Patience, Perseverance and Perspiration II

It was supposed to be a late monsoon and I was counting on it as I desperately wanted to see most of the country on the hard leathery back of my Hero, my Honda Hero. But monsoon was not as late as I hoped (or it was just a passing phase). And when that came, it was upon and underneath everybody at once: your inoffensive slight afternoon shower turned into a never-ending downpour with some hail thrown into the equation, which no umbrella could face it unturned: the rivers (a tiny trickle just a week ago) invaded the city of Tansen and took over the streets. That is to say the streets became rivers, which beautifully flowed downhill on the abrupt roads, yes, the same streets that just a few hours before had terrified me. Certainly, they still terrified me but not in the same way. Now, apart from the anguish of falling down on the ginormous incline or taking an unwilling passenger onto the front wheel, I also feared drowning said passenger on the way. Was this how monsoon season would be like? I had put my money on daily showers not unceasing baths in muddy red waters (which, by the look of it, seemed unpleasantly chilly).

The main activities in such weather are, by tradition, counting money or practicing the basic steps in becoming parents. Having small amounts of the former and no possibility for the latter, I resorted to other meanings Tansen could include: food, I conceived a plan to return to the guesthouse by entering all eateries so as not to get too wet but the master plan failed due to the lack of restaurants and available storage space (I started storing the food in the most obvious place, that is my stomach but its capacity soon came to an end). Bags I could carry but, thinking that having food usually involved consuming it at some point, I soon abandoned my plan and hatched another one: shopping, with its endless opportunities of getting useless junk just for the sheer weight of it. But this too soon came to a dead end, as most of my (as yet uncounted) money went on food.

It rained all night and I was getting tense, with a horrible itch to move out. And, come morning, so I did. Driving from Tansen to… let’s just say west, proved to be a whole day long business. I knew there were many uncomfortable kilometres to cover so I started early and put a considerable amount of effort into driving faster than my usual 50km/hour. So I drove (almost) 60! 70 on two occasions, a true performance, considering the continuous incoming (and outgoing) perils that surrounded me. Still, the early hours of the sunless morning were smoother than expected, as traffic was scarce and the weather was an impromptu shade of chilly, just until I hit the plain, some 40km later; the Terai plain, Nepal’s southern strip of land, where water could only be found by digging a well deeper than the length of a football field. As far as complaints go, none can really compare to the ones expressed by my, ahem, backside, an incredibly tender backside at the moment, what with trepidations from the bike, rocky roads and endlessly gruelling hours sitting in the saddle of the world’s most uncomfortable bike, always tilting and slipping in front, propping myself in the steed’s hump, which would be its bulky petrol tank. I really needed to stop a couple of times and, after too many hours of sitting, I desperately wanted to get up and find a nice shady coffee place, what with going through the whole singing repertoire of The Road, Draga Otee (my personal driving song), My Way and, remarkably enough, Matilda… well, that time, I finally managed to find a place in the Nepali scorching lowland, where no coffee was to be had (or, probably, known about), but lemon tea poured in such quantities that could quench the thirst of a herd of camels, and where one of the women in charge stroked my hair – surely her first encounter with dreadlocks – as if she was searching for a child to adopt. She liked me; I liked her and her gentle, if somewhat distressing caresses; we could not communicate one single word in a common language.

The next step was to get instructions and, mind you, there has been many a moment when I wondered if the instructions I got were right but I always pushed on and, sure enough, some kilometres later (usually around 40), the road proved to be the right one. As soon as I start driving towards [you name it], the first milestones and signposts stare blankly at me, whitewashed and clean. After said 40km I start making out distances on the milestones, usually in Nepali, which means that after a few more dozens of kilometres, I might spot an English sign.

This is why when I stopped in Kohalpur, a city with a major junction from where the roads could either take me to the Indian border or to Bardia National Park, the place where I wanted to stop for the night, I asked if I chose the road well. A confident, English speaking Nepali confirmed my choice and, after the usual 40km, I realized the Nepali (and me) had been wrong (and I was thinking that one of the perks of inquiring English speakers would considerably decrease the chances of misleading information). I was not heading towards Bardia, nor was I in India so I could only be lost. The mystery was easily solved when I glanced at my crappy Lonely Planet map and my eyes started watering: I had involuntary chosen the scenic route to my ultimate destination, Jumla. Why scenic? Because it looked as if the mountains had decided to move over just enough to leave a tiny passage for a minute road to insinuate into the cracks, all the while looking down on a riverbed with some actual water in it for a change. Pure poetry, if you disregard the exhaust from the trucks edging by. 

Scenic was also the wrestling match between busses, trucks and me fighting to get some wheels on the tarmac, with them winning by a nose (or tire, if you wish), pushing me benevolently off the narrow road.

I didn’t give in and, by late afternoon (as is my latest ritual), I arrived in Surkhet where I gave up the fight. The map proclaims that Surkhet has an airport, so I was expecting something more than just a road, a checkpoint, a gamut of busses, a handful of houses, and one (!) ‘Hotel and Lodge’. To my lack of surprise, the Hotel and Lodge was full but four sympathetic elderly Nepali men joined forces to put together an English phrase (totally incomprehensible) and pointed at another hotel, where I found a room. It would probably pass as a broom closet but it had the pride of the local tribe: an attached bathroom, a slightly smaller, damper broom closet.