STEP OUT OF YOUR WORLD AND INTO BIJOUX, WHERE EVERYTHING HAS A STORY

Fire
Nepal, 1999

We went to Dhulikel to see the mountains. From the floor of the Kathmandu Valley we traveled the Friendship Highway that wound its way to Namche Bazaar, into Tibet and eventually to the very steps of the Potala. I picked Dhulikel from our guide book over what seemed the more artificial destination of Nagarkot. Dhulikhel was actually a village while Nagarkot was a collection of guesthouses that had sprung up to cater to the mountain viewing tourists. The views of the mountains was supposed to be better in Nagarkot, but I thought we should have some culture with our voyeurism. And the Dhulikhel Lodge sounded wonderful. In the guidebook the writer raved about the old traditional Newari lodge, one of the first to house travelers since the opening of Nepal to tourism in the 1960's. The accommodations were basic, but the owners were described as friendly and the food good. It just sounded charming. There was little chance of getting a spectacular view of the mountains anyway this time of year, so it seemed like experiencing a quaint lodge might compensate for the poor views.

I was very clear with our driver about where I wanted to go and as we topped the ridge along which Dhulikhel lay, he stopped at a tall building stating flatly, "Dhulikhel Lodge", or some Nepali equivalent. I adamantly shook my head, no. This could not be right. The description in the book was very different. Dhulikhel Lodge was an old Newari-style building, charmingly run down. This building was brand-new, cement, ugly in a post modern Soviet bloc kind of way. I was certain the driver had confused my directions and taken us to the expensive new Dhulikhel Lodge. But the driver assured me, "This is not new, expensive Dhulikhel Lodge, this is old Dhulikhel Lodge." I sighed in frustration and got out to talk to the owners. Yes, this was indeed the "old" Dhulikhel Lodge. They had torn down the first one and built this in its place and were extremely proud of it. With doubt and resignation we hauled our packs up the steps to the deserted lobby to book our rooms.

Dhulikhel is strung along the backbone of a ridge of one of the Himalayan foothills. It teeters atop a narrow expanse of land that drops steeply away on either side. Nestled in the folds of the hillside, it looks down on fields of mustard and crops of vegetables shimmering in the hazy late afternoon sun. Mud brick buildings that looked like one good shake would topple them housed a few shops. We stopped to watch a role play at the local school about tuberculosis. A child sat on a small stool in the courtyard, coughing and hanging his head. Standing above him another child was earnestly lecturing him about why he should see a doctor. Two women with impossibly huge bundles of sticks on their backs shuffled by on the dusty road, laughing and chattering as if they hadn't a care in the world. Loads balanced on their backs by a simple band around their foreheads, they were bent nearly double and looked like enormous beetles with tiny-skirted legs. Turning away we noticed a circle of people on the side of the road staring intently at something hidden from our view. As we approached, people moved aside to make a place for us.

In the center of the circle were two very thin, dark men and one small boy in ragged clothing. Heat radiated from a fire in a hollow impression in the ground into which a simple smelter made from the bottom half of a large cooking oil tin had been placed. Off to the side one man worked a bellows with his foot, constantly stoking the fire. The other one tossed bits of scrap metal into the makeshift oven. The smelter had a fitted lid with a small hole and as the top was raised to toss in more metal, fire shot up, throwing green and gold flames into the afternoon sky. I gasped and involuntarily jumped back, surprised by the glorious color that shot into the air. Before I even thought about what I was doing, I turned quickly to express my wonder and met the eyes of the woman next to me. Her face was a mirror of my own, a mixture of awe and delight. At that moment I knew exactly what she was thinking. The smiles that spread across our faces became laughter as we turned to watch the magical spectacle before us.

Arrayed beside the smithies was an assortment of pot metal statues. Shiva danced on the skulls of the slain, Ganesh's huge bulk sat cross-legged on the back of a small rat, and Parvati stood, her hand raised in solemn wisdom waiting for an offering, willing to bestow her wise blessing in return. When the metal was hot enough, the smithy poured it with a flourish into a blackened mold and returned to the process of melting. In a few moments the mold was opened and out popped another statue. At this point the boy wound his way through the crowd soliciting sales. Collectively the crowd moved back a little. Those that were interested in buying moved forward to haggle the price. There was intense head wagging and hand waving and dialogue that needed no translation. Reluctantly we wandered away from the mystery of the forge.

The mystery of the Dhulikhel Hotel was less miraculous. Doomed to spend the night there, we anticipated at least a delicious meal like the ones described in the guide book. After visiting our less than charming room, we adjourned to the grimy dining room where we sat in lantern light waiting for dhal bhat and chappatis, chased with a warm beer. As I shook the crumbs from the tablecloth, I reached under the table and found several thick albums. Hauling the lantern closer, we each took a volume and began to search the hundreds of letters going back over 30 years. There were postcards and poems written on scraps of handmade Nepali paper in English, French, German and Dutch. Trekkers and hippies waxed rhapsodic about the mountains, the village, the owners, the food. As we read the letters aloud to one another we collapsed into laughter at the absurdity of our situation. The letters were extravagant in their praise; even evangelical as some travelers declared their stay at the Lodge had been life changing. We could only surmise that conditions elsewhere in Nepal had been very dismal or that the hashish combined with the altitude and the heady thrill of travel in a relatively unspoiled Himalayan kingdom had rendered the writer hallucinatory. It was delightful to savor the irony of our journey to the hills, if not our ordinary dinner. The proprietors had carefully saved the essence of 30 some years of hostelry in the letters and cards of misty-eyed backpackers and this is all that was left of the wonder that surely must have been the lodge. These letters to future guests were like fat laughing ghosts crowding the dingy dining room.

In the end, we ate our meal, arranged for our driver to come fetch us in the morning, and went to bed where we laughed ourselves to sleep in the frigid mountain air, telling stories, sniffing propane gas that hissed loudly by the window, and making silly hand-puppet shadows on the wall by the light of our torch.

It was, after all, about the wonder of light and illusion.