Picking up post-urination where David left off, we were, at this time, approaching Dharan. A little history: Back in the day, Nepal was comprised of feuding Kingdom States. It wasn’t unified until 1768. The city of Dharan can trace its origin back to the 1500’s when it was the capital of the Morang Kingdom. In the 1950’s it was designated as a retirement center for returning Ghurkas. (Ghurkas were Nepali mercenaries who fought for the British. They are the most trained and lowest paid soldiers in the British Royal Army.) But, relatively speaking, their pension and organization has made them one of the prominent Social Development groups in Nepal. Now, the center has shut down and they have little to offer, other than a crudely geometric bell tower. When we got in, it range four or six times. I can’t remember.
It was pitch dark when we got in. Trees with sinewy, cavernous roots marked the center of the square. Dawa climbed on top of the bus and tossed our things down: 3 frame packs, our food rations and one, very large duffel bag filled with camera equipment, books and sleeping pads. He told us to always keep them in sight, reminding us yet again to be weary of theft.
The dilemma, as we were informed of in bits and pieces, was whether to get on the next bus to Basantpur. In some sense, this decision may have been made for it: the bus might not leave to Basantpur due to the Maoist Bandh. Himalayan times, a popular English newspaper’s headline read two days before our departure: Taplejung Closed for 14 days. Out of all the 75 districts, it had to be this one. Frequently referred to as the most remote area in the country.
Information does not travel fast here, or reliably. But, we heard accounts of starvation as no food was being let in, and nobody was being let out. The Maoists tend to avoid tourists, notably because the American embassy is almost as large as the old Royal Palace, but really, I think, because it is no one’s best interest to decrease the tourism sector.
Dawa was polite to the point of silence. Suman could hardly get any information from him, and Dawa could hardly get any information from the driver. If we stayed the night, we would have to find a hotel, and get on the bus the next morning. We were already strapped for time…
But, after another pee break, we boarded the bus. The passengers stared at David and I. It wasn’t uncommon, at this point, we were not in a popular touristy area. Most trekkers who come in search of Kanchenjunga or Everest take an internal flight. Not the 20 hour bus ride. But this was different. Suman looked over at us, “You have no idea how happy they are to have you on this bus.” And it was true. We didn’t. Apparently, in case Maoists boarded the bus, they would see David and I, check our passports, and categorize the bus as a tourist bus, letting us on our way.
We didn’t sleep well for this leg of the trip.
But, in and out of dreams, and, as I was informed of 8 days later, a small, carsick girl, becoming uncarsick on my shirt, we made it to somewhere-close-to-Basantpur. There, we eat noodles. Had mango juice, and, finally, began to get excited. This bus ride was a test of endurance. We were now at the finish line.
Much to the chagrin of Mr. Giri, David and I insisted that we ride the last 30 minute leg of the trip on top of the bus. The top of the bus, is normally reserved for luggage, that is strapped down, and children, that are not. The bus itself is something out of The Electric Cool-aid Acid Test and The Magic Schoolbus. It was a tank, with a metal exoskeleton of sorts that allowed a person, if they wanted, and they wanted often, sometimes while the bus was still in motion, to climb to the top from just about anywhere.
So we climbed up. Threw our legs over the side. Suman came up to make sure we didn’t kill ourselves. Dawa came up to see what the three crazy kids were doing. But we were certainly enjoying ourselves.
We took videos and photos, both of the mountains and the curious group of kids, who were also wondering What In God’s Name we were doing up here. But hey, anything beats those bus seats and, with the ice of adrenaline flowing through our veins, we were ready to go.
The city of Basantpur? Well…maybe not city. I mean, city is just a word right. A word that is commonly associated with places like New York or Kathmandu and, generously, to Cleveland. A place where there is a large amount of people and a vast congregation of buildings, huddling together. This was a road. Okay, road is a bit generous too. This is a long clearing in which things can bounce up and down on. Flanking said clearing, where shops, some of the last we’d see in quite some time. There was a pharmacy at which Suman stocked up on anti-colds, anti-diuretics and anti-candies. Suman’s anti-candies could be any number of things, from digestion pills, over the counter medicine, what have you. But, without fail, they all tasted like chicken feed and we, without fail, pretended to pop them in our mouths and threw them away.
This was the beginning of our trek. Our 3 day trek. Which, we were told was 2. It is unfair to write about the past, with the conceit of knowing the future, but I feel for the 3 of us, excitedly trotting along, as we had no idea what we were getting ourselves in to.
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