Kites and Kathmandu: Notes on fighting disappointment in a new city.

“Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.”

— D.H. Lawrence

Kathmandu was supposed to be good. Better than good: great, enlightening, or even–dare I say it–magical.

Somewhere in the back of the worn-down local bus I’d sat in for the last eight hours, packed deep in my dusty backpack, were my great expectations for this city–a city I’d imagined to be a Portal to the Himalayas, whose winding backstreets would be lined with the fluttering prayer flags I knew so well from pictures.

But my first night in Kathmandu–a Friday night, at that–I stayed in my hotel room feeling overwhelmed, eating cold eggs for dinner and catching up on writing, with little idea of what the next day would hold. Knowing my friend Fraser’s love for the city, I asked him for advice–and was told to visit the Buddhist temple, the Swayambunath Stupa, preferably in the early morning.

And so I did, trekking three kilometers through rubbish-lined streets, crossing a river which had been dammed by even more piles of rubbish and clothing.

This wasn’t the city I’d come to see.

At the stupa, all I could focus on was a single question: Is it right that one person’s site of worship becomes someone else’s tourist attraction? Was it right for me to be fighting off stall owners trying to sell me cheap souvenirs, while Buddhist followers genuinely offered sacrifices and sought blessings from a priest?

The day before, I’d read Matt Land’s post, “Queenstown, You Let Me Down,” about his own disappointing stay in one of my favorite cities in New Zealand. Matt’s frustrations with a place so many love resonated with me, as I tried hard to see what has allured countless other travelers to Kathmandu.

But then I met Rojeet.

I’d passed the lot earlier–bordered on one side by the street, its three other sides defined by tired apartment blocks. The ground was part grass, part dirt–neither of which was in any particular order. Clotheslines criss-crossed across the open space, impossibly white sheets hanging in long rows like window valances.

And somewhere among the dusty lot, a kite flew. If by flew I mean a sputtering attempt at putting some distance between itself and the ground. And somewhere among the endless washing, a young boy held onto his wooden spindle of string, sending that kite into the air. Again, and again, and again.

It wasn’t the first one I’d seen in Nepal. Down a sidestreet in Pokhara, a gaggle of boys had run ahead of me with a lime green kite trailing behind them. And on the bus into Kathmandu, a quick look up revealed a few lost souls trapped forever on a telephone wire, their tails twisted twice, three times, around their doomed fate.

But here was my first glimpse of one up close. Rojeet wasn’t having much luck, but I could tell his frequent glances at other kites across the city that had found some breath of wind meant he wasn’t giving up anytime soon.

His friend Suraj soon appeared among the folds of towels, asking what I would come to know was his signature phrase: “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I assured him. “I’m just watching him fly his kite. Are kites very popular in Nepal?”

“Yes. But only for the festival,” he said, referring to the Daishan Festival that had recently begun in honor of the goddess Durga.

“So you don’t fly them any other time?”

“No, we only fly them to the goddess.” I would later learn this is a symbolic request to Durga not to send anymore rain–and that these kites are a key way to tell the festival is approaching.

As I said goodbye to the boys and headed back towards my hotel, my steps felt that much lighter for having met Rojeet. Don’t get me wrong–I was still on the first bus out of Kathmandu the next morning, but somehow knowing that out of the flock of kites I could always look up and see across the city, one would be his, made me warm to the city just that little bit more.