Archive for December 2007
Kathmandu arrival
When we bring the kids to Nepal it is essential that we tell them to hang on to t heir own bags at all times — the friendly gentlemen that want to help you don’t work for Snow Leopard but are avid tip collectors. I was reminded of the day we arrived in Darjeeling and was met by a group of men claiming to be World Expeditions representatives. The bus certainly got loaded quickly, although at the cost of almost US$100.
The ride into Kathmandu, through narrow roads clogged with traffic and past cows scratching themselves against anything that would stay still long enough, was one of the ‘arrival’ journeys in Asia that puts a smile on my face. There was so much going on, so much to look at, that I felt that I should be constantly questioning the guide. LuAnne would, I thought to myself, be chatting constantly, asking questions at the rate of machine gun fire and only half listening to the answers. Instead, I sat back in my seat and watched as everything went by.
The Hotel Thamel is slightly more up market than a backpackers in that it purports to be a hotel, complete with a helpful receptionist and a restaurant of sorts. My room smelled damp, but was clean. I don’t think that the kids are going to be very impressed, but it is about the right level for a trekking holiday. Not that we wouldn’t enjoy a 5* hotel of course, but given the level of the lodges on the trail to Everest Base Camp, there is no point setting initial standards too high.
My telephone wouldn’t work so the hotel receptionist arranged for me to purchase a local SIM card. Ten dollars and half an hour later and I was reconnected, but still unable to send text messages. International calls via this SIM were also prohibitively expensive, but it did at least mean that Snow Leopard could get in touch with me easily, which was to prove convenient.
Samden, the son of the owner of Snow Leopard, recommended that I ate in the Thamel Restaurant, by which I thought he meant the hotel restaurant. When it was too late, I realised that he meant the much more interesting restaurant across the road. Still the hotel restaurant wasn’t bad and the vegetable Jalfrezi was delicious. Following two bottles of Elephant Beer, or was it Everest Beer, I can’t remember, I could hardly focus and finished this entry with one eye closed.
The Hotel Thamel
As an experienced budget traveler, the Hotel Thamel is about what I was expecting: basic, fairly clean and occupying that niche between a real budget place and a proper hotel. The kids are not going to be impressed though. The place has a damp smell — there is no heating, the table cloths are a little stained, my toilet ran all night — there is no cistern, just a tap with a washer than needs replacing, and the shower doesn’t drain properly. Not that I am complaining, you understand.
Breakfast cornflakes with piping hot milk in a jug that directed its flow anywhere but the dish, a long guttural hoooichh (thankfully without accompanying spit) in the kitchen and the dining room was suddenly filled with the voices of excited and nervous teenagers. There was nobody there, but I could see our party already with Kaz telling everybody that it isn’t so bad and that there is a turd floating in his toilet. There will be quiet students too. Those who have never eaten anything as strange as cornflakes manqué softened with boiled milk, and who are wondering if they are going to be able to cope so far away from home.
The water isn’t safe to drink. I was advised to clean my teeth with bottled water and to keep my mouth shut whilst showering. I wonder how many of the kids will forget.
Packing
On opening my kit bag I was impressed by how fresh it smelled. More like an alpine meadow than a sweaty, well-muscled Kenyan porter. Although I have washed the bag several times and used it on three trips since I climbed Mt Kenya, the bag still has a decidedly mach aura. Thanks to the burst deoderant bottle, the inside of the bag at least, now smells much fresher. putting things in ziplock bags is a great idea, especially if you remember to seal them.
Bahrain – Kathmandu
The three airpots I passed through today became progressively less efficient. Three hours before departure and there wasn’t a single check in desk open in Bahrain. Eventually an irritated airport manager dug out a few reluctant souls to man the desks about an hour before takeoff. Rubbing his eye and not making eye contact, my designated clerk told me that I was in the wrong queue. Obviously it was too much trouble and far too early to change the information displayed on the television screens. So, after spending two hours propping up the check in counter, I had to go to the back of a very long queue five five desks down.
I my new, and extremely slow moving, queue I met a Tunisian on his way home for Eid. A friendly chap, he told me about his work in a Saudi battery factory, a job that has kept him so busy that he hardly knows Saudi or even Bahrain, where he lives. “But my wife is happy here, and that is important”, he said with some pride. I bumped into him in Qatar too, that time standing in one of 5 chaotic lines trying to get to the transfer lounge. There I learned that he is doing a part time MBA at the University of Hull. Professors fly out to Bahrain once a month to deliver the course. I told him how much I had enjoyed my three years there.
I had expected the flight to Kathmandu to be be packed with returning migrant workers, but the cargo was predominantly European. The next seat on the plane was taken by a bald Frenchman with a walrus mustache of extravagant proportions. He spoke no English and I had to help him complete his language card as he couldn’t understand it. Sadly, I still found it impossible to engage him in conversation. I tried, well at least mentally, but the words just wouldn’t flow. I was reading Harry Potter in French and carefully kicked it under the chair so that he wouldn’t think that I was just being rude. I haven’t been in this situation with a language before. I was able to read his Le Figaro and the French edition of National Geographic over his shoulder, but unable to summon up the words from my memory to discuss our common trekking goal in Nepal.
Kathmandu Airport arrived at the end of a runway that must surely have been too short. The pilot slammed on the breaks so suddenly that without the tight restraints the majority of us would have been shunted onto the floor. Actually that is nonsense of course, for since when has there been sufficient space between the seats on an economy class flight for anybody over the age of 6 to slide between them.
The airport arrivals terminal reminds me of the one in Oman – small, clean and not particularly efficient.
On this trip I had decided to get my visa on arrival, just to see how easy it would be and to see if we could bring the kids this way in March. The queue wasn’t really long, perhaps 50 people or so, but with a complete lack of any computer system, the paperwork was done by hand. The officials were efficient, but the procedures were remarkably slow. The hour’s wait was made worthwhile by the immigration officials, jovial men who seemed genuinely pleased to see foreigners and welcome them to Nepal.
Once outside the airport I was regaled by touts wanting to find me a hotel or a taxi. Feeling like an experienced traveller I took a certain amount of pride in walking past them, aloof and confident. Outside the airport I spotted my name on a chalk board. Its owner must have recognised me from my photograph as he called my name and started walking towards me even before I had finished running the gauntlet of the touts. As we shook hands and started walking to his van, other men kindly took my bags. Of course, they had nothing to do with the company that was collecting me and they were quite insistent in their need for a tip. So … not that experienced after all.
