Mountain Biking to Dakshinkali

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Kieron writes…

We’re on this trip, among other things, to do things outside outr comfort zone. As such, when tree huggers, particularly veggies Stace and I, read about the local animal sacrifice rites, we initially thought “no way are we going to see that”. So we rented 3 super-dooper Mountain Bikes and set off on the 40km round trip to “sacrifice central” Dakshinkali, ascending to the rim of Kathmandu Valley in the process. Progress was slow. We inevitably got lost in Patan. The Nepalis don’t believe in road signs or even street names. Instead, a sacred cow is strategically located at each major intersection. Depending on your karma-o-meter reading, the direction the cow faces points either to your intended destination or to some arse numbingly rickety suburban dirt track where our cycling helmets were greeted with derision by local child-life. (Actually Nepalese kids are unfailingly polite, wearing big honest smiles, American t-shirts and ellowing “hello” and “how do you do” at all foreigners - shouting “Namaste!” back at them is usually rewarded with a laugh). Via a combination of contradictory directions, and a realization of how to read the sacred cow directions (local teenagers having demonstrated the technique of slapping the heffer’s behind as one hurtles past, engendering a direction enhancing karmic boost - it is important to use one’s left hand for this purpose) Where was I? Yes, we found our way to the Dakshinkali road after a 45 minute detour which guaranteed our uphill slog would be undertaken under the mad-dogs-and-Englishmen sun.

Another digression - while generally very pleasant fellows, the one complaint about the Newari menfolk who inhabit this valley is their propensity for a volumous “hock-hock-phlobb-splat” spit. However, when one has slogged 20km up a valley behind black smoke spewing traffic (there’s no Nepalese word for “catholitic converter”), the need for a good gob once in a while becomes clear. I’m still a novice though, more a “tuh” than a “hock”.

Our journey was punctuated by Stace’s wheeze breaks - we told him not to smoke a rolly before departure - and several heat relieving downpours, culminating in a mini monsoon spitting hail stones. We cowered under a farmers’ shelter, accompanied by a fortunately not too rabid dog. It was an exhilarating climb, rewarded by a tremendously enjoyable, break-busting descent, highlighted by me taunting a flatbed truck load of teenage Nepalis who I repeatedly overtook on speed bumps only for them to repass amid much merriment on every straight. Actually, perhaps it was Brit baiting or amusement at the “you cannot be serious” headband I was sporting, but as ever smiles abounded and we only lost touch with them owing to the bumpy road’s effect on the Rushstick bladder.

- Our final approach into Dakshinkali was reminiscent of Mr. Sheen's to Colonel Kurtz's jungle residence in Apocalypse Now (film reference number one - dozens more to follow no doubt): Nestled in a valley, thunder rumbling all around, streams running with brown water after the heavy rain, rubbish strewn about the hillsides (sadly something of a feature in Nepal), we wondered what horrors we would be confronted by as an atmosphere of death permeated.

The only complaint about the day was that our destination Dakshinkali was somewhat underwhelming. Despite Lonely Planet promises of blood-soaked creepiness, I think we were too late for the sacrifices - throats of chickens, goats and goners slashed and blood sprayed on effigies of the blood thirsty deity Kali (star of, yes you’ve guessed it, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom once again - roll on Tibet for the Raiders of the Lost Ark references!) A couple of scrawny chicken were offed by a chap clad in a Texas-Chainsaw-Massacre-esque blood soaked shirt, but non-Hindus couldn’t get close enough to see what was going on. An unusual complaint for a veggie I know, but we were trying to test ourselves and get an insight into the incomprehensible. Instead, the prevailing impression was of a family picnic destination with pumping (and inevitably dated) pop music, teenagers bopping the afternoon away.



Anyway, signing off now for dinner - we’ve just furtively watched the North London derby on ESPN Live and I suspect a toast to Jermaine Jenas is imminent!

Addendum: The Ten Tortures of the Small Sashaying Server

1. That he did stubbornly refuse to make a 2nd attempt to collect our cocktail order, initially delayed by Stace’s faddling*
2. That he did repeatedly fail do deliver dishes to any recipient, instead dumping them centre table and wandering off
3. That he did willfully and ignorantly blunder through a simple soup order
4. That he did insistently and repeatedly request to serve entrees before starters had been entirely consumed
5. That he did willfully and knowingly boil away sauce whilst keeping Cav’s pasta warm
6. That he did knowingly withhold Stace’s Nepali Thali from being kept warm in the oven, resulting in a tepid curry
7. That he did intentionally cause Kieron’s little fingers to be burned after his plate came out of a hot oven (I wasn’t cautioned!!)
8. That he did rudely provide Stace’s desert before his main course was finished
9. That he did insult others present by not even offering desert
10. That he did attempt to pour hot jasmine tea into Cav’s lap by allowing his attention to wander across the room as he passed the pot

P.S. Of course, being the laid back fellows we are, none of us complained about any of the above

*The verb “to faddle” - 1st of many new words likely to be invented for this trip, to faddle is the purposeful yet unnecessarily slow progress toward a desried objective or decision - think of it as a combination fiddle plus faff. Example “we decided to catch the 9am bus but were thwarted by a brace of freshen-yup faddling Furlongs.” (Not a real example.) (Yet.)


- It should be pointed out, dear reader, that Kieron's log entires over the coming months may contain a number of factual embellishments or omissions (he must have been a tabloid hack in a previous life). I thinked I've counted upwards of thrity already! My role will be to provide a balance (I'll be editor to his reporter):
1. Point 10 did not occur.
2. We were served by the same waiter a few days later: his service was attentive, professional and beyond the call of duty - he even apologied to us after we didn't have enough money to pay the bill! Shame on you Kieron, shame.
3. Kieron also had need to rush off to the loo for what he described as "the longest fart he'd ever had". We have now all suffered a little in the digestion department.
4. True though, the waiter did mince.

A special thanks to the Toffees for giving the Hammers a fighting chance of avoiding their own chop. Let's hope it's not just a stay of execution.

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