“We’re here” our taxi driver cried to our surprise. Looking around, we feared for our demise as only shutters and a barricade were visible to our eyes. In darkened street we would meet our maker before our feet had us forsaken. “Save our souls” I cried “let’s be chaps and wrestle them for our rucksacks” Just then, without much ado the shutters rose, there in the blue-black night a hotel concierge, a shining light.
“You could have taken them,” I whispered to The Wandering Man for yes, avid bleader (someone who follows a blog), ‘tis time for the Great Indigenous Peoples Tale (artistic license applied for) featuring a host of your soon to be favourite characters. Meet and greet:
- A Buffalo, the aptly name Buff XXX111 (“recurring”)
- Goats
- Architectural Llamas
- Bhutan Carpenters
- Another Buffalo, the aptly named Buffalo XXX111 (“to infinity”),
- More Goats
- The Women who Cross the Bridge for Money
- The Stick-Gifter
- Buff the Very First (“so there”)
Spend time with the ‘People who Wish You Well’ and other fully rounded out characters. Oh, and Big Bang Buff (“nuff said”) also makes a cameo appearance as ‘Buffalo Ploughing,’ in the style of the great 13th C. Tamangian artist, Ted.
All this and made up things too.
We got our bags out of the boot and readied ourselves for our late night hotel check in. I dismissed thoughts about future events and narrowed in on the moment.
In the gloom of the evening by the light of the silvery moon I could see the tension on the Wandering Man’s famed fizzog accompanied, as ever, by the fiercely protective full set that, when set against the natural environs, more than held its own and usually somebody else’s as well (see figure 1). I relieved the tension by serenading him with a Beatles’ medley. Visibly relaxed, I flaunted my Barry Manilow. The lights went out.
Figure 1 Famous fizzog & full set in natural environs
- The following paragraph is for lovers of poor double entendre or those of a military persuasion. Whether you remain with the paragraph or leave please do so in light of the fullest disclosure of facts and not just because of your opinion of the author. It will not impact on remaining paragraphs or will it? Leavers go straight to Paragraph 3.
It’s 0530 hrs. The first reminder had been issued via personal voicemail, in person. “Are you up Rose”’ a saying that when used in earlier times had a variety of connotations. Resisting the urge to shout “Roger that!” in affirmation I managed a strangled “I’m coming” which, on later review, was not much better.
However, such a carry on aside, we’re in the lobby of the Eco Hotel with pack up breakfast provided of boiled egg, cheese sandwich, one apple and a carton of juice. We needed to be at the Ratna Park bus stop by 06.00hrs. The man who was about to drive us seven minutes down the road and charge us 500 Nepalese Rupees for the privilege was already waiting for us. The fee however included: knowing where he was going, getting there, arranging for the right person to get us on the right bus and not driving off with our bags. He earned his money.
The first stirrings of human existence seemed to be occurring around the dilapidated bus station. Bleary-eyed commuters boarded buses and then got off again in order to board the right bus. Sellers of assorted goods got on and off without making a sale, lips pursed in mild frustration as they looked for the next opportunity. The air was quickly turning industrial as engines fired up.
We had taken seats towards the rear of the bus. A gentleman and his companion arrived waiving tickets whilst saying the word “ticket” repeatedly. We confirmed we did not have one and enquired as to whether it was necessary. The answer was more waiving of tickets with an increasing frequency of the word ‘ticket’. A helpful chap explained that we were sitting in their seats. The seats they’d brought a ticket for. So we moved behind onto the seats above the wheels.
Now I like a fairground ride as much as the next person and very excitable I can be in a bumper car. However 4.5 hours in a vehicle that once had suspension, on roads whose very existence challenged the definition of the word ‘road’, had only succeeded in turning smiles into grimaces. Still it was fun watching Wandering Man change colour, the fetching shade of puce that arrived as the rear wheel left the road dangling over the edge of a severe drop, was particularly fetching. That’ll teach him to sit by the window.
No words needed to be exchanged between us when the vehicle stopped to confirm it had one wheel dangling. Nor when it pulled in and a man with a spanner disappeared under the vehicle right where we were sitting. Nor at the constant need to blow air into the tyres and certainly not as all the passengers bounced up, down and side to side, some sleeping whilst their hats did the movements. It was the public transport equivalent of the Hadron Collider. We rubbed our heads in awe. I discovered what I thought was a black hole. WMan spat on his hanky and rubbed hard.
On occasion, when not too dazed, we caught sight of the Sun Koshi River. We saw white-capped mountains, terraced valleys, plenty of temples. It was exciting. We needed to walk. Alighting in Mudhe, we were now on our own.
Except, there were two of us.
It was time for tea.
