In the Jungle

Wednesday evening and I find myself staring at four yellow walls, two brown doors and a couple of grey mosquito nets and occasionally coughing up half a lung. My chest threatened to fail me even before we left Australia and I managed to ward it off until now. Towards the end of my time at CBR I succumbed to the cold that the rest of my family had been indulging in. I minimised the symptoms with vitamin C and echinacea and it didn’t trouble me too much, but in Pokhara it finally caught hold and by Tuesday night I knew I would have to give in and take the antibiotics I’d been holding onto the whole trip.

What didn’t help was getting up before dawn and walking for half an hour up a mountain, and riding in a bone jolting bus for five hours with that nasal wailing that passes for music here playing non-stop.

We got up in the dark on Tuesday morning, threw several layers of clothes on and set off in another rickety van through Pokhara and up to Sarankot to watch the sun rise over the Annapurnas. It was not yet six o’clock and, as I say, dark, but there were people walking along the road, a child riding its bike, several young boys walking along together. We were driven up a winding narrow road and then abruptly stopped. The driver indicated some stairs and told us to walk up. We passed through the village of Sarankot with mudbrick huts, goats and chickens. Nearly every house that lined the path had stalls set up ready to try their luck at sucking a few rupee out of us. At least two women tried to lure us off the path and onto their roofs saying, "This way." No doubt a fee would have been charged for this dubious privilege.

But we toiled on up and I thought I was going to have to lay down and die at one point or that it would be sunset by the time we got there. Christopher and Daniel disappeared ahead while Tom and I struggled on with Neville faithfully hanging back with us feeble creatures. At last we reached the top and luckily, just in case we hadn’t managed to buy any crap on the way up, there was a stall full of crap waiting for us there. You can never have too many brightly coloured plastic bangles.

And so we watched as those mighty mountains changed from dim white to pink and orange as the sun rose. I took many photos, none of which worked and I longed for Cathy Appleton and her photography skills as I have many times on this trip. An army battalion was up there taking in the views and many photos and we asked one of the soldiers to take a photo of us. He took his job very seriously and being unhappy with his first shot, made us stand in various other places before he was happy with the result.

So the sun up and the mountains seen, we walked back down through the village as women swept with those short bundles of sticks everyone uses here, collected water from the common taps in narrow-necked brass containers and plastic jerry cans, chickens pecked about, children played and dressed for school and one sat reading aloud from a scruffy school book. We waved off invitations to buy stuff and offers of "tea, coffee?".

After breakfast Neville, Thomas and I went out on the lake. They have coloured wooden boats for hire by the hour, either rowing yourself or paying extra for someone to do it for you. Neville and Tom did the rowing and I lay back and relaxed. It would have to be the most peaceful stretch of water because there isn’t a single motorised vessel anywhere. There are just the wooden boats or those boats you peddle. So the only sounds you hear are the bells from the "floating" temple and the lapping of the water against the boat. We paddled up past what used to be the royal family’s Pokhara residence. You could only glimpse it through the trees but from what we could see, it was just a large house with a lot of grounds. Hardly palacial. It’s heavily guarded and we were told by one guard that it will be eventually opened to the public like the palace in Kathmandu. The very bad former crown prince, Paras, left Pokhara the day we arrived after being fined 10,000 rupees (about $150) for firing a gun in the air during a dispute at Chitwan. He is notorious for his bad behaviour and for always getting off lightly for his numerous offences. Suhendra said Paras fancies himself as a bit of a gangster and that he beats his wife. Bidhya added that his sister is very fat from eating too many chocolates.

Later, as we were lunching on the balcony of a restaurant overlooking the main street we heard the sounds of a horse galloping and a young boy on a horse came charging down the street, weaving as he went through the various cars and motorbikes and bicycles. He was closely followed by two more young boys on galloping horses. We shrugged and ate our lunch.

So after a five-hour bus journey we are in the Chitwan National Park and for the first time in my life I’ve layed in bed and heard the sound of elephants trumpeting in the distance.

Isn’t it Christmas somewhere?