A city of five senses

And so the journey begins. My travel buddy select, Orla, a fellow nurse, and I set off for our holiday at a bleary eyed six-o'clock, in grizzly-grey mid-March. The destination? We were headed to Nepal; Himalaya strewn, Everest hosting, earthquake shaken hub of bustle that we knew little more about, but had both 'just always wanted to go'.

I had had a variety of reactions to this choice of two-week-break-from-work holiday destination. It seems the idea of Nepal is a bit marmite; one outspoken friend said 'You've out-randomed me with that one'; mum the cliché warned 'be careful Corkie, earthquakes'; and pretty much anyone who's ever been? 'Best time ever'. So, alas, with 24 hrs and a stop in a-bit-too-shiny Mumbai airport (where the garden, by the way, is not a garden) under our belts, we arrived in a temperate 25degree Kathmandu; a city of five senses.


Sight: Colour, just pure unadulterated colour everywhere. Fluorescent red, zingy pink, azure blue,

Traffic and colour - Kathmandu

paradise green, vibrant yellow, sunburnt orange, deep purple. Despite expecting to see the tougher side of a natural disaster hit and reputationally poor country, the main streets were pretty clean and the dirt roads that wind through the Thamel district, where we were staying, were adorned with beautifully dressed men and women. Stalls and shops line the streets selling a rainbow of yak wool scarves, knock-off North Face equipment for the trekkers and Hareem pants and hash for the hippies. Venturing off the main roads does show a slightly murkier side to the capital, with piles of unused resources scattered around, waiting to be put to use for repairs on buildings that got the unlucky hand in the quake. But even these squares have Stupas (Buddhist temples, the ones often seen in photos with the colourful prayer flags) or Hindu shrines the size of small houses, which are kept spotless and often touched with gold. We had a lovely moment in one such backstreet square, where two boys were playing with drums amongst the rubble, under the watchful Buddah eyes of the square's magnificent white and gold stupa.



Smell: I would probably describe Kathmandu as 'sweet and sour'.  The sweet drifting from the multiple Hindu shrines that appear on even the most backstreets of street, wafting incense to create a temporary mask for the other, less attractive scents. The sour coming from the roads struggling to rid themselves of recent rain, which pools and cooks under the hot sun. A cocktail which, in the not infrequent rain, is bearable verging on nice, and in the sun becomes less enjoyable.

Touch: One word. Don't.

Taste: Curry and Thalis (as seen all over India) are the staple of the Nepali diet. As in much of south/Central Asia, spices are easy to come by and thus tasty food is a guarantee. Rice, Roti, naan and buttery parathas line the dishes making for happy customers if you are a curry lover. These meals are eaten by locals and clued-up travellers with the right hand, because, traditionally, the left hand has other business (!) to attend to. Mixing the two is looked down on forcefully by some Nepalis.

Momos

Nepal also boasts its own specialty, the momo. Yes, momo. We enjoyed saying this word over and over, particularly when filled with buffalo, making it what they call a buff momo (cows are very holy, so no beef). Momos are little steamed or fried packets of flavour, similar in appearance to dumplings but less stodgy. Filled with aromatic veg, or meat, you can get a plate of 10 for £1, making for a fantastic snack. We overdid the momo in our first few days, so are on a momentary momo break at the mo(mo).

Sound: By far Kathmandu's most aggressive sense. Mopeds and taxis fill almost every road to the brim. As I'm sure is seen over much of Asia, the traffic structure is painfully illogical by Western standards. A free for all. The two sides of the road, if there are two, are confidently used by traffic in both directions. I mean, it sort of works, sort of. You can get from A to B at a stressful stretch. Who loses out with this structure? Pedestrians. The infuriating trio of constantly being bumped into the gutters, the heavy diesel laden smog and incessant honking (which in Nepalmeans 'I'm here' not 'You bastard' as it does in the UK), is probably the main thing to chase tourists out of the capital city into the welcoming arms of the fresh surrounding hills. Oh, that and the Himalayas.

After the sacrifice (lamb sacrifice)

Nepal has a sixth sense too. Religion. The sense of a 'bigger presence' is almost everywhere, from streets to mountain tops to rural farms. With the majority of the population being Hindu, ornate Hindu shrines dot every street, with remnants of incense and scattering of flowers or other offerings testifying for their constant use. Orla and I had the questionable luck of stumbling across the annual Hindu Ghode Jadra festival in Kathmandu on our first day. Questionable because it made the already busting streets of Thamel even fuller. Little Orla and I stood no chance; after an hour of pushing our way around the streets, still unaware of the festival may I add, we stumbled upon a particularly densely packed square. Looking up, kids and eager parents gladly filled every watchpoint in the square - windows, roofs, balconies. On the ground it was carnage, the heaving throngs leaving us powerless to direction. All eyes were trained on the centre of the square, we had no idea what was happening, but thankfully a friendly nameless Nepali with good English informed us that the 'puja' or ceremony was starting. Drums started and an old lady was supported into the square, wearing a mask - representing the God. A small sheep could be spotted amongst the legs of men in white wraps. Our friend told us that the sacrifice would start soon, I looked at Orla (the vegetarian)'s face, a little apprehensive. Atmosphere charged, the Goddess looked to us like she was trembling, shifting from foot to foot, the drums grew louder, the crowds pushed harder...and suddenly they stopped. The men supporting the Goddess moved forwards out of sight, and after a moment she was carted off. A stretch to tiptoes showed me a smattering of blood. 'Right we're off' I said, and we thrusted our way out of the crowd to safer territory. It had, somewhat thankfully, been the poor sheep that had been offered to the Gods, not the lady as first imagined. Even so, we moved on.

Bouddanath's world famous Buddhist stupa

The other religion that colours Nepal is Buddhism. Although reports are that it only covers 10% of the population, its presence feels equal to that of Hinduism. Buddhist prayer flags hang colourfully in every street and Stupas in many courtyards. We payed an obligatory visit to Boudanath - the town of the widely photographed stupa (pictured) that fronts many a Nepal guidebook. It is Nepal's largest and most sacred Buddhist site, with thousands of visitors daily circling (clockwise, most definitely not anti-clockwise, we learned the hard way) round and round, cupping prayer beads in holy hands. Hundreds of maroon robed monks sit in lines, rhythmically turning turquoise drums in uniform, chanting something that I was singing for a good while afterwards. All of this overlooked by the towering gold Buddha eyes at the apex of the stupa; actually quite ominous. There was a calmness to it, which contrasted the expensive 'tourist' entry fee and Korean (!) restaurant which we accidentally stumbled into for lunch. I particularly like the Buddhist mantra, 'every life is equal', which was clear from the way ladies would go round with pots of grain for the pigeons. No life forgotten. More pigeon shit though, I must say.

Prayer time at Bouddanath

After our bustling few days in Kathmandu we were ready for a new, fresher environment, so we headed up into the hills to Pokhara, to begin our next step. The Himalayas.

Himalaya; Sanskrit; हिमालय (himā-laya, “abode of snow”)

The journey to the small mountain town of Pokhara, the start point and fuelling station for many Himalaya treks, was remarkably smooth. Our 'tourist' bus was not by any stretch for tourists, but for a meagre £5, the eight hour journey could have been worse (future journeys can testify for this...). We were optimistic that the smoggy haze covering the skies in Kathmandu would lift as we gained elevation, but sadly the haze morphed into cloud, which in turn clouded the mood. Dreams of meditating over the magnificent mountains of the Himalayas dwindled as we rocked our way to Pokhara.

The town itself was reminiscent of my past travels to south-east Asia. One high street, lots of shops selling the same junk, jazzy bars with happy hour from 11am-midnight and a LOT of western people. The rain, which apparently never stops in Pokhara, followed us to our guesthouse on North lakeside, hotel Puskar which had been advised to us by people who had stayed after their trek. On seeing the windowless ten-man dorm, our friend, Kassia (a fellow traveller and medic in the making) made the valid point that 'perhaps anything feels like luxury after the mountains'. At this point, Orla and I took executive descision to upgrade to private room and were pleasantly surprised by the spacious room and balcony view of the lake (NB lake view redundant in rain).

Lake Phewa - Pokhara. Raining.

The forecast in Pokhara had us glued to our phones, refreshing religiously. The outlook? 
Friday: 🌧 
Saturday: ⛈ 
Sunday: 🌧 
Monday: 🌦. 
Our planned days for the trek? You guessed it.
At one point, the sun had probably come out behind the clouds, so we headed down to the lake and hired a canoe.  After much paddling on my part and not much on Orla's, we soon found ourselves happily floating mid-lake surrounded by vaguely visible hills. With a little imagination, it was paradisiacal. Feeling adventurous but bikini-less, we braved a dip in our underwear and thought we had got away with it, until a gleeful boatsman paddled his way nearby a little too slowly.

Mid-lake Phewa, Pokhara

Nil visability in the taxi

Sunburnt from this outing (seriously. Bloody Irish skin), we opted for an afternoon of admin for our imminent trek up to Poon Hill, a four day Himalayan circuit reaching 3200m. The 'baby trek' apparently - Hah. We awoke early the next morning to Pokhara's favourite pass-time, more rain. Images of wading up vertical dirt tracks awash with rivers of mud sparked in our minds, morale was low; when I said I didn't want to go, Orla metaphorically slapped me into shape. Half an hour later when Orla didn't want to go, I did the same. A good team. We had no choice; permits and ponchos purchased, there was no going back. The 90min drive through thick mountain cloud (visibility 3m) to the start point, Nayapul, would have been tense had we not been accompanied by hulk of a man 'Benji', a young army officer in training, who gave us a concise history of his Tinder dating to keep us distracted. Sweet, honest Benj, aah the modern man. 

We were running late to due to a problem with our mountain permits, so our first day's trek was a race to beat the setting sun at 6 to the village of Ulleri, where we would bed down for the night. We passed three sweaty brits finishing their trek who offered a few breathless words; 'it's all hard, but day one is the worst'. So with that ringing in the ears, we set off. They were right; one hour in, red faced and a couple of hundred metres up, I had blisters forming, my 'worn in' boots not playing ball. With a sock change, a biscuit, and the realisation that the only way was forward (/up), we pushed on. When the pace settled in, we did take moments to digest the surroundings, which, though shrouded in cloud, still offered tit-bits of their magnificence with dark green hills stretching up and petering out. The route is punctuated by many guest houses, each one a family business which hosts the guide trekking groups that pass. All kinds of stocks are available at these places, including a park-universal menu offering Dahl bat, pasta, porridge, pizza, pringles...and the people, once they've secured your custom, are also universally lovely (except when they ask if Orla is your daughter).

Slow smelly buff, our uphill friend.

In mental preparation for the trek, we had read a blog by an anonymous middle-aged woman, dubbed Hillary, who had attempted the Poon Hill circuit. Possibly the world's moaniest lady, Hillary had thankfully prepared us for the 3200 stone step climb that puts the cherry on the top of the first day. She hadn't coped well. Passing through the waterfall heavy village of Tikkelunhunga, we started this climb. Due to our late starting time, the majority of trekkers were far ahead, so we had no one to measure our progress by, except a number of four legged creatures including yak, buffalo, horses, goats, chickens (2legs) and dogs. I'm pleased to say the buff were generally slower than us, so whenever we got caught behind them it was always a welcome break, if a little smelly. 

After a sweaty hour of climbing, a friendly local revealed to us that we were only an hour from Ulleri. Pace maintained, and bellies filled with a questionable bowl of yak cheese pasta, we heaved ourselves up the last thousand steps to Ulleri, arriving just as the sky was darkening after 5 hours of trek. Celebrating with a very American double-handed high five, we had beaten the sun and the elation was palpable. We were welcomed into one if the guest houses (Chandra's), given a free room (at the price of food) and a not quite cold shower. 'I'm trekking forever' I splurged over the tastiest curry yet, chomping into some seriously good barbecued chicken, endorphins still surging. We bid goodnight to the still cloudy view and went to the cleanest most comfortable beds for a good nights sleep. 

Our first view of Anna Purna

2am. Stomach gripes. Uh oh. Yak's cheese? That deliciously misleading chicken? Refilled water bottle? A long night ensued and come sunrise I was dead-set on going back down. But when the sky finally decided to lighten, I peaked my head outside the curtain, and for the first time in over a week, I got to see what Nepal really has to offer. I punched an enviably well-rested Orla on the arm, 'wake up wake uppppp', and watched as she too caught her first glimpse of the deep green rolling hills that we had missed yesterday, all shadowed by the mighty snow capped Anna Purna South, soaring 7129m up in the distance. Stomach bug momentarily forgotten we enjoyed a home cooked banana pancake on the roof, elated that we would leave Nepal having seen its mountains.

A thousand more steps were waiting for us at the start of day two. Legs heavy, air hot and thinning (2100m by now) and an unpredictable stomach made it a long morning. An eagle wheeling overhead did provide some distraction as we watched it circle high over the villages and hills, the greens, blues and reds of Nepal's nature vibrant under the sun. The pace was more relaxed and we allowed ourselves some recreational stops as well as the breathing breaks, one of which was a magical pool that we found 50m off the beaten track. We cooled our feet in the turquoise mountain water, and played with the Go Pro whilst basking in dappled jungle light, pleased that we'd opted for a guide-free trek, enabling us to take our time.

Soviet-feel Ghorepani

Five more hours of relentless uphill later, through a number of lightly populated villages, we approached Ghorepani, our second night's destination and final stop before the summit of Poon Hill. It had an eerie, soviet feel to it, with empty houses under corrugated iron roofs and a sudden thick layer of cloud that had descended in a matter of minutes. There was nobody in sight until we reached the top of the town where we were summoned to get our permits checked. The sky was rumbling, threatening all of a sudden, and just as we finished with our permits, the first raindrops began to fall. Bulbous drops quickly turned to golf ball hail stones in the cold thin air, and we congratulated ourselves once again on our good timing, not a drop of rain had touched our sweaty heads all trip. A couple of the groups that we had passed on our way up (including Benji with his new (female) walking partner) arrived within the hour, soaked to the bones and grumpy. Smug.

The evening was spent swapping stories around a warm clay wood burner with other trekkers and their ever friendly guides.  Poor Benji was by this stage regretting his overzealous attitude at sea level, where he had decided to do the climb with an 18kg backpack, but he was good company and we played cards until bedtime. It was now less than 10 degrees due to the altitude, so all the layers stayed on overnight through the deep cold, which was no barrier for the thin wooden walls of the guesthouse. We woke at 4am to blearily climb the summit of Poon Hill for sunrise, a steep 300m climb and the last thing that either my legs or my still grumpy stomach wanted. Alas, we pushed on up with Orla not entertaining my sorry 'I just want to crawl up in a ball' as we waded our way through the ungenerous mountain air. I swallowed my words when I saw the ever–steady porters lugging chairs and canisters of boiling water in rope sacks supported only by their foreheads. After an hour, with the sky slowly peaching, we walked (I crawled) under the last set of Buddhist prayer flags, reaching the 3210m summit. The views were otherworldly; within five minutes, the sun had crept above the jagged horizon and the silhouettes of the entire Anna purna range coloured instantly in front of our eyes.  A cup of sweet black tea later and the gruelling morning work out was forgotten as we enjoyed taking our guidebook worthy pictures of the Himalayas. Poon Hill, tick.

The Hims at sunrise - Anna Purna Range

Downhill!

There are a hundred stories to every one told here, which makes keeping this short and readable a challenge, so for the benefit of your eyes and my hand I will stop with the detail here. In short, we decided to go back down to Pokhara via Ulleri from Ghorepani (the same two day trek in reverse) not continue the trek's loop via Ghandruk due to the stomach bug. Downhill was (always gonna be) much more enjoyable as the sun followed us the whole way, and we had no time constraints. He's a false friend though, M. Downhill; he is quietly tougher on the muscles and joints than Mme Uphill, and when we finally hit the road after the 3200+ steps in reverse, we immediately fell into the loving arms of a £1 taxi, cutting the last two hours off the trek. 

Bye Pokhara, Hello Chitwan!

Pokhara was raining when we got back. The elusive lake remained shrouded, the snow capped peaks firmly tucked back in their majestic box. Appetite finally revived, we enjoyed an incredible curry at our favourite restaurant 'Samrat Tandoori'; the kind of place that doesn't attract hoards of westerners because the squat toilet is covered in beatles, but makes a paneer masala to rival all paneer masalas and buttery chapathis baked on the sides of one of those clay oven things. Sated and fully inaugurated into the Nepali traveller fold following our trek, we spent a final happy night in Puskar hostel before our early bus to the humid plains of Chitwan national park the next morning. Himalayas - you were a pleasure.