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Authors: Ted Riccardi
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the Tuladhar caste, had lived in Tibet for many years. His name was Gorashar and he dealt in cloth and a variety of manufactured goods, including on occasion Russian weaponry. Holmes met him purely by accident shortly after his arrival, and they soon became friends. Gorashar returned home to Nepal every four years, and it was fortunate that one of his trips coincided with Holmes’s Tibetan sojourn. Gorashar warned him that he travelled at his own risk and that discovery in Katmandu would result in severe punishment. Holmes assured his friend that he was willing to bear the risk and that in any case his stay would be brief.
The journey was difficult, more difficult than the one by which he had entered Tibet. From Lhasa they went to Shigatse, then to Gyantse, crossing the Tsangpo or Brahmaputra River in one of those strange boats of yak skin that the Tibetans have made from time immemorial. From this point they began the ascent to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, a climb that strained the lungs of all.
“Many of the animals refused to go further,” he said, “and we had to search for fresh replacements. This caused endless delays. We finally crossed the pass above Nyalam at nineteen thousand feet, moving then to the village of Khasa where we spent the night. On the following morning we crossed to Kodari, resting there for the evening. The following day we began our descent toward the kingdom of Dolakha, a few days walk from Katmandu.”
Holmes described the passing from Tibet into Nepal as a dramatic change. Though filled with astounding sights, Tibet is by and large a barren land of great immensity. Nothing there prepared him for the sight of the snowy heights of the Himalayas, the clear mountain streams that pass through them, or the lush vegetation that begins to appear as soon as one begins the descent.
“To my knowledge, I was the first European to visit Dolakha, a forgotten kingdom of remarkable beauty, one even whose name is unknown to the civilised world. It was there that we began to recover from the rigours of our journey and I began to sense a well-being that I had not known before in my life.”
I smiled inwardly, for my friend rarely allowed himself to display his emotions, but in speaking of Nepal there was an exultant tone in his voice that I had not heard in a long time. He seemed to divine my thoughts, for he said, rather sternly, “Although I have often been amused by your portrayal of me as a cold, calculating machine without emotion, I have chaffed a bit at it as well, for it is of course untrue in one sense. I have emotions. In that I am like all other men. But they are completely in check and at the service of my brain. In that I am perhaps like no other.”
I was amused by his attempt to attribute to my rather paltry literary efforts his own attempts to present himself as a thinking machine, but I did not join him in argument here, for I did not wish to interrupt him. Seeing that I had nothing to say, he grew pensive for a moment, then continued, as I had hoped he would.
After their rest in Dolakha, they proceeded through Panch Kal to the old town of Banepa, just east and south of the Nepal Valley. Holmes remembered clearly the morning in Banepa. They rose and bathed in one of the local dharas or fountains and then turned their direction along the road that leads to Katmandu. The morning sun had begun to burn off the winter mist and it was still early when they began the final ascent. It was there that they had begun to see the first signs of the beautiful Newar villages that lie scattered across the landscape. As they ascended a low hill, they passed a series of small brick temples.
“The fields were green, for there had been heavy winter rains, and the fertile fields were in full bloom. We reached the top of the ridge and as I turned to the right, there lay before me the Valley of Katmandu! I must say, Watson, that I was taken aback, as I have never been before or since, even more
The journey was difficult, more difficult than the one by which he had entered Tibet. From Lhasa they went to Shigatse, then to Gyantse, crossing the Tsangpo or Brahmaputra River in one of those strange boats of yak skin that the Tibetans have made from time immemorial. From this point they began the ascent to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, a climb that strained the lungs of all.
“Many of the animals refused to go further,” he said, “and we had to search for fresh replacements. This caused endless delays. We finally crossed the pass above Nyalam at nineteen thousand feet, moving then to the village of Khasa where we spent the night. On the following morning we crossed to Kodari, resting there for the evening. The following day we began our descent toward the kingdom of Dolakha, a few days walk from Katmandu.”
Holmes described the passing from Tibet into Nepal as a dramatic change. Though filled with astounding sights, Tibet is by and large a barren land of great immensity. Nothing there prepared him for the sight of the snowy heights of the Himalayas, the clear mountain streams that pass through them, or the lush vegetation that begins to appear as soon as one begins the descent.
“To my knowledge, I was the first European to visit Dolakha, a forgotten kingdom of remarkable beauty, one even whose name is unknown to the civilised world. It was there that we began to recover from the rigours of our journey and I began to sense a well-being that I had not known before in my life.”
I smiled inwardly, for my friend rarely allowed himself to display his emotions, but in speaking of Nepal there was an exultant tone in his voice that I had not heard in a long time. He seemed to divine my thoughts, for he said, rather sternly, “Although I have often been amused by your portrayal of me as a cold, calculating machine without emotion, I have chaffed a bit at it as well, for it is of course untrue in one sense. I have emotions. In that I am like all other men. But they are completely in check and at the service of my brain. In that I am perhaps like no other.”
I was amused by his attempt to attribute to my rather paltry literary efforts his own attempts to present himself as a thinking machine, but I did not join him in argument here, for I did not wish to interrupt him. Seeing that I had nothing to say, he grew pensive for a moment, then continued, as I had hoped he would.
After their rest in Dolakha, they proceeded through Panch Kal to the old town of Banepa, just east and south of the Nepal Valley. Holmes remembered clearly the morning in Banepa. They rose and bathed in one of the local dharas or fountains and then turned their direction along the road that leads to Katmandu. The morning sun had begun to burn off the winter mist and it was still early when they began the final ascent. It was there that they had begun to see the first signs of the beautiful Newar villages that lie scattered across the landscape. As they ascended a low hill, they passed a series of small brick temples.
“The fields were green, for there had been heavy winter rains, and the fertile fields were in full bloom. We reached the top of the ridge and as I turned to the right, there lay before me the Valley of Katmandu! I must say, Watson, that I was taken aback, as I have never been before or since, even more
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