Journeys Beyond the Front Door

by James Hastings

  By 6:30 AM there was no sign of our pick up. We had been told our bus down the mountains would be leaving around 7 AM from the city center terminal and my past anxieties began to kick in that I had indeed been the victim of some elaborate elephant park gypsy scam. With the help of the friendly yet bewildered staff at the front desk, they were able to use the magic of telephones to confirm that the hotel we assumed we had booked did in fact exist and we were definitely expected. Armed with this somewhat comforting knowledge, the hotel staff, in their most pleasant and accommodating ways, organised their own driver and we were rushed to the bus depot where our mechanical steel death trap awaited. Thankfully, we were not late and were able to seize the opportunity to inhale an unnecessary amount of hearty cigarettes for breakfast and then purchase some essential Kit Kats and Pringles from a dubious road-side gypsy table to chow down on en-route to the valleys. All aboard the death machine!

  Slowly we made our way through the cramped and narrow streets of the capitals. As awkward as it was traversing this densely over-populated city in tiny hatchbacks and rickshaws, it was considerably more of an exercise cutting a path in a twenty metre long bus on roads constructed of dirt and shattered concrete. Once we were out of the Kathmandu Valley and began to descend our way winding down the mountains the condition of the path ahead did not bode any better. The road itself remained the size of a single lane, with gaping pot holes the size of cow heads, oncoming buses and cars zooming passed with mere centimetres to spare and we were perilously close to the edge of cliff faces with sheer drop-offs ranging from anywhere between twenty to hundreds of meters. Or as it was aptly dubbed, the trans dimensional vertical highway.

  At the first of our unannounced but obviously designated pit stops, we all disembarked this rattling cage of death for a cigarette and toilet break. As I moved off to the side to gaze out at the rolling mountains and strangely pristine, winding rivers down in the valley we were made aware of the facilities on offer. The toilet area was definitely not designed with the female traveller in mind and consisted of a crumbling framework made of out PVC pipe and covered in black plastic. These home-made cubicles constituted the open air urinals. There is really nothing quite as serene as urinating off a cliff onto a tree fifty meters below as the steam dances away in the cold Himalayan mountain air. The she-beast, on the other hand, found the entire experience somewhat repulsive and regrettable but alas . . . a necessity.

  I had read that these buses we had entrusted our life with had a unfortunate tendency to career off the sides of the cliffs on a fairly regular basis in Nepal, a country with an atrocious road safety record and there was plenty of evidence to attest to this as we passed the bus-sized holes of missing foliage on various corners as we made our way down and the carcass of a jack-knifed truck that had just seemingly been left abandoned to dangle over the cliff edge. Nevertheless, whilst this may indeed have been the case, I had been holding onto hope that the fact that there were no scratches, dents or obvious signs of roll over damage when we embarked on this particular steed that our safety should be assured, if only statistically. I would have been far my concerned if we had been traveling on one of the other passing death traps, covered in prayer beads and emblazoned with somewhat sinister visions of various Hindu gods. Surely the more religious icons and apparatus indicated the higher likeliness that the bus was only held together with duct tape and hope?

  As we wound our way through the mountains, small, self-sufficient village dot ted the route, clinging to the side of the road with an unwavering determination that I could only hope was also instilled within our driver. A variety of species of farm stock were tied up to the glorified cubby houses that at first glance, were either built half inside the mountain itself or the suspiciously frequent landslides had been put to convenient use by merely using the rubble in the aftermath to insulate part of the houses against the cold. Earthquakes being a fairly common occurrence throughout the region, it's a surprise and nod to ingenuity that these ram-shackled, swaying structures are even still standing. The picturesque scenery is quite amazing, more so since I had never seen anything like it before. With sheer snow-capped mountains dominating the skyline above one side of the road and near vertical gorges cutting down through the trees and rushing down to blue green rapids below on the other. Mist and cloud cover dry humped the cliff tops, threatening to drench the ground and cause more landslides. These were people obviously struggling to survive in a lush but harsh environment and they clung onto life however they could.

  Perhaps the most unnerving part of this journey into the great beyond is the insistence of dump trucks and other buses, as well as our own, to over-take each other on blind corners in a suicidal nonchalantness and carefree manner, only occasionally bother to toot their horns. Whilst some of these metal juggernoughts carry tons of stone and building material at speed, we found ourselves in a sheet metal school bus, with non-existent safety precautions or procedures. On these winding, pot hole infested strips of partial bitumen also walked pedestrians, carrying logs and lugging produce up or down the mountain as they negotiated between the traffic and danced between a sheer cliff face on one side and certain death on the other. What could possibly go wrong.

  The bus itself, in comparison to the hectic suicide dance outside, is completely quiet. Sarah quite inconceivably was passed out unconscious on the seat in front of me, completely disinterested and oblivious to the mesmerising certain death by ravine plunge that awaited us. The only other two pale faces apart from ourselves sat staring blankly out of the window with ear phones secure in their place, whilst the remainder of the passengers - a mix between Chinese and Indian tourists – stared straight ahead. There are no head movements or sneaky conversation that can be seen or heard from the back row of the bus. Just the repetitive violent sexual assault being inflicted from the complete lack of suspension and the various creaks and rattles of the no doubt loose nuts and bolts that permeates the silence at regular intervals.

  Once again we stopped for another designated half hour break, this time at the 'Peace House Restaurant', a three storey structure surrounded by a small village struggling to survive in the middle of nowhere. It encompassed the standard tourist trap where it flourished, mostly because it was the only viable choice. I awoke the slumbering she-beast and we disembarked into the shanty town and made our way into the restaurant, but not before watching the driver slid some small boulders underneath the rear tires of our bus to prevent its unavoidable down hill escape. We just looked at each other and shrugged. Whatever. Not at all being accustomed to the cold weather, Sarah, in her ridiculous costume if two jumpers, beanie and a traditional fur poncho shivered uncontrollably like an epileptic as she waited in line for the buffet, while I went exploring the establishment. Finding my way up onto the roof, I stalked around the flat surface and water tanks to take in the view. Either side of the restaurant stood shacks and crumbling stone buildings in various states of disrepair that were hawking all the goods necessary for a village to function. Encroaching on these vestiges of civilisation were lush jungles that crept up the steep mountain walls and overshadowed the area. Behind us, the land continued its descending gradient to where a wide river made it's way winding across the stony valley floor and the green mountains continued to spike into the low hanging clouds in the distance.

  I crept back down the stairs to find Sarah in some kind of feeding frenzy, stuffing her face with a vegetable green curry, using her hands wildly like an exotic barbarian while mumbling something about not trusting the cutlery. I, on the other hand, opted to dine on an exquisite mix of gummy bears and Oreos. It was agreed that we would no doubt see in time, who would have the last laugh on this one.

  There is one gripe that I have found increased with ferocity as we moved from shop to town square and from bustling city to remote village. The complete lack of any kind of bin facilities - be it baskets, trash cans or skip bins. Nothing. It would be enough for the spokesman for the ‘Keep Australia Beautiful’ campaign
to slash his wrists. The piles upon piles of rubbish that seemed to accumulate were seemingly either swept into the streets, dumped in the rivers or just carpeted through the jungle. The splendour and tranquility of the atmosphere and scenery is completely discombobulated by the decades worth of chip packets, plastics and other assortments of refuse floating around like confetti at a children's party, until it is captured to be set on fire at night in a vain attempt to deal with the problem. Bless Beni and her ladies.

  Finally, after hours of weary travel in our wagon of doom, we finally arrived in the Chitwan Valley, where the elevation leveled and the road surface undulated. As the tall trees and cliff faces gave way to shrubs, woodlands and mustard fields, I found myself prepared to engaged in what had become the tradition for such long journeys, finding myself conveniently falling asleep for the final section. Thankfully, as we rounded a corner and bounced over a river, the impact of the wheels on the concrete sent me airborne into the roof and catapulted me wide awake. I glanced out the window with intrigue as we pulled into a large dust bowl of a culdersac in the middle of nowhere, filled with small utes, jeeps and tourists buses and surrounded by vast bright yellow mustard field that seemed to stretch out for infinite into the horizon.

  Chapter Twelve : The Animal Cruelty And Cultural Insensitivity Tour

  We departed from our wheeled vagabond and collected our bags whilst simultaneously lighting cigarettes before moving off to the side. Locals on jeeps hollered as the tourist groups departed their buses and offered rides to the various hotels, but as we had booked our accommodation in advance, their offers of advice fell on deaf ears. Our pre-arranged transport was already parked up waiting for us, just off center of the pack - a small, green, open-topped jeep. We boarded our steed and left a trail of dust in our wake and with the wind in our hair, we made our way through rows of mustard fields and the sporadic buildings and houses fastened from mud and sticks until we arrived in a crumbling small village where there were large docile elephants tethered to posts in front yards. We thusly entered through the sliding metal gates of the Wild Tiger Resort and it was immediately obvious that the information and vague promises I had been given back in Kathmandu of being nestled snugly in the forested tree tops had clearly been exaggerated.

  Upon arrival at this adult-sized school boot camp, we were given a rushed greeting and as we were brought to our chalet and were promptly informed that we would have approximately twenty minutes to steady ourselves before we would begin the first portion of our tour. Having only just removed ourselves from eight hours of bouncing around a rolling steel cage, all the body wanted to do was to sit and be quiet for an undisclosed period of time. Alas, after some convincing, we followed our guide and two other traveling weirdos out of the gates and made our way through the village. We stopped occasionally to hear the guide’s tales of the local people, of how their huts and structures were a combination of reeds and branches encased with a mixture of dung and mud and how the local produce of the area is a paper created from elephant dung. Fascinating. Along this stroll to the open forested area behind the village, we suddenly noticed the copious amounts of marijuana growing everywhere - from the back yards and side streets to the fields leading into the forests. Noticing the giggles and delight of the troupe otherwise dragging their feet, we were informed that whilst the quality of ganja was poor and its use generally frowned upon, there was nonetheless one specific religious festival in Nepal in which the whole community would gather and get high as kites.

  After tramping through the fields of marijuana, we finally broke through the foliage and entered the fabled paradise of elephants. But what lay before us entailed a low-stilted wooden longhouse that sat in the center of a semi circle of high roofed timber and reed structures, with a large wooden stake driven through the middle of each. The elephants stood patiently underneath their open air homes, blowing dust over themselves and eating whatever scraps of food within their reach. The clinks of chains were however clearly audible even at such a distance. As we emerged closer, the initial excitement of viewing these majestic beasts quickly found itself tainted in the way that seeing each elephant, one after another, had both front legs tightly bolted together, with no excess chain or ability to move around can do. We began our walk in a clockwise motion, firstly moving to the elephants that were shacked to massive wooden stakes out in the open field. Behind these creatures lay open fields and rivers, with the jungle consuming the distance in an assortment of shades of green and yellow hues. Whilst our guide set about rattling off facts about elephants and their dexterous trunks, a question was asked by our English tag-alongs about the missing tusk of the elephant that stood before us. Our guide laughed. This, he explained with a giggle and a smile, was the result of one of the excursions out into the jungle where the gentle beast had come upon a van that found itself stuck in a ditch. Being such a strong and muscular creature, it was obviously logical that the removal of such vehicles required not a pulling motion, but using the head and tusks to push the van up and out of the ditch. The end result was the tusk snapping off cleanly within the face of the animal. Hilarious.

  We continued our walk and came across some smaller elephants chained to their designated slave space. Our English compadres made whimsical comments and joked about how the elephant was doing a small dance and jogging on the spot, much to the amusement of their ignorant selves. Sadly, it was just the repetitive head bobbing and blank face that indicated a severe case of psychosis. One of the largest elephants in this collection of misery had, as we were told, gone crazy only the year before. As a result he found himself now permanently chained to the floor, with separate chains and locks to each of his feet, around his head and criss-crossing his immense frame. It seems that the connection between imprisonment and insanity had not yet been made. It did, however, remind me of a story in the newspaper that we had read earlier in the week, entitled “Mad Tusker On Rampage”. It appears that on this particular day, one mighty elephant - who may or may not have seen some of his ilk in such conditions - had exacted his revenge by killing a couple of dozen people and destroying a village or two in his process.

  We followed the path towards the rear of the enclosures and made our way along the banks of the main river to a prepared hill on the outskirts of town which was brimming with tourists. Down the flank towards the water, the hill has been covered in chicken wire and stones which, we were told, was to keep the erosion at bay. Below all of this stood a rhinoceros. He slowly slogged his way along the shoreline, munching on grasses and looking very unconcerned as hundreds of tourists stood gawking above him, clicking their cameras in unison like the humming of bees.

  We made our way past the remainder of the distressed animals and walked back into the jungle resort where we were informed that dinner would be ready for us in just a few minutes. At last, we were weary from travelling and were greatly anticipating a hearty meal but as we entered the mess hall, we found ourselves confronted with a strange buffet of soup, rice and mystery meat. The mess hall itself was filled to capacity with the absent-minded Korean tourists who had earlier been laughing, pointing and taking selfies upon selfies with the obviously distressed animals and were now having no qualms in hocking up mouthfuls of phlegm around the dinner table. Noticing the abundance of strategically placed ash trays on the table, we took full advantage of these and chain smoked our way to revenge.

  With the frightful dinner concluded, we raced back to our room to re-supply ourselves with cigarettes and swigs of scotch before we were bundled into yet another flat bed utility, with bench seats bolted to the tray and driven back into town for a cultural tour. We exchanged desperate glances . . . would this hideous day ever end? From the description given by the guide, we should prepare ourselves to be exposed to a series of dances that were traditional and culturally significant to the local area. Entering the empty hall, we took our chosen seats towards the back of the auditorium but I could sense that something was amiss. Whilst Sarah was somewhat eager to witness t
he spectacle that was about to befall us, I was entirely too sober for what I knew was to come. My intentions were met with disgusted looks and some discussion of the inappropriateness of being flippant and evidently insensitive to cultural customs, nonetheless, I was soon shuffling my way across the road to one of the many mini-mart and bottle shop combination stores to acquire the necessary supplies.

  And that was when I found it. I had seen this mystical thing previously back in the city for an extortionate price, but there was a part of me that had still wanted it. And here it was. Just lazily sitting there right in front of me, hanging out without a care in the world, just above the cheap scotches for a sultry fifteen dollars. A glass Gurkha knife filled with a litre of Nepalese rum. It had to be mine. And so then it was . . . wrapped up in a bag along with some Johnny Walker, cola and the mandatory Pringles and gummi bears.

  With spirits both in hand and raised, I skipped back across the road to the hall to watch the debacle unfold. Entering the main doors to the hall, I was hit by the percussive beats of the drums being played upon the stage and stealthily filed past the crowds to find my seat next to the she-beast. With delight, I showed off my new found acquisitions and as Sarah was now beginning to sense what the next few hours would entail in the spectacle before us, we began knocking back swigs of Johnny Walker, as this would surely help make the experience tolerable. The drums had finished and next followed an all girl dancing troupe. The drinking continued unabated. The highlight of the night was about to come on . . . a tune that could only be described as the jungle version of the baby elephant walk began to reverberate over the speakers and a man-sized peacock ventured out onto the stage. An elegant if somewhat repetitive dance routine followed to boot, which the Koreans whooped and jumped on their seats for while laughing amongst themselves. Whilst they seemed to get a kick out of belittling and making a scene at the expense of other cultures, we just remained drunk. As the ordeal ended, we were again shuffled back into the ute and driven back to the resort, where we were dumped unceremoniously in the dirt and sternly reminded that we would be awoken early morning for breakfast before being left in a cloud of dust.