Bread, butter and tourism: The show must go on

 

 

Devendra Gautam

Marooned in memories

Mushroom soup. 

 

That is what I order on a rain-drenched evening at a restaurant brimming with an extended family celebrating a child’s birthday. 

Navigating a flood of memories through a narrow passage, I find a dry corner to hang my raincoat. A vintage rotary telephone set takes me decades back — and further. Adrift on a turbulent stream of consciousness, I find a patch of dry land furnished with chairs and a table.  

Ahoy, Herman Melvilleji! How ya doin’?

The walls around me showcase vignettes from Nepal — snow-covered Himalayas and waters gushing from them; ordinary Nepalis carrying heavy loads across rugged terrain, many resigned to treating man-made and natural disasters as part of their collective destiny; cultural processions like the Lakhe Jatra; masked deities — and much more.  

Memories to cling to, memories to stand on amid a flood of memories. 

While waiting for my soup — it won’t be long, the waitress says, with a smile — I return to the here and now, with a wi-fi connection, thanks to a little help from my neighbour.

With wi-fi, the world is my oyster — or so I feel. 

And an online game or two before the broth won’t harm… 

So I begin my boxing match on the chessboard, clinch a win, and feel that I don’t have the appetite for the next game. 

I have had my setbacks, both on the chessboard and beyond. That will make another piece – or who knows – several other pieces, for an individual living to tell the tale. 

 

But who would care about an individual's triumphs and tribulations in the echo chamber of bestselling authors? The question vanishes into the rarefied air, which takes me to Sagarmatha. 

 

Bread, butter and a flight to cherish

‘At 7 am tomorrow, we are flying to Lukla.’ 

‘Sounds great,’ the lady from South India replies to her guide, excited about getting a closer view of the world’s highest peak and the surrounding Himalayan wonders.    

 

The ground-level conversation taking place just across my piece of dry land offers a glimmer of hope for tourism, considered the industry of industries, in the land of the Himalayas, the Tarai and the Hills. Tourism has mountains to climb and so do we. 

My soup arrives with a smile and a piece of bread. 

While waiting for it to cool down a bit, I navigate through legends that describe Kathmandu as a vast lake, with a beautiful lotus flower in its midst glowing with divine light. Eons ago, according to a legend, Manjushri the great came from the Wutai Shan mountain on a pilgrimage, drained the lake by cutting through mountains surrounding it with a flaming khadga and made the place habitable.  

But Manjushri would not stop then and there. As per the legend, he went on to plough this very fertile lakebed (where I have just found a dry patch to stay awhile), ushering Kathmandu into the age of farming. 

Interestingly, he ‘created’ a pair of griffins through meditation and used them for ploughing. By the way, where were those ox folks in those days? Grazing in the nutrient-rich grasses of Oxfordshire? 

Back from the lake and quite hungry, I dive deep into the soup and feast on my bread.

Gingerly, I ask the attending lady: Can I have one more of this? 

Gingerbread!

Yeah, ‘gin-ger-bread’.  

I make a wish, and the gingerbread arrives. 

What if I ask for the moon and get it? What would I do with the moon, anyways? After all, it is neither bread nor sixpence. 

Devdas would know, but he is long gone with his usual fill, without his Paro. 

Even if I waited till the cows came home, he wouldn’t show up for a little conversation over a shot of his favourite tipple or something... 

But the bill can wait no longer. 

I request the lady at the counter to include the extra piece of bread in the bill — even if a piece were complimentary — but she turns down my request.  

I leave a rain-drenched Thamel for home, with a promise to return soon.  

 

Cheers, santé!

A few days later, I am back in chock-a-block, relatively dry Pakanajol, with a small group in a flooded river of humanity. 

We are delighted to see a towering figure just a few steps ahead of us. 

I try to rise to the occasion. Does she play professional basketball? How does she feel about standing out? What advantages and disadvantages come with her height? Could I strike up a conversation, take a snap with her, or perhaps interview her if her story proves compelling enough?  

But at a fork in the road, we turn left towards a restaurant to unwind, while she heads straight and dissolves into the milling crowd. How I hate forked roads and still love Robert Frost! By the way, have you ever counted the number of forked roads on your palms, readers? 

 

As the evening matures and the stage is set, more guests arrive, and the place is full of international tourists accompanied by Nepali tour operators.  

Voila!

That’s when Sanskritik karyakram (cultural programme), a key attraction alongside cuisines from home and abroad, begins. 

Against a backdrop of mountain-range artwork and a thatched roof, artists in traditional Nepali attire set the dance floor alight, joined by a group of American guests having a jolly good time. 

 

Probably tired after half a day of sightseeing, our British guests turn to global politics over food and drinks, while we drift along, soaking in one ethnic song and dance performance after another.  

 

I come to realise that time also flies, so it’s time to pay the bill and bid our goodbyes – till we meet again.  

 

Mountains to climb

 

The next morning, my senior colleague and guests will fly to Lukla — they have a peak to climb in the Sagarmatha region after weeks of acclimatisation — while I will continue to try to get in a better position on the rugged terrain of life. 

We all have our peaks to climb… 

On my way home along a near-deserted road, my mind is a crowded place as an assortment of people stream in. 

Guests, both domestic and international.

International airlines, domestic airlines, senior management, employers, employees

Airport officials. 

Taxi drivers, tourist bus operators.

Hoteliers, restaurateurs, artists, wellness entrepreneurs, employees. 

Adventure sports agencies, travel and tour operators, guides.  

Farmers, manufacturers, suppliers, vendors.  

Host communities. 

Religious/spiritual figures, Tourist Police personnel, politicians. 

 

This is only a tentative list of stakeholders, but tourism, if properly managed, could help turn around the national economy — benefiting everyone from the airport cabbie to the teashop owner beside a foot trail, the myriad businesses in between, and the government itself.  

 

Amid global headwinds — heightened hostilities in West Asia, the Russia–Ukraine war and the contest for global supremacy between our two giant neighbours — and local calamities like the Bhotekoshi disaster, the tourism industry is definitely not on auto-pilot.  

At this critical juncture, Singhadurbar must engage stakeholders in meaningful dialogue and sustain efforts to transform tourism into a more robust engine of national economic growth. The consequences of complacency could be disastrous.   

Let’s hope that it happens soon enough. After all, the show must go on.