Fortu.Net

I'm off...

2008-08-10T18:05:00.000+02:00

to Croatia!

One year ago today...

2008-03-20T13:35:00.007+01:00

20th March 2007: Kagbeni - Tukuche
I sit writing my journal over a mint tea, then enjoy an apple fritter for breakfast as others awake. Two hard-boiled eggs for second breakfast, pack and we're ready to leave. Out of Kagbeni, we follow the wide, stony riverbed of the muddy, brown Kali Gandaki Nadi. The river is pretty flat and narrow at this point. It's windy, I'm wearing trainers today and miss the support around the ankles walking along the uneven, stony track.

Many light airplanes fly along the valley into and out of Jomsom. We arrive there around 10:30am and walk along the long main drag up to the police checkpost and then the ACAP checkpost. Julien stops at the bank(!) to get a cash advance, the rest of us end up in a "German Bakery"(!!) where we eventually decide to have lunch.

By midday we're on the road again. 20 minutes out of town, Ryan discovers he's left his camera at our lunch stop and runs back. Yam carries Ryan's pack, I carry Yam's load, more weight than I'm used to. Further down the river bed, we finally arrive at Marpha around 13:30. Marpha is touted as the Delightful Apple Capital of Nepal. The town is beautiful, white-washed stone/mud buildings either side of the narrow streets.

We stop in a place to try the local produce: apple juice, cider and brandy. The kiwi chick, Nicole, and husband Billy are there, about to set off for Kalapani. Ryan arrives, puffing from the run. Again we set off out of the village and along the road. Yam and Julien stop at a Rakshi bar, Ryan forges ahead, Mike and I follow at a slower pace. Trees appear along the valley sides, it starts raining lightly but the wind lets up a bit. Bt 15.30 we're in Tukuche, and split up to find our guesthouse, imaginatively named "Tukuche Guesthouse", an old stone/mud villa with a wooden interior surrounding a small courtyard.

As we stretch and check out the apple brandy on the roof, Julien and Yam arrive. After a smoke, Yam takes us to the distillery, an incredible old building, 204 years old, where the 70 year old lady living there explains the process of distilling, despite not touching a drop herself. We sample some of her brandies, very potent brews, and eventually opt for a bottle of carrot brandy between us. Back through town, I peer into what appears to be a run-down, abandoned villa. In fact, we discover a family living inside. A young dirty girl sings in the courtyard as we explore the ruins, an eerie place.

Out and on in the dark to have an apperetive of Rakshi and mutton, cooked in a very hot and spicy soup. Delicious. We arrive late at Tukuche Guesthouse for our tomato, mushroom and Yak-cheese pizza, accompanied with carrot brandy and black tea, and a couple of spliffs. We engage in conversation about compassion, religion and other such matters. One of the guesthouse kids joins us, but can only reply "yes" to any question thrown his way. Eventually it's bed time.

iBreast

2007-10-05T18:44:00.000+02:00

Apple Computer announced today that it has developed a computer chip that can store and play music in women's breast implants.

The iBreast will cost €499 to €599.

This is considered to be a major breakthrough because women are always complaining about men staring at their breasts and not listening to them.

Darth Vader Sings the Blues

2007-09-22T21:30:00.000+02:00

I know, I know... It's been a while since I posted anything. I was torn between writing something about the scale of this year's arctic ice retreat, the latest ban on atlantic bluefin tuna fishing, and this funny thing. The funny thing won.

Worried about your iPod getting nicked?

2007-07-19T19:03:00.000+02:00

If you're worried about your iPod getting stolen, worry no more. An innovative company Hide-a-Pod have come up with the ultimate anti-theft solution: Disguise it as a Zune!

Eager? Don't forget to have a look at the FAQ before placing your order.

George Bush has wristwatch stolen

2007-06-13T10:28:00.000+02:00

On a recent visit to Albania, it appears that George Bush had his wristwatch stolen, according to various reports (this one, for example). A video on YouTube seems to refute the denials of the White House officials.

Google Maps Street View

2007-06-05T22:59:00.000+02:00

Google recently introduced a new feature into it's mapping service to allow users to obtain a street level view of cities. A dedicated team of bloggers worldwide is now putting together a collection of Street Level curiosities, including giant pumpkins, street criminals in action, sunbathers, hot babes (yay!) and compelling evidence that E.T. called home.

Just as Google Earth provoked concern that National Security could be compromised, Street View is prompting fears that people's privacy is being invaded. Is it only a matter of time before Google will be indexing our political views, sexual orientation and psychological profiles?

Vietnam Motorcycle Diaries

2007-05-26T15:19:00.000+02:00

Shortly after arriving in Hanoi, I decided to rent a motorbike to explore some of the tribal villages of north-western Vietnam. After successfully navigating my way out of the chaotic traffic of Hanoi, the journey gets off to a good start, making my way along the twisty hill roads, enjoying the lush scenery and the wind blowing in my face. The strange limestone hills evoke memories of the Vinales area of Cuba. I arrive to Mai Chau at about 3pm on Day 1, check in to a family guest house and take a shower to cool off from the intensity of the afternoon sun. I take a walk to explore some of the ethnic White Thai villages nearby, but instead get lost on a path past a brick factory, through the undergrowth for an hour or so, and to a tiny farmstead, the end of the path. I retrace my steps, take the bike out for dinner, and retire early.

On Day Two I make good progress towards Son La, stopping at a place en route for refreshment. The place has several stuffed felines and mongooses on exhibit and a garden full of weird cages. Creepy. As I'm sipping my Coke, a truck arrives with a large cage aboard containing a Lynx tied up to some kind of branch. It hisses, evidently stresses, as it's unloaded and transported unceremoniously to the garden area. Later, two game birds are unloaded from a nylon bag into another cage. I'm happy to leave this house of torture, and continue on my way.

Shortly before Son La, while I'm riding along happily thinking of lunch, a girl steps out a few yards ahead of me. I react, beep the horn, apply the brakes and swerve to avoid her... the front wheel of the bike locks up and the vehicle skids off to the roadside where some inconveniently placed rocks help it to tumble to a stop. I'm thrown off the beast and continue flying for a second or two, landing on my face, I think, amongst the rocks. After a few moments of dazed confusion, I check myself, find myself sprawled in an uncomfortable position in the fierce sun, and gather myself to the shade of a nearby shop front, where a small crowd accumulates around me. I take off my helmet and start to investigate the damage. My nose and mouth are bloody, but don't seem to be broken and my teeth appear to be in place. My hands, feet and shoulders have suffered nasty abrasions. Worst of all, my left knee took a big knock seems to be experiencing plenty of pain, I have difficulty extending my leg. My vision starts blurring and I feel faint as someone applies some kind of ointment to my wounds. I signal for water to drink, someone brings me the battered bottle that had flown off the bike with me. After drinking a little, my vision improves somewhat, someone brings me a bowl of water with which I wash my bleeding parts as best I can.

After a few minutes of attempted conversation with a girl who speaks a little English, I'm offered a ride to a nearby hospital on the back of a xe om (motorbike taxi). I inspect my own vehicle (it's front wheel is twisted), and leave it in the care of the little English speaking girl. Painfully, I climb onto the back of the xe om, and cling on with my eyes closed for the duration of the 15 minute ride to the hospital. I'm shown to several rooms where doctors and nurses look at me with diverse expressions. Finally, up two flights of steps I'm taken into a room, sat down, and have my wounds cleaned and dressed. I point to my knee indicating it's not quite right, they ask me to flex it, give me a thumbs up and send me on my way.

The xe om driver takes me back to his family home and signals for me to lie on a bed occupying half of the room, in front of a very loud TV. He disappears, I rest for a while, while his wife and children eat their lunch. Some time later, Mr. Xe Om reappears with an English speaking school-teacher who explains to me that I should hand over some money to get my bike repaired. I comply, and rest a little more. A couple of hours later, the bike is back, the repair seems just about adequate. I'm still not satisfied about my knee and manage to find a useful Vietnamese phrase in my Lonely Planet. "I want to go to a doctor"... "Tomorrow?"... "No, Today"...

We mount the newly repaired vehicle and I'm taken to another hospital a few kilometers away. Some nurses look at me with a mixture of pity and amusement on their faces, then I'm taken to a nearby school, where a crowd of school children laugh at me until their English speaking teacher appears. "I can help you", she says, and takes me to a room where I'm surprised to see an X-ray machine. I get a frontal and profile scan, for which I have to part with most of my remaining dhong. Back to the hospital, the nurses look at the x-ray, talk among themselves and appear not to be able to do much for me. I ask them to call the guy in Hanoi from whom I rented the motorcycle, who translates for us after I explain the situation to him. It appears I have a broken knee-cap. Mr. Xe Om wants some money for his services, as do the nurses. However, my cash situation is precarious, I hardly have enough to pay for fuel to get me and the bike back to Hanoi, assuming I could ride it there.

Eventually the xe om driver takes a lesser amount and the rest I manage to keep. The nurses take me out for dinner at an eatery outside the hospital, then I'm shown to a ward room where I may pass the night. I'm given a handful of colourful pills to swallow before crawling into my mosquito-netted nest.

On Day Three, I need to make my way back to Hanoi (with the bike) to seek professional medical treatment. Riding the bike back doesn't seem to be the best solution, but given lack of other means of transport and my precarious cash situation, I don't seem to have many options. I attempt to mount the bike, find it excruciating, and reconsider... again it appears I have little choice, so I try again. Trying to keep my left leg as straight as possible, I sit as far back on the seat as I can, crouching my body forward to reach the handlebars. Far from comfortable, especially with my pack digging into my bruised shoulders, but a workable solution. I take it easy, wary of all traffic, pedestrians, dogs, cows, cyclists zigzagging across the road, etc. Thankfully it's overcast, so much so in fact that at one stage I'm driving through a raincloud, cold and wet. Nothing appears easy. My left leg is only able to change up though the gears. Luckily, the bike has enough torque to be left in 4th gear for most of the journey.

Stopping only for fuel, a cheap oil change and a meal once I'm sure I have enough fuel to get me to Hanoi, it takes me 5 painful hours to arrive to Hanoi in what ends up being a fiercely hot and humid afternoon. Trying to avoid contact with other motorbikes proves difficult. There are thousands of them crammed into the 4 lane highway, each dancing it's little dance and heading in it's own particular direction, irrespective of what side of the road it's on. Inevitably I get lost, and it takes me another hour to find my way to the motorbike garage, where I return the bike and spend my last 4,000 dhong on a cold drink.

The guy I rented the bike from takes me on the back of his, first to an ATM and then to an SOS hospital where I'm given 5 star treatment, my own little E.R. cubicle, a complete check of vital signs, body temperature, pulse, blood pressure, etc. They X-ray my leg again and confirm that the knee-cap is still broken, allow me take a shower, then clean and dress my wounds and immobilize my leg. After almost 4 hours I'm ready to leave, but not before paying a painful bill. Travel insurance starts to look cheaper.

Tiger Leaping Gorge and Lijiang

2007-05-10T16:13:00.000+02:00

I arrive in Qiaotou late in the afternoon, after a relatively short bus journey from Zhongdian. I make my way to Jane's Guesthouse, spoken of highly by my photocopied pages of the Lonely Planet, and check in to a dorm room, which I have to myself! After what seems like weeks without seeing any western tourists, I'm now surrounded by many. Over dinner, I make plans with a Dutch guy to attack the Tiger Leaping Gorge the following day.

In the morning, we start early... I leave my backpack at Jane's, it's nice to be walking with just one small-ish pack. The route takes us up through picturesque Naxi villages and along a path clinging to the steep slopes of the gorge, the yellow Yangtze river roaring down the valley hundreds of meters below us. The toughest part of the trek is the "28 bends", a tight sequence of switchbacks climbing steeply up the gorge to the top of the route, at 2,650m. We stop for lunch in a guesthouse a little beyond the bends, admiring the spectacular Jade Dragon Snow Mountain towering above us on the opposite side of the gorge.

From there on, it's pretty much all downhill, walking under a couple of beautiful waterfalls, overlooking the violent rapids below. By mid-afternoon, we've arrived back down to the "low road", in time to enjoy a couple of well-deserved beers at Tina's Guesthouse before continuing on to Sean's Place (a.k.a. The Walnut Garden). All in all, a pleasant and enjoyable day's walk, but no comparison to the Annapurna trek, and a little too touristy for my liking.

The following day, I make my way to Lijiang. The old part of town comprises a maze of narrow streets of beautiful ancient chinese buildings, waterways and canals criss-crossing through the town. A little Venice or Amsterdam, Chinese style. Most of the buildings host shops, bars, cafes or guest-houses, catering to the thousands of Chinese and western tourists that visit the town each day.

I procure a dorm bed at Mama Naxi's Guesthouse, a popular and chaotic place, the crazy Mama shouting all the time while trying to fulfill her guests every wish. Here, while enjoying a few rare moments of peace, I meet a couple of French students, Lise and Sou, who are currently studying in Chengdu. We spend an enjoyable evening out on the town at the Sexy Tractor pub with a friendly Kiwi, David, and the next day I decide to join them to trek the Tiger Leaping Gorge once more.

(more photos to follow...)

Hitchhiking through Eastern Tibet

2007-05-04T08:55:00.000+02:00

Leaving Lhasa turned out to be a little more complicated than I had anticipated. I was eager to spend more time visiting some lesser travelled areas in Tibet en route to China proper and South East Asia. Eastern Tibet (Kham) seemed the obvious choice, but the only legal way to visit the area was by an expensive organized tour. Unable to find fellow travellers to share costs, I decided to take my chances and hitch-hike alone.

Kham is known as "The Switzerland of China", home to lush pine and deciduous forests on the lower slopes of beautiful valleys, snow-capped peaks often visible above or in the distance. A couple of days start off a with long walks through the beautiful mountain scenery whilst awaiting passing traffic willing to pick up a western tourist. Luckily, the first week of May is a holiday in China and I manage to obtain a ride with holiday makers most days.

Stopping at police check-posts, I'm a little nervous, but most times I pass without much ado. One morning early as I'm leaving Nyingtri, I walk past a check-post with my packs, greet the policeman in my very best Chinese "Knee How!", and am completely ignored. The only time I have any contact with the authorities is in Markham, the last town before leaving the Tibet Autonomous Region. The manager of the hotel I stay at insists I "register" with the police. After spending an hour at the station watching the policemen mistreat a drunk Tibetan guy, an English speaker is found to tell me I should leave town the next day, as I had planned to do in any case.

All in all it takes me only 5 days, over several 5000m passes, to reach Deqin, in Yunnan province, with spectacular views of the Meili Snow Mountain range. From here I'm back on public transport. The driver who took me to Deqin kindly offers me food and lodging at his home for the night. The following day I head onwards through Shangri La to the town of Zhongdian and Tiger Leaping Gorge.

Kathmandu -> Lhasa

2007-04-28T12:18:00.000+02:00

On completing the Buddhism course in Kopan, I'm eager to continue my travels and decide on the only overland route into South East Asia from Nepal, via Tibet and China. Due to Chinese beaurocracy, the only option to get into Tibet appears to be an organized tour along the so-called Friendship Highway, across the Tibetan Plateau and into Lhasa.

Leaving early in the morning, we take a bus up the Kathmandu valley through scenic hills, past the world's highest bungy jump (169m!) to the border town of Kodari. It's raining and becoming colder. Once through Nepali immigration, the huge group of over 50 people continues afoot up hill and across the bridge to the Chinese side of the border, where forms are filled and body temperature is recorded using a zapper pointed at the forehead. For some reason, my temperature repeatedly registers "LO", much to the amusement of the Chinese official. Finally, I muster up 34°C and continue up the muddy road where a convoy of 13 Landcruisers is awaiting the group. I eventually find a free seat in one with three Americans, Matt, Amy and Terra, already sat in the back. After a short drive up to the nearest town, an ugly array of square grey buildings lining the roadside, there's more immigration stuff to deal with. It's raining hard now, and in the confusion I manage to misplace my Landcruiser, opting instead to partake of some jasmine tea with some fellow travellers. Eventually our aggitated guide finds us and the convoy sets off again through the rain, up along the winding muddy track, arriving at Nyalam (3,700m) shortly before dusk. It's freezing here, we've got a basic dorm room, some nasty shared toilets, and no running water. By the morning, several people are feeling sick from the sudden gain in altitude, I decide to take a half-dose of Diamox just in case.

Days 2 to 5 we spend traversing the spectacularly bleak Tibetan plateau, crossing several 5000m+ passes, with occasional views of tall mountains in the distance, including Xishapagma (8,012m), Cho Om (8,201m) and Everest (8,848m). Along the way, we visit the beautiful old monasteries of Tashi Lhumpu, Pharkor and the Kumbum Stupa. On day 3, one of the Landcruisers overturns while trying to avoid a tractor. Luckily nobody is hurt, but the surviving passengers are squeezed in amongst the more roadworthy vehicles. We gain one extra, a friendly Malaysian guy called Valen.

Our final day's drive takes us through the snow past Yamdrok lake, before descending to the banks of the Yarlong Tsangpo river, continuing on to Lhasa. The drive into the city is uninspiring except for the occasional glimpse of the Potala Palace towering above the ugly functional Chinese strip-malls of Western Lhasa.

We have two days of organized sight-seeing in Lhasa and there's plenty to see: Potala Palace, Sera Monastery, Drepung Monastery, Barkhor Bazar and Jokhang Templer. On our last night, a happy Israeli guy named Guy organizes a farewell party for the group. Finally I'm travelling alone again, considering options for heading into the relatively untravelled areas of Eastern Tibet en route to Yunnan province, from where I can drop down into Northern Vietnam or Burma.

Kopan Monastery

2007-04-17T11:54:00.000+02:00

Earlier this year whilst I was in Dharamsala in northern India, I spent some time in Tushita, an FPMT centre for Buddhist teachings. At the time it was off-season and no retreats or courses were on offer, although I was free to use th the library and meditation hall. More recently, on the Annapurna trek, one of my trekking companions, Ryan, informed me he'd signed up for an introductory Buddhism course at Kopan Monastery near Kathmandu, so I decide to give it a try myself.

We spend 10 days at the monastery, beautifully located atop Kopan hill, surrounded by peaceful gardens, chanting monks and a few too many western students. The teachings, imparted by a Swedish nun and a Tibetan lama, cover the basic principles of Tibetan Buddhism and the Mahayana Tradition: The story of Shakyamuni Buddha, the Four Noble Truths, The Eightfold Path, Reincarnation, The Wheel of Life, and lots of Karma. We also have daily mindfulness, visualization and analytical meditation sessions, and observe half a day of silence each day. By the end of the course, although I still have plenty of doubts on the teachings, I decide to continue studying and to bring the practice of Dharma into my daily life.

Kathmandu

2007-04-05T14:03:00.000+02:00

I've been chilling for a couple of days in Kathmandu, the vibrant, colourful, noisy, chaotic but beautiful capital city of Nepal. Tomorrow I'll be starting a 10 day Discover Buddhism program at Kopan Monastery after which I'll probably try to make my way to South East Asia, possibly overland via Tibet and China. Below is a picture of the wonderful old buildings of Patan's Durbar Square, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Annapurna Circuit Trek

2007-03-30T09:31:00.000+02:00

Coming down from the mountains it is Spring time in Pokhara, the days are hot and hazy and the distant peaks are now rarely visible. It feels strange to be wondering around town seeing tourists, shops, restaurants, and the noise of the cars is a little alien too. Apparently there have been disruptions to fuel supplies due to recent strikes affecting some of the Nepali border crossings.

I've just spend 18 days trekking around the outside of the Annapurna Massif, a 330 km route starting up the Marsyangdi valley from Besi Sahar (760m). It took a couple of days walking uphill to get into the rhythm of things, stopping overnight in the beautifully quaint Lamjung villages of Bhulbhule (840m) and Jagat (1300m). The only traffic on the trail consists of donkey caravans, trekkers and local porters carrying incredibly large baskets of goods strapped on around their head.

I'm trekking with a group of five, Mike (USA), Ryan (Canada), Rachel (Canada), Julien (France) and Yam-dai, my nepali porter I took the luxury of taking on in Pokhara. Day three takes us into the Manang district: Tal (1700m) sits alongside a fairly flat stretch of the river and has an old Wild West feel to it. We continue up to Dharapani (1860m) to sleep in a rustic wooden lodge after a dinner of decent local Daal Bhat. By now it's starting to become cold at night. Above Dharapani we trek through farmland and sparse forest of blue pine, spruce, maple and oak. As we ascend, the morning drizzle gradually turns to rain, and by the evening, as we're sat frying our clothes around a stove in a lodge in Chame (2670m), it starts to snow.

By the morning, it has stopped snowing but the landscape is now decorated by a 3-inch thick layer of fresh white powder, which gradually becomes deeper and deeper as we continue up the valley. In the afternoon it begins to snow heavily again, and by the time we arrive in Pisang (3200m) I'm exhausted from the extertion of the trek through the snow storm. I'm beginning to notice the effects of the altitude, having less breathable oxygen I have to breath more and walk slower.

After a good night's rest I feel better, but it's still snowing heavily. Yam-dai recommends we stay to see what the weather does. We have a discussion with fellow Canadian trekkers Drew, Kimberlee and Jennifer, about avalanche risk, and decide to forge on. This turns out to be one of the toughest days of the trek, struggling up the valley in a heavy snow storm, trekking through snow up to our knees and waists at some points. After a stop for lunch, we see a large avalanche the opposite side of the valley, roaring like thunder for minutes. An Estonian trekker passes us heading the opposite direction, he stayed up at High Camp, got liquid in his lungs (a symptom of HAPE) and is heading down again. A large group of Israelis pass us telling us we cannot go on - "See you in the papers", one of them says. They seem a bit bitter that their guides have told them to head down. Another couple are carrying mountain bikes down through the snow, I don't know what they were thinking. And a local porter wearing flip-flops curses as his leg sinks knee-deep into the snow. Finally, after a long slog, the storm abates and we arrive tired but alive in Manang (3540m) in the afternoon.

At Manang we decide on an aclimatization day, doing a half-day trek up the hillside to a cave above 4000m where a 91-year old Lama offers us a blessing for the pass. His blind wife sits by his side spinning a prayer wheel and chanting. They've been living in this cave house for over 30 years. Back in Manang, we attend a very informative seminar on altitude sickness offered by the Himalayan Rescue Association, an NGO. And in the evening Mike, Ryan and myself check out the quaintest cinema in the world, a small wooden building with a large stove inside to keep the three of us warm as we watch Kundun. In Manang, everything is white after days of snow, many people have been stopped here for days waiting for the weather to clear, it seems we arrived on the right day. The mountains loom large above us, snow blowing off the high peaks of Gangapurna (7445m) and Annapurnas III (7555m), IV (7525m) and II (7957m).

The following day we ascend slowly but surely along the snowy trail to Yak Kharka, the last proper village before the pass. Five baby yaks died here last night, having been unable to eat due to the snow cover, unusually deep and late this year. In the evening, Yam-dai takes Julien and myself to a local kitchen where we feast on fresh Yak meat, my first meat this year, but tasty and full of good trekking proteins.

Our final day before the pass takes us to Thorung Phedi, a trekkers settlement at 4450m from which we attack the pass the next day. Walking along a ledge in a landslide area, Mike slips and falls precariously close to a near-vertical 200m drop. Luckily I'm close enough to get a hand to him before anything more serious happens. We meet a German couple heading down. Apparently they got lost in bad weather near the past and, unable to continue, the guy spent 19 hours outside overnight in 2 sleeping bags while his girlfriend and guide went down for help. The guy had frostbite and they both looked quite shaken up. Over dinner at Thorung Phedi we're all quite serious and concentrated on the task ahead.

The big day arrives, Ryan and I overslept and we end up leaving quite a bit later than planned at around 06:30. It's slow going in the thin air. After a brief toilet stop at High Camp, we continue upwards. I concentrate on breathing with each step and on putting one foot in front of the other, slowly but without many stops until finally I arrive at the prayer flags and stone-pile temples marking the Thorung La pass (5416m). Feeling tired but happy I explore the area nearby, placing my own stone on one the highest temple. The others arrive shortly behind me, we celebrate, take photos and dig into our "summit food" (mainly chocolate) before starting down the other side. The sky is an incredibly deep blue, by now the heat of the sun is ferocious, and reflects upwards off the snow. The long descent down to Muktinath (3760m) is a slog through increasingly slushy and muddy snow atop the scree morains. At times it feels like skiing without skis, and at one point I slide down a 50m slop on my behind, a fun interlude. After several tiring hours, coming around a corner I'm happy to finally spot a tea-shop, where we regroup and have a well-deserved rest and feed on noodles and beer.

Into Nepal... The Western Terai

2007-02-20T19:38:00.000+01:00

After a short overnight stay in Ramnagar, down from the Uttarkhand mountains, I have a quick but unsuccessful check for tigers in the nearby Corbett National Park, and am ready to move on again. The destination is the western Terai in Nepal, and after three bus journeys I arrive at the dingey border town of Banbasa shortly after dark. I continue in the morning to the border, across the flood control barrier over the wide Mahakali river, and on to the Nepali immigration post. After completing the formalities, a shared rickshaw takes me on to Mahendranagar a few kilometers along the road. I stop for a late breakfast, change some Indian rupees for their Nepali counterparts, and study my unused Rough Guide to Nepal.

Mahendranagar seems to be a bussling and noisy town, similar to the smaller Indian towns I've visited. I decide to continue on to Bardia National Park. As the local bus takes me out of town on the Mahendra Highway (a surprisingly good road), I suddenly notice I'm in Nepal. Rustic, rural settlements and villages pass us by. There are few motorized vehicles, and about 2 hours and 120km later, the bus arrives and stops at the Karnali River, spanned by a modern lopsided bridge.

Changing buses, across the bridge and through a police check point, 20 minutes later I'm dropped of at Anbassa, where the highway contines and an unsurfaced road splits off towards Thakurdwara. Luckily, there is a guy waiting with a motorbike from my chosen guest house. I sit behind him, clinging on to my daypack as we hum along the bumpy road, passing beautiful thatched rural homes, children running out to the road to shout "bye bye" as we pass. As we continue along a small smooth trail through sparse woodland, I fell like I'm in the forest chase scene from Star Wars. Out the other side, across a dry river bed, and through the village of Thakurdwara, we arrive at Bardia Jungle Cottage, a peaceful guest house with individual thatched cottages for rooms, surrounding a beautiful, relaxing garden. A good place to recover from India for a few days and a base for exploring the National Park nearby.

The night is cold, and it is still cool shortly after dawn as I set off with my guide, Sitaram, walking deep into the park. This is a completely different experience from the jeep rides around Indian National Parks. We walk first along well defined trails, through smaller forest trails, along the sides of dryish river beds, and through long grasslands. The deer run away into the undergrowth as we approach, monkeys sit in trees observing us from above. A jungle fowl is startled and flies away clucking. A pied hornbill with it's huge beak flies from tree to tree. Today the tigers are elusive, but pushing through the undergrowth we hear a rhino grunting and stoping around nearby. We try to sight it for about an hour, following it's noises and tracks through the dense wooded grassland, but every time we get close enough to hear it, it runs away. Hot, tired and dirty, we return to the lodge as dusk approaches. I enjoy a cold shower, then sit outside talking with two french lads travelling around on a Royal Enfield from Goa, with a small, incredibly cute puppy. Crazy french.

Day two, after a relaxing morning, the french and I walk around the local "roads". No cars, no tractors, no motors, no tourists, a few bicycles, oxen pulling cartloads of wood, chickens, ducks and buffalos. This place is incredibly peaceful and beautifl. A local family invites us in to their home, a pink clay cottage with thatched roof, dark and coold inside, with large rice silos separating the floorspace into three small rooms. Back at the lodge in the evening, a french family with 3 kids (12, 8 and 5 years old), and a large german shephard, have arrived in a mobile home. 8 months from France through Europe, Turkey, Jordan, Iran, Pakistan, India and now here. Crazy french!

I decide to try one more time for tigers, and on day 3 I walk into the park once more with SItaram. This time the plan is to wait for the tiger to come to us. After making our way through the woodlands to a good vantage point, we sit and wait overlooking a semi-dry riverbed. I sit in a tree looking up-river. Sitaram looks down-river from a point some distance away. Across the river, we hear the warning calls of deer, peacocks and monkeys. I wait. A large mammal emerges from the long grass about 100m away on the opposite bank. It's a deer. It nervously crosses the river bed and disappears into the woodland. I wait. And then it happens. A tiger appears, taking the same route as the deer. A TIGER!! Two minutes later he's disappeared into the undergrowth now on the same side of the river as me. I wait in the tree for a while in case he reappears nearby, but no such luck, and after 20 minutes I jump down and walk to tell Sitaram. He missed it, but he's happy for me and hugs me.

Mission accomplished, I suggest we try for Gangetic Dolphins in the Karnali river, so we walk through the long grass for half an hour towards the river. Taking off boots and socks, we cross a shallow, stoney stream and walk across some muddy river bed to the edge of the Karnali. It's hot, and a swim in the river is inviting. The cold water is refreshing and I struggle to swim against the current to remain in the same spot for a while, then return through the mud and slip across the stones back to the bank to dry off in the heat of the afternoon sun.

Rishikesh and the Kumaon Himalayas

2007-02-15T07:52:00.000+01:00

After the chaos of Haridwar, Rishikesh sounded like a nice place to relax and replenish energy levels. I stayed in Swargashram, on the opposite bank of the river Ganges, across the ~120m long Ram Jhula suspension bridge, guarded by bands of rhesus monkeys. This place, brought to fame by The Beatles in the mid 1960's, now seems to be Yoga capital of the world: dozens of Ashrams offer cheap lodging, spiritual guidance and yoga tuition to pilgrims and lost souls. Around the town, plenty "westerners" can be observed, although many of them seem to have grown weird hair, donned colourful, baggy garments, and made Swargashram a long-term home.

I missed out on the Ashram experience, and stayed in a reasonable guest house on the southern edge of the town. After four days, two yoga classes, a haircut (including head massage and facial massage), I had still failed to feel spiritually enlightened or meet likeminded fellow travellers, and decided to continue my solitary journey up along the Ganges valley and into the lesser explored regions of the Uttaranchal highlands.

The first stop was Devprayag, situated at the confluence of the Bhagirathi and Alaknanda rivers, and official birthplace of the Ganges. The small town spans either side of the valley and to walk around involves climbing hundreds of steps, almost all of them leading upwards. Weary after the bus journey and the long slog across town with my packs, I make my way down to the river to bathe my feet. A drunk pot-smoking "priest" offers me a puja, which I try to refuse, but I end up getting water splashed on my forehead, repeating strange verses, and handing over my lighter as a "donation".

The following day I take an early bus up to Srinagar, where I stop for breakfast (Aloo Paratha). I squeeze on to another bus to Rudraprayag, where I fail to find suitable lodgings. One more bus takes me up the bumpy winding road to Karnaprayag in time for lunch (Aloo gobi).

Although I'd initially planned to stay in one of the "Prayags", after three bus journeys I decide to make a travel day of it, towards Gwaldam. The roads past Karnaprayag are pretty rough, landslides are common, and buses are replaced by "shared jeeps". I'm quite surprised that 13 people fit in the vehicle, but start to appreciate the warmth of the huddled human mass as the cold air blasts through the windowless vehicle. Three bumpy jeep rides later, I arrive in Gwaldam, freezing cold, and accept a basic room in the nearest guesthouse I find. I warm my hands next to a wood fire and drink a chai. A cloud descends on the village, it starts raining heavily, then snowing, so I crawl fully clothed under the blankets in the hard wooden bed of my room. The "window" of the room has no window pane, just a fine mesh, but I'm grateful at least for the four walls and corrugated iron roof.

By daybreak, the snow has stopped falling, and decorates the foggy village streets. Not a good day for seeing mountains, after the obligatory chai, I squeeze into another shared jeep down out of the clouds, across the valley and up again to Kausani, which supposedly offers some of the best views of the Uttarkhand Himalayas. Though I'm no longer in a cloud, they still cover the distant peaks, Nanda Devi is hiding from me. In the afternoon, I walk around the roads and tracks of the peaceful woodlands overlooking the snow-covered terraces and the valley below, hoping the clouds will clear by sunrise.

My wishes are granted... Finding the courage to emerge from my warm blankets at 7 a.m., I peek out of the window to see clear blue skies. I put on my warmest clothes and head out through the village towards the ridge, still no clouds in sight. When I arrive, the magnificent views of Nanda Devi, Trishul and company stretch 300km along the horizon, lit by a crisp horizontal light. The arduousness of the journey here fades into insignificance, this moment makes everything worthwhile.

Haridwar

2007-02-08T13:35:00.000+01:00

Sitting by the side of the main road in Haridwar, Utarranchal, enjoying a chai, back in the chaos, noise and bustle of the India I've been missing in the peaceful mountains of Himachal Pradesh. I arrived late last night after a picturesque 5½ hour train journey on the narrow gauge railway connecting the hill station of Shimla with Kalka, where the plain ends and the hills begin, followed by another 1 hour train journey on to Ambala, and finally a 3 hour bumpy bus ride to Haridwar, the incessant horn of the vehicle placed inconveniently right in my ear.

Arriving around midnight, rickshaw-wallahs competed for my trade. I had to upset them all and walk. Everything is closed, it's dark, and a joyrider screeches his car up and down the road doing 180° spins. About 2km down the road, in the dark solitary alleys, I ask a couple of passing drunks for the location of my chosen hotel, overlooking the ghats. They point me down the same road I'm on. On arrival, waking the receptionist from his slumber, it turns out to be 6 times more expensive than I had hoped, so I continue my search, stopping for a chai to warm my hands in this cold night, many people sleeping covered by blankets by the edge of the ghats.

Luckily, 2 minute later I stumble past an open guesthouse, with doors open and lights on. The rooms are still too expensive, but they offer me a bed in a dormitory for 70 rupees (about $1.50). Weary and in need of rest, I take it, and sleep surprisingly well considering the cold, the barking dog and the snoring of the only other occupant (an Indian fellow) of the 20-bed dorm.

Morning arrives, I wash, pack and leave in search of superior lodgings. A bicycle rickshaw taking me to Sadhubela, a village a few kilometers out of town, instead of Sadhubela Road. I take an auto-rickshaw back and find the place, Hotel Deep, a room with hot water and Indian-style toilet for 150 rupees/night. Leaving my packs, I stroll out for breakfast (chai, toast and butter). Feeling energized, I walk through town towards the ghats and the giant statue of Shiva I'd spotted earlier from the rickshaw.

It's getting hot, at the ghats many people wash themselves and their clothes in the holy water of the river Ganga. Haridwar is one of the most sacred towns for Hindus, and location of the Kumbh Mela festival once every 12 years. After Shiva, feeling hot and grimy in the clothes I've been wearing for days (weeks?) I sit at a ghat, stick my feet in the Ganga water, and wash my sweater. People approach me, asking for money in a variety of ways (children gesticulating for food, a priest painting a yellow mark where my 3rd eye should be, a man with an ear-cleaning kit, etc). I hang the sweater over a rail and converse for a while with a 19-year old Indian student while I wait for it to dry. Half an hour later, my sweater is still damp, but I put it on anyway, hoping the sun will do it's magic.

Leaving the ghats, I have a thali for lunch at a nearby eatery, then set off up the hill to the Mansa Devi temple. Along the sides of the stairs up, a multitude of stalls play loud banging electro-Hindi music, and offer prasad kits for weary pilgrims to present at the hilltop temple. Near the top, I leave my shoes, obtain my prasad kit (a red plastic bag containing a coconut mixture, a tinsel ribbon and flower petals), and continue barefoot up to the temple. Here, many Hindu gods look out at me. Hanuman, the monkey god; Shiva, creator and destroyer; Parvati, Shiva's wife; Ganesh, bringer of prosperity, among others. The puja consists of priests paint my 3rd eye with variety of substances, in exchange for the contents of my prasad kit (and monetary "donations").

As dusk sets, I find new ways to redistribute wealth: listening to a blind man playing his sitar with a confident, handsome young boy playing along, rhythmically beating his drum, on the steps of a temple. A sadhu walks past and rubs a round fluffy thing on my clothes, magically generating some kind of sweet perfumed smell. It's dark, I take a bicycle rickshaw back along the main road to the cinema near my hotel. I miss the beginning of the "talkie", Salaam-e-Ishq, but seeing as I don't understand much Hindi, it probably doesn't matter too much. A glamorous, amorous, colourful, emotional, romantic musical. Fun!

Same same but different

2007-02-07T08:14:00.000+01:00

The backs of vehicles are painted with "HORN PLEASE", a much obeyed rule. My bottle of Oxyrich water boasts 300% more oxygen - "Recharge yourself". My Spicy Fresh Red Gel Colgate, infused with dissolvable cooling crystals, provides me with a whole new dimension of freshness, although for best results, one must "squeeze from the bottom and flatten as you go up". Two different establishments in two different cities are called "Same same but different". I couldn't describe it better myself.

Shimla

2007-02-06T20:14:00.000+01:00

Between journeys, I stay a couple of nights in Shimla, a hill station clinging bravely to the slopes around "The Ridge", which the main road, "The Mall", traverses. Shimla, much cooler than the plains in summer, was once the seasonal seat of government of the British Raj, who build mock tudor buildings, churches, pavilions with bandstands, a race-course, a narrow gauge railway from Kalka in the plains below, and other homely installations. The Viceregal Lodge, complete with the white Ambassador cars, seems straight out of Cthulu.

But Hinduism has also exercised it's influence. Atop the highest peak (2600m) near the town is situated the Jakhu temple, dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god. The monkeys must somehow sense this, as hundreds of them congregate around the temple and the surrounding woodlands on slopes below. Apparently they can be quite vicious, and enterprising shopkeepers at the chai shops en-route rent out walking sticks to ward off the beasts. I forgoe the weapon and confront the one monkey that dares to approach me by baring my teath and hissing at it. It gets the message and scuttles away.

Picturesque as it is, after one cold night and a day seeing sights, I haven't seen any travellers in town, and I'm yearning for a bit of like-minded company. My second evening in Shimla, and last evening in Himachal Pradesh, I spend packing again before having dinner and playing cards with some Kashmiri men who work for the hotel in exchange for their "cozy", a tiny room cum kitchen in which they live.

Manali

2007-02-02T12:16:00.000+01:00

Arriving in Manali in the early evening, after two consecutive days of long and arduous bus journeys, I'm eager to find a peaceful place to stay for a few days. Avoiding the touts at the bus station and the city centre, I instead take a rickshaw to Vashisht, a nearby village on the hillside across the river. The guest house I'd chosed in my guidebook turns out to be closed, so I investigate other options. After seeing 3 more, I come to the conclusion that Vashisht is TOO isolated and sleepy, so start walking back to Manali.

A rickshaw passes by 20 minutes later, which I share with a couple of locals. The city centre is too noisy, grey and unattractive, many hotels in sight, but the ones I see are grotty and/or expensive. Fed up, I walk up the street fully laden, at a loss. A friendly looking chap appears by my side and offers me a guesthouse in Old Manali, which sounds reasonable, so I accept the offer. After a chai, we trudge 30 minutes up hill, across a bridge and into the peace and quiet of Old Manali. "Shanti Shanti" indeed; except for my host, Sanju, I have the guesthouse to myself.

Looking forward to a hot shower, I'm dismayed to discover there's no water (the water tank is empty!). Instead, Sanju provides me with a bucket of freezing water and assures me that hot water "morningtime coming". Morningtime arrives and still no running water, let alone hot water. It appears one of the main water pipes in Old Manali has frozen and cracked. It's winter here, off season, and freezing cold at night. Sanju offers me another bucket of cold water and a heating element, which dangles out of an electric socket and into the bucket of water for about an hour, the water remaining cold. Eventually I settle for a cold wash, and head into town for breakfast.

Wandering around town, confirming my suspicions that new Manali is quite ugly, I discover I'm the only non-Indian tourist in town. I'm not tempted by any of the Kullu shawls, caps or other wares on offer in the bazaars, so I question a few tour agencies about possibilities of trekking in Lahul, to the north and over the Rohtang Pass. I'm informed that the pass is closed, despite there having been little precipitation this winter. I finally walk back up the hill to Splendour guesthouse, and spend the afternoon trying to decipher Hindi script from a children's book Sanju kindly lends me. Written Hindi appears quite complex. He prepares Alu Gobi and chappatis for dinner, which I gobble up whilst watching the full moon rise over the mountains.

Next morningtime, still no hot water, I decide to check for myself the status of Rohtang Pass. In the early hours after a chai, I hire a Yamaha 125 and take Sanju with me as company and guide. The bike deals well with the uneven, winding mountain roads. My extremities cope less well with the freezing air in the early morning mountain-shade. We stop at a breakfast hut in the middle of nowhere (Khoti, 2500m above sea level). I enjoy an omelette and butter toast. Our hosts seem Nepalese or Tibetan, but are in fact from Lahur.

Out, on and up, Sanju takes the drivers seat for a while, but we soon change back as he can't figure out how to change down the gears! Soon there are icy patches on the road, which become increasingly frequent until there becomes more ice than road. It no longer seems prudent to continue on the Yamaha, so I park it next to a row of jeeps parked neatly along the roadside, continuing by foot. Opportunistic salespeople with makeshift stalls next to the road offer wellington boots for hire to the Indian tourists (occupants of the jeeps). A few of them are trying to ski, although there's no piste in sight, just an icy stretch along the road. We climb above the road to escape the crowd, an when we can ascend no further, we stop to take in the views of the snow-capped mountains adorning the opposite side of the valley.

Having confirmed Rohtang Pass is, effectively, unpassable right now, we head back to explore Vashisht. Leaving the Yamaha at the end of the road, we continue on foot along the path, through the rustic part of the village, where women were washing clothes in communal washing place. Beyond the village, we continue beneath the pine forest on the slopes towards the waterfall, stopping on the way back at a beautiful old stone temple on the hillside, full of energy. I take some time to meditate. Back in the village, we have chai with a friend of Sanju's, in a small wooden building, the single room incorporating a stove, a small kitchen, a bed and room to sit around the stove. One final surprise awaits me in Vashisht... the local stone temple houses some communal bath tanks of hot sulphuric spring water. I begin to remember the joys of hot water, and enjoy it profoundly, despite being the object of attention to the local bathers.

Dharamsala to Rewalsar

2007-01-31T11:00:00.000+01:00

After a peaceful week in Dharamsala, I decide it's time to leave, and take a morning bus to Mandi, which appears to be en route to most of the destinations I have in mind. For some reason, what appears to have been a once surfaced road has had it's surface removed and dumped unceremoneously at the roadside. Trundling through the dusty towns of the Himachal Pradesh foothills, I have my first near-death experience; the body of a man lies shoeless on the road, covered with a shawl, a blood trickling into a small sticky puddle nearby. A crowd of onlookers give their account to a local policeman. It appears the man was hit by some vehicle, or fell off a motorcycle (most Indians don't wear helmets). The episode makes me wish I'd read the chapter on "Meditations on Death" from a book I examined at the library of Tushita, a buddhist meditation centre in Dharamsala.

An hour or so later, my sense of shock gives way to an uncomfortable numbness in the buttocks, which gradually increases as the bus crawls towards Mandi. Out of the window I observe picturesque villages passing by, green terraces and apple orchard stretching down the valley towards the Uhl river below.

Eager to regain circulation in my lower regions, I don my packs and jump off the bus as soon as Mandi is in sight. With no map of Mandi in my guidebook, I orientate myself by instinct, crossing an old iron bridge and making my way through a colourful bazaar into the town proper. Emerging from the other end of the bazaar, I find myself in a bleak looking square, where most of the guest houses seem to be concentrated. My first choice from the guidebook turns out to be much pricier than I had hoped, but tired and in need of a hot shower, I take a room for one night. However, when I discover there's no water, I repack and look for alternatives.

I trapse around looking at other guest houses, mostly cheaper but pretty nasty, so I consult my guidebook for inspiration, finding one that sounds reasonable called "Rewalsar Inn". Asking for directions, I cross another bridge, walk up a hill, and find myself at the bus station. I recall that Rewalsar is a village outside Mandi. Too weary to retrace my steps, I board a local bus to Rewalsar, which proceeds to take me back the way I came and wait for half an hour just opposite my first choice of guesthouse.

By now it's dark. Fellow passengers look at me and a couple attempt communication in a broken English. The guy sitting next to me informs me he's a primary school teacher. I'm not sure if he's touching my leg deliberately or not; the concept of "personal space" hasn't been introduced in India yet. After another 30 minutes bumping up the valley, stopping every minute or so to let passengers on or off, I spot a building at the roadside, "Drikung Tsopadma Monastery - Rooms available". I ask the driver to stop and let me off, but he continues several hundred meters down the hill before paying me any attention. I trudge back up the hill and enquire about the rooms. No monks in sight, and the building doesn't seem particularly spiritual, but the room is reasonable and a friendly Indian girl prepares me some dinner, after which I take a hot shower and collapse into bed.

The following morning I walk around the village and visit the real Drikung Tsopadma Monastery (apparently my lodgings are really called "Drikung Tsopadma Monastery Restaurant"). The village boasts a large lake, sacred to both Hindus and Buddhists, surrounded by thousands of prayer flags. I sit and watch an elderly couple throwing rice to the fishies, whilst a Buddhist chants behind me and a Sadhu bathes himself in the brackish waters nearby.

Having seen everything the village has to offer in about 2 hours, I'm still impatient to move on, so take a local bus back to Mandi from where I'll head up the Parvati valley to Manali.

Triund

2007-01-26T15:41:00.000+01:00

Today is my first day of serious trekking or hill-walking in India. Starting early, I leave McLeod Ganj (~1700m) and ascend along a 10km path through the pine and rhododendron forests up to Triund (~2830m) then up further to the snowline, where snow underfoot makes the path a little too hazardous to continue. The trek up, stopping for Chai a couple of times, takes me the best part of 5 hours, breaking in my walking boots (as well as feet, heart and lungs).

In the morning, the warmth of the sun makes it seem like summer. Some of the rhododendrons are in bloom, perhaps believing that Spring has arrived already. The snow above is ominously sparse for this time of year, for the villages below depend to some degree on the melt-water during the spring and into the summer months.

Tuna groups tackle overfishing

2007-01-26T14:55:00.000+01:00

(From BBC News, 26th Jan 2007): The first international plan to try to stop the overfishing of tuna has been adopted by regulators meeting in Japan.

The plan called for better monitoring and co-ordination across regions, as well as action against illegal fishing.

Delegates from the world's five tuna bodies called the plan a first step towards arresting a decline in stocks.

But conservationists said the measures were not enough, blaming illegal and unregulated fishing and unsustainable quotas for tuna's dramatic decline.

Taj Mahal

2007-01-20T13:53:00.000+01:00

I arrive in Agra on Friday, after an early train journey from Sawai Madhopur to Bharatpur, then a noisy, chaotic, and at times seemingly life-threatening bus journey on to Agra. I check into Sheela Hotel a few hundred meters from the East Gate of the Taj Mahal. Much to my dismay, the "Taj" is closed on Fridays, so I pass the afternoon wandering around the various bazaars and fending off the pushy shop-keepers nearby.

Eager to move on (Agra being nothing exceptional apart from the Taj), I decide to visit first thing in the morning on Saturday. At 6 a.m. I'm the first visitor through the gate. Still dark, I have the place to myself for a while, and take a seat watching the silhouette of the beautiful building appear before my eyes as the night slowly fades into the daylight. By this time, I'm surrounded by dozens of eager visitors, many of them trying to figure out why their photos come out completely dark despite their flash (we're a good few hundred meters away from the building!!). I await patiently for the right conditions, the mausoleum still appearing distant through the early morning mist, contemplating silently before trying to capture the scene on "film".

I visit the gardens and the tomb, admiring the wonderful pietra dura and arabic script decorating the cool translucent marble walls, before leaving the Taj behind. On my return to the hotel I discover my entry ticket hasn't been punched, and manage to resell it to a friendly French couple for a reasonable price.

After packing and checking out I take a rickshaw to the train station and procure my onward ticket to Delhi, catching the train just before it pulls away. This time, no sitting room available in 2nd class, I stand for the 3 hour journey, watching some fellow passengers sitting on the floor playing cards.

Ranthambore National Park

2007-01-18T10:33:00.000+01:00

Two tiger safaris in Ranthambore National Park. No tiger's spotted.