Mustang Hotel RevisitedIt has been a while since I found myself walking the narrow alleyways of Kathmandu. 14 years ago I first strolled these dusty streets and I haven't been back until this trip. What I found was both shockingly familiar and sadly altered. Some things haven't changed in Kathmandu. I am still a likely target for the peddlers looking to provide unneeded amenities to the hippie traveler. Singing bowls, Gurkha knives, tankha paintings, and carved wooden elephants were abundantly available throughout the now bustling Thamil neighborhood. My long hair must trump my twins, as I was often given the option of buying reportedly high quality hashish and ganga from the young men entrepreneurially idling on the street corners. And I am still prone to Nepali stomach ailments. I can't really remember the penultimate time I found myself on my knees in front of the porcelain, but it quite possibly could have been 14 years ago when the days leading up to my birthday were spent in a dark and cold room with newspaper window panes huddled under the threadbare blankets of the Mustang Hotel. Of course the last time was just a couple of weeks ago, when a bad slice of pizza spent 8 hours to no avail, trying to wend its way through me. Finally realizing that all roads forward were blocked, the pizza decided to turn back. And once again I found myself heaving and retching in a Kathmandu bathroom. Out of nostalgia I did wind my way from the upscale Yak and Yeti back to the Mustang Hotel where I stayed 14 years ago. Although it is now called the Mustang Holiday Inn Hotel, I don't think it is affiliated with that fine American establishment as the only thing that seems to have changed is the name. It is still located down one too many potholed and puddled street, the furniture in the lobby maintains its frat-house decrepitude, and they are still luring travelers in with the promise that a sunny room will be available tomorrow. As I recall, not only did it remain unavailable, but they planned to charge a premium for the added sunlight. I asked after Gunundra the hotel manager who, despite the fact that he couldn't form a single chord, spent that now 14-year old winter week carrying around an acoustic guitar some hapless traveler had left in his care while she went trekking. I was told that he had moved to Sweden last year. The odds that this is true seem rather slim. I think the proprietor was simply trying to keep me happy because at that point he thought I was a rental prospect. However, the short fellow whose name I can't recall was still there, but his memory must be worse than mine as he recalled neither me nor Gunundra. The politics of Nepal have certainly altered quite radically. In February of 1990 there was the scent of change in the air. People were taking to the streets to protest the Monarchy which through its strong patronage system kept the unconnected economically strangled. On my birthday that year, as we sat drinking whiskey in the dank lobby of the Mustang Hotel, I received incense, red and yellow sindur, and a small patch - which still graces my backpack - of the Nepalese flag. Gunundra had been instrumental in arranging the festivities and had enjoyed enough of the bottle to loosen his tongue. This was a mixed blessing. Although it brought us his attempt at a few accapella bars of some Tracy Chapman song big in Nepal at the time, it also provided some insight into the political situation. When I unwrapped the patch, I smiled, made my thanks, and noting the dour look on Gunudra's face said "Look it's your flag." With a venom in his voice which shocked us all, he spat back "It's not my flag. It's the fucking King's flag." And in response to our surprised inquisitions, detailed the reasons he was working as a hotelier, despite both his training and passion for agriculture. "This whole thing is just who knows who and on the other hand you've got favoritism." was the upshot of his liquored elucidations. Before and after that evening he refused to discuss the political climate of the time, aside from warning me against going out the next day, Democracy Day, for which massive protests were called. Being young, stupid and feeling protected by my blue American passport, I did not heed his warnings and wandered about the streets. Although cars were burning and people were dying in Baktipur and Patan, Kathmandu was quiet. Few people were out and those that were, were mostly Army. I suppose that they should have been intimidating as they were in full battle dress, but at the time that consisted of green fatigues and matching bamboo chest protectors and billy clubs. Coming from Washington DC, recently crowned the murder capitol of the US, I was comforted rather than cowed by these agricultural armaments. In the intervening 14 years the Panchaayat has fallen and a struggling parliamentarian system has grown in its place. But democracy too has been spectacularly ineffective in addressing the problems of the old boys network that has ruled this country since before the Brits pulled out of India. Having left the needs of the country -- particularly the rural poor -- unaddressed, it has given rise to the Moaist insurgency now wreaking havoc in Nepal. Once again I found political dialogue hard to come by in Kathmandu. While we were there we were worried about a state department briefing in which the rumor-mill had thought that Save-US would be singled out as 'explicitly targeted.' But the briefing was a bust -- nothing but the now routine warnings about night time travel outside the valley and please let your embassy know your plans. The eerie quiet of Democracy Day is still in the air of Kathmandu, although now it is hidden under the din of constant traffic and unchecked construction. Once again the signs of revolt are signaled only by the army's presence. But in the intervening years the army has traded in its billy clubs for machine guns, and its bamboo chest plates for sandbagged bunkers. A disturbing trend for a country which 30 years ago officially declared itself a "Zone of Peace." |
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