taking in kathmandu

So here I am in Kathmandu, my camera dangling over my shoulder, ears, nose and eyes taking in a jumble of sounds and smells and sights. And what a world to be thrown into, what a splash of colour this place is: women in saris elegantly trotting the sidewalks, passing shop facades of green, blue, yellow, the trottoir merchands looking on from behind their scramble of goods on sale.

I can't help seeing a picture everywhere. Now and then my camera comes up - sneakingly, trying not too disturb people in their daily life, trying to capture something exotic in its essence. I realise my own obsession with everything that feels surprising from an Oslo perspective - the three-wheeled tuk-tuks that line the streets, looking like ramshackle hybrids put together in the neighbour's backyard, the saris and teekas (hindu red dot) and sadhus (wandering holy men), the shrines in between the hustle and bustle of people going somewhere.

These scenes have become some of the trademarks of Nepal, part of it's exterior image of stunning Himalayas, smiling people in colourful clothing, and age-old temples decorated with marigold-chains. At the ancient holy centres of Kathmandu the tourist groups dawdle, admiring the craftmanships, shooting pictures of sweet kids hanging on the corners, staring on as the holy sadhus wander around, wrapped in clothes of orange and red and warm yellow, and with their faces painted in decorative and startling patterns.

It is Dashain-festival time, the biggest Hindu festival in Nepal, and the sadhus have been busy giving out their blessings - I have seen them on the streets, spreading flowers and incense wafts over children and bicycles and tuk-tuks, and getting some coins in return. As I stand looking down at the large Pashupatinath temple area - one of the most visited pilgrimage sites by Shiva-followers from all over the Indian subcontinent - one sadhu decides that I must be in need of a blessing on this Dashain-day. Before I know it I have a large teeka in my forehead, and some special leaves behind my ear, "for long life".

A bit taken aback, I pay him my dues and walk on, not quite sure what to think. I get the strangest looks - I think I might as well have written STUPID TOURIST all over my forehead. I leave it on for a while, but then try to take it off in the end, in secret, not quite knowing whether it is gone or if there are still marks of red there, telling everyone that I've been messing with my teeka. I don't know which I prefer the least: being tourist-wannabe-hindu or tourist-consecrates-holy-blessing-sign. Sigh, I tried them both.

Just downhill from my viewpoint over Pashupatinath runs the holy Bagmati river. For a Hindu it is an honour to be cremated on the banks of this river. In 2001, after the royal palace massacre, the bodies og the king and queen, princess and prince were burned here, and pictures went worldwide of the rituals that followed, colourful and mystical and teeming with oriental fantasies. One of Nepal's celebrated writers, Manjushree Thapa, recalls how Kathmandu sat in shock at what they feared was a coup in disguise, while international media were drawn in by scenes of a priest on an elephant, crossing the Bagmati rive, wearing the king's old glasses.

What pictures come out of Nepal? What do they say of the everyday lives of people living in a frail democracy? I suspect that my camera will continue to take in what it finds exotic, itching, charming. Still, I hope that some everyday people shine through. Nepal is not all about royal elephants.

The web album is here - welcome to have a look.

oh, and maybe I'll get to telling about what I'm supposed to be doing here soon, as well.