"A fast approach by plane robs the journey of anticipation; a slow approach [by bus] always begins with the hope of a pleasant trip, and continues with the hope of simply reaching the destination." ~ George Schaller, Stones of Silence
As I sit in my hotel room, I welcome the noisy bustle of the city in exchange for the past 10 days. But why am I back in Kathmandu, when I'm suppose to be out of communication for another two weeks, you may wonder. . . well, it all started about a week and a half ago when we were so anxious to get out of the madness of the city, and into the mountains where ‘we belonged’.
10 days earlier. . .
A small beeping sound awoke me from my troubled sleep. Groggily I turned over to face my alarm. ‘Get up! It’s 4:30 AM!’ it cheerily chirped. I reluctantly got out of bed, turned it off, and began to pack. Justin walked downstairs to call for a cab, and ran back up to inform me that our watches were wrong and we had an hour less to get ready than we had planned.
Frustrated, I began to throw everything that I thought we needed into the packs, muttering about how we should have had it done the night before, and darting ‘I told you so’ looks at Justin.
“You know if we miss this bus we will have to wait another day in this city?’ I practically cursed. We were so spent from the constant pestering of the locals that we had shut ourselves up in the hotel for the past 24 hours, counting the minutes until we left for the mountains. He didn’t say a word, or look in my direction. He simply packed as quickly as he could, ran my pack downstairs and then came back for his, while I brought down the stuff that we would leave behind at the hotel.
We had planned to leave behind everything that we didn’t think we would use, but our packs were still so heavy that it was exhausting just trying to carry them out to the taxi. Justin quickly tossed his bag in the back of the little hatchback, and then as though sitting on top of a bursting suitcase trying to get the zipper to close, he leaned against the back, and muttered a prayer that it would fit. We jumped in the cab out of breath, barked orders to our cabbie, and off we went to the bus depot.
Frustrated, I began to throw everything that I thought we needed into the packs, muttering about how we should have had it done the night before, and darting ‘I told you so’ looks at Justin.
“You know if we miss this bus we will have to wait another day in this city?’ I practically cursed. We were so spent from the constant pestering of the locals that we had shut ourselves up in the hotel for the past 24 hours, counting the minutes until we left for the mountains. He didn’t say a word, or look in my direction. He simply packed as quickly as he could, ran my pack downstairs and then came back for his, while I brought down the stuff that we would leave behind at the hotel.
We had planned to leave behind everything that we didn’t think we would use, but our packs were still so heavy that it was exhausting just trying to carry them out to the taxi. Justin quickly tossed his bag in the back of the little hatchback, and then as though sitting on top of a bursting suitcase trying to get the zipper to close, he leaned against the back, and muttered a prayer that it would fit. We jumped in the cab out of breath, barked orders to our cabbie, and off we went to the bus depot.
We jumped onto a bus, the ‘Express’ to Jiri, bartered with the man who tried to overcharge us for our fare, and off we went. The bus was packed, and the music blaring. A squat man, with an abnormally long pinky nail, drove the bus through the city. Making a few stops along the way, children would jump on the bus offering to sell you provisions for the long, six – seven hour journey ahead. The mountain roads were poorly paved, and hardly wide enough for a single bus to drive up. The potholes caused an already motion-filled ride to become more like a roller-coaster jolting you up-and-down, back-and-forth, and side-to-side. The driver skillfully sped along the winding roadway, one hand turning the wheel with tremendous effort around hairpin turns, while simultaneously communicating with the stick horn placed beneath the wheel. He was shifting, talking on the phone, and carrying on a conversation in whistles with the lackey helping direct the bus. I watched on in amazement, but I still could only count two arms, and two hands. I swear he had another set hidden beneath his large belly.
We whipped around corners at speeds that made it difficult for me to stay in my seat. The horn sounded in constant warning to the oncoming traffic that we may be bounding around the blind corner as well. A few passengers leaned out the window, relieved their swirling stomachs, and swear I saw a smirk creep over the bus driver’s face as though to say, ‘Ah, yes! 15 vomiting passengers this week! A new record!’
The road, washed away in parts by the numerous streams, became more rock and rubble than actual road, and yet, we continued on at a pace that threatened to send me wretching over the side of the bus. A young boy, nearly sitting in Justin’s lap, began to throw up in his hands. Justin pulled out his camera, took a picture, and looked over at me with an amused grin.
Six hours of bumpy roads, one lunch stop and potty stop later, and we pulled into a broken-down shack of a town in the middle of nowhere. The lackey yelled at us, ‘Jiri?’ and without waiting for our reply began to throw our bags off the bus.
We whipped around corners at speeds that made it difficult for me to stay in my seat. The horn sounded in constant warning to the oncoming traffic that we may be bounding around the blind corner as well. A few passengers leaned out the window, relieved their swirling stomachs, and swear I saw a smirk creep over the bus driver’s face as though to say, ‘Ah, yes! 15 vomiting passengers this week! A new record!’
The road, washed away in parts by the numerous streams, became more rock and rubble than actual road, and yet, we continued on at a pace that threatened to send me wretching over the side of the bus. A young boy, nearly sitting in Justin’s lap, began to throw up in his hands. Justin pulled out his camera, took a picture, and looked over at me with an amused grin.
Six hours of bumpy roads, one lunch stop and potty stop later, and we pulled into a broken-down shack of a town in the middle of nowhere. The lackey yelled at us, ‘Jiri?’ and without waiting for our reply began to throw our bags off the bus.
We stood bewildered amongst wandering chickens pecking about our feet, goats bleating in the heat, and people, who didn’t speak a lick of English, staring at us with confused expressions. ‘Believe me,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘I’m just as confused as you are.’
To Justin I asked, ‘So, what now?’
He just looked back at me. “Jiri-samma kun sadak jaanchha?” He inquired of an old woman wearing a red dress of traditional Nepali style.
She made sweeping motions with her hand up the mountain side, around the hill, and to the left.
Great! Express bus to Jiri my . . . I scoffed under my breath, as my outlook wasn’t improving with this new turn of events. Another bus pulled up and Justin ran up to it.
‘Kas!’ he yelled. ‘Grab the stuff!’
I picked up everything I could carry, ran towards the completely packed bus, and foolishly tried to stuff myself into it – I wasn’t about to walk up that hill! Justin was already climbing up the side of the bus, with a pack larger than most of the locals, on a ladder you had to jump to reach. I quickly followed suit. We rode for the next hour atop the bus, to the amusement of the locals, on metal bars that served hardly any form of protection from being cast overboard and inevitably down a steep embankment of several thousand feet. It was exhilarating! Big smiles crept over our faces, and our stomachs began to settle as we gulped in as much sweet, fresh air as our lungs could hold.
To Justin I asked, ‘So, what now?’
He just looked back at me. “Jiri-samma kun sadak jaanchha?” He inquired of an old woman wearing a red dress of traditional Nepali style.
She made sweeping motions with her hand up the mountain side, around the hill, and to the left.
Great! Express bus to Jiri my . . . I scoffed under my breath, as my outlook wasn’t improving with this new turn of events. Another bus pulled up and Justin ran up to it.
‘Kas!’ he yelled. ‘Grab the stuff!’
I picked up everything I could carry, ran towards the completely packed bus, and foolishly tried to stuff myself into it – I wasn’t about to walk up that hill! Justin was already climbing up the side of the bus, with a pack larger than most of the locals, on a ladder you had to jump to reach. I quickly followed suit. We rode for the next hour atop the bus, to the amusement of the locals, on metal bars that served hardly any form of protection from being cast overboard and inevitably down a steep embankment of several thousand feet. It was exhilarating! Big smiles crept over our faces, and our stomachs began to settle as we gulped in as much sweet, fresh air as our lungs could hold.
We reached the small settlement of Jiri, slept in a crudely fashioned lodge, with stairways that Justin struggled to squeeze through, and awoke with new eyes in the morning. Adventure, here we come! Little did we know what our next escapade would hold. . .
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