The 23-Hour Day: Third Day of Trekking

Day 15

The alarm went off at 4am (I heard it through the plywood wall) and the refreshing interchange of

“I feel like shit.”

prompted another 15 minutes’ kip.

We finally dragged ourselves out of the hotel, layered with thermal undies and equipped with torches, at about 4.45am. We were climbing from 2,890m to 3,210m in the dark.

The next hour was harder than expected, most likely due to sleepy metabolisms and no breakfast, but we didn’t find it as hard as some. When taking a break, the eerie sight of a caterpillar of head torches creeping a slow concertina procession up the hill was an oddly welcome distraction from the heels of the person in front, which was all you could see when walking.

The guidebook mentions the ‘stampede of sunrise seekers’, but it was difficult to imagine the full meaning of that phrase until we got to the top. The sheer number of people was staggering; and it quickly continued to fill up. A little stall sold hot black tea with mole-hills of sugar in it. The metal observation tower ached and screeched under the weight of its passengers and their cameras. Everyone had a camera: some on tripods, some against their faces and some, as is common these days, at 3/4 arm’s length, as if trying to get as far away from the reality of their subject as possible.

View from Poon Hill

View from Poon Hill

Were it not for the clouds, the view would have been mind-numbingly wonderful and awesome (I’m annoyed that those words don’t mean “filled me with wonder and awe” – perhaps I should say wonder full and awe full). As it was, the view was just your common-or-garden staggeringly breathtaking: as the sun rose behind us and illuminated the mountains hundreds of kilometres in front of us, a sense of unimaginable scale became momentarily imaginable. And then I saw a kilt.

Heathrow Man, as he had become known, was one of the many people we were surprised to see at 5am, 3km up into the Himalayas. It felt like everyone we’d seen or met over the last two weeks was here. But Heathrow Man was the only one in a kilt.

I first met Heathrow Man in the queue for check-in at an airport. I forget which. He (the only other person in the queue) asked if this was the flight to Delhi, which it was, and lo! our destinies were entwined. I next saw him on the plane; then in Delhi Arrivals security; then in Delhi Departures lounge; then sat leisurely in business class on the flight to Kathmandu; then on the streets of Boudha, more than once. Then I didn’t see him for the few days that we went east; but then I saw him in Pokhara, more than once. Then we didn’t see him while we were trekking; and now here he was, on Poon Hill. In a fucking kilt.

And I am really not making this up: he just walked in to the café I’ve been writing in for the past few days and sat down at the table across from me. I really want to talk to him, but I’m afraid I’ll break the spell: me and Heathrow Man, destined to always be in roughly the same place at roughly the same time, but never to know each other. I haven’t even made eye contact with him since he first graced me with his lilting Scottish serrated knife of a voice, back in Heathrow Terminal 4, all those aeons ago. The only thing I know about him, and ever want to know, is that in the cold damp pre-dawn hours of this day in late September 2011, Heathrow Man wore a kilt to climb a mountain called Poon Hill. In the dark. And he didn’t look very impressed with the view.

Once we’d managed to get our cameras to expose correctly for the dawn light on our faces and the bright sunshine reflecting off snow hundreds of kilometres away, Ben suggested we leave before everyone else, if only to jump the queue for the showers (of which there were two).

Annapurna South, Just Waking Up

Annapurna South, Just Waking Up

Once we got back to the hotel, we decided there was no point to showering, what with another eight hours of trekking ahead of us. We sat down (having already done a three-hour trek over 640 vertical metres) for breakfast at 7am. We’d already done a trek comparable to the World Peace Stupa; before breakfast. This was going to be a long day.

We took a very leisurely couple of hours for breakfast and packing, wanting to be as ready for the day ahead as we could. The first hour or so after our departure at 9am was a climb to the same height as Poon Hill, but not as steep. One would imagine this to be easier, but legs tired from a pre-breakfast hike and full packs completely outweighed the slight decrease in steepness. This was harder.

Our ascent was through a sea of yapping Chinese and loud, aggressive, staccato Russian – two large groups that, I mumbled to Ben, had turned the mountain Red.

At the rest point that marked what looked like the top, I began to feel a little vertiginous for the first time. As we progressed across the rising ridge, this was not a feeling that left me until we got back in to the jungle; mainly because the track was thin, my legs were tired, my pack set me off-balance and the clouds occasionally would suddenly clear, exposing a 1,500m drop through dense undergrowth into a rocky ravine. Ben was caught slightly off-guard when his regular trill of

“How we doing, buddy?”

was met with a matter-of-fact

“Really not happy: quite terrified… Let’s just keep going.”

Really High Jungle Mist

Really High Jungle Mist

In the forest we finally started going down; and the roles reversed. On our descent from Poon Hill, I’d discovered that Ben came down hard and jarring on his front foot, as he transferred his weight forward with each step – as you do when walking on the flat or ascending. I suggested he try keeping his weight on the back leg and bending it in a kind of in-the-middle-of-sitting-down-cross-legged-my-trousers-have-ripped-and-I’m-not-wearing-any-knickers way. He quickly saw the advantage of lowering his centre of gravity into the hill and we saved him a lot of knee pain.

While we’d found a way to give Ben some knee-relief, that didn’t mean he was happy with the whole process. I was now the fast one, employing years of delighted youth, skipping across Mediterranean boulders, rock-formations and stones in flip-flops, sure-footed as Billy Goat the Superglue Salesman.

Ben’s superior strength and fitness meant he could bear the punishment a slow descent has on your legs; a skipping, trotting, jogging approach is much easier on the muscles and joints – but also more dangerous. The steps were wet and he rightly feared that skipping down was more likely to kill or seriously maim, him if he slipped. Stupidly, I felt no such fear, so had a lovely time skipping down through astonishingly beautiful scenery, decidedly oblivious of the horror that would befall me if I fell.

The descent got steeper and steeper until it was almost vertical. We pitied those coming up the other way, who had to suffer steps that were waist-high for some. And then it started raining; out of nowhere came rain like someone had just emptied a lake out of the sky.

I slowed down. Ben slowed down. I didn’t slow down as much as Ben. Our exhaustion caused a little bickering – just a little – but we both noticed. Here is another reason why I was fortunate to be with Ben: we both instantly recognized what was going on and stopped to marvel at the scenery. We had descended about half way into an incredibly deep river gorge, the sight of which, when we looked back up, was superbly restorative. It was beautiful and, as we were now getting used to, beautiful in a way quite unlike anything we’d already seen.

Ben Gets Overtaken By a Skipping Man Carrying a Grocery Stall

Ben Gets Overtaken By a Skipping Man Carrying a Grocery Stall

Ben in Charge of a Waterfall

Ben in Charge of a Waterfall

Everywhere you look in Nepal (at the natural scenes) is magnificently beautiful, but each new place is completely unlike any of the previous. As we took stock of this new beauty, our spirits raised enough for us to continue joking and laughing and we quickly arrived at the bottom of the gorge.

We settled in for a decent break, but quickly realised we were running short on time. Almost everyone else was finishing their day in Tadapani, but we had decided to break the back of the descent today, to give us an easier time tomorrow, our final day: we were going another 2-3 hours further than everyone else. If it was another 2 hours to Tadapani, we’d be getting in to Ghandruk (assuming an hour for lunch) just before nightfall. We decided to shove some Snickers down us and charge on, aiming to get to Tadapani for 2.30pm, giving us some leeway for lunch and the final descent to Ghandruk.

We set off across the levelled-out river bed, crossing the river back and forth, before returning to the now familiar track-through-jungle-on-side-of-mountain. It was so familiar that I absent-mindedly took us on a wrong turn and nearly got us both killed.

The path I’d chosen (although I really didn’t see another path) got thinner and thinner, until the vegetation on both sides was touching our boots. The steps over exposed roots of trees became much bigger; we sometimes had to actually jump down. Then we had to walk over a slippery fallen tree and avoid puddles of mud that we had no idea the depth of. All of this with a few inches slip to the right being an unending fall to our inevitable death. Imagine being unsure of your footing in a jungle. Now tilt that jungle 80 degrees to the right and put it so high that the clouds seem a long way down. It was like that. Except it was real.

We’d pretty much decided we’d gone the wrong way when we saw, 20m above us, people walking along the proper path. They cheerfully waved at us and my terror mixed with embarrassment and muted the cry for help that was slowly building in my gut. I saw that our animal track, or whatever it was, went up a fair bit ahead and decided that we’d have to climb the rest, expecting that the proper path would sensibly remain level.

With our hearts firmly grasped between our teeth, we gave it all hell and charged vertically up, brushing through dense, wet undergrowth – fuck leeches, I want to live! Without the slightest mishap we had found our way back to the well-worn, flat, wide track and saved ourselves from a silent tumbling death. Being English, we said “That was scary” and set off marching again, fearful of being late. I’m glad we did, because had we stopped to take stock (as I’m uncomfortably doing now), I’m sure we’d have had some difficulty continuing. It was utterly, completely terrifying.

Our path went down again, down the side of another valley and, at the bottom, Oh fuck. More stairs. it inevitably went back up the other side. For me, this ascent was no different from any of the other thousands and thousands of steps up which I’d dragged my wilting body over the previous couple of days: just put one painful leg on the next step and heave. For Ben, the pounding descent he’d suffered for most of the day had taken its toll, so he now also found it really tough. He blamed it on the cigarette he’d had just before the ascent (despite my warnings, tut tut), but I think that’s giving the cigarette too much credit. Thoroughly exhausted, we rested half way up; both assuming the pray-heavens-open-and-consume-me position, leaning against our packs.

After more bloody stairs, we reached Tadapani and settled in for some lunch, well-deserved. We’d arrived half an hour early, but still managed to instantly find some people to moan at in the cynical tones of one who’s given up on the joy and simply lives for the experience to continue to its bitter end. Luckily, the British are good at cynicism and our new companions fell about laughing. Tori, 21, and Kelsey, 18, were sisters from Colorado, having now been in Nepal for four months, staying with a Nepali family and proficient with the local lingo. They were so entertained by these two sweaty, deflated, whingeing Brits that they checked out of the room they’d checked in to only an hour before in order to join us for the rest of our trek. While we were worried they’d be much faster than us and that we’d hold them back, the idea of two bundles of youthful female energy keeping us company seemed as good a morale booster as any. If they turned out to be really dull, we could blame their demise on the bears or tigers or snakes or monkeys that reside in the jungle we entered with them; past a sign warning us not to walk in the jungle alone.

The girls were a dynamic duo of delightful liberal American teenage brilliance. I was humbled by their level-headed and immersive experience of Nepal; finding them an inspiration, especially as my admiration was amplified by their youth. They were fun, interesting and intelligent; were joyful company on the descent through yet another kind of beautiful scenery; and were too young for sexuality to intrude into the blossoming friendship. Not that my imagination was, at the time, considering thoughts any more adventurous than “I hope there aren’t any more bloody steps”. Which there were.

As we arrived in Ghandruk (we knew we had, because a delightfully incongruous map suddenly appeared, all Cheshire Cat smile) there was a meticulously crafted flight of 500 steps (someone counted). This was immaculately regular (as it led up to a temple) and we found that trotting down was the only way to overcome the distinct lack of any sliver of strength or stamina remaining in our legs. In the photo, notice that the stairs go down, but the town is up. We had to go back up again. Up more stairs.

Straight Stairs to Ghandruk

Straight Stairs to Ghandruk

Settling to the first guest house we came across, the girls quickly made friends with the owners (in Nepali) and we settled in to a really lovely set of rooms. The only other guests being two early thirties Irishmen, Brian and John, who had shot past us on the descent from Tadapani, practically running all the way.

Our four new companions (we’d left the old ones back in Tadapani) were a real highlight to the trek. The six of us nattered all night, ate at a single table with the Nepali family, played Shithead for hours and retired to the balcony outside our rooms to drink and talk into the night. Ben and I made the mistake of continuing this revelry until 3am.

We’d been awake for 23 hours, 11 of which we’d been trekking.


The Jungle at Altitude: Second Day of Trekking

Day 14

After The Staircase of Death the day before, our second day of trekking beginning with more sodding stairs was reasonably demoralising. I’m sure I’d made the quip about my first property purchase being a fucking bungalow about fifteen times by this point; but I made it again. We had, however, been told that this day would be much easier and we’d seen the worst of it already.

Oh Fuck. More Stairs.

Oh Fuck. More Stairs.

The trail did level out somewhat and we ploughed on. When we weren’t climbing steps I was absolutely fine and we marched on, overtaking groups quite often. When we were climbing steps, those groups would trickle back past us; a nightmare for morale, but one I kept in check. Ben’s encouragement, though I could see he was beginning to flag too, was invaluable.

We’d turned down an offer in Pokhara of one of the girls we’d met to join us, on the grounds that this was likely to be the last time Ben and I saw each other for some time; and we’d have the opportunity to talk. However, we hadn’t said a single word that wasn’t trek-related in over 24 hours and weren’t to for almost the entire trip. This was really tough for us both.

I remember surprisingly little of the trek on this day. I can only assume that I had settled in to a zen-packhorse trance and had disengaged less vital parts of my brain – like those that experience or remember. We had reached the jungle however (at about 1,800m above sea-level) and Ben’s previous experience with leeches (ask him) made us fastidious in protecting ourselves. We’d even brought half a kilo of salt. We didn’t get any leeches: it was far too sunny.

Here Jungle Be (at 1,800m)

Here Jungle Be (at 1,800m)

About two thirds of the way up, I felt sick and had a headache that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much water I drank. Worried about altitude sickness, I asked for us to stop and we settled in for lunch. It turned out simply to be exertion, but my over-cautiousness included my first ever foray into the wonder that is garlic soup – a remedy for altitude due to its vasodilating properties. You must have garlic soup (with a little tomato), it is quite delicious.

Learning from our trek to Nagarkot not to pay much attention to how long people say things will take, we set off for the remaining anywhere-from-an-hour-to-three-hours to Ghorepani. We made good time, having found a rhythm we could maintain. A rhythm that would serve us well the next day.

Ben Doing Our Rhythm

Ben Doing Our Rhythm

Arriving in Ghorepani was a relief; countered somewhat by the knowledge that we were actually going to Upper Ghorepani and the sight of another snaking, seemingly never-ending fucking staircase. “One last push.” At least the umpteenth time Ben had said it that day, but it felt a little more graspable this time.

At the top, we checked in with the police (a Gurkha called Ben) and went to find the Sunny Hotel, which had been recommended to us. Another two plywood rooms for NRS 50 (about 40p) and the odd experience of showering in the dark (power cut) set us up for an afternoon of sitting at a table too exhausted to even discuss the day’s events.

Something that is particularly odd about trekking is the end of the day. We’d set off at 9am and here, after a long, hard day’s trekking, we were sat at 3pm, quite ready for bed. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. While we were planning on getting up at 4am to catch the sunrise, we still had hours before a sensible bed-time. So we sat and we chatter a little with the Germans and the Scot and a new British couple, Nick and Amy, project manager and vet, who were very easy to get on with. As the afternoon ploughed on, the clouds began to clear and we got our first sight of the spectacular view. Dhaulagiri, the world’s seventh highest mountain, began to peek through the clouds and suddenly our end of the restaurant (the window end) became the place to be.

Cheeky Peak Peeking

Cheeky Peak Peeking

It was about this time that Ben and I realised we were one of very few (if not the only) groups to have neither guide nor porter. We also had much heavier packs than most. Our having kept up with these people buoyed us for the next day. We were going to need it.

As the evening drew in, we joined an intense game of Shithead (with new rules) with Kat and Limor. Kat (a North London Irish rose) had met Limor (a late-twenties ball of Israeli energy, with a Bachelor’s in Electrochemical Engineering and embarking on a Master’s in Neuroscience) while on the full Annapurna Circuit; of which they were now in their closing days. These girls took cards very seriously, which was a delight for Ben (hugely competitive) and me (lover of games and cards).

We got to bed early, although not as early as we’d have liked, and Ben bravely volunteered as timekeeper (the one mobile phone alarm clock) and so the responsibility of waking us up at 4am to trek for over an hour from 2,890m to 3,210m in the dark.

The Staircase of Death: First Day of Trekking

Day 13

Confident that Drew would be happy by himself, shopping, drinking, sunning himself and getting a Swedish massage, while Ben and I pushed ourselves through four days of self-inflicted endurance torture, we’d settled on the Poon Hill trek (usually five days, but as Tempa T says “Go hard or go home”).

Leaving some stuff with Drew, but not too much, we set off in a pre-booked taxi 80km west to Naypul. Two hours of bumpy mountain road later, we found ourselves in what was apparently Nayapul: a few shacks on the side of the road selling water, snacks and hot food. We were expecting more, as it is the beginning of one of the most trekked routes in the Annapurna region.

After some brief faffing with kit, we set off in to the unknown: two intrepid explorers (we had special I’m-not-using-a-guide-because-I’m-a-hardcore-LAD documentation – ironically called FIT: Free Individual Trekker) ready for anything the Himalayas could throw at us.

The first thing thrown at us was an enormous landslide blocking the only path. It slowly dawned on us that we’d have to climb over it; which we did with some delicacy. By the fourth landslide, we were practically skipping across like seasoned mountain goats.



Speaking of goats, over the next four days we were to pass lots of goats, hundreds at a time, coming down from the restricted area of Mustang on the Tibetan border. They were all being brought to Pokhara to be loaded on to trucks and distributed across the country to be sacrificed for the festival of Dasain. We saw thousands and thousands of goats. Each one fetches upwards of NRS 7,000 ($90) and will likely not even be eaten, as Nepali Hindus (especially high caste) are predominantly vegetarian.

Doomed Goats

Doomed Goats

We had set off at quite a pace. I think we were both of a similar mindset: this trip’s only four days long, so I’m going to make the most of it, no matter how much it hurts. As we started climbing steps, however, it became clear that Ben’s gym attendance was more regular than his modesty would let on; and my occasional game of squash just wasn’t cutting it. And so began Ben’s saintly patience in the face of my demonic auto-torture. As we crossed beautiful gorges and regularly passed heavenly streams, waterfalls and rivers (and, of course, more goats) we also started climbing lots more steps – a few at first, then they grew into flights and soon I was really struggling.

I’ve never been a great fan of stairs; but my relationship with them was considerably altered in late 2002, when my cardiac consultant told me I absolutely must not climb stairs. I’d had an influenza-induced acute myocardial infarction (the flu gave me a heart attack) and my three-month recovery was essentially “Don’t do anything. But especially don’t go up stairs.” I followed Doctor’s Orders to the letter (I’m a sucker for a buxom consultant) and my heart recovered, better than it had been originally, but I’ve always remained slightly wary of stairs.

So, when we arrived at the base of what one happy trekker termed The Staircase of Death, still tired from the kindly placed practice flights we’d just surmounted, I was less than enthusiastic. The stairs up to Ulleri, where we were planning to stay, number 3,280 without a break. The staircase up the inside of the Empire State Building (which has breaks every floor) to the 102nd floor observatory has only 1,860 steps. The tallest structure in the world, Burj Khalifa in Dubai, has a pitiful 2,909 steps over 160 floors. And I’m fat, unfit and chose to carry a heavy pack.

The further we went, the more often I had to stop. I waxed and waned through immovable determination, utter exhaustion and zen-like delirium. At times, I’d take 15 steps before sitting and leaning back against my pack, head dropped back and body limp. Other times I’d push really hard, just to remind myself that, no matter how much my body was telling me otherwise, I still had lots left in the reserve tanks; those times I’d stop with a wail or an animal groan. I think I may have worried Ben on a few of those occasions.

I eventually broke through a wall and began to simply plod along, but without the need to stop so often. This relative respite gave me the opportunity to reflect on my situation and three things occurred to me: (i) Ben was right, I wouldn’t rather have been doing this with anyone else: we’re one hell of a team and I’d go anywhere and do anything with him; (ii) regardless of the pain and the disappointment in myself for not being stronger, I felt in control: I knew exactly how much I could give, how much to give and how much I was benefiting from the experience; and (iii) I hope tomorrow isn’t bloody like this.

We finally got to Ulleri and checked in to the plywood boxes that serve as rooms in these hills. A surprisingly decent shower and change into comfy clothes and we sat for supper among other groups of trekkers. Ben exclaimed that he’d never seen me so deflated. I couldn’t remember being so exhausted. I was almost vacant. We joked with the others about how difficult it was, which bits were the worst and how much it hurt. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but we’d be spending every evening with these people, as each stop is fairly predetermined.

Over the next few days we’d get to know the Scottish woman who, travelling by herself, found any and all opportunities to engage people in her subjective monologue of a conversation. We’d spend some time talking to the two Aryan Germans, probably in their late-thirties and, if they weren’t gay, then their matching (sorry, identical) kit, fit bodies and mincing glances and Ben and me (who are often mistaken for a couple) were a jolly good attempt at pretending. Later, we met James and Lisa, an English pair (not couple) with a bright, fun sense of humour and some new rules for the card game familiar (I suspect) to all travellers – Shithead.

Briefly, Shithead is the game that spawned Uno and it involves specific cards producing specific outcomes. What those cards are and what they do being determined at the setting of the game. This sharing of new rules is a marvellous way to begin meeting people. “Ah, no we play that 3s are invisible and 4s reverse the direction of play, but you can’t play a 10 on a 7.”

Oddly, we managed to stay up relatively late (having arrived in Ulleri at about 5pm) and went to bed exhausted. I returned to my room to find The Beast of Bodmin Moor engaged in the somnoramble of a hippopotamus slowly choking on a dead dog in the ‘room’ next to mine. By which I mean on the other side of the 3mm plywood ‘wall’. Even after I put in my earplugs, his (or her!) eulogy to long-forgotten peaceful rest echoed through my brain. I was fortunate enough to be two-Empire-State-Buildings-exhausted.

To Trek, or Not to Trek

Day 10

Preparing for our big, proper trek, we had to get two pieces of paperwork: an entry permit to the Annapurna National Park and a TIMS card (Trekkers’ Information Management System). We discussed prices with a local hotel/restaurant/travel agent and went to get some passport photos. As we were about to hand over the cash for our permits, we paused. Ben and I, while having had some experience hiking, trekking, walking, etc., are certainly no experts and had had no physical training at all. Drew, who struggled with his first ever trek just days before, was signing up with us for a week of hard, high-altitude endurance – none of us with the slightest idea of what that involved. Perhaps we were taking things too fast.

We decided (very sensibly, with hindsight) to postpone our trek until we’d done some more manageable peaks. Across the lake, atop a local hill, sat the World Peace Stupa, a half day’s walk up about 700m. We thought we’d tackle that small summit first.

Day 11

We set off the next morning with daysacks and a half-planned route on our local map. We walked south to the dam at the bottom of the lake, crossed over the river below it on a rickety wooden suspension bridge, straight out of Indiana Jones, and set off along the treeline south of the forest that draped the hill we were to climb.

Where I Learned to Turn Off My Fear

Where I Learned to Turn Off My Fear

As we walked along, nattering away, we came across a lone young German chap, who asked us the way to the stupa. A short while later, we came across an army post and were warned of bandits in the forests above us, with guns and knives and ambush tactics. Don’t travel alone, we were warned. At this point, the young German came up and we relayed the worrying message, inviting him to join us.

Lucas is fresh out of school, on a 12-month gap year world trip, before returning to study what we eventually deciphered as Grounds-keeping Management (to join his father’s business) at university. As we walked (away from the forest and towards the main road), I asked him about his trip and it turned out he was planning to go next to Australia, via Hong Kong, exactly as I am. At the same time, no less. Quickly agreeing the possibility of travelling together, we continued across reasonably neglected farmland, under Ben and his map’s direction, until we reached Devi’s Fall – a stop we had planned along the way.

I’d expected a waterfall of great height and beauty. We were instead presented with a very powerful small river, dropping in twists and turns into a cavernous underground chamber. The force of the water charging its way through this helter-skelter tunnel drop was phenomenal; thousands, if not millions, of gallons of mountain water barging its way past itself in a monstrous effort to be the first to the bottom.

Devi's Fall (poor Devi)

Devi's Fall (poor Devi)

Some dutiful admiration of its might and terrible splendour, some photos, some videos and then off to the stupa. Just as it started to rain. Luckily, the rain was apathetic that morning and we were soon at the base of the steep dirt road to the stupa, in blazing sunshine.

Lucas, fresh out of school and an ex badminton player, strode on in his trainers and shorts, while the three Englishmen struggled up a steep but drivable track in completely inappropriate clothing for the weather and grade of climb. We later came to some steps and the top of these completed a good hour and half of climbing to this perched pagoda. It was clear that Drew wasn’t having a great time and we three began to slowly formulate the idea that trekking might not be Drew’s thing. The helipad at the top of the hill didn’t exactly make the whole thing easier for any of us.

While the stupa wasn’t much, the view of Pokhara was.

View of Pokhara

View of Pokhara

We hadn’t realised how big it was; nor the lake. This also being the first clear day we’d had for a week or so, the mountains behind were stunning too.

Fewa Lake and the Himalays Behind Pokhara

Fewa Lake and the Himalays Behind Pokhara

We met some people at the top who told us about a shorter trek to the west of where we were planning (and a much, much shorter taxi ride), called the Poon Hill trek, after the viewpoint one reaches at its zenith. We’d had a look at this trek before we’d left the UK and were assured it was well worth the effort – over 3,000 steps at one part.

We agreed to all meet for a drink that evening, as they had come up the other side of the hill and were going down the way we’d come up. As we set off to follow their ascent back down, we were looking forward to getting to the bottom, where we’d be ferried across the lake, back to our hotel – a dreamy way to end a lovely day.

Unfortunately, between us and the lake were a lot of uneven, steep and still wet and slippery stone steps. The sun hadn’t broken through the tree canopy of the forest to dry them out. We were all instantly set to tiptoeing our way down at a snail’s pace (all except Lucas, whose soft-rubber-soled trainers had superior grip over our rugged, but hard-soled boots).

Poor Andrew Cameron. Drew, the bringer of rain and natural disaster; the young Englishman baptised in rapid 1,000m ascents and bruised from slippery stone steps; poor Drew slipped again. This one sounded more serious and I briefly wondered whether we’d have to send our new friend skipping off in his Adidas pumps to get help. Luckily for all of us, except maybe Drew, Drew’s utter refusal to give up, even in the face of a situation that would have likely terrified me, got him back on his feet; and after some painkillers and the production of a telescopic walking pole, we were off again. Slower this time.

Tortuous Descent

Tortuous Descent

The tortuous descent levelled out about half way down and we stopped for a snack and to soak up the astonishing view. We were joined by a group of Chinese and I reflected on how lovely it was to hear Mandarin (having learned it for a year), rather than the Cantonese we hear in London. I find it a much prettier dialect, full of swooshing sibilant consonants and soft kissing vowels. It can be spoken brashly, of course, but these folks sounded quite northern (the pronunciation is based on the Beijing dialect, Beijing meaning northern capital). I passed my reflections on to them (not in Chinese) and they may well have been flattered, had they not been so intent on taking pictures of themselves and a stray dog, and themselves with the stray dog.

I was going to write an entire post about my experience of the Chinese on holiday in what is their neighbouring country, but I realised it would just end up as a narrow-minded xenophobic rant. Instead, I will simply say that the recently very affluent Chinese middle class on holiday are not great ambassadors for their country. They are sometimes terribly funny, however: particularly when dressed for deep penetration of some desert military compound while at 2,000m in the Himalayas. With the obligatory six tonnes of high-tech camera equipment required to take pictures of each other flashing peace signs with coquettishly cocked heads at unnecessarily super-ultra high definition. See? It’s easy to get carried away. (If there’s enough demand, I’ll write the whole post, uncensored.)

We met an English couple, Hannah a doctor and Tom a teacher, based in Sheffield, who offered to share the cost of the boat back across the lake and off we set again; Drew somewhat restored, but still clearly not having a good time. And I don’t blame him.

Going down steps, I’m sure you know if you’ve had any experience beyond indoor staircases, is very tough on the knees and thighs. Ben and I were later to learn from sherpas that the best thing for your legs is to trot or skip down. While this is more dangerous, it’s also faster and you’re not using lots of energy stopping your entire bodyweight on each step. Nor are you sending shuddering shockwaves through your knees. None of us were brave enough to skip.

We reached the bottom and hopped in to boats. On the way, the sun set in such a manner that almost wounded me it was so beautiful. The photo doesn’t do it justice, but you’ll get some idea (I recommend full screen).

Sunset Over Fewa Lake

Sunset Over Fewa Lake

We got back in time for a quick turnaround before straight out for drinks with the group we’d met at the stupa. We arrived a little early, or late, we weren’t sure, and took advantage of Happy Hour at the Lemon Tree.

Lucas joined us and we spoke some more about trekking, deciding, with much checking and double-checking, that it might be an idea for Ben and me to do a short trek by ourselves and let Drew enjoy his Christmas present from Ben – an hour and a half’s Swedish massage. We left the decision proper for the next day and in a moment’s pause I was less than subtle about seeing a uniquely stunning girl walk past. My reaction was so mouth-agape that my companions all turned in unison to stare. Our entire table gawped at this Scandinavian beauty, just as she turned her soft gaze upon us mere mortals. Clearly, we had all buggered that up instantly. But the girl and her equally tall, blonde, good-looking friend came straight in the bar and sat two tables from us. Ben goaded me on with talk of my MojoQuest and dared me to talk to them. I left the table as calls of “Now boys, watch the master at work!” echoed behind me. Much too loudly. I was surely at the foot of an insurmountable peak. Probably with lots of slippery stone steps ahead of me.

If you put any faith in The Game: I opened this two-set with a basic hook and made sure to neg the stunner and peacock with positive anchoring gestures, affirming my AM status among the group.

What actually happened was I just said hello and asked them if they’d like to join us. They did without hesitation.

Had we been in a London bar I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have even got the time of day, but they were abroad, alone and looking for something to do. And they’d seen and heard Ben, who’s tall, dark, handsome, rich, powerful and has a voracious sexual appetite. Or is that Drew?

We finally caught up with the group from the stupa and quickly moved on to a bar we were promised would close only once we’d left – even though licences in Nepal only last until 10pm. All of them.

The night deteriorated into drunken card games and boring interchanges about the nature of each person’s travel arrangements; while people played pool in the background and some chaps decided arm wrestling was the way to settle some dispute. I’ve been in some dives before and this one certainly wasn’t the worst, but it held its own.

I’ve never worked out how these things happen, but I ended up talking alone with the stunning Danish-Balinese girl. She taught me how to say “Good night, sleep well, see you in the morning” in Danish and complimented me, astonished, on my pronunciation. It didn’t occur to me to say how I was just mimicking her, so it must be her good pronunciation, but then my heart (or any other part of me) wasn’t in the conversation at all.

We called it a night and found we were drunker than expected. Tomorrow was likely to be a slow day.

Day 12

It was. So slow that we almost missed the deadline to get our trekking permits. It was only by some great stroke of luck that we were able to get our applications in on time. But I’ll let Ben tell you the story of the stray photographs, the unsigned waiver form and the mixed up final documents.

Travel Agents, Monkey Sex & Boating

The next couple of days we took quite slowly. Pokhara is an easy place to waste time. An enormous town on the east side of a large and placid mountain dam-lake, Pokhara is a series of contradictions folded together. The single road that runs the length of the lake is saturated with, at the south end, shops selling either clothes and pashminas, thangka paintings, handicrafts or knock-off trekking equipment – or, as the proprietors call it “Nepali North Face”. The more recent developments in north lakeside are focussed on bars, theme pubs and more trekking shops. The entire street is littered with internet cafés that double as travel agents; guest houses that double as travel agents; hairdressers that double as travel agents; hotels that have restaurants that double as travel agents; and the occasional travel agent.

Every aspect of lakeside is geared to what the locals think tourists want and, to their credit, they’re only 30 years out of date. 80s rock ballads tickle the air outside restaurants advertising ‘fire wood pizza’ and ‘vegetables with fried spanish’ (and I saw today spirits spelled ‘spitits’). Happy Hour at bars called Oxygen, X-Bar, Paradise and Blues Bar only serve to cheapen what is an astonishingly beautiful place. I would have loved to have been here before these reasonably recent developments, back when it was just a trekkers’ town, rather than a dull stew of generic adventure tourism.

There’s even a bloody golf course. Yesterday I saw two Sloaney boys in their Hackett uniforms with thousands of pounds worth of clubs slung over their shoulders. I’ll be glad to leave this place behind, but for now the quieter south end of lakeside is an utterly blissful place to write, with views of several of the world’s tallest mountains and this millpond reflecting an ethereal Himalayan sun.

Days 8 & 9

When we arrived, it was the very end of the off-season and the place was practically empty. Every shop we browsed in would contain at least one person begging us to buy something. In just our first two days here, however, Ben quipped that it seemed to be getting busier by the minute. What struck me most was the range of people; particularly the older range. In a town (well, street) full of places advertising safari, whitewater rafting, paragliding and Himalayan trekking, you don’t expect to see large groups straight off the hip-replacement waiting list. Although the logician in me jumps forward at this point and notes that they are the ones you see precisely because they are not strapped in to a parachute, inflatable raft, heavy rucksack or elephant saddle.

We spent some tranquil (and some not-so-tranquil) hours in thin, rickety wooden boats, paddling ourselves around the lake. We went to a Hindu temple on an island in the middle of the lake. We saw a monkey fall out of a tree in to the water, only to clamber back up and have his vibrating way with a lady monkey. We were offered drugs by two Nepali men fishing for eels with twine, sheltering under an overhanging tree from the rain. Yes, that’s right, we went boating in monsoon rain. We’re English.

Boating in the Rain

Boating in the Rain

Rain on Fewa Lake

Rain on Fewa Lake

Finding another place to shelter, we settled under a large concrete building with sort-of moorings under an overhang. Just as we arrived, two stern-looking men came down. Our initial reaction, because we’re English, was How jolly nice of these chaps to come and give us a hand. That thought was soon shattered when were asked “What are you doing now?” The ‘now’ was the bit that threw me: like they’d been watching our every move. We said we were sheltering from the rain, they said we couldn’t because it was army property. Unknowingly, we’d come far enough down to try to take shelter under the local barracks’ access to the lake. We made our hasty retreat. Too hasty for some, as Ben and Drew’s boat (we’d taken two out that day) ended up going backwards into the bank, accompanied by more concerted vocal efforts to remove them, both from the boys and our ejectors.

Returning to (not dry) land, we began to plan our proper trek over beer and really bad Chinese food.

The Bus to Pokhara

Day 7 – 23 September 2011

I don’t remember if I had a shower that morning, but if I did, it certainly didn’t cut through the anesthesia of a 5am start after a hard trek the day before. Packing, then trudging up those bloody steps, was done in a trance, interrupted only by the pain of each step rippling through my thighs. Dumping my bag in the lobby, I was directed to clamber over a broken wall and up a steep mud path to what I imagine might be called an observation point. I was a little late and it was already fairly light, though the sun hadn’t yet broken over the mountains on the horizon.

If the weather had been clearer, we would have been able to see Everest; a sight Drew had particularly requested and one of the reasons we’d climbed to Nagarkot. Not only was the sky full of cloud, but poor Drew had, on his approach to the ‘observation point’, slipped down some stone steps and bruised his hip. Deciding to rest, he never saw the sunrise. He didn’t miss much.

The Clouds Were More Interesting

The Clouds Were More Interesting

Content that Mother Nature wasn’t about to flash us an early morning tease on the way out of the bedroom, we climbed down and said our goodbyes to Jen, who would be making her way down by foot. We jumped in to our micro-taxi-bus-thing for a race to the Kathmandu bus park.



All driving in Nepal is pretty hairy, but Ben regretted (he was in the front seat) telling the driver we were in a hurry as we hurtled down the mountain in our flimsy micro.

The journey was uneventful, but there was some confusion as to the exact location of the Greenline bus stop that meant we missed its departure (even though, using our first ever Nepali connection, we had been able to delay that departure by 10 mins). Our man at Greenline quickly arranged for the bus to stop and wait, and our taxi driver to take us to it, somewhere in Kathmandu. So we hopped back into our cab and set off in search of the now very delayed bus.

On the way, our cabbie was stopped by traffic police and, after some dejected discussions, his licence was confiscated; but we were allowed to continue. Bizarre.

When we caught up with the ‘luxury’ Greenline coach-bus-thingy, our bags were hastily and aggressively stowed and we were hustled aboard; to meet a sea of glaring tourist eyes: clearly we had not made a good first impression.

Deprived of our VIP booked seats at the front of the bus, we took our places as naughty boys on the back row. It felt like being on a school trip all of a sudden. This feeling was exacerbated when we stopped half an hour later in a monumental traffic jam and I took that opportunity to ask the driver if I could get some stuff from my stowed bag. As he opened the hold, he shot me a disapproving stare and snapped, “Why were you late?” Dumbfounded, I mutely replied, “The taxi was late.” I almost added “Sir”.

The Greenline Bus

The Greenline Bus

Restored to my throne at the centre of the back row, I finally relaxed. Right. We were in for a 7hr coach trip along part of what British television considers one of the most dangerous roads in the world. But we weren’t moving. A look out of the window gave us some clue: we could see the road trace a several mile long queue of traffic, draped across the mountains like a string of diesel-and-sweat-soaked spaghetti; but only in one direction. The other side of the road was occasionally the brief home of opportunist or impatient little cars; and then an ambulance.

Until that point it hadn’t occurred to me what would happen if there was an accident on these roads. How long would help be? In what form? To where would you be taken? While the grim truth of it all was, at the time, either suppressed or simply overtaken by other experiences, it bothers me now, as I write this, that the general state of mind one needs on these roads is not one of considering consequences.

The next hour and a half was stationary; and when we finally started moving, it was a trickle of traffic that was far far too closely packed for this road. Once through though, we were well on our way; although the driver clearly felt he had some time to make up. It seemed like the perfect time for a nap.

Finally Moving

Finally Moving

Ben woke me at the first snack stop with exclamations about how I possibly could have slept through such a bumpy journey and that I’d missed the exceptional views of the enormous Trishuli river, cutting its way through the valleys as we followed its course. Snickers, Sprite and a smoke, a gentleman’s breakfast, then we hopped back in to our temporary home-cum-coffin to continue our cross-country slog.

Refreshed from my nap and now taking up the window seat, I found landscapes that set my eyes wide with awe.



Also Awesome

Also Awesome

Really Awesome

Really Awesome

We arrived in Pokhara to find Mr Indra Baral, who runs the Green Park Hotel, who had been waiting over two hours for us, poor chap. A very quick taxi ride to the hotel and we were settled in.

I cannot say enough good things about Indra and his business partner Gopal. If you ever come to Pokhara, you must seek them out and stay in whichever hotel they’re running at that point. Wonderful people, so kind and welcoming and – as you will find out is quite common in Pokhara – literally able to sort anything out for you: safari, trek, food, drink, cigarettes, SIM cards, guides, massage, internet, clothes, etc.

They also have a Facebook page: Green Park Hotel

Good night, sleep well, see you in the morning

Over the years, my family has tried to learn this phrase in different languages. Perhaps in the comments below you’ll eventually find a discussion of where it came from, but I can’t remember. I’m going to list the ones I come across on my travels. Please comment with corrections (particularly on pronunciation) and additions; but not just from Google Translate or Babelfish: the idea of this exercise is that is comes from genuine knowledge of the language and encourages discussion between people from different cultures.


Swahili (because it being written in the back of my journal is what sparked this all off again):

Lala salama, tu onane, kesho asbohe.

Pronounced: La-la sa-la-ma, too o-naaney, keh-sho ass-booey.
Learned from: Masai warrior in the Masai Mara.
Additional phrases learned:

Tu me panda mlima Kenya. – We have climbed Mount Kenya.



Iyi geceler, iyi uykular, sabah görüsürüz.

Pronounced: ee-yee geh-jel-er, ee-yee uy-ku-lar, sah-bah guru-shoe-ruze.
Learned from: Originally from a belly dancer in Turkey, forgotten, then relearned in Nepal from a Turkish lady in a café.



Godnat, sov godt, vi ses i morn.

Pronounced: Go-natt, so gott, vee sais i morn (hard r).
Learned from: Striking Danish-Balinese girl in Nepal.