The Merchants of Thamel

I’m tripping through the streets of Thamel, doe eyed and foggy, with the sights and sounds of Nepal’s capital closing in. At least we are moving, that’s important right now. We need to keep moving because the ground feels like it’s getting away on us.

I’m surrounded by lights poking holes in the thick dust that chokes the streets. The dust creeps in through your mouth and fills you up, sliding beneath your skin.

Bump. Marijuana?…

The Merchants of Thamel

The Merchants of Thamel

Small men graze gently against our shoulders, quietly extending an invitation to buy some organic Nepalese paraphernalia. Before it registers, they are lost within the swarms of limbs once again, with them their offers to get higher than the Himalayas without ever leaving the city.

Legs. So many legs obscure my view of the pot-holed street, like the flags that drape between the buildings. Even stranger are the obscene number of feet at the bottom of all those legs and again, the way they cover up the street like a thick, moving carpet.

The Merchants of Thamel peer at us from their shops. As we move further into old town, they care less. Their eyes move over us like a hawk surveying an empty field. We peer back at them through the dust and carry on.

 

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