JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi Daniel Linden (feel good novels txt) 📖

settled back and held on. We were getting near to Thamel and it would be over soon.

At that moment I knew we were in Asia. There is no other place on Earth that has the feel, the sound, the rhythm, or the stench of life as in the Far East. I opened my eyes and looked out the window and saw the Presidential Palace where a few years ago the Royal family was gunned down by one of its own in a mass butchery that shocked the world.

A solo Ghurka soldier was standing his post outside the Palace and tourists were snapping pictures. I am not sure that I would do that, but he seemed as immutable as a statue as we careened past. His starched green uniform and the deadly khukuri in its sheath at his back were polished and rigid and completely out of place in this city of opposites. I closed my eyes again. The honking changed as we moved closer into the heart of Thamel; it took on a life of its own and became a pounding, chanting, almost certainly Asian sound as the smell of dung and feces crowded the stench of a million automobiles without any type of pollution controls.

The honking was taking on a new urgency as the roads narrowed and the streets were becoming crowded with not only vehicles, but wandering tourists, citizens, the odd holy man, ancient hippies, writers, photographers, street hawkers, thieves, whores, beggars, con men, and the children; the never ending march of poor, half dressed and begging children.

I cautiously stole a glance at Christian while we were driving across a small cobbled courtyard and he was staring out the window not quite conscious. Chris was grinning from ear to ear and Curtis was, as usual, cataloguing the city life with an earnest and stern gaze. For us, for now, the honking was over. We pulled past the private guards at the alley leading up to the Kathmandu Guest House and into the brick courtyard filled with tables for guests.

***

“I want to see what’s around the hotel.” Chris told me as he joined me for a late afternoon beer. The sun was sinking across the city and temperatures were low enough so I was glad I had brought a sweater. In the far distance we could see the Himalayan Mountains rising above the air pollution like a jagged set of teeth. We had exchanged money at near-usury rates in the hotel’s lobby and each gone off to shower and change from the long trip across twelve time zones. We had private rooms. They were very reasonable even during the height of tourist season and I’ve discovered that grown men really prefer their privacy. We would have precious little privacy during the trek so we might as well enjoy it while we could.

“I have HBO,” he told me after a moment.

“Yeah, isn’t that something?” I said. “Even in a small off-the-wall hotel in the middle of nowhere we still have HBO. Hard to believe.”

“I don’t know if I would call the center of Kathmandu the middle of nowhere, and this is the tourist area, you said.” Chris looked around and sipped his beer.

“Well, this is a very popular area for climbers and trekkers, but I really don’t know if it’s the heart of the tourist area. I think it might be a lot more interesting than real touristy spots, so we’re here. Yeah, over at the Sheraton we would certainly have HBO. For sure. You want to go over to the Khukuri House? They have just about every kind and style of khukuri knife made, and it’s pretty interesting. Do you know where everyone’s rooms are? Let’s see if they might want to go, too.” I got up and Chris followed.

It took a while, but we finally got everyone together. We all walked slowly down the street looking into the shops and businesses as we made our way over the rough cobblestone road. It was a two block walk to the khukuri store. There were street vendors selling these same knives, but I warned the guys off as we were bombarded by solicitations and requests to come into the shops or to stop and look over the displayed goods. Cashmere sweaters, shawls, T-shirts, jewelry, dolls, carved wooden boxes and display cases crammed with low grade silver from Tibet; everything you would expect from a third-world tourist destination and more. Finally after a few blocks I stopped and pointed up the street to a sign above a doorway and we all crossed the cobblestones and walked up to the closed door.

“I do believe it is closed,” Chris commented.

Christian looked through the window with a hand to his face to cut out the light. “They look like they’re doing business, just closed for now,” he said.

“Well, we can come back tomorrow, then” Chris answered. “Or should we bother? Maybe we should buy stuff for souvenirs after we get back. That way we don’t have to store anything during the trek.”

“I wasn’t planning on buying a souvenir.” I said. “I’m buying a knife for the trek. I want something to carry on the trail, something that can cut a small branch and something that can slice cheese and something that might scare a thief or communist, for that matter. Not that anything like that will be an issue. They have all types and sizes of knives in here. From small three-inch baby khukuris to things that will cut off a bulls head, from ceremonial to police models, this place has every type you can think of including the famous Ghurka knives.” I was pointing through the window as I was talking.

“Sensei, exactly what is the Ghurka knife?” Christian asked.

“Ghurkas are one of the most feared fighting forces in the world. There is a lot of myth and legend attached to them, but the one truth that I know is that they