I mindfully observed my surroundings in the Thamel neighborhood of Kathmandu, where my hotel was located. The shops were certainly fascinating: puppets hung from rafters, thangkas hung in windows and beyond doors, books and postcards were lined up inside and facing open doorways, many statues and masks stood or leaned or hung from walls. I was completely uninterested in buying anything, however; I just wanted to observe and walk. Perhaps because I am a social phobic introvert with a cold, or perhaps because of shock induced possibly by the contrast between being with a sangha in Dharamsala and being on my own, part of me just wanted solitude and invisibility.

The Thamel reminds me of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood in San Francisco and is really quite charming, especially if you overlook all the trash in the street and the crazy drivers, and if you don’t think about it being too influenced by tourists. Well, it is Nepal, not the USA. Right up next to each other stands row upon row of tiny shops selling backpacks, shawls, statues and other Tibetan Buddhist ritual tools, puppets, books, postcards, handmade paper products such as journals and lanterns, wool felt items, thangkas, patchwork tapestries, wooden masks—really, everything you’d expect for sale and everything you could possibly want if you were a Westerner in Nepal.

There were plenty of Westerners walking around: backpackers and dharma bums. However, I think most were French, German, or Italian, and I saw one Chinese tourist with a camera. I felt like I’d never hear English spoken clearly again. Maybe I’m the only American in Nepal; the travel agent in Kansas had given me a print-out warning about terrorists and burglars in Kathmandu, but that was six months ago, before the king stepped down.

As I wandered through the very narrow and bustling streets, I gawked and occasionally took pictures and dodged zooming motorcycles. It began to rain again, but only lightly, and I pulled up my coat hood and zipped up and trudged on. A man behind me called, “Umbrella, ma’am?” I raised my hand and said, “No, thanks.” I didn’t feel like buying anything but rather felt like wandering around as if I were in some bizarre dream. To be honest with myself, I truly felt like going up to my hotel room, hiding from humanity, and sleeping. When you’ve got a cold, you need a lot of sleep.

The traffic in the Thamel consists primarily of motorcycles, rickshaws, and pedestrians. I thought that I could simply go in a certain direction and not get lost in the Thamel, but the streets have no street signs and no names that I can tell, and sometimes, I came to a dead end and turned and kept walking, and unfortunately I didn’t count how many blocks I walked, nor did I take note of prominent landmarks. I noticed little detailed things such as certain puppets or sculptures. My eyes were overwhelmed with the sights around me, and I was focused on my fascinating surroundings rather fortunately at that point, because I wasn’t ready to face my confused emotions. In short, I got lost.

As I wandered with the uneasiness of someone who is lost in a strange place, several rickshaw drivers accosted me, and I kept trudging on, but I started thinking that maybe I should climb onto a rickshaw, because I really had no idea where I was and wanted to get back to the hotel and rest. I heard thunder for the first time.

A young rickshaw driver, like so many parked at the side of the road, got my attention and was quite persistent. While I was somewhat nonchalant, or rather had deadened my emotions, more and more I liked the idea of simply getting back to the hotel and closing myself in my room, alone and quiet. I mentioned the name of the hotel, Vaishali Hotel, and the driver recognized it and said he knew the way there. After some hesitation, I took up the rickshaw driver’s offer. “How much does it cost?” I asked.

“It’s no problem,” he said and waved me into the rickshaw. By that I thought he was saying that he was taking pity on me and my discombobulation and giving me a free ride. I climbed up, first feeling some hesitation due to my fear of heights, but it turned out to be easier than I expected, and as I settled on the little padded bench, I thought this was not scary at all. Of course I decided I’d definitely pay him, despite his seeming indifference to a fee. A rickshaw driver needs money, of course. In India, I saw rickshaw drivers sleeping in their vehicles; they had jobs but were homeless.

The ride was very bumpy because of, guess what, the condition of the roads in the Thamel. They were full of pot holes and the usual trash. I held on tight to the wooden slats that made the old-fashioned canopy. The rickshaw bumped into the back of some guy’s motorcycle and he cussed out the driver in what I thought was a German accent, and I had no idea what he was saying; it was probably in Newali. The rickshaw driver seemed equanimous and didn’t seem to think the accident, which involved no damage to persons or property, was worth sticking around, and after a few words he continued driving. He looked like he was about twenty years old, and I suspected he wasn’t a fabulous rickshaw driver. Perhaps this was a test drive.

Oddly, the driver took me on a route that included a good look at the royal palace, or at least the wall around it, on a big busy street that contained no other rickshaws. He pointed to the palace and told me it was the Red Palace, as if this was an amateur tour. I began to wonder if he was deliberately taking a longer route to gain my pity, and I felt very suspicious. I was correct in feeling suspicious. Finally, he stopped the rickshaw in a narrow Thamel road that seemed like an alley. He pointed to a tall beige building and said, “There is the Vaishali Hotel.”

After a beat I recognized it and said, “Oh, great, thanks!” I jumped down and said, “Really, I have to pay you something…” as I opened my passport bag and reached in.

“Fifty dollars,” he said. I laughed. “Forty dollars.”

“Not hardly,” I said. He went the long way around and wanted me to pay him a ridiculously high sum of money, as if he’d taken me as far as New Delhi! It’s no wonder that, shortly after I climbed into the rickshaw, he had asked me how long I’ve been in Kathmandu; perhaps I should have lied instead of saying this was my first day. Beware of scam artists while traveling alone.

“Thirty dollars, no less. That was a very long drive,” he said. He was quite demanding, after seeming so amiable earlier (like a jerk you’ve just married under false pretenses, the best explanation for why my next door neighbor is married), and the rickshaw driver went on about how he needed money for education. I tried to give him three one dollar bills, but he refused to take them and by then demanded ten dollars. Finally, just wanting to shove him off, I pulled out a five hundred note in Indian rupees. I said, “This is worth ten dollars.” He wouldn’t take it because of the currency, and I lost patience and said, “That’s final.” I threw the piece of paper at him and marched off to the hotel. I was suddenly afraid he’d chase after me, but he didn’t. No doubt he didn’t take me past the wall around the hotel because he didn’t want the guard or the bellhop to witness his scam. (500 Indian rupees are about $10 in U. S. money, and I didn’t yet know that 500 and 1000 Indian rupee bills are illegal in Nepal!)

Thamel Tourism Home Page: http://www.catmando.com/npo/thamel/

Trip Advisor info on the Thamel: http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g293890-d379305-Reviews-Thamel-Kathmandu.html

Thamel on Wikipedia:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thamel