The ride to Kathmandu

Normally when your recounting  your travels to friends and family back home the explanations of how you actually get from place to place are left out. Backpackers tend to trade these tales like old  veterans exchanging war stories. Our trip from the end of our rafting expedition to Kathmandu was one that we proudly tell to our fellow travellers, an experience that you don’t appreciate until it’s over and we will remember for the rest of our lives.

When we arranged our rafting trip they told us that transportation to Kathmandu was included and they would put us on the first option that came. I prayed that it wouldn’t be a local bus as our past experience with them hadn’t been great. We sat with our fellow rafters laughing about the trip when our chariot arrived. A local bus.

Not only was this bus much like the one we had ridden on before but it was completely packed full of Nepali people traveling home at the end of the Dashain festival (a huge festival celebrated with the enthusiasm Christians celebrate Christmas). Our raft guide grabbed our bags and threw them on top of the bus and told us to jump up there with them as there was no room inside. Three of the kayakers jumped up and settled in while I tried my hardest not to burst into tears (the drive to Kathmandu is scheduled to take 4 hours through some of the most dangerous roads in the Nepali mountains-lots of high cliffs). Mark finally convinced the guide of my fear of heights  and he negotiated a seat inside for me. I watched Mark climb the ladder to the top and finally stepped into the bus to about 100 eyes staring back at me. The seat he had arranged for me was literally on top of a mans lap so I quickly turned around and told him I would rather walk.

Our guide, clearly annoyed with my lack of participation, got back on and talked a man into trading places with me and so I made my way to my new ‘seat’, a small cushion on top of the engine positioned in between an elderly Nepali woman’s legs. The woman, who sat next to her even older mother was not thrilled at the idea of straddling me for the remainder of the journey and what I assume was her daughter yelled from a few rows back (I couldn’t understand what she said but I’m pretty sure White Devil would have been mentioned). Finally, the bus left and I tried to get as comfortable as possible while not intruding on the poor woman in front of me.

I sat with my head pretty much completely out of the window most of the time to avoid the vile smells coming from the ancient woman sat diagonally across from me. I listened to my iPod to drown out the blaring Hindi music and decided I didn’t need feeling in my ass to get through the next few hours. Once when the woman in front of me saw me struggling with a place to put my feet she grabbed my legs and put them in a more comfy spot, which started our friendship. She spoke no English but offered me a cucumber she bought from the vendors who would run up to the bus every time we stopped. I politely declined and watched as she and her mother spat (and drooled) the bits they didn’t want onto the floor/window/themselves. I sat back and even got almost comfortable until Granny decided to run her extra large toe nail up and down my leg.

Unfortunately, 4 hours turned into 6 hours  and every time the bus stopped more people crammed in. The women I had become closely acquainted with had a basket with something they clearly didn’t want harmed. Another group of women who they had been bickering with were doing their best to flatten this sacred plastic basket so I offered to hold it for them. They sat it next to me instead where the rival group of women promptly sat their chubby son on top of it. As soon as the bus stopped and the aggressive daughter from a few rows back saw it crushed, she began screaming at me in English. Needless to say I wasn’t thrilled but once I had realized what was going on it was too late and my friends had departed the bus with their plastic basket as dented as my pride.

I’m sure you’re wondering by now how Mark was faring so I’ll let him tell his side of the story.

So after refusing to get on the bus unless Heather got a seat, I watch my wife disappear inside with a mixed look of fear and resignation on her face, and clamber up the ladder on to the top of the bus to join Johan and Milosh from our raft group. The top of the bus is a metal roof rack, with round metal bars spaced every 6 inches or so, I’m not even sat down when the bus takes off down the road. I try and get comfortable, but as the bus rattles over the first few potholes, I know I’m in for a very long journey. I take off my flip flops and stick them under me, trying to protect my backside from the metal bars, this is a slight improvement and I brace my feet against the edge of the roof rack and hold on for dear life. The bus tears along the Himalayan mountain roads, which are a mix of tarmac, pot holes and sections where the tarmac has disappeared leaving rock and gravel. To the left of the bus is between 100 and 400 feet drop to the river below, and as we take right hand bends at the limit of the buses speed, it feels like you’re going to be thrown over the edge to your death. The first 30 minutes of the journey is ok, but the novelty factor soon wears off and Milosh and I discuss the best possible way of getting off the roof should the bus not make one of the tight corners (Milosh’s plan was to jump towards the cliff face and hope for the best). You soon get used to the sensation and movement of the bus, bracing yourself at every corner, lifting yourself slightly when you see the tarmac disappear ahead, but none of this can be considered enjoyable.

After 5 hours of this torture, a Nepali man whom I’d befriended (talking about Guns n Roses and the whereabouts of Axl and Slash these days), tells me that we are approaching a checkpoint for Kathmandu and that we all have to get inside the bus as it is illegal to ride on top in Nepal!!! As Heather already mentioned, the bus is already full to bursting, so the introduction of around 10 people from the roof makes it almost unbearable. The Nepali people are sat, 3 / 4 people to a 2 chairs, on the arms of chairs, on makeshift wicker stools in the aisle, however they all seem to find the fact that, at 6ft 1”, I cannot stand up straight in the aisle, highly amusing!

It takes at least another hour to get to our stop in Kathmandu, and when we depart, our bodies bruised and aching, stinking from the smell of other people, pollution and dust, I think both of us knew this was a ride that we would never, ever, forget.