Apparently there are some appreciable mountains in Nepal so we look for them.
10th March 2006

I know they’re out there somewhere
We actually buy a souvenir for once
VSO has moved on and we were living in the past
Volunteers are always frustrated, that’s the way it is
Another viewpoint, another chance
Tranquility in the valley
There must be giant hills
The scarf gets an outing at Buddha’s birthplace

No views in Nagarkhot

Just east of Kathmandu, and I mean only just east - 20km or so, is a little village atop a ridge that affords splendid views of the grand Himalaya. Not having seen anything resembling a large, snow covered rock since the USA we were straining at the leash to get up the hill to Nagarkot.

We passed through Bakhtapur on the way and were gobsmacked to find that visiting their palace square would set us back 750 Rupees compared to 200 Rupees for the Kathmandu version and further compared to 25 Rupees for locals. Given that the squares are of similar age and both contain a range of religious buildings, we settled on our having visited Kathmandu as being money well spent. There’s no need to get ‘templed out’, now, is there?

So, without further ado, we sprinted up the hill to Nagarkot to breathe in the clear mountain air and gaze upon the highest mountains on earth. It was a joy to be out riding again after the painful experiences of Bangkok and the slightly disabled feeling of not having Berthette around. Only half an hour, but there were plenty of corners and a bit of Indian style traffic to get a little experience of under our belts. The village of Nagarkot passed by and we didn’t really notice. There’s a cluster of about 8 buildings as a fork in the road and the main road seems to pass to the right of them. We continued up the hill through camp after camp of Nepali militia, armed chicanes and barriers simply following our noses. At the top of the road is a little path leading off to the ‘tower’. Hippy made the ascent while I stood and watched over Berthette and all our stuff. Her reports were less than promising. Apparently it was just as misty and cloud shrouded at this height as it had been 3000 feet lower in the capital. So, still no sign of those huge crinkly bits but we can report that once you pass above about 5000 feet you emerge into the pine tree belt. Lovely to get that resiny smell into the lungs - rather like having Vicks to inhale when you’re bunged up. Personally, I was becoming more and more convinced that these Himalayas, were just something they printed on the postcards to convince tourists to travel thousands of miles. Pat has seen them on his dad’s trekking photos, but I am truly getting sceptical.

Hotels are positively rubbing shoulders when you actually find the village proper. Given that we’d only seen around 20 visitors in and around Kathmandu which is, after all, the focus of travel in Nepal, it was unsurprising that we bumped into only 3 other foreigners in this little ‘one night stop’. The number of beds compared to potential occupants gave us excellent bargaining power, but in the end we took pity on the poor hoteliers and, rather than knocking them down, we chose the hotel which afforded best value for money at the original asking price. For 4 quid we got ourselves a well appointed room with huge balcony facing the Himalayas (apparently) and hot enough hot water in the shower to make tea with. Now all we had to do was wait to see if the clouds would clear overnight.

We felt a couple of drops of rain on the way back up to the hotel, after dinner in the village. Rather than panic that we were going to get wet, we prayed for further precipitation to clear the mist and dust from the air. It was not to be and we got home without any evidence of water left on us. I popped out on the balcony every couple of hours and reported back to Hippy what I had experienced. “I can see stars”, “I can’t see stars any more”, “I’m sure I can see more house lights down in the valley”. We slept with the curtains open so that we could dash to the balcony with the first rays of light in the morning to get our memorable first sight of the Nepali highlands. Provision of comfort for the Western traveller means that these hotels have the most wonderful duvets and we had a lovely snuggly night for once. Sure enough, the morning brought nothing but mist. I’ll swear we could see a little further than the day before, but all that afforded was another few trees to add to the composition.

We opted for a bit of strolling about, writing and light eating to pass the day and hope for an improvement on the morrow. We were asking a bit much - the viewing season is supposed to kick in around March and it was still late February. Just one more morning of trying to see something and then we’d return to Kathmandu to prepare for setting off properly with a plan to get to Goa in a month. There weren’t even any stars to be seen the second night and so there was no surprise that we simply packed and left for the valley in the morning. There’ll be another time.

Changu Narayan

An interesting and cheaper option from Bakhtapur is to go and see the Changu Narayan temple. Founded back in the 4th century but most recently rebuilt in the 17th, its a very beautifully conceived place. A stone-paved street follows that ridge of a small promontory into the valley and ends in a beautiful temple complex. There are all manner of ancient stone carvings from previous temple incarnations that have been built around or included in newer construction. We got latched onto by a couple of friendly locals who were obviously planning on dragging us into their shops. The first gave up rather easily and stood back to let vendor B take over. Credit where credit is due, this chap was a fund of information that was actually of interest to tourists, or me at any rate. (Hippy soon got bored of our farm talk and set off to find photo worthy architecture.) Nepal, it seems is self sufficient from a food point of view and is an exporter of electricity to India. All this bodes well for the economy, but my self-appointed teacher was not so positive. He feels that the Royal Family has something of a cheek to claim to be ridding the country of corruption by taking over the government when by virtue of his god-king status he an take whatever he likes for himself anyway. By no means a Maoist (his experience as a mountain guide was that they took money off him for every day he was working at a much higher level than the government were getting from taxation. Hard to get the support of the masses that way.

He was pretty good value, filling is in on all manner of social, religious, political, farming and drug issues before ....... encouraging us into his shop. No, really, here was a man who had absolutely perfected the ‘catch your interest, take your custom’ technique and we were so pleased to be treated civilly (even if tainted with a touch of cunning) for once that we happily looked over his wares and ended up buying a couple of ‘mandala’ paintings. Good work, my son.

His guile, luckily for him coincided with our whim to buy something. And there could be nothing more a appropriate than buying a meditation Mandala painting.

Plugging in to VSO issues

Back in the Big Smoke, we had a couple of little jobs to do, bye-byes to say to Tulsi, the fixer, and then getting packed up to head west and south. One of the major jobs was to pick up yet another plug for the computer/camera charger. I’d changed from the policy of carrying a stack of ‘adaptor plugs’ to buying a new plug in any country that needed one way back in Mexico. The original idea was to chuck the previous plug and fit the new one to the wire each time the sockets changed. I got rid of the English pattern plug in the Philippines only to get back to 3-pin English pattern sockets in Singapore. Learning from experience, I now have a range of plugs to put on as and when needed. Arriving in Nepal revealed a need for 3-way round pin plugs. I’d dutifully bought the requisite plug only to discover that there are no less then 3 types of 3-pin sockets in Nepal. The clutter is starting to get ridiculous.

On our way round to Tulsi’s place we had the unpleasant experience of an attempted pick-pocketing. We’d been asked for money by a group of ladies but had turned them down. As often happens, they kept up with us as we carried along the pavement, imploring us to give them something as we went. We do seem awfully mean turning these people down but we’ve broached this subject enough in the past. After about 30 yards, the leading lady managed to barge into my arm and just at that moment I felt my pocket being unzipped and invaded. I don’t think the distractor had counted on my reactions being quite so good or my strength being enough to shrug her off. I wasn’t quite quick enough to grab the hand in my pocket, though, and so there really was no way to pin evidence on these sad women. As they walked off to the sound of my haranguing, they turned to look at me, with matching deadpan expressions - completely unconcerned that they’d been rumbled. just a hazard of the work, I guess. What a temptation, though. I’m sure the average tourist has 100 dollars or more in their wallet (we never do but I think we’re a bit odd). Given an average daily wage of 1 dollar, this would be a month’s worth for these three ladies. Not bad for 10 seconds work.

We’d had an e-mail from Danny, the VSO country director, and I’d told him that we’d be back in town after the trip up to Nagarkot. We got in touch to find that by a most fortuitous chance he was going to be delivering a session to new volunteers in Nepal on the theme of VSO’s country specific plan.

The in-country briefing was taking place in a rather swanky looking hotel just behind the Ambassador Hotel. We thought perhaps that we’d come to the wrong place but there was a white vehicle out front with a VSO sticker on the door. Apparently the conference facilities at this place are a bit small and old fashioned for current tastes and so they are far better value than elsewhere. It was a fascinating meeting for us; so many issues were made clear for us. We tend to forget that we were volunteers 11 years ago and that for an organisation that is less that 50 years old this is still a formative period. We’d been unable to understand why it was that the programme had closed in Laos, for example, when we had always thought that VSO’s policy had been to supply qualified people in response to requests from developing countries.

The point is that VSO has developed and redefined itself while we have been blinkeredly dwelling on ‘how it was in our day’. There are an increasing number of development and aid agencies working around and about. This came as a surprise to me as I would have thought that the world is becoming more and more selfish and people volunteering less. I’m pleased to be wrong. Anyway, VSO had a bit of a self assessment and pondered how in the current climate and with the experience gained over the years could VSO best provide services around the world. Six different development goals were identified; Education, HIV/Aids, Participation and Governance, Disability, Health and Social Well-being, Secure Livelihoods. Each programme in the VSO global community then assesses the needs of that country and picks roughly three development goals on which to focus. It is often the case that excellent service is already being provided by other agencies in some of these development areas. In the case of Nepal, the first three of the goals have been chosen as most needy of development. This not to say that projects from other areas will be ignored if a real need can be identified. For those of an interested disposition, I’m putting the VSO Mission Statement on our web site so you can click right here - VSO - and see what it is all about

VSO are tackling some of the toughest issues, things like; empowering disadvantaged groups whether they be handicapped, girls, HIV/Aids sufferers or the lowest caste Nepalis and improving governance in a range of establishments. Poor governance is a lovely catch all phrase that includes probably the hardest egg to crack, corruption. VSO are right, of course, that without tackling this universal parasite other efforts for development will be tainted and less effective. From our limited experience in Guyana, nepotism and corruption are accepted as a normal way for things to get done. Trying to convince those that have been profiting from corruption all their lives that another way is better is a tall order. It rarely is better for those people! I’m sure they would be quite happy to carry on as they are. The governance issue is a huge step for VSO. Traditionally, the typical volunteer would simply be good at their job and hope to inspire by example of hard work and developing positive attitudes in their co-workers. This corruption thing certainly needs a different type of person altogether. Diplomacy is the name of the game now! Perhaps it would be better if Hips and I do not apply for another posting.

Dalits, people of the lowest Hindu caste, are one of the targeted disadvantaged groups for VSO. Apparently, a sprinkling of Dalits manage to make good by moving away from those who know them and changing their name thus getting an education or an opportunity for entrepreneurship. But I can see once they have got well established, they would be reluctant to admit their roots and help those in a similar position. The Dalits are considered ‘untouchable’ - almost an invisible part of society who do ‘unclean’ jobs; handling the dead, sweeping the streets. My understanding of Hindusim is lay at best, but the way I understand it is that the Hindu belief in reincarnation can, like all religions, be interpreted in different ways. Clearly, part of the Hindu belief is that giving alms to others gets you ‘Karma points’, which in turn may help you climb the ladder for the next life. So helping those with less than you is good. But then there is the reincarnation thing, that fate has put you in your position, so it is not for you to feel guilty that you have much and another person has little, and to redress that balance - that is simply the way it is. And then there is the most negative interpretation of the Dalits position, is that it is not fate that puts them in this terrible position but sins from a past life. Now that could mean that it is right that they suffer, and the more they suffer, the more they can give penance for those sins and can maybe move on in the next life. This interpretation almost encourages poor treatment by those who are fortunate to be above them. Whatever the reasoning, after well over 2000 years of the caste system it will take a lot more than simply making discrimination unlawful, to change ingrained attitudes. It is also true that the Dalits themselves after generations of degradation, lack the confidence to make the most of the few opportunities that arise.

At a fair less extreme level, I remember how out of place I felt when I first went to University as a girl from a working class background surrounded by those who had been to public school. They way they talked, their experiences, their confidence. I was simply not part of all that. They did nothing to undermine me - all my apprehensions came from within. I remember how if I could have probably thought of something else to do I would have happily left and forfeited the position of the being the first member of my family to go to University from either side. I can understand how our own belief in ourselves can probably limit our progress often more effectively than others’ prejudices of us. It will not be easy for the Dalits to believe in themselves after so long being out of the mainstream of life.

I have a bit of a problem with this area of development. I had rather hoped that the caste system was not defined within Hinduism but has come about because of tradition in society. Regrettably, it is a defining part of Hinduism and so encouraging development for the Dalits is somewhat contrary to the Hindu religion. Now, it is probably well known that there is not a religious bone in my body, but I do believe it is hugely important to respect the beliefs of others no matter how barmy they may seem sometimes. The whole Mohammed with a bomb-hat thing has been a particularly annoying story for me. It is almost a self evident truth that Islamic fundamentalists do not have a sense of humour and anyone with half a brain would realise that printing these rather childish cartoons would be seen as a provocation to large numbers of moslems. This freedom of the press argument is pathetic. When gay clergymen was a burning issue, did any papers print cartoons of vicars buggering each other? Actually, they probably did. How sad.

One thing I had not considered, but is reasonably obvious when it’s pointed out, is that often there are a lot of different development groups in the same sectors who can easily end up overlapping without knowing it. There may be political reasons for different groups ploughing separate furrows, but generally it is simple lack of co-ordination. This is not unique to developing countries by any means. I have sat at Heads of Department meetings in schools, where people are so busy fighting their own corner that they miss the point that their voice would be stronger if united. It is a natural response to a limited pot of funding, that people all want to get the best share. For example, if every department released a little to increase staffing everyone would have a few less lessons and maybe teaching would be less stressful.

To muddy the waters further, there have been instances of groups receiving funding for a single project from two different sources. Only when the funding agencies were brought together was it discovered that there were some ‘financial irregularities’.

Volunteering is not always an easy ride

The volunteers really had my sympathy. Some things never change. The VSO placement procedure can be quite a bumpy ride for pretty much anyone. Being accepted as a suitable volunteer doesn’t mean that there is necessarily a job waiting for you to fill it. You spend weekends away in training sessions to prepare you for the differences of living and working in the developing world. There is the house to pack up, (most VSO’s are the kind of people who) work all hours to finish off the project before leaving work, saying good-bye to people, finding a home for the cat/dog, buying tropical clothing etc. Here, the volunteers had been in country for just a little time and they’d been going through the in-country training that is pretty much essential. Some were already straining at the leash to get to their postings and pretty much all of them were suffering the typical shell-shock of a huge change of culture following a frenetic 6 months of preparation.

Friday night brought a bit of collective R+R for the new volunteers and Danny invited us to join them when they met up with the Kathmandu-based serving volunteers for a slap up meal. As usual, Hips and I had to case the joint to make sure we’d have enough money to contribute to the bill. We were being a bit cheeky interloping, after all. We didn’t feel too bad about accepting hospitality in the end as it was a simple buffet of Nepali dishes and so shouldn’t have set back the tax payers too much. And the expensive bit (the drinks), we bought ourselves.

What a fascinating group of folk there are working in Kathmandu. The rather dapper Peter (attired in a light linen suit that made the other volunteers look rather casual), an early retired headmaster who has worked in education development in Britain and now is compiling and monitoring education statistics to assess trends and to identify weak areas. In such a rush meeting people, Hippy and I are terrible at recalling names and for that we apologise to those people that might recognise themselves but are perhaps miffed. I was rather rude to a charming Ugandan that I’d been chatting with as I had to keep nipping down stairs to monitor the performance of an embroidery shop that were knocking together some sew-on flags of the world for us. We’ve not been able to get any half decent sticky versions for the panniers and so thought we’d take the opportunity of wall to wall embroiderers to replace our sun faded flags. The shop we’d chosen had claimed to have a complete set of the world’s flags but had been found wanting - Belize, El Salvador and several others that we needed. Fortunately they had an ‘Observers Book’ of the world’s flags and so I pointed out the ones I needed and left them to it. Because we were leaving in the morning, I had to stay on the case or they’d close the shop leaving me without any flags at all. All of which is something of a digression. I’d been talking to Andrew (forgive me if the name is wrong) about his project and how he’d been received when I suddenly remembered that I had to nip down before closing. I dashed off after a brief, probably meaningless, apology and got back to find him surrounded so I never got the chance to explain why I had been so rude. When we checked our pile of flags back at the hotel we discovered that although the embroiderer had knocked up most of extras that we needed, we’d ended up with an surplus Iran and an unsolicited Puerto Rico. We were short by the very Belize and El Salvador that I’d pointed out to him. In the morning there was a power cut and so all we could do was get money back for the unwanteds and hope we can fill the gaps somewhere else.

The most common problem faced by the volunteers we spoke to was seemingly trivial. There are various reasons bandied about, but whatever the truth of the matter, the plain fact is that the electricity is cut off for about 3 hours a day at different times depending on location and a rotating timetable. If you have to deliver a workshop on IT ........... How frustrating is that? In other circumstances when you have more flexibility, you do what you can at work ‘til the power goes off. Then, if you know where you live is on, you go home to work only for the power to be cut off there, too. Equally frustrating.

We have heard differing explanations for the power shortages. The official line is that that most if not all of Nepal’s power is from hydroelectric schemes (good plan if half your country is the Himalayas, you certainly have gravity on your side), and Nepal does not like to be reliant on either China or India for anything really. So during the dry season, and currently they haven’t had rain for 7 months, the plants don’t produce so much power. Unofficially, many people believe that power is being cut to ordinary people so that the Royal family and the corrupt politicians can have a high old time. Not really sure what you can get up to with a load of extra electricity!

Sad creatures that we are, we had fallen into a bit of a routine in Kathmandu. We had by chance on the first night there stumbled on about the cheapest place to eat in the area we were stayed, a place called the Thamel Brasserie and for virtually every subsequent meal we had eaten there. We were not the only regulars, and the place was doing very well, full most of the time despite the dearth of tourists.

In search of mountains. (again)

Finally, we left Kathmandu, again in search of a sight of the elusive Himalayas. The skies were still hazy and with no rain forecast it was likely to stay that way for a while, but Pokhara was on our route into India and has a reputation for views, so we would give it a shot. Our second dose of riding in South Asia did not seem so bad. Perhaps the reports are exaggerated. OK so the trucks were grinding up and down the hills and leaving horrendous clouds of smoke behind them, but of mad overtaking we saw very little. There was no sign of the supposed Mao terrorists either and so the trip along the Kathmandu valley would have been totally dull were it not for the enchanting views of emerald green rivers coursing through the bottom of the gorges.

In town, the camping was defunct but there was a sign for overlander camping 6km out of town. We’d thought that camping would make a nice change and decided to go the extra distance. The road changed from tar to bumpy dirt. How far was this place?.......On and on.......Through another village....we must have passed it.....ah a sign saying another 1km. We bump along some more. The overlander camping did not look impressive. Eric, the Swiss owner bounded out to meet us. Wow, there were even other campers, a Unimog from Holland, and a Transalp bike from Germany.

The more I looked around the place, the more I warmed to it. There were little touches that made it special, in camping terms. An urn for filtering water, low powered lights, bright enough to find your way to loo in the night but not so bright to keep you awake, a good hot shower, clean loo, a fire pit, tables and chairs, a little shelter to cook under if it rains and power points to charge your camera. It was no surprise that Eric had been an overlander himself, he clearly knew what niceties make a campsite into a good campsite. If we couldn’t be bothered to cook, we could eat with his family, for a fair price.

The Transalp was owned by Ingo. Now Ingo was not technically camping at the campsite, but had been staying there for a couple of weeks before he decided to go for a little more solitude on a small hill nearby. But he seemed to be an honorary camper, and Eric would fetch provisions for him from town and the like. Nice arrangement. Beni and Debi, the Dutch in the Unimog, had like Ingo come the other way so to speak, to Nepal via Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and India. The complication of China and Myanmar create a blockage for overlanders, and for many Nepal becomes the end of the road, and people have to turn back. Unbeknown to us, we are somewhat unusual to be going Westwards around the world. Everyone we have met in Nepal has assumed we have come from India.

So far in our trip Beni and Debi are somewhat unique, in that they have travelled from Europe with their 2 large dogs. I had always assumed that it would be majorly complex to travel with live animals, but not so. Not if you are Dutch, anyway. OK, so the dogs need to have a certificate of health and evidence of all their jabs and stuff, they even have doggy passports (that no one at a border has ever wanted to see). But once that is sorted there is no problem unless you decide to ship or fly the dogs to another land mass. So all you animal lovers out there, using your pets as an excuse not to travel, go for it! Just don’t try China, but China is a nightmare for overlanders in any case.

The Dutch contingent also had a temporary travelling companion in the form of Prem, a Nepali, they had met in India who wanted to return home having had a pretty dire time seeking his fortune. Being without funds, he’d come to an arrangement with them. Prem would shop (with their money), because he was likely to get better prices for things than a couple of foreigners, cook for them and teach them some basic Nepali, whilst they gave him a lift home and taught him some English. It seemed a fair arrangement.

We were joined by some Italianos, in a camper van. There was something so wonderfully Italian about them. Only one spoke any English, and his confidence in English transcended his understandability. His words were broadcast in a fashion resonant of Professor Stanley Unwin blended with Benito Mussolini and came from a chap with the bearing of Peter Crouch. His enthusiasm, made him a joy to listen to despite him being virtually unintelligible.

But the Italian team excelled themselves on our final night, when they did what Italians do better than most. They cooked for us all. They spent the day, making gnocchi for 14 people. They were of course troubled that yak cheese was a substitute for mozzarella. No one was complaining. It was a wonderful change from the nightly dhal bhat that we had become somewhat addicted to.

We had had a chilled day doing a bit of shopping and internet stuff, totally unaware of the insurrection occurring elsewhere in town. Maoists had attacked a police post in the tourist area but the bomb had been inaudible on our way back to the campsite, 6 km away in a very quiet valley. Can’t have been a very big bomb!

Shiva party

It hadn’t been quiet all that much up by the campsite. We’d arrived on the eve of Shiva Rastri - the birthday of Shiva apparently. Strange that a god has an official birthday. I thought they were usually extant from the dawn of time and would be there at the end. About time I got myself fully educated on religious matters. Coincident with Shiva’s (and Debi’s and Erik’s) birthday, the local villagers were installing the idol in their new temple. There was a huge sound system set up to broadcast all manner of religious singing and chanting to the local community. Regrettable on the straight line path between the temple with its humungous speakers and the chant-starved local community is the Pokhara overlanders campsite. Not much sleep for us, then. The only factor in our favour was the erratic power supply afforded by Nepalec or whatever they jokingly refer to themselves as. As if hearing our prayers, they delivered on cue and the party gave up and went to bed.

Surely the gods would prevail and prevent the loss of electricity on Shiva’s birthday - this the day of the temple inauguration. It was one of those wonderful chance moments. If we'd stayed in town when we'd discovered that the camp ground had shut, we'd have been within range of the bomb that had been discovered (rumours of its having exploded had been exaggerated, it seems, although there had been a gun attack on guard post killing some military and injuring a couple of civilians) and would have been subjected to the drunken, drug-crazed orgy of groping and generally frenzied testosterone fuelled behaviour that had been promised for the Shiva Rastri celebration. Instead, we were invited by the small village to witness the unveiling of their new temple, join the procession carrying the new idol to it’s place of veneration and take repast with them. To attempt to describe the religious rite would be to do it a disservice as from our outlying vantage point it was hard to make out the finer points. These folk were so welcoming that I dare say we could have done the pro photographer thing and butted in, shot close ups and got them to repeat things for our benefit but it didn’t seem appropriate. I think the greatest hindrance to Hippy and I ever making the grade as photographers is our inability to break away from the British politeness thing - even to the point where we think it rude to ask to take someone's photograph, we just don’t take the picture at all. Hopeless, aren’t we.

The idol was carried shoulder high in a dedicated sedan chair-like conveyance. Parbati’s head was just visible above the top of the crate in which she resided with her idol companions for her procession. The villagers played music, danced and chatted their way along the rough causeway. On entering the temple grounds, a pandit and some kind of beserker lead the clockwise circumambulation finally spiralling into the temple doorway at which point ceremonial specifics cannot be reported. The most interesting feature for me had been the guy who pulsed with energy and carried a small vessel of water that he randomly spilt over himself or around. I was interested to know if his state was natural, induced by drugs, brought on by a trance or just an excellent and consistent act.
Here the young and old alike enjoyed the music, dancing, singing or just watching the antics of others. There was a group of ladies in matching blue saris who we later discovered were the Women’s Group that had raised the funds for the shrine and were generally a force to be reckoned with. They seemed a cheery, assertive bunch of women who danced like they were having fun. The dancing we had seen in Thailand and Cambodia, looked all very skilful, but no-one really looked like they were enjoying themselves. This was very different.

The Women’s Group, we hear, formed because the village was getting concerned that it was getting a poor reputation for being the drinkers town. Whilst, all the other little hamlets have shrines to worship at, the village has a plethora of drinking holes but no religious sanctum at all. And hence the women’s determination to try and get the village back on an even keel. Eric told us of the Women’s Group’s punishment for a local drunk who had been a abusive for three days and then finally threatened a woman with a knife. They forced him to dress in women’s clothing for a few days to humiliate him into sobering up. Interesting judicial system, that worked for a while anyway.

There were lulls in festivities all day, and we interlopers dipped in and out of the activities. We were introduced to roasted sugar cane. First, make yourself a robust bonfire. Second, stick in the ends of large stems of sugar cane, into the heart of the fire. Third, when ‘done’ whip out the stem and thwack in on the ground to break off the cooked bit and make a loud bang. It’s a boy kind of thing. The sugar cane, now charred on the outside, has its sugary juice caramelised in the heat and tastes more like maple syrup. Still though a very chewy fibrous experience.

The loud speakers were set to distortion level. It is something that I find myself wincing at is the tinny, raucous grating that most developing countries amplify things to. My mind recoils at the cacophony and I desperately want them to turn it down just enough to prevent the distortion. But it’s not my party, and they like it like that, so when in Rome.....That night I could not sleep, about 2am I was beginning to doze when the drunks got their hands in the megaphone and began to sing. They sang too close to the microphone, and shouted tonelessly into it. How was Pat sleeping through this? I couldn’t understand. We were in a tent, which offers about as much sound insulation as a paper bag. I was jealous of Pat’s peaceful dormancy. (Really very simple - I had been offered the business end of a joint or two during the evening. Of course, I had only acceded because it is traditional at Shiva Rastri. Allegedly.) There would be then odd couple of minutes of quiet and I thought they may be off to bed, or even better a power outage, but then it would start again. There was a woman and a man that shared the mike. The man’s singing was more melodious and although very loud I knew I could drift off into sleep with his voice, but then the lady would start. Unfortunately, with the approaching dawn she dominated. My eyes ached with tiredness, I pulled the sleeping bag over my head but the tinniness penetrated everything. Pat, still sound asleep at my side. I became irrationally angry with him. If I was suffering, he should know I was suffering, how dare he sleep away while I lay awake. I was desperate, I just wanted her to stop, the instrumentals were delightful, the guy was OK. It was just this unnamed woman. I sadly, began to hope, to pray for a power cut.... just for a few hours, please. I assume that some sick people have used noise and sleep deprivation as a form of torture. It is far less messy than all that teeth pulling and there’s virtually no physical evidence. It is the occasional lulls, that are particularly cruel. You just have time enough to think that it has finished and you have been spared, and it starts again, that same out of tune, tinny song. Argghhhh!.......

There’s snow on them thar hills

We were up bright and early and trotted up the hill to view the Himalaya. I was still tired to the point of nausea, with a pounding headache, but there was no point in trying to sleep as the noise torture continued, so I got up. As we walked past the shrine with the megaphone blaring I was tempted, oh so tempted to ‘accidentally’ detach the wire. But this is their country and their celebration. It was not yet dawn when we arrived at the crest of the hill to find Ingo’s tent, perfectly placed for meditation in such a beautiful tranquil spot. We managed not to make too much noise and rouse him but sat in perfect peace to watch the morning glow slowly envelop the Annapurna range, peaking over the top of the valley rim. Further along the crest it was possible to make out just the very tip of ‘Fish Tail’ making the tiniest appearance. Strange to think that perspective had rendered this over 7000 metre mountain to just a small white triangle on the horizon. I think that just as with our attempts to capture wildlife on film, the attempt to render distant mountains on a misty morning in digital format leaves rather a lot to be desired. You just had to be there.

I, normally thrilled by the beauties of nature was too exhausted to appreciate the moment. I wistfully, looked at the pink of the sunrise catching the snow of the mountains, I bet you couldn’t hear this racket from over there. It was nice though to get up above the noise torture, to level where the distortion dissipated into the valley leaving the more harmonious tones to drift upward. And the dawn rose and the power went down, the torture ceased. Ahhhhh......peace reigns again.

I trudged back down the hill, almost sleep walking to my tent. There was a sleeping bag in there and the noise had stopped. I would be able to sleep. I gloriously slept for a few hours. Bliss.... I love our little tent. I think maybe something a bit more substantial might make for easier sleeping in noisier circumstances. I should have done the decent thing and rifled through our stuff to find the ear plugs but I really wasn’t aware, in my pharmacologically relaxed state, that Hippy was suffering so.

The following day we made a second attempt to see the himalayas from Sarangkhot, a view point on a ridge north of Pokhara. From here in theory you could see the full range of Himalayas. There was a bit of a lack of communication thing and we ended up going up all the way by bike the last 3km on a bad dirt road, when I think both of us would have preferred to walk the last bit from the tar. But the midday clouds were rolling in on the crests of the mountains, so we bounced our way to the top on our ailing shock absorber. We saw fleeting murky sightings of other bits of the Himalayas. Only just enough to be reassured that they were really there and bumped back down the hill.

We were in a dilemma about how to leave to Pokhara. The direct way into into India is via the Siddharta highway which is reputedly a beautiful road that boasts splendid views of the Himalayas, weather permitting. But two weeks earlier there had been a Maoist blockade and a van load of military folk and a couple of passers by were killed. Debi and Beni had bypassed a road block on the road running parallel with the India border by driving through a river, only to be be given warning shots by the army and being buzzed by a helicopter when they camped rough further down the road. I suppose a Unimog (I’m not sure if the average fireside read will necessarily be able to picture a Unimog but try to picture an old long-wheelbase Landrover and increase all its dimensions by 50 percent, add a big Mercedes diesel engine and some no-nonsense Teutonic styling. Alternatively, just look at the picture in the gallery!) could conceivably be a transport vehicle for Maoists. Beni, was forced to leap out and wave his arms about to demonstrate himself a tourist whilst Debi apparently hid behind a tree and Prem, their Nepali friend, stayed in the van thinking that his presence may muddy the tourist claim. The army had stupidly, asked them to move camp to the police station, for their safety. They sensibly refused as a police station is far more of a Maoist target than unarmed overlanders camped in the woods.

I know that the Maoists are making a point of not targeting tourists, and they are concentrating their efforts against the King, government and the military. But there is always the worry that you can be caught in the cross fire. So should we go back the way we came and then along a different highway to the India border. It was hard to know, Pokhara had not been a target until the day before, and that is apparently because the King has been staying at his local palace in town. Because the Siddharta highway had already been hit, did it mean it was safe now? Everyone advised us to immediately rip our helmets off to show our faces if we came upon any blockages. Good tip, but we felt that we look sufficiently foreign anyway; everyone automatically waves at us as we pass without us even having to lift our visors. And Maoists don’t strike in the same place twice, do they? Then there was the more pertinent debate about the quality of the road. Debi and Beni had found the road up to the campsite something of a trial whereas we have driven quite long stretches of nasty stuff like this and so didn’t find it too bad. When they said that the road south was good, we had to believe that it really was very good .....

Byway to the border by Buddha’s birthplace

And it was, perfect, in fact. This is definitely a road to drive in the other direction, though. The diminishing glimpses of snow clad Himalayas that we caught in the mirrors or by straining our necks must be a wonderful, in your face, climaxing experience when taken heading north. We stopped here and there to enjoy the clarity but were frustrated that we were now even further away and the weather was proving to be clearer than ever. Should we go back? One day, for sure. I was touched that the Himalayas had finally decided to show us their full glory and watch over us as we departed. There were a few unsettling stretches where there were abandoned military guard posts - when it is getting too scary for the army, you wonder whether perhaps there’s a message we’re just not getting. When there had been no traffic coming for a few minutes we started to think as we did in Colombia; that if nothing is coming it suggests a roadblock ahead. Then a stream of vehicles held up by a slow truck would grind towards us. Like every other ‘dangerous’ place, we had the most charming reception form locals. We only really stopped once for a bit of a drink and a snack but the intense experience with the residents was amazing; very little in the way of meaningful conversation but a huge emotional experience with beautiful humble people. Everyone had to have their picture taken and this all new digital experience of being able to show them their pictures straight away is really special. I can see now how our friend Fi had found a polaroid camera so useful when trying to get nice pictures of people.

We must have said this a thousand times but we don’t really like border towns. Actually, that is a bold lie. We have only crossed about 60 borders and so we can’t have said it so often. Whatever. We decided to stop just before the Sunauli border at the apparently preferable town of Bhawaira. There was the added advantage of being able to complete our visit to Nepal with a visit to the birthplace of Siddhartha Gautama (a.k.a. Buddha) at Lumphini. It would be extraordinarily shallow of us to by pass such a significant spot. We stopped at the first hotel in Bhawaira to start the ‘find the best value’ merry-go-round but as the place seemed reasonably well appointed and not too expensive we just went straight for it. There was the added factor of us having a surplus of Nepali Rupees to spend before the border.

It is reasonably fair to say that just because someone is born somewhere doesn’t necessarily make it an amazingly attractive place. Having been born in a palace does bode reasonably well, though. Little of the palace remains, though, and the enclosing structure that has been erected to protect it is unlikely to ever win any architectural awards. The gardens around are nicely kept though and there’s a profusion of those lovely brightly coloured prayer flags that the Buddhists do so well. Adjacent to the birth site, a large ‘World Buddhist Peace Centre’ has been, and is still, developing. There is a kilometre long lake leading from an eternal flame up to the World Peace Stupa. Along the sides are monasteries, temples and study centres built by Buddhist devotees from around the world in a range of styles.

Not sure how up on Buddha’s life our reader’s are but, briefly, born a prince he lived in a palace, after meeting a number of disadvantaged people he is touched by, he goes off for meditation. Has a revelation under a tree, and decides to renounce his wealth, and begins to preach the ‘middle way’. He was brought up as a Hindu, but after his revelation is against the caste system. Revenge, hatred, envy (unfortunately so is sexuality) are all things that stop the soul becoming pure. My lay interpretation is that the emphasis is more on being honest, calm, and loving within yourself. Living your life the right way is the important thing. Judging others, is not part of the game plan. Put simply Buddha is to Hinduism as Jesus is to Judaism. Both preached honesty, love and forgiveness against the retribution beliefs of their parent theologies. I think? Nothing I have learned so far has tainted my image of Buddhism. The teachings are all towards peace and consideration. Truly, if the world was Buddhist wars would cease. Dalai Lama for world leader I say. But then it is also true that if Christians and Muslims truly followed the teachings of their our religions they wouldn’t be killing people either.

Back at the hotel, a package tour bus of Indians had arrived and taken possession of the hotel. They dismounted with all their requisites which included two huge tea urns. We have got a little bit cheeky and bought ourselves one of those little coffee cup heater elements so we can rustle up a brew in our hotel room without having to fire up the petrol stove. This is taking things to another level. We rapidly had our introduction to Indian behaviour. There is no such thing as privacy. This comes in various forms; sit in your hotel room without locking the door and people will just open it to see if there is anyone in, if you are in any way out of the normal you are public property, no one has the right to peace and quiet, putting your washing on the line first does not mean that it will be left there until dry- it may just be piled up on top of each other if someone else who feels they are more important wants to use the space.

I’m not sure I’m going to be happy in India. This is not a good attitude to set out with, but our first point of contact with Indian folk en masse has not been good and there’s more than a billion of them waiting for us over the border.