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Nepal
 Photo: Chad Nelson
Nepal
 Photo: Chad Nelson

Kathmandu, Nepal: Crossing a Bridge (cont.)

“How are you holding up?” Mike asks.

“I just want to get to that taxi.”

“Let’s first hope that he lets you in.”

I didn’t consider that.

We come up with an elaborate plan of diversions, smoke and mirrors, but we don’t need it. The taxi driver doesn’t pay any attention to us when we enter the taxi, and he doesn’t mind or notice the terrible smell coming from my shoes. I sit in the seat behind him and try not to look at my shoes and the dark wetness of my pant’s right leg, but I can’t help it. I imagine the worms and the parasites that were in that canal and how they probably burrowed into my skin, maybe got in through an open cut I didn’t know I had, and how they are probably working their way through the inside of my body, attaching themselves to my organs, eating away at my brain.

We return to our apartment, and I tip the taxi driver far more than he expects. Once he drives off, I tear off my shoes and pants. After a long and thorough shower, I go back outside and spray down my pants and shoes. The pants I can easily replace, but I like my shoes. They’re new, stylish, and extremely comfortable. But they can’t be cleaned. I soak them in a bucket of soapy water overnight. Come the morning, even after I spray them down again, the shoes are still filthy.

“They look fine to me,” Mike says.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “There’s shit all over them.”

“You’re losing it,” Mike says, picking one up and eyeing it, “They’re as clean as the day you bought them.”

I realize I may be suffering from the same insanity that plagued Lady Macbeth, but I can’t be too safe. In the afternoon we put the shoes into a bag and take a taxi to the Bodhnath Stupa. Tibetan Buddhists circle the stupa, sometimes on their hands and knees, in the mornings and evenings to complete their daily circuit. But all day long beggars sit against the stupa and stretch out their hands to those who pass by. I have yet to give them anything, but that is about to change.

I spot him as we approach Bodhnath.

“That’s the one,” I tell Mike.

He is lean, practically emaciated, and has hands that have been twisted into stiff claws. I approach with the bag. He recognizes my intentions and smiles a toothless smile. I glance down at his ravaged, bare feet as I hand him the bag. The shoes will be a little big on him, but he’ll be comfortable.

Mike and I continue walking, never looking back to see his reaction when he opens the bag and discovers the shoes. I feel bad for giving them to him. I should have thrown them away or back into the river, but Mike assures me that the beggar will appreciate them. Then we both laugh, thinking how the Buddhists and tourists who visit Bodhnath are going to be surprised to see a beggar reaching out for spare change while wearing such modern and stylish shoes.

 

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