The first day in Pokhara, I dropped off my bags at the hotel and met up with Kieran, who had just returned from his successful non-holey trek.

It was hit-and-miss whether or not he’d make it back alive, judging on the Whatsapp exchange we had the night prior (see last post). It would have been really inconvenient to have to pay the full cost of the hotel myself.

Following a joyful, emotional reunion where tears were shed and laughter filled the air (none of this happened), we went and had a decent lunch at Rosemary’s Kitchen (tip: the one in Pokhara is newer and airier than the one in Kathmandu) despite a questionable mint drink that was more foliage than beverage, and spent the remainder of the day ambling around Pokhara Lake and the main ‘town’.

As we skirted around the edges of Pokhara Lake, enjoying the setting sun and the calming ambience of the still waters, we pondered out loud on the important things in life. Like the difference between Thunder Birds and Thunder Cats. It was helpfully explained to me that the key difference was that Birds were from the sea (as odd as that sounds), whereas Cats had a character with a  Big Gay Haircut©.

Case in point:

It’s quite amusing  to compare cartoon characters from youth compared to the ones today.  Lion-O  (I had googled “Lionel” earlier, which surely would have been a better pun for a name)  does indeed have a Big Gay Haircut© . He also has very unfortunate tan lines and wears a very skimpy leotard with what appears to be the logo for Jurassic Park on his buckle. Prophetic, given the current extinct nature of the Thunder Cats series.

With a lack of exciting dinner options, we had some underwhelming sushi at Roadhouse, where the cocktails were way too sweet ( Ice Spiced Tea, nah) but where the apple shisha  went for 4.5 usd. I’ve always had some urge to take up any available Shisha, though I’ve never been able to come up to a convincing answer as to why. Upon googling the words “smoke shisha why”, it turns out that the best response the Quora population can come up is “why not?” and “well, it looks cool and mature.” And with a fruity puff of smoke, up went my speculative defence, that this was solely for health benefits..

On Day 2, we ventured out for a spot of Boating. There were no other tourists in sight.  It was still bloody hot, made worse by the need to wear a couple of bulky, black lifejackets.

I had never rowed on a boat before, so this was mildly exciting. Kieran, being the more competent one – naturally did most of the work whilst I nonchalantly prodded the oars to skim the surface of the water.  I have since discovered that proper rowing is hard, and I have no regrets in not signing up for Dragon Boating in Hong Kong. #noregrets

Another reason for my lack of regret was the unexpected queasiness. As I was so close to the surface of the water, and the lake itself was very placid – it came as a surprise to me, given I had not previously been particularly sensitive to travel-sickness. Ahh, the sign of things to come.

We spent perhaps 30 minutes drifting aimlessly in the middle of a silent lake, pondering our respective existences, before the brute force of the sun and my increasing nausea forced us to seek land. I stepped off the boat and we retreated back to the hotel, where I promptly collapsed onto my bed like a very miserable sack of potatoes.

Once I had sufficiently collected myself, we killed a couple of hours doing the normal social thing –  prodding silently at our laptops and mobile phones at Fresh Elements cafe, where the setting was bright, the coffee the best we had in Nepal, and the WiFi utterly abysmal – a term I don’t get to use nearly enough. Kieran spent a good amount of time adjusting his Alpaca. Not a euphemism.

We sought dinner by the harbour, and I was delighted to find that Momos (Nepalase dumpling specialities) were on the menu.  They were served in bamboo steamers, as you’d have with Dim Sum, although I eventually found this was comparable as it got, to my beloved little Chinese balls of love.

I may have winced a little when I saw it was served with a small container of peanutty, satay sauce.  Now, I’ve no issue with peanuts themselves (wouldn’t deliberately choose them as a snack but if they’re there, I could pick at them). Though, as anyone who has had the misfortune of discussing peanuts will know, I find them utterly pointless in Chinese soups (why would you), and hell, they work great when combined with Butter – but mush them up into a sauce and..no no, not Katie’s thing. Objectionable sauce aside, I found the Momo’s themselves  a little tough to chew – a very meh 5/10, on the basis that it sated my hunger, and they were pretty cute, and hey Momos in Nepal, but that was it.

At this juncture, having spent a couple of days in Nepal, a few observations:

• At the sake of sounding racist and reductive, Nepalese folk tend to resemble Indians, albeit in paler shades. They had all been super friendly, which may partly be because I “look Nepalese” (thanks cab driver).
• Shop houses – in Pokhara at least – are often nicely built wooden structures with tastefully strewn-about fairy lights, decorating both interiors and exteriors. There is a habit of throwing out buckets of water out onto the street. It looked clean..ish.
• Strong preference for Comic Sans lettering.
• Generally, a very chilled vibe – many convenience stores available, and I could see how backpackers and keen hikers could very easily fritter away their days in sunny Pokhara, in particular.

And so, onto the next day, and the main reason why I wanted to see Pokhara – to (tandem) paraglide.

I had been looking forward to this for the entire trip. The only and first time I had tried it in Yogyakarta, I had about six aborted take offs before we had got off the ground, a deep cut across my thigh, and due to the paltry winds, it had lasted maybe eight minutes tops. It was however, totally awesome, and in the following months I had even found myself searching online for possible paragliding lessons.  So, when I booked us in for a 60 minute flight in one of the top paragliding destinations in the world, I was totally psyched.

I was psyched in the morning, when we arrived at the Sunrise Paragliding office and they bundled us into a 4×4 with a few other passengers, driving us bumpily up and around the winding mountain at Sarangkot. I was psyched when we hopped out of the car, and my pilot pointed at me to get strapped into my big bumblebee harness and straps.

And I was psyched when, barely five minutes after I had gotten out of the car,  my pilot told me we were ready to go, and to run when he told me to.  And just like that, we had left the hilltop and we were airborne. Amazing. I clutched my selfie stick and phone with an giddy death-grip. And then, it started to hit me.

The vague beginnings of nausea reared it’s ugly head once more. I didn’t get this at all the other time, so I thought it would pass soon, and that it was just the effect of the windy ride up to the hilltop. 

We swirled around, upwards, my pilot maneuvering to catch the winds. We spiralled higher and higher, overlooking the dusty plains and foggy outlines of Pokhara Lake. It was pretty cloudy – apparently the best months are actually December and January to see clear views.

Snap at Nausea Lv 2 – attempting to focus on the scenary

I tried to concentrate on the thrilling experience, of being among the clouds – yet, I began to feel more and more nauseous. The only word that came to mind was – fuck.   The pilot copped on, and noted that he could bring us down whenever i wanted, if it got too much. With my patriotic “keep calm and carry on” mentality, I said thanks and that I’d let him know.  A few upward swirls later, I decided this wasn’t ever going to work and informed him that yes, Katie must now abort, please.

The rest of the journey down to the landing site was really an impressive example of mind over matter –  I shut my eyes, attempting to de-stress my primitive brain.  It was instead attempting to convince me that throwing up was the best way to rid myself of this apparent ‘poison’, a reflex that is triggered by the dissonance of senses, such as flying in mid-air or in a 4×4, without physically moving.  By the way, tip for the future – the best way to throw up in mid-air is as far as possible over your shoulder.

Nausea lv 3 – Abort stage. One final photo for the road.

 Thankfully, I didn’t need to test this myself and stumbled over a shaded tree immediately after we hit ground. I’d argue that I would have recovered more quickly if I wasn’t sitting by a) a couple of blokes sitting nearby who puffed incessantly on their cigarettes, and b) bloke and two girls with him who could neither sing,  nor play more than two chords on the guitar they took turns plucking.. yet persisted to try, as they looked out pensively to the water, as if their Eat Pray Love moment could somehow compensate for their complete lack of musical talent.  I lay flat out on the grass, as cigarette smoke filled my lungs, as nausea swirled inside my stomach, and as a couple of tone-deaf wannabe hippy girls contaminated my ears. I may genuinely have considered throwing something at them.

As I lay immobile, glancing up at the blue sky dotted with swirling parachutes,  I was began to wonder if  old age had truly begun to catch up with me. This, sucked. Soon, I’d have to resign myself merely to the simple activity of walking. In my senile days, it’d have to be with a cane. I feared an electric wheelchair would just make me queasy.

The cheery people at Sunrise Paragliding at least took pity on me and charged me for a 45 minutes flight instead of the projected 60 minutes, though I had managed to complete maybe 20 minutes of it owing to my pathetic stomach. Needless to say, I was thoroughly gutted, and mused whether it would have been any different had the ride up not been so bumpy, or if I had taken sufficient pill-popping precautions beforehand. I spent the rest of the day in dire pursuit of any ginger-related edible, with a strong resolve to equip myself with some Sturgeron or maybe some other mule-strength travel sickness pill for any vacations thereafter.

To memoralise my unfortunate Paragliding experience, permit me to present to you this illustrative diagram to explain my three stages of the experience.  This one, consigned to the history books.

 

Paragliding fail aside, the other Thing to do in Pokhara is hiking or trekking. This shouldn’t really count as two separate things, at least when you’re attempting to advertise the apparent plethora of activities available in the region. Unless, of course, your business is to advertise the apparent plethora of activities available in the region. In which case, you’re a tiny little travel agency, you have a tired old signboard (Comic Sans preferable) outside your wee shop and it advertises things like:

• Trekking!
• Horseriding!
• Boating!
• Hiking!
• Paragliding!
• Temple sightseeing!
• Ultralight flying!
• Walking!
• City sightseeing!

Of course, I’m not saying there isn’t enough to keep people occupied in Pokhara – it’s a very peaceful place with some beautiful views, but after you strip away the vomit-friendly activities (Paragliding, Ultralight flying and, apparently…boating), the remaining activities are more or less varieties of trotting (on two legs or four).  White water rafting was available but a little further away, and caving was available but determined as ‘ehh’ in favour of other choices.  With all this said, I couldn’t come to Pokhara and not even attempt the slightest trot, so hesitantly, Kieran and the trekking agency he had gone with convinced me (“This area? flat. That area? yes, mainly flat”) to complete a half day hike.

Well, all I can say to Kieran is – umm, sorry.

We set out for the hike with some trepidation on my part. What Kieran perceives to be ‘not a challenging hike’ may easily perceived by me to be  ‘fuck when is this going to end’. The guy also walks with the gusto of a fat kid chasing cake, though at a much quicker pace. The whole thing started OK, with our guide navigating us up a flight of stone steps up the mountain, enthusiastically pointing out the Cannabis plants growing freely on the hillside.

We wound up higher and higher to the mountain, and yes it was more or less flat. The weather was dry and pleasant, and I snapped a few photos for proof of my ‘trek’.  It had been about an hour or so. It’s good that I did.

After a while, it began to rain. This was not good, as I am as sure footed as a sleeping cow in a field, in the most ideal of hike conditions, much less wet ones. I also had not brought any sort of waterproof. You could tell I hadn’t hiked or trekked much.  The rain got worse, and given my predicament, Kieran, demonstrating all the heroics of Lion-O handed over his waterproof to me as the heavens opened and soaked us right to our sad, sodden cores.

We must have walked at least 70 minutes almost totally exposed to the elements. What made it worse was that this was the descent, so my urge to finish the damn thing as soon as humanly possible was curbed by my unwillingness to slip fall and die. The hood on my waterproof was pulled tightly over my head, yet I could still feel my hair and the skin at the back of neck getting gradually wetter and wetter.  As I dipped my head and clamoured clumsily over steps and rocks, raindrops fell across my brow. Kieran, wearing nothing but a sweater (well he had trousers on too), ploughed on ahead stoically, pausing and seeking feeble refuge under trees with particularly broad leaves, as he waited for me and the guide behind me to catch up.  I tried to placate my guilt by assuring myself, well.. he can’t get anymore wet now.

We finally arrived at a humble stone building (ROOF!) where a man and his enthusiastic son brought out a simple food menu as we shivered , peeled off our sodden layers and extricated ourselves from our sodden shoes and socks. Pity was taken upon us as the man brought out a couple of dry towels. Hot drinks, lentil soup and simple sandwiches were served, in efforts to quell our trauma and bring us back to the land of the living. It was an interesting trek experience, especially looking back – though as I swaddled myself meekly in that towel, avoiding the prospect of needing to slip back into those soaken hiking boots, I am pretty sure I vowed to myself that I was not going to ever do that again.  Or at least, take my own waterproof.  (Again, sorry.. *cue puppy dog eyes*)

Although I don’t quite remember why, we took separate flights back to Kathmandu. You might have thought it’s because Kieran really resented me for subjecting him to an impromptu outdoor bath, but no, he actually had booked the flights before that.

His flight left a little earlier, so whilst he went to the ‘departures hall’ (the next room), I waited in the check-in hall and twiddled my thumbs, waiting for someone to come and verify my presence for the flight.

Side note, the two domestic airlines that fly between Pokhara and Kathmandu are Yeti Airlines and Buddha Airlines. Who would win in a fight?  I’d actually put my money on the Yeti, cos Buddha would be all gracious and cool with losing.

Back to Kathmandu

Herein some short descriptive commentary about Kathmandu, where we returned in our respective tin can airplanes and stayed for a couple more days before our respective flights home (Kieran’s helpful advice for me upon disembarking first “the luggage belt, it’s a ledge. A ledge by the window.”)

Tat Shopping

Here, you can find a myriad of shoddy little fridge magnets, teas, postcards and faded maps, trinkets and ‘singing’ bowls, parchment papers, woven animals and beads – oh, so many beads.  There are also a surplus of shops selling a multitude of Thangkas, which are ornate Buddhist paintings which may typically depict a deity or a Mandala. Often, the uses of a Thangka can be as a guide for meditation.  The circular structure of the mandala is symbolic of the wheel of life, of unity and cosmic order. That’s kinda nice.  As British and thus hopelessly awkward as I am with the art of bargaining, I did manage to barter (well, I think I did but the guy was probably laughing all the way to the bank) and procure one for my own. My intention is that in my rather stalled search for peace and mindfulness, I can condition myself to look at this Mandala and remember to be in that single moment. Or if that doesn’t work out, it still purrdy.

Oh, I also bought a weird ginger cat as a gift.  Occasionally, when I look at it, I feel it is actually a rabbit parading itself as a cat. Or maybe a carrot, that grew eyes and legs. Legend has it if you stare at it long enough, you’ll go cross-eyed forever..

Attraction alert: Durbar Square

Full disclosure. I’m not entirely sure whether we ever made it to the Durbar Square. We were told by the cab driver that actually there were three of them, and WOULDNT WE LIKE TO GO TO THE ONE FURTHEST WAY WHICH HAPPENED TO BE THE MOST EXPENSIVE TO RIDE TO. I can always tell when Kieran has reached his breaking point as he’ll use the word “mate” as a riposte to the cab driver. For example: ” Mate, look, just take us to the one  that she showed you on the map, OK?” An ‘oooohhhh’ followed by a  ‘heh’, inside.  In any case, once we reached a Durbar Square, we were definitely not going inside the main square as it cost almost 10USD – to walk inside a dusty square as opposed to the dusty side streets of the square. No, we were both cheap and offended by the principle.

We got enough of the experience meandering around Durbar, though.  I really felt like i was in another world, as cliche as it sounds. In particular, there were so many sobering reminders of the 2015 earthquake that devastated the area, killed 9,000 people and caused damage that was worth half of Nepal’s GDP. Buildings were teetering, masses of electrical wires jumbled up in chaos, bricks, rubble, dust littered almost everywhere.

Lots of Massages

Honestly speaking, since this was one of the rare holidays where we were not madly dashing around,  so Nepal consisted of a great deal of rubbing.  Body, head, feet, scrubbing, and maybe the body one more time. My blood circulation must have felt all its birthdays had come at once.  Amongst the rubz,  I tried Shirodhara, which despite it being a bitch to wash the oil out of your air, was totally heavenly.  The practice involves a tall contraption which hangs a giant bowl of warm oil over your head , whilst you lie on the massage table.  There is a small hole at the bottom of the bowl which is positioned carefully to hang over your forehead – or more accurately, the Third Eye.  I don’t know how my Third Eye felt about it, but nothing about my body was complaining. Recommended and would totes do it again.

Oh I also got a Henna tattoo, from the hotel receptionist who apparently doubles as a Henna artist. OK, sure. I liked it.

Birthday meals

Oh yeah, finally, it was my birthday.  Usually, we’d go for a poncey meal somewhere nice, but it was Kathmandu, not exactly the food capital of the world.  Instead, for what I considered as my ‘birthday meal’, I opted for the best thing on the room service menu, and every child’s go-to meal.

Fish fingers and Strawberry milkshake.

What it lacked in Michelin-starred level quality, it made up for in childhood nostalgia and good-times feel. It is probably still the only Birthday meal I’ve ever had that I remember.  What have I been throwing my money away on all these years?

That pretty much ends it in terms of my Nepalese posts.  Whilst I undoubtedly went to more places and had more alarming encounters, I honestly don’t recall them anymore (yes so much for that historic new year’s resolution of ‘blog more’) and whatever I had written in proactively on a draft email (in preparation for these blank-look moments) has mysteriously disappeared into the electronic ether.  I’m pretty comfortable I’ve captured the highlights and the lowlights though.

Conclusion – yes, you should definitely go there, it’s an eye opening, chilled and very hospitable place, and chances are you won’t have an accident at Kathmandu Airport (yey!), despite all it’s bad press. You won’t regret it.

Make sure you bring Sturgeron 🙂