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?