Nepal Part 2
It was November 2019 and I had just arrived back from a five-day trek in the Himalayas in the Annapurna region. The main Annapurna trek is about 14 days, but I opted for the “ah, seems a bit long. I’ll go here instead” option.
Which had several benefits.
Firstly, it was only five days, but secondly, it was a far less touristy choice and so our route was much less crowded.
The trek was tough.
I’m no stranger to a trek. I had trekked Machu Pichu before and thought that was a good amount of tough, so I thought how much harder could it be? It was constant steep incline covering a considerable amount of elevation every day.
The scenery along the way was ridiculously beautiful. Up to 3300m everything was green. There was so much moisture in the air that moss grew on everything. All the trees, the earth, the plants all of it were covered in this vivid green moss.
There were man-made stone steps the whole way as well that contained a platinum silver mineral, so as you’re walking through this lush green wonderland the rocks sparkled with silver reflections. As if this wasn’t enough, white and orange quartz jutted out from the mountainside.
Adding to the magic, Krishna insisted we smoke a joint roughly every two hours while we hiked, “Breathe in love, breathe out forgiveness.”
We walked past many rhododendron trees, which are the national flower of Nepal. They are also mildly psychedelic which is interesting as to why the country identifies it as their national flower.
Things were relatively expensive along the way, but this was to be expected when the only ways to get anything in town––like the ingredients for the food they are cooking for you––was to lug it on your back, tie a rope around it then strap that rope around your head and carry up the mountain.
It was unbelievable seeing these hardened mountaineers carrying super-heavy loads all day, basically on their head. It looked terrible for their backs.
I saw men carrying stacks of rocks that must have weighed about 70kg like this and realised this is how the steps that I was walking on were made.
Man….
We woke up every morning looking at these huge ass mountains getting closer each day. Most were over 8000 m. We stayed in small villages which all, more or less, operated on a first-come first-served basis.
Everywhere we stopped for a rest I would bring out my saxophone and play for little children. My cheapo $150 saxophone must have looked like it was from another planet with the gold tinted lacquer creating an illusion that it was made of gold. Children were so excited just to touch it, and they were transfixed by the sound.
The last place we stayed at was in a medium sized village on a mountain face. The house had about six rooms connected to the host’s house with a communal living space.
There was a superstition in the village. During the transition from light to dark at dusk, the lights in all the rooms of the house MUST be on.
We didn’t know this.
When the host came to turn the lights on while it was still daylight, we thought it was a bit strange. Opting for a more romantic vibe, we switched off the light and lit a candle instead not realizing the superstition.
He quickly came back and turned the light on again and told Krishna, in Nepalese, not to turn it off and explained to us why, with lots of pointing.
It was believed that at this time demons were particularly interested in entering your house, however they were deterred by electric lights. After it became dark they kind of gave up and went home.
I wondered what the people did only a couple of generations ago when there was no electricity…
So that was one thing.
The host was already upset I had tried conjuring up the underworld.
Then I brought out the saxophone.
My melodies did not have the same effect on him as they did with the children. When I bathed the airwaves in warm brassy tones the head of the household was not into it at all. He made this clear with an abrupt wave of the hand and told Krishna to tell me to stop.
Surely, I wasn’t bad 🙁
Reflecting on this later, I think sounds and melodies I was playing were just too foreign for him and he just didn’t want to hear it. Nepalese music, from what I’ve heard so far, is usually very cheerful. Compare that to Arabic music is usually very tense, mysterious and hypnotic.
I think I played too many dark melancholic melodies and combined with my earlier attempts to summon the spirits of the dead––it was just too much difference for him to handle.
The next day I did the biggest turd of my life and blocked the toilet.
I’m not exaggerating when I say, this baby was the size of my forearm.
A true faecal Goliath.
I stared back at this chocolate baby like a proud father.
“Ah, that’s my boy.”
Our host did not share in my enthusiasm.
When I said goodbye to my first born, a single tear trickling down my face as I pressed the flush button, it became stuck.
He was not happy about this.
It was clear he needed a plumber.
I offered to contribute 2000 rupees (about $28), even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t flushed any toilet paper down which can cause blockages in older systems like his.
His plumbing simply could not handle the mighty Western stool.
He became violent and started to blow things out of proportion. There was a lot of fist-shaking, screaming and pointing. More and more villagers started to come and witness the spectacle. Things got very tense for a couple of hours.
I kept telling him it’s his problem not mine, I’ve helped as much as I could, and my offer of 2000 rupees was still good. Given that the minimum monthly wage at the time was about 9500 rupees this was more than reasonable.
But he insisted it would cost 10,000 rupees and he would need to send a plumber from the closest city, about two hours away.
Which was totally full of shit.
In a village in the middle of nowhere with about 200-300 inhabitants all completely relying on water to survive, it was extremely unlikely that no one had any plumbing skills or there wasn’t a village plumber.
A man who I believe was his father was trying to calm him down. I suggested I try to unblock it myself if they gave me some garbage bags and a coat hanger.
He was still yelling and screaming but the old man gave me the nod.
I double-bagged my right arm, un-tied the coat hanger and, like surgeon, went to work.
Using the coat hanger, I severed, chopped and broke up that funky monster as best I could. I’d flush, then the bowl would fill with water and faeces. I would then use a 1 litre plastic container to scoop out as much of that hideous mixture I could into a large bucket.
The old man then directed me down a footpath and instructed me to pour it into a small stream which cut through the village. This stream trickled across several footpaths as the whole village was on a mountain face.
I could see several children playing on a path below, jumping over the stream.
I raised my hand to protest but he didn’t want to hear it and told me to spill the bucket.
So, I did.
Walking back, I turned occasionally to see if any of the children stepped on any of my produce.
After about six or seven trips, the water began to clear up.
Eventually it was clear.
Still blocked, but clear.
I think he realised, when the water subsided, he could just blame the next tourist who flushed the toilet and hopefully he could extort more money out of them.
I gave him the 2000 rupees and left.
But this wasn’t the last time someone tried to extort me in Nepal.
The next time was when we arrived back in Pokhara.
I’d been hanging out at the Café mentioned in Part 1 everyday where I met Krishna. It was situated right on Lake Pokhara, with a small deck containing bean bags and wooden tables. Inside were a couple of tables and a raised floor with one table for those who liked to sit on the floor and eat.
It was rarely packed but it was rarely empty either. The clientele were a mixture of Nepalese and solo travellers who were usually either reading, smoking weed, playing chess, or all the above.
My days would start with some sort of exercise, then breakfast at the café accompanied with a buffalo milk chai topped with salted buffalo milk butter.
It was an orgasm of the tastebuds. The warm spices, tea and milk fat fused together coating the inside of your mouth to creating an unforgettable sensation.
Eventually, some of Krishna’s friends would rock up and we’d start smoking weed and playing chess. I’d order more buffalo milk chai and so the day would roll on into the night.
It was one typical day like this, while contemplating ordering my 3rd buffalo milk chai of the day, when a man walked in.
The chef told me this was his father. I immediately started to sing praises of his son about what a wonderful person I thought he was and how he was doing great things here. His father invited us to come to his house for lunch the next day, to which we agreed.
We hiked to his house, which was quite arduous. The house was simple but had one of the best views in Pokhara, looking over the entire town.
He showed us around and introduced us to his family. He then asked if we’d like to help out in the garden. Sure, I was in the spirit of giving and I really liked his son.
He got us to de-weed and turn the soil of about a 20m2 area. This was heavy work and the sun was belting down on us. We knew they were cooking lunch for us, so we thought breaking the back for a while was fair.
His wife and daughters prepared lunch for us, but didn’t sit with us. They avoided eye contact with us and honestly looked afraid. I didn’t understand why, but I would soon find out.
After lunch he tried to get us to load up wheelbarrows of compost and dump it in the garden. I felt he was taking the piss, so I said thank you we’re leaving. He then pulled me aside and tried to charge me 2000 rupees for the lunch. For comparison, you can buy a very good lunch for 200 rupees anywhere.
I was furious.
I had a go at him, calling him all sorts of colourful words not found in the dictionary. I went over to his wife (who couldn’t speak English) and made it clear with thank you prayer hand gestures that I was grateful for the food and gave her 200 rupees and pointed at her husband, making it clear the money was not for him, then stormed off.
It’s an unfortunate reality that being born in a wealthier country puts a dollar sign on your head for desperate people. I fully expect people to try and scam me when I travel. Sometimes I go along with it for a while just to where the scam is going. But still it can catch you off guard when some form of friendship has been established.
Take Krishna.
We kept in touch over the years and then, at some point, he started asking me for money. If there was some intelligible plan for what to do with money, I might have considered sending him some. But it was always for half-baked ideas like flying to England and becoming a Yoga teacher despite not knowing how he would get a work visa.
I believe we did have a genuine friendship, but it was also hard for him to escape what I represented.
A quick fix for all his problems.
A way out.
Anyway, next I left Pokhara. I took an overnight bus back to Kathmandu and flew to Delhi.
The plan was to buy a motorbike and immediately get out of Delhi, heading north into the Indian side of the Himalayas to Rishikesh, home to over 400 Yoga schools, to do what many spiritual seeking hippies before me have done and do a 200-hour Yoga teacher training course.
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