Tibet was one area I really wanted to visit as part of this trip. It's not somewhere you get the opportunity to visit every day, so while we were in the area I wanted to investigate, to see what all the fuss was about. Getting into the region can be difficult for foreigners, with entry requirements changing as often as the Irish weather. In a case of bad timing on our part, our planned visit to Tibet happened to coincide with the 50th anniversary of Chinese rule in the region, and for this reason the it was completely closed off to foreigners for the month of March. So no Tibet, but on the brightside this did give us more time to play with in China itself.
And we did get to visit Tibet in the end, sort of. We were flying from Kathmandu to Chengdu, in Sichuan Province, central China, and the flight has a stopover at Lhasa airport. The stopover was an experience in itself. The airport at Lhasa is ultra modern and big, totally different to the cow-shed I was expecting.
Stepping into the terminal, I immediately realised I was now in a different world. The contrast with Kathmandu's hurried mess of an airport was startling – the cleanliness, the organisation, the politeness of the staff – it felt like we had jumped one hundred years into the future. I wish I had the pictures to show you, but taking into account the current political climate, and where we were, we decided against taking any pictures.
Adding to the surrealism of the place was the lack of people – probably due to the fact that Lhasa was closed to non-Chinese the airport was a ghost town. Our plane landed, we went through customs and security, then re-boarded the same plane en route to Chengdu – and in that whole time no other aircraft could be seen. All shops and restaurants were closed. The huge waiting hall of our departure gate was under-utilised and desolate. Even the airport itself was surrounded by barren lifeless landscape, being located well outside Lhasa itself.
This would be the last time we'd have so much space to ourselves for a good while.
Sunday 29 March 2009
A Country of Contrasts
So what of Nepal? It's not fair for me to give an opinion on the country as a whole, seeing as I only visited three places – Pokhara, Kathmandu and the Everest Base Camp trail. But I feel I saw enough to get a decent taster of this idiosyncratic nation.
Two worlds coexist in Nepal. One world, that of the Lakeside area of Pokhara and the Thamel area of Kathmandu, exists solely to cater to Western tourists. I'm sure a lot of visitors to Nepal only see this world. It's filled with steakhouses, pizzerias, internet cafés, hotels, bars, supermarkets selling Western goods...all the luxuries of back home, at inflated tourist prices.
But step outside this charade and the real, untidy, poverty stricken Nepal can be found. With a turbulent, unstable recent history (Nepal is the world's youngest republic, having been a monarchy for a long time previous to that), the country's infrastructure is painfully underdeveloped. Even after throwing off the chains of monarchy, huge problems still exist. In a country with huge potential for hydro-electricity generation, having rolling power cuts is unjustifiable (electricity was cut for 20 hours a day when we left – though most tourist spots have their own generators). This is even more unjust when you consider that Nepal actually exports electricity to it's neighbour India.
The word on the street is that corruption at all government levels is choking the country's development, an opinion that is hard to disagree with, having seen the way the country operates. Tourism seems to be the best developed industry in the country by far, but every other aspect of the country has a long way to go.
Despite all these obstacles, the people of Nepal are, for the most part, genuine, helpful and extremely hospitable, and always with a smile on their faces. These Nepalese qualities were never more apparent than in Shiva, who we hired to bring us up to Everest Base Camp but who had no problem helping us out finding accommodation after we returned, who guided us through our first Holi festival experience and who even brought us to the airport when we were leaving the country. All this and he asked for nothing in return.
The people of Nepal deserve a better quality of life. I hope they get it some day. And I hope the people of China can match up to their Nepalese neighbours in hospitality terms.
Two worlds coexist in Nepal. One world, that of the Lakeside area of Pokhara and the Thamel area of Kathmandu, exists solely to cater to Western tourists. I'm sure a lot of visitors to Nepal only see this world. It's filled with steakhouses, pizzerias, internet cafés, hotels, bars, supermarkets selling Western goods...all the luxuries of back home, at inflated tourist prices.
But step outside this charade and the real, untidy, poverty stricken Nepal can be found. With a turbulent, unstable recent history (Nepal is the world's youngest republic, having been a monarchy for a long time previous to that), the country's infrastructure is painfully underdeveloped. Even after throwing off the chains of monarchy, huge problems still exist. In a country with huge potential for hydro-electricity generation, having rolling power cuts is unjustifiable (electricity was cut for 20 hours a day when we left – though most tourist spots have their own generators). This is even more unjust when you consider that Nepal actually exports electricity to it's neighbour India.
The word on the street is that corruption at all government levels is choking the country's development, an opinion that is hard to disagree with, having seen the way the country operates. Tourism seems to be the best developed industry in the country by far, but every other aspect of the country has a long way to go.
Despite all these obstacles, the people of Nepal are, for the most part, genuine, helpful and extremely hospitable, and always with a smile on their faces. These Nepalese qualities were never more apparent than in Shiva, who we hired to bring us up to Everest Base Camp but who had no problem helping us out finding accommodation after we returned, who guided us through our first Holi festival experience and who even brought us to the airport when we were leaving the country. All this and he asked for nothing in return.
The people of Nepal deserve a better quality of life. I hope they get it some day. And I hope the people of China can match up to their Nepalese neighbours in hospitality terms.
Wednesday 25 March 2009
Happy Holi!
After two weeks of basic accommodation and food on the Everest Base Camp trek, a week of relative luxury and relaxation in Kathmandu before tackling China was just what the doctor ordered. The highlight of this week was undoubtedly the Holi festival.
The Hindu festival of colours is an event that I could not see taking place back home in Ireland, where a whole city is turned into a coloured waterfight battleground. Throughout Kathmandu (and the rest of Nepal too we understand), shops and businesses close, and the streets become a dangerous place to stroll for those with aquaphobia and chromatophobia (a fear of colours – and yes I did have to look it up).
We were lucky in that we had pre-warning of these events thanks to our Everest Base Camp guide, Shiva, who very kindly had no problems guiding us through the festival as well. Dressed in our worst, Shiva took us from our hostel to the trekking office, where unlike most Westerners we were able to become hunters rather than targets by basing ourselves on the balcony of the office, overlooking innocent passers-by below.
A healthy supply of water balloons and food dye made many of these (in particular female) passers-by suffer. It was all part of the festival fun, well for us anyway!
Shiva had also very generously offered to cook us dinner at his home, which was a twenty minute walk away from Thamel. Leaving the twin comforts of a strategic balcony position and Westerner-friendly Thamel, the hunters most definitely became the hunted. Walking through what seemed like an endless stretch of residential areas, where we were the only Westerners, we became the preferred bounty of every rooftop and street-based festival participant, getting pelted from every angle with coloured water. Toward the end of this journey we started to wallow in self-pity, with gangs of schoolkids (who had the day off – for a waterfight!) picking on us, and the locals on the rooftops taking great pleasure to bombard the Westerners who were foolish enough to stray this far from the safety of Thamel.
Our dignity barely surviving, we made it to Shiva's house. Shiva lives in a single room, with a toilet that's shared between the whole neighbourhood. Thinking that Shiva made good money from his work, it was humbling to see where this man lived, in comparison to the complete luxury (relatively speaking) we inhabit. Everyone in his neighbourhood were in similar dwellings, and the sense of community, the kind of which is fast disappearing in Ireland, was in every sense apparent.
Our basic but filling meal was eaten graciously, after which we had a few beers in the communal yard outside Shiva's room, along with Shiva, Gopal (our porter on the base camp trek), and most of the neighbourhood.
Thamel isn't the real Nepal, this was.
The Hindu festival of colours is an event that I could not see taking place back home in Ireland, where a whole city is turned into a coloured waterfight battleground. Throughout Kathmandu (and the rest of Nepal too we understand), shops and businesses close, and the streets become a dangerous place to stroll for those with aquaphobia and chromatophobia (a fear of colours – and yes I did have to look it up).
We were lucky in that we had pre-warning of these events thanks to our Everest Base Camp guide, Shiva, who very kindly had no problems guiding us through the festival as well. Dressed in our worst, Shiva took us from our hostel to the trekking office, where unlike most Westerners we were able to become hunters rather than targets by basing ourselves on the balcony of the office, overlooking innocent passers-by below.
A healthy supply of water balloons and food dye made many of these (in particular female) passers-by suffer. It was all part of the festival fun, well for us anyway!
Shiva had also very generously offered to cook us dinner at his home, which was a twenty minute walk away from Thamel. Leaving the twin comforts of a strategic balcony position and Westerner-friendly Thamel, the hunters most definitely became the hunted. Walking through what seemed like an endless stretch of residential areas, where we were the only Westerners, we became the preferred bounty of every rooftop and street-based festival participant, getting pelted from every angle with coloured water. Toward the end of this journey we started to wallow in self-pity, with gangs of schoolkids (who had the day off – for a waterfight!) picking on us, and the locals on the rooftops taking great pleasure to bombard the Westerners who were foolish enough to stray this far from the safety of Thamel.
Our dignity barely surviving, we made it to Shiva's house. Shiva lives in a single room, with a toilet that's shared between the whole neighbourhood. Thinking that Shiva made good money from his work, it was humbling to see where this man lived, in comparison to the complete luxury (relatively speaking) we inhabit. Everyone in his neighbourhood were in similar dwellings, and the sense of community, the kind of which is fast disappearing in Ireland, was in every sense apparent.
Our basic but filling meal was eaten graciously, after which we had a few beers in the communal yard outside Shiva's room, along with Shiva, Gopal (our porter on the base camp trek), and most of the neighbourhood.
Thamel isn't the real Nepal, this was.
Friday 20 March 2009
What Goes Up... (39)
A hike down an impossibly wide valley brought us to Pheriche (4243m), where we enjoyed the increasing levels of oxygen in the air. The next day, we descended further to Phortse (3750m), a hike on which I suffered from belated altitude sickness with a dodgy stomach (although my stomach may have been rejecting the food it had received for the past week).
This alternative return path provided us with some of the best scenery of the whole trek. From Pheriche, we continued on to Phortse (3750m), and after a night here made our way back to Namche Bazar, overcoming a descent down some very steep steps along the way.
On the way to Namche we stopped off at the amazing Khumjung (3790m), one of the biggest towns we visited on the trail, which also had it's own Buddhist monastery (which allegedly has a Yeti skull), as well as the Edmund Hillary school.
Once we reached Namche, we knew we were at a low enough altitude to celebrate a little, and celebrate a little we did, with beers and cigars.
This, unsurprisingly, was one of the most enjoyable moments of the thirteen days.
Day twelve, and our routine hike back to Phakding was made more interesting by the fact that Friday evening and Saturday morning are market day in Namche, meaning that the trail was jam packed with market goers, and many yaks, heading in the opposite direction to us.
Yak Attack 2
This state of affairs led to our second yak attack. This time I was at the rear. Coming over the brow of a hill, I could hear some commotion up ahead. Then John, who was in front of me, informatively shouted “Oh shit!”, and dived into the ditch next to us. Looking up, I was faced with a yak charging straight towards me. I just about managed to dodge it, otherwise I don't think I'd be capable of writing this blog entry.
After a boring night in Phakding we arrived back in Lukla the day before our early morning flight to Kathmandu. With no flights in or out of Lukla that day due to inclement weather, there was a healthy population of trekkers eager to celebrate, not least of all us.
“The Irish Pub”
Believe it or not, Lukla has an Irish bar, with the imaginative title “The Irish Pub”. As is usual around these parts however, it's an Irish pub only in name, more resembling the basement of a rich American with Irish roots. The celebrations continued on for the rest of the night, culminating in traditional (or maybe not) Nepalese dancing from all involved. Only John was caught on video though.
The airport departure room (calling it a lounge would be a stretch) the next morning was like a big reunion of all the fellow trekkers we had met in the past fourteen days. I reckoned this is what a school reunion must feel like.
Our collective attention was drawn by some commotion on the runway before the first plane of the morning had landed – a local child had somehow escaped it's house and made it's way on to the landing strip! Cue army officers rushing to remove the toddler from danger – a sight I don't think I'll see at any other airport. A downhill takeoff was also a sight to behold (and cause fear).
So the highpoint, literally, of our whole trip ended up a complete success, and is something that I'd recommend to anyone. If you're prepared to rough it a little for a couple of weeks, the rewards make it all worthwhile. An incredible expereince.
Because It's There
So what's involved? Fourteen days hiking, eight and a half of which were spent climbing and the rest getting back down, that was what faced us. The itinerary was outlined to us a couple of days before we set off, when we also briefly met our guide, Shiva. On paper, it looked difficult. Not being the most naturally athletic person in the world, at times I was more anxious than excited. But I was anxious about this whole trip too, doing things that scare me is a recurring theme in my life at the moment, and there was no way that I was pulling out now.
Day 1 to 3
Our early morning taxi ride to the airport was beset with problems. First, our porter, the superhuman Gopal, who would be carrying most of our gear the whole way up and back, had trouble getting out of bed, and was late getting to his pick-up point (this was the only blemish on his flawless performance during the rest of the trip). Then it turned out that this particular day there was a big festival on (marijuana was legal in Nepal for one day!), so a main bridge on the route to the airport was closed, causing traffic chaos. We ended up missing our 7am flight to Lukla (2886m), but no harm done, we just caught the 8am.
The view out of the cabin windows gave us a nice taster of what was to come, and the landing, despite the hilarious runway at Lukla, was fine. The first thing that I noticed about the area was the lack of roads or automated land vehicles of any sort. To get anywhere around here there was only one way of doing it: walk. So that's what we did, for just over two hours, to our guesthouse for the first night at Phakding (2640m). Accommodation was basic, which we expected, and very cold, which we didn't expect, not at this relatively low altitude anyway. Having been spoiled by the constant sunshine we'd had so far, the bitterly cold nights took some getting used to, as did arriving somewhere at lunchtime and having nothing to do but rest for the remainder of the day.
Day two's longer four hour hike (including a stop for an early lunch) was easy even by my standards, and made enjoyable by the surroundings, which were very similar to the British Columbia nature trails, all rocky valleys and lush forest. We also caught our first tantalising glimpse of Everest, which of course wouldn't be our last.
Namche
A one hour climb, which wasn't difficult at all due to the very easy pace set by our guide Shiva, directly preceded our arrival at a windy and cold but scenic Namche Bazar (3440m), where we spent the next two nights acclimatising. So far so easy!
Day 4
The quality of the scenery on our path really stepped up a gear on our fourth day, the green forests slowly transforming into more barren yet more spectacular views of snowy peaks. As a rule on the trek the more spectacular the scenery got the more the temperature dropped, so more and more layers were needed.
After passing through a few Sherpa villages and past plenty of yaks, and another steep (but not too taxing) climb we arrived in Tengboche (3867m), a village quite exposed to the elements and hence quite windy. Inside Tengboche Buddhist monastery however, the largest in the region, the turbulent weather conditions outside are comprehensively concealed, with opulence and spirituality oozing out of every corner of the place, a peaceful oasis on a stormy hilltop. It was amazing to see a place of worship like this.
Yak Attack
Our fifth day is remembered for one event in particular. We were trekking uphill through a typically small Sherpa village, when a herder just up ahead lost control of his Yaks. They started charging straight at us. Shiva, our guide, sprinted across the street and leapt up onto a wall. I instinctively followed him, as I had been walking just behind him. With no time to do the same, Gearóid and John had to balance on a narrow wall on the other side of the street, with a four metre drop into a yard on the other side of the wall. A belt from a yak and they wouldn't have been able to continue, that was certain. The yaks managed to maintain their direction though, and charged past us at serious speed.
These animals, though not intentionally violent towards humans, could really cause some damage if collided with. In fact Shiva told us there had been four deaths and plenty of injuries caused by yaks in the last ten years or so.
After that bit of excitement we arrived in gusty Dingboche (4260m). With the oxygen levels in the air depleting, altitude sickness started to kick in. John was the first to suffer, losing his appetite completely (a serious symptom for a man that normally eats inhuman amounts of food). We all experienced mild headaches too, but for now Gearóid and myself were not too bad.
We also spent the sixth day in Dingboche as planned to once again get our bodies used to the altitude we were inhabiting, during which we stopped at the spectacular view above.
Dingboche was also very cold, with sub zero temperatures at night meaning we spent our time huddled around the fire until it petered out, at which point everybody hurried back to their room and into their sleeping bags. John was very sick at this stage, showing more of the symptoms of altitude sickness, which are quite similar to a bad hangover (some justice at last I thought, as he normally doesn't get hangovers). Only two days until base camp, we told ourselves.
Day 7
For me the seventh day started with some hearty Tibetan bread with jam, providing fuel for the tough day that was to follow. With the air getting thinner, and our breaths becoming ever more shallow, every uphill section became more and more difficult. The land at this altitude is extremely barren, unwelcoming to life requiring oxygen.
Arriving exhausted at Lobuche (4930m), I collapsed onto the seating bench and immediately realised I was very sick. No appetite, bad headache, unsettled stomach – it wasn't nice at all. Also not the time to meet three very friendly and chatty German trekkers, who happened to be from Stuttgart, where John and I had lived for six months a few years ago. One of them even lived about a five minute walk from where me and John resided. Luckily John had recovered somewhat from his illness, and was able to lead the conversations, while I was slumped into my seat behind him.
Base Camp Day
Thankfully I had recovered enough to continue on the morning of day eight, as this was the day we were to make it to base camp. With the landscape, temperature, oxygen levels and uphill sections ever more forboding, the incentive of the achievement that awaited us was badly needed to keep motivation levels up. A tough four hour initial hike brought us to Gorak Shep (5180m), where we were to spend the night. But after a quick stop there to deposit gear and order some some barely touched food, we wearily set off for base camp.
By now the spectacular had become the norm, or perhaps we were too tired to appreciate the scenery, but whatever, this hike was tough for all of us. Very rocky, with many ups and downs (both personally and terrain wise), every little ascent felt like a little Everest. But finally, after a climb past rocky paths with ice up the side of the Khumbu glacier, we saw the marker.
The sense of elation and relief from all of us was palpable.
It's Not Over Yet
After struggling back to Gorak Shep, we rested, still glowing with the sense of achievement. My body had successfully adapted to being above 5000m, but John and now Gearóid's condition took a real turn for the worse. Tomorrow we began our descent, but first there was the extra challenge of Kala Patthar, a Himilayan peak of 5550m (18,208ft). It was looking like I was the only one who would be able to tackle it, which I didn't want.
The next morning I dragged myself out of bed and reported for trekking duty. The only other trekker up was Ann from Oxford, whom we had met on day three, and also happened to meet at base camp itself. At least I had someone to share the experience with, I thought. But then, like Lazarus, John appeared, declaring himself healthy enough to go for it. So off we went.
In the whole thirteen day trek, this one hour forty five minute climb was the toughest part by a distance. It started out tough, then got progressively steeper. Towards the end Shiva stated that we were almost there, only for us to turn a corner and be faced with an even steeper section made up of small boulders. Almost at the peak, it got to a stage where it was three steps, break, three steps, break, for both John and I. There was simply no oxygen to keep us going. But at the top...
Day 1 to 3
Our early morning taxi ride to the airport was beset with problems. First, our porter, the superhuman Gopal, who would be carrying most of our gear the whole way up and back, had trouble getting out of bed, and was late getting to his pick-up point (this was the only blemish on his flawless performance during the rest of the trip). Then it turned out that this particular day there was a big festival on (marijuana was legal in Nepal for one day!), so a main bridge on the route to the airport was closed, causing traffic chaos. We ended up missing our 7am flight to Lukla (2886m), but no harm done, we just caught the 8am.
The view out of the cabin windows gave us a nice taster of what was to come, and the landing, despite the hilarious runway at Lukla, was fine. The first thing that I noticed about the area was the lack of roads or automated land vehicles of any sort. To get anywhere around here there was only one way of doing it: walk. So that's what we did, for just over two hours, to our guesthouse for the first night at Phakding (2640m). Accommodation was basic, which we expected, and very cold, which we didn't expect, not at this relatively low altitude anyway. Having been spoiled by the constant sunshine we'd had so far, the bitterly cold nights took some getting used to, as did arriving somewhere at lunchtime and having nothing to do but rest for the remainder of the day.
Day two's longer four hour hike (including a stop for an early lunch) was easy even by my standards, and made enjoyable by the surroundings, which were very similar to the British Columbia nature trails, all rocky valleys and lush forest. We also caught our first tantalising glimpse of Everest, which of course wouldn't be our last.
Namche
A one hour climb, which wasn't difficult at all due to the very easy pace set by our guide Shiva, directly preceded our arrival at a windy and cold but scenic Namche Bazar (3440m), where we spent the next two nights acclimatising. So far so easy!
Day 4
The quality of the scenery on our path really stepped up a gear on our fourth day, the green forests slowly transforming into more barren yet more spectacular views of snowy peaks. As a rule on the trek the more spectacular the scenery got the more the temperature dropped, so more and more layers were needed.
After passing through a few Sherpa villages and past plenty of yaks, and another steep (but not too taxing) climb we arrived in Tengboche (3867m), a village quite exposed to the elements and hence quite windy. Inside Tengboche Buddhist monastery however, the largest in the region, the turbulent weather conditions outside are comprehensively concealed, with opulence and spirituality oozing out of every corner of the place, a peaceful oasis on a stormy hilltop. It was amazing to see a place of worship like this.
Yak Attack
Our fifth day is remembered for one event in particular. We were trekking uphill through a typically small Sherpa village, when a herder just up ahead lost control of his Yaks. They started charging straight at us. Shiva, our guide, sprinted across the street and leapt up onto a wall. I instinctively followed him, as I had been walking just behind him. With no time to do the same, Gearóid and John had to balance on a narrow wall on the other side of the street, with a four metre drop into a yard on the other side of the wall. A belt from a yak and they wouldn't have been able to continue, that was certain. The yaks managed to maintain their direction though, and charged past us at serious speed.
These animals, though not intentionally violent towards humans, could really cause some damage if collided with. In fact Shiva told us there had been four deaths and plenty of injuries caused by yaks in the last ten years or so.
After that bit of excitement we arrived in gusty Dingboche (4260m). With the oxygen levels in the air depleting, altitude sickness started to kick in. John was the first to suffer, losing his appetite completely (a serious symptom for a man that normally eats inhuman amounts of food). We all experienced mild headaches too, but for now Gearóid and myself were not too bad.
We also spent the sixth day in Dingboche as planned to once again get our bodies used to the altitude we were inhabiting, during which we stopped at the spectacular view above.
Dingboche was also very cold, with sub zero temperatures at night meaning we spent our time huddled around the fire until it petered out, at which point everybody hurried back to their room and into their sleeping bags. John was very sick at this stage, showing more of the symptoms of altitude sickness, which are quite similar to a bad hangover (some justice at last I thought, as he normally doesn't get hangovers). Only two days until base camp, we told ourselves.
Day 7
For me the seventh day started with some hearty Tibetan bread with jam, providing fuel for the tough day that was to follow. With the air getting thinner, and our breaths becoming ever more shallow, every uphill section became more and more difficult. The land at this altitude is extremely barren, unwelcoming to life requiring oxygen.
Arriving exhausted at Lobuche (4930m), I collapsed onto the seating bench and immediately realised I was very sick. No appetite, bad headache, unsettled stomach – it wasn't nice at all. Also not the time to meet three very friendly and chatty German trekkers, who happened to be from Stuttgart, where John and I had lived for six months a few years ago. One of them even lived about a five minute walk from where me and John resided. Luckily John had recovered somewhat from his illness, and was able to lead the conversations, while I was slumped into my seat behind him.
Base Camp Day
Thankfully I had recovered enough to continue on the morning of day eight, as this was the day we were to make it to base camp. With the landscape, temperature, oxygen levels and uphill sections ever more forboding, the incentive of the achievement that awaited us was badly needed to keep motivation levels up. A tough four hour initial hike brought us to Gorak Shep (5180m), where we were to spend the night. But after a quick stop there to deposit gear and order some some barely touched food, we wearily set off for base camp.
By now the spectacular had become the norm, or perhaps we were too tired to appreciate the scenery, but whatever, this hike was tough for all of us. Very rocky, with many ups and downs (both personally and terrain wise), every little ascent felt like a little Everest. But finally, after a climb past rocky paths with ice up the side of the Khumbu glacier, we saw the marker.
The sense of elation and relief from all of us was palpable.
It's Not Over Yet
After struggling back to Gorak Shep, we rested, still glowing with the sense of achievement. My body had successfully adapted to being above 5000m, but John and now Gearóid's condition took a real turn for the worse. Tomorrow we began our descent, but first there was the extra challenge of Kala Patthar, a Himilayan peak of 5550m (18,208ft). It was looking like I was the only one who would be able to tackle it, which I didn't want.
The next morning I dragged myself out of bed and reported for trekking duty. The only other trekker up was Ann from Oxford, whom we had met on day three, and also happened to meet at base camp itself. At least I had someone to share the experience with, I thought. But then, like Lazarus, John appeared, declaring himself healthy enough to go for it. So off we went.
In the whole thirteen day trek, this one hour forty five minute climb was the toughest part by a distance. It started out tough, then got progressively steeper. Towards the end Shiva stated that we were almost there, only for us to turn a corner and be faced with an even steeper section made up of small boulders. Almost at the peak, it got to a stage where it was three steps, break, three steps, break, for both John and I. There was simply no oxygen to keep us going. But at the top...
Monday 9 March 2009
Gearing Up
We booked our Everest Base Camp trek early in our second day in Kathmandu, with a trekking crowd we found ourselves. Though they weren't the cheapest, they seemed the most professional, and you want confidence with the company who are responsible for your wellbeing on an undertaking like this.
Having packed for the hot Indian climate, I was hopelessly under-equipped for a hike up to 5400m, as were John and Gearóid. So the two days before departure were spent gearing up.
Even more common than trekking companies and bars and restaurants in Thamel are shops selling trekking gear. Almost everything sold here is a cheap knock off of well known trekking brands such as The North Face. Seeing as I'd only really be using the gear for the 14 day base camp trek, I was only concerned with it lasting that long.
After a lot of haggling in numerous shops I ended up buying a warm hat, a sunhat, gloves, a long sleeved top, hiking sticks, a small backpack, a water bottle and lots of chocolate. All that for roughly €20. With the cost of the trek itself blasting our Nepal budget out of the water, I needed to go cheap. I just hope cheap lasts the 14 days.
Having packed for the hot Indian climate, I was hopelessly under-equipped for a hike up to 5400m, as were John and Gearóid. So the two days before departure were spent gearing up.
Even more common than trekking companies and bars and restaurants in Thamel are shops selling trekking gear. Almost everything sold here is a cheap knock off of well known trekking brands such as The North Face. Seeing as I'd only really be using the gear for the 14 day base camp trek, I was only concerned with it lasting that long.
After a lot of haggling in numerous shops I ended up buying a warm hat, a sunhat, gloves, a long sleeved top, hiking sticks, a small backpack, a water bottle and lots of chocolate. All that for roughly €20. With the cost of the trek itself blasting our Nepal budget out of the water, I needed to go cheap. I just hope cheap lasts the 14 days.
Trekking for Treks
Our first priority in Kathmandu was to get the Everest Base Camp trek organised. It's not hard finding someone to book a trek with in Kathmandu. Every third building seems to house some trekking company or other. Finding a trekking organisation we wanted to go with was the hard part.
Unsurprisingly our hostel host knew someone who organised treks – his sister as it turned out. She was the first person we talked to. Her package sounded good and the price was around what we expected. However we weren't going to jump into bed with the first offer (unless that was what she actually wanted). We decided to follow a tout to another trekking company this time, and it was a lot cheaper with this crowd.
I had spotted a Céad Míle Fáilte sign while we were looking for accommodation, so we ventured to the Irish pub next in the hope that someone Irish there could be a valuable source of trekking information. Just before we reached it, another trekking tout approached us. We explained to him that we were going upstairs to the pub first, and that we'd talk to him afterwards. So up we went, to be greeted by a horrible imitation with a Nepalese barman and no-one else inside. To our disbelief, the tout followed us up and sat at the table next to ours. We hadn't come here to be hassled by a bloody tout. So we left.
Thirsty for a drink after that annoyance, around the corner was a Lonely Planet recommended watering hole named Tom & Jerry's. One drink led to more, and the end to any trek searching for that day. We ended up having a great night, properly on the lash for the first time since we had left home.
Unsurprisingly our hostel host knew someone who organised treks – his sister as it turned out. She was the first person we talked to. Her package sounded good and the price was around what we expected. However we weren't going to jump into bed with the first offer (unless that was what she actually wanted). We decided to follow a tout to another trekking company this time, and it was a lot cheaper with this crowd.
I had spotted a Céad Míle Fáilte sign while we were looking for accommodation, so we ventured to the Irish pub next in the hope that someone Irish there could be a valuable source of trekking information. Just before we reached it, another trekking tout approached us. We explained to him that we were going upstairs to the pub first, and that we'd talk to him afterwards. So up we went, to be greeted by a horrible imitation with a Nepalese barman and no-one else inside. To our disbelief, the tout followed us up and sat at the table next to ours. We hadn't come here to be hassled by a bloody tout. So we left.
Thirsty for a drink after that annoyance, around the corner was a Lonely Planet recommended watering hole named Tom & Jerry's. One drink led to more, and the end to any trek searching for that day. We ended up having a great night, properly on the lash for the first time since we had left home.
Backpacker Central
As the capital of Nepal, and the base for our planned trek to Everest Base Camp, Kathmandu was the obvious choice for our second stop in Nepal. After the nightmare that was our bus journey to Pokhara, we paid a bit more for a proper tourist bus this time round.
Some of the scenery on the journey was stunning. Nepal really is a country brimming with scenic beauty, and thrillingly most of the road had nothing but a huge drop at it's edge, making the five hour journey seem like five minutes.
Motoring through the outskirts, Kathmandu seemed similar to the big Indian cities, except far more hilly, and a bit cleaner. There was definitely a lot more advertising present, and our route to the bus stand was lined with numerous motorbike garages, most of which had Duckhams or Castrol livery. The air was also similar to Indian cities, with a pollutant haze clearly present, a far cry from Pokhara's clear horizons.
Departing the bus, the same routine as Pokhara was used: get a taxi straight to the backpacker area, lie to the driver that we have a hostel booked, and then once there search for the cheapest place on foot. Thewal really is a haven for backpackers. Western food is available everywhere, and the narrow streets are lined with bars, including an awful Irish pub.
Standing out with our backpacks still on us, we became a target for touts offering accommodation. Funnily enough this worked to our advantage, because it was though a tout that we found a cheap place in a fine location. Your wallet stays healthier if you don't mind dingy accommodation.
Once the backpacks were off though, we were still a target for touts, along with the huge number of other Westerners there. Thewal is trekking central, with far more trekking companies than willing trekkers, so the trekking touts were the worst, in your face every thirty seconds pushing this trek and that. Luckily my time spent in India meant I knew exactly how to handle them: pretend they aren't there.
Some of the scenery on the journey was stunning. Nepal really is a country brimming with scenic beauty, and thrillingly most of the road had nothing but a huge drop at it's edge, making the five hour journey seem like five minutes.
Motoring through the outskirts, Kathmandu seemed similar to the big Indian cities, except far more hilly, and a bit cleaner. There was definitely a lot more advertising present, and our route to the bus stand was lined with numerous motorbike garages, most of which had Duckhams or Castrol livery. The air was also similar to Indian cities, with a pollutant haze clearly present, a far cry from Pokhara's clear horizons.
Departing the bus, the same routine as Pokhara was used: get a taxi straight to the backpacker area, lie to the driver that we have a hostel booked, and then once there search for the cheapest place on foot. Thewal really is a haven for backpackers. Western food is available everywhere, and the narrow streets are lined with bars, including an awful Irish pub.
Standing out with our backpacks still on us, we became a target for touts offering accommodation. Funnily enough this worked to our advantage, because it was though a tout that we found a cheap place in a fine location. Your wallet stays healthier if you don't mind dingy accommodation.
Once the backpacks were off though, we were still a target for touts, along with the huge number of other Westerners there. Thewal is trekking central, with far more trekking companies than willing trekkers, so the trekking touts were the worst, in your face every thirty seconds pushing this trek and that. Luckily my time spent in India meant I knew exactly how to handle them: pretend they aren't there.
Mountain Biking From Hell
As an avid cyclist back home (by avid I mean I really used to enjoy cycling to work), I was disappointed to miss the mountain biking with the work crowd last year. Pokhara has an abundance of outdoor activities, downhill mountain biking included. With John being a big fan of the sport, this was automatically added to our list of things to do in Pokhara.
My first encounter with stomach illness however put my participation in doubt. It was only late the night before that I was no longer bound to the toilet. Having not had much food the last few days, I contemplated pulling out. But I wanted to try it at least once, so I soldiered on. Gearóid, in the same boat as me, did the same.
I'll say this first – if I knew what was involved beforehand, there's not a hope in hell I would have gotten out of bed at six that morning. It all started casually enough, meeting our group, consisting of us, an Iranian and and Englishman, as well as the Frenchman who owned the biking company and his Nepalese biking student. I really enjoyed the slow paced cycle to the foot of the mountain we were going to use. I didn't expect to have to cycle up the mountain though. I was sure there would be a jeep, even a tractor involved, but no such luck.
And so the suffering began. 10 minutes into the 45 minute uphill climb and I started to feel very very sick. Doing a steep climb in 25 degree heat with little nourishment in the past couple of days pushed my body over the edge. I was close to throwing up. After struggling for another 10 minutes I took a break in some shade and waited for Gearóid to catch up. 10 minutes later he emerged with the French instructor, looking very pale in the baking sun. He had left his breakfast further down the trail. It wasn't going well.
Gearóid and myself decided on the advice of our instructor and our stomachs to walk the bikes up the mountain, which only took 10 minutes longer than cycling anyway (that's how steep it was). In our sick states, even the walk was tough.
After we finally reached the top, the group took a break for some much needed liquids. My stomach still wasn't right, although Gearóid felt a bit better after emptying his.
On the long slog up, I assumed that we'd be coming down the same rocky road. How wrong I was. Once everyone at the top was ready to go, the French instructor led the way. Just not the way I was thinking. He sped down a narrow path at roughly a 45 degree inclination at a serious speed, dodging rocks along the way. The rest followed, bar Gearóid and myself. My thoughts were along the lines of “That's what this is?”. Gearóid in a moment of bravery/stupidity just went for it. About 5 metres down he tumbled, lucky not to injure himself.
I crashed myself on a rocky stretch of the road soon after, except I cut up my knee badly and gained a nasty gash on my back. With no rear suspension (unlike all the others), I found it impossible to keep balance when speeding over rough terrain. Sick, battered and bruised, Gearóid and I decided to play it safe and take our time down the main dirt road. I was dreaming of getting back to my bed at this stage.
Communication Breakdown
The journey back to Lakeside wasn't without incident however. The proper downhill tracks intersected with the less steep dirt road Gearóid and I were following. John, not holding back as usual, managed to halt the show three times, bursting both tyres on his bike and damaging the gears, which had to be fixed on the spot. And on the way home my ailing body could take no more, my legs seizing up twice on the hour long journey back to the bike place.
As it turned out, there was miscommunication between the French instructor and John, who had booked it the day before whilst we were suffering in bed. The instructor was shocked when Gearóid and I said we had never done downhill biking before. He normally only takes proper enthusiasts out, and even the route he chose wasn't appropriate for beginners. John had a great time though.
My first encounter with stomach illness however put my participation in doubt. It was only late the night before that I was no longer bound to the toilet. Having not had much food the last few days, I contemplated pulling out. But I wanted to try it at least once, so I soldiered on. Gearóid, in the same boat as me, did the same.
I'll say this first – if I knew what was involved beforehand, there's not a hope in hell I would have gotten out of bed at six that morning. It all started casually enough, meeting our group, consisting of us, an Iranian and and Englishman, as well as the Frenchman who owned the biking company and his Nepalese biking student. I really enjoyed the slow paced cycle to the foot of the mountain we were going to use. I didn't expect to have to cycle up the mountain though. I was sure there would be a jeep, even a tractor involved, but no such luck.
And so the suffering began. 10 minutes into the 45 minute uphill climb and I started to feel very very sick. Doing a steep climb in 25 degree heat with little nourishment in the past couple of days pushed my body over the edge. I was close to throwing up. After struggling for another 10 minutes I took a break in some shade and waited for Gearóid to catch up. 10 minutes later he emerged with the French instructor, looking very pale in the baking sun. He had left his breakfast further down the trail. It wasn't going well.
Gearóid and myself decided on the advice of our instructor and our stomachs to walk the bikes up the mountain, which only took 10 minutes longer than cycling anyway (that's how steep it was). In our sick states, even the walk was tough.
After we finally reached the top, the group took a break for some much needed liquids. My stomach still wasn't right, although Gearóid felt a bit better after emptying his.
On the long slog up, I assumed that we'd be coming down the same rocky road. How wrong I was. Once everyone at the top was ready to go, the French instructor led the way. Just not the way I was thinking. He sped down a narrow path at roughly a 45 degree inclination at a serious speed, dodging rocks along the way. The rest followed, bar Gearóid and myself. My thoughts were along the lines of “That's what this is?”. Gearóid in a moment of bravery/stupidity just went for it. About 5 metres down he tumbled, lucky not to injure himself.
I crashed myself on a rocky stretch of the road soon after, except I cut up my knee badly and gained a nasty gash on my back. With no rear suspension (unlike all the others), I found it impossible to keep balance when speeding over rough terrain. Sick, battered and bruised, Gearóid and I decided to play it safe and take our time down the main dirt road. I was dreaming of getting back to my bed at this stage.
Communication Breakdown
The journey back to Lakeside wasn't without incident however. The proper downhill tracks intersected with the less steep dirt road Gearóid and I were following. John, not holding back as usual, managed to halt the show three times, bursting both tyres on his bike and damaging the gears, which had to be fixed on the spot. And on the way home my ailing body could take no more, my legs seizing up twice on the hour long journey back to the bike place.
As it turned out, there was miscommunication between the French instructor and John, who had booked it the day before whilst we were suffering in bed. The instructor was shocked when Gearóid and I said we had never done downhill biking before. He normally only takes proper enthusiasts out, and even the route he chose wasn't appropriate for beginners. John had a great time though.
The Sincerest Form of Flattery
I'd previously mentioned that Lakeside in Pokhara is very Westernised. Western food is promised all along the strip. There are even a couple of Italian restaurants, and a few steakhouses. A lot of effort has been put in to making Westerners feel more comfortable. Some of the food is really good, tasting as good as you'll get back home. One night I had a proper thin crust Italian pizza, which was made by Nepalese hands but was the best pizza I had eaten in a good while. There are hundreds of Nepalese employed here in the art of imitating Western cuisine.
And it's not just food, music is replicated too. On a walk down the main street our first night we heard bloody U2 being blared out from Club Amsterdam café by an all Nepalese cover band. There are a handful of coverbands here, who rotate between a few different venues, playing Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Jimi Hendirx, U2 and plenty other covers. And as cover bands go, they're not bad. Seeing a pony tailed Nepalese rocker pull off a Hendrix guitar solo is definitely one sight I didn't expect in Nepal. Maybe they should put that image on the Lonely Planet cover.
On probably our best night in Pokhara we even discovered a Jazz bar. We had a fun few drinks with a Canadian and two Israeli girls we met inside who were volunteering at a local orphanage. They were the only other people inside the place. But despite this lack of an audience, and to my complete surprise, four Nepalese guys took to the stage and started banging out some decent sounding jazz.
The drummer in particular was exceptional. Encourage by our enthusiastic applause, they played on past last call, and had to be asked to stop playing, at which stage we were thrown out. At this stage I'd forgotten where I was (and it wasn't just because of the beers).
And it's not just food, music is replicated too. On a walk down the main street our first night we heard bloody U2 being blared out from Club Amsterdam café by an all Nepalese cover band. There are a handful of coverbands here, who rotate between a few different venues, playing Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Jimi Hendirx, U2 and plenty other covers. And as cover bands go, they're not bad. Seeing a pony tailed Nepalese rocker pull off a Hendrix guitar solo is definitely one sight I didn't expect in Nepal. Maybe they should put that image on the Lonely Planet cover.
On probably our best night in Pokhara we even discovered a Jazz bar. We had a fun few drinks with a Canadian and two Israeli girls we met inside who were volunteering at a local orphanage. They were the only other people inside the place. But despite this lack of an audience, and to my complete surprise, four Nepalese guys took to the stage and started banging out some decent sounding jazz.
The drummer in particular was exceptional. Encourage by our enthusiastic applause, they played on past last call, and had to be asked to stop playing, at which stage we were thrown out. At this stage I'd forgotten where I was (and it wasn't just because of the beers).
It Had to Happen Some Time
I was delighted to get through India without once suffering the dreaded Delhi belly. I was under the impression that once I got past there then the food would be cleaner and safer. I'm not sure where I got this impression from, because it was completely wrong. Nepal is even worse than India for food hygiene.
I'm sorry to say I have first hand experience. My time in Pokhara was ruined by illness. This really grated me, because when you have such a fantastic place outside your room door, it's incredibly frustrating to be stuck behind it. I spent a lot of time pointlessly pondering what had caused my uncomfortable state, but it really could have been anything. Poor Gearóid had a bad case of it too.
I hadn't felt well ever since the bus journey to Pokhara. The first night I just felt under the weather, the second day I felt the same. I even felt a little better after a relaxing kayaking session out on the lake. But the third day it was full on keep close to the bathroom sickness. By that stage I was sick of being sick. I had picked up some Indian strength prescription only pills over the counter (!) in Delhi (I had heard that Ireland doesn't have anything strong enough). They worked. Be careful what you eat in Nepal.
Is food hygiene as dodgy in China?.
I'm sorry to say I have first hand experience. My time in Pokhara was ruined by illness. This really grated me, because when you have such a fantastic place outside your room door, it's incredibly frustrating to be stuck behind it. I spent a lot of time pointlessly pondering what had caused my uncomfortable state, but it really could have been anything. Poor Gearóid had a bad case of it too.
I hadn't felt well ever since the bus journey to Pokhara. The first night I just felt under the weather, the second day I felt the same. I even felt a little better after a relaxing kayaking session out on the lake. But the third day it was full on keep close to the bathroom sickness. By that stage I was sick of being sick. I had picked up some Indian strength prescription only pills over the counter (!) in Delhi (I had heard that Ireland doesn't have anything strong enough). They worked. Be careful what you eat in Nepal.
Is food hygiene as dodgy in China?.
Rice Break
Arriving in Pokhara a few kilometres outside Lakeside, the backpacker hub, on the advice of Lonely Planet we lied to our taxi driver and told him we had a place booked already. This worked, he took us straight to where we wanted to go, and left without a fuss and without trying to bring us to somewhere where he'd make commission.
The area around the bus stop was in old Pokhara, which looked quite similar to a lot of other Nepalese towns we'd passed through. Lakeside however was very Westernised, the long main street lined with eateries offering steak and pizza, with numerous small roads off the main street containing a cluster of hostels. It was also amazingly quiet and clean. After three weeks of India, seeing a street almost clear of people and rubbish was a refreshing sight.
Lakeside gets it's name, amazingly enough, from being located along the southern bank of Phera Lake, giving the place an idyllic atmosphere. Pokhara was once a big stop on the hippie trail, and I could see why. The place still had a chilled out vibe, left over since those hedonistic days. I liked it immediately.
I know I mentioned how much I loved the food in India in a previous post (John and Gearóid loved it too), but I really really needed a break from bloody rice. And Pokhara was the place for it. After finding ourselves a place to stay, our empty stomachs were filled with pizza (me) and steak (the other two). The pizza wasn't great, but with not a rice grain in sight, I was satisfied (as were the other two). One Western splurge is acceptable, we told ourselves.
The area around the bus stop was in old Pokhara, which looked quite similar to a lot of other Nepalese towns we'd passed through. Lakeside however was very Westernised, the long main street lined with eateries offering steak and pizza, with numerous small roads off the main street containing a cluster of hostels. It was also amazingly quiet and clean. After three weeks of India, seeing a street almost clear of people and rubbish was a refreshing sight.
Lakeside gets it's name, amazingly enough, from being located along the southern bank of Phera Lake, giving the place an idyllic atmosphere. Pokhara was once a big stop on the hippie trail, and I could see why. The place still had a chilled out vibe, left over since those hedonistic days. I liked it immediately.
I know I mentioned how much I loved the food in India in a previous post (John and Gearóid loved it too), but I really really needed a break from bloody rice. And Pokhara was the place for it. After finding ourselves a place to stay, our empty stomachs were filled with pizza (me) and steak (the other two). The pizza wasn't great, but with not a rice grain in sight, I was satisfied (as were the other two). One Western splurge is acceptable, we told ourselves.
Best Seat in the House
According to the Lonely Planet Guide to Nepal:
“Bus travel in Nepal poses a significant risk of accident. It's uncommon to drive for more than an hour on any stretch of road without passing the burnt-out shell of a public bus crushed like tin foil into the canyon below. Travelling on an overnight bus trip is probably the most dangerous thing you can do in Nepal, and is certainly a bigger risk than that currently posed by the Maoists and even more dangerous than the bungee jump (only kidding on that one). You are more than 30 times more likely to die in a road accident in Nepal than in most developed countries.
During the course of researching this guide we passed ten fatal bus crashes in one ten-day period, which between them killed over 200 people. Tourist buses are generally safer than public buses but still the message is clear; keep bus travel to a minimum.”
They sounded great! With no trains in Nepal, the only alternative was to fly into Kathmandu, but that would mean gaining 1000m in altitude in a couple of hours, and besides that we wanted to go to Pokhara first. So we took our chances with the buses of death.
Having been promised a tourist bus by the agent in our hotel we booked with, we boarded the bus early the next morning to be greeted by nothing but Nepalese on board. We were directed to the tourist section, which basically meant sitting in the driver's cab area, which was separated from the passengers in the back with a plywood wall and a small door. I got to sit right up front, so I had an unobstructed view of the roads ahead.
The journey had barely begun when a traffic policeman halted it. The main road was closed. After much shouting and gesticulating, the bus driver reluctantly tried to find a detour. Down one unpaved street, we came screeching to a halt. There was a chasm in the road, which was hard to spot in the pre-dawn darkness. The driver's helper got out and inspected it. Too wide. No shit, it was about a metre gap! The batteries in my camera were dead so I was unable to get any photos unfortunately.
A detour from the detour meant we ended up driving through what seemed like one huge quarry for about 10km. I've never gone quadbiking, but I'd imagine a course is similar to what we drove through.
Like the local buses in India, we stopped to pick up and drop off passengers all along the way. The closer we got to Pokhara the busier the bus got. For the last four hours of the journey I was sitting at the windshield, along with a Nepalese lady, her son (neither of whom spoke a word of English), the gearstick (who didn't speak at all) and the driver (who shouted a lot), all cosily squeezed together. This was the best seat in the house to witness the no holding back overtaking around blind corners with a 500 foot unbarriered drop beside the road lunacy of our heroic driver. We got there in the end.
“Bus travel in Nepal poses a significant risk of accident. It's uncommon to drive for more than an hour on any stretch of road without passing the burnt-out shell of a public bus crushed like tin foil into the canyon below. Travelling on an overnight bus trip is probably the most dangerous thing you can do in Nepal, and is certainly a bigger risk than that currently posed by the Maoists and even more dangerous than the bungee jump (only kidding on that one). You are more than 30 times more likely to die in a road accident in Nepal than in most developed countries.
During the course of researching this guide we passed ten fatal bus crashes in one ten-day period, which between them killed over 200 people. Tourist buses are generally safer than public buses but still the message is clear; keep bus travel to a minimum.”
They sounded great! With no trains in Nepal, the only alternative was to fly into Kathmandu, but that would mean gaining 1000m in altitude in a couple of hours, and besides that we wanted to go to Pokhara first. So we took our chances with the buses of death.
Having been promised a tourist bus by the agent in our hotel we booked with, we boarded the bus early the next morning to be greeted by nothing but Nepalese on board. We were directed to the tourist section, which basically meant sitting in the driver's cab area, which was separated from the passengers in the back with a plywood wall and a small door. I got to sit right up front, so I had an unobstructed view of the roads ahead.
The journey had barely begun when a traffic policeman halted it. The main road was closed. After much shouting and gesticulating, the bus driver reluctantly tried to find a detour. Down one unpaved street, we came screeching to a halt. There was a chasm in the road, which was hard to spot in the pre-dawn darkness. The driver's helper got out and inspected it. Too wide. No shit, it was about a metre gap! The batteries in my camera were dead so I was unable to get any photos unfortunately.
A detour from the detour meant we ended up driving through what seemed like one huge quarry for about 10km. I've never gone quadbiking, but I'd imagine a course is similar to what we drove through.
Like the local buses in India, we stopped to pick up and drop off passengers all along the way. The closer we got to Pokhara the busier the bus got. For the last four hours of the journey I was sitting at the windshield, along with a Nepalese lady, her son (neither of whom spoke a word of English), the gearstick (who didn't speak at all) and the driver (who shouted a lot), all cosily squeezed together. This was the best seat in the house to witness the no holding back overtaking around blind corners with a 500 foot unbarriered drop beside the road lunacy of our heroic driver. We got there in the end.
Next Country Please
India to Nepal was my first overland (non-EU) border crossing, and I wasn't sure what to expect. As it turned out, Nepal proved easier to get into than the Bróg on a Saturday night.
With no bag or security check to speak of, we actually entered the country with no visa, and had to ask at the tourist office for the location of the visa office. Backtracking to the visa office, we paid our US$40 and had our passports stamped within 15 minutes. American border patrol it ain't.
Our first task in our new country was to swap our Indian rupees for Nepalese. We were delighted to learn that one Nepalese rupee is equivalent to one (Euro) cent, making converting prices to Euro a sinch. 100 Nepalese rupees equals €1. We weren't as pleased with the actual Nepalese notes. It's very difficult to differentiate between any note smaller than 1000 rupees, with many notes of the same value having their own variations. To make matters worse, the Nepalese government has introduced new plastic notes with references to the royal family removed, due to the removal of the monarchy from power in Nepal a couple of years ago.
Compared to India, the country seemed more geared for tourism from the start. Having a very helpful tourist office close by when we entered the country was the first sign of this (tourist offices were thin on the ground in India). While we were queuing for our currency exchange, a begging child was chased away by an employee with a pair of pliers! I'm not condoning this treatment of the child, just pointing out that it would never happen in India.
Making our way to a town called Bhairawa 4km from the border where we were to stay overnight, another main thing we noticed was: bars! Alcohol adverts were strewn across many buildings, which, coming from a country where we were often asked to hide our beer bottles under the table, was a comforting sight.
We no longer had to feel guilty about asking for a beer, and it showed.
With no bag or security check to speak of, we actually entered the country with no visa, and had to ask at the tourist office for the location of the visa office. Backtracking to the visa office, we paid our US$40 and had our passports stamped within 15 minutes. American border patrol it ain't.
Our first task in our new country was to swap our Indian rupees for Nepalese. We were delighted to learn that one Nepalese rupee is equivalent to one (Euro) cent, making converting prices to Euro a sinch. 100 Nepalese rupees equals €1. We weren't as pleased with the actual Nepalese notes. It's very difficult to differentiate between any note smaller than 1000 rupees, with many notes of the same value having their own variations. To make matters worse, the Nepalese government has introduced new plastic notes with references to the royal family removed, due to the removal of the monarchy from power in Nepal a couple of years ago.
Compared to India, the country seemed more geared for tourism from the start. Having a very helpful tourist office close by when we entered the country was the first sign of this (tourist offices were thin on the ground in India). While we were queuing for our currency exchange, a begging child was chased away by an employee with a pair of pliers! I'm not condoning this treatment of the child, just pointing out that it would never happen in India.
Making our way to a town called Bhairawa 4km from the border where we were to stay overnight, another main thing we noticed was: bars! Alcohol adverts were strewn across many buildings, which, coming from a country where we were often asked to hide our beer bottles under the table, was a comforting sight.
We no longer had to feel guilty about asking for a beer, and it showed.
Sunday 8 March 2009
Goodbye India
Having haggled down to an acceptable price before the journey, the rickshaw driver that took us to the train station for the night train out of Varanasi played the “I have no change” trick. The change involved was only 10 rupees, but this, along with all the other hassle we had, meant we left the city with a bad taste in our mouths.
Don't be afraid to visit there just because my account however. The city itself has a nice relaxed atmosphere and is beautiful in parts, and our experiences were as much down to bad luck as anything else. It was just a shame that, in our three weeks in India, the only place where we really felt targeted as Westerners was our last stop.
Our final journey in India was also one of the most comfortable, switching to a hired car at the last train stop, Gorakhpur, to bring us to the edge of this country and the gateway to our next, Nepal.
Out of all the countries on our itinerary, India was the one I held the most apprehension for. Looking back now, I can't even remember why this was the case. India surprised me. I really enjoyed it, the food, the rickshaw journeys, the scenery, the history...it all adds up to a superb three weeks. Three weeks! We experienced and saw so much, it felt like so much longer. Not a bad start at all.
Don't be afraid to visit there just because my account however. The city itself has a nice relaxed atmosphere and is beautiful in parts, and our experiences were as much down to bad luck as anything else. It was just a shame that, in our three weeks in India, the only place where we really felt targeted as Westerners was our last stop.
Our final journey in India was also one of the most comfortable, switching to a hired car at the last train stop, Gorakhpur, to bring us to the edge of this country and the gateway to our next, Nepal.
Out of all the countries on our itinerary, India was the one I held the most apprehension for. Looking back now, I can't even remember why this was the case. India surprised me. I really enjoyed it, the food, the rickshaw journeys, the scenery, the history...it all adds up to a superb three weeks. Three weeks! We experienced and saw so much, it felt like so much longer. Not a bad start at all.
Billu Barber
No, I didn't give in and decide to get a haircut. Billu Barber is the title of the “outstanding film the world is talking about”, according to the posters, and also the film we went to see to sample some bollywood.
The (Varanasi) cinema we were in was as clean as any back home, and hence the cleanest place we saw in our three weeks in India. In many ways it was better than Irish cinemas, with adjustable backrests and the option to order food/drinks from a porter, brought straight to your seat. Seating was also categorised, with the more central seats costing more, and with typical Indian fussiness the seats were numbered. For a film that wasn't necessarily a guy movie, it was strange in that the audience was almost exclusively male, with maybe one or two females in the whole cinema.
As for the film itself, well let's just say it lived up to my Bollywood expectations. With the film being entirely in Hindi, bar the odd song chorus, guessing the plot was where we had the most fun. Our attempted synopsis is: Billu Barber is a barber in a small town. Sahir Kahn is a movie megastar, and hugely admired throughout the world (India). Sahir Kahn just so happens to be shooting a movie in the small town Billu Barber lives in. And it turns out that Billu Barber is Sahir Kahn's long lost brother. We're honestly convinced that was the storyline.
Throw in random singing and dancing scenes and that was what we watched. At times it was so cheesy (“Sahir Kahn, he's the man!”) that I had to work overtime to contain my laughter, for fear of offending the two young Indians sitting next to me who were really enjoying it. I think us Westerners can be content with Hollywood for now.
The (Varanasi) cinema we were in was as clean as any back home, and hence the cleanest place we saw in our three weeks in India. In many ways it was better than Irish cinemas, with adjustable backrests and the option to order food/drinks from a porter, brought straight to your seat. Seating was also categorised, with the more central seats costing more, and with typical Indian fussiness the seats were numbered. For a film that wasn't necessarily a guy movie, it was strange in that the audience was almost exclusively male, with maybe one or two females in the whole cinema.
As for the film itself, well let's just say it lived up to my Bollywood expectations. With the film being entirely in Hindi, bar the odd song chorus, guessing the plot was where we had the most fun. Our attempted synopsis is: Billu Barber is a barber in a small town. Sahir Kahn is a movie megastar, and hugely admired throughout the world (India). Sahir Kahn just so happens to be shooting a movie in the small town Billu Barber lives in. And it turns out that Billu Barber is Sahir Kahn's long lost brother. We're honestly convinced that was the storyline.
Throw in random singing and dancing scenes and that was what we watched. At times it was so cheesy (“Sahir Kahn, he's the man!”) that I had to work overtime to contain my laughter, for fear of offending the two young Indians sitting next to me who were really enjoying it. I think us Westerners can be content with Hollywood for now.
Scam City
Strolling down the Varanasi ghats in the sun, John and I came across Gearóid, who had wandered ahead earlier, face down getting a traditional Indian massage. Spotting me observing my friend, I was targeted instantly by another massager with an adjacent table.
Before I could even say no he was massaging my head and hands. I said no to a full body massage, even at 250 rupees, but he insisted that it would be much cheaper. What followed was 30 minutes or so of discomfort, sometimes pain. Then at the end he insisted on 500 rupees. I said no way, and as I argued with him he tried to keep massaging me, with a few of his onlooking mates in my field of vision. I had to fight him off. Another bloody scam. I paid 400 in the end. Gearóid and John were happy with their massages, but I was incensed. Between our farcical arrival and now this, Varanasi was not leaving a good impression on me.
Before I could even say no he was massaging my head and hands. I said no to a full body massage, even at 250 rupees, but he insisted that it would be much cheaper. What followed was 30 minutes or so of discomfort, sometimes pain. Then at the end he insisted on 500 rupees. I said no way, and as I argued with him he tried to keep massaging me, with a few of his onlooking mates in my field of vision. I had to fight him off. Another bloody scam. I paid 400 in the end. Gearóid and John were happy with their massages, but I was incensed. Between our farcical arrival and now this, Varanasi was not leaving a good impression on me.
Hello, Boat?
After the trouble we had on arrival, wandering about was all we were motivated for on our first night in Varanasi, the holiest of Indian cities with the revered river Ganges flowing through it's side.
The Ganges holds huge importance in both Hindu and Muslim faiths, with huge numbers of pilgrims from both visiting Varanasi every year. For many Hindus it's their final pilgrimage. Hindus believe that if you die here you achieve automatic enlightenment, the ultimate goal for any Hindu. Hence you have the odd phenomenon of many elderly or very ill Hindus coming to the city as a place to see out their final days. Seeing bodies openly cremated on the banks of the ganges is a sight that I won't forget in a hurry.
But Varanasi has some life too. The maze of narrow pedestrianised streets are great fun to explore, packed with people, cows and flying motorbikes. Along the ghats on the banks of the Ganges, we saw everything from cows and people bathing to clothes being washed as well as the aforementioned cremations, all along the same two kilometre stretch of river.
No visit to Varanasi is complete without a boat trip on the Ganges, preferably at sunrise, so says the Rough Guide to India. And you can't walk 30 seconds down the ghats without hearing the words “Hello, boat?”. So on our last morning we struggled out of bed at 6.15 and hit the water.
In a way it was surreal. On the river banks you have pilgrims and locals giving worship and going about their business, and on the river itself you have dozens of boats full of tourists watching and photographing them. Add to that the fact that our hired rower was about 12 years old and incapable of rowing three giant Irishmen around, and you get an idea of the scene. John even attempted to row himself.
After he spun the boat around in a circle for a little while we decided it'd be best to give the 12 year old a little rest and leave it in his little hands.
The Ganges holds huge importance in both Hindu and Muslim faiths, with huge numbers of pilgrims from both visiting Varanasi every year. For many Hindus it's their final pilgrimage. Hindus believe that if you die here you achieve automatic enlightenment, the ultimate goal for any Hindu. Hence you have the odd phenomenon of many elderly or very ill Hindus coming to the city as a place to see out their final days. Seeing bodies openly cremated on the banks of the ganges is a sight that I won't forget in a hurry.
But Varanasi has some life too. The maze of narrow pedestrianised streets are great fun to explore, packed with people, cows and flying motorbikes. Along the ghats on the banks of the Ganges, we saw everything from cows and people bathing to clothes being washed as well as the aforementioned cremations, all along the same two kilometre stretch of river.
No visit to Varanasi is complete without a boat trip on the Ganges, preferably at sunrise, so says the Rough Guide to India. And you can't walk 30 seconds down the ghats without hearing the words “Hello, boat?”. So on our last morning we struggled out of bed at 6.15 and hit the water.
In a way it was surreal. On the river banks you have pilgrims and locals giving worship and going about their business, and on the river itself you have dozens of boats full of tourists watching and photographing them. Add to that the fact that our hired rower was about 12 years old and incapable of rowing three giant Irishmen around, and you get an idea of the scene. John even attempted to row himself.
After he spun the boat around in a circle for a little while we decided it'd be best to give the 12 year old a little rest and leave it in his little hands.
Welcome to Varanasi
After a reasonably comfortable overnight train journey (I got some sleep this time), we arrived at Varanasi station looking forward to relaxing for a day or three. Our schedule had been close to hectic for the past few days, and this was our last stop in India, so we needed a bit of down time before tackling Nepal. As it turned out however our search for a hostel was anything but relaxing.
A seemingly nice Nepalese fellow gave us a good price (50 rupees) for the rickshaw journey. He wasn't the driver as it turned out, he rode in front alongside, but no harm, the price was good. The Nepalese fellow, or gobshite as I'm going to term him henceforth, suggested a hotel he knew well, promising everything we were looking for and inour price range. It sounded good. When we were pulling up outside the entrance, gobshite said that actually it's a bit more expensive, but very nice.
Price is our priority, and we reluctantly called in to the place. Too expensive. Cue John justifiably getting very angry with gobshite, throwing the 50 rupees his way and storming off, with Gearóid and myself in tow. Gobshite proceeded to stalk us, asking why were we walking the wrong way, the hostels were in the other direction apparently. After five minutes, we realised we had no idea where we were. Gobshite was still around. Realising our lack of options, we demanded to be taken to Yogi's. He agreed, at no extra cost. I thought this was nice of him, but John was still suspicous.
We pulled up to the hostel. The sign matched the name on the book, but looked very temporary. We had a look at a room. Not great, the price was too high, and the hostel manager didn't make a good impression. Not to mention gobshite was pushing the hostel the whole time we were there. We'd had enough of him.
Finding a nearby main street, we tried to get our bearings, gobshite still in tow! We asked a shop owner to show where we were on the map. Nowhere near Yogi's! The hostel was a replica! And gobshite even had the cheek to point to the real Yogi's when we asked him to show us where we were on our map. At that point I wanted to turn to gobshite and say things I wouldn't publish here, but he had conveniently vanished.
After a 2km walk with our backpacks in the sun (we weren't chancing another rickshaw), we found the real Yogi's. Close to it was another recommended place, which we had a look at first. It wasn't great. We told the owner that we were going to check out Yogi's around the corner, and he told us that someone died there today. Great, more lies we thought. But around the corner we went to be faced with a group of police officers and some onlookers outside Yogi's. One of the staff had committed suicide there that morning.
After an exhaustive and exhausting couple of hours we finally found a suitable place for a suitable price. We've had better arrivals.
A seemingly nice Nepalese fellow gave us a good price (50 rupees) for the rickshaw journey. He wasn't the driver as it turned out, he rode in front alongside, but no harm, the price was good. The Nepalese fellow, or gobshite as I'm going to term him henceforth, suggested a hotel he knew well, promising everything we were looking for and inour price range. It sounded good. When we were pulling up outside the entrance, gobshite said that actually it's a bit more expensive, but very nice.
Price is our priority, and we reluctantly called in to the place. Too expensive. Cue John justifiably getting very angry with gobshite, throwing the 50 rupees his way and storming off, with Gearóid and myself in tow. Gobshite proceeded to stalk us, asking why were we walking the wrong way, the hostels were in the other direction apparently. After five minutes, we realised we had no idea where we were. Gobshite was still around. Realising our lack of options, we demanded to be taken to Yogi's. He agreed, at no extra cost. I thought this was nice of him, but John was still suspicous.
We pulled up to the hostel. The sign matched the name on the book, but looked very temporary. We had a look at a room. Not great, the price was too high, and the hostel manager didn't make a good impression. Not to mention gobshite was pushing the hostel the whole time we were there. We'd had enough of him.
Finding a nearby main street, we tried to get our bearings, gobshite still in tow! We asked a shop owner to show where we were on the map. Nowhere near Yogi's! The hostel was a replica! And gobshite even had the cheek to point to the real Yogi's when we asked him to show us where we were on our map. At that point I wanted to turn to gobshite and say things I wouldn't publish here, but he had conveniently vanished.
After a 2km walk with our backpacks in the sun (we weren't chancing another rickshaw), we found the real Yogi's. Close to it was another recommended place, which we had a look at first. It wasn't great. We told the owner that we were going to check out Yogi's around the corner, and he told us that someone died there today. Great, more lies we thought. But around the corner we went to be faced with a group of police officers and some onlookers outside Yogi's. One of the staff had committed suicide there that morning.
After an exhaustive and exhausting couple of hours we finally found a suitable place for a suitable price. We've had better arrivals.
Assimilating Agra
The number one reason any traveller visits Agra is the Taj Mahal, that's beyond doubt. But read the Rough Guide to India's description of the city itself, and it's hard not to develop a sort of Agra-phobia before you even arrive there. Corrupt rickshaw drivers, over zealous touts and begging await you at every corner, at least that's the impression that I got. Maybe it's because we expected the worst that it wasn't so bad when we arrived. Or maybe we've been here long enough and gained enough confidence to handle these nuisances.
We arrived at our cheap dump of a hostel in the Taj Ganj (the backpacker area adjacent to the Taj Mahal itself) too late in the evening to do any sightseeing. From the hostel roof, we could just about make out the Taj through the dark haze at night, it's silhouetted features instantly recognisable. Even this set off a small tingle of excitement in me.
Agra Fort
I do like to save the best till last, so with three days planned in Agra the Taj could wait. The next day we visited Agra Fort, getting an excellent insight into the huge amount of history at Agra from our guide. This was were the Mughal empire was centred, before the British slowly drained their power and seized it for themselves.
Battersea Power Station
We also visited Akbar's Tomb, Akbar being the Mughal emperor I hold the most respect for, because he managed to create a peaceful unity between the main religions of India (Hinduism and Islam) during his reign (it was the British that destroyed this unity, which still hasn't been recovered to this day, the recent Mumbai attacks being an example of this). Despite over-pushy guides inside, the tomb complex itself was mightily impressive too, it's superb symmetrical design whetting my appetite for the supreme example of Mughal (and perhaps all) architecture – the Taj Mahal.
Like everyone else, I'd seen pictures of it a million times before. And like everyone else that's actually visited it, I'll tell you that it's even more impressive with your own eyes. The sheer size of it alone surprised me, and it has a presence that I've never seen from any other building. If you can bite your tongue and get over the extortionate entrance fee (750 rupees – most sights cost 100 to 200 – and until 2001 it was just 20 rupees!), it's a must see while you're in the country.
Agra is similar to Delhi in that it's overcrowded, over-polluted and sprawling, so after the Taj it was time to move on. Before we boarded the night train to Varanasi however there was one last unexpected highlight, a Hindu wedding procession, complete with unhappy looking groom (arranged marriage), running right past our hostel just as we arrived back after dinner. Gearóid in particular got carried away with the joy of it all, joining the dancing in the streets. You can see him try to escape the procession in the video below.
We arrived at our cheap dump of a hostel in the Taj Ganj (the backpacker area adjacent to the Taj Mahal itself) too late in the evening to do any sightseeing. From the hostel roof, we could just about make out the Taj through the dark haze at night, it's silhouetted features instantly recognisable. Even this set off a small tingle of excitement in me.
Agra Fort
I do like to save the best till last, so with three days planned in Agra the Taj could wait. The next day we visited Agra Fort, getting an excellent insight into the huge amount of history at Agra from our guide. This was were the Mughal empire was centred, before the British slowly drained their power and seized it for themselves.
Battersea Power Station
We also visited Akbar's Tomb, Akbar being the Mughal emperor I hold the most respect for, because he managed to create a peaceful unity between the main religions of India (Hinduism and Islam) during his reign (it was the British that destroyed this unity, which still hasn't been recovered to this day, the recent Mumbai attacks being an example of this). Despite over-pushy guides inside, the tomb complex itself was mightily impressive too, it's superb symmetrical design whetting my appetite for the supreme example of Mughal (and perhaps all) architecture – the Taj Mahal.
Like everyone else, I'd seen pictures of it a million times before. And like everyone else that's actually visited it, I'll tell you that it's even more impressive with your own eyes. The sheer size of it alone surprised me, and it has a presence that I've never seen from any other building. If you can bite your tongue and get over the extortionate entrance fee (750 rupees – most sights cost 100 to 200 – and until 2001 it was just 20 rupees!), it's a must see while you're in the country.
Agra is similar to Delhi in that it's overcrowded, over-polluted and sprawling, so after the Taj it was time to move on. Before we boarded the night train to Varanasi however there was one last unexpected highlight, a Hindu wedding procession, complete with unhappy looking groom (arranged marriage), running right past our hostel just as we arrived back after dinner. Gearóid in particular got carried away with the joy of it all, joining the dancing in the streets. You can see him try to escape the procession in the video below.
Training
We had yet to experience Indian trains, something we were keen to do, and it turned out this was the best way to get to our next stop, Agra.
Booking a seat on an Indian train is an inefficient and frustrating process. First, you have to go to the train station the day before your departure, and fill out a paper form. You have to know your train number and name, not to mention which one of the bewildering array of classes you want. Then, the station employee types the information on your form into a computer, and tells you whether there are seats (or sleepers/beds) available or not. If there are, then he prints out your ticket.
But this ticket doesn't have any seat numbers on it. So you have to go back to the train station on the same day as the train, and go to the reservation office. Here, you present your ticket to one of the staff, they go into the back and come out a couple of minutes later with your seat numbers written in biro on the ticket. If this reservation office closes at 5pm, say, and your train is at 10pm, then that's three trips to the railway station just to make one train journey. I'll never complain about Iarnród Éireann's website again.
The day before the tiger safari, we went to Sawai Madhopur train station to book our ticket to Agra. Our rickshaw driver came to the ticket desk with us to help (and for a good tip). For some unknown reason though, the ticket desk was closed for the rest of the day. In just about decipherable English, the rickshaw driver explained that he could get us a seat on a train to Agra tomorrow. He would bring us to the station, and take care of things there. This sounded good to us.
After the safari the following day, the driver brought us to the train station. That was about the only part of his plan that he managed to pull off successfully. He led me to the counter, where he ordered three tickets and I paid. Then we were led to the platform, where we were handed over to a station porter of some sort. When our train arrived, he started looking for the conductor. He never found him, and the train was about to pull off, so he just shunted us into the nearest door, and still demanded a tip for the service.
We ended up in a coach with exclusively reserved seats and no standing. Cue awkwardness and stern stares as the three standing tourists and their rucksacks blocked up the passageway. To make things worse the conductor eventually showed his face to inspect tickets, and charged us a fortune (in Indian terms) to upgrade our useless tickets. He also ordered an elderly Indian couple to compress their sitting space to allow me to sit my arse down. I kept a low profile for the rest of the journey.
Booking a seat on an Indian train is an inefficient and frustrating process. First, you have to go to the train station the day before your departure, and fill out a paper form. You have to know your train number and name, not to mention which one of the bewildering array of classes you want. Then, the station employee types the information on your form into a computer, and tells you whether there are seats (or sleepers/beds) available or not. If there are, then he prints out your ticket.
But this ticket doesn't have any seat numbers on it. So you have to go back to the train station on the same day as the train, and go to the reservation office. Here, you present your ticket to one of the staff, they go into the back and come out a couple of minutes later with your seat numbers written in biro on the ticket. If this reservation office closes at 5pm, say, and your train is at 10pm, then that's three trips to the railway station just to make one train journey. I'll never complain about Iarnród Éireann's website again.
The day before the tiger safari, we went to Sawai Madhopur train station to book our ticket to Agra. Our rickshaw driver came to the ticket desk with us to help (and for a good tip). For some unknown reason though, the ticket desk was closed for the rest of the day. In just about decipherable English, the rickshaw driver explained that he could get us a seat on a train to Agra tomorrow. He would bring us to the station, and take care of things there. This sounded good to us.
After the safari the following day, the driver brought us to the train station. That was about the only part of his plan that he managed to pull off successfully. He led me to the counter, where he ordered three tickets and I paid. Then we were led to the platform, where we were handed over to a station porter of some sort. When our train arrived, he started looking for the conductor. He never found him, and the train was about to pull off, so he just shunted us into the nearest door, and still demanded a tip for the service.
We ended up in a coach with exclusively reserved seats and no standing. Cue awkwardness and stern stares as the three standing tourists and their rucksacks blocked up the passageway. To make things worse the conductor eventually showed his face to inspect tickets, and charged us a fortune (in Indian terms) to upgrade our useless tickets. He also ordered an elderly Indian couple to compress their sitting space to allow me to sit my arse down. I kept a low profile for the rest of the journey.
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