“Are we in paradise?” our manager asked, “There are angels all around us.”
Well, if blue eyes, blonde hair and fair complexion were the criteria for angels, then it did seem that we had, indeed, arrived in paradise. The street, a no-vehicle zone, was full of ‘angels’, most of who were dressed in blue denim and fur jackets.
“Even the doors open by themselves!” our manager exclaimed at the glass doors of our hotel that opened automatically. 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!” Nearby, 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 like magic to us.
The year was 1983, and we were in Copenhagen, Denmark, to compete in the 6th World Taekwondo Championship.
A framed photo of the hotel owner in trekking gear with the Himalayas behind him stood proudly on the reception desk, 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 things worked. There was no problem at all.
Naturally, we were impatient to see what this famous city was like. Half an hour later as we ventured out, we were brought to a complete halt at the very first corner from the hotel, our eyes drawn up to a signboard on which was emblazoned, ‘The Biggest Sex Shop in Denmark.’
“Is this heaven or what?” my compatriots’ eyes seemed to say. This was the first time in my entire life that I was in front of such an establishment.
We examined 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 kroner.’
We passed it for the moment, with minds already made up to see it soon, and looked into the display windows. A blonde haired couple with two small kids was also viewing the products – 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 – with casual interest.
We walked along the enchanted streets. Girls in tight jeans, almost all of them tall, slim, and blonde, smiled as they passed. Two teenage 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.
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.
***
One might ask as to why we were put up in a red light district in the first place. But we were not the only ones.
Our hotel also accommodated the Turkish team and some members of the South American team. It must have been so because of the relatively cheaper prices there. Nonetheless, I was convinced that we must have done some great and noble deeds in our previous lives to have landed in Helgolandsgade. We hardly got any sleep the first night.
The long night would find one of us always at the window looking down from our third floor room at the interesting rendezvous that happened all night on the sidewalks below.
While the one who couldn’t stop peering through the window the whole night snoozed, me and my other compatriot decided to go for a run in the morning, like we used to do back in Kathmandu. We had hardly covered a few blocks but were soon halted by a huge movie poster over a two-storied brick building.
(Inset) The author (extreme right) along with his team mates at Copenhagen. (Opener) Wikimedia Commons. (Above) Photo: neoncircus.com.
Of course, we had seen plenty of film 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-arsed) 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 for cigarettes, the other sold newspapers, one sold cellophane-wrapped packets with two big bananas and an orange. The one at the end sold pornographic magazines.
Remember again, this was all 26 years ago, and we were from the backwaters of the world.
Soon enough, we found ourselves talking to a couple of girls on the sidewalk. The conversation went something like: “Want to have a good time?” and “How much?” when my friend suddenly whispered, “Police.”
We were in a city where affection (in more literary terms, frank ardor) was displayed quite openly, any place, any time.
Conditioned as we were back home, I became wary at seeing the police car cruising down the road, but the next moment better sense prevailed. “Relax. This is Copenhagen,” I said to myself and my friend. “We’re not committing a crime.”
In fact, we were in a city where affection (in more literary terms, frank ardor) was displayed quite openly, any place, any time. Although I must hasten to confess that most of my Copenhagen experience (at least the most interesting ones, understandably) was limited to its red light district, so perhaps things were different elsewhere.
However, from what I could see, the city’s youth did seem to be pretty bohemian elsewhere too.
***
In Copenhagen, there is a shopping district along the famous pedestrian street Strøget, where a maze of several walking streets converges to form one of the largest and the oldest street markets in the world.
Michen and Christina, two girls (not from the red light district, mind you), whom we had befriended during our stay in Copenhagen, had lovingly agreed to take me and my friend there.
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 jewelries we had brought from Kathmandu with a mind to make a few kroner on the side.
Did we make a bundle? Well, enough to feel comfortable and buy some gifts for folks back home. 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 harbour.
We saw the changing of the guards (in their beefeater hats) at the palace gates. We visited the city’s old quarters and strolled around lovely parks, some of which spread around beautiful lakes.
We passed across impressive bronze and stone statues and embossing 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.
That evening, we parted our ways unusually early because we couldn’t afford to take Michen and Christina to dinner. The kroner were trading at one to our nine rupees then.
As they said their farewells with hugs and kisses, my other friend, who has always been shy, remarked, “Imagine if we were to do this in New Road!”
***
The day of the competitions arrived sooner than we had anticipated
Brondby Hallen, a magnificent stadium – where, besides sporting activities, big musical shows were also performed – soon became our base.
In the first fight of the competitions, my shy but hungry-for-hugs friend was up 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.
That evening, we parted our ways unusually early because we couldn’t afford to take Michen and Christina to dinner. The kroner were trading at one to our nine rupees then.
As my fight was on the third day, I 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.
But my fight went off quite well. My opponent, a Swiss, took a tumble in the first minute, the result of a good old Gorkhali side kick. In the next round, he slumped to his knees; the 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.
That was the end of the road for me at the competitions.
However, we did get a trophy to carry home even though it was only meant for encouragement.
While returning home, we had a layover at Paris, where we stayed for a night.
We spent a night at what was easily 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, 16th 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 – bloodshot eyes sunk in deep dark sockets.
We were far away from the neon-lit sidewalks of Copenhagen.
The next morning, we left for the airport in two taxis. Soon we landed in the sweltering heat of India, spending an uncomfortable night at the Delhi airport, before catching the flight to Kathmandu the next morning in a plane in which the doors refused to close.
The poor air hostesses were embarrassed all right, with all that pulling and pushing. We were finally breathing the cool air at Kathmandu airport, although to be absolutely honest, I wasn’t happy to be back home so soon.
(Amar B Shrestha is the author of ‘The Dark Mermaid’).
***
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