Bare Bones ….Kathmandu – Nagarkot – Pokhara – Poon Hill
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Nepalese buses.
Rammed full of people. Somebody would have their elbow in your nose.
The groan and throb of the tata bus engine, sway, then jostle.
You’d feel completely overwhelmed by the burden of humanity.
Zilch leg room, not designed for European proportions.
Scramble up the ladder, to ride on top of the bus.
Freedom. Much more room above!
Wending our way through the mountains.
hang on for dear life.
Steep drops to one side. Raging, foaming streams.
A goat up there with us.
Beneath the sky, the hills surrounding, engulfing.
Beautiful.
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“HORN OK PLEASE”
The language, the rhythm of horn honks.
A truck would thunder up behind us… festooned with brightly colored baubles, hand-painted, gaudy with tinsel… a heavily garlanded Ganesha on the dashboard, remover of obstacles, blessing the journey.
the lorry would toot once to let the driver know, “Here I am.”
The driver of the bus would reply, parp, “I know you’re there.”
Then, “honk, honk,” the road is clear.
The truck would overtake, a cheerful bamboozlement, a cacophony of horn honks, for the sheer thrill of it.
Then, as he got past, one final hoot, “Thank you!”
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Nagarkot on the rim of the Kathmandu Valley, gazing out toward the Himalayas, I remember meeting a young boy, 10 years old, Dinesh
He stood up very straight, spoke polite, impeccable English, which primarily he’d learnt from the World Service of the BBC.
He told us that the space shuttle, Challenger, had exploded about a week before.
a curious reversal, odd to learn of such a major global tragedy from a soft spoken boy high up in the mountains.
Travelling you were so out of touch in the days before the internet!
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Trekking
Permits, maps, trekking pass
we set off early in the morning from Pokhara
Squeezing into a jeep with a family of locals
the track cut across a wide, rubble-strewn riverbed, a massive field of grey boulders and gravel, washed down from the Himalaya over millennia.
A few hours walking upwards, then onto the ridge, Machapuchare—the sacred, sculpted, untouchable “Fishtail” peak dominating the horizon.
I had already felt ill the previous days, by mid afternoon in Chandrakot I was distinctly queasy.
Realising I couldn’t continue, I sent Alan, impatient and in a hurry, onwards.
I stayed that night in a wooden hut with a kind patient Nepali woman and her daughter.
A bout of diarrhea, then in the middle of the night I was sick several times, hard to be discreet in a small hut!
With no bucket available, I was sick into a small plastic bag and dumped it out the window.
I became convinced I had altitude sickness, hugely unlikely at only 1000m (approx) elevevation, and in my delirium wanted to head downwards towards Bierthanti.
yet in the darkness, creaking down the stairs could barely find the latch for the door!
Next morning, slightly recovered I headed down. Firstly seeing a chicken pecking at my bag of puke (yeucchhh!)
Fortunately I hadn’t found my way out, a steep, knee jarring descent.
Ah the Romance of travel
Bierthanthi was a boon and a blessing. I spent a couple of days there relaxing, recovering… a beautiful lodge, sleeping with the sound of the rushing river.
The Modi Khola, theoretically, at least, the deepest gorge in the world
Classic Tea House trek. Tasty, nourishing food… chai, eggs, porridge and the ubiquitous Dal Bhat
Most of the days I sat on the boulders in the river, reading a book, else watching the water churn and swirl around. mesmerised
Rivendell. Felt that Tolkien must have been in Nepal (the alps apparently!).
Powerful mountains, the broad sweep of landscape, the Nepalese people seemingly conjured as characters from his books.
Onwards to Ulleri… from the valley floor to Ghorepani
A warm sunny day, but with a chill crisp nip to the air.
I wore only swim shorts and bounded along, ascending 1500 m In one day, a mile higher.
beginning with the resolute plod up a long, endless stone staircase.
at the level of the eagles as they soared and swooped above the valley below
the path spooled, wound around and around
donkey trains, the chime of bells, jangle of harness, their tasseled coloured head pieces, step to one side to allow them to pass
the perilous, dubious crossing of swing bridges
The local porters, barefoot, burdened by the immense weights, carrying pipes, coca cola for tourists, EVERYTHING
fascinating the way that the climate zones change as you ascend the mountain, lush vibrant green Rice paddies down below, then through broad leafed woodland, Sall trees clinging with moss, Rhododendrons, small shrines, the tangible presence of spirits… follow the trail long enough, alpine scrub, then nothing but boulders and wind punished bone emptiness… in search of the sacred folk have always retreated to the mountains
Hillside Lodge, just a few hours walk below the summit of Poon Hill.
Shut within a few years due to the excessive deforestation of the hillsides. As travellers we are very much part of the problem.
A crackling fire, endless joints, travellers company and tales. Bill and Lisa, his cousin, from Australia, a quiet Danish guy, Lars.
early the next morning, the final wander up to 3200 m for the epic sunrise and a panorama of the white capped mountains.
Back down again, it snowed all day, we were all marooned in the cabin.
after this, the next day a rapid yomp down, we tarried too long and I remember the last hour in the twilight looking for the lights of the next village.
In all a ten day trek… my first of many… would only take you 2 days to get to poon hill nowadays! times of youth and yore!
