Having survived the Hotel Ramshackle in Bharatpur I headed into the jungle proper where I hear the tiger population has increased from 120 to 200. Still didn't see one. My old friends Mr and Mrs Elephant are still out and about though and the bus rode us through the flat Terai plains that stretch across the entire southern border of Nepal's frontier with India. I was there last year, but, thanks to the elephants and the people and enchantment in general, it's the sort of place that pulls one back. “Short back and sides please, mate,” He stood with a beatific smile on his face, a little nervous in his cricket attire, holding a pair of steel scissors, unsure what to do, not understanding a word, eventually putting down the weapon and rubbing his hands on the grubby cloth draped over his shoulder. After a game of mime and hand gestures he got the gist and I settled back into a creaking bar stool while he prepared the cut-throat razor. My face was smothered in some sort of watery white oil, then foam, before receiving the most gentle shave of its life; the blade caressing the skin. The Barber of Bharatpur then took his ancient pair of scissors to my hair and sorted out the short sides and back, giving what’s left on top a little trim. Every now and then I’d open one eye and catch sight of various characters in the shop entrance craning their necks to gawk at me in the barber’s chair, pale legs sticking out from beneath the cape, yellow hair scattered about the place. Next up was a kneading of my face with his fingers starting at the chin, then over the nose, squeezing and molding and pinching, circling my eyes with fingertips before rubbing vigorously, open-palmed on my forehead. After that he ruffled my hair and pulled and pushed it about for a bit, massaging each follicle. Deftly he snapped a length of cotton thread from a reel, and bizarrely, kind of coolly, gripped the thread between both hands and ran it over my entire face, raking off the scraps. I mistakenly thought it all over and started to get up, but with a speed of turn to rival Johann Cruyff, he wrenched my arm back, and back further, until I yelped in pain and he laughed and kneaded the length of the arm, yanking and cracking knuckles before swapping to the left. Then I was pushed forward so my arms lay on the counter, my head on them, and he punched my back so hard with the base of his fist that my breath exploded from my mouth and he kneaded down through the muscles and flesh and made me giggle with a ticklish pinch of my waist. We all laughed at that and it did signal the end of the 30 minute/ $5 session. Outside had become dark o’clock. Out of Saudi, first in a taxi then the SABTCO causeway bus and a busy border with hundreds of cars using the bloody bus lane. Delmon Hotel lobby for buffet lunch and tea then breezy walk across town via the Shiaa ghetto, skirting the Diplomatic Quarter, and took a room in the Windsor Tower Hotel with supercute receptionist Lamlaya and a cool blue pool in the car park. Felt like stretching my legs so I vaulted a highway fence and padded through sand to Juffair. En route there was an argument with a guy who had nearly run me down then wanted to be best buddies. Dust-up over, it was onwards and upwards for a night at the Hotel California with US Military and Militaryettes, England 4 v Montenegro 1 on the TV while a band played Blur and Katy Perry covers. There was plenty of whisky on the bar as well as a mellow vibe despite the drunken, whooping GI Jar-heads, biceps like logs, dancing like white men, even the black guys. Felt rough after booze and the humidity made for a tetchy journey via Abu Dhabi at midnight (no change), onto Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi at 5 am in the smoking room and a great bookshop. Short flight to Nepal in cloud and landing in Kathmandu rain, a refreshing cool drizzle pattering from the Rhodedendrons. I hooked up with my old mate Rads then a power nap before delicious dinner in Gaia restaurant and a pleasant chat with the boss in trainy courtyard. Movies sent me down into to deepo sleepo. |
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FOTO BEDSIDE TABLERussell Shorto FOOD FOR THOUGHT
‘I don’t understand why when we destroy something created by man we call it vandalism, but when we destroy something created by nature we call it progress.’ Ed Begley Jr. * "The more I see of Humans the more I like my dog." Mark Twain * Only when the Last Tree Is Cut Down, The Last Fish Eaten, And the Last Stream Poisoned, Will Man Realize That Money Cannot be Eaten Cree Indian proverb Nb. Doesn't work in Google Chrome, no idea why not...
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