'The Nepali Army and the Ice-Lolly'
We travelled into Bakhtapur today by electric tram for a short visit and to learn a valuable lesson.
Bakhtapur is a World Heritage Site resplendent with Pagoda buildings, medieval palaces, and temples. The art gallery was well provided for, including tapestries, paintings, books and statuettes. Ranging in date from the fifteenth century to the present day. Their subject matter was religious and quite repetitive, typically including fiery Gods of Wrath, fierce wild animals, and much sexual-phallic imagery. But once you've seen one angry god with a pack of tigers and an oversize penis you have seen them all really!
Potters Square was unsurprisingly filled with a large pottery market. Amongst the thousands of clay pots for sale, a sacred cow lazily nudged one from its shelf, landing on the floor with a thump before being blessed by the wrinkled old Nepali woman who ran the stall.
We successfully dodged the many youthful guides until a wily Nepalese army officer (or so he claimed) attached himself to our small group. Conversation ensued, and he seemed a friendly soul, and bought us suspicious ice-lollies that tasted of barley sugar and grit. Quickly gaining our good faith he offered to bring us some genuine Nepalese army hats (no cost mentioned). We gave him our hotel details so that he could deliver them later in the week. Quickly our new friend made his excuses and left us sitting in the top of a Pagoda palace overlooking the square, sucking our lollies and pondering with sticky fingers.
During lunch, having disposed of our dubious lollies in the street, suspicions arose when Mark pointed out the awful possibilities of giving our address to an armed officer in a strange land. Search and confiscation was a particular concern, having heard tales of corrupt police in Goa planting dope on tourists, and fleecing them for their travellers’ cheques. Anxiety rising we cut short our visit, and beat a hasty retreat to the hotel. The journey took forever, or seemed to, the electric tram jumped the rails, prolonging our journey and our anguish.
We arrived at Hotel Utsei, and whilst Mark and myself were at the booking-in desk enquiring after potential shady characters, Stuart went upstairs to check the room. Upon entering our bedroom, my stomach lurched: all of our backpacks were missing.
Stuart was sitting on his bed, his head buried in his hands. A moment passed, before he revealed our sleeping bags and packs hidden on the small balcony. Stuart laughed so hard at the look of horror on my face that I thought he might burst! Phew….
However we are still half expecting a chap selling hats to arrive shortly.