Two Scottsmen walk into Durbar square, their short cropped greying hair trickling with sweat as they amble through the busy sunlit craft market. Both of them are enormous guys, standing out like Hagrid amongst the throngs of brightly and smartly dressed Nepalese artisans. The most massive of the two has a capacious beer gut which erupts from his tight black long sleeved lycra top and looms ominously over his precariously tied khaki kilt. His hairy badge bedecked sporran swings limply between his legs below the mound of his stomach like the tail of an old Himalayan yak. The kilt of the other Scott also hangs bedraggled below his burgeoning belly, the belt clinging desperately to the top of his buttocks in a last ditch bid to protect his decency in such a public space.
I have to respect them for taking pride in their national dress. However, I can not help thinking just how ridiculous they look lumbering around the ancient heart of Kathmandu city in their funny skirts, tight shirts and cheap Nepali hiking boots.
Suddenly, five ravishingly gorgeous young Nepali women sweep out of the crowd like a flock of parrots and begin circling the two men, chatting excitedly to one another – giggling joyfully all the while.
Finally, they approach the two strangers timidly and with great dark soulful pleading eyes, beg to have their photographs taken together. Passers by are roped in, hair and clothes are checked (for the girl’s part anyway) and one of the women produces a slick modern smart phone for the photo shoot. They ensure that every conceivable angle is captured, with the girls cuddled together in a happy huddle between the two towering lads.
Then with a thousand thank yous, much folding of hands and beaming of heartfelt, heart-warming smiles, they dart off into the crowd, consumed in a buzz of rapturously delightful energy.
The two men shuffle back into the market, unabashed, clearly accustomed to pleasing the populace wherever they should happen to go.
I wonder if you can buy kilts in Kathmandu?
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It was a gorgeous bright shining Saturday afternoon post monsoon in the tiny Tibetan refugee settlement of Bir. The nearest mountains were clear as a bell while great boiling clumps of cumulus were piled up on top of one another like cowpats over the summits of the towering ice encrusted peaks in the distance. Despite having spent two months in the region, I had never visited the famous paragliding launch site placed high up on a ridge above the town and a friend of mine, Millie offered to join me on for an excursion. After a ferocious haggle with a local taxi driver, we crammed ourselves into his tiny Indian-built vehicle and were off and away.
We rose switchback after switchback through ancient dank moss covered Himalayan pine forest until finally emerging into the craggy treeless expanse of the alpine zone. Here, the verdant near vertical hillsides slanted high into the azure sky above and were dotted with sheep and goats which sport the most magnificent coats of long flowing silken hair. Best wool in the world some people say.
Billing is a cluster of ramshackle timber frontier style restaurants and chai shops surrounding the jump off zone. The plunge to the landing field below is over 1000 vertical metres and the conditions are so ideal for paragliding that they even hosted a world championships there once. This happened despite all the inconveniences of being situated in a remote forgotten valley right on the edge of the soaring Indian Himal.
As we reached the top of the track and approached the crest of the mountain, a breathtaking panorama befell us. As far as the eye could see stood range after misty range of steep choppy ridges, arching out like shock waves into the Gangetic Plain as if caused by the tsunami of the rising of the mighty massif behind. After satiating ourselves with this magnificent scene, a stiff cool breeze encouraged us to take refuge on the lee side of the land-form, gazing instead at the high snowy mountains to the north with their menacing headpieces of angry grey thunderstorm.
We had only seen one lone paraglider in the air as we made our way up the mountain and assumed that we must have been too late to enjoy the spectacle of watching them take off. However, as we sat there, we noticed a couple of worryingly young Indian men sorting out parachutes that they appeared to be renting out to anyone who was willing to give it a go. People of all different nationalities were now arriving and starting to kit themselves out with the backpacks, straps, buckles and all the other bits and pieces that go along with these simple flying machines. Even to the casual observer, there was clearly a staggering disparity between the competence of the various pilots, just judging by the way they donned their gear. The one who was lined up to be first to take off, which I guess is a bit more risky than following, was a fit rugged looking American. He had an air of confidence about him that spoke of endless amounts of know how and experience. However, he did not take his allocated jump, instead allowing others to take his place, watching what was going on in obvious dismay. Eventually, he began to remove his gear and I overheard him whisper to one of the other adventurers something to the effect that he did not know what to expect here. Risk assessment done, decision – don’t jump.
“Gee!” I muttered to Millie, “that is a bit of a worry if the most competent looking guy on the block doesn’t think it is safe enough to go.”
The next cab off the rank was a muscular, clean cut Indian guy in his mid twenties. Looked like an army type. He stood with the parachute outstretched and attached to his back via a large rucksack, which I guess contained his emergency chute. To the front was a mass of chords and belts of various colours and sizes with numerous different types of buckle all dangling in front of him like the tentacles of a jellyfish. Although he approached the task with a cool head and a clear methodology, he was simply unable to ascertain which sash connected with which, fumbling with a rising level of desperation as his fingers jittered with fear like an alcoholic who is longing for a drink. I found this entire scene somewhat alarming and my eyes darted around for some semblance of sanity. Surely there must be somebody on site who can decide that allowing a person who does not even know how the equipment works jump of the edge of a thousand meter near vertical Himalayan hillside might be just a tad irresponsible. My expectations proved to be ill founded. The youth who was preparing the other parachutes noticed the man’s difficulties and instead of advising him to keep his two feet firmly on the ground, deftly attended to him. In no time at all, he was buckled up, checked for “safety and ready to take off.
I had to admire the soldier’s foolhardy courage as he stood there, back to the abyss, jaw firm with determination to go ahead with the launch even though his eyes and trembling hands betrayed his sheer mortal terror.
“I don’t think I can watch this” my friend exclaimed in an anxious voice. She turned her back to the scene, still peeking over her shoulder at the unfolding drama. “I don’t want to watch somebody die!”
The strings on the chute were stretched out in front of the would-be pilot and had been crossed over once so that the pilot could launch the parachute in front of him and once aloft, he should spin around 180 degrees and be facing in the right direction. The kite itself was being held up by one of the ground staff, trying to catch the brisk breeze which had been building in intensity all the while. Suddenly, a sharp snarl of mountain air caught the colourful fabric, filling it to bursting point and sending it jerking erratically into the air above the pilot.
“Up up up!” shouted the groundsman. The hapless soldier tugged frantically at various straps and ropes as he was being dragged backwards towards the sharp foreboding edge of the cliff. Just as he was about to plunge scrambling into the chasm, a stiff column of air rising vertically up the mountain face from the valley below battered his parachute back into the launch area, towing him aghast towards the jabbering crowd which had gathered on the ridge top to enjoy the show.
“Down down down!” came the cry from the guide. This manoeuvre, he evidently knew how to accomplish and promptly managed to deflate his kite with a swift pull of chord and fell flailing into a tangle on the soft grassy earth. Humiliation jostled for position over fear on his anguished face as he picked himself up and brushed off the mess while the groundsman came over to offer some much needed advice. A clear series of instructions was delivered about how to launch a paraglider and the student took in each piece of information with fervent attention and grim determination.
It was but a few minutes later when he stood back in the launching position by now almost overcome with dread. On the second attempt, the chute launched smoothly and floated over his head towards the precipice. He staggered backwards again, stumbling towards the precipice but this time pulling more confidently with the correct controls and at the last possible moment jumped gamely off the edge, spinning clumsily around into the right position as he soared off into the void.
After only a few seconds, as the steep slope slipped away beneath him, he was gliding many hundreds of meters above the jagged rocky floor of the alpine valley.
“How is he ever going to get down?” implored Millie. A very salient question indeed.
We watched, hearts in our mouths as he gingerly made a ninety degree bend and sailed briskly far far off into round empty belly the great valley below.
Bon voyage!
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