased khaki shorts, flowered bush-shirts and broad-brimmed straw hats. And instead of the modest little tin box with which they departed from home they now possess at least four huge padlocked trunks. These, of course, are left for their wives, mothers or sisters to carry – one on each bent back, supported by a broad canvas band across the forehead – while the Returned Hero strides importantly ahead, an expensive camera slung over his shoulder and a raucous transistor screaming in his hand as he chats with those male relatives who trot respectfully beside him, carrying light pieces of hand-luggage. Usually at this stage the hero’s pocket is full of newly-acquired rupees, for he will have paused long enough on the airfield to sell a selection of excellent Swiss watches and Japanese pocket-transistors at incredibly low prices.

At first one is appalled by the apparently lethal degree of chaos which prevails on every side at the airfield. The least timid Westerner recoils with incredulous horror from a landing-ground on which, ten minutes before a plane is due, children are flying kites, babies and dogs
are romping together, cattle are grazing placidly, mule-trains are plodding stolidly and trans-country porters are carrying loads as big as themselves.

When the plane has landed one frequently sees members of the general public standing in the welcome shade of its wings, nonchalantly smoking. Then, when it eventually taxies away, creating a gale-force wind in which the children dance joyously, no one bothers to move and from the booking-office doorway newcomers are subjected to the harrowing optical illusion that at least twenty people are about to be decapitated by a wing. Incidentally, for the village mongrels this is the climax to their day’s fun. Yelping hysterically they pursue each departing plane with a verve undiminished by the proven futility of the exercise – and just occasionally one of them is rewarded by
almost
getting his teeth into the rear wheel. Yet appearances are in this case deceptive, and though the situation seems to be so irrevocably out of control none of the accidents which should happen do happen. When a speck appears in the sky at the end of the long valley a man blows a quavering blast on what sounds like a referee’s worn-out whistle and immediately frenzied herdsmen leap onto the field, hurling stones and imprecations at their cattle who, disgruntled but resigned, file off through a gap in the sagging barbed-wire fence. Meanwhile the dogs have also temporarily dispersed, the children have pounced on the babies and removed them, the mule-trains have broken into a canter and the porters into a trot and, as the plane roars low over the camp at the end of the runway, nothing or no-one remains to be killed – which by my reckoning constitutes a daily miracle.