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An Adventure in Nepal
By Ozzy-Dave
Wednesday morning was fine and cool. The sun emerged from behind the Annapurna mountain-giants with authority, casting a warm glow over Pokhara. Today we'd travel to Bhaktapur, near Kathmandu, to stay with friends before leaving Nepal.
Nepal is a land of contrasts, with a range of transport options to match. We traveled in buses with holes in the floor, dugout canoes, on elephants, in rickshaws, and in tiny three-wheeled minibuses that sound like lawnmowers. Today, Nepal would find a new experience for us - a parting gesture, a memento.
At the bus-park people milled around a collection of stalls supplying travelers with delicious coffee, chaiya (sweet milk tea), fresh fruit, and hot breakfast food. We bought some bananas and oranges and sat with other passengers around an open fire with a cup of chaiya, waiting for our boarding instructions.
A group of boys expertly stowed the bags and by 7:30, we were ready to go. They worked deftly, with the skill of craftsmen. Every square foot of roof space and every square inch of vacant seat space were used.
I noticed a copy of the Kathmandu Post near the driver's seat and reached to pick it
up.
"No, no," was the response. "I am reading. Then my friend is reading."
The paper was whisked away.
"I wonder what all that was about," I said to Karen.
"He probably hasn't read it yet. Maybe he'll let you read it later."
We rolled out of town to a clear sky, our driver enthusiastically punishing the gears. He was the picture of concentration, complete with beanie and bandana facemask for protection from the dust of the dry season and highway traffic fumes. I noticed none of the driver's friends were interested in reading the paper.
In seven hours we traveled 200 kilometres along the Prithvi Highway from Pokhara to Kathmandu. The road crossed Nepal's Middle Hills with views of deep valleys and terraced hillsides, often following major rivers that provide the country with a quarter of its power through hydroelectricity and tourists with serious rapids.
Three hours into the trip we passed the Gorka turnoff and conversation had ceased as passengers slept, read and munched on trail-food. Sagging seats were packed with clothes as relief against the road's imperfections.
At the junction town of Mugling, the Marsyangdi and Trisuli rivers join to form the Narayani, a tributary of the holy Ganges. Another road turns south toward the fertile plains of the Terai, home to the Royal Chitwan National Park. We continued east, climbing toward the rim of the Kathmandu Valley when things got worrying.
Road conditions improved, apparently signaling a need to travel at speeds far in excess of what most observers would call "safe." The contours of the road, however, did not improve. We were climbing rapidly around many blind corners – with steep embankments and fleeting views of deep valleys.
Passengers previously sleeping and reading were now alert and preoccupied with looking out the window. And it was not just our driver we were worried about. Punctuating our view out the side windows of precipitous gorges and hillsides were views out the front window of rapidly approaching trucks and buses. It appears the game of "chicken" was invented in Nepal.
We passed a truck on its side, and another on its roof. No one seemed concerned. Apparently it was common along this road. Outside our window, at the bottom of a deep canyon, the white-water rapids of the Trisuli River rushed toward their destiny with the Ganges. We would both rather be white-water rafting.
Then the bus stopped.
Someone spotted the driver at the back of the bus. He was jumping excitedly, waving his arms around and pointing. He was shouting for us to join him.
We filed off the bus, making our way cautiously toward the masked man and his friends. The driver beckoned as his friends peered over the edge of the cliff.
"Look, look," the driver laughed, pointing again, this time to the bottom of the gorge.
"Tuesday's bus," he said.
He laughed louder now, almost maniacally, and his friends joined him in some bizarre epitaph to the twisted wreck of yesterday's bus in the valley hundreds of feet below us. Yesterday's bus!
Nobody spoke. Maybe the mask wasn't for protection against the elements. Maybe it was a disguise. Maybe this guy was a Maoist extremist and he didn't want to be identified. Maybe he was just crazy. Whatever he was, he was back in the bus, and the engine roared as he prepared to continue our voyage. We all quietly boarded the bus and sat down like school children threatened with detention if we didn't behave.
Only ten minutes later we stopped at a roadside restaurant to stretch our legs and break the trip. We returned to the bus ahead of the other passengers, and I decided to read the newspaper I had earlier been denied. And there it was, on the second page.
The story explained that several people were injured yesterday, some critically, in a serious bus accident fuelled by "unnecessarily aggressive driving" outside of Mugling on the main Pokhara-Kathmandu highway.
"Maybe he didn't want us reading it and worrying unnecessarily," I reasoned. "Maybe he didn't want us spoiling his surprise," said Karen.
We made it to Kathmandu, and to our friends in Bhaktapur. There were no further incidents and we recalled our tale around the dinner table, laughing at events that only hours before had us secretly praying for reprieve.
We both knew somewhere in Nepal there was a bus named after every day of the week.
