22 May 2015
Postcard from Pokhara
December 2012
Pokhara airport is one of those increasingly rare,
delightfully amateurish ones, with a helpful sign outside the terminal that
says 'This way to the planes', even though the planes are impossible to miss on
the tiny tarmac area. The terminal is about the size of a bus shelter and the
luggage is pulled by hand from the plane on a trolley, with the most eager
passengers pulling their bags off while the trolley is still on the runway. All
the bags have gone before the trolley reaches the terminal. There is, of all
things, a hunger strike going on outside the airport perimeter, to pressurise
the government into upgrading the airport to accept international flights. The
government is not keen, apparently.
Pokhara is one of the launch pads for the Himalayas, not
for Everest which is to the east of Kathmandu, but to the Annapurna range in
the west. The peaks that tower over the city are led by the Fishtail mountain,
7,000m above sea level. Nearby is Annapurna 1, at over 8,000m the tenth highest
mountain in the world (of the top 10, eight are in Nepal). The name Pokhara is
derived from the word 'lake' and the nearby lake is about the size of lake
Annecy, having shrunk from twice that size when a dam burst about 30 years ago.
We are also about 400m lower than Kathmandu, so it's warmer, lusher and less
dusty here (but there are still piles of building materials everywhere).
Our guide is determined to get through the tour of the
town in record time. We visit a gorge that floods in the summer but now the
water goes "100 feet down, then 500 metres underground". Quizzed on
this imperial and metric mix, he insists on the numbers. We let it go. There is
also a big canal carrying water to the town, a Tibetan refugee village, yet
another temple, a cave with no bats and a boat ride on the lake. Plus the
Museum of Pokhara.
Namrata is visiting the museum with her class from
school, being whisked at high speed past exhibits of cooking utensils and
clothing, when she decides we are more interesting than old photographs of
tribal history and castes. After the usual "what is your name?"
ritual, I try "how old are you?", "10" she replies,
"and you?". "56". Her eyes widen with astonishment.
"Oo", she says, "you really old man". Even our guide does
not help, adding, "my father's 49 and I thought he was really old until I
met you. We can cut down the length of the hike tomorrow if you want". I
make it clear that I don't want.
The next day we are off at 05:30, dropped off by our
driver at the beginning of a path that leads up. We're at 1,300m and there is
13km ahead of us. It's all gravel path, quite steep in places and very uneven.
We understand why we've been dropped off by the car. But to our surprise
there's a bus that comes along the track, gingerly and with great triumphant
hooting of horns. It has an enormous Union Jack painted on its back for reasons
our guide can't explain.
We walk through the dawn and into the early morning,
watching women collect water from the nearest standpipe, men ploughing the
terraced fields with oxen, children off to school by bus (or coming to talk to
us). There's a woman weaving reeds into a mattress, several pounding millet and
others cooking breakfast. The views are spectacular, with rolling hills nested
behind each other, the way children draw them, with the terraced fields in the
foreground. It can't be said to be idyllic, because life is clearly hard, but
it certainly leaves an impression.
A buffalo runs, almost sprints, past us, with the farmer
in hot pursuit waving and shouting, followed by the farmer's son, carrying the
rope to tie the animal. Our guide suggests the animal is off to market, but
we're not convinced: he just seems too keen. And sure enough, round a couple of
corners, we find the real reason, as he enthusiastically performs his stud
duties in the middle of the road. Some things in life are clearly worth running
for.
At the end of the walk, we reach Sarangkot, which has a
smattering of tourist shops and some cheap backpacker hotels. A beautiful new
hotel development of beehive-shaped houses caches our eye, and we stop there
for Marsala tea. The views to the high mountains across the valley are
spectacular, the rooms are spotless and the bathroom facilities modest, but
clean. The nightly rate is 800 rupees, about €8, for a room. A super place for
a couple of nights.
On the drive down we stop at the Gurkha Museum, by chance
at the same time as the Remembrance Day service. Gurkha veterans are smartly
dressed, sporting their impressive arrays of medals with great pride. We talk
to a couple of veterans as well as some still serving. It turns out we're right
next to the main camp and recruitment ground for the Gurkhas. 126 new soldiers
will be recruited this year, a very low number by historical standards, but it
remains a career that every young Nepali we meet still aspires to and there is
great competition for the few places.
# posted by DavidF @ 17:05 
