‘Good morning, sir!’ he said with the utmost sincerity in his voice.
‘Good morning! Don’t you sleep or what?’ I asked him. He checked me in a little after midnight and it was fast approaching 10am.
‘No, sir! I mean yes, sir, but not much of the sleeps. You will be having the breakfast?’
‘Absolutely!’ I replied a little eagerly. ‘I love breakfast.’
The man laughed as though I was Billy Connolly and he was being treated to a private show. It was contagious, so I joined in.
After a good few minutes he regained his composure and said, ‘This way please, sir.’
He directed me about four metres away to the entrance of the restaurant. It was small and homely and was joined onto the lobby. In charge was a very small man with a lovely smile and limited English speaking capabilities; but a genuine smile transcends the boundaries of language, and I knew this man was a good, kind human being.
‘Eggs, sir?’ He asked me.
‘Yes please.’
‘Toast, sir?
‘I’d love some,’ I answered him, but a confused look clouded his face. ‘Yes please,’ I added quickly and he gave me a look of recognition that was enveloped by a massive smile.
‘Tea, sir?’
‘Yes, please. White.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Please, this is buffet,’ he added while pointing to five or so silver thingies that cover hot food at buffets. Alas, I know not the name of them. My little friend wandered off to the adjoining kitchen segregated from the dining room by a large, glass window, and called the order in to the chef. I love a large, glass window so that you can see the chef not spitting in your eggs.
There were some interesting things under those silver thingies. Potatoes, capsicum, plain noodles, but one of them had some kind of a fish pakora underneath it. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that at any time of the day, let alone for breakfast. But nonetheless I carefully rounded up two pieces with a dessert spoon and put them next to my plate of steaming potatoes and green capsicum.
Of the eight tables, only two were being occupied. Seated at one was a lone male traveller of Scandinavian descent, while at the other sat two middle-aged German women. I walked to the back of the room and took a seat facing back into the dining room, and then just kind of sat there and eye-balled the fish. It stared back at me, and seemed to say, ‘Go on, I dare ya!’
Did I dare?
As I sat in silent contemplation, a 20-something-year-old red-haired girl with a slightly green face walked into the dining room and announced herself as an Aussie with a thickly accented greeting to the little man.
‘Good morning madam,’ he said. ‘Eggs, madam?’
‘Oh God no!’ she replied. ‘I’m sick, food poisoning,’ she added while rubbing her stomach.
‘Toast?’
‘Yes, ok.’
I stared at my plate with renewed suspicion. Was it the fish that made the girl sick? I wanted to ask her, but she sat and put her head straight down onto the table. She stayed there long enough to get a whiff of egg, before bolting back from whence she had come.
Kathmandu has been food poisoning people for years, so did I dare eat a fish in a land-locked country with appalling hygiene standards? Where did that fish come from?
I moved my fork towards it, but at the last possible second I wimped out and took a detour for a piece of potato and capsicum. I ate that, and then was about to try again when I noticed my little mate bringing my cup of tea; so I put my cutlery down and watched him arrive, thanked him, and returned my death-stare to the poor little bit of fish.
Next to me the Scandinavian dude had wolfed down his plate and before you could cast a lure he was up and heading back to the buffet table. I watched with interest to see what he was going for, but was shocked when he only opened the silver thingy with the fish pakora under it. He piled his plate high with fish. He loved it.
Just do it you pansy… a voice inside my head mocked me, so I just did it. Well, it was probably the most delicious fish I had ever eaten. The pakora batter was perfectly crunchy, and once I got into the fish, it wasn’t really the fishy fish that I had feared, but a lovely meaty fish, like a Spanish Mackerel or a Barramundi. Encased in that little parcel of crunchy batter were delicious flavours of lemon and other subcontinental spices of the most wonderful complexity. I smiled as widely as my little mate had done minutes before and then went and loaded my plate up with the last of the fish pakoras. When I was back at my seat I noticed the man lift the lids of the silver thingies, systematically checking them, and he almost fell over when he saw there was nothing in the fish bowl. I can’t imagine what was going through his head, but I think, ‘You greedy bastards!’ would have been about right.
I ate about five fishes, forgetting that I had toast and eggs on the way; and wasting food in Nepal about as well received as a fart in an elevator, I had to finish it all. Good thing I love breakfast.
*
I took to the streets of Thamel, firstly to get a feel for the place, and secondly to find a guide and porter. I was meant to be leaving for my trek the following day. I exited the narrow lane and joined the circus that is Kathmandu. Motorbikes hooned around, beeping their horns furiously at pedestrians forced to share the road due to a lack of footpaths. Dust was thrown into the air from every single moving atom. Thick, unprotected and dangerously tangled power lines drooped to almost-touching height. Prayer flags suspended across the streets from building to building flapped rhythmically in the breeze, while matching colourful signs overhanging the roads announced an abundance of trekking gear shops and trekking agencies. Music shops played the same song, over and over again. It was Buddhist chanting music, with a choir of monks singing the mantra ‘Om Mani Pädme Hum’ in angelic voices. I felt very privileged to be walking around this ancient city, and this music certainly gave me a very spiritual sensation that I find hard to describe.
Everything was named after the great Himalayan Mountains. I snapped a photo of a particularly chaotic street, and examining it later that evening I counted the name ‘Everest’ on 14 different signs, from banks to restaurants to trekking agencies. Poor Sir George Everest would be turning in his grave. He objected to the mountain being named after him, and was actually quite embarrassed by the association, but the Royal Geographical Society went ahead with it anyway. Mount Everest to us, Sagarmatha or ‘forehead in the sky’ to the Nepalese, and Chomolungma or ‘mother of mountains’ in Tibet (although I have also heard it translated as ‘goddess mother of the world’, which I secretly prefer). A little fun fact for you: We’re all saying Mount Everest wrong. George’s last name was pronounced Eve-rest, as in the girl’s name. So imagine the sentence, ‘Eve had a rest.’ Now read only the first and last word of the previous sentence. I like to imagine old George would be quite happy about that.
I walked around for hours, trying not to get lost in the maze of streets that followed absolutely no recognisable pattern. In my part of the world we are very boring, building everything in the grid system, where streets either run parallel or at a 90-degree angle to each other. Boring, but very hard to get lost. Here there was no system and everything looked the same and was called the same thing. I found myself lost and thinking, Now this looks familiar, there is the New Himalayan Lodge! Oh no wait, it was the Old Himalayan Lodge I saw before. Ah wait, there’s the Everest Tibetan Guesthouse from earlier… or was it the Everest Buddhist Guesthouse I’m thinking of?
I was approached by a young fellow claiming to be a student of English looking to have a friendly chat with me.
‘Ah no worries mate,’ I’d answered him. ‘What university do you study at?’
Well he couldn’t even come up with a single one. If he’d said the Everest Himalayan University I may just have believed him.
‘What are you selling?’ I asked him now, all the friendliness having evaporated from my voice.
‘Nothing, my friend, I am just a students.’
‘You are a stud
ent that doesn’t know the name of your school? Not too clever, ay?’
‘Where are you from, man?’ He tried to change the subject.
‘I’m from Australia where we don’t like bull-shitters.’
‘Ah Australia, mate!’ He tried to cheer me up.
He followed and tried to chat to me for a good few miles. He was a persistent little bugger, despite me having sussed him out in about three seconds.
After perhaps 15 minutes (and still dumber than dog shit), he said, ‘So my friend, because I am the poor students, maybe I be your guide in the Kathmandu for one day, and maybe you could be paying me $25. This is a win–win no?’
‘No.’
‘Yes, my friend, is a wins.’
‘No mate, I’m not your friend,’ I said, which is something only an Aussie could say and get away with. ‘You are lying to me, I don’t trust you and I hate you, now piss off.’
You may think I was perhaps a touch rude, but he had hassled me for 15 minutes. I know blokes that would have just belted him.
I’d gone into a couple of agencies to enquire about guides and porters, but honestly I picked up a bad vibe from all of them. They were salesmen, whereas I needed someone personable. They were the kind of people that followed you down the road even after you said you weren’t interested and that you were going to find someone else. I hate that. Forgive the cliché, but this was the trip of a lifetime for me and I needed a good, English speaking guide and a reliable porter. I remembered something the taxi driver had mentioned the night before, that the hotel I was staying at could arrange a trek for me.
I was developing a pretty severe headache, an unusual phenomenon for me, so I knew I’d been out and about for too long. The dust I’d been swallowing and inhaling all day, combined with perhaps a bit of jet-lag was beginning to take its toll. I headed back to the hotel, slightly dejected that I’d not arranged a single thing.
*
As I approached the hotel, the darkly tinted doors, impenetrable to the human gaze, mysteriously opened and I was greeted by my two friends, the restaurant man and the reception man. I feel slightly aggrieved to not mention their names, but if truth be told, I am so terrible with names that I have absolutely no idea what they are. I once had a man work under me for two weeks before I was confident enough to call him anything else other than ‘mate’!
Their collective smiles told me I was home. Hotel Friend’s Home. Their motto is, ‘Come as a guest and leave as a friend.’ Isn’t that sweet? It is quite a hard mantra to live up to, but those guys do it naturally, with ease.
‘How was your walking, sir?’ enquired the receptionist.
‘It was fantastic!’ I told him truthfully. ‘But you have too many English students. Maybe 20 people tell me they are students!’
‘Ah yes, sir. They is not really the students.’
‘Yeah I know. What are you doing anyway? Pulling a 15-hour shift? Don’t you sleep?
He laughed uncontrollably.
‘Yes sir,’ he finally answered. ‘I am working a long day, but then I get the long time to not be working.’
‘Ok mate, I’m just worried about you.’
‘No need to worry, sir. You want a cup of tea?’
‘I would love one. And also I have a couple of questions about trekking for you if that’s ok?’
He clapped his hands together once and muttered something very quickly to the restaurant boss, who scurried off as quick as a flash.
‘Please, have a seat, sir,’ he said, offering an open hand towards the small leather lounge suite located just inside the main door. My cup of tea arrived just as my bum was hitting the seat and I sipped at it furiously, destroying it in minutes. My receptionist mate had gone off to grab the manager, who came out just as I was taking my last sip.
‘Good afternoon, sir!’ He said in flawless English, introducing himself in the process; but alas, I’m hopeless. God knows why, but whenever someone says their name, a brass band begins playing in my head for exactly the amount of time it takes to say their name. ‘My name is (cue brass band!) and I am the manager here. How may I assist you?’
‘Actually I am looking to go on a trek and I heard you can help me. I was looking to go tomorrow, but I understand that it is now very short notice, so the next day is no problem.’
‘My friend, if you want to go this very second, it would not be a problem.’
‘I’m a bit tired mate, but tomorrow would be awesome.’
‘Ok, please you are tired. Go to your room now and rest. I will get my tourism manager on the phone and tell him to come and meet you here, and I will have my receptionist phone for you once he is here. Is that ok for you?’
I was as happy as a pig in shit.
‘That would be fine,’ I answered, thinking I’d somehow been transported to The Waldorf Astoria.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’ he asked.
‘There is just one more thing,’ I answered him, with what I’m sure was a glimmer in my eye. ‘Could I have an Everest Beer to take up to my room please?’
As his receptionist had done earlier, he barked a few quick words to the restaurant guy, and within seconds I had a cold Everest Beer in my grasp and was making my way back to the comfort of my room.
It was surprisingly tasty, the Everest Beer. I didn’t have my expectations too high, which probably worked in my favour. It was beer, it was wet and I was parched! I finished it, taking a couple of selfies in the process, before remembering I had my duty-free rum sitting innocently in a plastic bag by my suitcase. It was a bottle of Bacardi 8, aged 8 years. This is quite a nice sipping rum, so I poured a little into a glass and began sipping. I was about to embark on an arduous journey (just how arduous, I didn’t know) so these comforts were absolutely necessary.
I’d been upstairs for perhaps only 20 minutes when the phone rang, announcing the arrival of the Tourism Manager.
Chapter Three
Hiring a guide
Rammani Rijial, the manager of Outdoor Himalayan Treks, was sitting behind the small desk that sat in the small lobby. He looked to be somewhere between his late twenties and early thirties, was of medium build and had a slightly chubby face which lent him a friendly, charismatic kind of appearance. The kind of face a caricature artist would have a lot of fun drawing. He wore a suit and was very presentable. I liked him before I knew him.
‘Mr. Alexander it is a pleasure to meet you,’ he said in flawless English. ‘My colleagues here tell me you are interested in some trekking in our beautiful Nepal.’
‘I sure am. I’d like to do the Three Passes Trek, but starting from Jiri.’
We sat down and flogged out the details - how long it would take, the altitude acclimatisation days I would need, the costs of the guide and porter per day, what was included in the final price and what wasn’t. It was all very clear and professional, with no hidden charges. I liked that.
‘Have you any questions for me?’ he enquired after finishing his speech.
‘Yes I do. I need assurances that the guide is a young man that speaks very good English.’
‘You will have the guide Subash (pronounced Su-bass), he is 24 and has the very good English.’
‘He has done the Three Passes before?’
‘Many, many times.’
‘When would we leave?’
‘You would leave tomorrow morning from this hotel at 5.30am, with the bus leaving for Jiri from Ratna Park Bus Station at 7am.’
‘Ok. I heard that some of the passes were closed because of snow.’
‘Yes this is true, but it will be two weeks from now when you come to the first pass. Should be no problem.’
‘Ok. So do I have to do anything this afternoon?’
‘Mr Alex, we will buy your bus ticket from the money you pay us, we will sort out all your permits; we will do everything. I will come back here this evening to introduce you to your guide. Now do you have good boots? Do you need anything?’
‘I just need
a good sleeping bag.’
‘Ok we can hire you one for five dollars per day.’
‘Ok, done. I’m happy, where do I sign?’
Rammani clapped his hands together once and uttered a quick word to his assistant who quickly brought over the credit card machine.
‘I will call to you in a couple of hours when everything is booked and I will bring you the guide.’
The day was getting old, and I was fast becoming exhausted. I had completed every single task I had set for myself. So I retired to my room once more for a couple more rums. Realising I was in yet another blackout session, I opened my window to Kathmandu. Directly below me was a construction site that seemed to be some kind of barracks for dozens of armed soldiers, with assault rifles and bullet proof vests which read the letters ‘A.P.F.’. Thousands of crows – or maybe they were ravens – had taken to the darkening evening sky, as though they were bats.
Looking further still I saw a rectangular park with green grass that could quite reasonably have been a rugby or a soccer pitch, but instead it was being used as a car park. Kathmandu is just too crowded. On the other side of the park a main road hummed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, beeping their horns relentlessly as a warning to pedestrians that shared the roads. A large, ancient, Tibetan-style building a few miles away reflected the final ray of sunshine that this day was ever going to give. Further still, the beginning of the mighty Langtang mountain ranges, with its peaks standing tall like sentries, the guardians of the Kathmandu Valley.
The ring of the phone snapped me from my rum-induced day dream, with the man on the other end telling me that Mr Rammani and Mr Subash were here to see me. I bounded down the stairs once more and saw Subash Gurung for the first time; a handsome-looking man, very slight in stature and probably only 5 foot 5 inches in height, with a big head of hair and with some definite Mongolian heritage. These features prompted a pair of Aussie travellers I would meet later on to nickname him ‘Bollywood’.
‘And here is a gift for you,’ Rammani said, throwing me a sleeping bag.
The Nepali Flat Page 2