Kat Out of the Bag Chapter Four By Steve Rudd

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9.

Kathmandu is both toxic and intoxicating. As soon as you get there you want to leave, to escape the evil wrath of smog that clogs the arteries and stifles all sense of being. Like most cities in the Third World, nothing can prepare any naive Westerner for touchdown in a foreign land such as Nepal.

As exhilarating as Kathmandu still is (and has been since the swinging sixties, when the city became a cultural Mecca for tripped-out hippies who were sick to their broken back teeth with Western-fed consumerism and day-to-day routine) I was desperate to get up into the mountains, north of the city, in order to go trekking. So that's where I headed, laden with one hefty rucksack and a clear mind swimming with emotionally rejuvenating thoughts. I was, for only the second time in the twenty-four years that I'd passively misspent on this planet, truly at peace. The concept of time fast becomes totally irrelevant the further one ventures away from civilisation, from the technology-run world, from those people who worship time and allow it to rule their lives as though some reward might be granted them in return for being a slave to the clock or the watch.

In the mountains, the only concept that needs to be addressed is space related. Lofty peaks older than time itself whisper tall tales about the types of people who have lived in their shadow over the years. Ghost stories haunt the most innocent places, as religion dominates the valleys. The skies. The hearts and the minds.

But I remained indifferent to such an explosive culture shock. I was still effectively a tourist, seeing the sights and haggling hard for sultry souvenirs that I could take home and show off to my so-called family and friends.

Whoever might be willing to lend an ear or two to listen to the stories I was convinced that I would bring back with me. Just so long as I didn't bring back malaria, but then there was little chance of that. I'd done my homework and realised that there's very little chance of contracting such a disease out of monsoon season. The month of May had just kicked in, and the skies scorched a pure blue veil of filthy brilliance through my all-seeing-eye's retinas. No wonder, then, that I didn't see disaster looming on the horizon!

But that was later and this is now and there is so much to tell and so little time and like Kerouac it's best to be drunk with life, it's best to be drunk with life, it's best to be drunk with life, alright, alright.

So, on arriving in the small mountain village of Syabru, I immediately found myself a couple of guides and handy porter who dragged my rucksack behind him. It was both huge and extremely heavy and I felt sorry that the porter should have to personally shoulder such a burden. Obviously I was to pay him for his services, though not much.

Yes, yes, yes - I was being tight with my Nepalese rupees (even if most Nepalese people prefer to see the good old American dollar flashed stealthily in their direction), for I wasn't a rich man. Looking back, I wasn't even a man. I was immune to the importance of being humble, of being modest, of being selfless and peace-making. Wisdom cannot be gained via a hypodermic needle. It will find you if it wants to, and then it must be carefully interpreted. Analysed. Questioned. And - more importantly - acted upon correctly. Unfortunately, that's where I went wrong.

© Steve Rudd 2004

Continued on www.thisisUll.com...... Chapter 5

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