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Travel Story

Annapurna Circuit, Part 1

Getting out of Kathmandu

From the window of our Thai Air jet we could see the summit of Everest, and off to the left the towering range of peaks where we planned to spend the next month on a 330 km trek around the Annapurna Massif. The shear brute size of the Himalayas is intimidating but Betty and I were experienced mountain hikers and we plunged ahead with the confidence of the very naive. The mountains, it turned out, were the least of our challenges.

A perfunctory look at our passports and packs and we were waved out of the Customs building to where the baggage container from the jet was parked in a jumble of taxis and people scrambling to recover their bags. The overhead door on the container had a broken latch and refused to stay up so I held it for the sari-clad woman behind me – a big mistake. I had just assumed the role of the broken latch and the bin filled with people scrabbling for their bags like shoppers at a bargain counter.

While I was holding up the lid, Betty, perusing the adds on the airport bulletin board, discovered a hotel at a fraction the cost of the guesthouse recommended by our Canadian travel agent. What the heck, we were used to roughing it – second big mistake!

The taxi was unable to take us all the way. The street became too narrow for a car so Betty walked ahead to check out our room. I waited with our packs near the taxi and was trying to fend off a persistent street vender peddling dope in a filthy canvas bag when Betty returned. "No! I did not want to buy his pot. Yes! I was sure it was very strong, but No! we didn't want to try it."

Betty reported the place was a grub-heap and had no door – just a burlap curtain between bed and street.

The guesthouse recommended by our agent turned out to be a decent place – clean bed and dining room, and some of the staff spoke English. We spread out our gear and decided we were set to go. All we needed now was some Nepalese cash and a trekking permit.

After a fitful sleep punctuated by barking dogs and the screams of monkeys fighting outside our window, we headed downtown in search of a bank. Approaching Durbar Square we were surrounded by a group of small boys each promising "best rate" "best rate". I pointed to one and the others faded away without protest. Following our boy down a narrow alley, ducking under a low door and climbing a steep set of stone stairs we entered a bare windowless room. The money trader was seated on the only chair in front of a table piled high with bills, Nepalese at one end American at the other, a pad of paper and pocket calculator in the middle. Our transaction was conducted in perfect English.

The boy watched silently. He must have seen it all before but there was probably more money on the table than he will earn in a lifetime. Unable to contain himself he held out a hand and blurted "bagshish, bagshish." The money-trader cursed him in Nepali, sent him flying down the stairs and apologized to us for the disturbance. We found the kid on the street later and gave him some bagshish.

Now all we needed was a trekking permit. No problem finding the right place and the right official. He sat behind a desk bearing a little sign saying "trekking permits here" and explained that we could not get a permit because "it is festival – big holiday." Why was he at his desk? "This is my job." How long does festival last? "Oh, sometimes many days."

We decided to wait it out and have a look around Kathmandu.

For the next three days we roamed the streets of Kathmandu, waiting for the end of "festival" and the elusive piece of paper that would allow us to continue our journey.

There is no denying the physical beauty of the Kathmandu valley. The city, with its countless shrines and temples, has been described as the Florence of Asia, a storehouse of Hindu and Buddhist art and architecture that dates back to the middle ages of Europe. But the historical grandeur of modern Kathmandu is tarnished by a layer of filth and human misery as pervasive as the pall of sulphurous, lung-searing exhaust that hangs over the city like a shroud.

In the early morning, careful not to step in the piles of dung, we skirted the cows, and street dwellers still bedded down on the sidewalks. Whole families living on the street, cooking over small open fires on the sidewalk. Old men and women sleeping in piles of rags. Little kids playing in the gutter while dogs and chickens root through nearby piles of stinking offal. Later in the day the streets fill with hawkers, black market money traders, and dope pushers – all hopelessly poor.

Shops at or below street level are like small caves – dark, putrid, offering trays of fly-infested baked goods and yogurt, or the carcass of some freshly killed animal lying in the filth and sold bit by bit until only the bones are left to be thrown to the packs of dogs roaming the streets.

On our third day we crossed the Vishnumati River and followed a narrow path through rice paddies to Swayambhunath, The Monkey Temple, where hundreds of steps lead up to a large stupa from which the eyes of Buddha stare in four directions as he watches over the earth. I wonder if he sees the beggars on the steps? The young man with spikes of skin-covered bone protruding from the receding flesh of amputated legs. The women and children with gross deformities and bodies ravaged by disease.

A Holy Man darts out of nowhere, puts a flower in Betty's hair, a red dot on her forehead, and demands payment. A few steps farther and a monkey bounces off her shoulder and back to the railing, staring at us as it eats the flower. The monkey is also holy.

On our way back to the city we stop to watch farmers washing wool in the river where people and huge pigs are wading and swimming near the carcass of a water buffalo. The entrails wave back and forth in the gentle current while a pack of dogs rip at the open ribcage. It was time to get out of Kathmandu!

Explaining our dilemma to the English-speaking manager of our guesthouse she said simply "you need a guide." She picked up the phone, had a short conversation with someone in Nepali and informed us that "everything is arranged." Our guide, Sanka Lama, arrived with trekking permits and instructions on how to get the bus to Dumre the next morning.

After my experience with the lid I hesitated to help the woman get her crate of chickens into the bus but gave in and ended up with no seat. It didn't matter. A hundred yards out of the depot the bus sputtered to a stop. The driver loped off in search of a mechanic, who arrived 20 minutes later bearing a jug of gas, a large tin can, and a bent coat hanger. We were ordered out of the bus and watched in amazement as the mechanic filled the can with gas, lit it, and used the coat hanger to slide it under the engine.

Flames licked at the underside of the vehicle, sending plumes of black smoke across the windows and setting the fringe of tinsel around the roof dancing in the updraft of hot air. But it worked. Its copper arteries now free of congealed paraffin the bus roared to life. And this time we were truly on our way – chastened and much wiser than when we arrived.

Canadian experience isn't much use here – things are done differently in Nepal.