Downhill Journey to Kathmandu – Nepal, Asia

Eight days out of Lhasa, Greg, Cara, Ivone, and I finally made it to the Tibet border town of Zhangmu. We got up early to cross the border into Nepal and so began a journey that got more interesting as the day progressed. One of the first obstacles was the black market moneychangers. There were about five of them between the inn and the restaurant. In China you really don’t get a better rate on the black market, but you can avoid the hassle of using the Bank of China which is exactly what you would expect a Communist Bank to be. Simple operations like changing money involves lots of paperwork, IDs, and time. We told them we would change money to Nepali rupees after we ate breakfast and paid for the room. The group of five still came into the restaurant with us; we had to shoo them away. They randomly kept popping in to see if we had finished eating and offering us various exchange rates. Finally, I traded my remaining yuan and some US dollars to rupees.

We then hired a minivan to carry us to the Nepal border station, about eight kilometers down a switchbacking road. Unfortunately, we were soon engaged in the local pastime – traffic jam. The Chinese border office was not yet open; vehicles were already lined up to get across. Our driver informed us to go stand in line at the border, as we would have to go through separately from the vehicle anyway.

We decided to trust this man with our bags since we had hired him through our accommodation; he really couldn’t go anywhere due to the traffic snarl. After walking the 1/2 kilometer or so to the Chinese border office, we encountered a long line of people. This border crossing has become more popular in recent years, but the facilities haven’t been upgraded to handle the increase. At 9:00 a.m., the border opened. All the big trucks and SUV’s roared their engines to life, gassing everyone in the pedestrian line as we had to line up right next to these vehicles. This only lasted a short time; most of the drivers turned off their engines after realizing they were going nowhere fast.

The pedestrian line also poked along. We soon saw a man trying to sell people rides to Kathmandu. He had come up to us the night before asking if we wanted a ride to Kathmandu. We were noncommittal, he said he would be in the line in the morning. We still never agreed to anything, but he said he would wait for us on the Nepal side. He disappeared. At about 11:30, we made it through customs. For some reason my passport and Greg's required extra scrutinizing; we waited while our passports were taken to another office.

We got out to find that we were ahead of our bags. We sat down and waited for 45 minutes. When our van finally made it through the vehicle inspection point, we hopped in. The driver drove about 200 feet before stopping at yet another traffic jam. Some busses and SUVs were trying to come up the road from the Nepal border. Since one side of the road was already blocked by big trucks, no one was moving. Everyone started blowing their horns in an attempt to get the police to come. Eventually one did make an appearance. Interestingly enough, I had observed this policeman fighting with someone in a traffic jam the day before. When he didn’t resolve anything, more horn blowing commenced and more senior looking officials showed up. They finally came up with a solution. The vehicles that had driven up the narrow switchback were going to have to go down backwards. They started moving again slowly in a big caravan with the leading vehicle going down the switchback and eventually pulled on the sides as they found space. We were then able to go down the very steep, unpaved, rocky road to the Friendship Bridge.

Friendship Bridge, Tibet/Nepal Border

The Friendship Bridge crosses a river that marks the Chinese/Nepali border. As soon as we were on the bridge, our “friend” reappeared and proceeded to try to help us through customs. Once again we had to show the Chinese our passports and then cross the bridge into Kodari (the Nepalese border town). What a difference a river can make. Kodari was full of dark skinned round eyed men and sari clad women. The smell of curry was in the air. We set our watches back 2.25 hours.

The town itself only consisted of a long row of old shanty buildings. We entered the immigration office and filled out the paperwork for our visas; painless and quick to get a two-month visa (very refreshing after two months of Chinese bureaucracy.) We then had to try to find a lift to Kathmandu. Our “friend” quoted us 5,000 rupees for the four of us, too expensive. Greg and I decided to try on our own. We went out and asked various people we saw sitting around in cars if they would take us to Kathmandu. We finally found a man with a truck who quoted a slightly cheaper rate. We also met a German man who wanted to come with us. We finally agreed on 5,200 rupees for five people or about $16.00 a person. Other groups were paying $20.00. I gave him 3,000 rupees up front to buy fuel. As we were about to leave, our “friend” who had been hovering around all this time asked me to pay him for his “help”. I gave him 100 rupees to make him go away.

Tourist only

Our driver’s name was Orjun Shasta; he spoke some English. Before we left, we had to stop at a print shop and get a "tourist only" sign made for our car in case we encountered any Maoist bandhs. The Maoist is a communist group in Nepal who recently ended a 10-year civil war with the government. They were threatening to hold strikes over the fate of the monarchy in Nepal. The Maoists had originally agreed to allow the people to vote on the issue, but changed their minds and demanded the country be declared a republic. They said they would enact a bandh to force the issue. During the bandh, no traffic could move and businesses were forced to shut down, enforced through violence, often attacking and beating people who violated the strike. The news reported a possible ban for that day. The “tourist only” sign was supposed to protect us as they generally left tourists alone.

We set off continuing down the same valley we had been following since beginning our descent off the Tibetan Plateau. The road was a mix of pavement and mud through small villages. About 10 kilometers down the road, we encountered the Maoists. They had blocked the road with a bench. They surrounded the vehicle and began speaking to our driver in Nepali. Lots of arguing commenced. They wanted us to pay them to pass. Our driver argued that he had already paid and had a receipt to show it. Yes, a receipt. The Maoists are kind enough to give you a bonafide receipt for paying their extortion demands. They only wanted 50 rupees. We gave it to them and got another receipt.

The country is pretty much lawless outside the the main cities, so you really have no choice but to pay. We drove on for a little while and were soon surrounded by middle school kids who had set up another roadblock. They started banging on the vehicle. They wanted money for their school. Our driver once again argued with them. This was nice of him. He should have run over them; their behavior was so bad. We eventually went on without paying. While this was going on, the students were having a chat with Greg who was riding in the back of the truck. We had extortion in the front and a “where are you from” conversation in the back. After passing them, we stopped for gas and had lunch.

Fixing the pants

Lunch was at what appeared to be a friend of Orjun Shasta. They set out rice, potatoes, chicken and fish. We passed on the cold meat. Our driver wanted to wait until the sun went down a little; we stayed for over two hours. We played with the children, the dog, the cat, the chickens and visited with the family. I decided to do some sewing as a button had come off my pants. I got out my sewing kit, my needle and began the arduous task of trying to thread the needle (a task at which I have no skill). After watching me struggle, the family took pity on me. One of the daughters pulled out a big needle and sewed the button on for me.

We drove towards Kathmandu. Our driver kept stopping, to take school kids he knew home and then stayed to visit their parents. He stopped to buy fruit and flirt with the saleswomen. He stopped to recharge his cell phone. He stopped at a guesthouse where the owner tried to convince us to stay by telling us that a nonexistent bandh was up ahead. We eventually had enough and told him that if he stopped again, we would start deducting money from his pay. We didn’t meet anymore resistance.

A few groups hovered around the roadside. We had to tell our driver not to stop; all everyone wanted was money. We arrived at the Kathmandu guesthouse in Thamel exhausted after the long day. I paid the driver in US dollars after a long discussion about which exchange rate to use. The guesthouse was full so they called the Buddha accommodation. Someone came to get us. It is a good thing they did as Thamel is a warren of narrow winding streets. Greg, Kera, and I went to eat after checking in. We decided on a nice rooftop restaurant. I ordered a set Nepali dinner that consisted of a platter with rice in the middle. It was surrounded by various curries, vegetables and meat. All this for 150 rupees.

It took us a total of about 6.5 hours to make the 120-kilometer trip.

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Getting to Nepal – Asia

Into Bangkok
After a grueling 27 or so hours of flying, made more palatable by extravagant spending to acquire upgrades for business and first class seats, we finally made it to Bangkok (traveling together on the same airplanes as far as Bangkok). At Bangkok, unfortunately, we were forced to split up. Via the Internet, prior to leaving the States, we had gone through an exhausting and futile attempt to obtain a ticket for me on the Bangkok-to-Kathmandu flight with Margaret on Royal Air Nepal. It seems that Royal Air Nepal is known only to Royal Air Nepal. It doesn't exist in the cyber sphere. Mabe that's good, considering the quality of the airlines.

Ever Heard of Royal Nepal Airlines?
We overnighted in Bangkok, having arrived at midnight. We had to get up early the next morning for Margaret to catch her flight on Royal Nepal Airlines, and for me to attempt to purchase a ticket on the same airline. I searched for anyone who had heard of Royal Nepal Airlines. I found an office in the dark bowels of an adjoining airport building. Business hours were clearly posted on the locked door – opening at 9:00 A.M. I positioned myself in close proximity to the locked door so I could pounce on the first person who entered.

Royal Nepal Airline’s hours of operation are, however, not precisely adhered to. I eventually gave up waiting, decided to follow an alternative course of action – the telephone. Their telephone number was clearly posted on the locked door – next to the sign that provided its hours of operation. Noting the number, I headed back to the hotel room with the intention of solving this problem. Alas, Royal Nepal Airlines had apparently not paid its phone bill, the recorded message intoned, "that phone number is no longer in service".

The hotel reception desk was very helpful, making a series of calls until they were able to find a Royal Nepal Airlines employee. I was grateful to have someone I could talk to who had not only heard of Royal Nepal Airlines, but claimed to actually work for them – they exist! That was the good news. The bad news was that the only way to buy a ticket was to take a taxi all the way into downtown Bangkok. I am sure you appreciate the unlikelihood of taxiing into town, through that traffic, purchasing a ticket and returning to the airport in time to meet a flight on Royal Nepal Airlines that was scheduled to take off in less than two hours. The person I was speaking with said, "Yes, you have time. We will wait for you". Only an airline that doesn't exist in cyberspace would make an offer like that.

Little Confidence
We were doubtful that Royal Nepal would honor their promise to "wait for me", so we decided I would take the next available flight, which was Thai Airlines leaving the next morning. We headed to the check-in counter to get Margaret on her flight to Nepal – on Royal Nepal Airlines. Chaos is not an adequate descriptor of the mass of humanity accompanying their huge boxes and burlap bags of belongings. There was no use trying to join any cue to the ticket taker, so Margaret plowed her way, using sharp elbows and knees, to the front of the crowd standing before the "business class" counter. Not looking forward to traveling cattle car with this mob, she attempted to upgrade her ticket to business. Couldn't be done. She would have to take a taxi into downtown Bangkok to make the upgrade. I'm sure they would have waited for her to get back, but she opted not take a chance on that. I kissed her goodbye as the masses and their mountain of carry on goods swallowed her up, wondering if I would see her again.

I returned to my hotel room and attempted for the rest of the day and night to sleep off my jet lag, wait for the next (and only) flight to Kathmandu. There weren't many. My flight was on Thai Airlines, by comparison to Royal Nepal Airlines, it was like traveling a royal flying carpet. The contrast between my mode of transport and Margaret's was – what – laughable. My check-in was as smooth as an oiled baby's behind. I expected to be strip-searched, a la USA procedures. With the exception of a half-hearted wave of a wand around my crotch, I popped out of security into the shopping frenzy of the airport’s extensive duty-free area. I was on my way.

A Great Trip – until…
It was a great trip – until I arrived in Kathmandu. I had not been able to acquire a Nepal visa prior to leaving the States, but I had chosen to attempt to get an airport visa on arrival. Filling out the application and attaching a photo, I approached the Immigration desk. No problem. They only wanted the $30.00 visa fee. Easy – I thought. Pulling out my wallet, though, with dismay and a sinking feeling, I discovered I had only $17.97 in cash. My offer of paying with a credit card was looked on with astonishment. Credit card? What do I do, I asked, feeling certain that I would have to spend 24 hours sitting on a dirty cement floor awaiting deportation back to Bangkok.

Try Getting an Airport Visa on Arrival
Their suggestion was that I leave my carry-on bag as security, walk through the airport immigration, customs and security, find an ATM machine, somewhere outside the airport. I have gone through immigration, customs and security in a lot of airports around the world. I knew that you just don't walk through these areas without proper stamps in your passport. What was I to do, though? With rattled nerves, I walked tall and purposefully, like I knew what I was doing and had every right to be doing it, right through all of these people, out the front door, never looking back. I found an ATM machine. I suspect you know what happened next – the words on the window said in several languages "out of order".

Going back inside was not going to solve my problem. I approached one of the masses of beaten up, broken down taxis, found a driver who spoke a bit of English, asked if he knew where an ATM was. He said "sure", just a 10-minute drive. Some 30 minutes into the trip, I was beginning to doubt I would ever make it back to the airport, or anywhere else – alive. Ten minutes means one thing to an American, something totally different in other cultures. The ATM worked, but only in the local currency. I had no idea how much 25,000 rupees was in dollars, but it was the maximum you could withdraw, so I picked that one. I was fairly certain it would be at least the equivalent of $30.00 U.S. Another 30 minutes, I was back at the airport.

Success – but…
I had been successful walking out of the airport, but could I walk through the gauntlet in reverse order? I didn't think so. It was a process I had no choice but to take, however. With the most authoritative look I could muster, I marched forward, eyes focused ahead. Nobody noticed. I wandered through the airport, trying to find a way to get back to where I had started. At one point, I had to pass through security, against the flow of people. Sure enough, I was buzzed. I kept walking, with a little more determination. Someone called, I kept going. They lost interest. Back at Immigration, I reminded them of my circumstances. Oh, yes. Welcome to Nepal. At this point I was one of the few people left in the airport. Jet lag and stress made it almost impossible to keep my eyes open during the long trip into the chaos of Kathmandu.

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The Wondering Sailor – Mt. Everest, Kathmandu, Nepal, Asia

Everest is what you want to hear about – 13th dawned to protests as we toddled off through deathly quiet streets to the airport – caught our sparrow (Donier 227). This little thing driven by sky cowboys shot off onto the runway screeching round the corners like some V8. It bounded into the sky and spent the rest of the short journey bouncing around the heavens like a demented kangaroo with an ozi farmer throwing lead at its rear end. As we came bucking like a bag of bolts into Lukla, all one could see was this fertiliser length airstrip (looked no more than 150 meters) with a stone wall at the the other end ready to stop a jumbo jet in its tracks. The poor little plane was thrown onto the runway with teeth chattering force screaming its protest in agony. Phew, she went into the parking bay – brakes slammed on and up! No worries – we had landed at Lukla.

Nabaraj and I picked up our rucksacks setting off past military and police checkpoints. We headed down the paved path through rododendrons with green fields of spuds and grain on our port side before the land dropped down into a steep gorge way below, cloaked in densely wooded forest on our starboard quarter. On the bow those snow capped sentinels could be spied far off into the distance. We undulated our way through valleys passing many little stone villages with slate and tin roofs. Two hours later, we reached Phading. The red robed Buddhist monks were next door chanting prayers – trumpets blaring, cymbals crashing and drums sending out their rhythms to the valley below. They went on until 10:00 at night then started again at 4:00 in the morning – a great sound echoing up and down the valley, as it must have for eons.

We met a few people with altitude problems returning back down. Ouch – they looked earthly – probably compounded by the indignity of having a system failure. The meat market came trundling up the valley on the backs of porters – thrown onto the path and cut up to much haggling. Most of the meat traded is either yak or goat. By the time it gets up to these reaches, though, it has lost that red glow and faded into a rich black. I am a vegetarian now. Surprised?

There are only three types of transport systems in this neck of the woods – man, donkeys followed by woolly yaks – all with tinkling bells to warn fellow punters to remove their carcases off the path, or find themselves either lamenated to the rock walls, or bounced into the valley below – both painful and to be avoided.

Namche Bazaar was our next destination – passing through more great country of rhododendrums and cedar forest along charming paths – dropped into a monastery, now this is worth a visit – again the monks were at prayer – on we trundled stopping at a farm house nestled in a cute little valley for a spot of lunch.

Far below us the raging desperate river Koli roared its way through the valley – our ever present companion for many days as we crisscrossed its turbid waters. Down we travelled to the valley floor then up and up – oh – wow, half way up there standing high in the heavens stark and gaunt was Everest with just a powder coating of snow. What a sight, surrounded by its jagged shark toothed companions. Slowly we plodded our way up to Namche our night stay and a day of gathering a few more red blood cells to stave off the dreaded altitude sickness. This place is commercialised to the extreme, no vestige of Nepalese village culture here.

If you are bored, this is the time for a scotch. (Oops, I made an error. That monastery I talked about earlier was at Tengboche – altitude, you know, does odd things!). Onwards and upwards we went passing a few villages perched on hillsides. We reached Dingboche. Here we were surrounded by these massive angry mountains barring their snow covered fangs at us, willing us to come and do battle with them. These are daunting monuments that will dash any mortal soul who dares defie them – unlike the Annapurnas, proud and majestic centinals.

We spent a good night before going up the morain strewn valley to Chuukung. Then we passed the glaciers, returning to Dugiha. Everything is barren and harsh in this area, at a height of 4,900 meters. The bod was going well with no signs of trouble until half way through the night, when rumblings started. It was like some fermentation tank gone burserk – yup, I had the trotts. I popped a few pills plus a binder that fixed any toilet problems for three days, saving paper too!

Snow started to fall that evening. By morning all was transformed into this incredible winter wonderland. Four porters and us took off in this swirling snowscape- up the hill – trying to find a path that had long since been obliterated. We took turns blazing a trail through the pass – if you got it wrong, you sunk to your waist .

Yaks roamed. They looked similar to white shaggy bears with icicles dripping down, tinkling like wind
charms. We plodded across the path with 30 to 40 knot winds, bringing visibility down to 20 meters at times – we were considered mad. As I said before, this life is for the brave and adventurous.

We crossed a small river and met some porters from the other direction who advised us to stay at the lodge by the stream. We lunched and considered their advice before proceeding to the morain. I took off my glasses (yes, I had shades on!) to see the faint path left by the porters since Nabaraj kept falling into drifts. Finally we reached Lobuje. What an incredible day we had mucking around in the snow – amazing and definitely challenging.

What a place. What grandeur. What pristine magic. My adrenaline was on high. Nabaraj was not too keen on going any further the next morning, so I made a deal – if I could find some hardy souls, we would carry on. Six were willing. Still, the snow fell. Some guides didn't think we could make it. As it turned out, we had far less trouble than the previous day. We kept to the port side of the glaciated valley until we
reached Gorak Shep.

The weather had cleared, well nearly. There was only the odd flurry by this time. We decided to pop up to Everest base camp. Keeping the glacier to starboard, we meandered our way up, finally crossing the glacier to the camp.

Have you seen 500-ton rocks perched on top of ice pinnacles? It's a jumble of ridges. And in all of this, there was a crashed Russian helicopter, just outside of base camp at a height of 5,400 meters. This place was a huge tent city festooned in prayer flags.

Next day we went on up to Kal Pattar, 5,500 meters – a tough hill. Lack of oxygen and steepness made slow progress. My lungs were bursting. My heart was looking for another home. Phew. After one and a half hours, we reached the top. Mt. Everest in all its glory! What a joke – a cloud had shrouded its rugged head!

Down we went, to start our return trip to Luckla – quite different. Where there had been no snow before, now it was dripping off trees, rocks and down the river valley. What stunning beauty! Nature had a change of costume. In some places the path was very icy. In others areas, the path had turned to slush and mud.

The flight to Kathmandu was perfect, after we dropped off the end of the runway with a woosh and the props screaming to claw our little bird high into the sky. On arrival at Katmandu, our jockey threw our beastie down onto the runway like a bag of spuds. Then he screeched around the airport taking the corners on two wheels before coming to a grinding halt – leaving everyone gasping with wonder!

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Random Thoughts from a Jetlagged Mind – Tahachal, Kathmandu, Nepal

Random Thoughts from a Jetlagged Mind
Tahachal, Kathmandu, Nepal

I’ve always been blessed with impeccable timing, as such I found myself landing in Kathmandu on a postcard perfect day smack in the middle of Nepal’s biggest festival.

After several days of sightseeing in the madness that is Kathmandu at festival, it was off to the quiet(?!?!) of the suburbs and the place I would call home fro the next three months.

Quiet is such a relative word, in Thamel there is the constant honking of horns and the general rush of a tourist enclave. Tahachal has none of these things, however the barking of stray dogs through the night, followed by the morning shouts of ‘aloo, aloo’ or ‘kauli, kauli’ as the street vendors push their laden bicycles down the rough paths, their precious scales swinging from the handles threatening to over balance them at a moments notice, does enough to shatter the quiet.

As the sun rises further in the sky, the neighbourhood comes alive, the constant thwacking of sticks into stuffing as the quilt makers begin their day. The indignant shouts and cries of the children at the carpet factory across the road as their mothers bathe them in the cold well water. The clinking and clanking of heavy metal gates followed by the roar of a motorbike as it makes its way down the road honking and swerving to miss the oncoming traffic.

All this and it is barely 7 a.m., at which point I leave my vantage spot on the roof, with its views of Swayambhunath (and the snow covered peaks outside the valley if the weather is right) and make my to the kitchen where I find a steaming cup of ciyah already waiting. Its sweet, milky warmth washes away the cobwebs of the many weird dreams I have been having recently.

I usually have several hours before I start work so I begin the trek to the roof again, grabbing a book or my camera along the way and sit back and enjoy the warm sunshine.

Like most Asian countries, land is an expensive commodity, thus everyone builds up, four, five, six, seven stories high. Most do not have a garden or a backyard but certainly make up for it on their roofspace. A multitude of mishapen pots dot the barren concrete bringing to life the surrounds.

Paints a pretty picture does it now? However scratch beneath the surface of any city and its bleakness and tragedies come to life. I live not far from the Bishnumati River, a waterway that thousands of years ago would have flown fast and strong. Today it is clogged by the remnants and detritus of human existence. Its banks are piled high with stinking rubbish that slowly clog this once proud river.

Among the rubbish you can find men, women and children carefully picking through the piles, looking for those precious items that may be resold for a few paisa and perhaps put food in their bellies for another day. Further downstream a woman washes her clothes in the fetid water, while another fills a jug with which to rinse the dusty grime from her body.

I walked along the river this morning, watching the kytes soar among the thermal breezes, some so close you could almost touch them, others a mere speck against the bright blue sky. Even among the despair there is something that can bring a smile to your face.

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Escape from Kathmandu (or, How to Con and Influence Apathetic Power Brokers at the Indian Embassy) – Kathmandu, Nepal

Escape from Kathmandu (or, How to Con and Influence Apathetic Power Brokers at the Indian Embassy)
Kathmandu, Nepal

Call me a brat, call me ungrateful, or call me just plain stupid, but it took me about five hours to tire of Kathmandu.

I had arrived one April evening after traveling all the way from Tibet, and by dinner, I was itching to leave. I had been here before, and I had friends waiting in India – just killing time until I got there. The problem was that I had no idea when I would make it. I had no Indian visa, and it was Friday night in Kathmandu. The embassies wouldn’t be open until Monday.

I killed time that weekend with a group of Japanese travelers I had met in Tibet, but my anxiety only simmered. But by Sunday, it had reached a boil. By the time I got into bed that night, I swore I would do anything to get my visa the next day. Little did I know that fate was going to test that pledge.

I arrived at the Indian Embassy first thing on Monday morning with Toru and Kei, two Japanese friends. The visa line was long and sluggish. Between 9 a.m. and closing time – noon – I inched forward about a meter and a half. In my state, the lack of speed wasn’t really an issue – I would have waited until nightfall for a visa. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. At the stroke of noon, a turbaned Sikh came onto the embassy lawn and made an announcement.

“We are now closed,” he said. “We will not accept any more visa applications today. You come back tomorrow.”

I expected a riot to ensue. Instead, the crowd of one hundred-plus visa seekers reacted with a smattering of lackluster groans and an orderly dispersal. We were left alone on the grass, stunned and utterly depressed.

“Go,” said the man, shooing us with the back of his hand. “You are finished for today.”

We moved toward the gates, dragging our feet and dreading the seemingly inevitable repeat performance tomorrow. We hadn’t just lost one day. Visas took a minimum of one week to issue here. The embassy utilized an antiquated “security check” procedure whereby they faxed your personal information to your home country’s embassy for a background scan. If your embassy was efficient, they called the Indians immediately with an all-clear message. If your embassy wasn’t – which describes the embassy staff of just about every nation – the Indians simply waited a week and assumed you weren’t a mass murderer, terrorist or drug dealer. Today’s delay meant my earliest departure would be next Tuesday. I was determined to remedy this. I just wasn’t sure how.

The three of us moved slowly toward the gate, glancing back to see if anyone was following. The coast was clear. This was our chance. For what – who knew?

We returned to the lawn and inspected the premises. Every door to the embassy was shut and the visa clerk’s window was barricaded with a piece of plywood. I pushed it gently, but it was no use. Sealed.

Next we tried the doors. There was one in particular, where we had entered earlier in the day for our “preliminary screening” with the Sikh. I walked over and saw that it was cracked open. Our first break. The three of us exchanged uneasy glances.

“Should we go?” I said.

“Maybe,” Toru said.

“Well?”

Toru and Kei conversed in Japanese. After spending the last year in Japan, I understood enough to catch that they were talking about their English abilities. Toru’s skills were fine, but not native. Kei spoke no English at all. Naturally, I was selected to burglarize the Indian Embassy.

I pushed through the door cautiously. It opened to a long hallway with a half-dozen more doors – any of them possibly leading to my intended destination. I tried the first one to my left, which seemed to lead to the room where the visa clerk had leaned from his window. A few feet in, I heard voices, then clanking dishes and silverware. This was the place, but it was lunchtime. The brightness of our idea was fading fast. Yet it also seemed too late to turn back.

A few feet in front of me stood another door, this time half open. I pushed through and arrived at a small entryway. I had an unobstructed view of the next room where two clerks were scarfing curry at their desks.

I cleared my throat to attract their attention. It worked.

“Can I help you?” one asked.

“Um, yes. I was…wondering,” I moved forward to prevent them from chasing me out. “Um. I need a visa.”

“Visa? Talk to him.” He pointed to companion, a balding, sour-looking man who was just tucking into his meal. His desk was piled so high with papers that he had to peer over them to see me. He was indignant at the sight of me.

“What are you doing here? The visa office is closed,” he bellowed. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I know it’s closed,” I replied in the sweetest, most timid voice I could muster – a tone that sounded like mocking farce, really. “I was waiting outside for three hours. I was just wondering if…”

I moved forward a few more steps so that I was now in their room.

“It is not possible,” the clerk insisted, growing angrier. “You must come back tomorrow.”

“I know, I know. But I was hoping I could just ask you a favor. Just this once, I’m…”

“A favor? Why should I do you a favor? Who are you?”

“Just a traveler.”

I gained a few more feet, so that now I was standing directly in front of him.

“What is your country?”

“America.”

“America?” he sneered. “Tell me, how many favors has America done for the Indian people?”

He didn’t give me a chance to answer.

“None!” he bellowed, spraying me with saliva. “You denigrate and humiliate the Indian people. You steal our scientists and engineers. Why should I do a favor for you? Don’t you see how much work I have?”

“I know we haven’t helped India. It’s horrible. But I ask you this just once. I have special circumstances.”

“What special circumstances?” he asked, calming down slightly.

“I have an airline ticket for next Monday, and if I don’t get the visa today, I won’t be able to go.”

“Show me the ticket,” he said, eying me suspiciously.

“I don’t have it with me.”

“You’re lying,” he said.

“I didn’t think I’d need it,” I insisted.

“You’re lying!”

It’s true – I was lying. I stood there embarrassed, trying to think of a rebuttal. Then, an amazing thing happened: Totally unprovoked by anything except, perhaps, the glazed, pitiful look on my face, the clerk held out his hand. Perhaps it was a miracle – how else can you explain spontaneous kindness from an embassy employee?

“Give me that,” he said, snatching the visa application from my hands.

“So?”

He silently scribbled a few notes onto my application.

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t dare say anything else. Any further conversation seemed likely to obliterate what little good will I established. Then I thought better of it.

“And I promise to help an Indian in the United States.”

He stopped writing and cast me the same fierce glare that had greeted me just moments ago.

“Here,” he said, handing me a receipt. “Come back on Monday afternoon.”

He added almost as an afterthought: “And don’t bother helping any Indians. I doubt you could do much.”

I thanked him profusely for his help and the insult, and backed out of the room. Once I was safely outside, I announced the news to Toru and Kei. They rushed into the embassy at once. I’m not sure what they told the clerk, but I heard every word of his response.

---

I had succeeded in shaving one day off my waiting time, but I still had a week to wait. After another two afternoons in Kathmandu, I realized that this simply wouldn’t do. I had friends waiting for me in India, and I had already exhausted most of the short-term leisure possibilities of Nepal. Immediate action was required.

On Friday morning, I woke at 7 a.m. and marched straight to the Indian Embassy. There was a chance that the U.S. Embassy had replied to the security clearance request, meaning my visa would be ready. If so, my name would be listed on a special bulletin board. I knew it was hopeless, but I had nothing to lose.

I lingered on the embassy lawn for a bit, nearly faint with anticipation. I finally worked up enough courage to approach the board. There were a dozen names – none of them mine.

I scanned the embassy compound, taking in the endless lines and dour faces. There must be another way, I thought. Certainly there was. I just had to ask.

I took my place in the shortest line – the one leading into the “screening room,” over which the Sikh presided. The line moved quickly this time, and within thirty minutes I was at its head. I began to feel dizzy, standing there with nothing but my receipt and knowing that I was surely in for a tongue-lashing. Finally I was summoned. I took a seat in front of the glowering Sikh.

“Where are your papers?” he demanded

“Actually, I don’t have any papers. I just have…”

“No papers, no service,” he said, looking to the doorway. “Next, please!”

“Wait,” I said, digging my nails into the arms of the chair. “I just have a question.”

“What is it?” he asked irritably.

“I actually put in my application on Monday, and I wanted to see if it was possible to get my visa today instead of waiting until Monday.”

The Sikh frowned.

“I have a bus ticket for tomorrow, and I might lose it if I don’t go.”

“Why did you buy a bus ticket for tomorrow when you knew your visa wouldn’t be ready until Monday?”

“I figured the visa would be ready today.”

“That’s too bad. Anyway, you can get a refund on the ticket. Next!”

The next visa-seeker was already moving in. Time to think fast.

“Wait,” I said again, digging my nails further into the chair. “There’s something else…”

What, I wasn’t sure. But I had to buy time. As I racked my brain for a plausible explanation, my eyes scanned the room. Above the Sikh’s head was a calendar. Last Friday was marked as a holiday. It was the Buddhist New Year – the same day we had arrived in Kathmandu.

“It’s because of the holiday!” I said. “I came here last Friday and you were closed. So I had to wait until Monday and…and that threw my whole schedule off.”

The Sikh’s frown deepened, then he slowly extended his arm. I handed him my receipt.

“Have you been to India before?” he said.

“No.”

“How long will you stay?”

“About two months.”

He scribbled a few notes on my form and handed it back to me.

“Take this to the window on the other side of the building. You can pick up your visa at four o’clock.”

An immense wave of relief passed over me. I ran back to town and bought a bus ticket for Varanasi the next morning.

Karma worked its magic the next day, of course: On the first leg of my journey, a small child vomited on me. On the second bus, I was robbed.

But it was a small price to pay – especially for an escape from Kathmandu.

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Zen and the Art of Slow Trekking – Annapurna Circuit, Nepal

Zen and the Art of Slow Trekking
Annapurna Circuit, Nepal

“Namaste”, I smiled, as I handed over my Annapurna Conservation Area Permit at the Chame checkpoint. I had been trekking for a little more than half an hour since my late, relaxed breakfast.

The officer who took my permit slowly copied the salient details into his logbook.

“Where from today?” he asked without raising his head.

“Koto Qupar.”

“And where going?” he continued.

“Chame,” I replied.

Now he did look up. Glancing at his puzzled colleagues, he informed me, “Is possible to reach Pisang today.”

I shook my head. “Pisang takes me two more days after Chame.”

Confused looks, and then one of the soldiers asked. “How many days from Besi?”

(Besi, or Besisahar, is the starting point for the Annapurna Circuit. Most trekkers get from Besi to Chame by day three.)

“Nine days.”

They were surprised, but now they understood. They smiled. I retrieved my permit, said thank you, and departed.

I ambled along the single rutted street past the dilapidated wooden lodges looking like cheap sets from a B cowboy movie. Crossing the Marsyandi river I found a lodge with a particularly good view of Lamjung Himal and poked my head into the kitchen. The owner, a robust woman with a baby strapped to her back, was cooking rice and lentils for the ubiquitous dahl bat. She looked up curiously, not expecting visitors so early in the day.

“Can I have small pot milk tea, please…and you have room?”
She looked at her watch with some concern. “You want room? Now?”

I nodded. She shrugged her shoulders. Since any other trekkers wouldn’t be stopping for at least four hours, I looked at several rooms, picked the one with the best sunrise view, then we returned to the kitchen for my tea and a chat. I learned that since moving from farming to lodge-keeping, Kanti and her husband could now afford to send their two other children to a school in Pokhara. Kanti had been there once, but found it too busy. Two days later, I arrived in Pisang, to stay in the lodge run by her sister, bringing news of the family. Not surprisingly, my welcome there was particularly warm.

Trekking as slowly as I did meant that I almost always arrived before other trekkers. This gave me first choice of room and, with no other guests to contend with, the owners had more time to sit and talk.

But trekking for only two or three hours most days didn’t make the Circuit any less strenuous. An early arrival at my destination meant that I could pack my daysac and set off to take advantage of the views from the ridges on either side of the valley, climbing anything from 500m to 1300m. On several occasions I stayed two nights, taking a packed lunch and spending the second day on a long, high excursion, often to places few trekkers visit.

Ice Lake Above Manang, with the Summit of Annapurna III

From 1200m above Marpha, for example, it is possible to see north into the Hidden Kingdom of Upper Mustang, and all the way into Tibet. Above Pisang, some careful navigation takes you high up the central ridge towards the quite breathtaking north face of Annapurna II. If you’re patient, you’re guaranteed to see an avalanche at what feels like very close range. A leisurely four-day side trip to Tilicho Lake saw me standing at over 5000m, with Tilicho Peak caught blindingly white between the two cobalt blues of the lake and the sky, colours you’d scarcely believe existed in nature. By the end of my trek I had climbed almost 10,000m in fourteen side trips.

If you’ve never trekked before, Nepal has to be the world’s most “trekker-friendly” destination. In the three main trekking regions there are lodges or converted tea houses, not just in each village, but also scattered along the trail at strategic locations. Accommodation costs between 20nrs and 100nrs per night for a single person (there are 120 Nepalese rupees to the English pound – you do the maths), and it is possible to eat well and sleep comfortably for around 700nrs a day.

Because of the lodges, it isn’t necessary to carry a tent, food, or cooking equipment. You need a couple of changes of socks, some warm clothes, wash kit, camera and sleeping bag. I was carrying just over eight kilos.

You could hire a porter and/or a guide, but on the Annapurna Circuit it really isn’t that necessary. You can’t get lost. Even if you don’t know where you’re going, the locals do. I used a second hand copy of the quite wonderful “Trekking in the Annapurna Region” by Bryn Thomas (shameless plug), supplemented by talking to lodge owners, locals and other trekkers. Sometimes I walked alone. Most days I walked in the company of other trekkers.

Many people take around three weeks to complete the circuit. About eighteen months earlier, I had done just that, with a nagging feeling that I was going too fast, that there were more places to explore, more people to talk to. Two weeks into my second trip round, I met Jean-Pierre. He had been trekking for about four weeks each year for the past fourteen. Every other year he returned to the Annapurna Circuit and took in different side trips. This was his seventh time, and I was quite envious.

The Zen bit.

Combining the Annapurna Circuit with a trek up into the Annapurna Sanctuary, I walked for a total of eight weeks. That’s fifty-six days waking up to sounds of rivers, waterfalls, birdsong, mule bells and the rhythmic clacking of prayer wheels. Fifty-six days without cars, buses, lorries or horns. No mobile phones, no email, no television, no newspapers. Everything happens at walking pace through the most incredible and varied scenery, through lush rice paddies via high, snow covered passes to bleak Himalayan desert. The air is so pure you could bottle it. The skies are so breathtakingly blue your friends won’t believe the photographs. Above 4000m the night sky is so clear that you see stars you never saw before with the naked eye, and the Milky Way, far from being a vague, insubstantial smear, stands out like a broad swathe of white emulsion, as if carelessly painted by some invisible giant’s brush. I’ve subsequently met people who weren’t convinced. “I’ve seen stars in the desert, the Alps, from a boat at sea…” they say. So have I, and trust me, none of these compare to the views you get at serious height, where not only is there no atmospheric haze, there almost isn’t any atmosphere.

Eight weeks still wasn’t enough. I’ll be back.

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If you’re thinking of trekking in Nepal, and have enough time, the Annapurna Circuit is the most wonderful route – and you don’t have to backtrack.

You also don’t have to walk the dusty road from Besisahar to Khude. There’s a peaceful, solitary track that runs from the other side of the river straight to Bhulebhule. For details, and some other side trips not yet in any of the guide books.

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Green Fried Grasshoppers – Nepal and Thailand

Green Fried Grasshoppers
Nepal and Thailand

October 17
I walked up to the temple, Swayambhunath, in the western part of Katmandu. This is the holiest place on earth for Newari Buddhists and relates to their theory of creation. On the way up I met a kid who asked me where I was from. I told him the US and then he said he knew every country’s capital. I tested him out and I couldn’t stump him. Afterwards, he asked me to buy him milk for his family, which I did.

Up to the temple. The walk up was long and I had to stop a couple times. There is a stairwell as well as beautiful statues on the way up and benches to relax. The stupa at the top was similar to the one in Boudha. There was a good view of the Katmandu Valley from here, which was still hazy due to a late rainy season.

October 18
One last breakfast in the tourist section, Thamel, of Katmandu. I watched people from the rooftop of the restaurant. Businesses leave their welcome mats out on the road and cars drive over them. I guess this is less work than beating the dirt out and cheaper than a dry cleaning. I also had one last walk around and bought a couple more souvenirs, a wooden Hindu sculpture and some woolen hats.

I enjoyed the mixture of Buddhist and Hindu and Indian and Chinese here in Nepal. It is a poor country, which was made more evident on trips to the country. I also remember a lot of people with a little of phlegm, as I could not walk down the street without someone spitting out phlegm. I don’t think medical facilities are too advanced but getting out into the fresh country, instead of the pollution of Katmandu, would help the lungs.

I took a tuk tuk to the airport and waited for the flight to Bangkok. I arrived at night but it was still hot. Bangkok seemed like the wealthiest city in the world in comparison to where I have been the last month. There were skyscrapers and many modern buildings that I noticed on the bus to Khao San Road, which is where all the backpackers hang out. I stopped at a place, a small Thai wooden house, and stayed there. It has no windows so it is very dark and much quieter than Khao San Road. Nothing gets aired out and my towel doesn’t dry because there is no ventilation. I do have a table fan but that doesn’t do much. There are further rules such as no smoking and I need to take my shoes off on the ground floor.

October 19
I had to take care of a few things here in Bangkok. The first order of business was getting a good travel agent for my trip to the island of Ko Samet, my trek in Chiang Mai, and for my Cambodian visa.

I mailed some of my souvenirs home and then was ready for some sightseeing. The Victory Monument was the first sight I saw followed by the Giant Swing. There are several small wats here which is the equivalent of a Christian church. Most are very colorful on the outside including colors of green, red and yellow. I proceeded to the Marble Temple and the Royal Palace and back down to Khao San Road. The map I have is in Thai and English and it is relatively easy to get around.

I had some food and it was extremely hot. It was fish, garlic and onion but the green and white sticks were extremely hot. I also tried some fried grasshoppers and fried spiders. They are deep-fried and they sprinkle some spices on it so other than getting legs stuck between my teeth it was no real problem. I’m going to stick mostly with the pad thai and egg roll stands, which is their equivalent of McDonald’s.

October 20

One of many beautiful wats in Bangkok

I went to Ko Samet, an island about three hours from Bangkok. I started on a crowded mini-van, followed by a ferry. The ferry took us to the second island and I stayed with a group I met on the trip. There is only a dirt road so we jumped on the back of a truck and found some bamboo bungalows to stay at. This was my version of luxury because I had my own little house, with a private bathroom, a thick mattress and electricity at night.

I went to the beach and got some sun before the daily rainstorm. I also ate some pineapple and drank coconut water, which some women were selling on the beach. A lot of the women were doing foot massages but I passed, after the last few months I didn’t think that would be fair to them. I met the group from the ferry and we had some drinks along with food. They had a really good selection of food including noodles, seafood and squid.

October 21
I tried walking around about the whole island of Ko Samet, but didn’t quite make it. I made it about half way down the east side but it was difficult because the path breaks down and it is just rocks. The south side of the island has slightly better accommodations than where I am now.

At night, I met with the group again for some very cheap rum and cokes. We sat on the beach and talked about our life and travels. One of the Kiwis said he was embarrassed because he was taking off for six months too, but now wanted to go home after one month. I told him he should go home, it’s not for everyone and he shouldn’t feel obligated to stay. There was also fireworks again tonight, I don’t know why they have so many, maybe it’s a holiday.

October 22
The streets of Bangkok are more hectic than the simple dirt streets of Ko Samet. I came back to the Bangkok train station and stored my backpack as I am taking a night train up north to Chiang Mai. I then went to the Snake Farm. There are some huge poisonous snakes here and most of their pens were held shut by just a small latch. Anyone could open these and the snakes could slither out. They also had a museum here which included the snakeskin, some of which were as high as the ceiling.

I also took the modern train to Soi Cowboy and Patpong and checked out these notorious parts of the city. I got a normal massage as opposed to the “interactive massage.” The woman doing the massage was really tossing me around though. I was tenser after the massage then before.

October 23
The train to Chang Mai was about 15 hours but I slept well. I immediately made my arrangements for my trek into the highlands, including buying a raincoat. Then I found a place to stay that had an attached bathroom with a hot shower. It’s been a long, long time since I saw one of those.

Chiang Mai is the second most populous city in Thailand but it is much smaller than Bangkok. There is some nice wats to see but many stores are closed because it is a national holiday, the anniversary of Rama V’s death.

At night, I went to the bazaar. I’ll buy souvenirs when I get back from my trek because I don’t want to lug it around. I decided to go to bed early because I have a big day of trekking tomorrow

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The Thorung La Special – Nepal, Asia

I recently spent a bad day. The staff at the Kathmandu airport refused to let me on board because the laundry basket with the rope laced across the top supposedly acting as a cover, was not an acceptable container to transport my Tibetan mastiff puppy. No amount of pleading, reasoning, or explanation would sway them. I had to reschedule the flight for the following day, then do the same thing in Bangkok to connect to Seoul, which, by the way, was booked till February. I had to spend a little time there before flying back home. And Iwas on a waiting list. This was not good.

I had been running around the last couple of days in Kathmandu, waiting until the last minute to find a box. My stress level was high, but when I think about it, I accept responsibility for not being thorough. After a little head-banging, I settled down; take what lessons I can from my complete stupidity.

After I returned from the Indian border, I gorged on food and drink, ran into people I had met along my journey, as well as new Nepali friends I had made. I always ended up having dinner with a large group. A couple from Hawaii and I – all veteran travelers – shared a cab one day. We visited Patan: old Hindu temples with blood stains on the stone courtyards from hundreds of years of sacrifices, intricately carved woodwork on every beam, post, trim, window, doors – a temple that replaces the birds and the bees talk – the craftsmanship in the wood and metal are of exceptional quality.

Amazing Bhaktapur
Then we saw Bhaktapur; an amazing medieval village that uses the admission fee to pave the major streets with brick, and to keep it immaculate. It's only a few minutes from Kathmandu, yet definitely a village life, and one of the most interesting on this trip

The side streets are narrow with three- and four-story structures dating from another time; some of the brick walls bowed out, but vendors sell their wares with no worry. I walked on the other side and continued seeing beautiful woodwork. One famous window – the peacock – was so intricately carved out that the peacock's fan spread out in lifelike detail. I saw hand carved buddhas with eyes in meditation so real that the "om mani padme hum" coming from a music store playing the Tibetan chant CD seemed to be emanating from the statue itself.

It was great having a late lunch in one of the squares – a textbook design example of an awesome public space. The temple is the main focus, shops line the sides, with heights of buildings varying from two to four stories. This allows sunlight to all corners, life and commerce thrive, a stage for performances is on one side, with a dance area. The sun was doing its final dance of the day. A roving roar of children's voices drifted in and out as they chased a monkey scampering on the rooftops; the roar grew louder as more children were attracted to the noise. The monkey was the pied piper, with all the children following – a magical scene. I regret not having more days to explore and experience life there.

One night I had dinner with Indra (my trekking guide), his wife, and his wife's sister's family. The delicious food was their family's recipe of dhal baat; beer was plentiful and the atmosphere exhibited a rich culture. I felt blessed to be a participant. Indra's niece and nephew, (14 and 12) are both smart, proud of their culture and hopeful of their future. I recounted the trek and shared some of the knowledge of the culture, people, and language I had picked up along the way.

The thought that loomed on all our minds was "Thorung La". The name echoed like a dark god. Thorung La…Thorung La… This was the pass that separated the trek in half – 17,700 feet between two peaks. On that particular day we had to ascend 3,300 feet, then descend almost 4,000 feet on the other side. We were doing this in the middle of winter, when the views are clear, the crowds gone, but when any day, a snowstorm could close the pass. We pushed on, trying to reach it as soon as possible.

The trek
The first day of the trek we reached Bahundanda; a Hindu village where I looked up at the steps leading to the Hillview lodge, and thought, forget the view. I didn't want to have to climb anymore. The sight was of rice terraces cascading down every hill (in the shadow of the greatest peaks of the world, most other places we call mountains would be hills), the river below with houses and farms placed picturesquely in various spots. This was also the beginning of my shakes, exhaustion and sweats; either I was sick, or I was purging out major toxins.

I arrived at Tal completely worn out; a beautiful valley marking the beginning of the Buddhist areas, where the river widens into a lake, where we picked dried seedy buds from plants on the road outside of town. I passed out as soon as I dropped my pack; I had a fever, my stomach was acting up, I couldn't eat. I didn't even take a picture of the black Tibetan mastiff that sat buddha style – a reincarnated fallen monk,

Our next stop was Chame, which I can't really remember reaching because of my illness. We were now at 9,000 feet; the worry of altitude sickness set it. We reached Pisang the next day where the antibiotics starting to kick in; at least I could hold down some noodle soup.

The lodge we were in was run by two children, ages 10 and 12. Their parents had gone to Kathmandu and left them in charge. To emphasize what happens when the inmates run the asylum, the boys took out a jug of chaang, homemade moonshine, and proceeded to get drunk, bringing up the noise level so that we couldn't sleep. Unbelievable.

Our next stop was Manang – the central village of that area. We were at 12,000 feet – much colder. We started seeing yak horns on the doors. We passed three Koreans who had three sherpas, porters, and one guide to carry their food and prepare multiple Korean dishes. Sherpas are not usually in Anapurna; they are in the Everest area primarily. We walked by namaste-ing them (Nepali greeting – meaning, "I greet the god within you").

Manang is an interesting village: stone houses, stone walkways, narrow curves ducking under stone archways, flat stone roofs in the Tibetan style. Prayer flags were everywhere. The lodges were mostly on the road before the main village. I saw a multi-copied, scratchy, sticky DVD of the Matrix – surreal to have watched this in the middle of the Himalayas.

I spent two days in Manang to acclimate. When I felt better, I powered to Thorung Phedi, at the base of Thorung La. Elevation is at 14,400 feet. Everything was easier now, with good health. In the middle of the night, the winds picked up, rocking the building. It was very cold; ice on the ground, snow on the banks. As we got closer to the top, we had continuous gale force winds. The top of the pass was anticlimactic because it is a large rounded pass, not like a peak to look down from. I took the "top of the pass" picture crouching with my pack on, bent over 90 degrees into the wind, trying to look normal.

At 18,000 feet, I had no desire to go higher. After the pass it was all downhill. The wind blasted in my face making it hard to see. I ran full speed down the mountain, the wind kept me up, a sustained air cushion launching me into space. We stopped when the wind abated. We turned our backs, sat down, and rolled on – known as the thorung la special. Whoa!

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Chasing Horizons #3: Trek to Everest, the top of the World – Nepal

Trek to Everest, the top of the World

I am still in Nepal. I have just got back to Kathmandu after two weeks trekking up to Everest Base Camp. Man, was it tough.

You know there are times when you can just over prepare for some things and this I reckon this was one.

After a few days in Kathmandu trying to arrange park permits (yes, Mount Everest is in a National Park). This wasn’t so successful as it was a weekend. So I then had a mad rush to delay the flight I had booked to a place called Lukla. Just as well because the original day I was scheduled to fly turned out cloudy and no flights actually left. As one pilot said, “We don’t like to fly around the Himalaya when the weather is bad, the clouds have rocks in them.”

So eventually I arrived in Lukla on Tuesday, March 19, and still we were delayed because of fog at Kathmandu airport. The trek started pleasant enough, walking through Sherpa villages in green valleys. I walked for about 4-5 hours before I was tired enough to find a room in one of the many lodges/teahouses that line the route.

That evening I got the first taste of Sherpa food and it was awful. Fried rice with veg, not cooked nice. Bed time is around 8-9 pm. During the night the temperature drops to around freezing so a good sleeping bag comes in handy.

Next morning I got up at sunrise. It was hard getting out of a warm sleeping bag into the frozen air. After getting ready, I had to use the local loo which is a wooden hut with a hole in the floor built out over the river bank. Very modern, no?

Today’s trek was up a huge mountain to the capital of the Sherpa territory, Namche Bazaar. Climbing the hill was torture, the air is thin so you have difficulty breathing and carrying my huge pack was not helping matters. One plus though was the stunning mountain scenery. Eventually, by mid-afternoon, I stumbled into Namche Bazaar, found a hotel room and promptly went to bed.

Namche is quite developed in a Sherpa sort of way. They have bakeries, bars and restaurants, but it is still miles from any real development so TV’s, telephones and computers are scarce or non-existent. I was planning to spend two nights here to aid with the acclimatisation.

The next day I took a day walk to the Everest View hotel, where supposedly you can see Everest (figures because of the name, duh!), but not this day as it was cloudy.

On Friday, March 22 I left Namche for the Buddhist Monastery of Tengboche. This monastery is quite famous for its festival held in Oct/Nov. No such niceties for me, I was starting to feel the effect of the high altitude by now. Walking took all my effort and it was getting harder and harder to breathe as the air got thinner and the cold was getting to me.

For the next three days life took on a slow kind of routine. Walk-sleep-rest day-sleep-walk-sleep. All the time I was getting higher and higher into the Himalaya. In Loboche, one day from the turn around point, the altitude finally got to me. I had a blinding headache, I hadn’t eaten for three or four days and I was quite sick, unable to keep even water down (it tasted awful anyway). That night I took a Diamox, a drug which aids acclimatisation.

Next day I felt good enough to continue onto Gorak Shep. It was a 2� hour walk uphill over some rugged terrain and glacier ice. Once at Gorak Shep we found a very nice lodge with a sun room where we were able to rest up and recover in relatively warm surroundings. So much so that by the afternoon I took a three hour walk to Everest base camp. This was without packs of course, but even so the going was tough.

The next morning was going to be the highlight of the trek when I climbed Kala Pattar, a large hill. At the top you can see Everest in all it’s glory and it’s the place where all the famous photos of Mount Everest are taken. But first I had to climb this damn hill. About halfway I thought I was going to die. It was a clear day but the cold and lack of air made it tough going. I kept having to glance up and see more and more of Everest appearing from behind Nuptse (a slightly smaller mountain nearer to Gorak Shep). When I saw Everest I just said to myself I am not going to come this far and give up. Eventually I got to the top and the views were magnificent. I hope I got some great photos.

After staying at the top for about an hour I decided it was time to get off the mountain. I descended back to Gorak Shep, collected my pack and started to head on downhill back the way I had came. Fortunately, the trek which took eight days to reach the top can be done in four days going down. Unfortunately, the full effects of altitude sickness hit me on the way down. I had still not been eating properly, the Diamox that I had taken has a nasty side effect and had given me a bladder infection and I was being sick just about every night.

But I made it down in one piece. Back at Lukla we again had to wait for a flight back to Kathmandu. I should mention the airstrip at Lukla, it looks like a postage stamp stuck to the side of a mountain. It has a steeeeep slope, to (1) slow the landing planes down (2) help the taking off planes speed up. The planes that are used are 16 seaters with twin propeller engines. The view you get of the Himalaya from the plane are awesome. Also it’s interesting to see the contrast in the landscape as you fly away from the Alpine region of the mountains back to the Kathmandu valley which is almost tropical.

I am now back in Kathmandu trying to get an earlier flight to Bangkok. I think I need some rest time on a Thailand beach. There is a lot of Maoist trouble in Nepal at the moment so flights are all full. Also the Maoists have called a 5-day national strike so things are going to be pretty dead around here. I reckon I will just go to the airport and see what comes up on standby.

That’s should keep everyone up to date. Next update will be from Thailand if I can get there. I don’t want to hear anything about the damn cricket and the Stormers aren’t doing so good at the Super 12 either.

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Chasing Horizons #2: Crossing into Nepal – Nepal

Crossing into Nepal

On Monday, March 11 we were woken at 4:30 am. The plan was to load up two 4×4 Land Rovers (they are TATA jeeps, very popular in India). We left as planned at 5am to miss the worst of the traffic. But, typical of India, there is never “no traffic”.

We made it out of Varanasi no problem but as the morning wore on the roads just got more busy. It took 10 hours to get to the India/Nepal border. In some places the road had been washed away by previous floods and the towns were gridlocked with traffic. Not a pleasant trip.

We were checked out of India by the border official at Nautanwa and once we had loaded our backpacks up the corrupt official then asked for his “baksheesh”. Well, he asked the wrong travellers, we just walked straight out of India and gave the corrupt git nothing.

After a 100m walk we were in Nepal and the difference was amazing. Friendlier people, less traffic and more space. It was a short bus ride to Bhairawa where we checked into the Mt Everest hotel for the night.

Next day and a local bus ride east along the Mahendra Highway and we were in Sauraha on the boundary of the Chitwan National Park. This little village was very quiet but geared to catering for the recent increase in tourists. We relaxed, drinking beer (beer is more available in Nepal, unlike in India where I struggled to find beer outlets) in the great rooftop restaurants for the rest of the day.

On Wednesday we started with a canoe ride for 50 minutes then the rest of the day we walked through the jungle looking for rhino, elephant, tiger, sloth bears and deer. After a couple of close encounters with rhino I was ready to pack it in but unfortunately we were due to finish at 5 pm. So the day turned out to be long and tiring and I did suffer a sense of humour failure with our guides.

We overnighted in a basic camp in the park and the next morning was more walking and a 4×4 ride to the 20,000 lakes. This was a very tranquil place where we had lunch. Once we returned to our luxury hotel in Sauraha I crashed out for the rest of the day, the last two days being hard work.

Finally, on Friday, March 14 we caught a tourist bus to Kathmandu. The scenery was dramatic. The road rose up into the foothills of the Himalaya with jade green white water rivers passing below.

I have two days in Kathmandu where I will do some sight-seeing and making arrangements for the big trek to Mount Everest. Bad news is that I now have a bad case of the runs. The food in India and Nepal is good but no matter how careful you are it eventually takes its toll. Nothing too serious, no pain or nausea, just can’t be too far away from the nearest loo.

So that brings things up to date. I see the South African cricket team still can’t beat those Aussies, hopefully the Stormers will continue their good run today (NSW got a lucky win – damn).

Will write with more when I return from Everest around 5-6 April.

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The Marsyangdi Bites Back

One of the clearest indications that you’ve left the West and entered a developing Asian country is the unpredictability of domestic flights, Nepal in particular. To those whose glass is half empty, this undoubtedly causes escalated blood pressure, heated discussions with airline staff, and no end of frustration. To the rest, it’s the perfect excuse to set up a friendly wager on the day’s outcome.

“I’ll bet you a thousand rupees we don’t fly today.”

“Throw in a bowl of daal baat and I’ll take that bet.”

Oh, the opportunity to make a Nepali fortune goes on for days as you make repeated trips to the airport, only to be told the weather is unfavorable at your destination yet again and why don’t you please try tomorrow. Our whitewater group, headed for the Tamur Kosi, had heard the same story three days running when we decided to bail on the Tamur and head out to the Marsyangdi instead. This suited me just fine as a flight that left just after ours was supposed to take off on the second day was reported missing in the Himalayas. These mountains seem to hunger for small planes and I didn’t figure on being breakfast. We boarded a bus, a far more dangerous way to travel, careening around ledges without guardrails enjoying a view of numerous buses resting bottom-up in the ravines below.

Nepali Whitewater

The Marsyangdi put-in lies on the road towards Manang at the trailhead of the Annapurna Sanctuary. Water surges down off these goliaths raging with snow melt turning the water into a teal milkshake. With the rapids named “Frog in a Blender” and “Gerbil in the Plumbing” we’d survived on the Bhote Kosi, this river would be a snap. Yeah. Never underestimate nature.

Our first morning finds us before the sun feels its way into the canyon. The river flows at 200,000 cubic ft/second and by the time we’re positioned mid-stream for our first descent, I no longer feel my legs below the knees; this is going to be fantastic. The kayakers descend first; we follow. Not even five minutes into it, nature calls me on my arrogance and things go terribly wrong.

The raft and its eight paddlers slam into a rock and get sucked sideways. Expecting a spin around, we’re jolted as we lodge on another rock pinned perpendicular to the river. As the rock grabs the raft we semi-flip, dumping six in a flying mangle of legs and feet in a kind of zero-gravity Twister game. The guide and I are alone on the raft hanging diagonally between the top and bottom of the hydraulic, getting a severe beating from the water as it desperately tries to flood us from the top and thunder in from the bottom. Fear tells me to bail NOW but I am frozen in indecision. I’m riding a bucking bronco and quite pleased to find that I am not swimming like those downriver when we realize there is an arm gripping the down tube and disappearing into the boiling water. We pull the tallest of our group on board and he instinctively makes for the highest point of the boat, throwing off our balance and we take on water.

Kayakers on shore and others on the cliff above are yelling mixed directions at us. Nothing is working. Our guide is yelling too and the look on his face and unhappiness in his voice alarm me. I didn’t have time to panic. At that moment, we are dumptrucked into the angry hole and the hydraulic commences education. A sharp intake of breath as the icy water swallows me keeps me in oxygen. I’m being tumbled so fast and in so many directions, I don’t know where up is. I’m thrown up for air and sucked back into the hole, a washing machine full of ice and rocks. I’m kicked out after what seems like an eternity. I still can’t determine up from down until I feel light hit my face and gasp before being dragged into another hole. I surf several slimy rocks like this and miss the kayaker’s ring.

The Marsyangdi wages war

I finally surface and see a giant rock slide scarring the cliffside ahead, realizing I had better move and move fast if I don’t want to swim all the way to India. Several more intimate encounters with submerged rocks and I crawl onto shore and collapse onto silt. The sky is so beautiful I want to stare at it forever. When I finally sit up, I am on the wrong side of the river. Everyone else is on the other side!

I have developed a mortal fear of water and search the shore for a passage out. Nothing. I raft up to but walk around the next rapids. I am so overcome with and disgusted by my fear that I decide to hike out of the canyon alone and earn the day. I don’t want to slink into camp having wimped out entirely. The crew reluctantly leaves me alone to fight for my self-respect as the light in the gorge fades. I have my paddle, three life jackets and my helmet as I make my way up an easy slope.

Thirty minutes later the wall turns to slick mud and paints my front side a greasy brown. I descend and try another route which dead ends at a 25-foot vertical granite slab after an hour of climbing, tauntingly just below the trail. The sun is fading out at a rapid clip as I half run-half tumble down the bank to find another route. Nothing looks promising and I have no time for another false start. There is nothing in this canyon, no houses, no cattle, no sign of humanity save for the ones I sent off two hours before in another possible show of arrogance. Ugh! When will I learn?

NO! No, I am going to get out of this gash in the earth and I will do it under my own power, more so because I have no choice than because of any skills learned in Scouts. Focus! Whew! Instead of taking the first gap, I walk back and forth and try to follow the lines upwards. After fifteen minutes I choose one tucked inside an outcropping. I pull myself up by branches, wedge my Teva-ed feet into crevices, push past spiderwebs and dodge rockfalls. For forty-five minutes I don’t look up or down. Avoiding self-doubt.

When I come to a slight bulge of wet clay near the top, fury overtakes me and I dig holes jamming my arms and feet inside and moving up faster than they can collapse. I am singing “I Will Survive” at the top of my lungs to keep out the idiocy of my self-imposed situation when my eyes peer out over the trail and my ears hear the sound of cow hooves stamping. To the left I see a Nepali woman in shock at the sight of a Western face over the cliff’s edge streaked with sweat and mud bellowing out a God-awful tune. I scramble laughing and near-crying to my feet, jumping up and down hollering and yahooing. Fear crosses her face and I would have run over to her and kissed her if I didn’t think she’d have sic-ed her cows on me. I am elated and with no sign of the returning crew yet, march back to camp half dancing and singing and carrying on like a lunatic.

I picked up fear on the water, left some blood on the rocks and earned the deepest sleep I have ever had under the shadows of Manaslu.

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Trekking in Nepal – Everest Trek Schedule 24

Friday 17th November
The last day of my holiday has come. Time flies by so quickly but I do feel that I have had a proper break. Not once has work entered my mind since I have been here.

I got up at the late hour of 7.30 a.m. Breakfast was porridge and croissants at Pumpernickels. Peter entered the courtyard just as I was leaving. I told him that I would be back shortly, after collecting my reprints. The Kodak shop was still closed so I returned to Pumpernickels. We had a chat for fifteen minutes then said goodbye and went our separate ways. All good things come to an end; maybe we’ll meet up again someday.

The Kodak shop was now open. My reprints looked good although there were several that had been incorrectly reprinted. But at six rupees each there was no point complaining. The photos of the sunset over Namche Bazaar were brilliant. I will have to get them framed back at home. On the way to Mustang Guest House I bought a packet of biscuits and saw Brent. I returned the negatives to Paulo. We bade each other farewell with the promise that I will visit him if I am ever in Brazil.

At the Holy Lodge I packed for the last time, and then paid my bill. Outside, I hailed a taxi to take me to Tribhuvan International Airport, arriving there at 10.30 a.m. I was in the departure lounge in no time, but not before I had paid my embarkation tax of 600 rupees.

My remaining rupees went on a packet of crisps, a piece of walnut cake and several drinks. While having my elevenses, the BBC World Service came on television. The rugby union international between England and South Africa is being played at Twickenham tomorrow. I will be able to watch that at home. In the cricket England are 221-4 with Hick on 105 not out.

We boarded the aeroplane, and fastened our seat belts. The engines were running and the pilot steered the plane down the runway. Whilst awaiting our turn to take off it was announced that there would be a delay due to a technical hitch. The plane turned back and returned to its original position. We waited while the problem was sorted out.

It was another thirty minutes before we were airborne. We were on a charter flight. This meant that we were flying at a higher altitude than was the case on the Dhaka-Kathmandu flight. Consequently the views of the Himalaya were not as impressive. Nevertheless I took some photos so as to use up my film. The plane touched down in Dhaka at 3.40 p.m. local time. Dhaka is an hour behind Kathmandu. On disembarkation everyone went to the transit lounge and handed in their passports and tickets. They would be ready for collection later that evening before boarding the aircraft.

While waiting in the transit lounge, a Dutch guy told me that he would never fly with Biman again. He felt this way because he did not receive his luggage until four days after arriving in Kathmandu. That sounds like a typical Biman story! A British couple told me that the last time they were in Dhaka they had to wait 14-15 hours. They had managed to grab their luggage while in transit thus avoiding all the problems associated with Biman.

There was some activity at the other end of the lounge. The French group were being taken to a hotel in Dhaka for the next few hours before returning to the airport later on. Buses were put on to take us to the Durbani International Hotel. This was a nice surprise because I had expected to be stuck at the airport for the next ten hours. Someone informed me that if you are in transit for more than eight hours the airline has to take you to a hotel and provide a meal.

Dhaka is more modern than anticipated, much more so than Nepal. It does not seem very touristy. The road from the airport led straight to the hotel, about ten miles away. It was in surprisingly good condition. The road was dominated by a sea of rickshaws and tuk-tuks all jostling for space. Dusk was falling when we arrived at the hotel at about 5.30 p.m. Just another 24 hours to go before we arrive in Heathrow.

I got a room with Richard from Leicester. The room was hot and fusty so we put the air conditioning on. I am pleased to have seen a little bit of Bangladesh, albeit briefly. It is an unexpected bonus and I can tick it off my list!

Our meal was scheduled for 7.30 p.m. While waiting I talked to a group of Brits who had been trekking together. I had been on the same flight as them to Kathmandu. They had spent three weeks walking to Kanchenjung. Like everyone else they experienced problems with their luggage, and had to have it delivered to them. Fortunately they received it before starting their trek otherwise they would have had to hire all the necessary gear.

One of the group, Juliana, was formerly a teacher at Ovingdean school for the deaf in Kent. She knew of several teachers there who had once taught at Mary Hare, my old school. Ewen, a former pupil who I know of, had been taught by her. It’s a small world isn’t it?

Dinner was served at 7.30 p.m. For starters I had soup, followed by the main course, which was chicken and rice with cucumber. Dessert was yet more cake and there was tea or coffee to drink. Afterwards we returned to our rooms to collect our bags and then handed in our room keys at reception. In the hotel foyer everyone milled around waiting to leave. I started reading ‘Schindlers List’ by Thomas Keneally on which the film was based.

At 10 p.m. a minibus picked us up from the hotel and took us to the airport. On arrival, our passports and tickets were ready for collection. Departure was at 12.30 a.m. and it wasn’t long before we were up and away. It was announced that there would be stoppages at Dubai and Paris en route to London Heathrow.

As we flew to Dubai I had a meal, which was rather good and soon polished it off. For about three and a half hours I slept oblivious of everything. We landed in Dubai for refuelling at 3.30 a.m., which is 5.30 a.m. in Bangladeshi time. Flying west it is hard to keep track of all the different time zones you pass through. A coach transported us to the duty free goods lounge where we could stock up on anything we wanted. Dubai is supposed to be one of the best and cheapest places to purchase certain duty free goods. Some people bought cameras and the like, but I was not really in the shopping mood. However, I did try and buy some cheap rolls of Kodak camera film, but my Barclaycard wasn’t accepted. My credit limit had been exceeded. It was no great loss.

The plane left Dubai at 5.40 a.m. (Dubai time). I dozed for an hour. The aroma of breakfast being served woke me up. I watched the sunrise while eating breakfast. It was beautiful. ‘Apollo 13′, the in-flight movie then came on, but I carried on reading my book. When I got up to stretch my legs, I talked to an English guy who was standing in the aisle. He had stayed at KGH at the same time as me.

Another couple of hours passed then the flight attendents came round with dinner. Are they trying to fatten us up or what? Paris and the Eiffel Tower loomed into view. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was 8.45 a.m. when we landed. The door where the passengers board the aircraft was open. Some of us went out and stood at the top of the boarding steps to survey the view. Mind you, I was soon back in my seat because it was quite chilly out there.

While waiting to go to the toilet I talked to an English guy, now retired, who had previously worked in the animation department for the BBC. He had provided the voice for Morph in ‘Vision On’ with Tony Hart, a throwback to my childhood days.

The pilot informed us that the temperature was 2°C in London. As we flew over the English Channel at 11 a.m., both the coastline of France and the white cliffs of Dover were clearly visible. There were superb aerial views of London as we homed in on Heathrow.

The plane touched down on English soil at 11.30 a.m. Home at last!

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Trekking in Nepal – Everest Trek Schedule 23

Thursday 16th November
During the night I only went to the toilet once. The alarm went off at 5.45 a.m. After settling the bill, I waited outside at the front of the hotel for the bus to pick me up. Several shops had started to open up and a couple of croissants and cinnamon rolls were purchased for breakfast.

The bus turned up at 6.45 a.m. It stopped several times on the way through Pokhara to pick up passengers. A guy named Sanj sat next to me. He is a student in Kathmandu. At our first stop I bought some bananas. On the next stage of our journey I must have dozed for about an hour or so. The time seemed to pass quickly, and the journey was more pleasant than the one on Tuesday.

At 11.30 a.m. the bus driver stopped at his regular lunch spot. Good progress had been made despite the heavy local traffic. The driver recognised me when I got off the bus. He was the same guy who had driven me to Pokhara. “Hello,” he said, and shook my hand. That was very friendly of him. Another example of the friendly nature of the Nepalese.

After lunch the driver was more aggressive in his driving, overtaking most of the local traffic. The traffic slowed to a crawl on the approach to Kathmandu. It took a long time to get onto the main road, New Road. We passed the national stadium on the way to Kantipath. It was 3.30 p.m. when we arrived at our destination.

To my surprise, who should come into view when I walked round the corner from the bus stop, but Peter. He was with his nephew. After chatting for a few minutes, we decided to meet up later. I had not eaten so food was top priority. A late lunch was eaten at Pumpernickels. After checking in at the Holy Lodge I shopped around for a T-shirt as a souvenir to take home. There are many amusing embroidered T-shirts to choose from. My final choice was one that had the words, ‘Trek around Everest, Nepal’. It would be ready in two hours. Pilgrims Bookshop was the next stop. I bought Ryohei Uchida’s book of the Everest region, a National Geographic magazine and some candles. The book has superb photographs of the areas covered on my trek.

When there is a change in flight schedules, KGH is one of the first to know. They display any information on a noticeboard in the lobby. A visit was made to KGH to find out if any flights had been rescheduled. There were no messages – no news is good news. Then it was off to the Mustang Guest House. Paulo was not in so I left a message for him. There was nothing left to do so I went back to the Holy Lodge to freshen up for dinner. But first I had to collect my rucksack that had been kept for safekeeping while I was away in Pokhara.

I had almost run out of money so �10 was exchanged. This should see me through until tomorrow. For dinner I had hamburger and fries at the Rum Doodle Doo. Afterwards I decided to call for Paulo to see if he was in, and this time was in luck. For the next half-hour I sifted through Paulo’s huge collection of photos, a few hundred of them! There were some excellent pictures and I asked if I could have some reprints. We made a quick trip to the Kodak developing shop before they closed. An order was put in and the photos will be ready tomorrow morning.

I collected my T-shirt. It looks great and will remind me of my holiday here. In the street I bumped into Jill and Marcia. They told me that there had been more avalanches in Nepal this week. Some 44 people have been killed and many others are missing. Apparently it has been in the world news, but it is a bit late to call home now as I am flying out tomorrow. We said goodbye for the last time. Then it was on to Fire & Ice Pizzeria where I met up with Paulo, Paul, John and Peter’s nephew, but I didn’t stay long. Back at the hotel I packed my rucksack, showered, and then went to bed.

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Trekking in Nepal – Everest Trek Schedule 22

Wednesday 15th November
There are just two more days until I go home. I finally succumb to Kathmandu Quickstep! At 4 a.m. I woke up with a cough and stomach cramps. Within minutes I was on the toilet.

It was 5.45 a.m. when I got up for the sunrise. After a quick wash I made the short stroll up to the top of the hill. The lake was covered in cloud. Although the views were not as clear as they might have been, the clouds certainly made it interesting. A crowd had gathered at the viewing point to watch the sunrise.

It was a long wait because the sun took an age to come up. The sky changed colour from yellow to orange then red, pink, purple, and finally to blue behind thin layers of cloud. The clouds added something extra to the sunrise. Everyone was taking photographs.

Breakfast was served back at the lodge. It was then time to make the return trek to Pokhara, but not before visiting the loo several times in quick succession. I am convinced that I have giardia, but will not make a prognosis until I am back in Pokhara. However, preventive medicine was required if I was not going to have the runs on the way down. Two capsules of Immodium did the trick.

This time a different route, the Lakeside route, was taken back down from the summit. It was a two-hour walk. The trail snaked alternately through jungle and pastures. Although it was hot and sweaty work the walk, through the forest, small villages and farmland was pleasant. At times the flag stoned trail was hard to follow. The vegetation is rather striking and there is more insect life. This was in complete contrast to the harsh climate of the Khumbu region where flora and fauna are virtually non-existent.

During my descent the clouds covering the lake began to clear and visibility improved. The trail, at the foot of the mountain, crosses a large cultivated area beside the lake. The local community were out in force harvesting the land. Some of the women were carrying large bundles of straw.

It was 11 a.m. when I reached the cooler confines of Pokhara. Stephen Bezruchka’s book, probably the best guide to Nepal, was found in one of the local bookshops. Its detailed section on ‘Health’ more or less convinced me that I had giardia lamblia. God knows how I got it. Apparently I could have been carrying the protozoan for two weeks before displaying the symptoms.

During my stay I have been extremely careful with my hygiene, and have only drank filtered water. Now that I may have giardia I will stop using my water filter and put my faith in bottled water. According to the book, giardia has to be treated; it does not go away by itself. The most effective treatment is Tinidazole that I had bought at a chemist earlier. One dose of Tinidazole is supposed to be sufficient to eliminate the giardia.

A room for the night was reserved for me at the Hotel Mohal. The accommodation is the best I have come across in Nepal, and it is relatively cheap. For the next hour or so I wandered through Pokhara looking at all the different jumpers on sale. After I had found a jumper for Sally, it was back to the hotel for a nice refreshing shower and a clean change of clothing. A dose of Tinidazole helped settle my stomach.

Lunch at the Elegant View Restaurant was very agreeable. A grilled ham and cheese sandwich, and chocolate cake were washed down with lemon tea. The restaurant got its name because of its prime position by the lake. I whiled away the afternoon in the restaurant garden on the shores of the lake. The time was spent relaxing, soaking up the sun, and writing my diary.

Later that afternoon in the hotel lobby I had a conversation with Naru Ghurung, the hotel receptionist. He is a pleasant, amiable young man who gave me an insight into Nepalese life. His average monthly salary is 2200 rupees, which is roughly �25. Most of this is spent on food and rent, approximately 1500 rupees and 600 rupees a month respectively. His brother is a Gurkha and is currently stationed in Edinburgh. A Gurkha is a prestigious position for a Nepali.

Naru has been employed at the current establishment for the last four years – the Hotels Mohal and Simrik as well as the Zorba restaurant. All of them are under German management. Apparently the German woman who owns them had come on a trekking holiday and had fallen in love with her guide. She came back later and married him. This was the last time I saw Naru because he was going to Kathmandu. He had been sent on an errand to buy some door handles for the restaurant. This simple task would take three days!

I decided to go for a stroll. As I was walking down the street who should I see, but Martin at the Axman Restaurant. It was strange to see him without his ever present Nepalese headgear, but it was good to see him again. Martin introduced me to his brother from Frankfurt, whom he had met up with in Pokhara. They had not seen each other for two years. I joined them and had some coffee cake and black tea.

After bidding them farewell I had to find somewhere to have dinner. Guess where I ended up at, the Billy Bunter restaurant, hardly appropriate for someone of my girth! After gobbling up my chicken chow mein, I returned to my hotel room, packed my rucksack, took another dose of Tinidazole, and hit the sack.

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