Two Guides in KathmanduWe arrange for a representative from the hotel to collect us from the airport. He makes a bad first impression on us -- failing to point out that the porters who grab our bags are not with him and will be expecting a tip -- and it worsens as the day progresses. He sulks when he does not get his way, caring more for the dollars in our wallets than our enjoyment of our holiday. We travel by minibus to the hotel. We are bounced along roads that are a chaotic mingling of man and machine and bovine, all moving in cross-purposes. The roads are even crazier than Dubai's deadly thoroughfares, and we get the impression that they are safer only because most of the traffic is stationary. We are serenaded by the familiar sound of car horns and, occassionally, a less familiar moo. The Boy Scout says it puts him in mind of a movie; where the western protagonists are escorted through an eastern landscape at speed, jostled and bounced as they gaze through the windows, trying to take everything in and marvelling at the locations. 'All it needs is a Bollywood-style soundtrack and it would be perfect,' he says. 'You want music?' interupts our guide, brandishing a tape. 'This is Indian, from a very popular film.' We stare out of the windows, try to ignore him.
Our first stop that afternoon is Swayambhunath, a Buddhist temple overlooking the city. The temple is known locally as Monkey Temple for the monkeys that inhabit the area. They watch from atop prayer wheels and statues, fight mangy dogs for scraps. We arrive in time for the the four o'clock service in the adjacent gompa[1], which seems to involve all of the resident Buddhists chanting and banging and generally making noise. It looks like a great deal of fun. Our guide leads us to the minibus, but when he stops to make a call, we wander off and discover a smaller, pleasingly less-crowded, stupa west of the main one. The main stupa is beseiged by Sellers of Tourist Tat -- postcard peddlers and bracelet mongers -- but here they are absent. We take a few minutes to finally enjoy the tranquility we had been expecting from Nepal. Our guide is sulking when we return. Not only have we dismissed his 'Temple an Hour' plan for the following day, but we are dawdling, actually daring to sight-see. His chatter -- previously incessant -- is absent as he leads us to Durbar Square, and we are left to find our own way.
That evening we venture into Thamel, the tourist centre of Kathmandu. We eat at a restaurant around the corner from our hotel. It is dimly lit by candles when we arrive; load-shedding means that electricity is cut off for a couple of hours daily in a bid to reduce energy usage. The power eventually comes back on, but the candles remain lit to maintain the mood. We try a couple of the local beers -- Everest and Gorkha -- crisp lagers from the mountains. It is a well-timed priviledge, for the Maoist insurgents have only recently allowed the breweries to start operating again. The majority of the dishes on the menu are international; welcome treats for the backpackers who have subsisted on a diet of rice and lentil soup, one supposes. We opt, however, for the local chicken curry. The curry is good, not amazing, but the real treat for us is the fresh rice, which tastes fantastic compared to the starchy rubbish available in Dubai.
The following day we are relieved to learn we have a different guide. We are met by a short old Indian gentleman, whose knowledge of Kathmandu is comprehensive and stories long-winded. He takes our mutinous change of plan in his stride, cheerfully leading us to what we wanted to see. In the morning we visit Pashupatinath. We witness a cremation by the river, the Bagmati, pass many pot-smoking hippies, and visit the Hindu temple. Unable to enter[2], we gaze at the giant golden arse and testicles of the statue of Nandi, Shiva's bull. In the afternoon we head to Bhaktapur[3], a town seemingly fashioned entirely from bricks. The town is a heritage site; kept in its crumbling state by visitor fees and the profits from tourist tat. The central route through the town is pedestrianised to maintain that authentic feel. Our guide leads us at random through the streets, alleys and, at one point, someone's house. We hesitate, but he strides on confidently, telling his endless story as he leads us to a central courtyard crowded with drying clay pots. Our final destination is Nagarkot, a kilometre higher in the mountains east of the city, advertised as a good place to view the sunset. The views on the way up are breathtaking, the adjacent hill and mountain sides alternating between stepped corn fields and untamed jungle. Sadly, the view at the top cannot compete with the views on the way up, as the haze obscures the setting sun. On the return to Thamel, we get caught in a strike. Strikes are currently a near-daily occurence in Nepal, with blockages being called for any number of reasons. Today, a local man has stopped his car in the middle of the street to protest a beating received from the police. Although initially sympathetic, after a couple of hours we are contemplating adding to his list of complaints. The city outside is dark with load-shedding. The only lights come from the parked cars of our fellow motorists. The Sleeper sleeps. Our guide's local knowledge fails him when he admits that he does not know another way of getting into Kathmandu. His first attempt at a shortcut gets us only marginally further up the queue. We get home a lot later than originally planned. The little man has been so helpful compared to the sulker that we leave him, and our driver, a hefty tip, hoping that it does not make its way back to their bosses (or the sulker). We leave them at the hotel, and make our way to into the city. |
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The view from the mountain flight |
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Goddess Mother of the UniverseThe short mountain flights operated out of Kathmandu airport leave early in the morning, for a better chance of clear skies over the Himalaya. So it is that on our second full day in Nepal, we drag ourselves out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5:00am to go to the airport. The plane that awaits us is a small well-kept 16-seater. We fly with Buddha Air, both because the small airline has an impeccable safety record, but also because it is has the funniest name. Yeti Airlines just is not as much of a draw for us. Our flight takes us along the line of the Himalaya. On the way there, my side of the plane looks over Kathmandu valley, and it is not until I visit the cockpit that I get a decent view of the mountains and there, still distant, Mount Everest. The view is staggering. Even the other mountains cannot prepare you for how ridiculously big it is. I say nothing for a minute, realising that I have left my camera on my seat. The co-pilot reads his newspaper. I wonder how it is possible to get bored with this view, not quite believing it. We turn and make our way back along the range. The views of Everest are better on this leg of the journey, and I am able to get a few decent pictures before my window frosts over. The air hostess points out the other tall peaks to me, tells me histories and names I forget almost instantly. I can think of nothing but the mountain, and I crane my neck to get one last view, but it is gone. |
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Pokhara Lake |
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Wetter than the LakeWe spend our first afternoon in Pokhara paddling a pair of boats around Phewa Tal (Pokhara Lake). It is hard work -- the temperatures at this time of year are in the mid-thirties -- but rewarding, and a welcome change from the sightseeing. The evening's beers will feel well-earned. The Vertigo Sufferer confirms that he is wetter than Pokhara Lake, when we return to land and he crawls, on all fours, out of his boat. The following morning is spent by the pool, waiting for the Sleeper to wake. Eventually, lunch time arrives and we decide that if we are to see anything of Pokhara we cannot afford to linger. We bang on his door some more, shout through his open bedroom window, but leave without him. The three of us hire a four-by-four to take us up to the World Peace Pagoda. The monument to peace high on the hills around Pokhara lake has felt the sting of declining visitor numbers. We are the only visitors. The views of Pokhara Lake impress, and we realise that it is much larger than it appeared when we were paddling. Our guide tells us that the water level is actually lower than normal ahead of the monsoon season. On the way back to town we stop at Devi's falls (Patale Chhango). The waterfall lies downstream of the dam at the head of Pokhara Lake. The name Devi's Falls -- sometimes mistranslated as David's Falls -- comes from the death of two people bathing in the pools at the head of the waterfall. The stream floods when the gate at the dam is opened, and one such flood occured whilst Mr. Devi and his wife bathed and they got flushed away. Our guide tells us the falls is the most popular suicide spot in Pokhara, and the dam has to be regularly closed so that teams can retrieve bodies from the waters in safety. Our timing diminishes our experience somewhat. During the monsoon season, when the waters are raging, Devi's Falls are much more impressive, as the water thunders and sends clouds of vapour high in the air. Now there is a little more than an intricate trickle. |
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The World Peace Pagoda in Pokhara |
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Nights of the RajReturning from Devi's Falls we find that the Sleeper is up and sitting by the pool. After a suitably long period of mockery, he explains his absence: The previous night we set a pull-a-hippy challenge. Anyone who copped off with a tree-hugger, would receive the princely sum of 3500 Rupees from each of his companions. The pickings are slim, but the Sleeper eventually chats up a rotund young lady of the hippy persuasion. Embarrassed at our friend's determination to win the money at the cost of his own reputation, but impressed all the same, we leave him to it. He goes back to the girl's hotel but after wasting an hour or so of his time, he leaves. Only, because he does not know where he is, he wanders the streets trying to find our hotel. Eventually, he knocks on the door of a hotel, waking the night watchman. 'Open up! In the name of her majesty the Queen!' he cries[4]. He offers the bleary eyed night watchman 1000 Rupees to drive him to his hotel. This equates to about £8, but to your average Nepali it is a small fortune, and he gladly accedes to the Sleeper's completely unreasonable demands. By the time he gets back to the hotel, it is late, so he lies in the following day in a trademarked Sleeper coma until one o'clock in the afternoon. He is oblivious to our efforts to wake him, and we assume that he is either winning the bet, or languishing in a Nepali prison somewhere. |
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Pokhara lakeside |
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Busy BeePokhara's nightlife is limited. There are a few restaurants and cafés that manage to maintain a brisk trade despite the recent fall in visitor numbers, but generally places are quiet. As the evening draws people gravitate to the couple of bars that open later. We visit the Busy Bee Bar twice. On the second evening we eat, there because its beer garden overlooks Phewa Tal. As dusk falls and load shedding plunges the bar into an premature gloom, we notice rain approaching across the lake. Fearful that we will take our business elsewhere -- somewhere with a roof perhaps -- the barman insists that it will not rain. The Boy Scout bets that it will, a bet that he wins a short time later when the downpour begins. The rain is torrential, and all of us came out without jackets, so we could not leave if we wanted to. The barman spends the rest of the night attending to us, terrified that the Boy Scout will try to collect his winnings. We run through the deluge and take shelter in the bar proper. At one point we dare the Boy Scout to stand under a downspout for three seconds. We spend the rest of the evening inside watching the band[5], the Boy Scout looking like a drowned rat. There is a group of backpackers at the next table -- two guys, a girl, and their Nepali porter -- and I notice the girl looking at me[6]. When the band finishes, our group joins their group. The girl is Slovakian, and gorgeous. We get on reasonably well, and I think I am onto something. The porter retreated when our groups got talking, and towards the end of the evening there is a commotion behind us. The porter is weaving around -- so drunk he can barely stand -- and angry, shouting at all and sundry and waving his arms. He is, one of the guys tells me as the girl goes to calm him down, jealous of the attention I am getting. She returns shortly. 'We had better take Vishnu home,' she says apologetically. 'He's had a little too much to drink.' I am cursing Vishnu's name when one of my friends points out that Vishnu has left his jacket behind. I chase after them to return the jacket -- and maybe kick Vishnu into the Phewa Tal -- but the dark streets of Pokhara are empty. The Slovakian girl has gone forever. I contemplate just throwing the jacket in the nearest bin, but I trudge back to the bar and pass it to the barmaid. 'Oh yeah,' she says, 'we know Vishnu. He comes down from the mountains once a month, and the tourists buy him drinks. He always drinks too much.' It is the first time my night out has been sabotagued by a drunken Nepali porter. If there is any justice, his hangover the following morning is as bad as mine.
But it does not end there. The bill arrives. My companions announce that they have no money. I run to the cashpoint. I pay the bill. My companions announce that they had enough money all along. Much hilarity ensues. The drunken porter has not put me in a good mood, and this does not help. As I shout at my friends, a bearded hippy intervenes and tries to get everyone to chill and drink more beer. One by one, my friends head back to the hotel and I am left drinking with the hippy. I seem to attract these people when I am on holiday. When the bar eventually kicks out, we decide that we want more beer. My bearded friend tells me that he knows where he can get some. He leads me to a shop front, the only source of light in night-time Pokhara. 'Say nothing,' he tells me. 'Just try to look big.' This does not make sense at first, until I realise that he is trying to intimidate the short Nepali men into giving us the beer at a discount. Much haggling follows, including a fake 'lets walk away because we're no longer interested' moment. Unable to change the plan once it is set in motion, I remain silent. After what seems like hours we procure two very cheap bottles of Everest. The Nepali men lock up in a hurry. We wander the dark drinking beer. At one point, the hippy tells me that we should find a party. He proceeds into the nearest hotel and, in an incident reminiscent of the Sleeper's British Raj moment the previous night, begins knocking on people's doors demanding to know where the party is. A succession of bleary-eyed faces greet us, and unsurprisingly none can point us to any festivities. Pokhara is as quiet as a grave; if there had been a party we would have heard it long ago. If anything, I am more embarrassed now, and I decide that it is time the hippy and I parted company. I walk home, stopping at one point to play with one of the stray dogs that roam the town[7]. I cannot find my phone, and there is no electricity for the lights, so I conduct a thorough search of my room using the flash on my camera. Morning comes too early. The extra photographs on my camera tell me that I got in at about 5.30am. My head hurts.
The complete set of photographs from my visit to Nepal (including notes and annotations) can be found at the following link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/53537358@N00/sets/72157600195424406/
[1] Gompa: Buddhist Temple
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Concept and content by Kevin Paul Jones Copyright © 2007 Kevin Paul Jones |  |
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