Chapter 1 | Contents | Chapter 3
It is said that this land used to be at the bottom of a lake.
According to mythology, when Sakyamuni was born, one of the gods split a mountain to celebrate the occasion. Water flowed out from from the lake, leaving behind a fertile land, on which the city of Kathmandu was built. It is a fact that Kathmandu Valley used to be at the bottom of a lake, and fossils of freshwater fish can apparently be excavated there.
Ironically, while checking into the lodge, the young proprietress had reminded me multiple times, “Please do not use too much water.” Kathmandu was suffering from a water shortage. Nepal’s national water supply was insufficient to meet the needs of the nearly 700,000 residents of Kathmandu. Thus the people living in the city that was once at the bottom of a lake had to buy water from water tankers.
I wiped my face with a wet towel. My reflection was in the mirror that had all four corners turned yellowish-brown. Probably due to a few days of grueling travel, my long black hair was frizzy, and faint dark circles had appeared under my eyes that people often said were glaring at them. My thin lips were dry, and looked to be cracking. I applied some lip balm and did the bare minimum to get myself ready.
Tokyo Lodge was built on the outskirts of Jhochhen Tole where lots of other cheap hotels were gathered, in the middle of a narrow street, without any signage. It was in an inconvenient location, didn’t get much sunlight, and the room was suffocatingly cramped. Even so, I liked this lodge after spending one night in it.
Judging by the cracks in the ceiling and walls, there was no doubt that this building wasn’t the best in terms of quality. However, the bed’s springs were neither too hard nor too soft, and the sheets were cleanly washed. While the plumping looked like it had been used for a long time, there didn’t seem to be any limescale buildup in the pipes. There was even a telephone, though I didn’t know if it was connected to the outside. More importantly, it had beautiful window frames. The windows were made of wood, with a fine, diagonal lattice, and each intersection of the lattice featured delicate carvings of plants or geometric patterns, which added a great deal of charm to the small room. Even the old, dark spots felt somewhat charming.
I closed such a window that had been left open. Next, I drew the vertically-striped curtains, causing the room to be enveloped in a humid, dim atmosphere. I then wore the sling bag I’d flung onto the table. Suddenly realizing that I should check if I had my passport, I opened the zipper of the bag’s inner compartment, and took out a red passport.
It bore the name TACHIARAI MACHI. Issued in 2001, it had expired1, but I’d had it renewed just last month. The photo wasn’t flattering, and depicted me staring at the camera with an unmistakably cold look.
Then again, I’d been told more times than I could count that my eyes were cold, even when I was being seen by the eyes of people, and not just in front of a camera lens.
Tokyo Lodge was a four-story building.
The buildings in this city were not tall. Even the private residences rose up to three or four stories high. Compared to the surrounding buildings, Tokyo Lodge was neither especially short nor tall.
The first floor contained a cozy little lobby. Considering the depth of the building, there should still be quite a lot more space, so it probably also included the owner’s residence. Guest rooms were located on the second and third floors. The dining hall was on the fourth. The stairs were made of wood.
I climbed the creaking and groaning stairs, rotating my neck as I went. The bed was comfortable to sleep in, but the pillow didn’t suit me, so my neck was hurting a little.
A ray of light entered my vision. The windows of the dining hall were wide open, letting in sunlight and dry wind. The walls were sky blue. Paint had peeled away here and there, revealing patches of white beneath. Whether it was the undercoat or the plaster itself, I couldn’t tell. It looked like a cluster of clouds to me.
In the gentle backlight, there were two people who had arrived before me.
One of them was a bald man whose body was clothed in a dusty yellow robe. He was sitting on a folding chair, with his left hand on a round table. His right hand was holding a mug, which he was slowly bringing to his mouth. That yellow robe was probably a kasaya2. He looked like the very picture of a Buddhist monk. He had a dark, sun-tanned complexion, and I noticed that his arm peeking out of the loose-fitting fabric was covered in muscles.
How old was he? Any number from 35 to 55 seemed possible. Since he was at a lodge catering to foreign tourists, he likely wasn’t Nepalese, but I couldn’t tell where he was from. I wondered if he was Thai, but rather than a hunch, it felt more like I was jumping to that conclusion due to his bald head and kasaya. He took a glance in my direction, but then continued drinking from his mug, as if he hadn’t noticed me.
The other person was the complete opposite.
“Hey!”
Out of the blue, he called out to me.
“You’re the one who checked in yesterday, right? This place is great! How many days are you staying?”
It was English, in a voice so bright it sounded artificial. The young man with white skin that had turned red from UV rays turned at me with a smile that also seemed manufactured. His hair was black, but looking closely, it had a slight brown tint. He was wearing a solid dark green shirt and denim pants. While he wasn’t actually thin, my first impression was that he had a slender figure. He looked to be in his early twenties. Then again, I had no experience in deducing the age of white people, so I wasn’t confident about that estimate. In a playful manner, he raised the corners of his lips.
“C’mon, don’t glare at me like that! Or maybe you don’t speak English? Namaste3!”
“I can understand English.”
I added another line, even though I knew it would be useless.
“Also, I’m not glaring at you.”
“That so?”
Once again, the edges of his lips curled upwards.
“Doesn’t look like it, but if you say so! Anyway, I’ve come to like this country quite a bit, but there are some practices I don’t really appreciate. One of them is how the people here don’t eat breakfast. If you’ve come all the way up here looking for food and not just milk tea, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
A sharp observation. I nodded. Indeed, I’d come up here looking to get something to eat, but didn’t know that this lodge didn’t serve breakfast. Come to think of it, I hadn’t received an explanation about breakfast while checking in.
“I’ve been here for two days already, and I’ve found a few food shops that open in the morning. So, shall we go together? You’ll get a meal without any trouble, and I… well, it’ll be a fun experience for me.”
His words seemed a little flippant, but I realized that it was probably just his way of trying to enjoy his trip, which was quite amusing.
“Sounds good.”
This time, he let out a natural grin.
“That’s great! Let’s go, then!”
As we were about to leave the dining room, the other man turned around. I was about to ask him to join if he was interested, but he still had a blank look on his face. His attitude seemed to say, “It’s none of my business,” but perhaps he simply didn’t understand English.
After exiting, we went down the stairs. The young man introduced himself in the gloom.
“I’m Robert Foxwell. Nice to meet you!”
“Tachiarai Machi. Nice to meet you too.”
He scratched his head.
“Tachi… what was it again?”
“Tachiarai, Machi.”
“What should I call you?”
“Machi.”
For some reason, I had never been called Tachiarai before, even though I didn’t think it was too long to pronounce, with only five syllables. The young man seemed especially cheerful.
“Machi, huh? It has a strange ring to it. Very oriental.”
“Really?”
“And please, call me Rob.”
We descended from the third floor to the second. For no reason at all, I counted the number of rooms from the edges of my eyes. There looked to be four rooms each on the second and third floors, making eight in total. There might be a few rooms on the first and fourth floors, but in any case, it was a small lodge. I couldn’t imagine that Rob, the monk, and I were the only guests, but the rooms were silent as we moved down the stairs.
We went all the way down to the lobby. The sunlight sparsely streaming in through a grille caused spots to appear on the intricately patterned carpet. There was no one at the front desk, which was enclosed by plywood-like panels. At the entrance were metal double doors, painted green with a tinge of sky-blue. The small windows on the doors were fitted with iron bars. Just as I grabbed the handle, Rob piped up.
“Ah, whoops. I forgot my wallet.”
I looked into his face.
“You’ve been traveling like this?”
“Course not!”
I’d meant it as a joke, but Rob didn’t take it that way. A red flush rose onto his face.
“I’ll go grab it real quick. Wait for me outside, okay?”
He then bolted up the stairs in one go, as if that would restore his honor.
I’d teased this young man too much, when I was probably close to ten years his senior. At the very least, I should follow his suggestion to wait outside.
The narrow alley was still not lit by the sun, though I could see the light-colored sky if I looked up. With an elevation of 1,300 meters, Kathmandu was supposed to be close to the sky, but I couldn’t really feel it based on the sky’s color. It didn’t seem that much different from the sky I could see at Tokyo or Nagoya. Or perhaps I simply hadn’t really looked at the sky back in Tokyo.
As I smelled the earthy scent of dry soil, I closed the door, and leaned against the brick wall of Tokyo Lodge.
I had only one spare pair of the chino pants I was wearing right now. If push comes to shove, I could just buy a random pair of pants, but I still didn’t want to get these dirty. Thus I sandwiched my hands between my pants and the wall. The cool, hard surface felt pleasant to the touch.
“Hello.”
While looking upward aimlessly, I heard a voice call out to me from below and off to one side. I turned my gaze down.
It was a kid with a darkish face. His wavy black hair curled upward only above his right ear. There was an bright smile on his lips, his facial features were well-proportioned and could even be considered adorable, but his eyes greatly betrayed his childlikeness. They seemed dark, and resolute.
The boy had one hand around his back, and I had an idea as to why. He’d come over to sell me something. But the words that followed his English “Hello” made my eyes widen in astonishment. He undoubtedly spoke in Japanese, though some parts of it were broken.
“Hello. You are Japanese, right?”
He brought his right hand to the front. As expected, in it was a small object, but I hadn’t thought about what exactly it would be. The item he held out was a charcoal-colored ammonite.
“This is very rare. Perfect to remember Nepal. All Japanese buy this. Just 200 rupees4. It is cheap. It is rare.”
The stone seemed to have been wiped clean of soil, and its surface was smooth. It wasn’t big for an ammonite, but also wasn’t small enough to fit in a pocket.
“All Japanese like this. All Japanese buy one.”
He emphasized that phrase repeatedly, as if someone had taught him to use it as a clincher for his sales pitch. However, I didn’t feel like buying a farewell souvenir on what was effectively my first day here, especially when I didn’t know exactly how many days I would be staying.
“I’m about to go eat.”
I replied in Japanese, causing the kid to fall silent for just a moment, but he immediately continued trying to push the fossil onto me.
“180 rupees. Very very cheap.”
He probably wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. That was what I initially thought, but then I realized that he might not understand anything other than the Japanese words and phrases he’d memorized. Just in case, I also spoke in English.
“I’m about to go eat.”
Unexpectedly, it worked. The boy shrugged his shoulders casually.
“OK.”
He then cradled the fossil in his hands as if it were a precious item. With another broad smile, he turned his back to me and ran away down the street. I’d assumed he would keep pushing me to buy the ammonite. I grinned while watching his retreating figure.
The lodge’s front door opened outward, and Rob came out. As if trying to emphasize that he hadn’t forgotten his money on purpose, he waved his thin wallet next to his face.
“Sorry. Let’s go, then.”
Perhaps wondering why I was looking down the street, he asked while looking in the same direction as me.
“Is there something over there?”
“No, nothing. I’m hungry.”
“Me too. Don’t worry, it’s not far.”
The two of us walked side-by-side. He walked quickly, and talked about himself cheerfully.
Robert Foxwell was a twenty-year-old American. He was apparently studying at some university in California, but didn’t mention its name, probably thinking that I wouldn’t know it. According to him, he was an exceptional student, but on a whim, which was common for him, he decided to take a leave of absence from his school and start journeying overseas as a backpacker. He started at Turkey, before going to Saudi Arabia, India, and then Nepal. He seemed joyful when he said, “I believe that what American education lacks can be found in the East.” Regardless of whether he was able to make up for the cultural gaps of his home country, it was clear that he himself felt a great sense of satisfaction from his journey.
“I’d like to visit Japan some day. I hear it’s a very safe country.”
“Yeah, please do.”
“If there’s anywhere in Japan you think I should see, tell me. I’ll plan my trip around it.”
“Let’s see… I don’t really know why myself, but Tokyo Tower was the first that came to mind.”
“I know Tokyo. There’s a tower?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t wait to see it!”
While chatting like this, we passed through the alley where Tokyo Lodge was located. We then walked along a wider street, before finally arriving at a plaza. In this city, some intersections open out into plazas called choks or chowks. We’d entered one of these chowks.
I checked my wristwatch. It had been set to Nepal time, and showed that it was half past eight in the morning. Even at this time, the chowk was already packed. In one corner stood a three-storied pagoda, seven or eight meters tall, and could easily be mistaken for one from Nara. In another corner was a shrine so big that it almost looked like a small temple. In the space between them, fabric merchants had laid out their goods indiscriminately, enough to cover those buildings. There were also pot salesmen and flower vendors, as well as shops with pots and frying pans strung up along their walls.
I was awestruck by the way the goods were stacked and the palpable excitement in the air. Noticing that, Rob smirked proudly.
“Cool, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. But we can shop later. Now let’s have breakfast, as agreed.”
We passed through the chowk and went into another alley. Wooden boxes had piled up near its entrance, each one of them packed full of Coke bottles.
That was Rob’s destination.
There was a small food stall set up under the eaves of a shop. A young woman was frying doughnuts in a pot on a stove. Looking closely, they were somewhat thinner than doughnuts, and weren’t actually connected in a full circle. Noticing my gaze, Rob enlightened me.
“Those are called sel roti.”
The fragrance of cinnamon, mixed with the smell of hot oil, wafted into the air.
Even as I watched, pedestrians kept buying them one after another. Food seemed to also be sold in the building, but it was quite dim inside. Two of the six tables had customers sitting there. Compared to the roaring trade being done at the food stall, the shop was quiet. I thought we would be eating in front of the shop, but Rob entered the shop without hesitation. After pulling out a chair from a table in the middle, I sat down near its front, let my body rest on its back, and crossed my legs.
Rob raised a hand and spoke in English to a man sporting an impressive beard.
“Give us what they’re having.”
The man who seemed to be a waiter nodded. So you can get by with English in this country.
I looked over at the other table to see what they were eating. On thin metallic plates were flat pieces of bread that looked like naan. Another small bowl was practically overflowing with vegetable stew. I spotted some beans in the bowl, but I couldn’t tell what else there were from this distance.
A man tore off a bite-sized piece of the bread, dipped it in the stew, and put it into his mouth. Just when I thought that was how to eat the dish, I observed another man eating the bread and stew separately, so it could probably be eaten in any way. Both of them ate proficiently with their hands. I wasn’t exactly captivated, but as I continued spying on the two men eating, Rob asked a question.
“So, Machi, why did you come here?”
He smiled cheerfully.
“Let me guess, for sightseeing? You’re like me, a college student from Japan, and you came here to seek some fresh experiences. How’s that?”
Influenced by his words and smile, my lips relaxed. Rob leaned forward.
“There, you’re finally smiling! I was starting to think that you can’t smile.”
“I do smile if I’m having fun, and just to be clear, I’m not in a bad mood. I hope my stiff expression hasn’t made you uncomfortable.”
“Of course not! I just thought it looked oriental. So, what was so funny that made you smile?”
Seeing his innocent demeanor, I found myself uncharacteristically tempted to tease him and say, “Nothing at all”. But on second thoughts, that would just be foolish pride.
“That you said I’m a student.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m not even the age to be a student. I think you have a serious misjudgment about my age. I’m 28.”
“28?”
“Yep.”
Rob cast a probing gaze at me. He seemed torn between laughing or being surprised, but before it could tilt in one expression’s favor, a waiter brought over plates of food for two. It was the combination of bread and vegetable stew the other table was having, exactly as we’d ordered. When the food was placed before my eyes, the aroma of spices drifted up.
Rob shrugged.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking, but let’s leave that for later. Breakfast is here.”
“As you wish.”
He then raised a hand to get the waiter’s attention.
“Spoons, please.”
Two spoons were immediately delivered to us. With food in front of me, I remembered how famished I was. Putting my hands together, I said, “Thanks for the food” in Japanese while Rob grinned, likely thinking that it was a very Oriental practice.
The stew was a dark, cloudy green, and did not look very appetizing. But after trying one spoonful, I found the taste quite familiar, which was strange. The beans turned out to be lentils, and there was also a small amount of carrots. Some off-white vegetable made up the bulk of the stew, but I couldn’t remember what it was called. I’d certainly eaten that vegetable in Japan before, though.
It was mainly salty, with the spices adding some flavor like dashi5 does. It was a simple yet delightful taste. However, it was also a little salty, and caused me to unintentionally mutter in Japanese.
“Makes me want some rice.”
“Huh?”
Rob raised his head.
“Machi, what did you just say?”
“In Japanese, that means ‘very delicious’.”
“I see. Can you say it again?”
As requested, I repeated the phrase a few times, and Rob awkwardly mimicked it.
Eventually, he improved to the point that he could say what barely sounded like “Makes me want some rice” in Japanese, so I praised him with a “Good job.” That caused him to beam with childlike excitement.
The flatbread had something like butter spread on its surface, but tasted bland. All I could say was that it tasted of wheat. I didn’t think it was delicious, but I could eat it every day without getting tired of it. I ate half of it without adding anything, and ate the other half with the stew.
Rob suddenly stopped scooping stew with his spoon and spoke.
“I generally like this country, but there are some things I can’t appreciate.”
I looked up, urging him to carry on.
“For example, this soup and bread.”
“There’s something you don’t like about it?”
“I’m fine with the taste, but I’m a little dissatisfied. Machi, did you notice?”
As I remained silent, Rob seemed to straighten his back slightly, then put down his spoon and lifted his bread up to eye level.
“Both of them have gone lukewarm. They’re neither cold nor hot. I can understand the bread being like that, but why is soup being served lukewarm?”
“I thought Americans aren’t picky about food.”
“That’s a stereotype, though it’s kinda true. But I’m different. I want to eat hot things hot and cold things cold. It’s not just this shop, Machi. I’ve been in this country since two days ago, and I don’t think I’ve had anything cold or hot.”
While listening to him, I scooped up some stew with my spoon, and put a piece of the off-white vegetable into my mouth. That was when I finally realized. It was radish, or at least something with similar taste and texture. I never thought I would have radish stew in Nepal.
“Normal travelers might not be particular about the temperature of their food, but I just don’t want to overlook anything, y’know?”
I quietly pointed at the people eating the same breakfast as us on the next table. Rob looked in the direction I was pointing at, but seemed puzzled, apparently not having seen the connection.
“We might use spoons, but they use their hands. That seems to be the norm in this country.”
“Yeah, of course, I know that. I want to try it some time, but I can’t bring myself to do it yet.”
Rob looked at me quizzically, as if asking, “So what?”
After a little hesitation, I picked up one of the few remaining vegetables in the bowl and took a bite. After having the thought that the off-white vegetable was similar to radish, I couldn’t help but think that it was indeed radish.
“If the soup is served hot, customers might burn their fingers. That’s probably the reason why everything is served lukewarm.”
Rob’s face stiffened.
Considering the transient relationships that travel brings, perhaps I should have just said, “You’re right,” and left his little observation at that. But thanks to him bringing me to this shop, I managed to get some breakfast. Offering a different perspective on his opinion was meant as thanks for that.
But he might not have taken it that way.
There was a bit of a fuss when it was time to settle the bill.
The cost of this breakfast was really cheap, but the clerk did not allow Rob and I to pay separately. To be precise, rather than not allowing us to do that, it seemed like they didn’t understand why we needed to do so. Setting aside the roaring business under the shop’s eaves, the interior was still almost empty, so it wasn’t because they were busy. Splitting the bill was simply not normal in this country.
While I knew it wasn’t a big sum of money, I felt like treating him to breakfast because he was a student. On the other hand, Rob, who had apparently taken it to heart when I teased him about forgetting his wallet, insisted on paying and wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t something worth a long argument, so I let him pay, and handed him some coins outside. He didn’t refuse.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, so too did the chowk become even more lively. Clay pots and vibrantly-colored cloths were literally stacked in mountains, and it was so crowded that we were practically bumping into bearded men and women in saris, though I couldn’t tell if they were just window shopping or were actually here to buy something. A two-wheeled vehicle pulled by a bicycle was heading in our direction while cutting a path through the crowd. Amid the clamor of haggling, the melancholy sound of a stringed instrument drifted in from somewhere.
We’d only passed this place once, but I’d made a conscious effort to memorize the route, so we wouldn’t get lost. As we headed to the alley where Tokyo Lodge was built, Rob spoke.
“I’ll take a quick look around here.”
Sensing that he was embarrassed by our exchange at the store, I considered saying something to him, but in the end, I just nodded and watched him leave. I thought of also taking a look at the street stalls, but since I hadn’t planned on staying out for long, I was a little concerned about my light attire. I wanted to wear something with long sleeves to protect myself from the sun and dust. More importantly, I hadn’t even opened my luggage. Thus I decided to head back for now.
The alleys that could be seen from the chowk were all fairly busy, but the number of people dwindled as I got closer to Tokyo Lodge, as if it were all an illusion. I could no longer see men wearing black hats and elderly women kneeling and praying in front of shrines. However, I realized that I could still hear the melody of a stringed instrument. It was as if the musician had followed me here from the chowk, but listening closely, I found that the music was coming from a building.
The lodge came into view. A boy was leaning against a wall in front of the double doors and eating something. As I drew closer, I noticed that he was eating some sort of fried bread. It was the boy who had tried to sell me ammonite this morning.
So he’d been lying in wait for me. Recognizing me, the boy stuffed his half-eaten bread into a pocket and sauntered over. Like earlier, he started talking to me in Japanese.
“Hello, Japanese person. Have you eaten?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it tasty?”
I’d assumed he would give me a combination of Japanese set phrases he’d memorized, so I was surprised that he asked me a question. I nodded and answered slowly.
“It was tasty.”
“That’s good.”
He grinned. Small teeth poked out of his mouth. They were surprisingly white and straight.
The boy stuck his hand into the pocket opposite of the one he’d placed the fried bread into, and again produced the ammonite from earlier.
“I changed my mind. 150 rupees. I won’t earn anything. But you will be happy. All Japanese like this. Nepal is between mountains, but we have fossils of shells. Mysterious, isn’t it? Very popular with Japanese.”
He now had a variety of persuasive phrases in Japanese. It was somewhat endearing. I did have a favorable impression of him for his graciousness in stopping the sales pitch when I said I was going to eat. I leaned forward.
“You were here earlier, so is this your turf?”
I asked in Japanese, but only got a quizzical look in return. I was about to repeat the question in English, but this time I couldn’t find the word for “turf”. In the end, the question ended up becoming a vague one.
“Is this your place?”
The boy also switched to English, but since my question had strayed from its original intent, his answer wasn’t very useful.
“Me? Yep, I was born in Kathmandu.”
“I see.”
His “Kathmandu” sounded more like “Kartmanroo”.
“Ammonite. 150 rupees.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t need the ammonite.”
“No problem. All Japanese like this. It is popular.”
I didn’t know who taught him to say all that, but he was just repeating phrases along the lines of, “If you’re Japanese, you’ll like this.” While I was irritated, I felt more sorry for the boy, which caused a slip of the tongue.
“I don’t need that fossil. Do you have anything else to recommend to me?”
“Recommend…”
He seemed to understand my words, and it didn’t seem like he wasn’t willing to listen. Even so, he starting holding the ammonite out to me, but retracted it.
“I don’t know how to recommend anything to you. I don’t know you.”
“Ah, you’re right.”
I only now realized that I’d said something quite impudent, akin to asking a bartender to make a cocktail in my image without having interacted with them before. It would be bad of me to waste this boy’s time if I had no intention of buying from him. With that thought, I was about to turn away, when he asked a question.
“Tell me your name.”
“My name?”
“So I can find something to recommend to you.”
Either this area was his turf, or he lived nearby. I would run into him quite often here. His pushiness and use of set phrases made me have no interest in buying the fossil, but if he were to find something for me, that could be fairly interesting.
I placed a hand on my chest.
“Tachiarai.”
The kid gave me a confused look.
“Ta…?”
“Tachiarai.”
“Tachiarai.”
“Correct.”
Once again, the boy smiled, showing his small teeth.
“Tachiarai. I understand.”
He then also placed a hand on his chest.
“Sagar.”
“That’s your name, right?”
“Yes. Sagar will find something to recommend to Tachiarai.”
With that line, Sagar scurried off. While watching his retreating figure, I rotated my neck, which was still sore from a bad sleeping position, then opened the doors to Tokyo Lodge.
It was then that a thought suddenly struck me.
How did Sagar know that I was Japanese?
After returning to my room and locking the door, I opened my travel bag.
I’d rushed over to this city without really making any preparations to speak of. Even so, the dark brown Boston bag was packed efficiently. I’d really gotten the hang of packing over the last few years.
The bag contained very little clothing. Besides what I was currently wearing, there was only a shirt, a pair of pants, and a cardigan. That was because I could buy some if necessary. As for undergarments, I’d packed plenty of them. After all, they would be directly touching my skin, so bringing them from Japan would allow me to not be worried about skin irritation, and on top of that, they were comfortable to wear.
I’d also brought along pain relievers, disinfectants, and other medications I was used to taking. The cash was from the money exchange at the airport yesterday. I’d gone through the guidebook on this city in Japan and memorized it, but decided to bring it, just in case. Additionally, I’d cut off the street map that came with the guidebook and packed it in my sling bag. Besides that, there was also a ball-point pen, a highlighter, and a notebook. I could have bought these things anywhere in Kathmandu, but since they would be used for work, having ones that fit well in my hand would be preferable.
Next, I checked my equipment, which included a digital camera, a voice recorder, binoculars, a planner, letter paper, batteries and a compass. After removing a voltage converter and plug adapter from the bag, I paused the sorting of my belongings to pick up the digital camera and stroke it. What kind of photos would I take in this city?
I spread out my belongings, placing them in the room where I would be able to easily find them, and hung my clothes in the closet. After that, I transferred the cash into my sling bag, and split the medicine into those for bringing out and those for keeping in the room. With all the reorganization done, I tidied up my appearance, and found that almost one hour had passed.
I didn’t really have an idea of what to do next. As I was wondering if I should revisit the bazaar from earlier, I looked up at the ceiling, and a loud voice reached my ears. It was the angry yelling of a man, and I could tell that it was from within the lodge. Though a little hesitant, I decided to check it out. Just in case, I put on my sling bag which now contained all my valuables.
I opened the door and peeked to the left and right. No one was in the corridor. It seemed that Rob was still at the bazaar. I couldn’t hear it very clearly from my room, but there were some things I could tell about the language the yelling was in. At the very least, it was not Japanese, English, or Chinese. It was likely Nepalese. Though they were speaking in a harsh, rapid-fire manner, their voice was slightly high-pitched and smooth.
Eventually, I realized that the yelling belonged to one person, so it wasn’t a quarrel. I placed a foot on the staircase and quietly shifted my weight forward.
After going down three or four steps, I could see a man in a corner of the lobby, shrugging as if to say that there was nothing to be done. As I thought, he was alone. I’d wondered if the person he was talking to had a voice that was too soft that it couldn’t reach the second floor, but that was not the case. He’d been roaring into the telephone.
The man’s face came into view.
His dark, sun-tanned face had the deep-set features typical of people from South Asia. While his lips were twisted and his eyebrows furrowed in anger, his facial features were undeniably handsome. He was clad in a white shirt and black slacks, and his curly hair was trimmed short. His narrow face had no facial hair, and his clean-cut appearance felt quite out of place in Tokyo Lodge, a cheap place of accommodation in the outskirts of Kathmandu.
The telephone seemed to be an amenity of the lodge that I’d not noticed before. My room did have a telephone, but if someone went out to the lobby to make a call, it probably meant that the telephones in each room were not connected to the outside.
As I had that aimless thought, the man’s head suddenly swiveled around, though I didn’t know how he’d noticed me. We made eye contact. The dark-skinned man must have naturally realized that I’d been watching him.
He said a few words to the person on the other side of the telephone line, before facing me with a smile. It was a refreshing smile, with all traces of rage erased from his face, which I found to be pretty impressive.
“Hey, sorry about that.”
He spoke in English.
“Do you want to use the telephone? I am in the middle of business negotiations right now, so it will take a little while longer.”
“No.”
“If I knew it would drag on for this long, I would have used a mobile phone no matter how expensive it may be. There is a phone shop on the way to Indra Chowk. You can go there if you are in a hurry.”
“That’s very kind of you. Don’t worry about it.”
He grinned at me again, then returned to his phone call. He immediately began hurling harsh words into the receiver, but his tone was gentler than before.
Having a phone was indeed important. Just as I would check the emergency exits when staying at a guesthouse for the first time, I had to secure methods of communication. The telephone at the lodge could apparently make international calls, but I needed to prepare another method, just to be on the safe side.
Having made that decision, I didn’t need to return to my room, and instead slipped past the man while his back was turned.
Indra Chowk is an especially famous area in this city. That name was written in bold characters on the simplified map that can be found in the lodge’s rooms, as well as the map in my sling bag. Even if I got a little lost, I wouldn’t worry about not being able to get there.
June is the rainy season in Kathmandu. However, the weather was clear today, and with the sun high in the sky, the air was dry. Before I knew it, dust was swirling in the alley. If I looked down a street, I would see that it was shrouded in a faint yellow haze, though that haze would disappear whenever I tried to see it up close. Saying that I was smelling the earthy scent of soil sounded good, but this dustiness was actually dangerous. Being in this environment everyday would destroy anyone’s throat. I felt that some of that gritty dust had gotten into my mouth, making me want to gargle.
According to the map, Jhochhen Tole, where Tokyo Lodge was located, was not even a kilometer from Indra Chowk. To begin with, Kathmandu was a small city, with most of its population of 700,000 packed within a five-kilometer radius. I was walking to find a phone shop, though I didn’t know what kind of shop it was. At the very least, it would probably be different from a public payphone.
Shops were scattered among the houses lining both sides of the street, and before I noticed the boundary, the area around me had turned into a bazaar. The first floor of a building was open to the public, selling carpets, clothes, hats, buckets, detergent, washbasins, tea, spices, flowers, and all sorts of other things. While there were many women in traditional clothing, I observed that men were often dressed in polo shirts and jeans. The air was filled with the constant cries of vendors and customers haggling. I could also hear the tolling of a bell from somewhere.
In the midst of that, I spotted a sign placed on the street, with the words “STD” written on it. Though every other store had merchandise piled up in front of their shops, there was nothing for sale around that sign. I peeked through the shop’s narrow entrance to see a young man with deeply tanned skin letting out a big yawn, and two white telephones next to him. That would be the phone shop.
“Hello.”
I called out to the man in English, but he still continued yawning to his heart’s content before putting on a business smile.
“Good afternoon. Are you here for a phone?”
“Yeah. Is this a phone shop?”
“Yes. We are the cheapest in this area.”
The telephones there were push-button telephones, with instructions written in English. I couldn’t find anywhere to insert coins. They looked like the normal phones a private home would have.
Probably noticing my confusion, the shopkeeper cheerfully explained to me.
“Tell me the number you want to call. I’ll operate the phone.”
“I understand how to use the phone, but how do I pay?”
In response, the man stuck a hand into his pocket, then proudly brandished a stopwatch.
“Five rupees for five minutes.”
The exchange rate was approximately one yen to one rupee. Five yen for five minutes felt too good to be true.
“That’s for calls within Nepal, right?”
“Yes. You want to make an international call?”
“Yeah.”
Not letting the smile on his face drop at all, the shopkeeper spoke.
“We only have domestic calls and internet access. If you want a store that can make international calls, look for a sign that says, ‘ISTD’.”
“Internet?”
I wouldn’t be surprised if the internet was widespread in Kathmandu, but I never thought that you could rent a line at a street corner. The shopkeeper drew himself up proudly.
“Yes. Our connection is secure. It can even compare to the shops on New Road. You want to use it?”
“No… I was just a little surprised.”
The shopkeeper still maintained his ingratiating smile.
“I see. Travelers usually say that. But how about making a phone call while you’re here?”
Were all Nepalese jokes like this? I declined with a smile.
I left the shop and stood amidst the crowd.
Well, I’d somehow ended up in Kathmandu. So, I decided to enjoy the city’s atmosphere before slowly returning to Tokyo Lodge.
There, Sagar was leaning against a red brick wall, waiting for me.
Our eyes met, prompting Sagar to slowly shift his back away from the wall.
When trying to sell me the ammonite in the morning, he’d looked like an innocent kid. The second time we met, he’d seemed like a merchant.
Now, on our third meeting, his well-defined features sported a brazenness that indicated his confidence. The gleam in his eyes was different, but I didn’t think that he’d changed as a human being. He’d simply been acting like a poor, guiltless local kid in the morning, so that he would be fawned on by tourists. He apparently didn’t feel the need for that now.
I’d noticed that Sagar’s right hand was hiding something. How old was he? Judging by his height, he should be around ten years old, but he was probably slightly older than that. At the very least, I didn’t think the look in his eyes to be childlike or innocent.
“I recommend this to Tachiarai.”
With that line, he put out his right hand.
It was holding a knife, in its sheath.
The knife was curved like a saber, and the length of its blade was 12 to 13 centimeters. Including the handle, it was almost 30 centimers long. The blade was wide, so it looked like a nata6.
“That’s a kukri, right?”
That is a dagger mainly used by Gurkhas, who reside in Nepal.
“Yep.”
Sagar held the kukri with his left hand, and drew it from its sheath to reveal a metallic luster. The kukri’s tip was sharp, and its glossy black hilt and sheath were adorned with gold patterns that were intricate and looked like elephant eyes. Without touching it, I couldn’t tell what is was made of. It could very well be a plastic toy.
When I reached out towards it, Sagar put it back in its sheath and bluntly spoke, with no intention of handing it to me.
“Four hundred rupees.”
“That’s pretty steep.”
“Because, I recommend this to you.”
It wasn’t just his countenance that had changed. So too had the intonation of his English. He could have been more fluent, but now he seemed to be deliberately speaking in a halting manner. That was likely another part of his strategy to sell souvenirs.
“Why do you recommend this?”
Sagar raised the corners of his mouth.
“Tachiarai. Tachi means blade in Japanese, right? So I recommend a blade. I’m confident that I chose a good one. Some other shops make it badly, you know?”
He pinpointed the one connection between a kukri and me. I was surprised, but at the same time, I’d kind of expected it.
“Also, the kukri is a good luck charm in this country. It can ward off evil spirits.”
“Really?”
“Of course not, that is a lie. But not bad as a memento for your trip, right? I found this for you. 380 rupees.”
I let out a sigh. His reasoning made sense.
“You got me, Sagar.”
I took my wallet out of my sling bag.
The game of haggling was not in my favor. I intended to buy the kukri, and Sagar knew that. I thought it was worth at most 200 rupees, but in the end, I paid Sagar 350 rupees for his efforts.
“Thanks.”
With that one word, Sagar left. After watching him for a while, I entered the lodge. The man in the white shirt seemed to have ended his call, and there was no one in the lobby. I studied the kukri in my hand. I’d suspected the sheath to be made of plastic, but it turned out to be the horn of some animal. The golden elephant eye pattern was also not just painted on, but was properly carved into the sheath and hilt.
I put my hand on the door to room 202, but suddenly remembered something, so I let go and instead went up the stairs. It was completely silent in the lodge. There should be someone going into the rooms to clean them up, but it was evidently a little too early for that. Perhaps I’d grown so accustomed to the hustle and bustle outside that it became hard for me to hear small sounds.
I went up to the third floor, and then the fourth. The dining hall with its walls painted sky blue had the same composition as it had in the morning.
A monk-like man clad in a kasaya was holding a mug. Like in the morning, he glanced over when he noticed me standing in the doorway, but soon quietly returned his gaze to his mug.
I faced him and spoke in Japanese.
“Good afternoon.”
The man slowly turned his head towards me. Set beneath thick eyebrows, his clear, dark eyes caught mine.
His expression softened in a twinkle.
“Yes, good afternoon.”
His words had a slight Kansai7 accent to them.
The person who had taught Sagar the meaning of “Tachiarai” was undoubtedly this man.
Chapter 1 | Contents | Chapter 3
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- Probably a mistake by Yonezawa, I would assume it was issued in 1996; there’s no way a passport issued in 2001 would expire in 2001.
- The traditional, patched robe worn by ordained Buddhist monks and nuns.
- Literally translated from Sanskrit as “I bow to you.”
- Roughly 4.25 USD in 2001, which translates to about 8 USD now.
- Stock used in Japanese cuisine.
- A traditional Japanese hybrid tool that functions as a heavy-duty utility knife, machete, and light hatchet. It features a straight, thick spine with a single- or double-bevel flat blade.
- Central-southern region of Honshu that includes Kyoto, Osaka, Nara.