Geoff Wisner

Video Night in Kathmandu

by Pico Iyer. Alfred A. Knopf. 376 pages, $19.95.

The main attraction of travel books is that they can take you to foreign lands from the comfort of your armchair. But another seldom-mentioned pleasure is that they can allow you to revisit a place you have seen yourself, and to compare the author's impressions with your own. This, however, can be dangerous. What if the author thinks your favorite place is mundane or touristy? What if you find you have missed the best sights and experiences of a country you may never see again?

Having spent a month in Nepal, trekking in the Everest region with my mother, I picked up Video Night in Kathmandu with interest and anxiety. As his title suggests, Iyer's theme is the influence of the West on Asian cultures, and I feared that he would paint a grisly picture of Nepal -- and the rest of Asia -- being steadily cheapened by what he calls "Coca-Colonization." Indeed, Iyer heads to Kathmandu's "Freak Street" more in the hope of recapturing the sixties than of understanding the land of the yak and the yeti. His first impressions are suitably psychedelic:

Sweet incense wafted out of stores crushed raggedly together along dusty, crooked streets, and out from their walls hung horror-eyed masks, spinning prayer wheels, druggy thanka scrolls and revolving lanterns. Mirrors caught the light on shoulder bags, long dresses streamed from carved wooden balconies, scarves fluttered in the breeze, demons stared out of rice-paper calendars.

Soon, however, he finds that the freaks are gone, and that despite the Bohemian trappings, Kathmandu has cleaned up its act. His disappointment may account for his referring to the Pilgrim Book Shop, which is just outside the guest house where my trekking party stayed, as "a smarter version of the Harvard Book Store Cafe." I bought a collection of Tibetan folk tales there, and found it quirky, dusty, cramped, and charming.

Iyer provides a simple explanation for both the wild proliferation of ethnic restaurants in Kathmandu and the risks of eating in them. "The thing about the Nepalese," a New Zealander tells him, "is that they're so friendly, and they're so keen to adapt to Western tastes, that they make dishes they haven't a clue how to cook. That's why everyone gets sick there." (My own downfall was the chocolate cream pie at the New Kantipur Restaurant.) Iyer discovers some things I was sorry to have missed -- I never knew, for instance, that Kathmandu has a zoo -- but although his chapter on Nepal is called "The Quest Becomes a Trek," he does not go trekking himself and so misses such basic experiences as sharing a narrow mountain path with a heavily laden yak.

Iyer's travels take him to Bali, Tibet, China, the Philippines, Burma, Hong Kong, India, Thailand, and Japan. Everywhere, his light touch, ear for dialogue, and sensitivity to high and low culture contribute to some very funny scenes. He has a knack (perhaps picked up at Time, for which he writes essays and reviews) for wisecracking phrases such as "turban terrorists" to describe the Sikh extremists. In the Philippines, he finds local singers who specialize in note-perfect renditions of pop songs from the States. Baseball players in Japan turn the sport into a quasi-religious ritual. Indian moviemakers out-Hollywood Hollywood in mixing farce, tragedy, singing, dancing, sexual innuendo, and mawkish sentiment into sprawling screen epics.

In most of the countries he visits, Iyer is struck by the extraordinary resilience of the people, and their ability to survive and even profit from Western influence. One exception is Bali, where an island of great natural beauty has been corrupted by surfers, jet-setters, and self-styled artists. Another is Tibet, where the presence of tourists helps to mask the destruction of one of the world's great religious and cultural traditions. It is to Iyer's credit that he recognizes this as the tragedy it is, and that his book can be moving as well as comic.

Published in the Harvard Post, September 23, 1988.



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Geoff Wisner Video Night in Kathmandu by Pico Iyer. Alfred A. Knopf. 376 pages, $19.95. The main attraction of travel books is that they can take you to foreign lands from the comfort of your armchair. But another seldom-mentioned pleasure is that they can allow you to revisit a place you have seen yourself, and to compare the author's impressions with your own. This, however, can be dangerous. What if the author thinks your favorite place is mundane or touristy? What if you find you have missed the best sights and experiences of a country you may never see again? Having spent a month in Nepal, trekking in the Everest region with my mother, I picked up Video Night in Kathmandu with interest and anxiety. As his title suggests, Iyer's theme is the influence of the West on Asian cultures, and I feared that he would paint a grisly picture of Nepal -- and the rest of Asia -- being steadily cheapened by what he calls "Coca-Colonization." Indeed, Iyer heads to Kathmandu's "Freak Street" more in the hope of recapturing the sixties than of understanding the land of the yak and the yeti. His first impressions are suitably psychedelic: Sweet incense wafted out of stores crushed raggedly together along dusty, crooked streets, and out from their walls hung horror-eyed masks, spinning prayer wheels, druggy thanka scrolls and revolving lanterns. Mirrors caught the light on shoulder bags, long dresses streamed from carved wooden balconies, scarves fluttered in the breeze, demons stared out of rice-paper calendars. Soon, however, he finds that the freaks are gone, and that despite the Bohemian trappings, Kathmandu has cleaned up its act. His disappointment may account for his referring to the Pilgrim Book Shop, which is just outside the guest house where my trekking party stayed, as "a smarter version of the Harvard Book Store Cafe." I bought a collection of Tibetan folk tales there, and found it quirky, dusty, cramped, and charming. Iyer provides a simple explanation for both the wild proliferation of ethnic restaurants in Kathmandu and the risks of eating in them. "The thing about the Nepalese," a New Zealander tells him, "is that they're so friendly, and they're so keen to adapt to Western tastes, that they make dishes they haven't a clue how to cook. That's why everyone gets sick there." (My own downfall was the chocolate cream pie at the New Kantipur Restaurant.) Iyer discovers some things I was sorry to have missed -- I never knew, for instance, that Kathmandu has a zoo -- but although his chapter on Nepal is called "The Quest Becomes a Trek," he does not go trekking himself and so misses such basic experiences as sharing a narrow mountain path with a heavily laden yak. Iyer's travels take him to Bali, Tibet, China, the Philippines, Burma, Hong Kong, India, Thailand, and Japan. Everywhere, his light touch, ear for dialogue, and sensitivity to high and low culture contribute to some very funny scenes. He has a knack (perhaps picked up at Time, for which he writes essays and reviews) for wisecracking phrases such as "turban terrorists" to describe the Sikh extremists. In the Philippines, he finds local singers who specialize in note-perfect renditions of pop songs from the States. Baseball players in Japan turn the sport into a quasi-religious ritual. Indian moviemakers out-Hollywood Hollywood in mixing farce, tragedy, singing, dancing, sexual innuendo, and mawkish sentiment into sprawling screen epics. In most of the countries he visits, Iyer is struck by the extraordinary resilience of the people, and their ability to survive and even profit from Western influence. One exception is Bali, where an island of great natural beauty has been corrupted by surfers, jet-setters, and self-styled artists. Another is Tibet, where the presence of tourists helps to mask the destruction of one of the world's great religious and cultural traditions. It is to Iyer's credit that he recognizes this as the tragedy it is, and that his book can be moving as well as comic. Published in the Harvard Post, September 23, 1988.