First stop outside Kathmandu: Bandipur. A small, smart hilltop town with
picturesque buildings and a sleepy atmosphere, where locals refuse to rent out
rooms because it would only cause them trouble with cleaning up and interacting
with foreigners. It’s also a place where vehicles are not allowed.
Driving up hairpin bends on a road wide enough for a bus and a
skateboard was fun, as it was late afternoon and no traffic. I stopped in front
of the main gate of the town and realized that the little flight of steps
thoroughly expressed the message that no motorised vehicle would get onto the
main street. So I parked and, exhausted and sweaty (very possibly, actually
dripping) went in search of a place to sleep. Time seemed to be forced back.
People seemed to have emerged from long-forgotten times. The whole place seemed
to have somehow come through a black hole out of medieval times. The only thing
that gave the place a metaphorical slap in the face were the few tourists
grinning stupidly and looking, well, like tourists.
But time is short so I decided I would leave the next day, not before
going on a small trek to a remote village in the hills to see the so much
advertised rural lifestyle. This is how I spent my morning hours the following
day: sweating profusely and walking up and down a narrow path through the dry
jungle (yes, I think there is such a thing), Namaste-ing small children passing me on their way to school. I
busied myself with chasing insects and trying to capture some impressive images
but all I succeeded was amateurish photos with tiny dots close to the centre,
the type that need a convincing, complicated explanation: ‘see that little dot right next
to the fifth big leaf on the right, yeah, that one that is not entirely
focused…? Now that’s the bug I
spotted!’ If you ask me, bugs should rule the world. And they probably do, only
we’re too ignorant to realize that. But I did get the scare of my life, or, at
least, of the last year or so; while walking exactly how I imagine Little Red
Riding Hood capering friskily through the forest, something moved quite fast
and grasped my attention by the throat: a shiny green snake decided it would be
time to move and darted in front of me and into the shrubs without a glance
back. I almost had a seizure and stood there like a statue, having trouble breathing.
Come to think of it, I would not have moved a muscle even if the rather large
snake (easily over a metre) had crawled in my direction. I wish I had taken a
photograph but my clumsy immobile self was not capable of holding the camera
for the next 30 minutes anyway.
The little village of Ramkot lacked any element of grandeur whatsoever
so I soon returned to Bandipur, all the way looking down on the path for
something snakelike. But it was so hot that probably even the snakes went for a
siesta.
No siesta for me though; I was on my way to Pokhara, where I would enjoy
a couple of lazy days with music (too loud), swimming (too polluted) and a
variety of foods (too many), but I’ll skip that for now and turn to the next
stretch of my drive: the road towards Jumla. I still don’t quite know where it
is (I haven’t got there yet), but I had a vague idea which way I was supposed
to go and the first palpable stop on the way was Tansen, yet another small and
sleepy village perched on a hilltop. This one, though, came with a bike access
so I had no trouble prying all over the place, although at first I was prepared
to set my Lonely Planet on fire:
Tansen, 119km south of Pokhara, is far enough off the radar to make a
rewarding detour for independent travelers. Perched high above Kali Gandaki
River on the road between Butwal and Pokhara, Tansen’s main attraction is both
its Newari charm and distinct medieval feel. Lining Tansen’s steep cobblestone
streets, which are too steep for cars, are wooden Nerari houses with
intricately carved windows, from where the clacking of looms can be heard.
And that’s it. There are some other quite limited annotations but this is
pretty much where the information stops. I was still meditating on the ‘too
steep for cars’ part when I realized that Tansen is really quite vast and
labyrinth-like and I couldn’t find the place I was looking for and my
full-hearted question about the homestay went either ignored or completely
disregarded. In short, it took me about an hour to find the guesthouse and in
the meantime I also found the ‘too steep for cars’ part of the city: I
experienced vertigo just by looking at the streets and I’m sure I’d have
slipped while walking downwards and panted while climbing them. But I had to
drive on them, which sort of looked like a hospital trip in the making. By the
end of the hour I was starting to feel like being on an endless rollercoaster
ride that’s going nowhere but I was judiciously guided towards the guesthouse
by some nice restaurant owners (a place I would grow to love, as it would
become the one I favoured).
I couldn’t leave Tansen without seeing Ranighat Durbar, Nepal’s Taj
Mahal or so they say and, having the bike practically attached to my back side,
I decided to follow Mr Man Mohan’s (the homestay’s owner) broad instructions
and drive the 16 or so kilometres to there. It did seem odd that the trek would
take 3 to 4 hours to the palace when the road only took, well, Mr Man Mohan did
not really give any specifics, although he did say the road would be a dirt
road. And I was surprised to find the first kilometres quite asphalted. But
then…
Well, that’s the palace. And the road.
And that’s roughly how close I got to it. Let me explain: when you see a
flight of steps in front of you, you’re prepared to walk up or down, depending
on your position relative to the stairs. When you see a rock wall in front of
you, you’re prepared to climb it with your bare hands (or, otherwise, turn
around and run away). But when you see a mass of mountain ambiguously,
misleadingly, maliciously disguised
as a road, you’re sure to be in Nepal, close to Ranighat but not close enough
to actually get there. The slopes are at an angle at which you’d sooner build
buildings or rocket launchers and, once you passed the first couple and you’re
still in one piece, the concept of Russian roulette comes to mind. When you
still insist and end up in someone’s back yard (back drop to be precise), you
weigh the situation and try to go back…
I managed not to fall down… more than once, which was not so bad, as
some fresh bamboo trunks softened my fall. Getting the bike up and running
uphill from an impossible position with the help on an elderly, really chatty
old lady was the delicate part. I eventually found my way back to Tansen and
thoroughly committed myself to getting lost again.
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