Pokhara

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Although written in Pokhara, this goes back to our last day in India. Having bought bus tckets from Varanasi to Kathmandu we found at the eleventh hour that there were border problems and that it would be better to fly into Kathmandu. Our hotel was already full so we had to look elsewhere and headed out to buy the airline tickets the office of which was just down the road from a hotel that had accommodation. By tuc tuc we headed out of town. The ride was, for us, a first. In all the tuc tuc trips we have had and all the traffic we have been in, never before have we ever made, and only once seen, contact. This ride was different, contact with at least 4 rickshaws and impact with one tuc tuc and apart from a couple of words, the incidents passed without further ado as Mr Tuc Tuc continued on his way with the occasional lean out to spit left and right. He did summon a beggar as we momentarily waited in traffic and as a means to increase his Karma, he gave alms to the beggar as we then headed off into the dust, smoke and traffic as he spat left and right.

On arrival we paid our agreed 100 Rs and said we had no further requirement for his services. We waited at the travel agent as there were a couple there before us, when Mr Tuc Tuc complained about them keeping us waiting as he wanted to get on. We explained we had pad him and did not want any further ride. As we waited, it took ten men to run a chalk line on paving next to the office and even then they had to rub it out and do it again. As we were waiting for our tickets the office decoration contracter was there changing the flowers for all the old ones to new ones. That is, he changed the previous, obviously false, not looking real flowers for another bunch of obviously false, not looking real flwers, though for some reason with a few plastic strawberries thrown in. Just thrust into the vase, positioned it, then sprayed it with an aerosol can of room deodoriser! Nice. Suffice to say we got our flight tickets and walked up to the hotel and running up behind with his tuc tuc was Mr TT still trying for business.

The hotel was pretty uneventful and the meal similarly so, unlike one we had had some days before in a small roadside "eating establishment". Excellent food but the cooker had enough fat on it to repack the stern glands of the Titanic!

The following morning our taxi was waiting as agreed, a white 1990 Ambassador. Sitting on the bench seat we were back in the fifties, with quarter lights, chrome plated window winders and door handles, ashtray on the dashboard and every other fitting one can pick up these days at home at most autojumbles only. We rolled along the roads which became clearer and cleaner the further we drove away from Varanasi which, with a sign, thanked us for visiting the Holy City as, without signage, we turned right and down a road which was supposedly the airport, just opening for the day's business.

We weren't the first there and soon were accompanied by a large group of Norwegians and another of Spanish, together with the image of the Dalai Lama, resplendent in maroon robes, round spectacles, shaved head, though this was a woman who spoke with an American accent. And then there was the Porcine Polska and her man. Though both garlanded, as if having hastily departed a ceremony of sorts, they certainly didn't stand on ceremony. Despite being in a Hindu and part Muslim state, her state of clothing was not befitting. In fact I'd say it didn't fit. She had, and was showing, more front than Bognor as her blonde tresses were held in place by diamonte rimmed sunglasses perched on top of her head. Now I am known for my near-year-round wearing of shorts, though have yet to wear them on our travels as it's just not de rigeur. Ms Polska was in shorts, or rather some of her was. Most hems to garments are usually cut parallel to the ground. Whilst her shorts probably were similarly hemmed, owing to her porcine fit, each hem rode up 45 degrees from her outer knees, meeting, aptly like Everest, at her crutch. The piece de resistance occured when hand luggage passed through X-ray. Befitting her size, her hand luggage was more a sports holdall which security asked her to open. This was not a packed bag. This was a bag of stuiff which had perhaps been hastily thrown in, including what was almost certainly a white towel from a hotel. Then with thumbs and forefingers, Mr Security withdrew what appeared to be two one litre bottles of shampoo, a shampoo which actually gave the appearance and thixotropicity of Swarfega. Two litres of green gunk which, with near tears in her porcine eyes, she was instructed to dispose.

Flightwise, no sooner were we up than we were down, or to be more precise we didn't actually come down, more that the mountains rose to meet us. Emerging from the airport building we approached the prepaid taxi service, taxis that you are supposed to be able to trust that they will take you to your requested destination and not some brother's hotel or guesthouse. Having seen them operate in Delhi, I was surprised how pushy and rude they were here and at 450Rs ( now about 110 Nepalese Rs to the Pound) wasn't happy with their manner. I know we are only talking of a pound or two or even pence BUT it is the principle.

Throwing caution to the wind, it was out to the phalanx of taxis outside. Most Nepalis seem to wear suits, scarves and hats and our man was no exception, although his teeth were. He said he would take us to our chosen Kathmandu Garden House for 300Rs, so off to what we thought was his taxi. We loaded our bags as he loaded himself into the passenger seat next to the driver. We thought this was odd. He seemed to know everyone and every place and, shuffling though a sheaf of cards, handed me one for Kathmandu Garden House and assured us we would be taken there for 300Rs. In fact we were not to pay him until we were in the hotel. Off we set as he nattered on, asking us questions like did we have money as Cathy happily assured him we had, though I tempered this, by saying only a little. Then we turned off the road and onto some dirt track running between yet another stinking and fettid, rubbish filled river and low mud buildings roofed with corrugated iron. Youths were standing about drinking beer from bottles, as we bumped our way over broken bricks, boulders and bone-shaking pot holes as dust was displaced like talcum powder. Thinking the worst, I asked where we were going but he assured me this was the way. Off the dust track we were on a proper road to be told that we must now lock the doors and make sure the windows were up. Today was Holi, a festival of good triumphing over evil and where everyone throws coloured powder or water bombs at everyone else. We were approaching a college and had to run the gauntlet of students, who would often open the doors and lob in their ammunition.

We carried on to another track where the taxi stopped. Our man paid the taxi driver. The taxi drove off, leaving us with our man who hoisted one of our bags aloft and strode off along another brick and dust strewn track. I held back a bit, waiting to see where he was leading us, as Cathy innocently followed. Rounding a couple of corners we came upon, as promised, Kathmandu Garden House. We later found out the roads in Nepal are normally like this, a bit like the electricity, limited.

You may wonder how we can type this but the Internet cafes have generators though to conserve energy they don't switch the lights on which, when they are on, are limited to a couple of energy saving bulbs so typing in the dark is very difficult. We have a relatively easy life at home, accepting, without question, we will get water and electricity at the turn of a tap and the press of a switch. It is a mere inconvenience for us but an accepted way of life for the Nepalis.

We are now in Pokhara and have bought our trekking permits for tomorrow's start of a 6 day hike so we are now signing off for now.

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