“Are we in paradise?” our manager asked, “There are
angels all around us.”
Well, if blue eyes, blonde hair, and fair
complexions were the criteria for angels, then it did seem that we had arrived
in paradise. The street, a no-vehicle zone, was full of angels, and most were
dressed in blue denim and fur jackets. The glass doors of our hotel opened
automatically, “Even the doors open by themselves!” our manager exclaimed.
There was an automatic shoeshine machine in the adjoining lobby, which further elicited
from him, “And there’s no need to polish our shoes either!” A vendor machine
served tea, coffee, and chocolate. All one had to do was drop a five kroner
coin into the slot and place a paper cup below the nozzle. It all seemed magic
to us at the time.
The year was, by the way, 1983, and we were in
Copenhagen, Denmark, to compete in the 6th World Tae Kwon Do Championships. A
lovely pink faced, cuddly sort of girl manned (?) the front desk of our hotel.
A framed photo of the hotel owner in trekking gear with the Himalayas behind him
stood proudly on the reception desk counter, obviously kept there recently to
impress us. Taking the lift up, we walked the richly carpeted corridor to our
rooms carrying our luggage. There were no bellboys, everything was
self-service, and because everything was so systematic, and because everything
worked, there was no problem at all.
A half-hour later we were out on the streets. Naturally,
we were impatient to see what this famous city was like. And, wham! The very
next moment, at the very first corner, we were brought to a complete halt, our
eyes drawn up to a signboard on which was emblazoned, ‘The Biggest Sex Shop in
Denmark’. We looked at each other, my two friends and I. Our over-the-hill
manager had gone a little way ahead. “Is this heaven or what?” my compatriots’
eyes seemed to say. I don’t know about the others, but speaking for myself,
this was the first time in my entire life that I was in front of such an
establishment. We looked at the shop more closely. On one side there was a
booth like the ones you see in a theatre with a small glass fronted cubicle.
Behind it was a flaxen haired woman. A small notice read, ‘Live Show, only 10 kroners’.
We passed it for the moment (minds already made up to see it soon) and looked
into the display windows. A blonde haired couple with two small kids were also
viewing the products with casual interest. Well, what do you think were
displayed? Sex toys (dildos, whips, and plastic dolls, I could recognize, the
others I couldn’t), pornographic films and magazines, leather dresses, masks,
and so on for the most part.
We walked along the enchanted streets. Girls in
tight jeans, almost all of them tall, slim, and blonde, smiled as they passed.
We gawked at these blonde goddesses. Two teenaged girls, heavily made up (punk
style with spiky purple hairs) and clad in short leather miniskirts and knee
length boots, threw a question across at us casually, “Want to have a good
time?” We looked at one another, my dazed comrades and I, and then stared at
the girls. They were gorgeous. Lolitas, I thought. We smiled at them, shook our
heads sorrowfully and passed them by (determined to catch up on what we were
missing as soon as possible). In case you are interested to know about the
hotel we were staying in, seeing that you might make it to Copenhagen soon after
reading all this, it was called Hotel Absalon on Helgolandsgade 15, Copenhagen DK-1653, the so-called
red light district of the city. Aside from its zany location, it is also
convenient that the central station is
just a three-minute walk away.
Of
course, you might ask as to why we were put up in the red light district in the
first place. Let me tell you, we were not the only ones. Our hotel also
accommodated the Turkish and some South American teams. Guess it must have been
because of the relatively cheaper prices. Anyway, the first day was a blast and
as a result, we didn’t sleep much that night. The long night would find one of us
three always at the window looking down from our third floor room at the
interesting boy meets girl scenarios all night long on the sidewalks below. As
I at last drifted into sleep at around 3:00 pm, I was convinced that we must
have done some great and noble deeds in our previous lives. Why else would the
gods smile on us so? How else could we have landed up in the sex capital of
Europe and that too, slam bang in the middle of its red light district?
The next morning, while the one who couldn’t stop
peering through the window the whole night, snoozed, I and my other compatriot decided
to go for a morning run, like we used to do back in Kathmandu. We had hardly
covered a few blocks when what should halt us again dead on our tracks but a
huge movie poster over a two-storied brick building. Of course we had seen
plenty of filmy posters before, but really, none like this. The scene depicted
would have caused the dead to rise, that was for sure—a man and a woman in the
buff (in less literary terms, totally bare-assed) making love (in less literary
terms, having explicit sex). After that, our run became first a brisk jog, then
a more leisurely trot, and finally all we did for some five blocks was saunter
and gape at similar posters. On the wide pavement (with colorful flower pots
lined up on the far side), we saw a number of vending machines. One was a
cigarette vending machine; one sold newspapers; one sold cellophane-wrapped
packets with two big bananas and an orange; and one vended pornographic
magazines!
We went back to the hotel, and after breakfast,
decided to have our dirty clothes washed. We needed at least our national dress
(the famous daura-suruwal) in tip top
condition for the march-past the next day. A laundromat was situated near the
hotel. We took the clothes we had gotten dirty during the course of our journey
from Kathmandu to Delhi (RNAC), Delhi to Paris (Air France), and Paris to
Copenhagen (Scandinavian Airlines), all in all, a nineteen hour journey. The laundromat
had about a dozen huge washing machines. Directions in English printed in large
letters on wide signboards made our task easy. Ten minutes later we were out of
the laundry with our clothes clean and dry and not a drop of water on our
hands. It seemed a miracle. Remember again, this was all twenty-six years ago,
and we were from the backwaters of the world, namely, Nepal.
As we stepped out onto the pavement, a police car skidded
to a halt at the kerb. Two gun-toting policemen jumped out, and grabbing a long
haired and bearded man standing on the sidewalk, handcuffed him. From one of
his pockets a policeman removed a glass vial. A moment later, the police car
sped off, the drug dealer (according to a bystander) in the back seat. At most
other times, we hardly saw any policemen around. And definitely no traffic
police. Of course, the roads were all quite broad, rows of trees separated
lanes for cyclists, all traffic lights worked perfectly, and I guess, most
importantly, drivers were well aware of their responsibilities. So no traffic
police. We did see a police car one other time though. A friend and I were
talking to a couple of girls on the sidewalk one evening, the gist of our
conversation being, “Want to have a good time?” and “How much?” when my friend
suddenly whispered, “Police.”
Conditioned as we were back home, I too became wary
at seeing the police car cruising down the road, but the next moment better
sense prevailed and I said to my friend, “Relax. This is Copenhagen
We made friends with two girls (not the red light
district type, but decent girls), methinks their names were Michen and
Christina, and they became our guides. When we parted in the evenings (we
parted quite early because we couldn’t afford to stand them dinner, the kroner
was trading at one to our nine rupees then), they said their farewells with
hugs and kisses. I’ll never forget one of my companions remarking, “Imagine if we
were to do this in New Road!” By the way, this fellow, although the shy type,
always made sure he was in line for the goodies by staying right behind me when
we said our goodbyes. Anyway, this aside, the two girls took us around the
shopping district along the famous pedestrian
street ‘Strøget’, a maze of several walking streets, said to be the largest and
oldest of any such street in the world.
The
two girls were particularly helpful because they took us to a lane lined with
small shops selling Eastern curios and jewelry, many of them owned by long
haired ex-hippies who had apparently spent some time in the Kathmandu of the
1970s. The presence of the local girls gave us confidence to negotiate more
forcefully, the sale of the many turquoise, garnet, coral, and silver jewelry
we had brought from Kathmandu with a mind to make a few kroners on the side. Did
we make a bundle? Well, enough to feel comfortable and buy some gifts for folks
back home. And, by the way, in case you might think that we are only frustrated
perverts, let me assure that it wasn’t all girls and sex shops we saw in
Copenhagen. We were taken on a guided tour around most of the historic places
and the prominent sights of this charming city including of course, the world
famous ‘Little Mermaid’ on the Copenhagen harbor. We also saw the changing of
the guards (in their beefeater hats) at the palace gates. Many of the old
houses in the city are also worth seeing as are the lovely parks, usually set
around beautiful lakes. One will also come across impressive bronze and stone
statues and embossings at many street corners and squares around the city. Madam
Tussaud’s Wax Museum was unfortunately under renovation and the Parque Tivoli
was also closed, but we did spend some time capturing the Danish atmosphere sitting
on a bench in the city square. And oh yes, riding the Metro train from Central
Station to Brondby and back was a most pleasant experience as well. One of the
best things about Copenhagen are its many canals. A boat ride on the clear
waters along ancient looking houses on the shore, is certainly called for when
visiting the city.
As far as the competitions were concerned, they were
held in Brondby Hallen, a magnificent stadium, where, besides sporting
activities, big musical shows are also performed. The first fight of the
competitions, my shy but hungry-for-hugs friend was against a guy from Egypt. I
remember him walking up to the ring reluctantly, behind our coach. He reminded
me of a goat being taken to slaughter, the expression he had on his face! The
interesting fights were the ones involving the Koreans. The first Korean to
fight had a Saudi opponent who threw maybe ten wild kicks before the one single
kick from the expressionless Korean knocked him out cold. My fight was on the
third day, so I really enjoyed seeing guys being taken away on stretchers.
Only, sometimes, a chill would go through me, when I remembered that I too
would be facing the music soon.
My fight went off quite well. My opponent, a Swiss,
took a tumble in the first minute, result of a good old Gorkhali side kick, and
in the next round, clutching his throat, slumped to his knees. Result of a good
old Gorkhali punch to the Adam’s apple. That, as it turned out, was a sucker
punch, and elicited a penalty point. The third round he got me twice with
turning kicks on the face, I don’t know how I could have been so careless.
Anyway, that was the end of the road for me. However, we did get a trophy to carry home, it was meant for encouragement. Returning
home, we stayed a night in Paris, and the hotel we stayed in, I swear, it was
the eeriest place I have ever stayed in. It was so frightening that I have even
forgotten its name. Talk about auto-erasure of horrible memories! Dimly lit
corridors, blood red furnishings, sixteenth century furniture, claustrophobically
mirrored creaking lift, and Dracula manning the front desk in a tiny lobby. He
never smiled, so we couldn’t see his fangs, but he was tall, thin, waxy complexioned,
balding, and he had—trust me—he had bloodshot eyes sunk in deep dark sockets.
None of us slept well, although we returned to the hotel
only around midnight as we were too busy walking up the Eiffel Tower (the lift
was under repair), clicking like crazy at the Notre Dame Cathedral, strolling
on the Champs De Elysee, posing under the Arc De Triomphe. Sadly, the
Versailles was closed for some days, so no Mona Lisa. A curly haired Frenchman in
a department store asked me point blank if I was gay! He had probably noticed
the thick silver bracelets I was wearing, remainder of the silver jewelry I had
brought from Kathmandu to make a few kroners on the side. So, French gays were
already coming out of the closet twenty-six years ago!
We left for the airport in two taxis. I was with the
coach and the manager in the first taxi. My two compatriots were in the other.
At the airport, I noticed a beautiful airhostess walk up to a wall and slide a
card into a slot. Then, clicking open a small door, she punched some numbers.
From another slot, crisp notes came out. I was stunned. ATM, if you please, and
remember I was seeing this two and a half decades ago. Half an hour later, my
compatriots still hadn’t turned up. I was now almost sure that they had decided
to do the disappearing act, although back then it wasn’t as common as it is
today. They did turn up eventually, seems they had to take a U-turn after
almost fifty miles because they had left the glittering trophy behind!
Anyway, after that it was all downhill. Landing in
sweltering India, waiting out an uncomfortable night at the Delhi airport,
catching the morning flight to Kathmandu in a plane with doors that refused to
close. The poor airhostesses were embarrassed all right, All that pulling and
pushing! And, finally, breathing the cool air at Kathmandu airport, although to
be absolutely honest, I wasn’t happy to be back home so soon.
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