and the winners are…

Last night we checked in to our 100th hotel. In celebration of this milestone, we reviewed our list of accommodation and decided to let you in on some of the best and worst moments. Note to our mums – I’ll give you the nod when it’s time for you to leave.

The good:*

Friendliest welcome – Tony’s Guesthouse, Melaka & North West Guesthouse, Mae Sariang
Tony – what a legend. The man is a kindred Little Creatures lover – need we say more? After tiring of “always screwing the union” as a government employee, his life now revolves around cooking the perfect eggs for his guests and fishing.

We only meant to spend a day or two in Mae Sariang, but a week later we were still lounging on the verandah at North West. We had no need that Tukta and Kitti couldn’t cater to – they let us take our own beers from the fridge; lent us their bikes and knew the best lady-boy in town to go to for a haircut.

Country with highest accommodation standards – Vietnam
Despite the fact that we encountered two of our most horrific hotels in Vietnam (see below), the general standard was very high. There doesn’t seem to be much of a culture of ultra-cheap dorm beds and shared bathrooms, but when $10 buys you a spotless fan room with TV, attached bathroom and hot water, who cares?

Best on ground – Zhilam Hostel, Kangding
We’ve already sung the praises of this place, but it deserves another shout-out. Dare I say it, Kris could charge double for this place and it would still be good value. Endless hot water in pristine bathrooms; crisp linen, and Kris and Lillian seemed to know exactly the right moment to ask you if you wanted a cup of tea. Worthy candidate in the “friendliest welcome” category, but we had to share the glory around a little.

OK, so I’ll quickly move on to the nasty bits because we all know they are far more interesting. Mums: leave now.

The bad:

Worst value for money – Prince of Wales Hotel, Singapore
How on earth did we land ourselves in a hostel above an Australian-themed backpackers pub? Our first stop on the trip, I can only think we were blinded by the excitement of it all. Apart from being full of shocking bogans, the wailing of dreadful covers bands blared from the bar downstairs until 3am every night and all the advertised “perks” turned out to be not nearly as appealing as advertised. “Free breakfast” = a few loaves of stale sliced bread, Nescafe and eggs you cook for yourself in a greasy pan, the stocks of which stop being replenished about 30 minutes before the ridiculously early cut-off time of 9am – so, if you’re us, you end up with cold coffee dregs and a dry crust for breakfast. “Air con” = will be switched on at 10pm and turned off at 6am. Even at $60 for a spartan private room, you still have to share a bathroom with the room next door and from the $20 dorm beds, you have to schlepp downstairs to use the toilets in the pub. Boo.

Biggest disappointment – Ko Tarutao
One thing we noticed consistently throughout SE Asia is a lack of concern for upkeep. New places go up and then are left to decay, quickly, as one might expect in a tropical climate, without a sniff of fresh paint or basic maintenance until they reach the point of no-return, when they are torn down and rebuilt again. Being government-run, there was a small army of staff employed on the island, but it was as though highly specific jobs (I mean highly specific, like “sweep this one square metre of concrete”) were allocated on Day One and that file was then hastily closed with a sigh of relief, never to be reopened. Broken windows, burnt-out light globes and wonky doors abounded and despite being promoted as an eco-resort, there was rubbish everywhere – but it was nobody’s job to fix it, so it never happened.

Bed bugs – Greens Hotel, Jerantut & Welcome Hotel, Bombay
Conveniently for Linds, both incidents occurred when we were sleeping in separate beds. My bout in Bombay prompted a response of “Oh my God” from the guy on the reception desk.

Weirdest – Lete Hostel, Xining
Where else but China would it be perfectly acceptable to rent out the top two floors of a high-rise apartment building to a youth hostel? An eerily deserted rabbit warren of rooms, with staff who looked at you as though you had two heads. And I’m pretty sure they used a damp mop to clean the carpets.

Most dangerous – Can’t remember the name, Xiahe
Apart from nearly dying from exposure during the night, going to the toilet involved taking your life in your own hands. Guests are required to take the most circuitous route around the outer perimeter of the courtyard to avoid a savage dog, whose chain is just a mite shorter than what he needs to reach you and sink his teeth into your leg. I knew he was there, but I was still half scared to death every time he barked – not really what you need as you’re scurrying towards the fetid loo, bladder bursting from already having delayed the trip for as long as humanly possible.

The ugly:

No categories here – there is one undisputed winner of this dubious honour:

Trade Union Hotel, Ben Tre
This place had the vibe of a private enterprise which had been taken over by the Communists at the end of the war… and never cleaned since. Cigarette butts in the shower drain, highly suspicious wall stains and a roach graveyard under the bed. It was after staying here that “presence of a toilet seat” became a mandatory item on our room inspection checklist.

Notable mention must be made of the place we stayed in Vinh Long, also in the Mekong Delta of Vietnam. I was suffering a nasty head cold at the time and couldn’t face venturing outside our otherwise passable room, so Linds waited until after we left to tell me that there were soiled prophylactics down the side of the bed.

* excluding statistical outliers – namely, posh hotels funded by other people’s generosity

slowly down the ganges

 

 

So… India. King of the quotable quotes goes to Dodd with this pearl: “islands of awesomeness in a sea of shit.” A perfect summary. We have on and off moments, which we oscillate between innumerable times each day. The sights are amazing; the food is delicious; we’ve had some wonderful kindness from people – it’s just the bits in between that can truly suck. At times, we have mused that if we could afford to do it all in swank hotels, getting ferried about in a private vehicle with a personal tour guide, it would be superlative. But then again, even East Bumcrack would be superlative if we could do it that way.

Twelve hours after we said goodbye to Nina, we were back at the airport awaiting Hol’s arrival and before we knew it, we had our own living, breathing tourist attraction – even cosmopolitan Mumbaikers are powerless in the face of white blonde hair and blue eyes.

 

After sampling all the naan, chai and laundry districts that Bombay had to offer, we plotted out a fairly gruelling route through some of northern India’s big hitters before racing to Delhi in time for Hol’s departure. I’m not sure whose bright idea it was to travel on New Year’s Day. Perhaps our collective judgment was clouded by the allure of a cheap flight to Udaipur, but after ringing in the New Year first in style, with high tea at the Taj, and then not-so-stylishly at Mondy’s, boarding a plane or even blinking, for that matter, was extremely painful. For some more than others (I’m looking at Dodd).

 

 

 

And thus began our tour that could be entitled “Incredible Things That You Won’t Be Able to Stop Staring At”: Pichola Lake in Udaipur; the Taj Mahal in Agra; and the Ganges in Varanasi – all islands of awesomeness, as referred to above.

 

 

We spent a lot of time in Udaipur perving on the lifestyles of the rich and famous. The City Palace and Pichola Lake are home to several luxury hotels, most of which are operated by the former Maharana and family, and for the princely sum of Rs 25 (62 cents), you can buy admission to the palace grounds and mooch about, thus escaping the complete mayhem of the outside world. Although stripped of any official capacity in 1947, we happened upon the Maharana receiving a visit, amid much pomp and ceremony, from the also defunct King of Nepal and speculated that their dinner conversation would most likely focus on how much better things were in the good old days.

 

Mooching about works up quite an appetite and we also spent a day learning the finer points of Indian cookery with the spirited Shashi, who delighted in teaching us some choice Hindi, telling Linds to put his back into pounding the spices and shocking us with her true tales of the crimes against hygiene that occur in the kitchens of many Indian restaurants.

 

After nearly freezing to death on the overnight train to Agra, we caught our first view of the resplendent Taj Mahal from the rooftop of our hotel. The next morning, we fronted up to find that it had become quite shy overnight, shrouding itself completely in fog. Three hours later, it finally revealed itself again and despite all the hype, it is truly beautiful – glowingly opalescent and strangely serene, even amongst the throngs of tourists. Agra Fort will be the eternal bridesmaid, but it still qualifies as an island of awesomeness and we even managed to catch some scantily-clad Bollywood filming going on there.

 

 

 

 

Better prepared this time, with bulk fleece blankets, we boarded the overnight train to Varanasi which turned out to be horrifically reminiscent of our maiden bus journey in Vietnam. Delayed by aforementioned fog, the scheduled 13 hour journey turned into 23 hours and upon our arrival, I’ve never been quite so glad to see a jostling pack of rapacious autorickshaw drivers. After failing to hear the endpoint of the conversation between the rickshaw pimp and Linds, I hastily paid our driver and raced off to collapse in our room, not realising until later that I had shortchanged him – surely, history was made as I unknowingly became the first tourist to ever rip off the infamous Varanasi autorickshaw mafia.

 

 

We whiled away our days in Varanasi strolling and cruising the banks of the Ganges, where the Hindu rituals of life and death play out in all their splendour and grittiness. We had read that if a single place goes close to encompassing all of India, it’s Varanasi - from hard-fought cricket scratch matches to Shivaite ascetics coated in funeral pyre ash, it’s all here. In his travel classic, Slowly Down the Ganges, Eric Newby curiously makes little mention of the holy city: “Ghats, ghats. So many ghats. Too many ghats”.  While the activity of the ghats oscillates between serenity and mayhem – from Brahmins quitely bathing to swarms of buffalo being herded down the concrete steps - to our collective surprise, Varanasi was far more relaxing than we had expected. Of course, there are touts and panhandlers aplenty but perhaps after hearing rumours of my remarkable reverse rip off effort, they decided to leave us alone.

 

 

 

 

tropical beer notes #25

Royal Challenge Premium Lager 5% Maharashtra India

Our hotel in Hyderabad had room service (and a hot shower!).. While no Grand Millennium Bangkok, it’s nice to eat in your undies occasionally. For me, this also involved drinking beer in my undies – what a sight! Calm yourselves readers. This slightly risque nature of all this was increased by the dastardly “no booze” rule at our hotel – which, like a teenager of old, I flouted by dashing past the front desk with a bulging backpack. Pours a very weak head, ricey, thin and metallic. The bottlo around the corner did give them to me cold, which was a welcome surprise.

santa claus is coming to bombay

Bombay or Mumbai – have it your way. It would appear that the only thing politicians have done here since independence is change names. Bombay is a beautiful place for a tourist - cosmopolitan; all sweeping bays and history oozing from every pore – but one man’s artfully crumbling colonial building is another man’s case study in decades of civic neglect. The homelessness is intense and it’s not just the destitute who sleep rough – clean shaven men in business shirts would catch their few hours of sleep on the pavement around our hotel before rising for work early the next day, such is the acute housing shortage. Victoria Terminus (or the unwieldy “Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus”, if you play by the name-change rules) is the busiest station in India – a cool 6 million commuters traipse across its platforms every day – yet has remained virtually unchanged since its construction. The train boffin term is “super-dense crush load”, with 14 to 16 standing passengers per square metre of floor space.

Nina jetted in from Old Blighty and before she could say “pass the parathas”, we shoved her on to a bus and headed south for some long-awaited beach time. Goa: legend of the mythical 60s and a very un-Indian bit of India, although the cows dozing on the beach are a dead giveaway. Despite it being super dense crush season, we managed to jag a cocohut right on Arambol beach and got straight down to the business of taking it easy. Swim, eat, play cards. Repeat.

Some cultural observations:

1. The “undies, undies, undies… bathers” test appears to have been somewhat misunderstood in Goa. A key element of the test is the presence of Speedos, which we all know turn into undies as soon as you lose sight of the beach. People, take note: Y-fronts are still Y-fronts, no matter how close you are to the Arabian Sea.
2. Although not high on most people’s list of things to do in Goa, a trip to the local doctor is actually quite entertaining. He’ll put you at ease by talking about the cricket while he’s injecting Nina with anti-death serum; Dodd will weigh himself, which is always good for a laugh; and when you’re done, you’ll be asked if you’d like to take advantage of some creative billing practices (read: insurance fraud).
3. I’m surprised it took us this long to come across a pack of young travellers of Jewish extraction, recently discharged from military service*, as they are apparently ubiquitous in the Indian subcontinent. I would almost admire their earnest dedication to blaring trance and smoking grass if it didn’t kick off at 9am every day. And by jove, it was earnest – guys, look like you’re having fun, not sitting a calculus exam. In your Y-fronts. Perhaps they have conservative leadership in their futures?

We dragged Nina back to Bombay just in time for Christmas, which had elements both traditional and unorthodox. There were presents (reciprocal Christmas albums for Dodd and me – are we co-dependent or what?); we went to midnight mass, albeit at 10pm due to noise restrictions, which ended in a stirring rendition of “Happy Birthday Your Eminence” for the Cardinal; we ate and drank too much at Indigo (vodka test tube shots, anyone?); and the day ended with us lying around, rubbing our bloated bellies and watching Home Alone on TV. Ho, ho, ho.

* aka Israeli backpackers

tropical beer notes #24

King’s Black Label Premium Pilsner 4.8% Goa India

It’s rubbish, but comes in this cool little medicine bottle. There’s a big “land that time forgot” thing going on in India – safari suits, compulsory ‘tashes, Ambassador cabs, Enfield motorbikes. This little stubby fits right it. Cheers to the 1960s

when touts attack

As we disembarked at Indira Gandhi International Airport, I couldn’t help but feel nervous. India had always been our nominal “destination” and despite our fairly decent bank of travelling experience acquired over the past year, we were still prepared for India to crush us mercilessly. Much to my relief, our arrival went seamlessly – the transfer was there waiting for us; the room we had booked was passably clean, and we enjoyed our first Indian meal, plentiful and delicious, in rooftop environs not dissimilar to the party area at the House With the Red Door. The knot in my stomach eased and I went to sleep wondering why I was so nervous in the first place.

As an aside, the decision to fly to Delhi from Kathmandu was one of the best we’ve ever made. And when the alternative was a 50 hour+ journey by bus and train, it was a fairly easy one too. We got beer and curry on the plane; Delhi airport still holds the record for Cleanest Dunnies in India; and it was novel not to arrive in a new city completely shattered. Oh, and we got to buy duty free gin. Air travel, where have you been all my life?

The next morning, we ventured out and delighted in such wonderfully Indian visions as motorcyclists patting disinterested cows on the head while weaving their way through traffic jams. I even managed to put a positive spin on Linds being pooed on by a bird within about two minutes of leaving the hotel, declaring it an auspicious sign for our time in India. Linds, however, did not agree.

As it turns out, he was right. Rather than auspicious, you could say our feathered friend was a touch clairvoyant, as we were both struck down with the runs within four days of our arrival in the country. Needless to say, the honeymoon period was declared over as we both found ourselves rushing to the toilet at various inconvenient times. Not that there’s ever a convenient time to poo your pants. So even after nearly a year of eating food of questionable hygiene, we were still no gastrointestinal match for Mother India.

Another thing we’ve encountered a lot of in our almost-year of travelling is the tout, in all its forms. Male and female; ambulatory and vehicular; subtle and not-so. Never before seen though, until now, is the vitriolic tout who, when ignored, immediately responds with such venom as:

• “If you don’t want to talk to Indians, you are RACIST!”

• “Go back to your own country – in fact, I’ll give you a free ride to the airport!” (that sounds like a tout-within-a-tout to me…)

• “I thought you looked like a nice couple… but clearly I was WRONG!”

Of course, just another wiley way to get you to engage with them at any cost. FAIL. However, pride comes before a fall and we promptly found ourselves being ripped off, albeit only to the tune of about $13, on arrival in Bombay after falling prey to the ol’ double-time taxi meter trick. Luckily for the thieving driver, I had to race into the hotel to use the toilet, so we let it slide.

Author’s note: Given the content of this post, I trust you will understand why there aren’t many accompanying pictures.

you can’t fight the revolution on an empty stomach

Our post-hike days in Kathmandu were pretty pedestrian. One drifted into another, following a familiar routine: breakfast; internet; shower; lunch; constitutional stroll; snooze; pester Ryan & Jo into coming for a drink with us; dinner – although the Indian embassy made sure we didn’t get too comfortable by requiring that we pay them a visit every few days.

Our daily shuffle was interrupted one Sunday when we rose to find the streets eerily devoid of touts and taxis and the doors shuttered on every establishment in town. Confused tourists littered the streets, desperately seeking somewhere that would serve them up a stack of banana pancakes. Something was up.

As we wandered back to our room, contemplating that the only stash of food we had was half a stick of Toblerone – not at all a bad breakfast, as it turns out – a crowd of men came striding down the street, shouting and waving red flags: Maoists. We met them just as they found a shop that was tentatively attempting to open – an unwise decision, as we witnessed. Maoists in Nepal have never targeted tourists and while they remained mercifully uninterested in us, they did give us a fright as they banged relentlessly on the shop door, yelling and threatening the shopkeeper with sticks and fists. Suffice to say the shutter came down quickly. It was all too reminiscent of a run-in with football hooligans rather than high-minded freedom fighters.

No thanks to the guys at our hotel, from whom it would have been nice to receive some warning, we found out later that the Maoists had called a general strike of the variety that locals call “stop the wheels”: in addition to closing all business, no traffic is allowed on the streets. Exceptions are made for pharmacies and ambulances and a lone tourist bus that shuttles people to and from the airport. The cause was the eviction of alleged squatters from land in the west of Nepal, which ended in violence and several deaths – although with the deadlock between the government and the Maoists showing no signs of resolution, it seems that any excuse for a strike will do.

Driven by growling stomachs, we ventured out again in the early afternoon. Our intended short stroll turned into an extended wander as we enjoyed promenading right down the middle of the usually anarchic streets. The empty stretches of asphalt weren’t wasted, as half of Kathmandu seemed to be out doing the same and impromptu cricket games sprung up every few hundred metres. It was really very pleasant, if a little “28 Days Later“. Back in Thamel, the city’s main tourist area, we allowed ourselves to be guided though the back door of a local restaurant, speakeasy-style, for a late lunch. We’re not ones to cross picket lines but crumbs, we were famished. How the mighty have fallen.

It was hard not to be somewhat impressed with the authority of the Communists in a country where the rule of law barely exists and the government is largely impotent – they can’t even effectively pedestrianise Thamel – although one wonders whether the Maoists’ ability to call and enforce such a massive strike is as much about them showing their opponents just how powerful they really are. And it’s hard to be impressed with a crowd who still bizarrely venerate Stalin and Mao. Nepal has some interesting days ahead.

After two weeks of waiting and the consumption of a king’s ransom worth of cinnamon rolls in the meantime, the righteous prevailed and we got our Indian visas – even managed to bargain the guy up to multiple entries by appealing to his inherent fanaticism, saying we might pop over to Dhaka to watch the Indian team smash Bangladesh in the cricket. Not.

muesli bars? ✓ socks? ✓ ibuprofen? ✓

Day 1 – Kathmandu – Bhulbule
All day on the bus. No suspension, so despite sitting on butts all day, actually feel like we’ve been hiking.

Day 2 – Bhulbule – Syange
First day of walking. Embarrassed that we have to ask for directions within about a minute of leaving the guest house. Dodge donkey trains and their dung for most of the morning. Inadvertently manage to pause in the village latrine for morning tea stop. Remember why I love hiking: excuse to consume endless chocolate and carbs with impunity.

Day 3 – Syange – Tal
Road construction a real blight on the landscape. Rubble raining down from above and dust inhalation has probably decreased life expectancy by several years. Not going to begrudge them building a road, but hope the benefit outweighs the costs. Note to self: don’t overeat at lunch. You’ll want to puke as you gutbust it up an endless hillside behind annoyingly jovial Dutch group.

Day 4 – Tal – Temang
Hiking really gives you the time and space to consider life’s big issues: one muesli bar or two? Is 10:15am too early for lunch? Whatever happened to Tony Danza? More clambering over landslides caused by dodgy road construction but pretty forest section towards the end of the day.

Day 5 – Temang – Bhratang
Outrun the road construction and condition of trail improves markedly. Lazy lunch in the sun by the river in Chame but getting a lot colder. Sore knee forces us to call it quits in Bhratang. Only available accommodation resembles a medieval prison cell but at 100 Rs (AU$1.50), I think we have a winner for cheapest digs of the trip. Spend evening harrassing young boy to put more wood in the fire.

Day 6 – Bhratang – Ghyaru
Miscommunication at breakfast results in only one bowl of porridge to share between us. Keen to escape the medieval prison, so let it slide. Will regret this decision later. Famous last words: “we haven’t had too many steep ascents today.” Nearly expire trudging up endless switchbacks while choking on dust of ridiculously fit French couple, although manage to forget knackeredness when taking in the awesome views of the whole Annapurna range. Splash out on “deluxe” room (200 Rs) and fall asleep in the shadows of Annapurna II & IV.

Day 7 – Ghyaru – Braga
Big climb yesterday makes for an easy walk today. Makeshift butchery in the yard at lunch stop reminds us why we’re eating vego on this trip. Deluxe digs – ensuite squat toilet!

Day 8 – Rest day Braga
Was it those mushrooms in my omelette or is that snow falling on my freshly washed undies? Several inches fall throughout the day. Highly unseasonal and weather report suggests it might continue for 2-3 days. Forced to stay indoors by the fire all day and eat. What a shame.

Day 9 – Rest day II Braga
Snow stops but melting turns the trail into a mudslide, so decide to stop another day. Go for an “acclimatisation” stroll to Manang, a dizzying 20m higher in altitude. Eat chocolate cake and bleat at passing goats. Ruin Ryan & Jo’s day by looking out the window just in time to see them ambling in to town. Quite certain Ryan curses when he sees us waving from the balcony.

Day 10 – Braga – Yak Kharka
Weather looking ugly in the morning but holds up. Air definitely thinner. Short day to allow for acclimatisation. Whole dining rooms gasps when filthy urchin sticks grubby hand in the sugar bowl we’ve all partaken of. Kept awake at night by yak honking outside the window and psychosomatic tummy rumbles.

Day 11 – Yak Kharka – Thorung Phedi
Another short day. First encounter with ice on the trail – yikes. Trekkers freaking each other out about altitude sickness like those annoying people who stand outside the exam room asking everyone else if they happened to study section 99XA of the Hairdressers Registration Act. Water in the toilet flush bucket is actually frozen in large chunks. Dude who works in the restaurant happens to play a mean slide guitar – who knew?!

Day 12 – Thorung Phedi – Thorung La Pass (5416m) – Muktinath
PASS DAY. Amongst the last to leave at 6:30am. Forget all about the altitude and concentrate on not freezing to death. Large chunks of ice floating in drink bottle. Icy wind whipping snow in our faces; no greater love hath wife than wiping husband’s boogers with her glove. Lose the trail and wading through knee-deep snow. Reach the pass at 10:45am – feeling very, very far from Swanbourne Beach. Too cold to stick around longer than it takes to scoff a KitKat. Endless descent – steep, narrow and covered in ice and loose gravel. Both stack it several times. Consider that this is probably the stupidest thing we have ever done. Quote of the day (from Israeli dude): “Where is the f%*$ing Muktinath?” Arrive in the f%*$ing Muktinath around 4:30pm. Knees very, very angry.

Day 13 – Muktinath – Kagbeni
Another long, steep descent. Knee throbbing. Spend the afternoon rubbing each other’s aching limbs. Catie somewhat alarmed at the increasingly reptilian appearance of her skin.

Day 14 – Rest day Kagbeni
Dodd experiencing gastrointestinal “issues”, which we blast with a Ralphie-sized dose of antibiotics. Highlight of the day is chasing freshly-washed underpants as they are blown through a cabbage patch. Forced to endure 20-minute lecture from humourless Swiss girl about the differences, or lack thereof, between apple pie and apple crumble.

Day 15 – Kagbeni – Marpha
Dodd guts on the mend. Trudge through rocky valley to Jomsom. Afternoon headwind so strong that we remain almost stationary. Quote of the day: “I’m a cacophony of stink.”

Day 16 – Marpha – Kalopani
Spirits bolstered by apple pie and Johnny Cash at morning tea. Knee still sore, so resolve to make tomorrow last day of hiking. Knee has other ideas and gives up ghost around lunchtime. Fear for life while hobbling over rotten suspension bridge, only to see brand new bridge 20m downstream. Enjoy a celebratory cup of tea while admiring views of Dhaulagiri and consider that despite imminent knee explosion, life ain’t so bad after all.

Day 17 – Kalopani – Pokhara
Flag down bus to Ghasa. Consider that Spanish girl, previously classified as “crazy, but harmless” is genuinely certifiable as she giggles and shrieks her way through death-defying journey. Arrive Ghasa. Purchase onward tickets to Beni. Resist attempts of dodgy bus dudes to squash 14 passengers into Jeep. Suggest to crazy Spanish girl that shouting at dodgy bus dudes isn’t helping things, to which she shouts “DON’T TELL ME TO STOP SHOUTING! I’M NOT SHOUTING!” Remove bags from Jeep and insist we’ll wait for a later bus. Wait for four hours. Eventually herded onto death-trap bus. Consider at several points that we will plummet over cliffside to our deaths. Arrive Beni in the dark. Hear shouts of man touting a bus to Pokhara. Look at each other and acknowledge that we had better just get this journey over with. Arrive Pokhara 10pm. Survive taxi driver’s best attempts to kill us in several head-on collisions. Collapse into hotel. Quote of the day: “Couldn’t we just have gone to Tahiti?”

tropical beer notes #23

Everest Premium Lager Nepal   5.2%

In news that will surprise no one, the Indian embassy is currently making a hash of our visa applications.  After spending lots of time hanging around the embassy, I now feel qualified to offer this advice to other travellers: you can’t do a visa run into Nepal or any other neighbouring countries. You’ll be told by the helpful staff: “No back-to-back visas! Go back to your country!” Yeah, thanks.

We applied a week ago but there has been some problem with the “telex” not coming back from the Indian embassy in Canberra. The wife and I want a six-month multiple entry visa, so that we’ve got the option of popping over to Sri Lanka or Bangladesh. The dude offered us a three-month single entry visa but test matches, yoga retreats, Bollywood melodramas and Goan beaches are all time-intensive pursuits. So another “telex” to Canberra and on Monday, we’ll go back to see if anyone bothered to check it. All this does inspire a monumental thirst…

Which leads us to Everest. First brewed in 2003 to mark the 50th anniversary of the conquest of Everest, it’s the most popular and best beer in Nepal. Few beers have ever tasted as good as the one pictured, which was my first drink after nearly three weeks of hard slog on the Annapurna Circuit.  Pours a nice head with sweet malts dominating. After the pissweak beers of China, the 5% is very noticeable and gives a welcome structure.

Just did a websearch and no Indian brewers make an Indian Pale Ale – damn!

living clockwise

When you’ve been raised in the tradition of the stiff British upper lip, public displays of devotion can make you a little uncomfortable. For starters, people in the West aren’t devoted to much these days – iPhones; Grey’s Anatomy; raw food – and any deeper devotion is usually very privately held. So being swept along by a throng of pilgrims on our first morning in Lhasa, many with callouses on their foreheads from hundreds of kilometres of prostration, was a humbling and spellbinding introduction to real and living devotion, Tibetan style.

In debating the question of whether to visit Tibet, one of our fears was that we would witness a culture being watered down by military intimidation, Han Chinese immigration and tourism. But, perhaps as a symbol of resistance, Tibetan culture and Buddhism are worn as a badge of honour. Having said that, Lhasa is a virtually segregated city and security in the Tibetan quarter makes you wonder if Obama might be visiting – night time road closures; boys with guns on every rooftop and somewhat farcical foot patrols. But Tibetans are a tough mob – it takes a special breed to eke out centuries of existence in a frozen and vertiginous equivalent of the Nullabor plain.

 

 

 

 

Monasteries and temples are the order of the day in Tibet and despite visiting dozens, we never tired of them. Not at all museum-like, wafts of juniper incense and yak butter and the chanting of pilgrims making their fluid kora were a feast for the senses. Our diminutive guide, Chongla, liked to keep us on our toes with pop quizzes on the various images. Given how often we muddled up our Sakyamuni Buddhas with our Tantric masters, we were glad she didn’t employ the methods of reprimand used by monks in their debates, which involves an enthusiastic “whack!” delivered an inch from the face when you blunder the answer to an esoteric question. We eventually concluded that the more we learnt about Tibetan Buddhism, the more it completely mystified us, although I suspect that trying to explain the mechanics of the Holy Trinity to a Tibetan might have a similar effect.

 

A foreboding, silent monolith in a sea of Mandarin neon, Potala Palace is unrivalled in its dominance of the Lhasa skyline. Our first glimpse of the Dalai Lama’s winter residence and the seat of Tibetan government came on the late night ride from the brand new, gigantic train station on the outskirts of town, which rises out of nowhere like the Death Star. All at once, we felt excited, privileged, saddened and weighed down by the living out of a long-held dream. When visiting a few days later, we expected the building to be empty but were surprised to see that much of the interior survived the iconoclastic rampage of Mao’s Red Guards. That said, only a handful of the 1,000-odd rooms are open to visitors. Most definitely off-limits are those which might be construed as having a political element, such as the stupa housing the remains of the 13th Dalai Lama, the current Dalai Lama’s predecessor and no friend of China.

Earlier the same day we visited Norbulingka, the Dalai Lama’s traditional summer residence and where the current Dalai Lama spent much of his youth. Less visited than the other sites of Lhasa, we had plenty of time to wander the grounds and ponder what was left. One of the more fascinating and odd exhibits was a room full of horse-drawn carts gifted to the Dalai Lama by various heads of state and royalty on his coronation in 1950, a reminder that there was no motorised transport in Tibet at the time. Also on display was a small tricycle, which a monk explained had been the Dalai Lama’s 7th birthday gift from his English tutor. The living quarters were constructed in 1956 and in contrast to Potala, which is truly fit for a living deity, they are very modest – although there is a western toilet and a bathtub, which is a luxury in Tibet even in 2009.

I don’t think any of us will forget the sight of the empty throne in the main reception hall, robes folded and patiently awaiting their owner’s return. Hidden in an inaccessible corner of the room is the only picture of His Holiness tolerated in Tibet – a mural depicting a very young man, yet to acquire his trademark spectacles. Chongla was understandably reluctant to discuss politics – Lhasa is reputedly crawling with informers – but as we sat in silence in the courtyard outside, she casually remarked that although the buildings are full of beautiful things, they feel empty.

 

 

 

 

After four days in Lhasa, we began our journey that would see us deposited at the Nepali border. As if all the spectacular cultural sites weren’t enough, the Tibetan countryside also threw up some of the most jaw-dropping scenery of our travels. Every day it seemed we would cross another 5000m pass, marvel at yet another technicolour lake or glimpse an “8000-er” in the distance. Our penultimate night in Tibet was to be spent at Everest Base Camp, the details of which we hadn’t given much thought to – that is until our hungover driver started inventing reasons not to go. No chance, Tenzing! So after arriving in the dark and being shown to our dismal and overpriced digs, we glanced up and there she was: Mt Everest, or Chomolongma (Saint Mother) as the Tibetans know her, faintly lit up by a crescent moon and towering right above us. This magnificent sight was some consolation for having to pee in the carpark during the night, as the toilets were a special type of wrongness to be avoided at all costs.

 

On the suggestion of our recalcitrant driver, we were ready to go before dawn the next morning – only to wait around for him in the cold and the dark for 40 minutes until he graced us with his presence and drove us the short way to the viewpoint. Reliably informed by a fellow tourist that it was -10C, we stamped our feet as the first rays lit up the mountainside… and we felt very, very small. The prayer flags we carried up there and unfurled will hopefully fly in our Perth backyard one day.* When we could stand the cold no longer, we retreated to the car and about three hours later, began to feel our fingers and toes again.

The tale our journey through wonderful Tibet would not be complete without mention of Ryan & Jo, who foolishly agreed to be our travelling partners so many months ago. Wonderfully good-humoured and with a remarkable capacity for yak and potato consumption, we’re very glad they weren’t too put off by Linds’ incongruous references to Spinal Tap amidst the Plain of Jars.

*Uh, slight problem dudes – you have to acquire a house first?!