The mountain road back to Pokhara often disintegrates into long patches of dangerous, dusty nothingness. That in itself isn't a big deal, but added to the ricketiness of our haggard old bus and the sheer drop of hundreds of metres over the mountainside, makes the two hour ride a little hairy.
A family of five or six are crammed into the front row, one of whom is presumably driving. Their youngest son squirms around with nothing on his bottom half, battering the shit out of his big brother for something to do. At one point we stop and they buy a posie of flowers, then start eating them.We arrive in the dusty, polluted Pokhara and head to a hotel. ** Beware all ye males who read from here** I step out the taxi and feel a slight ping on my balls, an uncomfortable nip I presume to be a yanked pube. Oddly, though, the pain doesn't go away, so I head to the bog to untangle myself. Unfortunately, when I unwrap the frank and beans, I get a nasty surprise. Here, brazen and bold, a tick sits feasting on my nuts. It's my very own Stand By Me moment, made all the more appropriate considering one of my pseudonyms. Thankfully, I manage to tear the little fucker off before he gets a chance to burrow too far. I ride a wave of nausea, wash my hands, then head back out to Wee Mo and the Nepalis.
Soon the walker men announce they have to go. While Wee Mo and I are flying back to Kathmandu, they will be getting on board another one of the old rattling buses. It'll take over five hours to get back to the capital. We tip them as much as we can, thank them sincerely and go our separate ways.
I can think of nowhere else on Earth so well placed to deal with backpackers as Pokhara. For a relatively small place, the number of guest houses, cheap restaurants and trekking companies is quite beyond belief. In fact, there really doesn't seem to be much else in town, save for some souvenir shops. Everyone is trying to sell something, in occasionally weird ways.
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It's not long before we're heading out to the airport. The building is ancient, the security negligible and the organisation completely absent. Still, somehow we manage to get checked in and find ourselves talking to a slightly creepy Canadian. He's done an admirable amount of travelling, but between his enormous, grey grin and references (three in total) to buying sex, I'm kind of glad when he misses the plane.
Instead of just heading straight back to the hotel, we our new driver to take us via Durbar Square. As one of Kathmandu's main tourist attractions, it's absolutely chaotic, a kind of thieves market, meeting place and religious haven all rolled into one. We spend 15 exhausting minutes there, but manage to get some good pictures along the way..JPG)
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That night, we meet a representative from the Nepal Tourist Board, who is charming and nice and keen to have us back again in the future. They don't have the money for international advertising campaigns, but for journalists who can get themselves to the country, they're really keen to act as hosts. We thank him, promise him we will be back, then head to bed.
The next morning we awake early and get a lift to Kathmandu Airport for the first time that day. We both fly back to the UAE later, but – despite nearly having to cancel following a two hour delay – this time we are here for the Mountain Flight. Having swam at the world's lowest point (The Dead Sea) together, now we are to fly past it's highest. As James Salter says, “Travel writing is something you do for money. Not a lot of money, but the working conditions can be pleasant.” 