The cutest dentist, the blackest Peter and the most arduous view

The first of December we exchange our apartment in Ekantakuna for a more beautiful one which is twice as big and situated in the south-east direction (for the sun), in the quarter of Baghdol in Patan. Apart from a second bedroom we also have warm water at our disposal now; not a bad thing with the Nepali winter standing at our doorstep.
The cycling journey through Xinjiang and Tibet to Kathmandu has made an enormous impression on us and the idea to write a book about it has popped up. Peter starts writing the introduction and two chapters and presents these at two publishers in Kathmandu, both of whom react enthusiastically. We rent a computer and furnish the second bedroom as a study. The idea to stay here for six months suddenly appeals to Peter as well, now he has a project. He starts writing, researches detailed background information and can’t be stopped anymore.

In the meantime Peter is painfully reminded of the molar torture he has been carrying with him for months now. In China this discomfort forced him to visit an orthodox dentist, where he immediately grew suspicious when he saw a hammer on the table and fled. In Patan he seeks refuge at the Alka Hospital, where he enters a spotless and modern furnished surgery. He looks around and - to his relief - sees neither hammers nor pliers. A young and beautiful woman approaches him.
“Hello, my name is Laxmi, I am the dentist,” she says with a beautiful smile. He is sold. His teeth are in a bad shape, he’s never been more convinced of this fact.

Laxmi is friendly, takes her time, is a perfectionist (according to Peter the most important quality a dentist should have) and is very nice to see. The latter may be of minor importance according to some people, but it certainly makes the weekly visit of his saviour a lot easier. The molar turns out to have deeply inflamed and nine root canal-treatments, X-rays, nerve-killing pasts, a lot of patience, even more pain and twenty-five millimetres long brushes are necessary to conserve the premolar. The job is rounded off with a beautiful crown and a complete cleaning; eighty euros later Peter is as good as new. Try this in Europe!

During one of our contacts with Kari of the Dutch consulate Peter and I are kind of pushed into acting Black Peters on the annual Sinterklaas party for the Dutch-Belgian enclave in Kathmandu. Of course we agree and the second of December Margo, Wietse, Peter and I put black greasepaint on our faces and dress ourselves for the part, whilst Henk changes himself into Sinterklaas for the fifth consecutive year. The party is held in the consul’s garden and is professionally prepared with video-recordings by Gerard, the head of the Dutch school in Kathmandu. The children, who have a somewhat impatient and slightly fearful expression in their eyes, have just as much fun as we do. The last real Sinterklaas-party we attended was some twenty years ago and it’s great to relive this piece of old-Dutch folklore.

The day after the event we, together with Jan and Brieke, cycle the drinks and snacks of the previous evening out of our bodies. In honour of Jan’s birthday the cycling tour leads to the highest summit of the Kathmandu Valley: Pulchowki. After Godawari, where a metres high golden statue of Buddha friendly nods at us from a nearby hill, the real climbing starts. Brieke and I are of the opinion that it is a gruelling climb. The men think we might have a point, because the road surface is Tibetan and the gradient reminds of Lesotho, where the roads often went straight up the mountain instead of making nice hairpin bends.

Cursing, crying, ranting and raving the steepest parts are climbed or walked, but the reward is phenomenal: a large part of the Himalayan range is visible from the 2760 metres high summit and vaguely, in the distance, we catch a glimpse of Sagarmatha: Mount Everest. It’s not even the highest mountain from this perspective, because that is the Shishapangma.

The return journey, over super rocks and through soft sand, is a real horror for me. A couple of times I just in time escape from my slipping and sliding bicycle. But: Jan has gotten his birthday present, and how many people in the world can say they cycled up Pulchowki Mountain?