Day 19: Pokhara - Kathmandu

The alarm started beeping and we immediately packed and hit the road.  Most all the shops were closed and the streets nearly deserted at such an early hour, but the boys with huge platters of pastries balanced on their heads were out trying to sell breakfast to early risers like us.  We bought cinnamon rolls from one of them and I didn’t let myself think about the sanitation status of my roll.  Then, happily, we found an open coffee shop and ordered hot chocolate – I was briefly worried that the shop wouldn’t have to-go cups, but they must have been accustomed to trekkers needing a warm drink on the go as they walked to the bus stop, so I was pleased when the girl nodded at my paper cup request.  Breakfast in hand, we retraced our steps from yesterday’s reconnaissance walk and had an easy, flat walk along the road in the cool morning air.  As we grew closer to the bus stop, more and more trekkers could be seen, either walking like us, or bumping along in tiny taxis: it was as if we were bees returning to a hive or metal shards being drawn to a magnet.

Waiting for hot chocolate.

One final look at Annapurna South.

Goodbye

Some sort of blessing: the two women walk and pour stuff around a sacred tree

If we were newbie trekkers, the bus stop would have caused much trepidation and worry, because it appeared chaotic, unmarked, completely random, and devoid of any direction, however we were now seasoned Nepal travelers and were undaunted when we arrived at the enormous gravel parking lot.  Taxis dropped off their passengers and heimliched backpacks from their trunks in any open area of the dusty space, leaving the soon-to-be bus passengers blinking away the dust and gathering their bearings.  A couple of fruit and drink stands were clustered together in one corner of the lot and an army of buses was lined up, row behind row, across a wide expanse of gravel.  We sat and waited.  There was a calm hush and then, all at once, the place burst into activity, with bus managers and door boys ushering trekkers and tourists and locals toward the parked buses; we followed the flurry of activity, asking one bus manager and then another to point us toward our bus, which was identified by a name and number, but impossible for us to locate in the multitude of rows of vehicles.  Eventually, we found our bus, showed the door boy our tickets, and then stood by the vehicle waiting to climb aboard.  After the bus manager was satisfied he had collected all his passengers, he yelled for everyone to find their seats.  We, tired of standing in the already warm sun complied, only to discover our driver was missing.  Fuming, the manager stormed off the bus and a great deal of angry words could be heard above the din of rumbling bus engines, crying babies, talking passengers, and the crunch of gravel as the procession of buses began pulling out of the parking lot.  Our sheepish driver appeared, just in time for our bus’ turn to exit the lot – really this procession was beautifully choreographed, with each vehicle swinging wide to avoid collisions and sweeping across the lot with nary a snarl or traffic jam.

The buses are parked at least three rows deep.  Here you can see trekkers and taxis, as well as a fruit stand.

So we rode.  Our seats, it turned out, were excellent, as promised.  From time to time Sam and I would treat ourselves to a slice of cold pizza, while the passengers around us cast envious glances at our food selection and forethought.  The bus stopped only twice, for brief rest stops: the door boy would let everybody out of the bus and when it was time to leave, he would usher everybody back on the bus. There was a great crowd gathered in one of the towns for some sort of demonstration and protest, which slowed our progress as the bus cautiously plowed through the crowded street.

Waiting at a rest stop.

A protest of some sort.

Those flags...

I will explain here what a door boy is, since I mentioned this position yesterday as well.  Buses seem to have three people who operate them: the manager (leader), the driver (second in command), and the door boy (least).  The manager serves as the bank, the navigator, and makes most all decisions.  It isn’t difficult to figure out what the driver does.  The door boy is usually younger; he sits at the door and is in charge of opening and closing the door and helping passengers on and off the bus – he also serves as the gofer.  As we neared Kathmandu and the road began to twist and wind its way up the hillside, traffic snarled and periodically came to a standstill.  During one of these standstills, the driver ordered the door boy to get out and run up the road and see what was going on (or something to that effect, it was all said in Nepali).  So the door boy ran and came back and reported his findings.  At the next stop, a long one, the door boy got out again, as did a male passenger seated somewhere in the middle of the bus.  Many people got out of their vehicles, the wait was so long, and they were chatting with each other.  Traffic began to roll again, so the door boy hopped back in and we traveled up the road for at least ten minutes before someone from the middle or back of the bus said (all in Nepali, remember), “Hey, where’s so-and-so?”  A slight commotion rustled its way up through the bus as people started asking about the male passenger who got off the bus.  “Is he up front?”  We up front shook our heads no.  The manager now caught wind of the murmurs and, I kid you not, the following Nepali conversation was as understandable as if they were speaking English:

Manager: “What’s going on?”

Door Boy: “They are saying So-and-So isn’t on the bus.”

Manager: “What? Where is he?”

Door Boy: “So-and-So got off the bus when we stopped and I guess he didn’t get back on.  We left him.”

Manager: “Ugh, can you see him behind us?”

Door Boy, after smashing his head against the door’s window and looking behind us: “No, I don’t see him.”

Manager: “Oh well, it’s too late now: we aren’t stopping.”

Driver: “No freaking way are we stopping for that idiot.”

Sam and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Traffic, an ambulance, and um...our driver's head.

  

The bus completed it’s journey at a bus stop that was different from the one we had been at when we left Kathmandu, so Sam and I had zero clue where we were or in which direction was Thamel.  This fact caused me not the slightest trepidation.  I started walking down the sidewalk and stopped people whom I thought were likely to either speak English or be able to point me in the direction of Thamel.  I made a couple of attempts, asking “Thamel?” until one man pointed up the road and then curved his hand to the right.  Sam and I followed his directions, made a couple smart guesses, and knew we had arrived when we began to see colored prayer flags strung across narrow streets and cheap trekker supplies in shop windows.  I reflected back to that first day when we followed the white girl who was so relaxed and seemed to know where she was and what she was doing; I proudly realized I was that girl now.

Relaxing with my feet up, because I just completed an awesome trek.

Sam and I wandered the streets looking for a suitable hotel and asked around at a couple of places – I wanted something under $5.  We settled on one place, mostly because we were tired.  They had a restaurant up on the top floor and we ate dinner there: I had fries, which had become my main dish of choice.  Then we spent the rest of the evening reading and listening to the garish sounds of the busy city of Kathmandu.