Red Wine Express

IPhones record your steps and somehow or other your flights of stairs climbed. I have no idea how they do that but you can use these tools for comparison purposes if you’re into finess which I think I was once, some decades ago. So yesterday I walked 15277 steps and climbed 38 flights of stairs. I was stuffed royally. Today I walked 15680 steps and climbed 52 floors and my legs have called the jam off. My physio will be pleased to see my buns of steel which should go some way towards sorting out my bad back but my calves are liquid and my thighs are still quivering. No amount of alcohol will fix this situation in the short term it seems. But I’ll give it a red-hot go.

This situation has caused me to conclude that there are no downward slopes in Nepal. You may think you are looking at a downward slope but it isn’t. It’s an optical illusion. All roads, all pathways, all walking tracks, all stairways, all exclusively head upwards. And I have the legs to prove it. Now I know what Frodo and Sam felt like when they were climbing into Mordor.

The 52 floors up didn’t include a chopper fight up to Annapurna Base Camp at 11600 feet. It’s a breathtaking flight and a breathtaking destination. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re in the shadow of the roof of the world. We were surrounded by some of the highest peaks on the planet and I’m guessing no amount of first class photography will do it justice. We were supposed to land further down, at 11,000 feet at a small camp on the edge of a huge ridge but the weather was closing in so the pilot asked us if we wanted to go further and higher to ABC, as those in the know call it. A resounding “fuck yeah” or words to that effect settled that.

We subsequently found out we were charged 50% more than the pre-covid price for our chopper ride but from our perspective the opportunity was a no-brainer. From Prabhu Helicopter’s perspective, you can understand why they are trying to claw back lost revenue due to stupid lock downs which they went through here also. Our chopper pilot trained at the Sunshine Coast airport in Queensland. Maybe their health bureaucrats trained under Dan Andrews and his minions.

Pokhara is one of the prettiest places we’ve been to. It’s on a lake, surrounded by forested hills (mountains by Australian standards) with the real deal a few kilometres away. When the clouds cleared and we saw the Annapurna massif for the first time you could almost hear the celestial choir.

The population appears to be about 50% locals, 45% the beard and bun brigade with their Kathmandu gear (obviously), BO and walking sticks (and mostly German accents) and 5% us. And all demographics and ethnicities are catered for. The CB and I actually found a bar on the lake in a prime position called either the Kangaroo Bar or the Boomerang Bar, or just Australia. I don’t think they knew but they pretty much made the point they were trying to make so we went in. Now when I travel I try to sample the local brews. They didn’t have any so Carlsberg it was. The CB ordered a white wine (Bordeaux). It was the same colour as my beer and to continue the simile, smelled more like my beer than the wine it was supposed to be. If we had one complaint about this place it’s that they don’t do wine. They make their own but just try ordering a dry white and see how far you get.

Sorry to keep harping on about the roads because I’m apportioning no blame….but the conditions….and……and…..We thought the road between Kathmandu and Chitwan was bad. It was just an appetiser for the main course – the “road” between Chitwan and Pokhara. First of all there are more buses per square kilometre of this road than a Greyhound car park. And the potholes are big enough for a Yorkshire family (you need to be a Monty Python fan). Again, it’s rain, landslides, washouts and traffic, lots of traffic. But why, over about 75km where the road was non-existant for 100m out of every 500m, did I only see one maintenance machine operating…on a Monday. I have a theory so bear with me.

Something that is ubiquitous in all of the towns and villages we pass through is beautifully ornate and colourful houses with arches and pillars and pattern tiled walls with strawberry stripes and peppermint swirls. Obviously they were designed by the Willy Wonka of architects. They are big too and many have unfinished columns poking out of the flat roof, no doubt in preparation for construction of the next floor. The connection with the roads? I am convinced that these terrific houses are owned by those who also own the tyre franchises across the country.

And why aren’t the roads being repaired when there are dozens of idle machines parked up everywhere? Did the operators all call in sick? Did they drink too much of the home-made rice wine we sampled a couple of days ago? The one that tastes like watered down kerosene? Are the authorities proud of the roads the way they are because let’s face it, it takes diligent neglect to allow them to deteriorate to this extent. No, they are being paid to stay at home by the tyre franchisees.

Despite the conditions, somehow or other, our admirably skilled and requisitely aggressive driver Mukhand, got us here to Pokhara yesterday, thoroughly shaken up but in one slightly dishevelled piece. And as a bonus cultural experience the ladies got to experience the road-side squat conveniences. The trip wouldn’t have been legit if they hadn’t.

The CB and I are now sitting on our balcony watching the fluffies drifting around the nearby hills. We can’t see the snow-capped mountains and apart from a brief glimpse in Kathmandu a few days ago, we are yet to see what Nepal is most famous for. But maybe it’ll be today because we have booked a chopper flight to Annapurna base camp this morning and we just need those last few clouds to scud off.

You’ve got to feel sorry for the Nepalese in some respects. They live in a spectacular country but lots of mountains means lots of water flowing really fast. The consequences of this are felt mostly by the roads. Landslides and washouts make the roads seem like they’ve been built upside down. Imagine under the jagged rocks and potholes are progressively finer layers of gravel underlain by a smooth layer or bitumen. I’ve only encountered rougher driving terrain underground and in the bush back-blocks of North Queensland and neither of those were designated national highways like the road between Kathmandu and Chitwan. In fact neither of those examples were designated as roads. Notwithstanding the conditions, the driving is like a demolition derby going in both directions round the track but miraculously, in five hours of driving we didn’t see one accident.

The number of buses was inversely proportional to the state of the road and scooters carrying whole families were everywhere. It must be quite daunting to be riding down a steep hill on a wet potholed road with the wife and two kids hanging on for dear life to you and each other and be confronted by two buses next to each other coming straight at you. To make matters worse, there are grand canyon like escarpments feet away on both sides – one going straight up and one going straight down. But the rider’s thinking it’s nothing I haven’t handled before and at least I’m wearing the family helmet.

An entirely smoother mode of transport was experienced later in the afternoon on the East Rapti River as the CB and I and our two travel companions, a guide and two oarsmen crossed to the National Park on the other side for a bit of a safari. The guide helpfully pointed out a crocodile sliding into the river just before he and the oarsmen and the safari Jeep driver who was waiting 50 metres away, on the bank, had to jump into the water to push our grounded boat the remaining way to the shore. Local knowledge I guess.

Rhinos, monkeys,  crocodiles and deer were the extent of our safari viewing if you don’t count the army. I think their reason for being there was more to do with poaching and less to do with the proximity of the Indian border. The tigers and elephants remained in hiding although we did see their recent footprints.

Occasionally on our travels the CB and I have encountered hidden gems where you least expect them. One was the Sultana Royal Golf Hotel outside Ouarzazate in Morocco. Incidentally, I am yet to locate the golf course. However it is home away from home for celebrities filming at the movie studios nearby (think Game of Thrones and Gladiator). When we were there, there were only two other guests. The Barahi Jungle Lodge is another of these, here adjacent to the Chitwan National Park in southern Nepal. It’s the feel, the vibe, the je ne sait quoi (that’s French, for the uninitiated). I felt like Richard the Lionhart returning from the crusades, such was our welcome and treatment thereafter. Another keeper.

So we met a godess yesterday. I’ve never met one before. I met the King of Malaysia once because a coal fired power station was named after him and….it’s a long story but he gave me a signed, leather bound copy of his biography in return for a Newlands Coal Mine tie. Fair swap? Anyway, he was respected (or his position was because I’m not sure he was particularly well-liked) but I’m not sure he (or even his position) was worshipped. I’ve also met a few politicians who thought they were gods. And the only other time I’ve bowed to someone (other than as described below ) was when I gave evidence in a court case and it was mandatory to bow in the general direction of the judge when entering and leaving the court. There is so much I could add to that but won’t because so many judges read this blog.

9 year old Nihira is the Kumari of Lalitpur, a city to the south of but contiguous with Kathmandu. Kumari literally means “virgin” and these young girls (there are 10 in Nepal) are annointed as goddesses from a very young age until puberty when they lose their deified status and return to civvy street. This is taken very seriously by Hindus and Bhuddists alike and deserves the utmost respect. The CB and I were both blessed by the young goddess. We were asked to kneel before her so she could bless us. I said she’d have to help me up as well as bless me, what with my dodgy hips so I bowed instead and with her tiny index finger she put a red tika in the middle of my forehead which was meant to protect me. I don’t think a similar experience can be had anywhere else. And my hips still ache.

Another 9 year old girl called Trishna is the goddess of Kathmandu. We weren’t allowed to meet her – no foreigners allowed. Apparently the Lalitpurians are more inclusive than the Kathmanduians (is that a word?). That sounds like something that might appear in Gulliver’sTravels but of course wouldn’t be allowed in our utterly ridiculous woke first (and rapidly receding) world. Thankfully the Nepalese don’t give a shit about this and some of the conversations we’ve had with the locals would have them shunned by the champagne socialists. Heavens no!!!! The things that offend our snowflakes (it’s all an act actually, IMHO) are real world problems elsewhere.

Getting around here is an interesting experience. I’ve previously mentioned the traffic lights. Today we went further afield and the lights do actually work so let’s go back into the older part of the city which is infinitely more interesting. There are two types of roads here. The new, modern ones utilising the most recent and sophisticated construction technology and materials and those dating back hundreds of years. The first type can best be described as potholes connected by thin ribbons of bitumen. The second type would make the Romans proud – solid cubes of limestone and other rock-types arranged in close formation with striations cut into each rock to aid traction. And no amount of monsoonal rain is washing these suckers away.

This place is Temples ‘R Us. They are everywhere – concentrated into clumps round squares, big and small and in the most unlikely of places, like insinuated into the trunk base of a massive tree. The Hindus, who are the dominant religious denomination and the Buddhists who are a distant second co-exist and worship shoulder to shoulder. The gnashing of teeth over religion back home in Australia, epitomised by the recent one-day tenure of the CEO of an Australian Football League club, terminated because of his religious connections, is worthy of massive disdain. If the club in question tried to recruit a CEO in Nepal (using their dubious standards), they’d have the choice of about five people, and right now, I’m one of them and the CB’s another and if they come knocking, they can stick their job where the sun doesn’t shine.

And by-the-way, this morning the weather was beautiful and I expect the mountain flights were successful and we didn’t go because the weather was expected to be like yesterday. One more chance, next Friday.

Off to Chitwan to tomorrow to see some wildlife and to try not to get malaria.

I’ve got out of bed plenty of times at a time with a “4” in front of it, mostly in the am. When you spend a lot of your working years travelling for a living, staggering to an airport at an ungodly hour, sometimes hung-over, to make a flight that will get you to a scheduled meeting is unavoidable. But I don’t think I’ve ever done it twice in three days. We had a flight to Sydney to catch on Tuesday and today, Thursday, we have a crack of dawn flight to Everest and back provided the weather clears.

Well that was a major disappointment. We took off, ascended into the weather then turned around and went back. I don’t care how good your radar is, flying blind at the Himalayas is not something I relished. It was bad enough that the highest mountains in the world were in the same (small) country, let alone the same neighbourhood so the disappointment was real but somewhat muted. Apparently we’ll try again tomorrow.

We were in the air for about half an hour and didn’t see a thing other than whiteness from about a minute into the flight. As far as pointless exercises go, that’s up there with me trying to get a tan (I have a viking’s complexion). A shame also because two flights were combined so we were on an 80 seater (everyone gets a window) rather than the usual 16 seater. You’d rather be aloft in inclement weather in a big plane than a little one.

The rain this morning, when we returned to planet earth was of biblical proportions. I asked our guide if it was the tail-end of the monsoon. He said the monsoon had finished. This was just bad weather. To which he added the all-encompassing comment “climate change”. As it is only day 2, I decided not to tell him I worked in the coal industry. And as we all know, if Australia would only close its coal industry, there would be no more bush fires or droughts or floods in Australia and the Great Barrier Reef would double in size and you’d be able to see its colours from space…or something. So if only Nepal’s neighbour to the south would stop burning coal there would be no more rain in October, the month we were told (by all the best guide books) was the best one to visit this country.

I thought this place would be quite similar to India, but it isn’t apart from the traffic (they have traffic lights but don’t bother to turn them on), some of the food, the preponderance of Hindus and, it has to be said, the place is a bit untidy. But the buildings are a veritable riot of colour unlike in India, walking the streets is a somewhat more private and relaxing affair (apart from the traffic) and there are no cows (or elephants) on the streets. Not an exhaustive list I’ll grant you, but take my word for it. Oh, and the two places smell the same. I’m not going to attempt to deconstruct that.

But one thing I was never able to achieve in all of the times I went to India was meet a real live God. The CB and I did that today. And we have the photographic evidence to prove it. More later.

In the immortal words of Willy Nelson who isn’t quite dead yet, the child bride and I are on the road again. It’s taken a while but here we are. We’re not anywhere particularly special yet – the airport hotel in Bangkok, the Touch Down Sports Bar, specifically – but we’re on our way to Nepal tomorrow to commence the Himalaya Hijinx. And while thinking about the next part of this essay, I confronted the first dilemma of this trip. Is “Hijinx” singular or plural? Is it “hijinx is” or “hijinx are”. This minor irritant would be a real problem if I was afflicted by one of the many conditions our young seem to suffer from these days, like ADHD and IPCC and UNHCR. But I’m not so I don’t, especially the second one which I’d only catch if you paid me, like most of those who have this affliction. So as far as the Hijinx thing is concerned, I won’t even mention it (other than in the titles), just like Fleabag has gone through two Amazon Prime series without naming a number of her main characters.

The CB and I like a tipple, it has to be said, so when told that the flight from Sydney to Bangkok only stocked one brand of red wine and one brand of beer (we were flying gorilla class so meh….) I was fine but the white wine and bubbles drinker CB was somewhat chagrined but as has been her guiding philosophy the whole time she has been with me, she grinned (grimaced actually) and bore it, as you do. There were, of course, other irrelevancies like water and soft drink and tea and coffee made from the water on the plane which they tell you not to drink so, red wine it was but up the back of the plane, if you push your luck by dinging that call-button a little too frequently, that fourth red wine in an hour may contain more than wine, if you get my drift.

Anyway, we’re here now – it’s taken me a day and a half to write this pathetic amount. The CB and I went for a wander around an area called Thamel this afternoon. Every European in Kathmandu did the same. We heard mostly German accents but also American, British and a few Aussies. More of that in the coming days. But tomorrow we go for a flight round Everest and other monuments to the geological process, provided the weather cooperates. It didn’t today and tomorrow’s not looking flash so let’s see.

One thing we did notice while sitting in the hotel bar (so you can be sure this survey has statistical legitimacy), is that there are many groups or shaven-headed (or bald) middle-aged men lurking about the place. They are either waiting their turn to walk up Everest (I think it’s like climbing Ayre’s Rock these days), or they aren’t and you can draw your own conclusions.