leaving pokhara

Once our stomachs were stable,
it was time to go.

the culprit

In Nepal, where clean water and sanitation are often hard to come by, you are nearly guaranteed at the very least, gastrointestinal distress, and at the most, parasites or typhoid. A drop of water accidentally falling into your mouth while showering might strike you down with giardia or some other nasty— and the risk of getting sick increases during the monsoon season. Street food is out of the question, and raw veggies and salads are generally a no-no (there are some establishments who claim to wash their produce in ionized water, but unless you see this for yourself, you have to merely trust that they do). Having toughened my stomach early on in life on the various street foods of Cairo and other places, I usually do not succumb to stomach bugs, and as I have mentioned in earlier posts, I successfully avoided any problems in Nepal during the last two summers— even while eating in hole-in-the-walls. This time however, I was struck down.

But what was it? Was it the greasy breakfast we shared that first morning in Pokhara? Perhaps it was the roadside chow mein we scarfed down at a rest stop along the way. My bets are on the Newari buffalo dish we enjoyed at a restaurant by the lake— if you've seen a butcher shop in Nepal, you'll understand why— because I doubt it was the fried eggs and Tibetan bread we ate the second morning.



We'll never know what kept us from trekking; leaving us with mini-adventures within five minutes of our guesthouse, but what I do know is that a diet of banana porridge, banana lassis, toast and mint tea sure helps your stomach feel a little less awful. During this abstaining of everything that was not bland or affiliated with bananas, we discovered that a little café called am/pm toward the beginning of Pokhara's Lakeside region, had the best banana lassis we had ever tasted. I don't know what they do differently, but it seems the ratio of fruit to yoghurt is more in favour of the fruit, and when my stomach was a little stronger, I moved from the banana to the exquisite mango lassi.



My goodness, just looking at this photo makes me salivate— and mangoes are hard to come by in Istanbul, which crushes any thoughts I have of attempting to recreate this beauty. Sigh...

the third time's the charm

The idea of trekking through the Annapurna Conservation Area in search of birds and rhododendron forests, fighting of leeches and sleeping in musty tea houses tickled my imagination, as we began to solidify the airy plans we had made for adventure back in Kathmandu. The ever-present monsoon clouds loomed above, cutting off any chance of seeing mountains, and threatened to make for a very wet and challenging experience. We discussed the prospect of being rained out over breakfast, and sometime in the afternoon, I began to feel a little spacey. I couldn't focus on conversation— it was as though words had become blunted and fell to the ground, and soon afterward, my body began to ache.

By late afternoon, my joints were burning and by evening, I was feverish. Morning brought with it some rather unpleasant sensations in my belly, and soon, Pedro's too. After two summers of avoiding any stomach issues in Nepal, I finally fell victim to a bad case of diarrhea. It soon became very clear that neither of us were fit to do any trekking, despite a trip to a local pharmacy, and sticking to a diet of porridge and banana lassis. We tried to fight off the disappointment by taking quick sketching walks which did not lead us too far from our guest house.



The second and last photos were taken by Pedro.

grey and green

for the birds

When I was a little girl, I had this yellowed illustrated encyclopaedia of animals, which I read with great joy from cover to cover. The pages which got the most attention and careful examination were in the bird chapter. I was particularly in love with the flashy Eurasian Kingfisher and the less glamorous Common Starling. As I have mentioned in an old post, I had never seen a real starling, nor understood that they are as ubiquitous and exciting as a city pigeon, but the illustration was so beautiful with its violets, blues and emerald greens, that I believed the simple starling to be the loveliest bird in the world.

As I grew up, the book was lost behind others, but my appreciation for birds remained unchanged. Since meeting Pedro, fellow Urban Sketcher and bird illustrator, I've begun to finally see more of those birds I fawned over in my encyclopaedia. Though my bird list is tiny, I've seen not one, but two kinds of kingfishers, countless starlings, and many other birds I've only ever seen in drawings. We walked the length of Phewa Lake and explored its parks in search of sunbirds, jacanas and Purple Swamphens.

return to pokhara

We arrived in Pokhara under a threatening sky— sticky, stiff-legged, and hoping the rain would wait until we were safe inside a guest house. It's amazing how much can change in two years; the sleepy little touristy town I remember has spread out, with shops upon shops and restaurants offering everything from Italian food to Mexican. More foreigners than I remember glided around in baggy striped pants, prayer beads, and flip-flops, between zipping motorbikes and the occasional cow. Construction was going on about every ten steps or so, with mounds of earth piled high beside buzzing saws and bricklayers. Pokhara was touristy two years ago, but my initial reaction upon returning, was that it had lost some charm. But there was the lake, the hills and that sky— and somewhere— somewhere in all that boiling grey, white peaks stood.

monsoon

a nepali road trip

At seven in the morning, we settled into lumpy seats 15 and 16 on a rickety old bus, and waited with heavy eyelids to leave Kantipur. We felt relaxed and adequately prepared for the six to twelve hour ride to Pokhara— our backpacks crammed with clothes, sketching gear, water, bananas, cookies, and various first aid supplies. I couldn't resist pestering a sleepy Pedro with all my knowledge of the road and terrain, of where we might catch our first glimpse of the Himalaya, and where I ate roadside ramen with Acharya K.S. and Passang last summer. Pedro would nod politely with a mm-hm, his eyes becoming slits.

The Prithvi Highway, which links Kathmandu to Pokhara is notoriously narrow, bumpy, and scarred by landslides and floods. Monsoon season only serves to complicate travel on the highway, and as we witnessed along the way, buses do careen off the road into pits and valleys, and meet with trucks in head-on collisions, backing up the highway for hours.



Though the road is gnarled, and its travellers may seem to have a death wish, what you get to see outside your foggy, smeared window will take the breath you've been holding for the last few kilometres, away.

and a namaste to you

I'm back in Boudha after a little adventure to a very wet Pokhara.
Leeches, gastrointestinal distress, mysterious hooting birds, and rain, rain, rain...
Stay tuned!

pokhara to kathmandu, drawn

I found this woman on the bus to Dumre so beautiful with her fiery, flowery sari and matching bangles. Engrossed in her telephone conversation, she was completely unaware I was drawing her.



The mosquitoes were driving me batty, so I only managed to sketch this much of a house in Bandipur. I've taken to using coffee as my brush water, and I quite like the earthiness of the colours.

Below is a portrait of our trusty, bumpy microbus to Kathmandu. I was squeezed between a tiny woman in pink and the guy who collects the fares and yells, "KATMANDOOKATMANDOOOO!" out the window. He kept trying to stealthily take pictures of me next to him with his phone, and every time I caught him, he would laugh and say something in Nepali that would crack up the driver. I have no idea what on earth they were saying, but the whole thing had me laughing for a good bit of road. Their senses of humour and the incredible scenery made the four sticky hours pass with ease. I sketched our micro at a rest stop, which gathered the small group of our passengers. We went through my sketchbook page by page before hopping back onto the bus.



Once in Kathmandu, I noticed my hiking wound was developing an infection. So I drew it.
I now have some very nice, curved scars as souvenirs.

a land-locked ocean

Feeling restored and eager for a hike, Melissa and I climbed to the top of the very steep hill at the entrance of Bandipur to Thani Mai Temple. I could attempt to describe the hike, but words fall so short of the beauty and magnificence that surrounded our tiny beings. I will tell you that the wind that blows in the valley sounds exactly like the ocean.

needless emotions

It was time to leave the lake, the mountains and my new friends at Peace Eye. Melissa met me in the morning, and after I said my farewells, we called my Sarangkot taxi driver to take us to the bus area. After haggling our way onto a bouncy bus that was every shade of brown imaginable, we were raring to go to Bandipur, the hillside town I was originally meant to volunteer in. I had read of Bandipur's beauty, and the students confirmed that it's a gem of a town, nestled atop green hills with a spectacular view of the Himalaya. Bandipur boasts some of the best preserved Newari architecture in the region, and we couldn't wait. Our excitement however, began to wane as we realised the drivers were hanging around until the bus filled, which was a stuffy and sticky forty-five minutes later.



I had been beaming all morning, pure happiness inside my chest, but as we got to the junction town of Dumre, something inside shifted. For the first time during my entire trip, I was in a rotten mood. I was exhausted, my cough was irritating me, and I was tired of feeling cheated by bus drivers. I have the patience of a mountain, but it was worn thin that day, and I'm embarrassed to say that I was less than polite with the driver of the microbus that took us up the hill to Bandipur.

A spiky-haired young boy hoarsely demanded 400 rupees for a twenty minute jeep ride up the hill. When we scoffed at the price, he offered us a space on a nearby microbus for forty rupees each. We had been under the impression from the research we did that the ride should cost twenty-five rupees per person, and stood by this number firmly. After trying to negotiate with the scrappy youth, the driver suddenly barked, "Forty rupees with bags! No twenty-five!" He then began to mock us for bargaining, gesticulating and imitating our voices, and I felt my mood turning foul. I asked a fellow passenger what she was charged for her ride, and after she reluctantly mumbled "thirty rupees," I presented the driver with this fact, which did nothing but annoy him further. Feeling we had no other option, we handed the kid the cash, who was of course, laughing at us. For the next twenty minutes I could feel a boiling inside. My face had twisted into a grimace. Where did that simple happiness go? I went silent and tried to bring it back by staring out the window at the greenest greens I have ever seen.



We soon arrived to discover that all the prices of the guest houses were much higher than we had anticipated. Melissa and I decided to share a room at The Old Inn, a charming Newari-style guest house, and head back to Kathmandu a day earlier. The staff at The Old Inn were so kind— they offered us a heavenly snack of bananas and curd with grilled cheese sandwiches to quiet our empty bellies. That needless ball of frustration began to melt with each bite and every smile I received. When I felt the warmth of contentment inside me again, I decided to ask one of the staff members out of curiosity and a need to let go, how much a ride up the hill should cost.

"Forty rupees with bags."

dreams realised

hello, himalaya.

My cough still rattling around in my lungs, I took the short 500 rupee cab ride up the enormous hill to Sarangkot for what was promised to be a spectacular view of the Annapurna range. I was not disappointed. I sat breathless, wordless, pulled out my sketchbook and stared a while before setting my pen to the paper.



Suddenly I was surrounded by a bus load of excited Greek tourists who happily snapped the scene away with all sorts of cameras.

"Where are you from?"
"I'm an American living in Istanbul."
"Wow! Are you here with friends?"
"No I came to Nepal alone."
"What? You came here alone? You weren't afraid?"
"No," I laughed. "I generally travel alone."
"Wow... Hey Maria!" (I forgot her real name) "Come look at this girl!
She's American and she came here alone! She's not afraid!
And how are you getting down from here? By taxi?"
"No I plan on hiking down the hill."
"By yourself?"
"Yes, I've been told the trail has a lot of hikers on it."

The women kindly wished me luck and hopped onto their bus in a flurry of Greek. I began to search for the trail down to the lake— which was not easy to find— and once I had climbed down a considerably steep section, I suddenly became aware that I was completely and utterly alone in the woods. I had been repeatedly told by various people that the trail was safe with a continuous flow of hikers, but here I was, on a beautiful but slippery steep path that often disappeared under a mountain stream. If I fell, no one would find me. If I was mugged, no one could help me. This was potentially one of the dumbest decisions I had made, but I had been told I'd be fine. I decided that it would be easier and quicker to keep heading downhill than to climb back up to Sarangkot.

I slipped on a wet rock. My right leg was gashed open in two places and blood was running down into my boot. I washed my leg as best as I could with my water bottle and applied pressure with a few napkins. The wounds were so clogged with dirt that the bleeding soon stopped. Thankfully I didn't slip off the side of the hill or twist my ankle! I picked myself up, took in the beauty around me, and continued down my path.

It took me about two hours to get back to Peace Eye, where I showed off my stupidity to Olan, who shook his head with a smile. I vowed never to hike alone, even if an entire village tells me it's ok.