Long live the king, where's the WC?

The royal palace is just up the street from our house. It's big and pink; fashioned at the height of the 70's I'd guess - looking more like a library than the home of royalty. It has none of the charm of the Newari style I so love about Kathmandu's crumbling older buildings.

We pass the distasteful deco palace every once in a while when we're out for a walk; using it's four or five city blocks of property as a median for the journey.

I'd previously been perplexed by the very sour and heavy smell of pee all along one entire side of the palace grounds. A king's residence would hardly seem the kind of place that would be left guilty of reeking insufferably of human excrement, but there it is. Every time choking us to tears and doubling Hamid over in near wretches at some of the stronger smelling areas.

But now that I've heard and seen in person what the locals think of the king I've developed a theory and am completely convinced they're using his compound walls as a toilet.

Today, on our way to the beautiful mountaintop village of Nagacort we were suddently stopped dead in traffic - wall to wall cars, motorcycles, and trucks sandwiched in together on a one way street with no hope of moving any time soon.

People started exiting their vehicles to see what was the matter; some of them climbing onto the hood or roof for a better view. As I didn't feel all that inclined to scramble onto the roof of our taxi I joined the growing crowd of Nepalis moving swiftly down the sidewalk toward the scene of whatever was keeping us parked.

At the next intersection there was a distinct energy of chaos and confusion. The Nepali police were trying to keep order amidst the crowd I'd walked up with as they prepared to merge with the fast approaching mele of literally thousands carrying sticks, clubs, and the red Maoist flag.

I hesitated long enough to climb up on a lightpost and snap a few pictures of the demonstration and then quietly slunk away from what was fast becoming a possible riot - but not before noticing a banner hanging on the same street. Big, white, with an image of Nepal's monarch smack dab in the middle; his broad brown face surrounded by red lettering proclaiming the king's relationship to God followed by an exultant "Long live the King!"

Back in the car we waited for the event to pass so we could continue on our way and in the meantime grilled our driver on what the whole scene had been about. This is essentially what he told us:

"King no good. Many people like fight king police with sticks. Like fight king. Many Maoists. Understand? King no good."

Upon further questioning he relented his own political views, "Mao Tse-Tung good. Many people like Mao. Many Nepali."

The buzzing crowd of angry Maoists must have found another road to inhabit and we were finally allowed to move forward. As we inched along the street and into the same intersection I'd been snapping pictures at I again saw the king's banner - only this time it was ripped to shreds, laying in tatters on the sidewalk, half in the street; taking further abuse from under the string of cars. Our own wheels met the lonely monarch's face mid- forehead and left a muddy tire print down his happy visage.

I felt sorry for him immediately - to live in a pink, pee-smelling palace styled to look like some kind of institution rather than a homey, opulent, dignified residence fit for a king; surrounded by people who hate him and apparently take great pleasure in using his garden walls as a rest stop.