Pokhara
Our hike today shows us the beauty of this place, and the goat-like abilities of the local people. We clamber up slopes in hiking boots, panting and complaining, only to be passed by local women in flip-flops carrying huge baskets of harvested leaves on their heads. Schoolchildren run by, some of the girls in low heels. They chatter and eat candy while watching the Western idiots struggle. We walk for several hours, visiting a Gorung village on the way. The Gorungs are the tribe of many of the famed Gurkha soliders. Despite the difficult terrain, the village is prosperous and well-kept. A people with extensive resources. The hills we pass are carefully terraced for rice and other crops. In this largely fallow season, they look uncannily like the Alps or the Mosel valley. The labor required to raise rice on these slopes is initimidating, and yet it obviously works.We end our hike at a small village at about 2pm. Unfortunately, our ride isn't there. The flight from Kathmandu today was delayed by fog, and the hotel Land Cruisers are still at the airport. Ever the enthusiastic crowd, we propose hiking back. It's an hour-long walk, not that bad, but we would have to go along the dusty road, and we're sure to be coated from head to toe in dust every time a car passes. Ick. Our dilemma is resolved by the arrival of a local bus. It's a bit crowded, the aisle filled by baskets of oranges and goats going to market, but we're game. With lots of help from very nice villagers, we climb over baskets and step on armrests to reach seats. They seem to be numbered, so I'm quite sure that we've inadvertantly evicted paying customers into the aisle. They seem happy, though. Some of our crew is standing as well, trying not to cause too much trouble as the bus bumps and sways along. Poor Azalea winds up periodically hopping over a distressed goat as it tries to find its footing on the steel floor. The owner tries to stow the goat under the seat, but like much carry-on luggage, it sensibly resists. Melissa, meanwhile, has a seat in the first-class cabin in the front with a view of the road and a bench shared with several chickens.
We meander along for a mile or so, stopping once or twice to let people off. The third stop is for us -- one of the Land Cruisers has arrived! Only one, though, so those of us standing in the aisle get off first. Both the goat and Azalea seem very relieved. Those of us with seats stay on, to the slight dismay of the hotel-provided hiking guide. Now that we have more space, we're able to see our fellow passengers a bit better. The enormous round baskets of oranges that fill the aisle for four rows are the property of the cantakerous older lady sitting across the aisle. A young man puts a largely empty backback on top of one of her baskets, starting an argument. Meanwhile, at least two goats bleat annoyedly. One we have located, but the other seems to be in the third, non orange-filled basket. Just as we get our bearings, the bus pulls over at the lane for our hotel. We climb out, again with lots of helpful hands leading us past goats and baskets, and make our way to the road. We wave enthusiastically as the bus bumps off, the Hindi music back on, its inhabitants smiling and laughing. Hopefully they were as entertained as we were. Well, except the lady with the oranges. Nothing would cheer her up.
We triumphantly return to the hotel for (short) showers and dinner. The hotel is new and ecological -- it uses solar panels to hear water, laundry drys in the sun, etc. There is also no heat or air conditioning. The climate is usually very cooperative, but this is the coldest time of year and it is a daunting task to walk to dinner with wet hair or to undress for bed. Hot water bottles are very welcome! I wonder, as I shiver and complain, how much I will wish for this problem when we're in Thailand in a couple of weeks.