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Now, finally, the last (?) instalment of my travel accounts “One Year Off“. Of course, it’s not the end of the year yet - I have just a little more than two months before I need to go back to work - and I’ll be going on another short trip at the end of this week - but that’s only within Europe, the Pyrenees to be exact, and that doesn’t really seem to count.
Why did it take me so long to write this blog entry? I haven’t really got a clue (and I have already been back here in Germany six whole weeks) but one aspect of it is that I am not sure what to write. An incredible number of diverse experiences seem to have overwhelmed my brain so that everything is a big blur. There are the photos, of course, but for once they do not really impress me: different countries but the same kind of pics as always: old women, happy children, a bit of landscape and some typical architecture. Blah. I should have really made myself continue with the blog while I still was in Nepal and Bhutan respectively because being right in the middle of
Finally! A Mountain!
It's the Macchapuchare or Fishtail Mountain (6993 m) in the Annapurna range seen from Naudanda near Pokhara. things seems to have done the trick before. But after two weeks of touring Nepal when I had some days to myself in Kathmandu I just wanted to put my feet up and relax (I craved pizza instead of Nepali food - how pitiful is that?). I strolled through the alleys of Thamel, the old centre, curled up on a bench in the “Garden of Dreams” with a book, dawdled in shops, and after all the plans I had had for my last days in this exciting country I only just managed to walk down to Durbar Square. (Durbar Squares are the palace districts of the old royal cities of which Kathmandu is one. Patan and Bhaktapur are two others which I had already visited.)
So, what was Nepal all about? My expectations had been high. Like everyone else I wanted to see the Himalaya, eight-thousand-meter mountains, the Annapurna range, possibly even Mt Everest. But due to a six-month absence of rain, even during the rainy season, in combination with an incredible amount of air pollution ( the traffic in and around Kathmandu has to be experienced to be believed) all of Kathmandu Valley was blanketed by a thick
layer of smog. Wherever we went, forever hopeful as brochure after brochure promised us a fantastic view, we were disappointed. We knew there was no guarantee, but time and time again: nothing? Only once did we get halfway lucky. Driving north from Pokhara towards the Annapurna Range we could actually guess it was there. (Thanks to Photoshop you can even see something in the photos.)
What else? Plenty of insight into Hinduism and Buddhism as well as the Shiva-Linga-Cult, typical of Nepal and the situation of Tibetan refugees; experiencing the roads of Nepal, up and down and up again, bend after bend after bend, along steep hills of terraced fields (rice, sorghum, maize, potatoes, lots of rape for rape seed oil) and through tiny villages clinging to the mountain ridges; trying to get an understanding of the culture of the Newari people who are regarded as the original inhabitants of valley of Kathmandu, their craftsmanship, their social life (the stars were just right so we saw lots of weddings and even a boy’s initiation ceremony), the way their beautiful houses are built; watching little school children doing their morning drill in the school yard and bodies being burnt on
funeral pyres, chasing a rhino through the undergrowth on the back of an elephant, listening to the clickety-click of spinning prayer wheels, the howling of the local dogs at night (during the day every single one was fast asleep), the complaints of my fellow passengers “Close the window or I will surely die!”, and even the tiniest child calling out “Hello Bye-Bye” as soon as it sees us coming - bye-bye being used as a synonym for stranger.
On Monday, March 23, I flew down to Kolkata to meet a group of people with whom I would travel to Darjeeling in north-east India, Sikkim (a former kingdom, now a province of India) and Bhutan. Darjeeling? With its steep narrow roads, constantly clogged with traffic, and the blaring of a million car horns - definitely not my cup of tea. Sikkim? More or less lost in a continuous downpour.
But then: Bhutan! From one of the worst places we had seen on the trip, run-down, horrendously dirty and loud as ever, we drove through a huge, colourful gate and entered a different world. Bhutan, the kingdom of the thunder dragon: hidden between India and Tibet, only slightly larger than
Switzerland but with fewer than 700.000 inhabitants (compared to app. 7,10 million Swiss). Great efforts are made to preserve Bhutan’s cultural identity, houses are built the traditional way, traditional dress is compulsory in many areas of daily life, advertising on houses or billboards is prohibited, religious rituals are stringently observed. And although there are still problems with e.g. hygiene (polluted water resulting in typhoid) and medical care (a doctor-patient ratio of 1:6500; 80% of the population still living an hour’s walk away from the next road), the aim of the government is to achieve not a higher gross national product but “National Gross Happiness” (a term coined by the third king Jigme Singye Wangchuck), and from everything I heard they are on the right track. Tourism is strictly controlled with travellers having to pay steep daily fees for the privilege of visiting this beautiful country and everyone has to be accompanied by a well-trained local guide. There is no solo travelling. Buddhism, the state religion, is omnipresent; its principles determine people’s attitudes and actions. Young and old, monks, shopkeepers, farmers, are friendly and open-minded, and nearly everyone speaks at least a little English, as English is a compulsory subject from
grade one onwards. (Students beware: English, maths and Tsonka, the national language, are taught from grade one, and if you fail any of these three you have to repeat the class!)
One of the highlights of my trip was definitely the Tshechu in Paro, a three-day religious festival with ritual dances - a single one can last up to three hours - which commemorate the deeds of Guru Rinpoche. It’s a very festive occasion for the locals and donning traditional dress is not just a must but seems to be a pleasure. It’s a time of earning merits as one occupies oneself with one’s religion and a time of meeting other people. Mats to sit on and picknick hampers are brought, betel nut is chewed, food and jokes are shared, one drinks, flirts, laughs, and falls under the spell of the dancers. And we, strangers, were welcomed to be part of it all.
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