Nepal Trip (Part One: Just Getting There)
Trekking Day “-1″ (Saturday)
Fly: Barcelona to Delhi, via Zurich (~7000km)
“Sleep”: No-Man’s-Land, Delhi (237m) / Airborne, Nepal (~11500m)
What were we (or was I, at least) so anxious about? Mostly about the Indian visa (or our deliberate lack thereof). We were flying to Kathmandu via Delhi, on two itineraries and different airlines, and I’d tried to find out whether we’d need a visa for the six-hour period we’d be sitting at the airport. In theory, both of us (Spanish and Canadian) do need a visa to visit India, even if only for transit. However, I’d heard that you could do a visa-less transition at the Delhi airport, if you met a bunch of conditions. For example: having a ticket on the first available flight to your destination; not needing to change terminals; being escorted through the airport by airline staff. But would this work on two itineraries and airlines? Would our luggage get properly re-tagged?
A month prior to the trip, I’d tried to contact the Indian Consulate in Barcelona (no luck), then finally managed to speak with someone at the Embassy in Madrid. The answers I got were not definitive: “Yes, it should be possible.” Reassuringly (and more conclusively), IATA’s web site told me it was possible, though I should “contact carrier(s) concerned to check if transit is possible”. I did this, both with Swiss (on which we were arriving) and Jet Airways (on which we were departing). Neither gave a definitive answer or explanation of how it worked. Swiss told me “not to worry”, that we should speak to the agents meeting our flight. But they insisted we must be sure to tell the check-in staff at Barcelona to tag our baggage through to our final destination!
When we arrived at the airport in Barcelona, the check-in agent didn’t understand what we were asking. He said “not to worry”, and tagged the bags to Delhi. This gave us a feeling of dread, that our precious trekking cargo wouldn’t arrive in Kathmandu with us (we wore our most irreplaceable items: hiking boots). During our connection in Zurich, I queried a Swiss information person, who — once he understood what I was asking — looked quite concerned. He gave the impression we might be screwed (not his precise words), and the anxious expression on his face did not say “don’t worry”, which until then had been Swiss’ mantra. I’d tried to believe that at least we’d make it through Delhi okay, so I could focus my worrying on our luggage. But after speaking to this man, everything was up in the air again — after all, he was more concerned about our lack of Indian visas than our luggage. Great.
When we arrived in Delhi, we spoke with the Swiss staffer who met the flight. After a bit of confusion and passing us to various people, a nice woman wrote down our passport numbers, onward ticket information and luggage tag numbers. We repeated our concerns about the luggage, but she told us “not to worry”. It seemed to be a repeating theme, and one which I quickly adopted: in Nepal we discovered this is said (something that sounds like): sumase chai-na.
After all the other connecting passengers were noted down, the woman led us — like a schoolteacher at the museum with a remarkably orderly class — past a security checkpoint (they waved us through) to the no-man’s-land where we’d spend the night. It had washrooms, bright fluorescent lights, two small snack vendors, and some not-fancy-but-at-least-reclining chairs (we were lucky to find two side-by-side). People of all nationalities, waiting for flights to places like Rwanda, Beijing, Toronto and Kathmandu chatted away loudly. Others covered their faces and tried to sleep. It was cold.
Staff from various airlines would occasionally appear and call out passengers for their flights: “Anyone for Newark? Anyone for Kabul?” Much confusion, people asking each other if anyone had come yet to ask about their flight. Because with some of the agents’ accents, it was nearly impossible to understand the destinations. Announcements in airports must be impossible to understand by definition — even when not coming over the intercom. After several hours, Jet Airways staff showed up (this was 3am or something) and started looking for folks travelling to Kathmandu. They took our e-ticket printouts and passports (yikes!) and disappeared for another few hours.
On the recommendation of the travel clinic in Barcelona, we weren’t taking Malaria medication, since the mountainous regions of Nepal are safe, and Kathmandu is low-risk. However, there certainly is risk in some areas, and Delhi is one of them. While I tried to rest my eyes, I’d occasionally open them to find a small mosquito gliding past. I say glide because they don’t buzz about erratically as they do in Canada. They may carry Malaria but at least they seem very tame compared to our fast, aggressive monsters. Shhh, close your eyes, get what rest you can: remember the mantra: “Don’t worry…”
Trekking Day “0″ (Sunday)
Fly: Delhi to Kathmandu (~820km)
Sleep: Hotel Manang, Kathmandu, Nepal (1316m)
I’d never heard of Jet Airways until I started looking online for flights from India to Kathmandu. It turns out they’re one of the nicer airlines in the world! It was founded in 1993 and has won many airline awards, including “Best Indian Airline” in Sep. 2008. It has one of the youngest aircraft fleets in the world (average plane age 4.3 years), and our 737-800 (or -900?) was extremely comfortable. The staff were excellent. It helped that I’d (almost unknowingly) booked business class tickets. They were only marginally more expensive than the economy seats, and happened to be the only ones available that gave me the dates and times I wanted. This turned out to be a huge treat — excellent service, great food (even on such a short flight; less than two hours).
As we flew over the rice fields of the broad Kathmandu valley, we got our first view of the Himalaya range to the north. We could see Dhaulagiri (8167m), Annapurna (8091m), Manaslu (8163m) — although at this point they were just names to me. We came through a few bumpy patches to land at Kathmandu, but at the last moment the pilot suddenly cranked the throttle and we roared back up. There was a storm passing through and he couldn’t see the runway. We went into a holding pattern for probably a half hour. He told us we’d likely have to return to Lucknow in India (before we ran out of fuel), but he’d make one more attempt once he was given a slot. I made the requisite groaner about us hopefully having some “luck, now.” We continued to circle, and the gentle bumps of cloud (and utter exhaustion) lulled me to sleep. I was rudely awakened by a loud bang and thump, and in my disoriented state it took me a moment to realize we’d landed. My heart was racing, and we were in Nepal. What luck!
Nepal requires all visitors to have a visa, but (unlike India) you can get one upon arrival at the airport. I’d almost sent our passports to Madrid to get visas ahead of time, but they were considerably more expensive in Spain (55 Euros versus 40 USD at the Kathmandu airport; in addition you’d need to pay for a courier service). Seemingly no air conditioning at this airport, so we joined a queue of 20 to 30 sweating people, forming two lines (a hundred more behind, still filling application forms). It turned out that these two lines were for paying, but afterwards our line “merged” (that was the idea) into the other one, where a chain of officials processed the visa in assembly-line fashion.
The whole thing was chaotic, with no one managing the desperate, grumpy horde of tourists. People pushed forward, cut people off, acted ridiculously. Some very rude Germans forced their way to the front. But sweet retribution came when it turned out they’d missed one part of the form. The officer rejected them, and back they went as the crowd pressed past. The look on their faces was priceless, and some small bit of karma in the universe was balanced.
Visas obtained, we miraculously found our baggage lying in a giant pile of bags downstairs, beside the luggage carousel. The zippers were sealed shut with wire from the “warehouse” where they were stored in Delhi. Inside, nothing was missing. A man from the trekking company met us as promised, holding up a sign with my name. He led us to a car (and driver) in the parking lot, placed yellow flower necklaces around our necks, and we drove into the city.
Kathmandu is chaos. On the half-hour drive from the airport to our hotel in the “touristy” Thamel district (where it seems all the hotels are situated), we are assaulted by a sea of colour, smell, dust and heat. Poverty. Tiny children play in the dirt on the edge of a road that literally swims with swerving, constantly-honking cars, trucks and buses.
Dulcinea is not fazed by all this — she’s been to India and Africa several times. To places that are “worse than this”. But it is my first trip to a really poor third-world country. Nepal’s GNI per capita makes it the 30th poorest in the world. Far below Trinidad and Tobago and not even on the same page as Chile or Argentina, other relatively “poor” countries I’ve been to. But the Gross National Income at “purchasing-power-parity” (of $1500/person/year — to compare: Spain $25k and Canada $34k) is merely an average, and many people don’t even see that amount of money. In fact, 35% of the population makes under $1 a day. Its Human Development Index, a measure developed by the UN, is more or less on a par with Haiti (one of only two non-African nations that scored lower). This means the UN considers it one of the world’s least developed countries.
I’m not “fazed”, but it certainly makes an impact on me. I already have mixed feelings about being there, very conscious of being a “rich Westerner”. But everyone keeps telling me “they need our tourism dollars.” By employing local people — as many as possible! — we’re really helping. I’ll need to be convinced of this. At one point as we’re stopped in traffic, a scrawny kid motions at his mouth, for food. Standing in the middle of hundreds of moving vehicles, he moves lethargically. I smile sadly and shake my head. As we drive away, in a sudden burst of anger or despair he yanks open the car door beside me. I pull it shut, and the man who met us at the airport, without a word, turns from the front seat and pushes down the lock.
We arrive at the hotel, which is not particularly clean but has an ornate lobby. Overall it’s “okay”. What’s wrong with a few stained bedsheets and a Pigeon Air Force Base just outside the window? (After all, at least they’re outside!) I’m trying to be open-minded, as I’m told you need to “relax” and not apply my “Western sensibilities”, if I’m to enjoy myself in Nepal. (Three weeks later, on our return from camping, this place will seem utterly extravagant: “A bed! A toilet! Privacy! A shower…and it’s got hot water!”)
Later, we meet with the head of the trekking agency and our guide, Bikesh. He is a small, quiet man with a calm air about him. He says little, but enough for us to find it quite difficult to understand his English. In the afternoon, we wander out alone into the chaos of the Thamel district, to buy topo maps, a few small books, a bar of soap to wash our clothes during the trek.
To really get into the “just relax” mantra, we go for the best and cheapest massages of our lives — the equivalent of 5 Euros for a half-hour (me), and 10 Euros for an hour (Dulcinea). I was sore the next day, from the vigorous working-over and pounding on my skull. Later, as I wait for Dulcinea to finish, I notice my masseur showing his young nephew a pair of brass knuckles. Thankfully, he only used bare knuckles on my scalp. Whatever — it felt great (once it stopped).
Everything, we find, is super cheap. For dinner, we order a full Nepali/Indian meal for less than 3 Euros each. In total, it comes to 14 Euros for both of us, including dessert, huge beers, all the food… This was not a particularly “cheap” restaurant; quite tourist-oriented in fact. There are trekking outfitter companies everywhere, selling The North Face clothes, sleeping bags, tents — everything you could need from all the best mountain equipment brands. But there’s a catch: they’re not genuine. I notice the font is a little different in “The North Face”, and the Sigg water bottle I buy is apparently also a clone. Later, it turns out the lid leaks. Shocking!