aric with an a

As mentioned - I don’t do a whole lot with my days here. Soak up some sunshine during the day, read a bit at night and then hurry back to my room around 9pm as I have both Cinemax and HBO on the tiny television. Sort of. It’s fuzzy, but I rush back anyway. Realized I haven’t had a conversation with someone in…a long time. Maybe you can tell from these posts. Anyway, days being what they are, I decided yesterday to take an alternate route up the mountain you can best see the Himalaya Range from (you might be tired of hearing about it. I’m tired of writing about it. Until I see it again and then I suddenly am not tired of writing about it). So, I did - passing tiny homes on the way up filled with colorful patterns worn by the owners who look funny at the tourists who call them ‘lucky’ and came to the end of the road. The end of the paved road, that is. Beyond that was a dirt road with a lot of rocks. Rocks that could easily puncture my tiny tires. Tires that I didn’t know how to fix. Etc.

Sat with a cigarette for a few minutes, thinking-and-rethinking the consequences of a flat.

‘Maybe the villagers would help me’

‘Maybe the villagers would help me for money’

I didn’t have any money.

But the thought of what lied at the end of that road ended up being too much. Stayed in first the whole way, much to the amusement of the locals who couldn’t wait to take the money that I didn’t have. Dodging rocks on a road made of rocks is hard. I think it was only 100meters up but am pretty sure it took 20-minutes. Came to the end of it. A kid ran out of his house and yelled ‘parking, sir’ even though there was no parking area, just his home on the narrow street.

‘I want to go to the top’

‘Very easy, sir. Park here and walk up. 200 meters. 10 minutes’

Took me about 30, the cheeky little monkey. Made it though. Made it to the top where there was a tea and gift shop. To the left were some stairs. Stairs that took me up to an old military post. There was a guard throwing boxes in a barrel to keep warm and nothing else.

‘Cept a few benches.

‘I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias’

Vikram Seth

So - I’m here. In Pokara. Shot above was taken from my window in the nicest room this guesthouse had to offer. Granted, I had to zoom in a wee bit, but that’s what I wake up to. Every morning. Most mornings. Yesterday it was a bit hazy and you really couldn’t see the mountain so I sat out on the terrace and felt bad for all of those who were still paragliding. ‘What a horrible thing to have to do - stick to a schedule that means you’re paragliding whether the view is nice or not’ I thought to myself. ‘In fact, what a horrible way to have to go through life - forcing the beauty if even for a glimpse when tomorrow might prove to be better’.

Ah, such the philosopher I am in the mountains and have a confirmed publisher for the ensuing book. Or a twat who’s been reading too much Kerouac.

So, my days here (on the 4th now) - I meant to write about this earlier, as something strange happens to my friends when I travel. Something I hate. See, I come back and want to hear about what’s new and what’s happening in their lives and there is always the preface of ‘oh, you don’t want to hear about that after being in _______’. But I do. This here’s the easy way out, trust me on that. No car payments, no responsibility for other lives and mouths to feed, a constant revolving door of new friends and the same questions. I could do this in my sleep, this initial meeting. Maybe that’s why in years past (and still occasionally to this day) I change it up a bit. Who knows? But this is not brave. This is not to be admired. If you want to be jealous of the few things I’ve seen, then fine - but allow me to do the same when it’s your turn.

Anyway, yes - I wanted to dispel a few myths to what actually happens when people travel, as most seem to be under the impression that the majority of days are spent on the back of some Sherpa named Kita, eating local food and trying hard to communicate in the local dialect.

No. Not at all.

When I have more time, I’ll break down what a travel day actually looks like and you’ll be surprised. I’d say the same amount of time is spent on Facebook (and fucking Skype!) as it is actually absorbing local offerings. Sad, but true. Most come to certain places because of the backdrop it offers. The vibe of other travelers. Ask me how many ’steak!’ places you see in this town and then how many local ‘mo-mo’ shops there are. Haven’t seen one place offering ‘chang‘ (a local moonshine) but all have Absolut. So, please don’t think that anyone coming from SE Asia, etc is to be looked up to. Simply accept with a smile the small gift they’ll make out to be ‘handmade’ in front of them allthewhile knowing it was bought right in front of a 7-11 (if not in the place). Annapurna is not going to change my life - even if I climb it. When I have a few beers at night - by myself - on the balcony, most of my thoughts are with when I’ll ‘get to share a pint with _______’ as opposed to rethinking the mindset of Sir Edmund Hillary.

Wow - hang on. We were talking about Pokhara, sorry. Anyway, my days are spent loafing. Walking around. Taking a photo here and there. Having a cup of tea and a smoke when the desire so hits. Reading books I should have long ago but chose to play basketball. That’s it, really. I simply dig the atmosphere and weather here. Trekking? Nope. Will wait on a few friends to do that. And that will be fun. But I promise you that when we return, we’ll have a lot more memories of the nights spent drinking and laughing than whatever peak we take our photo on.

So - that is what I’ve been doing. Nothing. No, I take that back - I decided the other night that since I was staying, for the first time since I can remember, in a place with a bathtub. I’d wash one pair of trousers and a t-shirt (I only have another shirt and a pair of shorts). The water should tell you some things:

…this entry seems almost as murky.

‘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.