Nepal: Hiking, White-Water Rafting, and Elephants

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Nepal 2000
by Omar DeWitt

(This is one chapter in a recently published book, The 23-Hour Day. Find out more about this book at http://23hourday.com)

Sue and I joined a trip to Nepal run by Country Walkers to hike in the Annapurna conservation district. Our group, coming from various parts of the United States, was comprised of ten women and me, the token male. We met for the first time in the capital, Kathmandu.
Kathmandu, like other third-world cities of its size and age, has narrow streets filled largely by people on foot. In 2000, vehicular traffic flowed somewhat on the honor system. There were a few signs and traffic lights, but mostly cars and busses and trucks just moved until something got in their way; then they tried to ease around the obstruction or wait for it to move. Our bus had a rear navigator who would lean out the door or window and whistle OK if the bus appeared to be getting by an obstruction by more than the thickness of a sheet of paper. Drivers were always honking, but no one seemed to pay any attention. Those pedestrians who did look up did not alter what they were doing, such as standing in the middle of the road. The streets were dirty, especially since spitting was a national pastime.
On our first night in Kathmandu, we were taken to a local restaurant by our tour leader. (The restaurant wasn’t all that local—its specialty was pizza.) There were very few street lights in the city, and there were none where we were walking. I was walking a little apart from the group when I stepped off a curb, misjudged the distance to the street in the dark by a good six inches, and fell flat out. I skinned my palms and bruised my right knee but was otherwise OK. I was quite concerned about what germs I might have picked up from the dried spit on the street. When we got to the restaurant, I made a point of washing and giving my scrapes a good soaping.
On the way back from dinner, a woman in our group fell at the same intersection. She scraped the skin off the right side of her face and was sporting scabs for the rest of the trip. This did not bode well for our hiking group. If we had trouble navigating the curbs of Kathmandu, how would we fare on the mountains we had come to climb?
A short, morning hike started at a village named Bungamati. Ears of corn had been tied into bunches and hung to dry from protrusions on the buildings. We followed a path around rice terraces to our pick-up point at Chovar. Most of the rice terraces had been harvested, and the little work going on was plowing and fertilizing. The plowing was done by hand with a pick-axe type of tool; fertilizer (manure) was brought in (in wicker baskets) on the backs of women. The manure was worked into the soil during the plowing process. I got carried away watching the procedure and stepped in some fresh fertilizer. One of the locals walking with us helped me get most of it off my boot. Manure was a constant hazard all during our trek; I, perhaps because of my gender, was the most adept at stepping in it. Since the paths were unusable by motor transport, the only means of getting goods from village to village was on the backs of people or the backs of donkeys. The area we passed through had acres and acres of terraced rice plots. Most of the plots were no more than 20 feet wide, although they could run 100 yards long. At the town at the end of the hike, we passed houses where rice and other grains were being dried on the flat roof tops, which also supported TV antennas.
We booked seats on Buddha Air’s two-engine prop plane for a flight to Mount Everest. The plane had an aisle with a seat on each side. We did not get very close to Everest, maybe sixty miles away, but it was clearly visible, with much wind-blown snow coming off it, like a veil blowing in the wind. A line of other peaks was visible above the clouds.
Back at the Kathmandu airport we waited around and finally flew out to Pokhara, the starting city for most treks. The Shangri-La Hotel was very comfortable and in a nice setting. The Annapurnas were visible in the distance; the grounds were well kept, with walkways and running water. Leaving the grounds, as we did on a walk, one found a different world. Houses rarely had doors, some not even a curtain. Each community had a common water faucet, where people washed clothes, washed their hair, washed their metal dishes and pots, and collected cooking and drinking water. The footwear of choice was rubber, thong sandals or bare feet, the second favorite.
On the way back to the hotel, I was stopped by a boy of about 12 and his younger brother. He was obviously coming home from school since he wore a white shirt and a tie and carried a backpack. By pointing at my camera and himself, he asked me to take their picture. I turned on my camera and squatted down to be on their level. The older brother squatted down, too, and then the younger brother squatted down, so we were all squatting. I motioned for them to stand up. The younger boy did stand up, and I took their picture. That seemed to satisfy them, and they walked away smiling.
Rachel, our guide, provided us with the trekking bags our porters would carry and kept trying to get us to take very little so the porters would not be overburdened. We dutifully left at the hotel, among other things, our fleece jackets and waterproof pants. We were later sorry that we did.
We bussed to the start point for our hike to the first destination: Sanctuary Lodge. We were introduced to our porters, (ours was Surbir, pronounced Sir-beer), filled up our water bottles from the container in the bus, and tried to find a place to take a leak. The only place that gave any semblance of privacy was the side of a terrace.
As we got ready to start off, a group of pre-teens found us quite interesting and mingled with the group. This trek, like all the others, was over steps made of stones. The steps were three or four feet wide, but no two were the same height or depth. For a while, we were accompanied by school children (in blue uniforms) going to school. It seemed to me that I was always seeing children going to or coming from school, and I wondered if they ever stayed in a classroom for any length of time. The children always seemed happy and interested in us, greeting us with hands at the heart and a murmured “Namaste.” Although they often asked for pens or money, they did not seem to expect to get any. We were told not to give anything to individuals, because if some kids were successful, there would be hordes of them all over every foreigner—as we had found to be true in Egypt. We did contribute at various collection boxes run by schools or civic groups.
A grassy area opened up in the trees on the hillside. It contained one shepherd lounging on a hillock and about forty white sheep grazing placidly. Each sheep sported a bright crimson paint splotch; it looked as if the flock had wandered into a paint-ball firefight and been wiped out to the last sheep.
At one point, we passed a school in session. A teacher was standing by the collection box, and most of us contributed. I suspect that his salary was what he could gather from the box. We were on a heavily wooded slope, and the trees grew almost down to the river. A few minutes after we passed the school, it let out, and the kids came pouring down the hill, weaving in and around us and the trees. They were yelling, laughing, and talking, like children everywhere leaving school. Bounding down the hill in their rubber, thong sandals, they gradually disappeared into the trees down the hill, their voices echoing in the woods long after they had gone from sight.
At one point, I got behind our group because I was changing film. They disappeared around a hill. When I went around the hill later, I faced a problem because the trail forked, and they were not visible at all. I mentally flipped a coin and hoped I was not taking the path less traveled on. I caught up with them at a suspension bridge. No one had missed me, and I wondered if I should sulk.
We crossed the river and were soon at Sanctuary Lodge, which had been built by Duncan Baker, who, with his wife Rachel, ran our trip. The Lodge was like the two others we stayed at on the trek: stone room with two beds and a bathroom with flush toilet and integrated shower that had hottish water between 5 and 7 PM. Each room had an electric light hanging from the ceiling, and electricity was on from 6 to 9 PM. After we showered, the bathroom floor was wet until the following morning. At one lodge we were able to get a squeegee, which got most of the standing water into the drain. Tea and coffee were served at 4 PM (and again at 6 AM). Happy hour, with free alcohol at the lodges, was from 6 to 7, followed by dinner. Hot soup started every dinner and was always good. Dal bot was served often, and we always enjoyed it. By 8:30 we were usually asleep.
The walk from Sanctuary Lodge to Ghandruk was the one we were somewhat concerned about. In 6 or 7 hours we were to climb 3,000 feet to a top altitude of 6,200 feet. The altitude was not a problem, but we were not sure how taxing the elevation gain would be. We started out along the river, passing through several villages.
The harvest season was all but over, but we saw one terraced field being harvested and stopped to watch and take pictures. After the grain had been cut, a sturdy pole about 10 feet high was set in the middle of the terrace. In a line abreast, four or five water buffalo (I guess) were tied to the pole and persuaded to walk round and round the pole. More sheaves of grain would be thrown in the path as the buffalo trampled the harvest and loosened the grain. One would hope that when a buffalo raised a hoof for permission to go to the potty, that he was swiftly accommodated. About a dozen people, mostly men, were in the field we were watching. Some of them were also separating the grain from the stalk by taking sheaves and whapping them on the ground. The resulting grain-with-chaff was then winnowed as it has been for centuries. The denuded grain stalks were collected into huge bundles and carried off. The women generally wore shawls and long dresses, but the men would not have looked out of place in a U.S. convenience store.
Some years before, the Chinese government had given Nepal thousands of tractors. These were the size of large riding mowers but were still too large to get to the majority of the fields in the countryside. As a result, most were used to pull wagons in the villages.
The path from there was mostly rock, with a few dirt stretches. When water flowed from the terrace above to the terrace below, there were rocks to walk on. Snow covered Fishtail Mountain was prominent in the distance. We never had a crystal-clear day even when we were closer to the mountains; there was always a haze covering them. After about an hour, we started up the interminable stairs. The path was too steep not to have stairs, and, in reflection, the work that went into building the stairs must have been enormous. The rocks on the treads were relatively flat, but it would take about 8 rocks to make up any one tread, and the 8 rocks would never be completely level. These stairs constituted the road to Ghandruk. Donkey droppings were a constant hazard. In the U.S., we often see parts of tire treads scattered along the highways; on this road we saw bottoms of rubber-soled sandals.
The traffic was heavy in both directions with locals, donkey freight trains, and trekkers. The donkey trains were commanded by, usually, one person in the rear. Since there were only three donkey choices: up the mountain, off the mountain, or along the path, one person in the rear with a stick and a pair of lungs was sufficient to control seven or eight donkeys. Stopping them was never a problem, and whenever they stopped they started nibbling at any vegetation along the path. Getting them going sometimes took a little urging. The path was wide enough in most places so that people and donkeys could pass each other with no jostling. I did notice that when the mountain fell off steeply on one side of the path that all mammals preferred to walk on the other side of the path.
Our lunch stop was pointed out to us: a flowering tree silhouetted in the distance on the shoulder of the mountain. We walked and walked, but it seemed never to get any closer. We did reach it about 12:30, only to find that the dining area was down 50 steps. That was 50 steps we would later have to climb back up. As they did whenever we stopped for a break, our porters put down their loads and lit cigarettes! Our rest area was comprised of several tables under a roof, a toilet (one “flushed” it by pouring water from a bucket down the hole), and a stove. The last of our group appeared about a half hour later, and we ate lunch. Some people from our hotel had come down to make our meal: hot soup and potato pancakes. English Mars bars were dessert.
It took another hour and a half to reach the Himalayan Hotel in Ghandruk. The town is built on the mountainside, with streets meandering through it in no pattern I ever discerned. By the time we got there, I was in a mindless step...by…step… by...step mode and would have walked on past the path to the hotel if not for my faithful porter, Surbir. The two of us had been together since lunch; Sue and 5 others went on ahead, and the rest followed behind.
The sky was cloudy, so we could see nothing higher than where we were. We were hot and sweaty from the climb, and the warm shower felt great. The temperature outside was in the 50s and stayed that way throughout our visit. We sat outside (too dark inside—no electricity there), read, and had tea at 4. We cooled off quickly and soon were wearing the down parkas furnished by the hotel. Everyone was ready for the Happy Hour. Warm water and whiskey made a welcome drink. Snacks varied from inn to inn, but popcorn was usually one of the choices. We sat around a fire pit in the main building and got happy.
We were asleep by 8:30.
The next day, Nov. 23, Thanksgiving, was a nontravel day. In the morning we climbed a couple of hundred feet (breaking out into a vigorous sweat) with the mayor of Ghandruk, who was wearing a jacket to keep warm on the hike. Our goal was a small Buddhist Temple built on a steep portion of the hill overlooking the valley. At a stop on the way down, I asked the mayor if more terraces were being created to accommodate a growing population. He said no; in fact some terraces were being taken out of use. The reason was better production and the fact that a more prosperous citizenry could buy food elsewhere. We were in the area where Gurkha soldiers were recruited for the British army and other military units. Although they did not make much money by British standards, they did by Nepali standards. They sent money home, and, when they retired, they brought more money into the community. On the way back to the lodge, we crossed, several times, a pipe carrying water to the town’s electric generator.
In the afternoon we walked through the town, visiting old Ghandruk first. From above, it looked like military-base barracks. Many homes in the villages we visited had livestock. Chickens were very common; when the people wanted to keep them from roaming, they placed a cone-shaped wicker basket over them. We heard many wicker baskets cluck-clucking. Goats, also, were common. We paid a visit to the helicopter pad, the only other way out of town. The streets of the town were all stone steps, like the path up to the town, but the streets continually twisted around the buildings. Quite a few other groups of trekkers were staying at various inns in the town. They may have been younger and in better shape, but their inns, smirk, did not have flush toilets or hot showers.
Breakfast was outside with a magnificent view of snow-covered Annapurna South, about ten miles away. We were in our parkas and mittens in the 50-degree weather, sitting at a long table. Coffee and tea were kept warm in thermoses. The porridge was particularly good. Brown, hard-boiled eggs were always offered. There were no ovens anywhere on the trek, so there was no bread.
On Nov. 24 we started back down the mountain to Sanctuary Lodge. The first part of the walk was on the same path we came up, and then we branched off, passing through wooded areas, terraces, and different villages. Before we left the original path, we encountered a German, sweating in long corduroy pants, coming up. He was carrying his own equipment and saying how cheap things were. Our guide, Rachael, berated him for not supporting the local economy by hiring a porter, as inexpensive as it was. We also passed some Israelis, with yarmulkes, arguing with their porters. Apparently, the Israelis were trying to get out of their contract, saying, “We will carry the packs; give us our money back.” The Israelis had a bad reputation in Nepal, we were told, for being...cheap. They had a reputation for trying to cheat porters, restaurant owners, and inn keepers. It doesn’t take many to give a whole group a bad name.
Off the main route, the path was not quite as wide, although most of it was still stone steps. At one of our stops, a local woman stood off a bit watching us. Then she came closer and was eventually sitting with us. She didn’t speak, just watched us with interest. We crossed a couple of suspension bridges, waiting at one to let a man and his horse cross over first. On this path, it was very difficult to answer the call of nature. It was an open area with very few trees. At one of our breaks, I saw no one on the path and walked back to where the path made a slight curve around a bulge in the hill. Before I unzipped, I looked back up the trail to see a local woman walking about twenty paces behind me. Since, from that point on there was no cover, I did my best to ignore nature’s call. Our lunch stop had benches and tables, as on the way up, built by Ker and Downey, our tour company in Nepal. Hot soup had been carried in thermoses. Mars bars for dessert.
At another village, we stopped at a primary school. There were four classrooms and the students seemed to be mostly reciting something in unison. We put a few rupees in the collection box. Continuing on, we were informed by a sign that the path we were on had been built by the mothers of the village.
Going down was particularly uncomfortable for my knees. I was happy when we finally reached Sanctuary Lodge. I eschewed the walk to Birethanti, the village above the lodge.
Two choices were offered on the trek to Dhampus, which is on the opposite side of the valley from Ghandruk. Some of the group opted to walk to Birethanti, take a taxi part way, and hike up the last leg. Sue and I went with the other group on the 6-plus hour hike. It was uphill, so it wasn’t bad. The day was overcast, which made hiking easier, but the view was not as attractive. The usual haze obtained. At one break, I went to relieve myself and stepped unerringly into newly laid donkey fertilizer. (I never got the stuff completely off until I got home, soaked the sole in soapy water, and worked on it with an old tooth brush.) We had lunch on a huge rock slab and soon cooled down enough so that we had to put on jackets. There was hot soup from a thermos, brown hard-boiled eggs that seemed to be following us uneaten from Ghandruk, and, of course, Mars bars for dessert.
Another break was taken in the remote village of Majguan. It seemed to be a place that trekkers stopped, because there were several vendors set up along the path in the town. Another clue was the number of trekkers we saw at the various refreshment places. Sue bought several jewelry items from Tibetan vendors. Most of the Tibetan refugees in Nepal have been born there. They have done very well in Nepal and are resented to some extent by the locals for their success. Interestingly enough, given the chance to return to Tibet, very few would go; the climate is better in Nepal, and they are much better off financially than they were in Tibet.
Our arrival at Basanta Lodge in Dhampus was greeted with the usual beverage, fruit juice or tea. The other group was already there. No mountains were visible in the clouds, and, we were told, had not been for several days. After dinner, a half dozen or so of the local women came in and danced with each other and with our porters, and our porters danced with the women in our group. Only two or three couples could dance at a time because the fire pit and the people took up most of the room. The dancing was to the beat of our porters’ drums, a tambourine, and the voices of the women.
November 26 saw us trekking down the mountain for a couple of hours to our bus, which took us back to the Shangri-La Village Hotel. On the way, we stopped at a Tibetan refugee camp. All we saw of the camp were vendors’ stalls and a Buddhist temple. It was quite a pleasure to be back at the hotel, where there was hot water and electricity 24 hours a day. We said goodbye to our porter; he gave us an intricately woven scarf, and we gave him 2,200 rupees ($32) for carrying both our packs for five days (he even carried our day pack!); this was considered generous by our guide.
In the afternoon, we met the, by then, legendary Duncan, husband of our guide Rachel. While we had a free drink from the bar, he told us what we needed to do for the next portion of our trip—rafting on the Seti River. We got a “waterproof” bag each, in which to put two days’ clothing. As far as I know, the bags of the other people in our group were waterproof. We were told that waterproof gear would be supplied. The rest of our belongings would be taken by bus to our river destination.
Also staying at the hotel was a woman we were told was Princess Anne from Great Britain, apparently on a good-will trip. One of our group wanted to take her photo, but she was told by a “James Bond type” that she couldn’t take a picture of “the Princess while she is eating.” Our fellow trekker said she was tempted to take a photo anyway so she could be grilled by “the James Bond type.”
“You were taking photos of the Princess eating a tossed, green salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Whom are you working for,” he would ask, stirring a pitcher of martinis.
“I work for SMERSH,” she would say defiantly.
“Yes. We thought as much,” taking a sip of his martini. “We need to check for a wire. Take off...oh...you already took it off.”
“Say ‘Princess’ again. It is sooo sexy.”
In the morning we checked out and bussed to our launch site. We donned splash suits, which may have been waterproof at one time; our waterproof pants were safe in Kathmandu. Flotation vests and helmets completed our equipment.
While we were donning our river gear, one of the staff said he had heard there were several Texans in the group and asked how many were there.
I said, “Too many.” This comment, meant to be humorous, put me in the bad graces of the four Texans, two of whom took being a Texan very seriously. I have nothing against Texans; some of my best friends are Texans, as is my brother. However, I was never forgiven. To this day, when I get a sharp pain anywhere in my body, I picture a cloth doll with a beard and glasses being punctured with a pin somewhere in Texas.
My camera and waist pack went in the waterproof drum, and the “waterproof” duffels were piled in the center of the inflatable raft. We sat on the rounded sides with our paddles, while the “captain” had a seat mounted on the aft of the raft. He sat higher than the rest of us and had two long oars with which to maneuver the craft. Three of us shared one raft with four on the payroll, so we did relatively little rowing. (Let’s see if I can work this all together: “The captain of the craft sat aft on the raft.”)
During the trip, we traversed several rapids; most were rated “one” or “two,” but one was a “three.” The rapids were not long in length. After a couple of hours, we stopped for lunch. Not too long after we embarked again, we came across a somber sight on the river bank. A group of local people were sitting on the ground rising from the river watching a funeral pyre burning on the shore. The wood was stacked four or five feet high and was just long enough to enclose the small body. We took no photographs; it did not seem appropriate to intrude on their grief with the clicking of shutters.
We were at the river camp by two thirty. The camp can be reached only by water or a long hike over the mountains. The accommodations were permanent tents. Buildings with flush toilets were nearby, as were buildings with showers (the water was heated by a wood fire). Drinks were served around a pit fire near the dining room. Popcorn was one of the snacks, and we were amazed to see some dropped pieces moving into the grass. Closer inspection showed that they had grown legs, and even closer inspection proved that the legs belonged to small ants. I would like to have seen how they dealt with the popcorn after they got it to the mouth of their ant hill. “All right, guys, now let’s try it sideways...”
From the river camp the next day we hiked through the heavy vegetation up the mountain (two hours or so), which gave me a chance to be bitten by Nepali mosquitoes. The village at the top was quite remote and, I assume, typical of the area. The houses were of wood with thatch or shingle roofs. Women wore long skirts; boys wore shorts and T-shirts. Very few men were in evidence, although one of the men who worked at the river camp lived here and had accompanied us. At the town water spigot water was being collected in metal and plastic containers of various colors. The people were friendly, and a group of children followed us through the village. Corn was drying everywhere; animals were almost as numerous as the women and children. The views might have been good, but clouds obscured them.
The second and last day on the river was short, but the rapids were a bit wilder. After our lead raft passed a particularly challenging part, we stopped rowing and looked back at the other boats. All at once, we all said, “Wow,” or the Nepali equivalent. As the second raft went through, the captain suddenly levitated about four feet; the oblivious crew kept on paddling furiously. Fortunately, he came down again in the raft, almost in his seat.
We landed and changed into dry clothes “behind the rocks.” Although the rocks were large, they didn’t really have a “behind,” but we managed. We transferred our belongings into our duffels, got on the bus, and were off to Chitwan National Park. The road was barely two lanes, tarmacked most of the way. Some things got my attention on this leg of the trip. One was road work. Gravel was spread by hand, the larger stones made into smaller stones with a handy hammer. Tar was spread with a watering can. Practically everything else in the construction of the road was done by hand. Local life along the road was of interest, too. It was common to see one person searching another’s hair for lice. Haircuts were given by the side of the road on wooden dining room chairs. We saw several people using a treadle sewing machine to bring in a few rupees.
We got off the “main” road and traveled on narrower, dirt roads for a half hour or so and stopped at the bank of a wide river. We transferred to boats (large canoes) and were poled and paddled across. After the customary welcoming drink, we got in jeeps and drove to Temple Tiger camp in Royal Chitwan National Park. We had a cramped bungalow, albeit with a hot shower and flush toilet.
http://www.nepaltravelinfo.com/national.htm
In the afternoon, we had our first elephant ride. We climbed the stairs to the loading platform, which was level with the elephant’s back, about 8 feet high. The driver backed up the elephant, and we got on the riding platform, which was a rectangular piece of wood with a railing about a foot high. The riding platform was well padded on both sides and was stabilized at the back under the tail, in the front around the neck, and was cinched under the belly. Four people could fit on the platform. The driver sat on the elephant’s neck, with his bare feet on the backs of its ears and with a stick to whap on the elephant’s head as needed.
We took three rides on elephants, which were two too many for me. Elephants have different gaits, so some are more comfortable to ride on than others, but I spent a good deal of time hanging on to the railing to try to keep from being whipped around. The elephant has to be the ultimate all-terrain vehicle because it goes anywhere except through large trees. DOWN into the stream bed, UP the other bank, THROUGH the scrub trees. A serious downside to traveling with a group is putting up with the constant conversation on the most trivial of subjects. One learns much more than one wants to know about people one will never see again. A great thing about being on the elephants was that the guide told everyone not to talk, which would scare away any animals. We saw several rhinos, including a mother with a one-ton baby. We saw alleged tiger tracks. We saw monkeys. We saw many trees.
There was a memorable experience on our second return to camp. Sue and I are on separate elephants, and our two elephants are separated from the others at this point. My elephant, in the lead, makes a left turn onto the main trail back to the camp. Sue’s elephant is just making the turn when she (all the elephants were female) gives a tremendous trumpet, then a few more, just like in the Tarzan movies. My elephant twirls around (!) and starts trumpeting, too. It is a thrilling experience to be sitting on the source of all that trumpeting and rumbling growling, especially when you don’t know what’s going on. The noise and agitation probably lasts only 20 seconds, but it is a long 20 seconds. As it would be pieced together later by those of us who survived, the second elephant sees, out of the corner of her eye, a group of workers coming down the trail on their way to the camp and she is startled. The first elephant, who is best friends with the second, rushes to aid her. So we have these two elephants, side by side, trumpeting like mad, giant ears flapping like wings, and staring down the trail at seven petrified workers. It takes several minutes, but eventually the drivers get their pachyderms under control again, with much whapping on the head and yelling some foreign language. The elephants turn and go back down the trail to the camp, but not without much rumbling and the occasional trumpet.
The first of December we traveled back to Kathmandu. We left Chitwan in the morning mist on elephant back to the river crossing. It was a memorable sight to see these large animals with their loads plodding almost ghostlike through the heavy mist, the occasional sound of a branch scrapping along a flank being the only other noise. There were no unloading platforms at the river, so the elephant knelt down, a stout ladder was placed against the elephant, and we disembarked that way.
We were paddled across the river to our waiting bus, which took us to town and the airport. We had a box lunch while waiting for the plane, and said our last goodbye to the brown hard-boiled egg. Our fully-loaded prop plane took off from the grass airstrip, and we were soon back in our hotel in Kathmandu.

(This is one chapter in a recently published book, The 23-Hour Day. Find out more about this book at http://23hourday.com)

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