Jew World Order

The root of today’s agitation can be traced back to 1974, a very significant year in many respects. Repercussions from the US exit of the Gold Standard are only now becoming relevant in hindsight. In a little corner of the Himalayas, a king’s ransom of the time was paid to Nepal’s king himself for changes in the law on the premise that it would bring his country into line with UCC requirements and grease the skids for entry into WTO/GATT.

The innocuous language in diplomatic cables seeking adjustment and amendments to the working agreement finally touched a nerve when the subject of Temple Balls, traditional hashish spheres laced with a hint of opium were recommended to be outlawed. Artisan producers, shops and a network of connoisseurs went out of business overnight and the Hippie Trail became less interesting. The same psychology used on American audiences to suppress traditional behaviour was lost on the locals as anticipated, crime blossomed.

Less than a decade later, some of that $40 mil that remained in US banks was let loose in the money markets and by Black Monday 1987, a whopping share of those funds lost every gain they’d made to be finally left with a pittance. The king had a deal with the Americans, like the king of Morocco does with the UK, Nepali hash was allowed to pass US customs in regulated shipments for the king’s black money but in his desperation, Birendra had his seconds arrange extra loads till finally the national soccer team got busted for smuggling massive weight. It was said he didn’t manage to recoup his losses.

Fast forward to June 2001 when Prince Dippy supposedly went postal mad with rage and gunned down his immediate family but mysteriously left adjacent bystanders unscathed. It was played as a tragic love story, Mum didn’t approve of his choice of bride so she had to be rubbed out along with his blood kin. Eton school chums said; ‘it’s out of character, insane’, Diependra quietly ate a bullet away from the blood splattered scene, the end?

Not quite, as early as 1998 the playboy prince was telling friends in London all was not well at home. It had become clear to the king that Maoist rebels had gained full control of the once legal cannabis trade and had amassed enough funds to arm themselves to the teeth. He had meetings with US embassy staff and went as far as suggesting they repeal prohibition, break the criminal syndicates and let things go back to the way they were. Ultimate American resistance gave the king the impression the Yanks wanted a permanent thorn in his side, Maoist leverage in case he got any wise ideas of his own.

One could spend a lifetime digging the dirt in this strange case of homicide un-natural but is it really any of our business? In a roundabout way, kinda, we invented a rabid, self-perpetuating LAW monster that converts personal choice into punishable offence! Westerners still flock to Nepal, study meditation or get stoned off their faces undisturbed and the sensible ones don’t take anything along to the airport. Unlucky risk takers face a set of revenue-raising corporate policies well-fashioned to resemble Laws and end up in a system that lets those without family or the simplest outside support starve to death.

Added up with the recent strife of indigenous people striking in protest at racism from the higher castes, it’s clear the $40 million bucks King Birendra pocketed actually bought a whole lot of trouble, the gun and bullets that killed him and his successor’s loss of the kingdom to his sworn enemies the Maoists! A snappy quip about greed, false friends and Karma fits here. The best we can hope is that Birendra re-incarnated into a fly and got swatted with intent by the lovely Marianne on her good will visit to a Kathmandu prison.

Marianne Stevens

Kathmandu. Just the name conjures up the image of a magical, mystical, mysterious place set back in another place and time – a place where morning mists part to reveal terraced landscapes and the tallest mountains in the world. A place of small, dark people (relative to me, anyway) – women with their bright saris and splashes of gold pierced into their noses, men with their striped hats, both with ready smiles and warm greeting. Namaste: I salute the Divinity within you.

A sense of calm descends on the hassled voyager – there is no hurry here. Kathmandu appeals to the searching soul in all who visit. The cafes are filled with people reading The Snow Leopard, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and every book by Richard Bach, Neale Donald Walsh, and many others in that genre. The spiritual centers are filled with Westerners wanting to learn about Buddhism and how to meditate – perhaps in an effort to take a piece of Nepal home with them.

Every well-seasoned traveler knows the sights: the monkey temple, Durbar Square, Thamal, the Annapurna Trek, Delli Bazaar. Delli Bazaar? Well, that’s not exactly on most tour routs. Delli Bazaar is a jail located near the King’s palace. Many cafes, hotels, and meditations centers post notices asking tourists to visit foreigners in jail. A prisoner gets 3 rupees a day (less than 15 cents) and a cup of rice. The Nepalese, of course, can rely on their families to supplement their supplies; the foreigners have to rely on other foreigners passing through.I figured I’d visit two people, a man and woman, at two separate jails. I loaded up two bags with toothpaste, shampoo, soap, granola, powdered milk, cookies, and fruit. The visit appealed to the good samaritan in me. I had no idea it would become among the most impactful two hours of an eight month trip around the world.

Just looking for the jail was hard enough, as most buildings in that section of Kathmandu could easily be mistaken for a jail. When I asked people where Delli Bazaar was, they looked at me as if I was crazy. “Why do you want to go there?” “Who do you know there?” They looked at my bags of provisions and at me – as if I were more criminal than those on the inside. Telling them that I really didn’t know who I was going to see didn’t help my case very much. The guards right outside the jail were more used to seeing philanthropic foreigners coming through so they just pointed the way.

I got to the women’s jail. There were four female guards lolling about on a bench in the afternoon sun shining into the foyer. I asked to see a woman from Nigeria, figuring there probably weren’t too many Nigerians passing through Nepal. The fat lady with an even fatter roll of keys shook her head. “Out,” she said, “last week.”

“OK, how about Soi,” I asked, remembering another name from the list. “From Thailand.”The woman nodded and yelled “Soi!” Another woman closer to the jail door yelled “Soi!” and I could hear the name echoing through the inside of the jail as more women yelled for Soi.

She came to the door. “Yes, who is it?”

“My name is Marianne. I come from America and I’ve brought you some things.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, Marianne – it’s so nice to meet you.” She spoke in Nepali to the guard. The guard shook her head.“They won’t let me out to see you right now. Maybe I try again in a few minutes.”

She sat in the doorway and I sat on the visitor’s bench, about five feet from her door. We both had to strain our necks to see each other.

What do you say to someone you’ve never met, will never see again, and are only seeing for a few minutes? Regular introductions took a whopping thirty seconds. A few travel adventures took another fifteen minutes.

She tried asking the guard again to let her out. The guard rolled her eyes toward the room next door, where some male guards were sitting around talking.

“You can ask the guard over there,” Soi said.

I did. He told me to talk to the head guard, who turned out to be the woman who had rolled her eyes in the first place. When I came back to her, she shrugged.

Soi shrugged too. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

She wiped away a tear. She still wasn’t hardened to the fact that the guards will play with her like a toy at every chance they can get. She was so beautiful. A whole year in a Nepalese jail, sleeping on the floor with rats and bugs under a dilapidated leaky roof, hadn’t dimmed the glow in her eyes. I couldn’t imagine what she had done to earn time in a Nepalese jail but I never asked and she never told me.

Her family in Thailand had no idea that she was in prison. She had left a few years prior to marry a man in Europe and they thought she was still there. She mailed letters to her family to Europe and her husband mailed them to Thailand for her. She had a two-year-old, she told me, with tears streaming down her face.

“Will you get back together with your husband and little girl when you get out?” I asked.

She shut her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she whispered. “Not after this.”

With no warning, the head prison guard stood up and opened the door for Soi to come out. Change of heart? Gas passed? Whatever the reason, Soi was very happy to come out and she gave me a long hug. I handed her the bag of toiletries and food that I brought for her. Then I handed her the other bag and said, “Here, please take this one as well.” There was no way I was going to go through this again.

Another visitor came for another prisoner, a boisterous Iranian woman with a great sense of fun about her, despite the prospect of ten years of jail ahead of her. The four of us sat cozily with the four prison guards and watched the sun set over the courtyard walls. I could almost forget it was a prison for a few minutes.

But Soi couldn’t. She took my hand and said, “Please stay a while longer. Time is so fast when you’re here. And so slow when you’re not.”

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