Watching the Iran vs. Spain Game in a Completely Irrelevant Place

The airplane passed through clouds and mountains to land in Kathmandu. Next to me, a Korean monk was reading a translation of "The Dogs of War" by Frederick Forsyth. A few rows ahead, a man in a Gandhi hat was watching the World Cup opener. The young flight attendant fastened her belt and adjusted the blue ribbon around her collar. I asked, "When do the Himalayas come to watch the World Cup?" The young attendant smiled broadly: "Football..." The Boeing 777 shook and braked hard before reaching the end of the short runway, and the rest of the attendant's words were lost in the noise of applause from happy people celebrating the successful landing of the plane. Summer in Nepal is not climbing season. Few tourists come, except for hippies changing visas from India, petty traders, accidental tourists, Buddha pilgrims, and lovesick individuals with tearful eyes. But if someone says they came to watch the World Cup, one might doubt their sanity. For me, watching football is even more tedious than watching Swan Lake; let alone watching it in the capital of these towering mountains. On the morning of June 30, I woke up to the sound of the neighbor's dog. As I washed my hands and face, Mr. Krishna, my landlord who watched all the games from start to finish, shouted: "Iran or Spain?" I thought to myself, I wish I could get lost in the "noise of applause from happy people celebrating the successful landing of the plane." But I couldn't. Krishna reminded me that I promised to watch today's game together. I remembered that the night before, while he was giving me a discount on the rent, I was praising the importance of the World Cup. I wanted to say, "For God's sake, forget it!" but I was unable to translate that into any comprehensible language for Mr. Krishna: "Yes, sure... just let me find a good place, I'll call you." - "Okay! Then I'll be waiting." And I had to leave the house early in the morning, looking for a place to watch the Iran vs. Spain game. I turned from the alley near my house into an alley that connected to another alley. An alley that connected to another alley. And I reached another alley where thin men were building a dilapidated house that remained from the deadly earthquake three years ago. A house made of mud and brick until the next earthquake when they would build another house of mud and brick. The earthquake in the capital of one of the poorest countries in the world killed nearly 9,000 people, and the poorer ones still live in the half-destroyed houses left from it. I reached a green field where hardworking men and women were harvesting towel crops. These towels, after being harvested, are sent to two or three-star hotels nearby so that tourists who go nowhere but hotels feel that "everything is neat and clean." I passed by a driverless taxi station. Next to one of the taxis, an old woman was selling brooms and something she was pulling smelled like rain-soaked grass. I arrived at a Buddhist temple where a man was praying "deeply" at the threshold. Perhaps he was praying for the Iran vs. Spain game. I just didn't know for which one yet. According to Buddhist customs, Gautama Buddha, a prince who later reached "enlightenment," was born somewhere in present-day Nepal. Buddha, meaning "the awakened one," is a title given to anyone who reaches awakening and enlightenment, although usually when talking about Buddha, it refers to this "Nepali prince." I reached a market next to the dirty and shallow river of Kathmandu. In this market, they were selling clothes, including jerseys of World Cup teams; however, in reality, only Argentina, Germany, Brazil, Spain, and Portugal were available. Even in other shops in the city, those five teams are almost the only ones hanging on the walls. Now, out of those five, why did two of them become Iran's group mates? On the other side of the market, a young construction worker in a Ronaldo t-shirt said, "Ronaldo is a really good guy. When the earthquake came, he held a charity game for us." This worker earns about two dollars a day. With that amount, and expenses in a city like Kathmandu, it's hard to make a living. Unemployment in Nepal is around 40 percent. Every month, thousands of Nepalis flood into other countries, especially around the Gulf and Persia or Malaysia for work. According to statistics, more than 30 percent of Nepal's total GDP comes from the labor of these citizens. I crossed a bridge and reached the thirteenth day of a funeral ceremony. The thirteenth day is the last day of a typical "mourning" ceremony in Nepal. The mourning ceremony is accompanied by dance and song. Someone in the middle reads a story or a legend, a group of men dances and plays instruments. The rest watch. The deceased is usually cremated on the first day in a river, and the "mourning" family resides in a special house near the daily ceremony. An old man named Mr. Anish told me, "Others need to do something so that those who have lost someone do not grieve too much." I reached a small square where a Muslim mango seller was chatting with a Hindu pomegranate seller. He gave a mango and received a pomegranate. Muslims form a small minority of the people of Nepal. The majority are Hindu, and the Buddhist, Muslim, and other minorities almost always live together in peace and harmony. Killing cows is a crime in Nepal, and Muslims usually only eat goat and chicken meat. Finally, I reached a place where it was clear that World Cup games could be found; among shops selling prayer beads and Buddha, crumbling alleys, hashish sellers, Nepali fortune tellers, hiking shoes, dirt, and cafes that had hung the flags of the World Cup countries on their walls, the voices of English-speaking commentators could be heard reporting the game. This is the "Thamel" neighborhood. On the fourth floor of a café, a cheerful young man greeted me and immediately asked, "Where are you from, kid?" And as soon as he heard my answer, he beamed: "My best friend here in Kathmandu was an Iranian. We had fun together every day for five years." Lucky, who like half a dozen other Nepalis used to be a guide for climbers, now has a small business in India and occasionally travels to Nepal. The game was about to start, but Lucky was still recounting memories of five years of friendship with "Payman": "Around two o'clock, we would wake up. We would roll a joint, have a glass of liquor, and roll another joint. Once, Payman and I took a group of 17 Iranian kids to the mountains, and there we all rolled joints too." The café is not very crowded. These cafés are quite expensive for many locals. Moreover, watching the Iran vs. Spain game probably doesn't matter much to them. However, two or three other guests join in, and everyone becomes a fan of the "national team" as soon as they hear "Where are you from?" I suddenly remember that I should call Mr. Krishna, the landlord, but it's too late, and it's the last minutes of the game. Lucky asks, "Are you upset?" I say, "No." But he doesn't care about my answer, continuing with the same cheerfulness from our first meeting: "Don't be sad. Tomorrow take a bus to Pokhara. Under these massive mountains, you become so small that all your life's troubles become the size of a needle in the middle of the sea." I think to myself, for watching the Iran vs. Spain game, I probably couldn't find a better place.