Not a very good day indeed

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Today was not a good day.

It all started early on this Tuesday morning.
As we did our check-out, the girl behind the desk suddenly broke into tears. I was convinced it was because she had a crush on either Bene or me (or both), but Bene insists that it is not necessarily related to my charms. First blow of the day. I am always disappointed if the receptionist does not cry on account of my charms.

We had mentally prepared for a feast of a breakfast at our favourite breakfast place, in the Tibetan quarters. A western breakfast, I am ashamed to say, but if you saw the poor excuses they eat for breakfast, you would understand (mainly, what they describe as congee, I call old rice with a lot of sugary water).

Second blow of the day: they had no waffles, no pancakes, no bread and none of the good coffee left. I had to settle for butter tea and cereals. I was really looking forward to this (those who know me well know how much importance and happiness I derive from my food).

We got ourselves a taxi and explained to him (with great pains) that we wanted to go to the airport (this involved miming a plane touching down and taking off). Inspired by our mimes of fast moving planes, he tried to see if he could get his taxi to take off too. A terrifying hour later, we made it all alive but, alas, pale and trembling to the airport.

The time has sadly come to say good bye to Benedict. Over the last 30 days we have traveled together, we have become very good friends, understanding each other at every occasion; we have a set of expressions and gestures, borrowed from every country we have traveled to, to express ourselves without the understanding of others.

Over these 30 days, we have not had a single disagreement but have built a great complicity. We have had such incredible experiences, ranging from the trans-siberian in Moscow, horse riding in the Gobi in Mongolia to white-water rafting in Tibet. I am sorry to see him go but the adventure thickens: when I am on my own, I feel more abroad as there is nothing more attaching me to Europe.

He heads to the domestic departure "terminal" and I to the international "terminal".

Endless forms to be filled in, security checks and passport controls later, I make it to the check-in desks.

I am travelling business class, yet there is no business class desk. Only one desk is open, and there is a long queue. I wait patiently, moaning and groaning in the queue. I notice vaguely that I am surrounded by germans but my attention is captivated by the girl trying to sell "duty-free" Chinese whiskey in the check-in queue.

As I arrive at the check-in desk, I am told that I am standing in the middle of a very large German group and they all have to be processed together. I protest, make noises, flap my arms about, but to no avail: I am pushed back behind the German army, standing in perfect order, with bags to the left and women to the right.

An hour's worth of moaning and groaning later, I make it back to the front of the check-in desk, with nothing in the form of excuses for such appalling service. My passport is scrutinised for the 3rd time and my bag taken away behind the scenes to be loaded on the plane. I am then issued with a red boarding pass and make my way to yet another passport control.

The kid behind the desk, in his big, saggy uniform, has never seen an Official Diplomatic Passport before and is much taken aback. So, he applies the age-old burocratic principle: "if unsure, treat with suspicion". He calls all his colleagues, all well under drinking age, and they debate as to what to do. I am having enough of all this waiting and torturing of my passport and start making it clear. They get on the defensive, call for back-up, another 2 kids turn up in saggy uniforms and, after much hesitation, they stamp the passport violently and hand it back to me. In a mocking American style, I salute them and immediately they all snap at attention and salute me back smartly. What a bunch of "pantins" (look it up in a French dictionary, if you don't know).

After this passport control, I make my way to what I hope is the last security check. I go through with little problem but as I reach the other side, I remember that I left my Nepal Guidebook in my checked-in bag. I leave my small bag at the security counter and ask them to look after it. I rush back to the check-in desk and ask to have my bag back. First answer is always "meo, meo (no, no)" but, after much flashing of my red boarding pass and emphasis on the words diplomatic, embassy and important, they finally go and get it from behind the curtain.

The lock I placed on it to close the bag has disappeared and a number of my things are missing: some books, my inflatable globe and all my medical supplies. I ask where it is gone, no one knows and everyone is innocent.
I want to go behind, to confront the little rascals but am not allowed to. It takes 6 kids in uniform to try to stop me. I go back, furious, to the security counter and, as I approach, I hear the sound of glass shattering. I run back, knock out another kid at the passport control trying to stop me and see that the useless sods manning the security machine had been going through my bag again and dropped a beer glass I bought in Mongolia: a glass of Gengis Beer, the only Mongolian beer, a prized item. I had transported this thing everywhere since Mongolia. I go all red, steam comes out of my ears and I loose it, shouting, insulting, threatening and all sorts of other censured things happen. I demand compensation, apologies, executions, public hangings, etc… I feel like Captain Haddock in one of the Tintin's. All the employees have cowered behind their desks and locked themselves in their offices. The kids from passport control keep their cautious distance, having never seen a red devil before.

After a good five minutes of barking at the nincompoops, I take my bags and march forcefully to the VIP rooms. No one dares stand in my way. As I arrive in the VIP rooms, there is no one manning the bar, I go behind it and help myself. The delegation of managers make an approach to come and see me. They are pushing in front of them a scapegoat of a cleaner or someone in case I should start throwing bottles of whiskey. I tell them calmly that I want to speak to the security manager and that I am not leaving until it is done.

They retreat, only too grateful at getting away with it. 10 minutes later, the airport manager appears, all smiles, with cups of tea, baskets of fruits and all sorts of other things in his arms. He is followed by a sheepish woman, with medals hanging to her knees. I thank the manager, throw him out of the VIP room, lock the door, turn around the woman a couple of times, inspecting her. She is visibly shaking (god knows what the party has told her about foreigners), take her ID hanging from her top left hand pocket, calmly sit down and copy it (or at least make a show of it, as it is all in Chinese). It worked: she breaks down and begs for my pardon; half in Chinese, half in English she keeps repeating that she is sorry. After having made a copy of her pass, I make a show of placing the copy in my wallet, telling her that she is in big trouble. I throw the pass on the table nearby and tell her to leave. I can see through the doors of the VIP room that all the airport staff is listening in, none willing to come to the help of the security manager. I push her physically out of the room and return behind the bar. I feel oddly satisfied and fulfilled. Slightly shaking and surprised at myself but truly satisfied. The Chinese are terrified of me. I do not feel the least bit sorry for them. I hope she has nightmares of gulags and foreign devils for a long time to come.

No one else comes and disturbs me in the VIP room. There are other business passengers but they are all Chinese and none dare to enter. I have the bar, kitchen, fridge and everything else to myself and I make a feast of it, laughing out loud in my empty luxury rooms. As my flight is about to leave, an army of porters appears, apologising profusely, take all my bags, bowing deeply and follow me respectfully to the plane. The security manager woman is at the door of the plane, ready to apologise profusely. I barely look at her.

The plane is comfortable and all my wishes are attended to. I am sad at the thought of leaving Tibet, a country where I had so much more to explore but I am most sad at leaving the Tibetans. Like the Mongols, I found them to be kind, hospitable, simple, giving and welcoming. On the other hand, for the first time in my life: I am glad to leave China behind.

The scenery is breathtaking: we fly by Mount Everest, take pictures and fly at low altitude over the green Kathamandu valley and land without a hitch in the capital, Kathmandu. This is it, I have crossed the Himalayas, by plane I amit but nevertheless, I feel a change.

As soon as I get off the plane, it is all-different: a big red bricked airport, women in saris, pleasant warm weather. I feel in India. Suddenly, I am happy. I have strongly voiced my problems with the Chinese in front of the Chinese, so no bottled up frustrations. The people here are smiling and welcoming, I find my all love of India surfacig back again and so, I step lightly off the plane.

To my greatest pleasure, there is an exceedingly pretty girl at the bottom of the steps, ready to take my bags and lead me to the arrivals hall. Ever the gentleman, I refuse to give her my bags but ask none the less that she leads me to the clearly sign-posted arrival hall. We have a merry conversation and it is to my greatest wonder at first and then pleasure that I realise that everyone speaks English, everything is in English. What a change from China, where it is quite the opposite.

Upon my suggestion that the girl might show me round the sights of Kathmandu, she suggests that I take a guide. But then she smiles at me and disappears like a dream.

A short cab ride later, I arrive at Freak Street. This used to be the heart of the hippie community of Kathmandu. The Hippies had a good time and lived like the nobility: summers in Kathmandu and winters in Goa. Now, they have all but disappeared from Freak street. One has to pay 200 Rps to enter the street ! The Hotel I have checked in is more of an old Hippie hide out: its walls are plastered with pictures of marijuana, aliens and Area 51 warnings. The room is small, stinky and claustrophobic, with a large, dimmed window giving on the street. The bathroom is on the floor below (one for every three floors) and there is a roof terrace. The nearby streets are pleasant. There is a herd of cows underneath my windows, one of which sits in solitary splendour in the middle of the street, contemplating the traffic she is blocking. There are street vendors, Internet cafes and bookshops everywhere. It is the kind of town where one can walk barefooted, with flowing T-shirt, long beard and pyjama trousers and feel like you fit in.
There are very, very few tourists in town. I saw barely 10 all day. As I was writing my blog in an Internet café, a cow popped her head in through the window and started chewing the cord of a mouse with a nonchalant look.

I took a taxi to the French embassy. The common trick, I soon leaned at my expenses, is for the taxi driver to pretend to know exactly where he is going, go three times round the square and then ask another taxi where the address is you are looking for. The meters also have a tendency of being slightly erratic: when you are not paying attention, at every bump in the road they increase by 50 Rps, funny that!

My next problem was soon to come: I went to the Druk Air office (Bhutan national royal airline) and they announced that my flight had been cancelled (so sorry sir!) but that they will put me on a flight to Delhi and transit to Paro. Yet again, I go marching off to manager, complain and, before I know it, I have been upgraded. I am getting rather good at this. The other slight issue is that my visa for Bhutan has not yet arrived.

As I go out of the agency, I take my camera out to picture some cows using a non-violent form of protest against an army truck but I am myself knocked out by a bike, my camera falls to the floor and breaks. Before I realise it, the biker is already off.

What a day!

I decide to go back to the hotel, have a shower and read a book on the roof top terrace and not go out anymore: clearly I have bad karma.

A large and rather friendly family of cockroaches currently occupies the shower at the hotel. To use the facilities, one must stand on the toilet and somehow not fall through the lid (clearly been done before, as it has been broken a taped back together a number of times), hold the powerful jet in one hand, use the soap with the other while retaining a strong balance. The water jet can also be used to teach water surfing to the cockroaches.

The roof terrace is the redeeming feature of the hotel: it has a brilliant view of the old city, it has an old wooden bar and 2 friendly kids who make the best mango milkshake in town. I find my sleeping mat and occupy the position for the evening. There is such a cacophony of sounds and smells coming from below that it makes a pleasant and fitting backdrop to the splendid views over the old royal palace.

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