We first visited the Himalayas region in 1998 (a trip described in VISA Autumn 1999). This year we decided to return, thereby revisiting Nepal, and adding Bhutan and Tibet to our ‘list of countries visited’. Cathy thus realized a long-held ambition to visit Tibet. For me, on the other hand, the main selling point was the opportunity to visit the remote mountain kingdom of Bhutan, as yet little penetrated by tourists.
We flew to Bhutan via Delhi, the first part of the trip with Royal Jordanian Airlines, changing planes en route at Amman. The flight to Amman went smoothly, bur from there to Delhi was something of a performance. It was necessary to go though Indian customs, even though we were not for now staying in the country. Nor can Delhi’s Indira Gandhi terminal be classed as one of the world’s more customer friendly airports. We had to find our way to the poorly signposted departure area, necessitating going outside the terminal, then lugging our reclaimed luggage up a long flight of steps, as the solitary lift was out of action. Checking in was also good fun!
But we enjoyed our flight with Bhutan’s national airline Druk (meaning dragon) Air. There were marvellous views of the Himalayas, including of Everest. The in-flight hospitality was excellent. On this fairly short flight, we were served a tasty curry. It is interesting that this very small airline can provide such fare when all BA can come up with on its short haul flights to the Continent are tired-looking salads.
Bhutan was, until recently, almost entirely isolated from the outside world. Paro has the country’s only international airport and it opened as late as 1983. Previously they depended on the road to the Indian border, a 7 hour drive from the capital, Thimphu, as their main link to the rest of humanity. Paro, spotlessly clean and built in the form of a Bhutanese dzong (a fortress-cum-monastery), is one of the nicest airports we have been through. I wondered why it was located here and not in the capital. The reason was obvious when we moved on to Thimphu: there is simply no room in its narrow valley for an international airport. Only the Paro Valley is wide enough; even here, steep ascents and descents are necessary.
We stayed for the night in the Gantey Palace hotel, a little outside the picturesque town of Paro. This really was built, in the nineteenth century, to resemble a palace, so is the kind of place that in England would have been converted by now into a luxury country hotel. It was actually fairly basic, but we liked it: it was decorated in the distinctive Bhutanese style and here, as elsewhere in this tiny country, the people were charming. Hotel meals in Bhutan are invariably buffet style. During our stay, we experienced the good and the not-so-good. One can count on any buffet including the national dish, a lethal combination of hot chillies, cooked as a vegetable, with cheese.
Tourism is still in its infancy in Bhutan. Until 1974, visitors could only enter the country as a guest of the royal family. Nowadays tourists are welcomed, but the industry is managed in such a way as to keep numbers fairly low. There is no use expecting the full array of Western-style tourist facilities. There is a hit and miss aspect to getting a decent bath. Going to the toilet is often a case of ‘fertilizing nature’ as our Bhutanese guide, Kado, put it. On the other hand, McDonalds, Benetton and so on have yet to discover Bhutan!
This remains an unspoilt country and the Bhutanese are one of the friendliest people anywhere - many were the waves from passers-by as we drove along, not our experience in the other countries visited. Bhutan is a poor country, though less so than Nepal. But we saw no stomach-churning poverty and begging is virtually unknown. On one of our stops, I expressed concern that a window in our unattended bus had been left open. “But this is Bhutan,” remonstrated Kado. There is scarcely any risk of being robbed or attacked, at least by the two-legged variety of animal (the four-legged variety i.e. the packs of wild dogs that roam freely around night-time Thimphu are another matter). Our small group of six had taken Bhutan to our hearts by the time we left.
Bhutan is not a democracy in the modern Western sense; rather, it is a paternalistic monarchy. As far as I can judge, the King, who apparently has a fairly simple lifestyle, has the good of his people at heart. I was impressed by the emphasis placed here on what is termed “gross national happiness” - spiritual as well as material. This makes a pleasing change from back home, where Tony Blair drones on endlessly about ‘modernisation” as if that were an end in itself. (Is all this “modernisation” worth it if we all end up more stressed-out than we’ve ever been?)
There is also emphasis on preserving the country’s traditions and culture. There is even a requirement that, for their daytime jobs, men wear the national costume, comprising a gho. Any Bhutanese reader will, I hope, not be offended if I say that our nearest equivalent is a dressing gown. Kado wore his with a Nike T-shirt changing in the evening to a pair of tracksuit bottoms!
There are aspects of Bhutanese culture which might give us in the West problems. Certainly being obliged to walk around in national costume would not go down well in our country! Less acceptable still is that, to earn themselves ‘merits’ and thus stand a better chance of being reincarnated as something other than an insect, parents can decide to put their young children into monasteries. Moreover one has to stay a monk for life - “this is not like Thailand,” Kado told us.
Our programme in Paro included a visit to the National Museum, worthwhile for the architecture alone. A substantial area is set aside for an impressive collection of stamps. Bhutan is renowned in philatelic circles for its numerous and striking issues - there is even a ‘talking stamp’, to be played like a gramophone record.
We then travelled up the scenic Paro Valley, as far as the mined Drukgyel Dzong. En route, we passed what is perhaps Bhutan’s most well-known landmark, the Taktshang Monastery, also known as the Tiger’s Nest, perched atop its cliff. In happier circumstances, we might have climbed up to it. But it was devastated by fire a couple of years ago. The King has decreed that it will be rebuilt, but the authorities have yet to set an auspicious date for work to start.
We moved onto Thimphu the next day, staying at the Riverview Hotel, which almost manages to meet the usual expectations of a western tourist. There are fine views over the city, though we were some distance from its attractive centre. Thimphu became the capital only in 1961 and is still more of an overgrown village than a city. Alone among world capitals, it has no traffic lights. Some were installed a few years ago, but the residents did not like them, preferring the traffic to be directed by gesticulating policemen in their picturesque pavilions. An unusual attraction in Thimphu is a petrol station shaped like a small dzong!
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| Dzong in Punakha |
One somewhat bizarre aspect of the Bhutanese rural scene, probably not replicated anywhere else in the world, is the adornment of the exterior of some houses with a depiction of the external genitalia of the human male. I surmised that this might be part of a family planning campaign, comparable to the jolly-looking condoms seen on posters in Nepal. Not so. The phallus evidently helps to ward off evil spirits.
Punakha does not in truth offer very much apart from its magnificent dzong. Much of it was, a few years ago, rebuilt in a new location nearby following disastrous foods. But given our fascinating tour of the dzong, as well as the superb scenery en route, we considered our day to have been very well spent.
Next day we headed south to the Indian border, pausing to visit another picturesque dzong, Simtokha. The road was wonderfully scenic though the going was hard in places as much damage had been caused by the devastating monsoons which had swept this part of the world a few weeks earlier. Possibly one of the most spectacular changes in landscape anywhere in the world is the descent from the Himalayan foothills (which are still very high) to the Plains of Bengal.
We stayed overnight in the town of Phuntsholing. This is still in Bhutan but right on the border and feels more Indian than Bhutanese. It forms a single urban area with the Indian town of Jaigaon, the boundary being marked by a ceremonial arch across the main street. The immigration offices on both sides are located a good distance further away, so foreigners and locals alike can go back and forth across the border with no let or hindrance. Jaigaon is part of a strip of territory, known as the Duars, which used to be in Bhutan but was annexed by the British in the 1860s.
We next headed for the Indian hill town of Darjeeling. An Indian guide, Louis, took over from Kado. But he did not look very Indian, resembling more a Nepalese or Bhutanese. He explained to us that the Darjeeling area, whose population is predominantly of Nepalese descent, is trying to break away from the Indian province of West Bengal, whose main city is Calcutta. They are happy to stay in India, but want their own province, Gorkhaland. There has in the past been unrest in the area. When our daughter, who travelled round India during her gap year, wanted to go to Darjeeling, she found that it was off-limits to tourists. But all is peaceful now.
The scenery today was very different from any encountered so far, taking us through the flat Bengal plains, albeit with the mountains of Bhutan, and then Sikkim visible to our right. At one point we paused to look at some ladies picking tea. I felt we were being a bit voyeuristic, but Louis assured us that they didn’t mind and that it was OK to photograph them. Theirs must be a wearying task though at least, unlike rice pickers, they don’t have to stoop as the bushes grow quite high. They nevertheless managed, in their colourful saris, to present a picture of serenity.
After a while we were again climbing up into the foothills, along a road with, it seemed, countless steep hairpins. For the last few miles we followed the route of the celebrated Toy Train, which mostly runs along the road. This is by no means ‘touristy’. It is a vital link for this remote area, running all the way to the city of Siliguri, down in the Plains, to connect with the rest of the Indian rail network.
Darjeeling has grown considerably since the days when British settlers fled here to escape the heat of the Plains. The adjective ‘tranquil’ is not really applicable anymore! But our hotel, the New Elgin, still seems clearly rooted in bygone days. It’s charmingly old-fashioned, yet is still going strong. The nearby Windamere (sic), another Raj-era hotel which we popped into, looks, by contrast, as if it has known better days.
Just one thing was wrong at the New Elgin - no plug for the bath. Reception told us that they don’t give guests plugs as there is a drive to conserve water. But we’re not shower people. Cathy, a member of the Guide movement for many years, had packed our own plug!
We had two nights in Darjeeling and I had fancifully supposed that at least for one day we could take things easy and maybe have a bit of a lie-in. So we got up at 4.00am! This was to go up Tiger Hill to see the sun rise. The punishingly early start was well worthwhile. This was a magnificent spectacle. The Himalayas stretched before us, with Kanchenjunga, the world’s third highest mountain, right in front of us and Everest visible in the distance. Afterwards, we came across some Indian tourists who’d organised an impromptu song-and-dance session, which they invited our party to join.
We did have a bit of spare time later in the day, partly spent browsing round the town’s historic bookshop, which has just about every publication going on the Himalayas Region. Our visits included the Tibetan Refugee Centre. This was a moving experience and neither Cathy nor I were able to stay entirely dry-eyed. It was set up by the sister-in-law of the Dalai Lama, just after he fled to India in 1959.
It’s a going concern with a range of articles on sale, credit cards accepted. But it is sad indeed to see old ladies who fled with the Dalai Lama, and who will surely never see again their land on the other side of the mountains, though they dare to hope otherwise. The various workshops are adorned with pictures of the current (14th) Dalai Lama, which are strictly forbidden in Tibet itself. One finds, too, pictures of Indian Prime Ministers, starting with Nehru, out of gratitude, no doubt, for India’s hospitality.
This inevitably rekindled my doubts about whether going to Tibet is consistent with ethical tourism. On balance, I still think it is. The presence of tourists is a means of ensuring that the Chinese behave in relatively civilized fashion, compared to past misdeeds (nay, crimes), though the situation is obviously very far indeed from ideal. On the other hand, I definitely would not go to Burma. Is this being consistent? Perhaps not.
Next day we again descended to the Plains, closely following the route of the Toy Train for almost its whole distance, right into the suburbs of Siliguri. Then we veered right to the Nepalese border, where we said farewell to Louis. All we had now was a Nepalese driver who spoke no English. Our objective was the airport at Biritnagar, Nepal’s second city. It cannot be said that this was one of the more enjoyable parts of the tour. Our driver hared along at breakneck speed. At first we gave him credit for wanting to get us to the airport in good time but, before long, it became apparent that our bus had run out of brake fluid. A duck waddling across the road barely escaped with its life. It’s as well we did not collide with a cow. These animals are sacred in Hindu Nepal and killing one can result in a jail sentence. At the next town we came to a dramatic, but fortunately harmless, halt and some brake fluid was acquired.
Our journey was not through a part of Nepal that tourists come to see. This region, in the southeast of the Nepalese rectangle, is generally flat and uninteresting. All in all, we were glad when we finally got to the airport, a scruffy and rather chaotic place where we finally got our plane to Kathmandu.
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| Nyatapola temple, Bhaktapur |
It was still early afternoon and there was time for an unscheduled trip to the city off Bhaktapur (sometimes known as Rhadgaon), a dozen miles or so along the Khatmandu Valley. We had been here during our previous visit and were delighted to have the chance to go a second time. It is widely regarded as Nepal’s most beautiful city and may well be one of the most beautiful in all of Asia.
This is an unspoilt city, frozen in time. Thanks to our charming Nepalese guide, Mukesh, our tour was more comprehensive than last time. He left the very best bit to last, Durbar Square. Unlike in Kathmandu’s equivalent, one can wander round without being hassled by the world’s most assertive traders. We enjoyed a good dinner in our hotel’s Indian restaurant located on the top floor of this high-rise building, so affording fine views of Kathmandu by night.
Next morning we were off on our travels again, this time to Pokhara, to the west of Kathmandu, entailing a scenic drive of some six hours. We had done this same drive during our previous stay in Nepal hut on that occasion I had been in a somewhat apprehensive frame of mind for our accommodation that night was to be a tent - definitely not my scene (we were starting a four day trek, which turned out to be very enjoyable). This time our accommodation was to be very different.
A little before reaching Pokhara, we turned off down an unmade track which continued a good couple of miles or so, past outlying settlements and farms. This did not look at all promising - where on earth were we heading? At the very end of this track was a surprise - a splendid new five-star hotel, the Fulbhari Resort.
I did have qualms about enjoying this five-star luxury in the midst of one of the world’s poorest countries. The fact is, though, that the Nepalese economy is vitally dependent on tourism. A number of new jobs have been created by this hotel. It was owned by a Nepalese entrepreneur, not an international chain, and has been sensitively designed to reflect the local culture. In the evening we enjoyed a show by Nepalese dancers, held in an outside courtyard.
Pokhara is the second most visited tourist destination in Nepal, though in my view it is not a particularly interesting or attractive city. “It’s not like Bhaktapur,” Mukesh told us, a trifle unnecessarily. People do not for the most part come here to admire the city itself, but for its location, which is alongside beautiful Lake Phewa, with the Annapurna range providing a spectacular backdrop. This is the starting point for a good many treks.
Local sights included a temple, our enjoyment of which was not exactly enhanced by the sight of a cockerel being prepared for sacrifice. We managed not to be around when they chopped its head off (In Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, by contrast, a living sacrifice is maintained, in the form of a goat tethered outside one of the temples. There is no threat to the animal’s life and it is well looked after. If I were that goat, I’d resent the loss of freedom to roam around.) The main highlight was our trip by canoe across to a small island in Lake Phewa, on which there is a Hindu shrine.
We would have loved to have at least one more night in Pokhara, to enjoy the hotel and draw breath after our whirlwind itinerary. But it was back to Kathmandu the next day. Our journey did not lack adventure. We had got out of Pokhara, and a bit beyond the river where coach drivers in underpants wash their vehicles, when we came to a queue of traffic. This was most unexpected and something, clearly, was wrong. Mukesh went to investigate. The Communist Party had decided to organise a demonstration against rising prices. As a result the road would be blocked for a couple of hours.
We were relieved that it was Communists, not Maoists, who were causing the hold-up. The difference is important. Nepal prides itself on being a Westminster-style democracy - yes, they do use that expression - and the Communists are fairly respectable, being the main Opposition Party and having actually been in power for a period during the mid-nineties. Maoist insurgency, by contrast, is developing into a serious problem for Nepal. It is confined to remote regions in the western part of the country so does not affect any of the areas which we visited. Maybe it is not surprising that there is unrest, given the extreme poverty in the regions concerned. But, in view of the proximity to Tibet, and the cruelties inflicted on it in the name of Maoist doctrine, I am rather surprised that anyone in Nepal signs up to, let alone fights for, that selfsame doctrine.
Mukesh wisely decided to head back to Pokhara for lunch. Here, in one of those startling contrasts one so often finds in this part of the world, we emerged from a noisy and crowded street into an oasis of calm, a restaurant on the shore of tranquil Lake Phewa, where I enjoyed, or all things, an excellent Wiener Schnitzel. Our second attempt to travel back to Kathmandu passed without incident, the demonstration having finished on schedule.
Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, was our next port of call. The flight over the Himalayas from Kathmandu must be one of the most spectacular anywhere. One gets far closer to Everest than on the special sightseeing flights. The landscape changes abruptly, once one reaches Tibetan airspace. The mountains give way to the vast, flat and barren plain, which is treeless because of the altitude. We really had arrived on the Roof of the World.
Passage through Lhasa Airport was remarkably smooth. No searches were made of our luggage albeit I’d assumed that they’d make sure we weren’t smuggling in pictures of the Dalai Lama or suchlike. Right outside was a tall post flying the in-your-face-red flag of the People’s Republic of China; the visitor is left in no doubt who are the masters here.
The airport lies a remarkable distance, a good fifty miles or so, from the capital. One travels along just about the only decent highway in Tibet. On our way into town we had the usual three tourist stops. First we were shown a monastery which had been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution - political correctness, Chinese style, nowadays permits this to be mentioned. We were told that there are plans to rebuild it. Next, as we drove along the shore of a large lake, we stopped to admire some yak skin boats, proudly displayed by their owners. Thirdly we came to the Stone Buddha, carved out of rock face. Soon in the distance the unmistakable image of the Potala loomed in the distance.
Lhasa was at first something of a surprise, with its wide tree-lined thoroughfares and modern buildings. In fact we were in West Lhasa, not part of the traditional city and mainly inhabited by Han Chinese immigrants. Here was our hotel, the Lhasa Hotel, formerly the Holiday Inn. That really is what the sign at the entrance says! The Holiday Inn chain pulled out in 1997, under pressure from pro-Tibet groups, but the brochures in the Lobby for their other hotels in the People’s Republic led us to surmise that some sort of link still exists. It is virtually the only hotel in Tibet which attains, more or less, the standards generally expected by westerners.
Shortly after booking our holiday, I’d stumbled across an interesting and entertaining book in Waterstone’s, Running a Hotel on the Roof of the World, written by Alec le Sueur, who’d spent five years as a manager at the Holiday Inn. Here he’d invariably been known as Mr Alec as the Tibetan employees could not cope with his Channel Islands surname. His stint had started in the late eighties but, as far as I could see, little had changed since. He clearly regarded the employees with affection, at the same time finding them exasperating. Trying to get them to understand what was expected of them in a four-star hotel was a major undertaking, which to this day has not been entirely successful. For example, a notice in the foyer proclaimed that there was a choice of no less than five restaurants. Three of these had closed down, presumably for the winter. This came as news to the receptionist. We suggested that she had the notice changed but of course nothing was done.
Similarly there is a fine new leisure centre. Pity though that the two restaurants there were also closed. And that the well-equipped gym was in darkness, as were the changing rooms. This was despite the fact that I had come (to have a look, not to exercise!) during the rather extraordinary opening hours, announced on the door as being from 5.00pm to 1.00am. There seemed to be some sort of staff presence, so I suppose someone would have switched the lights on had they been asked.
In the afternoon we explored the Jokhang temple. Our drive took us past the Potala. Someone in our group, who’d been to Beijing, remarked that the adjoining open space resembled Tiananmen Square. This is no coincidence. It never used to look that way. The Chinese had actually paved over a river in order to create this square. They are to be thanked too for a hideous statue of a golden calf, sorry yak, built to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of Tibet’s ‘liberation’.
The Jokhang by contrast lies in old Lhasa, the eastern half, and is utterly Tibetan. Cathy remarked how surprised she was that it felt so Tibetan - there was no discernible overlay of Chinese influence. It is an amazing place, almost medieval - yet one emerges into adjoining Barkhor Square to see a sign pointing one towards Internet and e-mail facilities! Monks go about their business and pilgrims pour in from remote parts of the “Tibetan Autonomous Region”.
The smell of yak butter lamps, a new one for us, is all pervading. Religious tolerance exists, it seemed, and one could almost believe that Chinese rule is after all benign. The excesses of the Cultural Revolution are long past and some monasteries and temples have been rebuilt and repaired, including the Jokhang itself, which did not escape the attentions of the Red Guards. (The Potala was untouched only because Chou En-lai, the human face of Maoist China, personally ordered his own loyal guards to protect the building.) But one should not be lulled into complacency: this is a vicious police state still and the devout face continuing discrimination, albeit of a more subtle kind than in the past.
In the evening we dined at the Hard Yak restaurant, back in our hotel. What else could order in such a place but yak? (I hasten to add that the menu does offer other choices.) During our stay in Lhasa I had yak three times in all - yak in pepper sauce, sizzling yak, and yak with walnuts. But I didn’t get round to trying our hotel’s most celebrated offering, the Great Yakburger. I didn’t make any of the last bit up. Yak tastes a bit like beef and I enjoyed all three meals.
The next morning was devoted to exploring the Potala. This really is a magical mystery tour, an amazing experience. We paid a bit extra to go up on the roof, which, as might be imagined, affords fine views over Lhasa. The afternoon visits left us feeling sad and/or angry. Firstly we visited the Norbulingka Palace. Built as recently as the fifties, this is where the Dalai Lama lived before he fled to India.
Close by was the newly opened Tibetan Museum. Insofar as this signifies that the Chinese do now accept, and maybe even respect, Tibetan culture, it is, I suppose, a good thing. But the political spin is sickening. The Tibetans are, one is invited to believe, a happy people enjoying the fruits of forty glorious years of socialism. Not a word about the Cultural Revolution, the desecration of countless monasteries and the persecution of their inhabitants, and the deaths of over a million Tibetans.
One should not view pre-1959 Tibet through rose-coloured glasses: this was no Shangri-la. It was a needlessly backward and impoverished state, a theocracy in which the monks resisted just about any form of worthwhile change, including the establishment of an army worthy of that name, which might have provided some form of effective resistance to the Chinese invaders. None of this justifies the imposition of Chinese Communist rule, or the resultant excesses. The Tibetans should have been allowed to work out their own destiny.
Historically China has exercised some form of suzerainty over Tibet, a point made ad nauseam in the Museum. But, under the Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek, China did not assert its authority and Tibet was effectively independent. Under Mao, it was not just Chinese rule, but Communism - a form of government to which Tibet is peculiarly unsuited - that was ruthlessly imposed, with devastating consequences, albeit in Lhasa, as elsewhere in the present-day People’s Republic, capitalism now thrives.
Will the Chinese ever leave? Even a dozen years ago, scarcely anyone believed that the USSR would ever let Czechoslovakia, say, go its own way, let alone constituent Republics such as Estonia. But it is hard to imagine China imploding in the same way as the USSR. The Tibetans’ best hope is that some day a Chinese Gorbachev will rise to power.
When we had booked this trip, we were supposed to have had a third night in Lhasa, the extra day to be spent visiting two important monasteries just outside the city, Drepung and Sera. Just a few days before departing our tour company informed us that our return flight to Kathmandu had been cancelled. The only alternative was overland with an overnight stop somewhere in Tibet. We were advised that the journey would be “arduous” and the accommodation “basic”. We would supposedly be travelling through “spectacular mountainous terrain”. We did not wish to cancel or postpone at this late stage a holiday to which we had greatly been looking forward, and the overland trip would be an interesting adventure.
All was at first well as we headed firstly towards the airport along the one decent highway. A metalled road of sorts continued as far as Shigatse, Tibet’s second city. Here we briefly paused, to admire but not visit, the city’s sumptuous monastery. The scenery was not at all mountainous or spectacular. Tibet is not a pretty place. For hour after hour, we were driving along the flat, treeless plain - barren, monotonous and really rather depressing. Moreover, away from relatively sanitised Lhasa, we were now perhaps seeing the real Tibet. The people in this oppressed country, to an extent we’d never seen before, even in the poorest of places, looked impoverished, dirty, downtrodden and unhappy. Here begging is the most aggressive that we have yet encountered.
Beyond Shigatse we found ourselves, despite being on the grandiosely named Friendship Highway, travelling along on an unmade road which, in many places, was little more than a rough track. Some three hours later we stopped for a very late lunch in a godforsaken dump called Lhatse. We ate in a truckers’ cafe and the meal was...interesting. I wished I’d remembered the advice in a guidebook: when in rural Tibet, go vegetarian. Any form of meat, even chicken, invariably turns out to be an unwholesome combination of fat, bone and gristle. Our party gave a couple of bowls of soup to some beggars, pleadingly peering into where we were sitting with arms outstretched. The toilets were grim, too, though we were forewarned.
The scenery was more of the same as we went on - and on and on - to our overnight stop in Tingri. Our accommodation here was, we knew, going to be “basic” but we still expected, reasonably enough, a room that was clean, if simple, in a tolerably pleasant lodge or whatever. What we got was the Amdo “hotel” - a squalid slum, which even the most hardened backpacker would try to avoid. The place was a nightmare and neither of us slept. 1 tried to keep my spirits up by thinking of Kathmandu - never was a word such music to my ears!
Some may think that this is a bit of whinging by a pair of cosseted western tourists, afraid of meeting ordinary people in their own surroundings. I do assure readers that we are not like that! This was not a chance to savour a bit of local colour. There was nothing redeeming about this place.
We counted the hours to 7.00am - and departure. The scenery was still uncompromisingly barren and the road very rough. An added bit of fun was that one of the tyres on our land cruiser burst, miles from anywhere. Fortunately our driver had a spare! We paused in the town of Nyalam - about the ugliest we have seen anywhere - to get the damaged tyre fixed. From here on, the scenery at last lived up to the tour company’s promise; this was now a spectacular drive through the Himalayas, though the road was still of very poor quality. The border town of Zhangmu is rather more pleasant than others we had driven through. It is spectacularly located on a switchback road on the mountainside and its long, straggling main street is very narrow. Trouble is that it is ill suited to bear the heavy volume of freight traffic that passes through - there is no by-pass! The bureaucracy at the border is not bad, but one can get considerably delayed just by the logjam of trucks.
At last we made it into Nepal, walking the last few yards across Friendship Bridge, with young kids gamely carrying our heavy suitcases. Somehow the air really did feel sweeter. We were back in the Free World! How great it was to see the smiling faces of Mukesh and of our friendly driver. The contrast between Nepal and Tibet is not just that between beautiful and barren scenery. Somehow the latter really does seem to be of a piece with the mood of the country.
I had been struck by, and on occasions depressed by, the undoubted poverty in which all too many Nepalese live. And yet...there is, relatively speaking, an animation, colour and joie de vivre among the folk here, as well as in India and Bhutan, which is simply not to be found in an oppressive police state such as Tibet.
First published in VISA issues 40-41(spring - summer 2001)
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