LEAVING KATHMANDU

LEAVING KATHMANDU

READY TO BOARD OUR YETI PLANE

Scene:  domestic airport chaos on the outside and chaos on the inside.  This is the beginning of our trip out of the capital and on to the Terai – Bhadrapur on the outskirts of Jhapa.  There are four of us wading around boxes and people and trying to get information about the plane that’s taking us to the border with India.  At the Yeti Airline desk, nothing is happening and the milling around continues until we find a seat.  A desultory look around the three-stalls yields nothing worthwhile except some grossly over-priced maps of various trekking routes and some Harbro which I’m tempted to buy but they seem to be expensive.   So we sit around while the delay continues because of some stacking up on the runway.

A few weeks ago a plane crashed when a bird – a vulture it was said – got sucked into an engine and the pilot tried to bank too steeply when returning just after take-off.  19-passengers and crew were burned to death on the ground.  There were reports of them scrabbling at the windows to escape.  This is on my mind.

So we lollygag around watching other passengers watching us watching them till it’s time to move on to “security”, a cursive look at two-Thai inhalers in my pocket, ignoring a heavy rucksack containing a computer which I had had to expose in every other airport, and a bum bag (for some reason they’re always worn at the front) then we’re through customs and into a marginally calmer boarding area where nothing in particular is happening – except for the continuing watching game.

At this point I realise there is no seat number on my boarding pass and anticipate a general rush to the plane to board to get at the window – but  no chance.  I’m with my brother-in-law and his wife and they’re died in the wool amblers so we’re last on and I find myself at a seat at the front on the wrong side of the plane for a vide at the Himalayas to the north.  Nevertheless, I have an eagle’s eye view of the propeller and the peaks, meandering rivers and trails below.  Then I remember that one of the passengers who died in the crash was from Scotland and his name was…Eagle!

THE EASTERN HIMALAYAN RANGE

I’m continually peering across the aisle to get a look at the Himalayan range and a tall, skinny guy who reminds me of Ichabod Crane peers back with what could be interpreted as a smile. He’s from Dundee and about my age and asks if I want to have his seat as he can move into the empty seat behind. “Sure!” I say and I move into the seat. Having a conversation with him means swivelling my head round 180 degrees and back to the window trying not to miss the view. He’s a retired teacher and has opened a school in the area of Jhapa but he seems a bit over-enthusiastic about the boys in his school so our conversation dwindles a bit. 

Below, I see deep, narrow valleys, some of which have blue ribbons of rivers snaking through them, edged with white sandy beaches.

The further east we fly the more the valleys widen below and the rivers branch out into tributaries like a network of veins on the surface of the earth.  The Himal range tapers down and is hidden by the clouds.  The flat bed of the Terai is increasingly broken up into small farm-holdings with intermittent green carpets of forests.

VALLEYS AND RIVERS FROM THE AIR

A bumpy landing in Bhadrapur, last of the plane with the Lama amblers and we hire a 6-seater to take us to the border at Kakarbita.  The heat of the Terai – 29 degrees – is welcome.  Humidity is high and the warmth washes over us and seems to penetrate to the bone.  (Am I the only one not sweating?)  Through the Nepal customs and the forms and stamps on the Indian border from a lethargic clerk with piles of papers in front of him, stamp the passports and off to Gangtok from the plains to 5,800 feet as the sky begins to darken and the road starts to rise and wind ahead. 

We present our permits at the border of Sikkim as we are entering a protected area.  Ahead of us in the office is a crowd of aged Americans making a lot of noise even though some of them seem to be slouched and exhausted.  In the jeep the again and we continue on our way to the capital, Gangtok.

The driver is a 20-year old and he’s good on the windy roads, overtaking buses and lorries on blind corners.  I say he’s good because I’m still alive. On three consecutive days three-cars went over the precipitous bends.  We even saw a dead body wrapped in a shroud on a river bed far below.  There was a whole bunch of cars parked on the bridge to watch the spectacle.  Doesn’t do much for the spirit.

Stayed at the Pomera hotel for a couple nights then off to the BMC (Bodhicharya Meditation Centre) more about which later.