Slices of Nepal, #2

“Those without reverence are wannabe demons. Faith plus heritage can accomplish wonders.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Kathmandu, 10/19/25

Gods, Demons and Wannabe Demons — Oct 20, 2025.

Yesterday was the start of Tihar, Nepal’s festival of lights. In India, it’s called Diwali. As a newly converted Hindu, there’s no way I was going to miss this, not that I have a choice. My flight back is still nine days away.

More strings of lights have been strung from tops of buildings. Tiny bowls are set on the ground, with their yak butter or canola oil, I kid you not, the fuel for a burning wick. Even outside their two major festivals, Nepalese are constantly gods orientated. You can’t walk a few steps without running into a shrine, temple, religious statue, stupa or at least paper talismans, with their gods and goddesses. Ghanta bells are constantly rung to chase away demons and welcome the beneficent divine.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon the Shree Gha Vihar, a magnificent Buddhist temple dating to the 16^th century. Inside, I was surprised to find myself the only visitor. One enters by ducking slightly while pushing aside a colorful curtain. Monks of all ages were minding their business. I was left alone to admire the statues and murals. In awe, I knelt in front of a gorgeously carved Avalokiteshvara. It’s only natural to feel incredibly soothed, humbled and sad at such moments. Those without reverence are wannabe demons. The Bodhisattva’s multiple heads and arms mean he can see and help everyone simultaneously.

On my latest visa application for Vietnam, I listed “none” for religion, yet I can’t help but marvel at the love and dedication it took to build humanity’s greatest monuments. Our churches and temples aren’t just proofs of our love for gods, but of our own transcendence, of what we can achieve when we’re most obedient and humbled. The best art does the same. Those who destroy such structures are Satanic.

Sensing a man looking over my shoulder, I turned around to find a tiny old guy in a Dhaka topi, smiling. “Writer!” I said while making typing motions. At the next table, there’s a cool looking dude in a white hoodie, with “UNLIKE HUMANS” and a cactus on his back. I’m sure there are no cacti anywhere in Nepal. He wants to be magically transported. Minutes ago there was a fight at the Smoothie King joint across the street. As typical of these tussles, no one could land a punch or even dared to do so, lest he receives serious retributions, in the form of hair pulling, biting or testicle grabbing. Only a small trash can was knocked over. Two unarmed cops broke it up without arresting anyone. Many bystanders didn’t even bother to watch.

Yesterday I dutifully visited Durbar Square. It’s perverse to skip it while here. In Cairo, I headed over to the Giza Pyramids, but was much relieved when it was over. My best experiences of Siem Reap were its streets, not Angkor Wat. All stupendous, the structures at Durbar testify to the wealth and power of Nepalese kings, but they are dead, thus sterile. The highlight for me was a giant demon stepping on a naked red man. In his hands he held all these decapitated heads. Fearful of such punishment, Nepalese honored this Lakhey, so he was alive. You, too, is that red man being stepped on.

Inches away from my feet is a white and tan dog, sleeping. Just outside KTM Burger is a woman and her toddler son, sleeping on the ground. By them are two more dogs, one black, one brown. Illness, injury or just old age can reduce you to a doglike state, thus closer to gods, unfortunately.

Twenty five years ago, I offended an old college friend, Blaine Hunter, when I said Italian teens were so much less aggressive than American ones. Those ragazzi were still sweet and innocent. Immediately, Blaine stopped emailing me. Soon after, this married man with a daughter was arrested for possession of child pornography. I’m pretty sure Blaine never left the USA.

Kathmandu, 10/19/25

Nepalese teens are also less aggressive. To release testosterone, some do go crazy on motorbikes, especially ultra cool Royal Enfield ones, made in India. Thomas Bell describes this tendency most memorably, “While I was riding behind him he loved to swerve and dip around the marketgoers and the other vehicles. He pitched his body from side to side to enhance the sensation. On the country roads where I took the controls he climbed all over my back, urging me to go faster.” Sounds better than street takeovers, drive by shootings or sucker punching strangers, usually much older and from behind. Over five nights, I’ve routinely wandered in the dark for miles without worries. I wouldn’t advise doing that in any American city.

KHOU on 10/17/25, “Three teens were arrested and charged in connection with the death of an Uber driver. Quoc Nguyen, 28, was found dead along Lakewood Forest Drive […] Nguyen was robbed and shot to death before the suspects took his car and left the scene.” This young man had served in the US Marines. He did everything right. Since Quốc never adopted an American name, he likely emigrated as a teen. Despite everything, they will keep coming.

It’s no longer dark at 6:03AM. Leaving KTM Burger, I will walk to that tiny café, my very first in Kathmandu, where a chai can be had for 30 rupees, or 21 cents. Served in glasses instead of pretentious, US imperialistic cups, they keep your hands warm. Each morning, a middle aged man brings by just one sandwich, to be sold. Perhaps he makes ten a day, to be left at different cafes? Leftovers he can eat, so nothing is lost.

There two days ago, I witnessed a teen boy half flirting with two Chinese women. “I’m 13-years-old,” he declared.

“No, no! You must be at least 21!” About 30, she wasn’t just guessing his age, but stated what was legal before she could drag him back to the hotel. His four companions were too shy to even look at the Chinese.

Nothing happened. To show friendliness, she pinched off a piece of cake to give him, and to his friends also. Lady, I was also 13 not that long ago. It was awful. Twenty-one wasn’t better. Growing up anywhere is to be mired in uncertainties, if not fears, and it’s only gotten worse. The young are justified in cursing us old heads. We couldn’t have fucked up any worse.

Kathmandu, 10/20/25

Big With Dogs! — Oct 20, 2025.

With this morning going so well, disaster had to happen. At 4:11AM, I took a photo of a filthy looking holy man carrying a “wallet Men’s Wear” bag, which I thought very clever. Then came that dude in the “UNLIKE HUMANS” hoodie. I was on a roll, man. Just after 6AM, I had finished an article.

On the way to that charmingly ramshackle café, I noticed a Buddha next to the sign for UFO Burger, so snapped that. Sitting down with my cherished chai, I was approached by two dogs, with the second leaning his head against my knee. Each wanted to be petted and scratched. Neither, though, dared to look at my face. Some men attract babes, I draw dirty dogs, which I also thought very clever. Clearly, I was courting disaster.

After a stop at my third café, 4 Square, I noticed an old woman selling walnuts in batches of just four. Trying forever for the right angle, I was approached by her curious grandson, who offered me a betel nut. Yesterday, I had seen a young woman rotating walnuts with one hand, which made me think, with a sly smile, of a drunken experience in a car from decades ago. I’m sure she still remembers. I hope you’re doing well! So I draw dirty dogs and small children.

Soon after, I took several more photos that were better than usual. One shows a scowling older woman inside a second story window, with many bananas dangling beneath her. She was being courted, in short, yet none was good enough to be peeled so daintily by her, objectively speaking, gnarly fingers.

A poster for Ben Nevis ice cream shows a smiling white girl sitting on a skateboard. She’s more than ready to lick. Though that Scottish mountain is but an ant hill compared to the lowest Himalayan peaks, it’s so far away, thus nearly unreachable. It’s as exotic, then, as that white chick.

Kathmandu, 10/20/25

Returning to 4 Square, I decided to try their pork sandwich, which came with fries. What was served, though, tasted like old, forgotten fish, and the soft, slightly sweetish bread I wouldn’t throw at some leprous mongrel.

Is that it for my disaster? Isn’t that enough? One’s slightest discomfort matters more than all the nuclear bombs, famines, tsunamis, earthquakes, mudslides and genocides suffered by the rest of humanity, combined, throughout history.

Though unable to feel anyone’s pain, we’re certainly capable of experiencing horror, sorrow or disgust. By now, you’ve undoubtedly seen the AI generated video of Trump as a pilot dropping tons and tons of shit onto Americans. To mock all those No Kings protesters, he wears a crown. Since this wasn’t posted by some retarded nine-year-old but the President of the United States himself, it’s beyond belief Trump still has a single supporter.

It’s not quite noon. To erase the memories of that sandwich, I should treat myself to a decent lunch, then wander towards parts unknown. All over town, women and girls plus some boys are threading garlands of makhamali or marigolds. Soliciting donations, darker skinned boy musicians and dancers are going from store to store. Since peace is always a blessing, perhaps I’ll sneak into Shree Gha Vihar again. There’s also an intriguing literary café about two miles away.

Kathmandu, 10/20/25

Shrieking Kids and Flapping Wings — Oct 21, 2025.

At 2:52AM on this Tuesday, it’s very rowdy at the corner of Thamel and Paryatan. It’s festival time. Though it’s only 60 degrees, that’s still too cold to be sleeping outside, especially if you’re old.

I thought this when passing three figures on the ground, one with his hands between his bent knees, a desperate posture I saw many times among the homeless in Philly. How many Americans must sleep in dumpsters each night? I also remember a man wrapped in a dirty blanket just outside Denver’s Greyhound Station. There was snow and a fierce wind. When the security guard wouldn’t let him in, this man, no older than 35, said through the door, “Are you human?” In case you’re wondering, they were both white.

In Siem Reap, there’s an old white guy from Iowa who often survived on charity. Without “best mom” and others, Max would have been in deep shit. Cambodians felt sorry for him.

When I tried to intercede on behalf of a very old white woman who had to sit on her wheelchair outside in the winter, an Unzian responded contemptuously, “When have you seen an Oriental do anything for anybody?” I don’t doubt he voted for Trump. Through Frank Wilson, I got the Inquirer to check if Eileen, who had a career in insurance, had been kicked out of her house illegally.

So sweetly, she told me, “I wanted to look like Dolly Parton, and sing better than Dolly Parton. I wanted to sing like Dorothy Collins.” Her full interview is in Obscured Americans, now banned from Amazon, for I’m a monster who should never be heard from again.

They’re setting off fireworks. At KTM Burger, there’s a chubby woman in baby blue pyjamas with pale pink rabbits. Dressed like that, she belongs more in Cambodia or Vietnam. I can see myself hugging her, but childlike, without sexual scheming, at least not too overtly. Please, mommy?

Some guy with his belly sticking out needs help getting up. He can’t even keep his eyes open. We’re so miserable, getting fucked up is considered fun! Last night in bed, I actually thought of Fassbinder. Like Nepal, he had so much life. He would have found paradise here when it was overflowed with drugs. Dude died at just 37! Like Nepal, Fassbinder was familiar with demons.

Yesterday, I had a “pork” sandwich that nearly killed what little faith I had left in humanity! A compensation bowl of Chinese noodles with mutton was barely better. With some reluctance, I finally entered Lazy Monk for a dal bhat platter. With mutton at $4.25, it was excellent and enough of a bargain, considering the chi-chi surroundings.

There was a pushy man there. When two Germans entered, he shouted, “Guten tag!” Finding out I was Vietnamese, he chirped, “Xin chào!” All this was fine, but he had an ulterior motive. To save others from this dude, I left this review at Google, “Food and prices were fine, but I couldn’t eat in peace since there was a guy who kept pestering me to visit a nearby gallery. He claimed to be an employee of the restaurant and an artist, neither of which I suspect is true. Lazy Monk shouldn’t tolerate this annoying character for he’s chasing customers away.”

The gallery in question is filled with kitschy landscapes and mandalas, plus a small sign declaring all proceeds will go to an orphanage! Crude lectures on Buddhism in barely comprehensible English are also available as foreplay before purchase. I ran the fuck out.

Kathmandu (L): 10/20/25 ; (R): 10/18/25  [Re: MCC Corp]

Don’t think I’m exaggerating. Here’s Peter Dorbin in the Inky on 6/8/22, “The dissonance between Saturday night’s gunshots and Sunday’s mourning doves, church bells, and distant train whistles epitomizes what it means to live in the shadow of Philadelphia’s most fraught party zone.”

Parties ain’t real until you hear gunshots! Trump’s ICE will only make it worse. Going after blacks and browns is only a pretext for going after you, white man! Your pale ass is going broke, too, for the yellow man has stopped buying your peasant stuff, and all his doodads are costing you more. That’s just Tariff 101.

During festival, even stray dogs are dotted with bindis. Many are sprinkled with marigold petals or draped with garlands. They’re fed sweets. None is washed, however, but a little dirt won’t kill you.

On sidewalks or streets, there are fanciful designs drawn with colored rice flour, chalk and flowers. Though mostly done by ordinary citizens, some are breathtakingly elaborate. Faith plus heritage can accomplish wonders. Since banana symbolizes purity, chunks are sometimes left on these artworks, with, often, incense sticks jutting from them.

Yesterday, I did return to Shree Gha Vihar. Its large square is a wonderful oasis, with people just relaxing and kids playing. Running on the platform around the stupa, they happily shriek. You can sip chai at a quiet table as monks stroll by. Plenty of food is available at tiny, one room eateries tucked into adjacent alleys.

Circular, the stupa is also a mandala, grasshopper. Since we’re so full of shit, we need its space, water, fire, earth and air symbolism to feel sort of clean, if only for moments. Sitting in its shadow away from traffic noises, I heard only the flapping of pigeon wings and those exuberant children. Today, I must return.

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

Embedded Temples — Oct 21, 2025.

Naturally, something is always messed up. You’re traveling (or living) with the wrong person(s), the prescription on your eyeglasses are off, you’re going blind, deaf or both, you’re too depressed to see anything, you’re so paranoid you see what don’t exist, you fear anyone slightly different from yourself, just about everyone, even those of the wrong age or race, reminds you of your mother, father or a despised sibling, you’re too stupid to learn even three words of any foreign language, you’re too ill or lazy to walk two or three blocks, you can’t eat anything you haven’t had a million times, and fixed just the right way. Still, you travel because death is always near, even if you’re just born, and this earth is all we have.

Damn, this milk tea tastes great! I’m tucked into a shady corner of Shree Gha Vihar, that square with the big enough stupa. I can hear laughing children. Just now, two teen girls strolled by with ice cream cones. An old monk in red robe entered a door. There’s radio noise, but not too loud. At least it’s not Bruno Mars, as was playing at 4 Square. An unseen crow squawks. Nine hours ago, there was a woman writhing on the ground. Dressed in black jeans and a blue top, she had her shades by her head and her phone next to her. In obvious pain, she flashed good white teeth between red lips as she cursed and moaned. People and dogs walked by. This partying chick would need a day to get over that hangover. Recovered, she’d do it again and again.

Suddenly, this tiny café is filled with teens. I can hear girls giggling. Next to me there’s a boy in a black T-shirt with “ONE ATNS” and a cartoon of some kid in a baseball cap, shorts and sneakers. Though I’ve seen AC/DC, Beatles and the American flag on clothing, references to the West are much rarer here than in Vietnam, Thailand or the Philippines. Colonized by Spain then the US for centuries, the last is most wretched, with even entirely naked children seen on Manila sidewalks

When I showed Vimal photos of this, he was surprised, “Here in Nepal, we think of Thailand or Philippines as much better.”

“They are richer on paper, but the wealth gap in the Philippines is terrible. There are homeless people all over Manila. Plus, they lost much of their culture! As for Thailand, they have so many prostitutes. There are whores everywhere, of course. Here, too, but it’s an industry in Thailand! Especially in Pattaya.”

Vimal is the owner of 4 Square. Besides spending 14 years in the US, he has visited China, Singapore, Thailand and Australia.

I ranted on, “You know, of all the Buddhist nations, Vietnam has the ugliest temples, and they put weird, colored lights around their statues. It’s bizarre! Here, your temples are distinctive, and many people are still dressed traditionally. Very few Vietnamese do so.”

Situated at the most strategic corner of Asia, Vietnam has always invited foreign invasions and meddlings. Marxism, too, was a mass rape. Thankfully, it has lost all currency, despite the country’s Communism label.

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

Emailing me from Patan three years ago, my friend Jonathan spoke of “old winding lanes, dripping eaves, moss covered roofs. Temples: Buddhist, Hindu, syncretic, on every corner—literally in every corner. Built into walls, into courtyards, into narrow-faced shophouses. You walk around some blind alley and there’s a 1,000-year-old statue with laundry hanging off it. There’s such a ridiculous richness of history, a density to it, that the people don’t even seem to notice!” That’s from a guy who’s been to over 150 countries, with weeks or months in many. He’s not just passing through.

This density of history casually embedded into daily life is also true of more touristy Thamel, and in adjacent neighborhoods. I’ve walked miles. Most charming are the residential courtyards with centuries old structures so beautiful, each would be the top attraction in most cities elsewhere.

Even with laundry hanging off them, shrieking children running around them or vendors selling produce, drinks or snacks right to their edges, these temples are still being used, so they’re lovingly maintained. Nepalese still believe in their gods, their heritage and, most importantly, themselves as themselves.

This afternoon, I did meet a 29-year-old man who had spent a year in Dubai and a year in Kuwait. Exploited by his Indian bosses, he barely had time to sleep. Now a driver of a tourist van, he’s itching to go overseas again, just to make more money. Having seen glitzier societies, he’s seduced. It’s like having a TV and cellphone. You can’t go without again.

Despite two World Wars, Europe still has many gorgeous structures dating back centuries. Americans who haven’t been there can’t quite imagine. Online photos can’t convey scale or ambience. Words fail, too. There’s no way anyone can describe the piazza in Siena, for example, or the one in Lucca.

I thought that was a dragon

— Ash (@Ash_Shaf2005) October 23, 2025

Before 9/11, Americans could tour parts of the White House. Built in 1791 by Irish born James Hoban, it’s enough of a masterpiece to be cherished. Plus, it has an unmatched historical aura. The entire world knows about this Whitey House. Causing only minimal outrage, Trump has turned it into Liberace’s wettest dream, however. Now, he’s even tearing down much of the East Wing, a 1902 addition, for his ghastly ballroom. I never thought any US president could treat the White House as his party pad, plus boudoir, but Trump, as swooned over by millions of Americans still, is the most awesome American ever. Even as Trump shits on them, they cheer.

Nepal, Bhutan, Myanmar, Laos and Cambodia, just to name countries right in this neighborhood, existed long before the USA, and will certainly outlast it. Despite its relative cultural confusion, Vietnam, too.

The world has much to learn from this poor and smallish nation. Grounded, Nepalese are serenely proud. You can see it in their relaxed postures, gaits and smiles.

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

Borges in Nepal — Oct 22, 2025.

In Amman, shopkeepers soon learnt that ni hao or konnichiwa had no effects on me. In Kathmandu, I’d walk by in the early hours loud nightclubs, some with dancers advertised. Again, I would hear ni hao or konnichiwa. Today, some greeter tried, “Hey, ni hao!”

Without being pushy, a fat dog decided to walk besides me. Though he clearly wanted to be petted, he didn’t look at my face. Who can blame dogs if they find the human face repulsive?

Made me think of what Borges says about mirrors. In “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” he mentions a mirror that “unsettled the far end of a corridor in a villa in Gaona Street.” Borges then observes that “there is something unnatural about mirrors,” especially late in the evening. Finally, Borges has Adolfo Bioy Casares quote “one of Uqbar’s heresiarchs,” who supposedly said “that mirrors and copulation are abominable because they multiply the number of men.” Borges finds this “a pithy dictum.”

If to multiply the number of men is abominable, man himself is abominable.

Uncertain about my place in life and American society, I looked at mirrors often in my 20’s and early 30’s. I had to double myself constantly. With selfies, people are multiplying their best selves to as many admirers as possible. This helps to calm, somewhat, the anxiety if not disgust they can’t help but feel towards their face, body, thoughts and smells. All those mini selves on their phone turns it into a temple to beauty and everlasting life.

Jorge Luis Borges and María Kodama

On the second floor landing of Hotel Pristine, there’s a large image of two-year-old Aryatara Shakya, Nepal’s new Kumari, or living goddess. In photos, Aryatar often looks confused, for she’s been removed from her entire family. To be worshipped is always a curse even for adults. Again, I thought of Borges.

In “Doctor Brodie’s Report,” Borges describes the Yahoos’ boy god, “Every male born into the tribe is subjected to a painstaking examination; if he exhibits certain stigmata, the nature of which were not revealed to me, he is elevated to the rank of king of the Yahoos. So that the physical world may not lead him from the paths of wisdom, he is gelded on the spot, his eyes are burned, and his hands and feet are amputated. Thereafter, he lives confined in a cavern called the Castle (“Qzr”), into which only the four witch doctors and the two slave women who attend him and anoint him with dung are permitted entrance. Should war arise, the witch doctors remove him from his cavern, display him to the tribe to excite their courage, and bear him, lifted onto their shoulders after the manner of a flag or a talisman, to the thick of the fight. In such cases, he dies almost immediately under the hail of stones flung at him by the Ape-men.”

These translations are by Norman Thomas di Giovanni, by the way. Though sadly out of print, they can still be downloaded at Z-Library. Dying of cancer, Borges married one María Kodama not two months before his death. She has wrecked his legacy at least in English and French. Commissioned by this ditz, Andrew Hurley’s translations, as published by Norton, have replaced di Giovanni’s. In Le Nouvel Observateur, Pierre Assouline called Kodama “an obstacle to the dissemination of Borges’ works.”

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

Typing this at KTM Burger, I can hear bits of idiocy from the next table. A drunken Scot has been going on about life, Russia, China, India and whatever else. Trying to learn English, perhaps, two Nepalese at the same table listen attentively. It’s also possible they think him wise. Words from white morons are parsed worldwide. Trump’s books are translated into every language.

As expected, the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas never held. Like Trump, Israel contemptuously breaks every deal or promise. The ethnic cleansing of Gaza continues.

Just five days after assuming office, Trump said, “I’d like Egypt to take people, and I’d like Jordan to take people. It’s literally a demolition site. I’d rather get involved with some of the Arab nations and build housing at a different location where they can maybe live in peace for a change. We just clean out that whole thing.” He’s made similar comments ever since. Those hundreds of thousands of dead Palestinians he’ll just pave over to build his “freedom place,” “freedom zone” or, most nakedly, just Trump Gaza.

As even one of my readers said of America’s murder of Venezuelan fishermen, “One thing about Americans, we don’t lose too much sleep over such things.” So carefree! Perhaps the US could be cleaned out so the rest of the world can live in peace for a change? Trump himself might do it, and gleefully, too. The Donald just loves to demolish.

As saner MAGA types abandon this sadistic fraud, only the ugliest Americans remain. If you’re over that way, look closely around you. Character is being shown. Like Trump himself, they’re not ashamed to fling their stinkiest shit.

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

At 4:04AM, that chai place is likely open, so I will head down that way. It’s time to warm my hands. Perhaps I will meet a needy dog along the way. I’m dog enough myself.

Though Borges wrote much about the Orient, he never made it this far. That’s too bad. Among the East’s infinite wonders is “braised chicken skeleton,” a “Chiense” delicacy I only discovered yesterday. To explain or excuse this dish, there was this helpful sentence, “The sea cucumber has no head or tail.” Though as adventurous an eater as any, I passed over it. In my dotage, loaded nachos or a simple enchilada at Bueno Burrito on Chaksibari are the comforts I need.

Nepalese food is fine, but these fuckers aren’t happy unless their tongue, throat, intestines, liver and asshole are burning. Mine are nearly shot.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks