Of the many tasks that you end up doing when going travelling is that you end up having to buy gifts for those back home, gifts that are meant to show how good the place was that you’ve been or something like that. Gift buying has never been an easy or natural thing for me to do. For some it just seems like they can go to a place and find something that, even though they had no idea about previous, see and suddenly decide that it is perfect for some loved one back home, in truth I’m envious of these people they seem to get into far less trouble than I do. I quite often manage the situation and produce something that most of the time seems to be accepted, The one thing however I can’t deal with is that if there isn’t a list of some description then quite often people defined as ‘difficult’ to buy for will get nothing because how am I meant to know that you didn’t want a toaster.
Knowing that my girlfriend liked a particular colour, a deep shade of purple, and that I should really probably get her something having left on her birthday and going to enjoy myself for three weeks while she is left sitting in the UK wanting to be exploring like I was. I set out with all good intentions. Mahendra pul is the market part of Pohkara where the locals will buy their groceries, where you will find the now half expected chickens in a basket ready to be sold on the side of the street, up to the less expected and out of place looking, spotlessly clean Adidas shop, shoulder to shoulder with a phone/watch repair shop on one side and a household items or fruit market I never quite decided which it was meant to be. Full marks for entrepreneurism goes to the Short Nepali businessman of that particular stall for diversification.
That day we had hired what was to become one of the loves of the trip for me. We had a rest day to relax take in some culture and do some shopping, wanting to take advantage of all of these we hired a Honda ZX. Now before any images of a slightly flashy Japanese saloon car pop into your mind remember that this is Nepal, I don’t think saloon cars exist there, let alone ones of the slightly flashy Japanese variety. Cars are short squat and rusty, they do the job they’re meant for and they do it well, every now and again. No the Honda ZX was actually a scooter, and not a good one at that. Baby blue and yellow this really was the worst looking thing in the row of vehicles for hire, but it was also a instant attachment.
For 400 Nepalise rupees we got use of this barely functioning motor for the day. When asked by the restaurant owner who was hiring this bike out to us (another man who deserves points for diversity) if we were happy with the bike and if we thought it was alright, it would have been quicker to list the things that worked on it than to keep spotting flaws, but we did show him a few patches where the yellow covered big spots of rust. The restaurant owner now slightly miffed that we looked like we were insulting his tiny scooter, though we knew as well did he that it was a heap of junk and that he was just looking to charge us lots when it came to bringing it back. Handing over the money the owner passes us a helmet to wear between the two of us, in Nepal it is only illegal for the driver not to wear a helmet. As we left the restaurant the owner tells us that it has no fuel and that we would need to find a place to fill up. Tim, driving with the helmet on and me sitting behind, now assigned with the role of navigator.
Out of the two of us Tim was the most likely candidate for first driver on these dangerous and chaotic roads. The older of the two and the luckiest person I know, being able to land on his feet after going through pretty much any situation possible. It seemed like he was the better option than myself – just turned 20 and never ridden a scooter or bike before, once driving a mini motorbike round a field a couple of times, this didn’t really seem like enough experience to then take on the roads straight away.
The Honda ZX was the biggest heap of junk that we could have possibly got, soon we realised neither the fuel gauge or the speedo worked, It needed a massive kick to get it on and off of its stand and the wing mirrors kept flopping like a Basset hound’s ear meaning that if you wanted to see behind you, you had one of two options. Look behind and risk not seeing a pothole in the crater-strewn road or go one handed and try and hold up the wing mirror. Neither a particularly good option on Nepali roads, said to be some of the most dangerous in the world.
As we coasted along looking for somewhere to fill up I start to get used to the way that a bike feels and moved, a gentle shift of weight helping to steer.
Pulling the map out from my back pocket as we drive I try t o locate the nearest Fuel pumps as I shelter the map from the wind behind Tim. Guessing at how much to put in by just looking into the fuel tank we are now ready to go exploring in Pohkara, Nepal’s second city.
Now the roads and streets in Pohkara are not the cleanest in the world, while still miles ahead of Kathmandu not requiring you to wear a face mask to be able to breathe but having one on as you drove around definitely let you breathe easier. Now in my infinite wisdom I had chosen a lightweight, breathable and red fabric tube to wear round my neck and face as drove.
Pulling into Mahendra Pul the main market district of the city and the place that while just a five to ten minute drive away is amazing deprived of tourists and travellers – those people that go to find themselves and venture no further than the sheltered existence that lies with the tourist districts. The term hustle and bustle definitely applied to this place, Sellers on the side of the street while still talking to you to offer what they had to sell there was not the constant pestering of ‘Tigerbalm’, ‘you like chess?’ or ’Hashish? – It’s good shit’ that you would get from the sellers in Thamel, the tourist district of Kathmandu that we had stayed in a couple of nights previous.
Each with our own shopping to do, both having to fulfil the same task Tim and I split in different directions, agreeing to meet up later.
As I walked through the streets of Mahendra Pul looking at rows upon rows of Pashminas searching for this one colour, purple as it turns out is not a favourite of the Nepali’s. Shop after shop I went in looking for this one colour, it now becoming a bit of a pride thing, and all a bit prehistoric, ‘me man – me find pretty thing for lady in distant country’. Going into each shop I would pull the necker down from around my face and engage with the shopkeeper. Who time after time would sit me down on the padded sides, and start pulling out many different Pashminas, stating that these are the best around despite them being exactly the same as the ones that I had been shown two shop down the road. Stepping into one shop I pull down, the red necker and talk to the shopkeeper. There were very few people that I met that couldn’t really speak English but this frail old woman tending her open fronted fabric shop was one of them. Hunched over studying various colours of pashminas trying to convince this woman that yellow definitely wasn’t the easiest game when suddenly I felt a large heavy had grasp my left shoulder. ‘You Maoist?” came a deep mans voice from over my shoulder.
Looking round to the left to see who had grasped me I am confronted by two men about my height looking me first in the eye then up and down. I return the gaze first looking at them in the eye and then up and down. Smartly dressed in blue and dark grey camouflage, shiny boots and a gun holster on their hip. I look to their chests; a sewn badge identifies them as Armed Police Force. Suddenly processing what was said to me just a couple of seconds ago I start back peddling as fast as I can. ‘No, no, English’,
Englishmen are respected in this country right? An imperial right is still built into me that the English aboard seem to and potentially should get special treatment, this is my trump card (alongside the fact that I wasn’t in fact a Maoist, I just happened to like red neckers) and I played it straight away. What if this goes badly? Oh god you got a gun, and oh god that other guy has got his baton drawn.
‘Eeeeeeeeeenglish!’ he shouts as a smile grows across his face and his hand is thrust towards me, I put out my hand to shake his. He has a firm handshake, the kind you’d expect from an armed police officer, and his rough hands making you wonder as to the amount of use his baton gets against real Maoists. Relief, as a smile grows across my face too, this man isn’t going to bundle me into a van and his friend isn’t going to beat me up. I’m pretty pleased about this. Caught in my thought and staring into this mans eyes I realise that I’m still being asked a lot of questions by this guy: Where was I from? How long had I been in Nepal? Where was I staying? Didn’t I want to learn Nepali because I very good teacher? Polite and humouring him I gave my answers, after all he did still have a gun, and my hand, shit my hand!
We had been shaking hands for a good couple of minutes; it had moved way past that point greeting and into the realms of awkwardness, though he didn’t seem to realise this and kept hold. It turns out this mans talents run to more than just keeping the population and visitors on their toes as he joined in with the frail old woman trying to sell me the yellow Pashmina. Convincing a man with a gun that you don’t want the ‘best Nepali pashmina’ is about as good a game as trying to tell a man the flaws in his scooter. In either case I’m pretty sure the people I left just had the impression that I had a genuine aversion to the colour yellow. Mental, but not a Maoist; or shot. I’d done well. Leaving the shop Sub Inspector Rabindra Chhetsi and his friend they hand me a slip of paper, ‘Any trouble you call us’, I had my own heavies in Nepal.
Sim Davis – 0800734
Of the many tasks that you end up doing when going travelling is that you end up having to buy gifts for those back home, gifts that are meant to show how good the place was that you’ve been or something like that. Gift buying has never been an easy or natural thing for me to do. For some it just seems like they can go to a place and find something that, even though they had no idea about previous, see and suddenly decide that it is perfect for some loved one back home, in truth I’m envious of these people they seem to get into far less trouble than I do. I quite often manage the situation and produce something that most of the time seems to be accepted, The one thing however I can’t deal with is that if there isn’t a list of some description then quite often people defined as ‘difficult’ to buy for will get nothing because how am I meant to know that you didn’t want a toaster.
Knowing that my girlfriend liked a particular colour, a deep shade of purple, and that I should really probably get her something having left on her birthday and going to enjoy myself for three weeks while she is left sitting in the UK wanting to be exploring like I was. I set out with all good intentions. Mahendra pul is the market part of Pohkara where the locals will buy their groceries, where you will find the now half expected chickens in a basket ready to be sold on the side of the street, up to the less expected and out of place looking, spotlessly clean Adidas shop, shoulder to shoulder with a phone/watch repair shop on one side and a household items or fruit market I never quite decided which it was meant to be. Full marks for entrepreneurism goes to the Short Nepali businessman of that particular stall for diversification.
That day we had hired what was to become one of the loves of the trip for me. We had a rest day to relax take in some culture and do some shopping, wanting to take advantage of all of these we hired a Honda ZX. Now before any images of a slightly flashy Japanese saloon car pop into your mind remember that this is Nepal, I don’t think saloon cars exist there, let alone ones of the slightly flashy Japanese variety. Cars are short squat and rusty, they do the job they’re meant for and they do it well, every now and again. No the Honda ZX was actually a scooter, and not a good one at that. Baby blue and yellow this really was the worst looking thing in the row of vehicles for hire, but it was also a instant attachment.
For 400 Nepalise rupees we got use of this barely functioning motor for the day. When asked by the restaurant owner who was hiring this bike out to us (another man who deserves points for diversity) if we were happy with the bike and if we thought it was alright, it would have been quicker to list the things that worked on it than to keep spotting flaws, but we did show him a few patches where the yellow covered big spots of rust. The restaurant owner now slightly miffed that we looked like we were insulting his tiny scooter, though we knew as well did he that it was a heap of junk and that he was just looking to charge us lots when it came to bringing it back. Handing over the money the owner passes us a helmet to wear between the two of us, in Nepal it is only illegal for the driver not to wear a helmet. As we left the restaurant the owner tells us that it has no fuel and that we would need to find a place to fill up. Tim, driving with the helmet on and me sitting behind, now assigned with the role of navigator.
Out of the two of us Tim was the most likely candidate for first driver on these dangerous and chaotic roads. The older of the two and the luckiest person I know, being able to land on his feet after going through pretty much any situation possible. It seemed like he was the better option than myself – just turned 20 and never ridden a scooter or bike before, once driving a mini motorbike round a field a couple of times, this didn’t really seem like enough experience to then take on the roads straight away.
The Honda ZX was the biggest heap of junk that we could have possibly got, soon we realised neither the fuel gauge or the speedo worked, It needed a massive kick to get it on and off of its stand and the wing mirrors kept flopping like a Basset hound’s ear meaning that if you wanted to see behind you, you had one of two options. Look behind and risk not seeing a pothole in the crater-strewn road or go one handed and try and hold up the wing mirror. Neither a particularly good option on Nepali roads, said to be some of the most dangerous in the world.
As we coasted along looking for somewhere to fill up I start to get used to the way that a bike feels and moved, a gentle shift of weight helping to steer.
Pulling the map out from my back pocket as we drive I try t o locate the nearest Fuel pumps as I shelter the map from the wind behind Tim. Guessing at how much to put in by just looking into the fuel tank we are now ready to go exploring in Pohkara, Nepal’s second city.
Now the roads and streets in Pohkara are not the cleanest in the world, while still miles ahead of Kathmandu not requiring you to wear a face mask to be able to breathe but having one on as you drove around definitely let you breathe easier. Now in my infinite wisdom I had chosen a lightweight, breathable and red fabric tube to wear round my neck and face as drove.
Pulling into Mahendra Pul the main market district of the city and the place that while just a five to ten minute drive away is amazing deprived of tourists and travellers – those people that go to find themselves and venture no further than the sheltered existence that lies with the tourist districts. The term hustle and bustle definitely applied to this place, Sellers on the side of the street while still talking to you to offer what they had to sell there was not the constant pestering of ‘Tigerbalm’, ‘you like chess?’ or ’Hashish? – It’s good shit’ that you would get from the sellers in Thamel, the tourist district of Kathmandu that we had stayed in a couple of nights previous.
Each with our own shopping to do, both having to fulfil the same task Tim and I split in different directions, agreeing to meet up later.
As I walked through the streets of Mahendra Pul looking at rows upon rows of Pashminas searching for this one colour, purple as it turns out is not a favourite of the Nepali’s. Shop after shop I went in looking for this one colour, it now becoming a bit of a pride thing, and all a bit prehistoric, ‘me man – me find pretty thing for lady in distant country’. Going into each shop I would pull the necker down from around my face and engage with the shopkeeper. Who time after time would sit me down on the padded sides, and start pulling out many different Pashminas, stating that these are the best around despite them being exactly the same as the ones that I had been shown two shop down the road. Stepping into one shop I pull down, the red necker and talk to the shopkeeper. There were very few people that I met that couldn’t really speak English but this frail old woman tending her open fronted fabric shop was one of them. Hunched over studying various colours of pashminas trying to convince this woman that yellow definitely wasn’t the easiest game when suddenly I felt a large heavy had grasp my left shoulder. ‘You Maoist?” came a deep mans voice from over my shoulder.
Looking round to the left to see who had grasped me I am confronted by two men about my height looking me first in the eye then up and down. I return the gaze first looking at them in the eye and then up and down. Smartly dressed in blue and dark grey camouflage, shiny boots and a gun holster on their hip. I look to their chests; a sewn badge identifies them as Armed Police Force. Suddenly processing what was said to me just a couple of seconds ago I start back peddling as fast as I can. ‘No, no, English’,
Englishmen are respected in this country right? An imperial right is still built into me that the English aboard seem to and potentially should get special treatment, this is my trump card (alongside the fact that I wasn’t in fact a Maoist, I just happened to like red neckers) and I played it straight away. What if this goes badly? Oh god you got a gun, and oh god that other guy has got his baton drawn.
‘Eeeeeeeeeenglish!’ he shouts as a smile grows across his face and his hand is thrust towards me, I put out my hand to shake his. He has a firm handshake, the kind you’d expect from an armed police officer, and his rough hands making you wonder as to the amount of use his baton gets against real Maoists. Relief, as a smile grows across my face too, this man isn’t going to bundle me into a van and his friend isn’t going to beat me up. I’m pretty pleased about this. Caught in my thought and staring into this mans eyes I realise that I’m still being asked a lot of questions by this guy: Where was I from? How long had I been in Nepal? Where was I staying? Didn’t I want to learn Nepali because I very good teacher? Polite and humouring him I gave my answers, after all he did still have a gun, and my hand, shit my hand!
We had been shaking hands for a good couple of minutes; it had moved way past that point greeting and into the realms of awkwardness, though he didn’t seem to realise this and kept hold. It turns out this mans talents run to more than just keeping the population and visitors on their toes as he joined in with the frail old woman trying to sell me the yellow Pashmina. Convincing a man with a gun that you don’t want the ‘best Nepali pashmina’ is about as good a game as trying to tell a man the flaws in his scooter. In either case I’m pretty sure the people I left just had the impression that I had a genuine aversion to the colour yellow. Mental, but not a Maoist; or shot. I’d done well. Leaving the shop Sub Inspector Rabindra Chhetsi and his friend they hand me a slip of paper, ‘Any trouble you call us’, I had my own heavies in Nepal.
Sim.