Our hearts are fluttering like silk in the wind

“Be careful, when you start cycling again. It’s very dangerous here, with all that traffic.”
Peter’s eyes are moist when accepting his mother’s advice.
“Yes, that is why we look around us all the time. And we have three hundred guardian angels that always accompany us, so don’t worry, mum. You take care in that plane, that’s also dangerous, especially taking off from the valley.”
“Oh, that’s not so bad?”
“Well, actually sometimes they do come down, but not yours, I’m sure.”
Saying goodbye to Peter’s parents is just as sad as it was all the other times, although we know we’ll see each other again in six months, in the Netherlands. Once more they turn around and we wave them off and hope they’ll get through the checking in counter without having to pay extra. We estimate their overweight, caused by tailor made clothing, jewellery, souvenirs and carpets at about five kilos.
At night we see flight GF 404 soaring over our home and we wave again. It is very quiet, all of a sudden.

February starts cold and it gets colder all the time. The governmental schedule with its regulated power cuts doesn’t improve our lives; every day between three and seven the electricity is down, this will only get worse the coming month. Petrol is also rationed, because Nepal debts with the Indian oil company are getting too high. For kilometres caravans of cars and motorcycles meander through the streets towards the few gas stations that have some fuel in stock; the waiting time runs up to six hours.
We buy new clothes in Thamel, Kathmandu’s tourist area, to replace some of our rags. The street children who spend their days here amuse us with their clever tricks. Somewhere they find or collect English newspapers and sell them to unsuspecting tourists. Behind the price of three rupees they add a zero, which multiplies the price by ten. Newcomers in Nepal won’t notice it, thirty rupees is still very cheap by western standards. We take the kids to the bakery and let them choose something nice for a reward: the cinnamon rolls are most popular. A fourth vagabond reports himself unexpectedly, smelling a chance of getting something. Within half a minute the fourth cinnamon roll also disappears into a huge black hole. Moments later, we’re sitting at a window table of a neighbouring restaurant, we see how they sell a paper to a fresh and very white westerner, in triumph they look in our direction and we stick up our thumbs.

The following days it gets colder and colder. In our house, which lacks any kind of heating, the temperature sinks to eleven degrees Celsius. Wearing three sweaters, two pairs of trousers, gloves and a woollen cap we work at the book, behind the computer. February fourteenth we unfortunately witness the first snow in Kathmandu in sixty-two years, and secretly we envy Rob and Aranka, who are wise enough to spend the winter in southern India.
The Nepali love it though, for many of them it is the first time of their lives to see snow from up close. They flock out of their houses, children look at the sky in amazement and everybody is excited. Except for us.

We move our couch and gas stove to the study and keep windows and doors shut. Burning the stove brings the temperature to sixteen degrees Celsius, which is doable. In the rest of our house the mercury drops back to eight, brrr…

Two days later the sun is shining brightly, which is just great. Today is the Maha Shivaratri Festival (literally: ‘the big night of Shiva’), one of the most important annual festivals, honouring Shiva’s birthday. His devotees come to Pashupatinath from all over the country, just like hundreds of Indian saddhus, to participate in this special event. Via the back entrance – we refuse to pay the large entrance fee for foreigners every time, once is enough – we walk over the eastern river bank to the central stairs close to the temple. The complex is jam-packed and the many colourful stalls and hundreds of painted and half naked saddhus give it a festive note. After having walked around for ten minutes we are completely overwhelmed by the celebration; there is something to see and do everywhere. The people, it seems that especially men follow Shiva, throng around the groups of saddhus who are scantily clad in loincloths and perform yoga-positions. They willingly share their medicinal herbs by means of super size joints or simply in a chillum.

Long garlands of devotees are standing in line to bring an offer and greeting to Shiva inside the temple. The real die-hards bath themselves in the freezing river afterwards. Pujas are performed; snake charmers whistle their merchandise out of their reed baskets, police men openly take a puff of a joint, a helicopter scatters flowers in the applauding crowd and twenty metres further a dead person is cremated in the midst of a mourning family. Life and death, they can’t get much closer than today.

We look for a quiet spot to recover from all the impressions. A shy and silent man joins us, takes a sarengy – a small guitar-like instrument cut from a tree – out of his bag. He starts singing; he chooses the most popular Nepali folksong. Within five minutes eight men are standing around us, singing the song. The atmosphere is tremendous.

“Resham pheeree Ree, Resham pheeree Ree
Udeyra jaunkee dandaa ma bhanjyiang
Resham pheeree Ree”

(My heart is fluttering like silk in the wind
I cannot decide whether to fly or sit on the hilltop)