Bhaktapur, Oct 28-Nov 1 — Beyond Ballard

This is a city of rooftop terraces and courtyards.

The kitchen and sitting room at Guesthouse Milla are on the top floor, and when we sit out on the porch under the awning and look out, we see a whole different world than you see from the streets. The owner of the guest house, Ludmilla, has lived here for nearly 40 years. When I told her that, she laughed: she explained that it was even more so during the civil war (which only ended in 2012--such a recent event, still raw). When curfew was declared, everyone went up on the roof in the evening--chatting, socializing, living--while the soldiers and maoists prowled the narrow streets below.

The roofs are abuzz. There are flags whipping in the breeze, planters, cisterns, lines full of laundry, sheets laid out with rice to dry, corn cobs hanging or stacked.

Kids are flying kites and set off holiday firecrackers at dusk. Women wash and comb their hair out in the midday, and hang laundry (which they may have washed at home, or may have lugged from public taps). This this time of year for turning grain as it dries, then winnowing it in wide baskets. Men are out hanging lights for Tihar, or working on reconstruction projects from the earthquake, or sometimes just having a smoke.

View from the back window of our guesthouse room onto a neighboring plot, not at all visible from the street.

And birds, birds, birds. Lithe jackdaws, more blue than black, sporting a grey-brown ruff, are fed in a puja the first day of Tihar; sparrows nest in gaps between bricks opened by the quakes and dart about chirping officiously; pigeons by the thousands sweep across the sky and scrabble across the corrugated metal roofs. A special night-time treat around the corner from us is a nest of owls, whose solemn hoots make you prick up your ears and tense for action. They are striking urban dwellers, quite unphased by my excited clambering and pointing as they await the precisely correct moment to swoop out for their silent hunt.

This is a medieval city.

Bhaktapur is one of three rival city states (along with Kathmandu and Patan) during the Malla era, before the brutal unification of Nepal under the Shahs in the 18th Century. During the reign of the Malla kings, when Nepal was a key trade center, the three cities' rulers each strove to outdo the others in elaborate displays of wealth: temple buildings and the arts.

Dattatraya Temple square, quite close to Milla Guesthouse on Devli Square.

The streets, particularly in the old city where we are staying, were built for foot traffic. They are jammed—things go slowly, not like the whistling axe of cars and bikes on the wider roads of Kathmandu. Goats post up in the squares, getting shooed by vendors when they go for actual goods or placidly chomping away at cud while lounging on a temple plinth. Family chickens and ducks keep to the back alleys, the odd buffalo guided by on a leash. Many stray dogs, but even those matched to families are out and about—like Mikey, the Guesthouse dog who was our honor guard when we went out (which was nerve-wracking because we kept worrying about him getting hit by the scooters even though we knew he was a pro).

The arterial streets are canyons absolutely stuffed with people and vendors and motorbikes, a few cars, and these crazy tractor/motorbike combos. Brian almost got a fish tail in the leg from a bag hanging off handlebars.

Finally settled down for the night on temple steps.

Street vendors steadfastly ignoring the fume-belching intrusion of vehicles.

Seriously, Nepali drivers and their horns, WTF! The horn is an intrinsic element of handling a vehicle, as vital as the gear-shift. Going around a blind corner? Pushing through a crowd? Earning people that you are coming up behind them? Saying hi to a friend? Telling oncoming traffic that you are swerving into their lane? Signifying a turn (why use the actual turn signal?)? Chastising someone's regrettable action? Playing chicken? Slightly bored? GIVE THAT SUCKER A TOOT!

The congestion isn’t as terrifying as Kathmandu, though, because except for a few main arteries, the streets are so narrow that cars can’t get through, and motorbikes are nerve-jangling but generally not flattening.

Nonetheless, we still have to take our urban wandering in doses, with an afternoon break from the horns and market stalls, hawkers and crowds. 6:30 am is actually great for walking around taking photos. The light is soft, the dust isn’t kicked up yet. The city is still active, just not harrowingly so: vendors are setting up, and normal people are doing their normal market shopping (bargaining) for dried or fresh fish, meat, fruits, supplies for the holiday.

This is also the hour for slaughtering and butchering in the street, which is a bit of a jolt. The first one Brian and I saw was a water buffalo lying in the street—they had already slaughtered and blowtorched off all the hair and were in the process of getting the innards out. The neighborhood dogs knew better than to come in too close, but they seemed to be trying to make themselves look extremely__helpful.

The second day I was going out with N to go get coffee and we came upon a small group with one guy straddling a goat. There was a lot of shifting around, advice giving, and slightly nervous laughter. My kid was quick to tweak to it: “what are they going to do to that goat?” she asked, in what I think of as the vocal equivalent of at thundercloud. I stumbled mentally and offered up the first thing I could think of, desperate to pull her past before the huge knife resting on the stoop was actually put to use, “um… brushing his teeth?” [Seriously? Is that the best I could do????] She didn’t buy that, and I dragged her past without actually having to watch, but she was sputtering with rage for blocks, and briefly even espoused vegetarianism (I’m serious, like for 6 or 8 hours). We had a lot of conversations about eating meat and what that means, as a result, and I suspect we will have more.

In Nepal we are seeing people, situations, patterns of life that are so different from ours. But they reflect underlying universal needs. They reflect back what we take for granted in our own lives. THIS is what meat is: a dead animal. A bout of haggling in the market--THAT is a commercial transaction. Watching people bathing or collecting water from the public taps and walk it home... everyone has to have water; some people are lucky enough to have plumbing. Using a "squatty potty" and a bucket of water... that puts us "back in touch," as it were, with our own bodily functions. And in the realm of spirit, we are witness to Buddhism woven into the fabric of daily life. We waken to bells being rung at shrines by people on their way to work, we are lucky enough to be there for the New Year celebration and communities and homes opened up for Laxmi puja, to share in mha puja (blog post to follow). There is a beautiful matter-of-factness, a joy, a comfort in seeing this that makes me feel around for a practice as though I am feeling for a lost tooth. There is a rhythm to it, an ease and a commonality.

This is a city racked.

And this rhythm continues while thousands across the whole valley still live in temporary tin-roof shacks after the earthquakes. They too, emerge and carry their offerings to the local shrine or holy site or ring bells, put the tika on the holy figures or simply touch foreheads with them.

The damage from the quakes is inescapable. It is apparent everywhere we go in Nepal, but Bhaktapur, which is a Unesco World Heritage site, was particularly hard-hit. Neighborhoods shook apart, temples from the 1600’s and earlier collapsed. Some buildings are condemned, but still loom, broken and empty, because their owners can’t afford to tear them down until they get restoration funds—which, we are told, seem to be finding their way into officials’ pockets rather than distributed.

Our little square, Devli, is a haven, the temple's bright tiles scrubbed spanking clean for Tihar, its roof skirt bright and tidy red, the square tidy and smooth.

After Mha Puja with our guest house hosts Laxman and Sanu, we went outside to the little tile temple for the circumambulation and prayer. Standing in the dark together, we asked about the earthquake, we had seen a binder of photos of the damage and updates emailed out to friends abroad. Sanu told us about that time, and once she opened up she was taken over by the memories. She said it was cold that day, really cold. And there was a sound like a big snake first, before the side-to-side lurching and roar of buildings falling. Then darkness, and choking dust. Some people were killed, most fled to the temple and crouched, clinging to it, as the buildings shook. Then they slowly, slowly, stood. Those who recovered from the shock soonest began to dig out the people they could. The whole square was blocked in, they couldn’t dig out for two days. The old cisterns were empty, they quickly ran out of fuel, and because of the narrow alley access, the clearing away has all been done by hand with wheelbarrow loads. They scrambled together to build one big tent in the middle of the square for men, while women and children slept inside the guesthouse. There was a communal kitchen set up just across from the guest house. Then the second quake a few weeks later took down other buildings, killed more people, and they had more to clear.

The guest house took very little damage, having been renovated. Ludmilla, who owns the guest house and lives nearby, arranged loans or simply paid for food and fuel for a time, as supplies became scarce and prices shot to impossible heights for most people. After the earthquakes, it was one of the worst monsoon seasons they remember, which caused more buildings, exposed now, to collapse. Cold, wet, constant mosquitos. . . and then India's embargo drove everyone to the black market for fuel and supplies. Sanu was hugging herself as she gave more detail, recalling the horror and sadness and her gratitude to 'Milla, in the same breath. It seemed as though the retelling of the story was as much of a cleansing as puja, and we were honored to bear witness to her. This wonderful, sunny, welcoming woman has been through hell and back. So has everyone here.

It’s quieter than it was before here. Some neighbors were killed. Some have had to move away. Some families are living scattered, fighting about what do do with the centuries-old buildings they own together. People are resigned to to delay, they absorb the next loss, the next privation, despair looms and is pushed back. Joy bubbles up and seeps away like a wave on the beach.

And every morning the bells at the temple are rung by people at prayer, and puja is set out; the rice is uncovered for winnowing; and the endless rearguard battle against the dust begins for the day. People keep up as best they can with the rhythms of their lives. A forgotten Beckett quote bubbles up in my head:

"I can't go on. I'll go on."

--The Unnameable