The bus to Pokhara that wasn't...

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We were extremely reluctant to leave Park Side. Over our three or four days there we'd really fallen in love with the park, and the hotel staff were all so friendly and helpful. But press on we must, and so Gopal drove us to the bus pick up point outside the village. The sky was a deep, clear blue, and the air here fresh and crystal clear. If Evian made air, it'd taste like this. The villagers waved, smiling broadly at us as they always do, and the children chased our truck for a while. We wished Gopal all the best and gave him a hefty tip in thanks for all his help, which he plainly wasn't expecting as he was surprised and almost embarrassed when I pressed it into his hand. With our bags tied to the roof of the bus, we waited to leave, giving a few rupees to a one-legged man. He had approached us extremely courteously and politely, introduced himself and explained that he was trying to send his three children to school and that he was working as a tailor but needed a little extra. Might we have a few rupees spare? After the bullying, pestering, threatening and epic guilt trips that Indian beggars had thrown at us (and most of them had had two legs) we're so touched by this guy's easy affability that we gave him some cash. He smiled broadly, bowed far lower than any man on crutches should be able to, thanked us effusively and hopped off. We boarded and roared off along Nepal's notoriously badly surfaced roads. Every now and again we were bounced off our seats and once I hit my head on the luggage rack. So much for the peaceful snooze I had planned on.

The villages here, although still not rich by anyone's standards, might as well be downtown Kensington compared to the slums of India. Here people still pump water by hand and tend their fields with ploughs drawn by cattle, and pick vegetables and elephant grass (for the hut walls) by hand. Villagers squat in the vivid green fields but, amazingly, they're not crapping! Red flags bearing the hammer and sickle hang on mud huts and lamp posts, reminding us of the looming political storm coming with the April elections. I'd been keeping an eye on the Kathmandu Press and the front page every day told of new violence there and in other towns - bombings, kidnappings, beatings - and of the barely-concealed animosity between the political parties involved. In Bharatpur, just down the road from where we were staying, a man had been kidnapped and beaten severely for two days. The hardcore Maoist factions (of which there are many) seemed to be the most visibly belligerent, but here in the sticks the Maoist supporters are happy, smiling villagers to whom it seems any violent action would be abhorrent. Our bus bounces onwards until, maybe an hour after leaving Chitwan, we roll into the back of a traffic jam. After sitting there for half an hour we jump off and visit a local shop to buy Coca Cola and biscuits. The news, according to a couple of Australian men who walked to the head of the jam, was that a bus driver had been stoned in the eye after a row over the toll charge, and the whole cavalcade (which by now stretched for miles behind us) wouldn't be permitted to move until the perpetrator was caught. The hours rolled by, and we drank Coke and made friends with the local kids. They were extremely inquisitive and when Maya took out a book to read, ten of them all stood behind her and tried to read over her shoulder. They were obviously taught English at school, as each one took it in turns to ask us 'Hello, what is your name?'. We'd reply, of course, and ask theirs, and then go through the whole thing again with the next child. As Maya is a popular Nepalese name, she was treated like royalty and even when they'd been shooed away by the angry shopkeeper (a fearsome woman in a red sari who levelled torrents of poisonous Nepali at the children and would certainly have smacked their heads had they not nimbly dodged her outstretched arm) we could hear them shouting 'Maya! Maya!' from a long way off. Suddenly we became aware that trucks were passing on the wrong side of the road, and they were full of armed police with riot gear. I decided to walk up to the head of the queue and see what was going on.

By now the relatively minor incident had snowballed into a political exercise. Maoists had taken advantage of the jam and had seized the chance to blockade the road, and the lorry drivers, carrying freight bound for Pokhara or Kathmandu (which was still reeling from the fuel/oil blockades a couple of weeks previously), were not happy. Crowds of men surged against each other like two opposing tides screaming and beating each other, and even the heavily armed police, with their helmets, shields, tear gas and rifles, seemed reluctant to get involved. United Nations peacekeeper observer vehicles roared past us and, eventually, the army turned up. Three truck loads. Faced with an impenetrable green DPM wall of well trained soldiers cradling assault weapons, the rioters backed away slightly, and stones and bottles were thrown. Amazingly, despite watching this unfold from maybe 100 yards away, with an enormous Danish guy from our bus, I felt perfectly safe. Nobody was taking the slightest bit of notice of us, and we were able to stand under a tree and observe. However, levelling my camera to get some snaps (I harboured notions of fortune after selling exclusive snaps to the Kathmandu Press) resulted in very, very angry soldiers shouting at me and gesturing me to put the camera away. I sneakily shot a few more from the hip and, as the tide of rioters turned and broke upon the police/army line again, we decided to get back to the bus. As if inspired by the scenes of violence below, the sky turned black, the air turned humid and before long the powers of nature fought it out above the powers of men, in the shape of deafening thunder and flashes of lightning so intense they blinded us for minutes at a time. Ambulances roared past in the direction of Bharatpur every couple of minutes, skidding on the suddenly flooded roads.

By this time we'd been sitting for six hours. It would soon be getting dark, and the idea of sitting alone all night in an unlocked bus (the driver had last been seen heading for the riot a few hours earlier, rolling up his sleeves, and hadn't returned) in the middle of a riot wasn't an appealing one. The Danish brigade had tried to get their guide from Chitwan to come and get us all, but of course he couldn't get through a ten mile tailback to reach us. As the only vehicles moving were cycle rickshaws, we decided to walk in the direction of Bharatpur, hail the first rick we saw, get to Bharatpur and from there get a taxi back to Park Side hotel. After a ten minute panic when Maya's bag seemed to have been lost from the roof of the bus (it turned up in a secret locker!) we got moving before the rest of the bus and, after walking for half an hour in torrential rain, saw the welcome sight of a rickshaw looming through the mist. We jumped in, told him to go to Bharatpur without even haggling the price, and rolled past the endless lorries and coaches that had been sitting all day. At Bharatpur, suddenly everything became easy. Our rickshaw driver had taken a short cut along a tiny deserted lane and brought us out in the high street where traffic moved normally. We got a cab and, half an hour later, were climbing the steps to the bar at Park Side. Gopal was shocked to see us back, but not entirely surprised - news of the blockade had been on the radio and he had an inkling that we might get caught up in it. The Park Side staff were, as usual, absolutely wonderful - apologising non-stop for their countrymen's blockade, taking our bags back to our room for us whilst serving us with cold beer and hot food almost immediately. We had the option of heading back to Pokhara the next day, but as a UN official had said it was likely to last all night and possibly tomorrow too, we made the (very easy) decision to stick around in Chitwan for a few more days. Gopal was delighted with our decision, as it meant we could sleep overnight in the observation tower in the middle of the jungle with him and he could show us even more unusual birds and animals. With a warm welcome from everyone like that, it felt strangely like coming home...

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Photos

The only vehicles that moved...
... were cycle rickshaws.

Local kids take advantage of the roadblock...
... to make friends, practice English and bum sweets...

Special lassi...
... and Maya trying to pull a 'serious' face...

Comments

[rob]

way to go guys..
just loved the road-block scenario... snowballing from almost nowhere, suddenly there's a serious situation. what can you do.