Frank's Journal

Mr Beem's Asian Journal

Nepal

Nepali welcome

I took the Thai Airways flight from Kuala Lumpur to Bangkok and then connected with their flight to Kathmandu, Nepal. The agent who sold me the ticket stressed that they may not let me enter Nepal if I didn’t have an onwards flight, and if they didn’t it was not her fault – I had no comebacks. So with this thought firmly in my mind I joined the long slow moving que to clear immigration at Kathmandu Airport. The Immigration officer asked, “have you been to Nepal before”, I said, ‘No”, he said, “OK enjoy your stay”. Huuu, what a relief.

I wanted to go to Thai Airways Cargo Office and check on Mr Beems progress, but first I had to navigate my way through the Hotel touts. “No thankyou I already have a booking”, “No Thankyou my friend is picking me up”, “No Thankyou, I’m a married man”, “NO FUCKING thankyou”.

I found the office and the bike would arrive the following afternoon, Please comeback then. I asked about clearing Customs, “No problem it is just five minutes down the road” Strange answer I thought, but at least he said “No problem”.

A young man with the funky name of Riz latched onto me with the ‘I only want to be your friend routine’. I confided in him that I did not have a booking for a hotel, that my friend was not picking me up, and that I was not married, I also confessed a tendency to be a Whopping Liar, that confused him. I needed somewhere to stay and he just happened to know a hotel, as luck would have it, he actually worked for the said Hotel. If I went with him now he would be able to get me a good price on the room and the Taxi would be free. So we set off for the Panda Guesthouse.

It was reasonably clean and very friendly and packed with Japanese trekkers, in fact all the things you could ever wish for in a fine Hoteliers. That night we all sat up on the rooftop drinking Rocksy (Rice Whiskey) next to a fire they made in a cutdown 200 litre drum and I watched the young guides trying their moves on the Japanese girls. I asked Riz if this was one of the fringe benefits of being a guide, he just loved that phrase ‘Fringe Benefits’ - my contribution to Nepali modern culture.

The next afternoon I went to the airport with my new Mate Riz. He was going out there anyway to hustle new arrivals and said I could share his taxi. I picked up the documents from the Cargo office and then meet up with Riz, he had no luck getting any tourists so he offered to come down to the customs office and give me a hand. The Customs shed was a complete shit-fight; there were more would-be customs agents there than there had been touts at the Airport. We started on a long drawn out procedure to clear the bike. No one seemed to know exactly what was required, so we were passed from one minor official to the next, and then back again. I took about four hours. I was finally allowed to get the bike out of the Bonded area and they gave me some space to unpack it and put it all back together. This needless to say drew a bigger crowd than an Indian one-day Cricket match.

I made the mistake of refilling the oil while the front wheel was still off, so when the front wheel went back on the oil was over-full and was pumped into the air cleaner box – messy. At least I had something to do the next day.

Kathmandu and off to the Hills

Kathmandu is right up there on the pollution scale, you only have to blow your nose to find that out, it is hard on your throat and your eyes also. I was keen to get out of there, the beggars and street venders didn’t make the place any more attractive than the air quality, so I headed for Nagarokot. It is a couple of hours east of Kathmandu and up in the hills, on a good day you can see Everest from there. It was Christmas Eve, and I had promised myself a look at Everest for Christmas. The sun was shinning the sky was blue and clear (once you got out of Kathmandu) and the roads were – not too Bad. I have lost my yardstick for judging roads – what can you use as a comparison, Australia – Laos ?

Christmas in Nepal

I arrived mid afternoon and went to a hotel that Riz had recommended, but something must have been lost in the translation because it was twice as much as I was willing to spend, that’s where the bike really comes into its own – freedom to choose, if you don’t like jump on the bike and away ya go.

I found a little place right on the end of a bluff with great views which was run by a Nepalese guy and his Japanese wife. No, not ‘Fringe Benefits’, they met when he was working in Japan for six years with Toyota. Christmas eve night was a quite affair I was sitting around the fire with the boss when a small group of Nepal’s elite set arrived, all hair cuts and mobile phones, they monopolised the fire, so I went off to bed like the grumpy old man I am ‘Humbug Bah’. This allowed me to get up at 5.30 am to watch the Sunrise, which was a bit of a let down because it didn’t happen until about 7.00 o’clock so I stood there in the dark Camera poised, alone with my thoughts. I was thinking that I had better get somewhere warm.

I decided to leave after breakfast and go down to Chitwan National Park and see some of Nepal’s wildlife – that bike is a very handy thing.

I spent the whole of Christmas Day on the road. I never got to see my Christmas present to myself, but I did see the clouds that covered it. I had to go back through Kathmandu. Nepal is the world's only Hindu State and they were ignoring Christmas even more than I was, so Kathmandu was its usual crowded and frantic self. Once through the crowds and traffic I was on to nice two lane winding road through the hills on my way south to Chitwan I had Christmas dinner at a roadside Truck Stop, chapattis, and Chicken Curry. It was dark when I arrived at Chitwan, The main hazards on the road were mountainous elephant turds – you hit them and you are really in the Shit.

I stayed at the Rhino Lodge which is on the river that forms the eastern boundary to the Park. It was a good place at a good price and they were able to organise tours in the park. The night I arrived there was an up-market English group staying there with their own guide, who had escorted them out from England. The Hotel had arranged for a stick dance as the evening's entertainment for this group, and I was invited to join them. It was the usual tribal thing, everyone walking around in a circle, sword fighting with sticks, but it was well done and they had a 'how to beat off a elephant who is eating your crops' dance as well, which brought a bit of a smile to my face.

The dancers finished their routine and went home. The hotel guides and staff joined us around the fire and started to sing Nepalese folk songs for us which was great. One of the English guests who was actually Welsh must have been a primary school teacher in a previous life because she insisted that we return the favour to our Nepali hosts and sing them a couple of songs.

It started with ‘The Oki Koki’, then ‘Old Mac Donald’s Farm’, and then something about ‘eyes and ears and noses’, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

A wild-life walk in the forest

After breakfast the next morning I went for a jungle walk, it started with a canoe ride down the river. The mist was fairly heavy and it was hard to see both banks of the river at one time, never mind any wildlife. I saw plenty of Siberian Geese, Asiatic Kingfisher, and a couple of Brown Kites. I kept lookout for Marsh Muggers (a species of Crocodile) not because I haven’t seen plenty of Crocodiles before, just because I liked the sound of their name and was looking forward to yelling out ‘There goes a Marsh Mugger’.

When we got off the river and into the park, that is when all the theatrics started. Having been a guide for a few years (albeit underwater) I can understand the value of a good presentation. I was the only guest, so that made it even harder to take seriously. First and foremost I was told to be very, very quiet – Elma Fudd style. I thought this was going to be a little hard as all three of us were wearing nylon rain trousers, so we were all swee, sweeing as we walked. Then the lead guide Lum, started smelling the air in Pantomime fashion and declared that there were Rhino about. I bloody well hope so – I paid eight Hundred Rupees for this. The ground was sandy and dry, so it was relatively easy to pick up animal spoor (that’s a word I learned from reading Wilbur Smith books) mostly it was deer prints, mixed with the odd elephant smudge (that’s a word I learned from rushing my homework). We spotted some Elephant droppings which is not a difficult as it may sound. I asked how these could be distinguished from Rhino droppings, Lim said with great authority “by the colour”. This was to set the tone for the morning's conversation, I would ask a stupid question and he would give a silly answer. We heard some branches breaking and Lim crouched down signalling for me to do the same, I said "what is it?", he said "branches breaking" – see what I mean. Anyway, a while latter as we moved into thicker bush we heard a Rhino pushing his way through the under growth, we advanced very cautiously and did get close enough to have a reasonable look at him, but then the Panto got into full swing.

"If he charges – run zig-zag and then climb a tree". We moved a little closer, the Rhino looked up in the direction of the swee-sweeing and we would run zig-zag and stand next to a tree ready to climb, we did this a couple of times…it was great fun. Fortunately for us the man-eating Rhino didn’t charge and just ambled away barging his way through the forest, We walked about six kilometres and saw two different kinds of Monkeys, several Peacock and a few small brown birds, apparently unknown to science. We stoped at a tree and Lim pointed out that a Royal Bengal Tiger had marked this tree. He indicated three deep incision in the Bark about four feet of the ground. I asked – “how many ‘fingers’ does a Tiger have?” – Lim said “four”. I asked, “how long is a fully grown Tiger?”, Lim said “from whiskers to tail about sixteen feet”. I looked at the tree again, he looked at me looking at the tree, we looked at each other and decided to leave it at that.

The Forest walk was great fun, and it didn’t cost too much, it was all a bit home spun and over done. When we got back on the ‘safe’ side of the river we stoped for a Nepali tea and had a chat about the New King and the Maoist Rebels. Then we went along the river and watched the Elephants having their mid-day bath. It was a lovely morning, I even gave the guys a tip, – so it must have been good.

Riding an Elephant

In the afternoon I opted for the Elephant ride. For those of you have never had the experience of a two-hour Elephant ride, it is roughly the equivalent of three WWF wrestling matches back to back. And you play the part of the guy who loses.

Now, you may not know this – not a lot off people do. But each Elephant has his or her own particular gait, not unlike people actually. My particular Jumbo had the walking equivalent of a flat tyre. The two other Elephants in our party seemed to cruise along as if they were on electromagnets, my mount aptly named ‘Kali’ the Hindu Goddess of rough-rides, really did feel as if a shock absorber had snapped a bolt. Anyway, that aside, I was sharing ‘Mini Mammoth’ with a family up from India on Holiday, well the Dad, Daughter and Son elements of the family, the mum, grandmother, aunty, and baby contingent were on one of the smooth Elephants.

The daughter was about fourteen and had been studying English at school. Unfortunately she never got a full range of expletives in her particular course, and relied heavily on “Oh, my God”. Almost anything would warrant an “Oh, my God” and that included any rough movements from the Elephant. So you can imaging. It is about a twenty-minute bounce from the Elephant stand to the Community Forest. By the time we got to the park I was “Oh, my Goded” out and felt like giving her a few more expletives to add to her vocabulary. Luckily her Dad felt pretty much the same way and told her to ‘put a sock in it’ literally. There was this huge barrage off Hindi and then the English words “put a sock in it” I didn’t know where to hide my face, and had a coughing fit, stopping myself from laughing. After that she calmed down and was a very pleasant companion.

In the Community Forest

The Community Forest acts as a buffer zone for the park, the local people manage it and are allowed to collect firewood and useful Forest products but are not allowed to live there. It is actually in better condition than the Park itself, in my opinion. I think this is because the people actually receive some revenue from it and therefore have a vested interest – there might be a lesson there?

Once in the Forest which is primarily Rhododendron shrubs/trees it is a little like the jungle ride at Disney Land. Between ten and twenty elephants take rides through there twice a day seven days a week, so you don’t get the feeling that you are breaking any new ground, but it is very nice and the guides/mahouts go out of their way to make sure that you see as much as possible. I saw three Rhino, two Barking Deer, One Spotted Deer, two troops of Monkeys, and all manner of Bird-life so I was well pleased with the afternoon.

Next day I visited the Elephant breeding programme just out of town, the baby Elephants who run around where they like are so reminiscent of Human toddlers it’s uncanny. I was crouched down trying to take a photo of one coming towards me when he just bowled me over and then tried to pick me up, he was only about the height of a table but he was as strong as a…an Elephant. That evening I meet an English Girl, a Dutch Girl, and an English guy. We went out to Dinner together and ended up getting shit-faced on Roxy, then we couldn’t find our way home, so we had to go back to the restaurant to have another Roxy and get a guide home. Next day I left…in the afternoon.

Lumbini

My next destination was Lumbini, the birthplace of Buddha. I arrived at the little village off Lumbini well after dark; it had been a long cold ride. I was cruising the village main street – only street, looking for a Guesthouse, when a young fellow can out from his little hotel to tell me the virtues of his fine establishment – namely ‘beery cheap’. I went in to have a look at the room and there were two white people sitting in the small reception area. The girl gave me a big smile and said Hello again – I said do I know you, she said yes we saw each other at the Baby Elephants, she was a young German and had the mandatory blond hair of her race, not that I believe in stereotypes. The older guy with her said Hello, he was Canadian, I could tell by his “oout and abooout” accent. I had a look at the room it was cold and basic, but at least I would have someone to talk to.

We agreed on a price and he threw in an extra blanket. It was so cold that he even offered to bring some coals from the fire and put them in the room. I went and joined Antonia and Jerry who had moved to the restaurant. Antonia was a smiling friendly young girl who was on her big trip after finishing studies and was having the time of her life. Jerry was a Veteran traveller who was on his third or fourth trip to the sub-continent, and had many experiences with India and claimed as his one major accomplishment that he had learned to say “No” to Touts, salesmen, beggars and all manner of personal space invaders, with a simple shake of the head and a lazy blinkie eye movement. He demonstrated this for our amusement and edification. I tried it subsequently, unfortunately with little or no effect.

Jerry was also the first person whom I have ever met with the early symptoms of Alzheimers Disease. He was telling a story about a friend of his in Australia, whose house had been attacked by parrots and they had eaten all the exterior woodwork, doors windows etc, the insurance company had refused to pay-out claiming that it was an Act-of-God. I told him about the Volcanic eruption in Rabaul that had happened to me, and how the Insurance company had done the same thing, he then told me about a friend of his whose house had been attacked by patriots and they had eaten all the woodwork. I thought that this was a great tragedy, not the bit about the parrots, but to have your memory stolen away from you, and the fact that you know that it is happening just makes it all the worse. He would often begin a story by saying “if I have told you this before just stop me”, I had only been talking with the guy for half an hour and the last thing I wanted to do was say “you have told us that before”, but the truth was that, on three occasions he had. Jerry left the next day on his way to India, and Antonia and I took the bike for a ride around the temple sites.

Lumbini is the official Birthplace of Buddha and as such most of the predominantly Buddhist countries of the world have a temple there to represent their community. All the obvious ones are there, Thailand, Burma, Laos, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, China, Japan, but there are a few surprises, Germany for instance. The Temple complex is spread out over several kilometres and is a full day out; it’s a good way to see different style of temple architecture from each country. But I found the whole place rather political and nationalistic, and on the whole didn’t represent the finer points of Buddhism that I was hoping to see. Next day I left early while the place was still covered in mist.

I had planned to head straight for Bardiya, but on the way up to Butwal, I decided to have a quick look at Pokara, so instead of turning left at the Butwal junction I kept heading north and went straight up to the Annnapurna Mountain range. It was less than two hundred kilometres, but it took all day to complete the trip along the tight windy mountain road, the mist cleared the higher I got and when I was on the sunny face of the valley I was too hot and when I was in the shadow I was too cold. But the scenery was really picking up.

The road was following the course of a river and it was getting narrower and faster moving the higher I got, both the road and the river, the grass was yellow from the frost burn, and white frost was still present in the shaded parts of the valleys and the air was thin and clear. Every one of the hundreds of bends was an accident site waiting to happen. The road was narrow, with a rough patchy tarmac surface and loose gravel on the outside of the bends. All of that and overloaded buses coming down the hill apparently out of control - it made you concentrate.

Pokara sits on the side of a lake in the middle of a valley. Behind it is the Annapurna mountain range. The town is the base for trekking tours into the park and as such has all kinds of associated activities and facilities on offer. The lakeside area is the main tourist hangout miles and miles of Outdoors shops selling ‘Northface’ copy hiking gear and interspersed with little restaurants and Internet shops and moneychangers. It is not as bad as it sounds in fact it is quite nice.

I spent a couple of days riding around, up the valleys, and around the surrounding mountains. I had New Years in Pokara, not so exciting but good fun. I met a nice young Australian girl when she came to join me at my table one morning at a little restaurant down the road from my guesthouse. She was called Christa and was retuning to Australia after having spent some time working in England, someone had told her that blond girls get hassled to death in India and Nepal so she had decided to dye her hair black, but somehow the process had gone terribly wrong and her hair turned blue, she was very lucky that she was one of the few people which Blue hair suits – I know I look shocking with blue hair. We hung out together for a few days and then I left for Bardiya National Park.

Pokara to Bardiya is a fairly long ride, not so much in Kilometres as in hours; I left at nine in the morning and didn’t get there until after seven in the evening. It was then that I thought I had my first encounter with the Maoist Rebels. I was driving along the main road that runs through the park dodging wild deer and lone monkeys on the road when I came to what I thought was an unattended check-point. I was weaving my way through the road barriers when three guys jumped out from behind three barricades.

The one directly in front started shouting STOP, I had already stopped, something that I did automatically when I saw his rifle pointing directly at my head. They all had their rifles pointed at me but the one in the front was a major concern as he kept shouting stop even though I was stoped and he was sighting down his rifle right between my eyes, which quite frankly is rather un-nerving. I tuned the ignition off in order to kill the headlight, and then another five or six people came out off the two sides of the road, some were wearing camouflage gear others were wearing ‘North Face’ trekking gear and bobble hats all in all a rather rag-tag bunch, most had scarves over the lower halves of their faces Highwayman style. The guy who had been shouting stop calmed down a little and asked me where I was going, I told him Champaniy a couple of K’s further on, he asked why, I told him I was a tourist and had come to see the park. He told me to get off the bike. All the others started crowding around and touching the bike; I was starting to get a little worried. They all took it in turn to ask me where I was going or coming from. I was starting to think that I was going to lose the bike. The man who had been rather keen on shooting me between the eyes asked to see my passport. This was the only instance when this little ‘Band of brothers’ seemed to act anything like professionals. Once he'd had a cursory look at my little red book he told me to be on my way.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I stayed very close to the tank until I got around the next bend. I crossed over a bridge and arrived in a small village Chimpani. I asked around for the Hideaway Guesthouse and when they told me that it was back down the road about twenty kilometres in the direction I had just come I asked about local alternatives, I was standing in a little roadside diner talking to a guy who claimed to be a guide at the park, he asked the lady running the diner and she said that I could either sleep with the family upstairs or they would put a bed in the storeroom out the back, which would probably be better as I might fall down the stairs in the middle of the night.

I ordered dinner, goat curry, and had a Nepali tea with rum in it. Nepal is cold in January. I mentioned the little run in I had with the Maoists at the roadblock…he was shocked. I explained in great detail what had happened and he was greatly relieved …that was only the soldiers… not Maoists, "they dress like that because it is so cold at night". I couldn’t argue with that.

That night I slept in a bed which was as rustic as any I ever wish to try. I had two really heavy quilts which were very warm but very narrow so if I moved, my arse or my knees would be in the breeze. It was no hardship to get up early the next morning.

I rode back down the roadblock road, which I had come down the night before, turned right and went down a dirt road. I crossed a widish river that was flowing up to my sprockets, its good fun bouncing from one bolder to another, trying to keep your feet dry…well it is if you succeed…this time I succeeded. On the other side it was a ten-kilometre run through light forest and patchy farmland to the guesthouse.

The Hideaway is basic…mud floors and unsprung beds, but it is cheap and it’s clean and the people there are nice. I got the last available room, the place was empty but there was a group of Motorcycle riders coming that afternoon and they had booked the place out.

I heard the riders coming before I could see them, something that in itself is not unusual, but I could hear these guys a full ten minutes before I could see them. They were riding Royal Enfields. they came into the little car park in dribs and drabs each adding to the noise…it was fantastic…living history.

These were the type of bike that my Dad used to ride and some of them were brand new. They saw my bike parked in the corner and went "Ohh…" saw theirs and went "Ahh...", so we Ohhed and Ahhed for a while then some genius said “lets drink some Rum and Cokes”.

Next day was safari day, we tripped off to the forest, most of my new friends were wearing some, if not a lot of very stylish motorcycling gear, including boots and armoured jackets. It’s a long walk around the forest looking for tigers with tight fitting boots, and after five hours a few of the bikey boys were sweating like necrophiliacs in a morgue, and cursing like old pirates…you can under-pack as well as over-pack.

I managed to wangle a ride on one of the Enfield’s, between the noise, the vibration and the wind trying to blow me out off the saddle, I didn’t get much time to enjoy the scenery…it certainly made me appreciate my own bike.

In the evening, we had some local dancing put on by the staff, that was great and got everyone on their feet having a little go, everyone except the Biker boot boys, they were happy just to sit and drink and let their blisters cool.

The following morning the Enfield guys took of early. I stayed behind, had a leisurely breakfast, packed the bike, and took off about an hour later. I thought this to be an excellent idea as I didn’t want us all to arrive at the Indian Border at the same time and cause our own bureaucratic traffic jam. That was until I got to the first roadside petrol vender and he said “So Sorry, my good sir, all gone” I asked “why” …”Oh, many western people on motorcycles, so sorry all the benzine is finished”. The next three places, same story. I was starting to dislike my new friends I could see me sitting at the side of the road …out of fuel…how much bloody fuel did they need, ten bikes and a couple of cars. At the next garage they were there, three or four of the bikes lined up at the one solitary pump. I pulled up and said "save some for me, I have been on vapour the last three miles", and sure enough they let me go first. I liked my new friends again.

The fuel problem meant that we all arrived at the border at about the same time. The Nepal side was easy. Stamp, Stamp, bye-bye. The Indian side was easy too if you played the game…Give them all the papers, smile, go away, sit down, ignore them and read your book. Don’t stand there pointing, explaining, scratching, sweating, and whining. Let them get on with it in their own sweet way. I was through first. From a border guards point of view, there is no fun in watching someone read a book, so that was the last I saw of the Enfield Gang … shame, they were a nice bunch.