The Barefooted-Monkey-Repeller

by Ryan Biller (United States of America)

Making a local connection Nepal

The goat was bleating furiously. One man coiled his fingers around the creature’s haunches while the other man pulled its head down from it’s horns. My eyes gaped with fear. A third man stood above the furious goat. In one hand was a cigarette, and in the other was a machete. He spewed a whitish smoke from his pursed lips. The cigarette fell to the ground, and he crushed the stick of tobacco beneath his sandal. He brought his other hand to the handle of the machete. He raised it above his head. Like a guillotine, the rusty blade sliced through the air. With a single swift slice, the goat's head popped from its body. Its warm crimson blood splattered against my boots. I grimaced. Yet I ventured onwards. Dozens of street vendors lurched from their stools at the sight of me; a six-foot, very pale, red headed guy with a camera draped around my neck. It was evident that I wasn’t a local. They all gently tugged on my sleeve trying to coerce me into buying their jewelry or carvings or bracelets. Still, I pushed forward. An incessant flow of people on motorized scooters zipped along the dirt roads, kicking dust up at me. Discombobulated, disheveled, and seriously reconsidering my decision to leave the safe confines of my own country, I got into a taxi, flipped open a page of my Lonely Planet guide book, and asked the driver to take me to the temple that I had wanted to see even before I had purchased tickets to Nepal: Swayambhunath, or as tourists say, the “Monkey Temple”. I watched from the window as Kathmandu drifted by. Monkeys shimmied along bundles of telephone wires that draped from building to building. Hindu sadhus trudged along the muddied streets. Hundreds--thousands--of motorized scooters flew down the congested and narrow Kathmandu streets. Finally, the vehicle wheezed to a stop at a curb. I had arrived. Armed with a camera, a rain jacket, and a pair of expensive boots to veil my precious feet, I traipsed into the heart of Swayambhunath. My brawny boots kept my feet dry as I trekked through puddles, over stray dogs, past naughty entourages of monkeys, and up the steep stairs of the temple. The shrill cries of monkeys, the angry barks of stray dogs, and the chatter of a foreign language created a symphony of unknown to me. But my ears perked up when they encountered a familiar sound: the genuine and energetic laughter of children. I turned to see a little girl. She had a coffee colored complexion with strikingly dark brown eyes. She wore green baggy clothes and a diluted orange ghoonghat covering her head. I too spoke the language of laughter. I offered a smile. She replied with a grin. I kneeled down, my knees creaked as I did so. I had been on the plane too long. She drew a crumbly piece of bread from a dilapidated satchel, no bigger than a smartphone. She held eye contact with me as she ate it. The bread was like a beacon. Suddenly, she was swarmed with pestering monkeys. I braced myself, scared to get bit. She didn’t. She knew how to fend off these pesky primates. She swatted them away like gnats. Occasionally, she’d use her bare foot to prod them away from her. She pushed through the hordes of monkeys towards me. I gestured to my camera, then back to her. I wanted to take a portrait of her. She nodded, but not before putting her hand on her hip. With her other hand, she rubbed her thumb against her middle and index fingers. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She was going to keep me honest. Reluctantly, I handed her a mere fifty rupees. Not enough. She snatched the money, but grunted. More? I dug deeper into the depth of my pocket. I handed her a hundred more rupees. Finally, she smirked at me as I snapped a few photos of her. She then darted up the stairs, her bare feet splashing through dirty puddles, over stray dogs, past monkeys, and towards the temple, laughing the whole way up.