The road to hell

Tuesday, 04/12/2012 – 173 A.D.

We had to get to Pokhara today. There were three ways in which we could do this:

1.      Local bus. Mobile death traps that we’d have to share with people who travel with livestock. Luggage bound to go missing. Definitely not an option.

2.      Tourist Bus. So named because tourists do tend to take it. More like a coach than a bus, but not the most modern in the world. Leaves at 7 a.m. and takes 9 hours. Probably not an option.

3.      Microbus. A Toyota Hiace minibus with about 12 seats. More modern than the above two, but the drivers have a reputation for tearing along the roads, though the vehicles at least have good brakes. Leaves every 20 minutes or until they are full. An option.

In fact, we’d decided a couple of days ago that we’d take the microbus as we’d seen them get better reviews than the other choices. And if you stay in a hotel where breakfast is provided then you want to take advantage of it, right? At breakfast this morning I decided to have the cornflakes, not just to keep the cook happy, but also because I genuinely fancied them. Tim gave them a miss. 

There was still one dilemma to be sorted - hard cash. We'd tried to get money out of a couple of ATMs the previous evening, but hadn't been able to. We put it down to the powercut. But this morning we were still not able to because the power was still off. However, Sujan seemed to think that it wasn't due to power, just that the ATM's themselves weren't working. He said he tried to get cash out the previous day and had to try three different machines. Time was running out for us and the last thing we wanted to do was go on a wild goose chase around Thamel looking for an ATM that actually worked. We had some money left, which we hoped was enough to get us to Pokhara, but if there were any unexpected "charges" along the way we'd be stuffed.

Check these bad boys out. All of the taxis here are these little Suzuki’s. I think they are the only model of car that can get along the narrow Kathmandu streets. We said goodbye to the gang at the Peak Point Hotel and got them to hail one of these. I climbed into the front seat and found the seatbelt, but it was tied in a knot. The driver looked at it and just shook his head. Naturally there were no seatbelts in the back. Then what followed was a hairy ride through streets that really should be pedestrian-only, with the driver using his horn as if a nervous habit. He must have pressed it 300 times on the 20 minute journey. 

The taxi pulled up at the bus park, which was essentially just a chaotic length of pavement to park against. Before the vehicle had even stopped moving we had people shouting through the window about where we wanted to go. “Sunauli? Sunauli?” “Pokhara.” We were pointed a few metres along the pavement, but none of the minibuses had signs next to them. The whole scene was one of shouting and pointing and engines revving. I was already starting to wonder whether I should have skipped the breakfast and gone for the Tourist Bus!

It didn’t take long for us to find a guy going to Pokhara and he quoted his price of 465 NPR each. We could only haggle him down to 450, but for a change I really didn’t feel like bartering, just wanted to get my bum on a seat. Our luggage was immediately heaved up onto the roof and we asked the guy several times if it would be strapped down. What do you think – does that look safe to you, given the disastrous state of Nepal’s highways?

The guy coming down the ladder we referred to as “Bag Man”. He works in partnership with the driver, obviously loading and unloading the luggage, but he would also spend a large amount of the trip hanging out of the window shouting, “Pokhara-Pokhara?” to anyone who might want to get on. Tim and I felt rather pleased with ourselves getting a two person seat one row in front of the back. There were only a couple more people on when we boarded, so we thought we’d done alright if the minibus pulled away shortly. Ha! Did the website not say they leave “when they’re full”? That’s exactly the case. Driver had the engine running, but he wasn’t going anywhere as Bag Man darted amongst the crowd to find more would-be passengers. When we did finally get going, we simply drove round to the next street, couldn’t find anyone there, then came back to where we’d started. About 20 minutes after we first got on, the Microbus was full and finally we could get going. Gawd knows how long they would have hung around until they'd filled the vehicle! 

The journey wasn’t actually that bad to start with, considering there were 14 blokes crammed into a minibus. The mountainous sights were spectacular and I put on my iPod to tune out, then fell asleep in the unorthodox leaning-on-hand position. Tim then fell asleep once I’d woken up and during that time I witnessed a lorry overturned onto its side, as well as one of the local buses perched halfway over the edge of a ravine. I didn’t tell him of these sights until later, and he said he’d decided not to tell me of the amount of broken crash barriers he’d seen while I’d been asleep. Driver seemed to be handling things okay, but one wrong manoeuvre over the wrong pothole and we could have been in big trouble! Listen to your iPod, James, pretend everything is fine…

A couple of hours into the drive we stopped off at the halfway house where there was the option of buying lunch, which we decided against, instead sticking with our healthy mix of biscuits, chocolate and crisps. It was a half hour break in a very dramatic spot, though naturally we had no idea where the hell we were. We were just glad to have made it that far! And it was reassuring to see that our luggage was still fixed firmly in position.

Things got a little more wacky on the second leg of the journey. Despite the bus being supposedly full, Bag Man kept on shouting, “Pokhara-Pokhara?” out of the window at every village we went through. Eventually he got some takers. But where would they sit? No problem, he either put a length of wood down across the aisle between two seats, or pulled out a stool for someone to sit on. Of course, passengers were alighting along the route, but mostly getting on. At one point there were 20 men packed into this MICRObus! And why was it just men? Were no women travelling that day? 

At one point a guy got on with some kind of traditional Nepalese instrument – a bit like a viola, but played in the same manner as a cello. He was only going to the next village along the road, but paid for his passage by standing at the front of the bus and knocking out a few traditional tunes. As far as authentic experiences go, it was great, and the tunes weren’t that bad, though they didn’t really have choruses, just sounded like the same verse repeated over and over, or maybe just improvised. Either way it was a break from the incessant local radio that Driver insisted on having on.

At another point along the way, high up in the hills, Driver stopped the bus beside a group of large fellows who were sitting at a table. One of them came over to the window to talk to him. It looked like some kind of impromptu checkpoint, which made us a little nervous. Surely this wasn’t a Maoist thing? It didn’t help that most of the other passengers were looking on with some confusion. Hmmm, was it time for some of those unexpected charges that I'd been worried about back when we couldn't get any cash out of the ATMs? Eventually Bag Man got out and handed a piece of paper over to the men at the table and that was that. As we pulled away I looked back to see that the vehicle behind us had also been stopped.

Towards the end of the ride, I started to feel a bit hot, which is unsurprising with so many bods in a smallish bus. I was also rather lethargic, which I put down to falling asleep several times. I needed to get out and move around freely! We arrived at Pokhara about six hours after setting off, including the break for lunch. That wasn’t bad and the Microbus had lived up to its reputation as the fastest public transport for crossing the Prithvi Highway, even though the distance between the two towns is only 108 miles!

We were booked into the Wild Orchid Hotel, just a couple of minutes walk outside the centre of town. After such a crazy journey it was a relief to find it was a nice place – recently-built and clean and modern. And there was a tranquillity in the air, which we got the full benefit of when we got to our room on the fourth floor. Out on the balcony we were treated to wonderful views of the surrounding hills.

Despite this amazing view, I wasn’t feeling too amazing. I was still rather warm and my fatigue wasn’t shifting. Figuring it was due to not having eaten much, I checked my email and shoved a few sweets down my throat, for sugar energy and all that. Bad, bad idea. You know that feeling when you think you’re hungry, but in effect you’re not? That was me, and soon I was starting to feel very ropey indeed. The warmth suddenly gave way to shivering as the nauseous sensation in my belly became worse. As Tim sat out on the balcony drinking in the view, I lay on the bed with the horrible sensation that there was some very bad mail on its way to me in the post.

And then it arrived.

Food poisoning, in all its terrifying glory! Did it have to happen now, so close to the end of this fantastic voyage? Oh man, it hurt! I trust I need say not too much about what I went through – if you’ve been there, you know, and if you haven’t then you’re a lucky little blighter. Time and space took on no meaning for me from that point onwards. Tim was about to go out for his tea, with no doubt at all as to whether I would be joining him. I asked him, nay begged him, to return with some more water and toilet roll. And then for the next few hours I was in that bathroom, at one point taking the duvet in with me so I could try and sleep between “moments”. Upon waking, and feeling like absolute crap, I’d purposely groan so that Tim in the next room knew I was still alive. Bless him for not putting his iPod on to drown out my wailings!

So, how did this happen? There are a couple of theories:

* Breakfast at Peak Point. I had the cornflakes, Tim didn’t. Then again, it could have been my plate of eggs, you just don’t know.

* A dodgy tub of Pringles or a bad batch of chocolate.

* Or not drying my hands when washing them at the facilities at the halfway house, then eating some of the Pringles in the bus some time later.

It’s no fun being ill when you’re abroad. You just want to be back in your own bed, not lying semi-wrapped in a duvet on the floor of a hotel bathroom. That said, if this was going to happen then I am so grateful that it happened in one of the best hotels we’ve been in! As mentioned earlier, the place is clean and modern, and the bathroom is very spacious – it has to be if I can “comfortably” lie down in it. And just imagine if I'd come down with it in the microbus with 19 other blokes? Sometimes in life you really do have to be thankful!

Anyhow, there came a point when I couldn’t go anymore, so I stumbled and shivered my way back into the bedroom and collapsed under the duvet, hoping for some kind of mercy – any kind of mercy – from the coming night…

Wednesday, 05/12/2012 – 174 A.D.

I made it through okay. I had those weird, incomprehensible dreams you get when you’re ill, but I didn’t have to get up to go back to that bathroom. I just felt knackered from lack of food, had a pounding headache and was still a bit spaced out. Plus the old guts were still churning away, but at least I didn’t feel sick anymore – thank The Road!

Tim went down for breakfast, I didn’t. I think it’s only happened once before when only one of us attended – after the infamous night out in Bangkok. Instead I had a lukewarm shower, remembering how we’d ignored the Tripadvisor comment from a former guest that there was no hot water in the shower. After that I just convalesced with the best of them. Tim found some very cheap flights from Kathmandu to Delhi, so that solved our logistical problem of how to get from Nepal to India, which was one less thing to worry about. What a star – not only did he supply me with essentials the previous evening, but he also sorted our transport headache! I quite like having him around. Plus he’s had a couple of bouts of food poisoning in his time, so he’s well aware of the score.

Another less thing to worry about was dirty clothes – I ventured outside of the room to take my laundry down to the front desk. It was a big, wide world out there! And I reckon I can get away with that being the last big wash I’ll have to do before returning to the family washing machine. Keen to see the sights, despite not having eaten anything, we ventured outside proper come 12.30, taking it very slowly. Pokhara looks a very nice place, maybe not “the most beautiful place on Earth” as some of the websites say, but it’ll sure do as somewhere to  recuperate. 

The lake was good to chill out beside, but I was still pretty knackered so headed back to the hotel and ate half of the complimentary apple. Not sure if it was low grade or the kickback from the previous night, but it tasted yucky. Still, it had to be done, despite Tim’s tale of the time he had a “double dip recession” after eating something in India when he thought he’d recovered. Fortunately I kept it down and went back to sleep as Tim went out for a wander.

I woke up in total blackness – powercut, but even the emergency lighting was out! For once I was glad – better for snoozing! Tim came back later and I decided I should make the effort to go with him to dinner, undecided on whether to have something. After two paracetemols, a dioralyte satchet, another apple and two immodiums, I was gradually getting there. Knocking back a can of Mountain Dew didn’t help though – bloated after that one! Fortunately there was chicken soup on the menu at the place we went to, that time-honoured food for sickies. I managed half a bowl, then watched Tim devour a plate of chilli chips with hot peppers, followed by a pizza.

So, bit of a crap day, but at least by the end of it I was writing the blog, which is the most important thing of all.