Travels in Nepal
I visited Nepal in April 1997. The purpose of my adventure, as a component of my studies in agriculture at university, was to learn everything I could about the local tea industry. I got a lot more than I bargained for, and, had I known at the time what physical and emotional exhaustion awaited me, I can't say for sure that I would have embarked on this most fantastic of journeys.I am a woman who stands just over six feet tall, and in '97 I had very short hair. This situation created all sorts of gender-identity confrontations in Australian society, but in Nepal, even wearing ankle length skirts, I was treated like an out-and-out freak show. My appearance, teamed with my big black camera, ensured me the allure of the Pied Piper of Kathmandu.
Quite large groups of children followed me almost everywhere in Nepal
In and around Kathmandu, where the youngsters are used to dealing with tourists and have a working knowledge of English, I was haunted by the insistent query, "Are you Sir, or Madam?". When I finally gave in to a particularly persistent pair of young shoe shiners and agreed to pay them to polish my hiking boots, the job took a good deal longer than it should have. First, I was led away to a back alley in an attempt to avoid the "police problem". Then, I waited in amused silence as the boys examined my boots for some time, before they finally announced, sagely, and in a complimentary tone, that I had "man-sized feet". Only then did they get on with the job.
My quest for information involved a journey east from Kathmandu to my host family's tea estate in the hills bordering India's famous Darjeeling tea region. I was surprised to find that, being far from any cities, and well outside the tourist trekking routes, no map of the region was available for purchase. I was daunted to find that the trip, although less than 250 kilometres as the crow flies from Kathmandu, would involve 22 hours (each way!) in bus travel.
And what incredible vehicles we risked our lives in!
The simple figure which sends a cold shiver through most Westerners, and is known as the swastika, in Nepal retains its original meaning as a symbol of prosperity and good luck. Along with painted-on eyes, and tinsel, and the sobering bumper slogan proclaiming: "Drive Slow - Live Long", swastikas are a popular form of decoration on the beastly, lively buses and trucks that wind their ways around the stunning and very hilly country.
The roads are terrifyingly narrow, unsealed, and pot-holed. Nevertheless, overtaking at speed on hairpin bends is standard procedure, even when visibility has been reduced to almost zero by fog so thick that walking through it leaves you as wet as if you had walked through a rain shower.
It was late afternoon by the time we reached the last bus stop – still some 16 kilometres short of our destination.
We decided to stay overnight in the local “guest house” (a grand label belying the reality of those tiny, unlit, pitch black rooms). I was grateful for the rest, though, and dreading the long walk ahead of us.
We were heading for Nepal's hills, and it sounded like bad news to me. But for the time being, I was delighted with the prospect of a good night's sleep.
I woke up early the next morning and threw open the wooden shutters to let some light into my room. To my astonishment, I was met by the most breath-taking and beautiful view I have ever seen. I felt like a five year old on Christmas morning as I started jumping around and yelling at my travelling companion, Chris, to come and see the Himalayas where, the night before, there had only been dense fog. That moment was undoubtedly the highlight of my stay in Nepal.
The view from my window - of course, the photo doesn't do it justice.
You can just make out the white line of the Himalayas in the background;
and that white stuff immediately behind the houses is cloud
I had been apprehensive about walking 16 km over the foothills of the Himalayas from the time I heard that task was ahead of me. The intuitive side of me treated comments from various people about the walk being ”flat” with scepticism. Indeed, I would have to say that when a person comes from the land of Mt Everest, and lives his or her life at an altitude of 2,000+ metres, "flat" obviously has a different meaning.
I was travelling with a Nepalese guide-cum-“interpreter” (Niraj), and my friend, Chris, from uni who was the quintessential buff-and-bronzed Aussie male. They strode up and down hills with frightening speed, while I trudged along behind, quickly becoming oblivious to the Himalayas displaying themselves in all their pure, icy glory to the north as I fought for every pathetic, shallow breath, convinced with each up-hill slog that this one would finally elevate my heart rate beyond human endurance. I was succumbing to altitude sickness.
Hanging out above the cloud line.
Coming from a country whose highest peak (Kosciusko) reaches only 2230 metres, this is really something!
It was cold, but walking with a 15kg pack proved to be thirsty work nevertheless - and I had no water, plus only one miserably wet jumper (the "heavy duty" water bottle I'd bought the day before had leaked its contents through my bag). I thought I was going to die.
Of course, we finally made it to the tea estate, which was typical of Nepalese plantations, being on precariously steep and painstakingly terraced hillsides. Even so, my joy at reaching our destination, seemingly against all odds, was very nearly overshadowed by my constant discomfort. In the eight days that we were away from Kathmandu, we saw nothing even vaguely resembling a toilet or shower. In remote Australia (and by remote, I mean anywhere less populous than one quarter-acre block per family) not having access to a standard toilet does not represent a problem. In Nepal, there is no "bush" to be discreet behind, and every square metre seems to be occupied by people, dwellings, or both. When it comes to bathroom-type affairs, modesty is, apparently, an unaffordable luxury in Nepal.
So it was that I came to be washing my hair under the community's tap in the middle of the village's "main street". It was getting dark, and the water was bitterly cold on this already bitterly cold evening. I was, however, heartened by the fact that neither my foreign appearance nor the adverse conditions had deterred my showering companion - a rather handsome, hairy and quite enormous black pig. It was certainly a first for me, and it probably was for him, too.
The work that Chris and I had come to do faded into insignificance next to my physical exhaustion and complete sensory overload. Nevertheless, we did arrange the necessary interviews with the relevant people. These interviews were held in a windowless room, with only the meagre light from a 20 watt bulb to take notes by. To add to the challenge, Niraj was simply not up to the task of interpreting. His services had been lent to us by his regular employer, and our Nepalese host - and for the record, I don't think he was happy or at ease playing interpreter for us.
The interviews unfolded thus: Chris would ask a straightforward question about the tea plantation. Niraj would convey the question to our interview subject, who would, in response, expound at some length. Then the three of us would look to Niraj, who invariably translated that long answer as either "Yes" or "No". Hence, my job as notetaker was made easy, even if I couldn't see well enough to write.
On the day of our planned departure from the tea plantation, any prospect of leaving was put out of the question by a terrific hail storm, accompanied by very heavy rain which turned that main street into a river in five minutes flat. I've never seen anything like it. But the "river" subsided as quickly as it had appeared, and the next day dawned clear.
I watch (and am watched) as the main street -
a so-called "good-weather road" - turns into a river
The 16 kilometre walk back to the bus stop was easier than I had dared to dream. My body had obviously adjusted to the altitude.
The return bus trip to Kathmandu was relatively relaxing. We passed a small group of survivors from a truck that had gone over a typically sheer edge, with nothing but narrow terraces between the road and the valley floor hundreds of metres below. Miraculously, only one of the five people on board had been killed. We also had to change buses when a bald tyre blew, but all things considered, and compared to the many hair raising tales told by back packers we met in our travels, we had apparently got off lightly.
It was only days later, when Chris was retelling our travel stories that I learned of The Accident. My eyes widened when he first mentioned it. I thought he was joking. But no, apparently I had woken up from a deep sleep when I heard the metallic crunch preceded by a squeal of tyres as we slammed into a stationary car and were nearly thrown from our seats. I allegedly asked what was happening, and on being told that we had just had a smash, went promptly back to sleep and immediately forgot the whole episode. I guess there was no point in worrying, and I was very tired.
I had arrived in Nepal on what was, in Australia, Easter Sunday. I flew out fourteen days later, on Bisket Jatra, the Nepalese New Year, 2054 - an inauspicious day to fly according to my incredibly accommodating but superstitious host family in Kathmandu, putting them in something of a quandary. I suppose they decided that, because I was neither Hindu nor Nepalese, it would not in fact be bad luck to drive me to the airport. I was, however, somewhat relieved to touch down safely in Australia.