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What can a man do in Katmandu?

Katmandu retains its exotic feature to excite the massive tourism business, though locals would much prefer a free ride to any western paradise, preferably America. Giant bazaars of red bricks, painted with psychedelic images of naked gods were packed people selling Hindu and Buddhist art. The population of Westerners increased tenfold from China and Korea to Nepal and I felt rather inadequate. Nonetheless I was excited to follow the winding streets and rotund women with red huge dots splotched upon their foreheads and nose-rings connected by gold chains to their ears, while avoiding the bearded men pimping those women. There were Sikh men with their hair bound up in towels or pushed into what African Americans call 'do-rags' . 'Do-rags' look like a woman's nylon stocking only it is used to hold a Sikh's -or African American's- long black curls.

Probably the most interesting thing about Nepal is its leaches. Nepalese dry-land leaches stick to travelers tighter than the local hash dealers do, and follow just as quickly. I had my doubts about this at first but figured I would keep my socks on. One beautiful morning, on our way through a valley of terraces, hills and wonderfully constructed stone irrigation ditches, I felt a slight sensation on my ankle and reached to scratch. The realization that I had a leach stuck to my leg caused a momentary panic. "Shit . . . Shit Shit Shit. Fucking leach D.B.." D.B and I both had a macho attachment, holding a belief that creepy crawling blood sucking creatures could do nothing to us, so he stared blankly, "Oh . . Really, hmm," while I hopped around on one leg and tried to pull it off. But it stuck to my finger, then my thumb and then my other hand. I could feel it clinging and it gave me the willies, though I feigned a somewhat jerking attempt at nonchalance. Finally I sat down with a lighter, to burn it off. Still, I burned and blistered myself before the slug finally dropped off. And as I sat, I watched other gray leaches hungrily marching towards me in troops. They inched at me like and inch worm and moved as quickly as cock roaches. D.B began to notice as well. "Oh, dear me, they are quick." He chuckled and we took off in a hurry to drier land.

The Nepalese chew betel nut, and some keep it in a little tin that decomposes into an ammonia based substance. It smells like window cleaner, and leaches hate it. Again I was doubtful, but bought a tin for a couple pennies from a withered old Nepalese gent we stayed with. The next day I saw a troop of five leaches marching at me in formation. I set the tin down about a foot from them and observed. The troop halted abruptly, lifted up their torsos to sniff the air, turned tail and inched on out. From then on, I packed the substance in my socks, while the locals packed it in their lips.

While at our first Nepalese temple, DB and I strolled into the jungle to smoke some hash joints and watch the monkeys. Common sense tells a traveler to never set down property and walk away. We have already discussed my view on common sense. I put my daypack down and walked two meters away. It promptly disappeared. At first we assumed the monkeys took it and searched the bushes and trees. No luck, the monkey had escaped. It must have been in a tree, I thought. We went to the temple guards, some local ganja-smoking teenagers. After an elaborate and detailed five-minute investigation of the temple grounds, the kids concluded that , "the black men took it."

I replied, "your black."

He agreed, but explained that "they are blacker."

"What?"

"Blacker - Muslims! The Muslims are bad - they are black!"

"Oh Yeah?"

"Yes, Muslims - black men - steal. Hindus do not ."

So the next day I returned; no backpack. I strolled into the forest once again to smoke a joint, rolled one up, this time noticing the jungle was actually full of half seen people squatting behind countless vines and bushes. So I squatted near some locals and noticed they were watching a teen couple sitting on a bench. They were about 14 or 15 years of age and were giving us a subtle performance of teen curiosity and jungle fever. Better than the web! As we watched, passing the joint between us, a little Indian man opened a switchblade knife near my nose. "Do you like my knife?" I suppose he expected ganja-induced paranoia. However, I am American and he did not have a handgun. I took his knife and we smoked another joint.

On a hilltop in Pokhara some locals sat and watched their goats. They hailed us over and one asked us to buy his "pollen." We followed him to his grass hut, guarded by a ferocious black pariah dog. He pulled out a bucket of what looked like flour. It was marijuana pollen. He asked us to scoop out a hand full and wad it into a ball. It was moist, gummy and scentless, and it worked quite well. That day I smoked with an entire village. I sat under a porch watching the rain with guys between the ages of eight and sixty. We smoked hash endlessly and watched the rain. Each person had his own stash, thus pipes and joints were passed around for hours. "The rain is good," said one man, "good for the vegetables." Yes . . . it is good for the vegetables.

All that ganja made me paranoid, and it made D.B come out of the closet. After two days of serious smoking Dave decided, in our hotel room, that it was too hot for clothing. While in China and Tibet D.B had occasionally grabbed my thigh in the night, while laughing "Did I scare you? Ho Ho Ho!" He did scare me. I did not particularly care if he really was gay, as I suspected, so long as he knew I was not. Today he came out of the shower with his furry Caucasian body in full naked splendor and casually lay down upon the bed, purring and feigning sleep. I sat struggling with paranoia. Was I paranoid? Would he to try more? Yes indeedy. He rolled his naked and hairy Pan-like body onto mine, with his goat-like member pink and pointing - in my direction. I jumped from that bed instantly and asked him to get dressed. We did not see much of each other for a while after that. Yet, maybe it was the ganja.

The trip to up Annapurna base camp was rather uneventful. I enjoyed the scenery, watching half-naked local girls shower and occasionally I was offered favors. Fear of brutal pimps and exotic diseases kept me civil. I was offered babies and teenagers too. One Japanese man with a Nepalese wife offered his niece. She seemed to like me well enough, following me around to punch and tickle me. "She must be fourteen." I said drooling.

He said " but look, she has breasts. Old enough!" And grabbed a handful.

It seems to me that Brahman family values differ considerably from the more Chinese/Oriental cultures. I met many Nepalese Brahmans and most of them told me they did not know their fathers because dad had ran off with another wife. Older women advised me to seduce young girls by spending a little cash and promising marriage. They said that when my lust was quenched, I should to run off. I listened to one man brag that he had taken hundreds of young girl's virginity. I had visions of Jamaica. When I mentioned food, he slapped his most recent wife and ordered her to bring curried rice. I then asked him more about his young lovers, "What do you do if they get pregnant?" He laughed at me - as if I should know, "Oh, just pick them up by the feet and shake them. After that, no problem!" Nepalese humor.

One young kid that I smoked with on occasion lived with a British man who ran an orphanage. After smoking the ganja with me one day, the boy claimed that the orphanage owner was a gay pedophile and asked if I was too. Ganja makes me really paranoid.

One also notices the prevalence of swastikas in Nepal. Manholes all have the swastika, with the English title "swastika" printed to ensure you make no mistakes. Local Hari Krishnas from the West assured me that this was simply a Brahman symbol of divinity. Local Nepalese Brahmans told me that Hitler was a genius and assured me that they despised all Israelis and Jews. Also, Tibetans, Indians, Chinese, and Bhutanese are bad, they said.

While in China, a local had told me that he had been cheated by large groups of Israelis. I now repeat what I was told with the understanding that I am repeating a story and in no way do I support this story as fact. The Chinese man said that Israelis tore up all the sheets and mattresses in his hotel rooms with knives and left early in the morning without paying. Another group had gotten upset because he cooked with goose eggs, when they had asked for chicken eggs, so they refused to pay. Next an Israeli group that had car inner tubes for river floating used these tubes at his restaurant to bowl over empty beer bottles. Finally that same group claimed to have lost their wallets while in the river, so the Chinese man pulled out a machete and demanded a pound of flesh. He received cash on the dollar barrel.

My own experience with Israelis was limited. I witnessed a sit down, as the Israelis refused to pay for a bus ride. The heated locals wanted blood that night; full moon. They circled and lunged threateningly as the Israelis sat and refused to pay. The reason for the whole upset was absolutely absurd. The bus driver had demanded two dollars per person for a two- hour bus ride with five stops. But the bus only stopped three times, so the Israelis refused to pay. I had paid my two dollars to an Israeli in advance, not the driver. I really did not care. Only later did I recall that I had paid about 25 cents for that same bus ride two weeks earlier. So did the Nepalese cheat the Israelis or did the Israelis cheat me? For two dollars I do not particularly care. The Nepalese needed it more than me and I hope they got their money. I did not stick around to see, as I was really paranoid.

After five weeks, my money and patience was tapped. I needed to call my credit card company to make sure my mom could use my new card for a plane ticket. I went into a shop that offered phone services. It was about 50 cents per minute collect and seven dollars per minute for regular long distance service. I told the little man that I would call America collect. He eyed me suspiciously and whispered something to his partner concerning Israel. I had smoked ganja that morning. He said it was impossible to call America collect. I said, "I did it yesterday down the street, but the electricity is out in that neighborhood today."

"No. Five dollars"

"Please listen."

"Five!"

"Goodbye."

"O.k. 50 cents."

I made a fifteen-minute call. He did some calculating and gave me some outrageously large some in rupees, so I said "No way. Let's talk."

"No, five dollars per minute!"

"Let's talk about this." I said, sitting down.

"Brother," he said to his partner, "get out the Gurkha Kukri knife. We will cut his head off!" Nepalese are a passionate people and the Kukri is a large and impressive knife.

"What! Let's talk." Said I.

"Give us the money!"

Tourists walked in, saw the man, with his hand on my throat, and walked out. Police watched through a window, taking bets on the outcome. The man refused to let go of my throat, and continued to yell about knives and Israelis. I pictured myself using Korean Hapkido wrist holds to foil his assault. Finally he grabbed my money belt, so I did what I knew best - I popped him in the nose and ran to the police - who tried to return me to him. But I successfully hid behind them until they demanded to see my passport.

"Oh! An American not an Israeli. We are all sorry for this inconvenience; very sorry. Now give him his money."

I must have had smoke coming out of my ears and I behaved rather rudely. I spat on the money and threw it down.

Despite being cheated every day of my trip and spending three days completely broke, on a personal basis the Nepalese were very generous to me. The man who sold me my plane ticket out of Katmandu asked me, "How are you now sir?" I told him that I had no money so he offered me three days of food and housing for free. Next I went to the local Massage shop owner/pimp whom I became acquainted with earlier. He offered me food lodging and free massages. I declined. Then I went to say hello to the owner of a hotel I stayed at previously. He offered me room, beans and rice for free and I accepted gratefully.

The last two days of my trip I spent with two Brits. We smoked a lot of hash and they took me to the Altar of Sacrifice just outside of Katmandu. It was a bright and sunny day when we jumped up on the bus top and chewed betel with a dread-locked Saddhu painted up in orange tika paste. We arrived at a temple shining splendidly red in the sun. The temple floor was ankle deep with crimson gore. Locals offered livers and intestines to angry idols while holding headless goats spouting fountains of blood. Glorious! Headless chickens lay next to praying women whose children sat playing in the fluids, hair and feathers. I was impressed by the serenity of the praying people and at that moment and wondered how they could remain so - given the circumstances. Then I heard an eerie wailing in the vicinity of the sacrifices. A teenage squatted, wailing. Blood covered his face and he sifted his hands through the bloody remains on the temple floors, finally holding his face between his palms. Two police struck a man in the head with their sticks and numerous people exchanged blows while waving the heavy Kukri chopping knives in their other hand. The hand began to sway and I waited for a human sacrifice. But it happened too fast to take pictures and no one was cut.

Other paranoid adventures ensued that day, including images of rabid dogs and bare-breasted women smiling, while the local man laughed and taunted me towards my temptations, finally, it ended with South African white men accusing me of slaughtering innocent Native Americans.

Two days later, finally clear-eyed and sober, I was in San Francisco.

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