Krazymandu

The streets explode early in Katmandu, people tumbling from their doorways into the stream of chaos - motorbikes with three or four riders squished onto a seat made for two, and rickshaws bumping down potholes tossing passengers like bobbing car ornaments. The early morning air is somewhat cleaner until the midday sun bakes the grime and trash into an unsavory stew of foul odors. The ultimate reality of sharing the road here is that you fear for your life – either from getting hit by any variety of vehicles, or at the very least having toes run over by a rickshaw wheel – and the vehicles don't really share, they honk and bully their way through (and they drive on the left here so the turns are unexpected for right hand driving cultures.)

The city is a maize of unmarked streets. Maps are useless unless they show unique hotels or restaurant landmarks since all the shops look the same – which they are with exactly the same merchandise. Shop after shop of Nepal slogan tee shirts, stitched bags and clothing, Indian styled shirts and pants, pashmina and wool, singing bowls, trinkets and, of course, more mountaineering gear than you can shake a pole at. Hesitate in front of any shop for two seconds and they're on you like a spider in a web. Stop at any corner to get your bearings and every hack, rickshaw driver and beggar will descend on you like an army of ants finding a tasty bit of morsel at a picnic.

However, step outside the tourist area of Thamel and the world changes – still crazy – but more the flavor of the local scene. There is little begging, sales pressure or redundancy of tourist chotzkies. Prices are lower, even if you aren't getting the locals' deal. I was told that everything was available in Kathmandu, and certainly you can buy it all here, from valium to knock-off Northface, but I should have remembered how little patience I have for shopping. All the gear that I wound up buying, I already have two and three of at home. The tourists are justifiably a meal ticket, and all are fair game walking rupies.

At the street market, which is every street, throngs of sweaty masses are pushed up against each other, barely moving. Caught in the center of a glut of bodies trying to get through a sidewalk bottleneck of coughers, wheezers and grabbers barely staying aloft in the tide, the meaning of panic was taken to a new height of definition.

Finally on the other side, one of the many young, incessant beggar boys approaches, refusing to leave. Ignoring them is not a natural response for me and when I acknowledge the little guttersnipe by saying “no” he pinches my arm as he turns away, angry that he won't be getting his glue money – and I'm not talking school supplies. Grimy little grubby fingers put me over the edge, as my mind and spirit were still hovering somewhere trying to catch up with my body after three days of travel. I rickshaw back to the smiling Hotel Karma, shower and sleep for sixteen hours hoping my spirit will find me.

The next day dawns into familiarity with street noise similar to early East Village NYC and I adjust to the cadence of chaos. I determine to lose myself fully to the streets and wander the meandering mishmash. I reluctantly enter several mountaineering shops emerging victorious with a new “North Face” down vest, sherpa hat, gloves and glorious purple hiking poles that say “Annapurna.” I spend the rest of the day seeking stupas and temples and in a deafening downpour, I stumble upon the eyes of Buddha watchfully peering through a tower of prayer flags smiling at me.