Roadside tragedy, maoists and mountains

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• Entry from Bandipur, ABC, Pokara, Patan

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  Bandipur, ABC, Pokara, Patan, Nepal
Sunday, November 26, 2006

With the help of his exceptionally surly assistant/money collector/co-pilot our driver expertly swerves around parked cars, buses and trucks inching our bus westward along the Kathmandu - Pokkara "highway" (a busy and winding riverside road fraught with many accidents.) The vehicle is much too new to be this noisy and decrepit. The front of the dust covered bus is filled with about a dozen passengers and our belongings. We sit on child-sized seats, as well as the padded engine block cover. Essentially we are sandwiched between the side door, the windshield and the driver's chair. I probably should have opted for a spot on the less crowded roof of the bus and traveled in comfort with great views. (Having flagged the vehicle down in Dumre, a dust bowl town halfway to Pokkara, there are few options.) Amusingly enough, I pine for the equally aged but more spacious vehicles of India...now that's true insanity.The bus rolls to what is now a very determined and final stop, rattling and shuddering as the engine is turned off and the driver jumps out.

The road is packed with people milling about. Many are eating at wooden shacks turned food-stalls. After a huge meal of rice, dahl, curried potatoes, pickled vegetables and papadam, all washed down with sweet chai, I return to the bus to find it nearly vacant. Almost everyone has started walking. In typical Nepali fashion, nobody seems to be agitated, nor even complaining. Everyone (except for a stressed group of very out of place tourists with their Samsonite suitcases, attempting to hire porters) accepts the predicament and moves on. The only information I have regarding the transformation of this stretch of road into a massive parking lot is that there has been "an accident."

Joining the last two Nepalis on our bus, we begin our walk, passing a wide assortment of vehicles - old Tata trucks covered in gangrenous rust, carrying livestock, fruits and vegetables, bamboo poles, passengers, bicycles or all of the above; new, shiny SUVs with wealthy Nepalis and tourists; small minivans missing metal panels; many motorcycles; a water tanker truck or gasoline truck; and a large collection of buses void of their passengers. Ahead, a noticeably large and stationary group of people has formed in the middle of the road. Obviously the site of the accident, yet I do not see the pile-up of vehicles I was expecting. In the midst of the crowd lies a body. It's covered with a dark cloth, several sticks of burning incense close by. A small pool of dried blood remains visible on the pavement. Having no need nor desire to loiter, we quickly move beyond the horrible sight. On the side of the road an emotionally charged group of people is in the midst of a heated confrontation with police and army personnel. After many not-so-informative discussions I piece together the circumstances surrounding the corpse on the road. Late last night a 22 year old man was hit by a bus. The vehicle never stopped. His family is demanding reparations, legal action, some accountability - near impossible requests on the roads of Nepal. Until then, the family and friends refuse to let traffic pass.Interestingly the authorities dare not force their hand. Later that evening, after hours of walking and paying inflated prices to an opportunistic low-life who rented a bus to capitalize on the situation, I arrive in Pokkara. (Later I learn that the "blockade" only opened early the following day.) The experience serves as a constant reminder of the many hardships Nepalis face, living within a society currently fraught with a great deal of political instability, corruption, violence and oppression. Having little choice, they do what they have to, attempting to take justice in their own hands.

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We arrive at Annapurna Base Camp - a small gathering of spartan, stone guest houses (and a volleyball court) surrounded on three sides by the massive 25,000 foot peaks of the Annapurna range and Machhapuchhre. The top of Annapurna South - the only visible peak - appears to rest on a thick blanket of clouds that are slowly being forced up the canyon. Not having an escape route they end their journey at the base of the steep, impregnable walls of ice, snow and rock. I connect with a few hilarious Spanish guys -hardcore mountain men from the Pyrenees, sporting an abundance of hair in the form of natty beards and natty dreads, temporarily subsisting solely on ramen noodles and chai. We head to the makeshift volleyball court to join the porters and guides for a game of free for all, keep no score, anyone who feels like it can serve as many times as they choose, no out of bounds but watch out for the rocks, high altitude volleyball. A porter - no taller than 5'3", wearing shorts, sandals and a blue woolen NY Yankees hat - repeatedly jumps 4 feet up in the air and spikes the ball over the net. There is no stopping him. However, some of the others, although displaying amazing adeptness on the trail can't seem to manage enough coordination to hit the ball without sending it careening in every direction imaginable. The weather begins to change - it's snowing and the temperature has dropped to "very cold". But we continue playing wearing a few extra layers, gloves, hats, down coats and boots. The previously dry but frozen mud becomes slick, making for frequent wipe-outs, as well as person on person and person on net collisions. In the distance are the loud, thundering thuds of avalanches. Occasionally, rays of sun mysteriously find small holes in the blanket of clouds and shine like spotlights on our increasingly messy (and painful) game.

The next morning I wake to 6 inches of fresh Himalaya pow-pow...where are the fat boards when you really need them! A few of us braving the cold and dark leave the comfort of our warm sleeping bags to see the sunrise. I trudge up a narrow ridge in the shadow of Annapurna South, working my way towards the string of Tibetan prayer flags - the point where hiking becomes mountaineering. Beyond lies glaciers filled with menacing crevasses. Also visible are the small clouds of snow dust above the slide-paths of the frequent avalanches. With the sun inching its way up, the mountains take on varying hues of red, pink and purple. Below, the clouds moving in have already enveloped the guest houses in a blanket of white,  having in a most stingy manner allowed for a very short period of perfect visibility. I head down the ridge joining Chirring and a few others for breakfast before our rapid descent.

The downward journey takes us through a box like canyon of vertical granite slabs, followed by a dark and moss-covered pine and rhododendron forest, mixed in with occasional clumps of bamboo, ferns and ganja. A day and a half after leaving ABC we arrive at the sizable and picturesque Gurung village of Ghandruk. A permanent settlement - not just a few guest houses selling apple pie and pizza to trekkers - built on a hillside, the sturdy houses of stone and walled-in alleyways, feel fortress-like. Barefoot women wearing red scarves work together to harvest rice piled high in the courtyards of their homes. Men,  with a few exceptions, loiter about. Water buffalo work the neighboring fields of millet and rice. We are accosted by a horde of hyperactive and very happy children, wearing blue and white uniforms returning from school. Their faces glowing, noses dripping gallons of snot, rosy cheeks showing the cold. Across the valley, up the steep forested hill from the river and the relaxing hot springs of Jinna lies Landruk. Landruk - the site of last week's case of Maoist induced mountain madness.

In hindsight, my behavior was slightly absurd but to quote someone (I have no idea who...maybe it's not even a quote) - "look for the ridiculous in everything and you will find it". Suffice it to say that at the time I could not control my temper. I was mired and sliding deeper into the messy and murky zone of "BUT IT'S THE PRINCIPLE..." Of course, by no means do I regret vociferously protesting the actions of Maoists forcing donations. (Personally, my second.) But entering into an increasingly heated argument while seated across a desk from a dogmatic, robotron, petty bureaucrat armed with basic yet annoyingly powerful hardware - pen, ink pad, rubber stamp, notebook, lock box and receipt book - is a waste of time and energy. Perhaps I should not have compared the Maoists to a well organized group of unethical and petty thieves using children to fight their battles, while disguising their violent and oppressive actions behind the facade of a provenly failed and wholly brutal political theory. (To their credit, they have been integral in ending the tirade of monarchy rule.) After my outburst, highly amusing interpretations of the "Marc vs. Maoists" scene surface as told that evening by several local onlookers. One version had me throwing off my pack and preparing to enter into physical battle with the Maoist officer (fat chance...), the other, had me on the verge of receiving a bamboo caning. The second was probably closer to the truth.

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fountains - bandipur	grouting - bandipur	harvest	kicking back
Macchapucchre, fields	man - bandipur	maoist (maobadi) poster	meat used for sacrifices - patan
mom and daughter - bandipur	mountains around anapurna	namaste - bandipur	on the way up to anapurna base camp
one of the views from abc base camp	smoke - bandipur	the don - bandipur	the elements - massive mt, snow, sun
the hand - bandipur	view from ghandruk	volleyball at 14,000 feet-abc	waiitng for the jeep to fill up - bandipur
waiting - bandipur

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