Day 4, Pokhara and Kathmandu

April 26, 2009

I don’t remember when was the last time I began my morning with such a beautiful sight as I did today. I went to Sarangkot and spent my morning watching the sun rise from behind the mountains. I was awed watching the Himalayas materializing in front of me as the sun rose higher in the sky. But my excitement soon died as I discovered that during this time of the year the visibility is poor because of the fog hanging over the valley and one can barely make out the presence of the huge snow-capped peaks lining the horizon. I had to satisfy myself with the obscure image of mountain range and head back to town.

As I had my breakfast in my hotel, it occurred to me that I was encouraging globalisation - An Indian, eating French toast and omelette in a hotel at the foothills of Himalayas in the country of Sherpas and Gurkhas.

I spent the rest of my morning in the town of Pokhara. I must admit that I felt rather conscious. The people here with their petite physiques, perfect figures, flawless skin and glowing hair gave me a complex. I couldn’t even carry off the tourist look because I don’t have the advantage of foreign tourists and look more like a local. I also noticed that I felt like a giant around the locals, taller and stronger (a lot of people actually asked me if I am into sports fulltime) than most people here.


Firangi tourists can be categorised into two groups. The younger ones are usually alone or with a partner, generally taking time off work or study and backpacking, probably showing interest in activities like trekking and rafting. They live in cheap hotels or guest houses, use the public transportation to get around and spend time reading books at local cafes. They are primarily here for the experience of living in a place like this. The older ones, however, are here to visit and travel in groups. They put up in star hotels, have a guide and a bus exclusively for themselves and tour the city’s most important places taking pictures.

After a morning of musings and cursing myself for choosing the wrong time to come to Pokhara (I couldn’t see the Himalayas at all), I returned to Kathmandu in the same plane that brought me here yesterday.

From the Kathmandu airport, I went straight to Bhaktapur. The same guide that showed me around Kathmandu the day before yesterday picked me up from the airport and drove me to Bhaktapur. I had thought the roads in Kathmandu were bad. But I soon discovered that the roads around Kathmandu were worse. There was a thick layer of brown coloured dust over the entire stretch of the road.


By the time I reached Bhaktapur, I felt dirty (literally, not figuratively). I could taste dirt in my mouth and feel it on my hands. But I tried to ignore it and focus on what I had come to see. Bhaktapur is an old town, the capital city of one of the kings in the past, and is full of temples, squares, alleys and old houses. It reminded me very much of Italia.

My dinner was a special treat from my travel agent. We went to an old Nepali house turned restaurant for authentic Nepali food. I can’t say that I was looking forward to it because by then I had a vague idea of what Nepali food tastes like (it is so difficult being a masala loving Indian). But I wanted the experience more than the food. I wasn’t disappointed. The place was neatly decorated and was full of firangis. We were entertained with Nepali dances and folk songs. I barely touched my food but just out of sheer curiosity, tried the Nepali vine offered to me. I reckon that I barely had a few drops of the drink. My throat started burning and I could actually feel the heat coming out of my ears. It is so much easier to be a non alcoholic. My fellow guests seemed to be having a good time. For the last dance of the night, most of the guests joined the dancers on the floor. After a little hesitation, I threw caution to wind and joined them. I am on a holiday after all. What is the point if my senses don’t take a leave like I did?