Archive for November, 2008

Who looks at this site, these pictures and thinks – ‘I would love to do that’?

You?

Okay – how ’bout (another) lesson on how travel is stressful.

I have enough money to get me back to Kathmandu and over to Darjeeling. Just.

On Monday, I’ll get another payment from a client that will allow me enough to fly into Bangkok, collect my effects and fly to Seoul and then San Fran.

However – flights to Calcutta are few and far between and I’m banking on them having a seat for me when I can book it. Am also worried (no – not worried, freaking out, I believe is the term I’m looking for) about the Bangkok airport being closed. For more days. Now – what this means is this:

I’d have to get a flight from India to, say Singapore (expensive) and, in the matter of 2 days, make my way (overland) from Singapore to Bangkok. Which is unheard of. With no flights, it’d be damn near impossible. It would be impossible. I’d have to fly up to Chiang Mai and then take an overnight train to Bangkok (read: more money and more ‘what if’s‘ when it comes to this political upheaval).

That’s just to get to Bangkok. Then there’s the matter of flights out of Bangkok. I already have my hotel and flights from San Fran booked, so should I be delayed by even a day, I’m f*cked.

Care to live vicariously? Okay then – here’s what I have to have happen, in this order:

1. Get to India with enough money to live while I pick up payment

2. Have enough money/time to book a flight to Bangkok…or somewhere else

3. Bangkok airports have to open or I’m screwed – have to find a way there at least to check-in to my flight.

4. Bangkok to Seoul (for a day) and then to San Fran – this should be the easy part; unless the flights aren’t going out.

5. Make it to San Fran with enough time to catch my flights home

…don’t let the photos fool ya.

P.S. Did I mention my Nepali visa runs out on the 1st?

When compared to ‘real life’ (kids, house, bills, fidelity), travel is an easier choice. Yes.

That being said, I somehow pick the 2 places going through terrible times to fly out of in order to get home.

India. And Thailand.

Per Mumbai – was never planning on going there and fortunately, never did. It’s bad – very, very bad. While on a train ride, an older man with a think mustache predicted it. He told me there would be trouble ‘within the month’ and of course, I nodded my head silently agreeing that there was always trouble. Kashmir. Hindus and Muslims – a ‘spot of bother’ (as the Nepalese paper so Colonially put it) is to be expected. But never thought this.

101 dead at time of writing.

127 dead at time of writing.

So that’s one country I’m to fly out of here in a week.

Then, there’s Thailand. I hung out and joked with the P.A.D. last time I was in Bangkok, shouting ‘power to the people!‘ which got me a smile. Have the bandanna and everything. I didn’t know what I was doing, just getting involved, that’s all. But they over-through a democratically elected official. I didn’t go to college and cannot tell you much of anything about politics, but something about that doesn’t sound right. Now, they’re occupying the airport. Which kills their economy. Quick – name a popular Thai export. You can’t – it’s tourism that drives that place.

I’m to be flying out of there in 2 weeks.

‘Is traveling the world wearing you out, honey?’ laughed my Mom when I called her a few days ago, reserving not only ‘biscuits n’ gravy’ for the first 3 mornings, but unlimited control over their jacuzzi.

I think it is.

No more 6-month trips for me, thank you. I’m tired.

‘I love it here’ I penned in my diary, while recalling the day’s adventure by candlelight in the attic-cum-cheap room, ‘although the long stretch of road that ends with a white-capped peak is yet to be seen. Maybe tomorrow’.

Funny how some things happen. I woke up the next morning – trying desperately to recall how great the room/town was and throw that into the argument of my sore back and pounding headache brought on by Early (7am) Saturday Mornin’ Hindi Pop that snaked in through the cracks in the windows – and made my way to where the motorcycle was parked. It was only a 2-minute walk and the 117 seconds of worrying if it was parked in a safe place and if so, how the hell was I going to start it? quickly faded when I saw that behind the parking area (basically someone’s backyard) stood the Himalaya Range. Right there. Looking down on me. And I was pretty high up as it was.

‘Minuscule’. ‘Minute’. ‘Tiny’. These are often overused by people trying to sum up great feats of God and nature, but it’s true. Suddenly you feel very, very small. But a good small – like Dustin Hoffman. Small but blessed. Short and lucky. That was me – standing, like an asshole, while the home owner/parking lot boss just wanted his 40 rupee.

Never mind I couldn’t get the fucking thing started, I coasted down the road, slowly, as to take in the view. And then it hit me.

‘Jump-start’! I’ll jump start the sonofabitch.

Never mind I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. Even on a car. Had seen it. Hadn’t done it.

But tried it.

Coast. Clutch. (Brake! for the corner). Coast. Clutch. Forward into first. Release the clutch and accelerate.

I’ll be damned. It worked.

Now – you need to know that I’m pretty cool. You need to know I think I’m pretty cool. But at that moment, with a canvas of fog making the range I was on appear to be a lake of white, and the postcard view I had in front of me, not to mention the fact that I just now became a man (one who not only sleeps in attics and can ride a motorcycle, but can bypass manual labor to get ‘er movin’), I momentarily forgot all of that and went ‘all gay of a sudden‘ letting out a tiny ‘whoop!’. No – it was more of a pirate laugh. Even though no one’s around I still felt the need to appear ironic. If only to myself.

Ha. Ha! HA. That’s how it went – please don’t repeat that in jest when I see you.

And so I was off. The speed increased slightly (yesterday it was at barely a crawl – am sure the other motorcycles would have called mine ‘slow – but with a great sense of humor’), the turns were oh-so-slightly leaned into (not even that, was more of me just lowering the occasional shoulder to make it appear to be exciting to the fleet of buses unable to pass me) and wouldn’t you know it, the only vehicle who came close to hitting me was a U.N. jeep.

Finally made it out of the mountain range and onto that ‘stretch of road’ usually reserved for hair commercials and [deletes numerous additional funny analogies]…

It was breathtaking. No other word for it.

Followed these white arrows into town, Pokhara, who, although deserves the title ‘Prettiest City in Nepal’ didn’t come close to the feeling I had not an hour ago – leaning on the bike that leaned on a kickstand, eating stale bread with some sugar-concoction in it, looking up, Up, UP! at a range I had only seen on The Travel Channel.

It becomes like that, the few moments before arriving. I can tell you what I was listening to when my flight to London came over the Tower Bridge. I can recall how the sand in my eyes didn’t seem to register while bicycling to Bagan. Your own interpretation is always better than what is – that’s a hard truth of travel. Or anything, to be honest.

This road, this small stretch of pot-holed neglect was my excitement.

It always will be.

So, my inability to operate a clutch worried me more than the fact that outside town, things were still burning from the riots, but woke up, donned my new coat, walked to Mr. Motorcycle #2 and confidently tried to impress him while suppressing laughs when he said ridiculous things like ‘Do you want to take spare tires?’ and ‘Watch the leans into curves’.

I somehow, somehow, made it out of his line of sight. Even made it out of the congested Kathmandu and over the river. Up the hill on the only road you could take out, was, of course, a ruptured pipe which resulted in a mudslide which equaled me a) stalling b) getting out and walking through ankle-deep muck c) falling over and the bike with me d) breaking the visor on Mr. M’s helmet and e) having to push it up the hill whilst I’m sure the town quickly made it a point to re-think not asking tourists for their licenses.

But I made it – out and onto the winding mountain roads that – had I not been shitting myself – would rival any I’d seen before. Not the snow-capped ones you might be thinking, but gorgeous green pillars on one side and a snaking river on the other. I think. Would only let my eyes dart back and forth and the fact that this was my first time on a motorcycle. I cannot stress that enough. But I got the hang of it – I think. I must have. 4 hours later, I assumed that I had gone hundreds of miles and had missed the first town I wanted to check out but never mind, Pokhara sounded gorgeous and oh yes, have I mentioned my difficulties kick-starting this beast? No electric start. And the choke was not the same as Dad’s lawnmower. So didn’t really want to stop. Had to once – as I saw an old footbridge joining the 2 sides of the hill. Had I not packed my beloved Leica between all the clothes I brought in the sure chance that I would wreck, I’d have taken a snap. But I didn’t – so you’re stuck with this description.

A few minutes later, saw the sign for Bandipur (actually more like painted-on tree bark pointing virtually up a mountain) and took the 8km skyways to the unbelievably charming town. A town with one street. No, not a street – streets have names. One lane. That’s it. One lane and all the tiny homes are either B&B’s or cafes or both. But not touristy. The townspeople just got on with it. And the architecture – wow.

When I have more money to spend in this internet cafe, I’ll tell ya about it. But it was just…well, a neat place. Told the owner of the old guesthouse that jumped right out of a Jane Austen novel my money situation and she offered me the attic for $1.70. Turns out it was one of the coolest places I’ve slept. No lights, just candles. A few beds and old shuttered windows opening up to the lane below. I’ll show you a photo later.

So that was it – I threw my bag down, and walked the town. Thrice, I believe. Wasn’t a lot to do except dangerously lean over the mountain it was placed upon. So quiet you could hear the Friday laughs from the small school a quarter-of-a-mile away. I sat. I smoked. I ate some mo-mo and didn’t have a beer. Was proud of myself. Wanted one – but saved it for when I’m back home and can have one with friends.

Slept laughing. First motorcycle ride and it was Nepal. Ended up in a town most don’t.

How about that?

My friend, Ken The Scientist, had already warned me that there was a possible ‘bandh’ [political uprising] happening in town and that it might affect my travel plans. I got up early anyway and went to the motorcycle store to see. He was closed. The whole town was closed. Lock-down, to be exact. And for anyone who’s ever been on ‘Freak Street’ in Kathmandu – that doesn’t happen. In fact, I’m sure even Cat Steven’s was assaulted a few times by either the Tiger Balm salesmen or the kids asking for ‘one pen-one rupee-one bonbon?!’ and simply chose to keep it out of the lyrics. This area is Bourbon St + Kho San Road – it simply thrives on rich tourists with more money than time. But it was shut. It was all shut. Save for the shop owners that sat quietly in front of their income reading what was about to happen.

Half of me enjoyed it – save for the whole murders and riots part of it all. I walked back home after a cuppa ‘chai’ and a yak coat purchase that I convinced myself I needed although the money would have been better spent on travel insurance – have I mentioned never riding a manual motorcycle before?

Walked around town and found another Mr. Motorcycle who offered me a bike for cheaper (450 a day) and nicer (‘More like a Harley – less Japanese’ was the selling point) and, after playing around with a few things that I had no name for but felt was appearing impressive, I said ‘okay’. Went back to the guesthouse that night and practiced a few times on the bosses bike – stalling 4 out of 5 times. He shook his head and said ‘If you can’t drive this – tomorrow will face problems’.

Fantastic.