Nothing to Do in Dattatraya Square

Nothing to Do in Dattatraya Square
It's 7 o'clock. The day is winding down. The streets are dark, because the electricity is off, or as the locals say, "lottery". I can't even read a book. There's nothing for me to do but hang around. I sit down on a cold stone slab in Dattatraya Square. In the center is a 3-tiered temple about 20 meters high. It is imposing, stately, beautiful. Each level is decorated with a red skirt of silk that wraps all around the circumference. There are some battery operated lights that produce a faint warm glow at random points of the temple. Only slightly brighter, they blend into the emerging stars. On the side, mostly sari-clad women pleasantly chat as they throw plastic 4 litter plastic containers with the tops cut out down the wells, then gracefully haul them up by the attached rope hand over hand. Some are washing their faces and feet at the well. I let the sounds and smells wash over me. The water well is a wonderful place, a community builder, a touchstone. I'm sure all the news gets spread here faster than any Facebook. For them it's just their routine but for me it's poetry, simplicity, the essence of life and the human spirit. I wander up to the well. People tell me I look like a Nepali when I wear my face mask, a necessity in dusty Nepal. Someone told me I had an international face. That and my ratty travel clothes let's me blend right in. At the well I look around and down into the well. Amazing. There's shimmering water 10 meters down there and people are drinking it. Where does it come from? Surely indoor plumbing is a wonderful thing, but also surely humanity lost something when we stopped using the well. I take off my mask and some of the women whisper and giggle. Usually men don't come to the well anyway. They look for my camera. I don't have one (thankfully the battery is dead). I spot a very old grandmother. She is pulling up a full load of water and through sign language I motion to her that I would like to help her. At first she seems surprised, and them amused, and then thankful. It's heavy for her. It's an adventure for me. I pull it up and pour it into her large silver urn. It must hold at least 5 gallons (about 20 litters). The design of this container is simple and elegant. The opening is wide like a funnel. Then it narrows to about the size of a child's neck before widening finally out to a round barrel-chest size. The interesting feature is that the gap between the top and where it finally widens is just enough so that you can curl your arm around it like you would around your best buddy's neck when you are walking intimately together, because that's how they carry them, the bottom balanced on the woman's wide hip, and the top nuzzled around the arm. The women are looking and laughing at me in a good natured way as I throw the plastic jug down into the well again and start to pull it up. I'm not nearly as efficient as they are. I mimic the other woman's hand motions and after awhile I start to pull it up better. A murmur of approval ripples through the gathering. When I get my jug up and pull it over the lip of the well, I am dismayed to see that it is only half full. This produces gales of laughter. I empty the jug and watch the other women as they fiddle with the ropes, looking like fishermen playing with their lines to trick the fish. Their movements are quick, subtle, and their jugs fill up 100%. Try as I might I can't get my jug to fill up. Grandma doesn't mind. I think she is too happy to be relieved of a little work to mind. She seems still winded from the walk over. Though it takes me longer than anyone else, I finally fill the jug. I "namaste" to grandma and she creaks over to pick up the container that must weigh at least 40 pounds. I think, "why not", and stop her and pick it up. But I don't know how to do it. I just pick it straight up in front of me and nod to the other women and then to Grandma, "let's go". Now everyone is really laughing. Men don't carry water, and I'm doing it all wrong. Grandma protests, slaps her wide padded hips indicating I should carry it there, but I have no hips to speak of , don't know how to do that, and anyway I know I can carry it. I follow her 50 meters up the street to a small doorway which leads to a tunnel I have to bend a bit to get through (Grandma doesn't) and then widens into a large courtyard ringed with ancient brick 2 and 3 story apartments, the windows and doors beautifully carved. I reflect how this entrance and courtyard are not unlike the container.
In the courtyard, there are some rough woven mats around which a group of women of all ages are sitting in a circle, weaving hats at incredible speed, which tourist will buy later for anywhere from 1 to 10 dollars, depending on how they bargain. As soon as the women see me, there is an instant wave of laughter. I think I made their day, and perhaps will provide some entertainment at the well tomorrow.
I follow Grandma to the entrance of her apartment. I offer to carry it up the stairs but she smiles warmly at me and I understand that though she would like me to, it wouldn't look good. I hand over the container and it seems to jump into it's comfortable position in the space on her hip.
I walk out of the courtyard, namasteing and smiling. The women look and smile at me wide-eyed. I go back to the square and my sitting place. That was fun, and it killed 15 minutes. What should I do now? The only real restaurants that are open are for tourists and the prices are 4 times the normal price. Never! I walk over to a doorway where a lot of Nepali men are huddled around. It's a tea shop. I've been in Nepal for 8 days and haven't gotten sick yet. I've been very careful not to drink tea unless the place looks clean. This place looks worse than my room back home. Definitely not. I turn to head out. A well dressed Nepali man walks up to me and says in good English, "that was nice of you to help the old woman. Allow me to buy you a cup of tea." I hesitate. I don't want to appear rude. I don't want to insult him by implying, " no I won't drink your dirty tea", and I would like some milk tea. I love milk tea. I warily accept. I figure I should know the results within a few hours. In the tea shop they also have samosa, a deep fried dumplings filled with potatoes,peas, curry and other goodies. I also have tried to stay away from deep fried foods because for one it's deep fried and by definition unhealthy and for another, some of the oil they use makes me sick. But I figure I might as well go for it, as I will probably get sick anyway. The 2 teas I drink are delicious, the samosas are the best ever. I also get a sweet fried Nepali sweet that looks like a pretzel dipped in honey. The man and I have a pleasant conversation exchanging details of our identities. I ask him how much it all costs and he insists on paying. I watch as he pays 50 ruppes (about 70 cents). I thank the man as he leaves for an appointment. It's 7:30 pm. Still too early to go to bed. I go to the tea shop owner and indicate I want the same again. I hand him another 50 and take the 2 teas, 2 samosas, and the Nepali donut and sit on the cold stone ledge where I started about 30 minutes ago. The old men and women have gathered on the temple porch and started playing some drums and singing. Added to this is the sound of all kinds of bells that are attached to the temple, bells that locals ring as they say a quick prayer to the god. Ring, ring. I'm calling you God. Are you listening? I listen closely to the sounds of the singing and the drums. I can't really detect a pattern or a rhythm but there seems to be one, hidden. The sounds of the chanting, the bells, the talking and laughing of children, the occasional motorcycle and blaring horn, all mix together into a kind of street music that with a little imagination becomes a symphony. I add to it with munching and sipping. Sitting back and being entertained by watching the comings and goings in the temple square as people have been doing since before the time of Columbus. I peel off some parts of the fried samosa (I have to watch my veins) and look around for one of the many curled up balls of fur called goats who are more and more dotting the square. I take my samosa in it's paper wrapping and set it down in front of a furry black one. He smells it immediately and is very interested but not enough to uncurl and lose his body heat. He finally manages to eat it and I go back to my cold smooth seat. I see some older men playing chess in the corner of the square. I put on my mask and walk over to watch. They are good, and I watch the end game with interest. The lights suddenly come on. Some boys start playing ping pong on the side. But they don't have a table, they play on the smooth concrete porch. Their net is a piece of wood they've balanced on edge. One player stands off the porch and his side is almost like a regular ping pong table, the other guy plays leaning over playing like a giant would play. It's amazing. The leaning down guy plays as well as the other guy. I watch awhile and then interrupt and ask if I can try. They oblidge. I used to be pretty good at table tennis or TT as they call it here. Standing off the porch I'm able to hit them back OK but the stone surface is different. I try playing leaning over and I can't do it at all. We all laugh and I walk away smiling.
In Kathmandu Valley, there were 3 ancient kingdoms; Kathmandu, Patan, and Baktapur. Each king competed with the others to make the most fabulous palaces. Dattatraya Square is part of the old city of Baktapur. It was built in 1437. The large 3 tiered temple is said to be made out of a single tree. The base is square and it's roof comes to the center at 4 points. The second level rises from that so that it looks like 2 inverted 4 sided pyramids. The 3rd smaller level also rises like a pyramid. Around the rim of each level is a row of tiny bells. You can watch the wind play with the bells, rarely ringing them, but swaying them in waves. The lights go off again. In the dimness, the dust hangs as does the sounds and smells of 500 years of Nepali people, living, working, playing praying, spitting, laughing, yelling, ringing, hauling, trading, carving, weaving, washing, gossiping,cooking, living.
Its now 830. The electricity is off. It's time to go to bed. There's nothing to do in Dattatraya Square.