Before we left Australia, in the very early stages of planning our trip, the idea of travelling overland from India into Nepal hovered in the distance like a mirage – a bold adventure that would prove our mettle; perhaps earning us the right to call ourselves travellers rather than tourists. We spoke to others who had undertaken the journey and were regaled with tales of triumph over hardship – and some particularly romantic images were conjured by some, like Jane, who told us how she had travelled the last stretch, from the border to Kathmandu, on top of the bus. I imagined her and her husband Nick and her little papoose Sebastian in his sling, as they coasted along the road north and caught their first glimpse of the Himalayas. This was in the late 60s; we were told the transport hadn’t changed very much at all since then.
Last week, we discovered firsthand that it isn’t an easy journey by any stretch but, somehow, despite the language barrier, contrary advice, crowded trains, derelict buses, insane roads and the occasional landslide; it’s not an impossible journey. And it is also very, very cheap.
More importantly, it was an unforgettable journey, full of beautiful moments.
I’ve written a separate blog that outlines all the nuts and bolts, which I have created as stand-alone to submit to the very useful www.seat61.com, which invites contributions from those who travel this route. (We found this website was an invaluable tool during our preliminary research phase.) But, in summary, the journey from A (New Delhi) to B (Pokhara) took us 28 hours (excluding a one night stopover in Bhairawa, on the Nepal side of the border) and cost us only an astonishing US$12.08 each. To put that in perspective, when we got to Nepal it cost us 500 rupees (US$5.65) to get to the hospital and back, and not in an ambulance (but that’s another story…)
I grumbled a lot in advance about the class we chose for the overnight train. I had wanted to book at least 3AC (with air con and another 500 rupees, so hopefully less crowded). But, as David said, how would we know if we could hack it without trying? (And grumbling in advance is usually just my way of avoiding disappointment.) Also, we’d just met a young blonde from the UK as we were booking the tickets and had quizzed her about what each of the fare classes actually meant. She told us the sleeper was fine – there was a fan, after all.
Thank goodness we followed her advice and booked upper berths, because when we found our allocated beds (there are no cabins in sleeper class), we discovered the seats were already occupied by a group of six young Indian Muslims. With some consternation (on both sides) we tried our best to communicate that they were sitting in our seats. I felt the disapproving gaze of one of the men, and I probably deserved it because I wasn’t really dressed for India (I was wearing yoga pants which revealed about 15 centimetres of bare leg from my ankle). He then started smoking so I returned the disapproving gaze. The group eventually relinquished two spaces side by side (not our seats, but close enough was good enough) and the train departed. One of the men, a real peacemaker, with deep eyes and a gentle smile, offered us chocolate biscuits. A little later, the youngest man in the group took out his compass to work out the direction of Mecca and then, amazingly, three of them prayed together in the tiny space between the beds. What a beautiful glimpse into another culture...
Sleeper class really should be called cattle class – there’s lots of metal everywhere and somehow all the extra passengers seemed to get the nod from the conductor which meant there were at least two, and sometimes three, people sitting where (we thought) there should only be one. But this just made the whole adventure incredibly colourful. There were couples and young families and Indian men from all walks of life. It was a kaleidescope of culture. There were no other Westerners in sight.
Luckily, we also had the luxury of retiring alone to our upstairs berths, which we had to share only with our luggage. It was a pretty tight squeeze (horizontal position mandatory), even for me at only 5’3”. But, somehow, we managed to make ourselves comfortable and got a very good night's sleep, waking feeling suprisingly refreshed. And the odd interruption to our sleep just made the journey even more unforgettable. In the early hours of the night, the men turned on the lights above our heads to feast on their main meal – we were travelling during Ramadan (the month during which Muslims fast from dawn until sunset to demonstrate their devotion to Allah).
David roused me at about 7.30am to make ready for our arrival, but after we had woken, eaten breakfast (a couple of bananas and some cashews), washed (with an antibacterial wipe) and dressed (hiking boots back on), we found out the train was running late. Fortunately we found our fellow passengers to be a good source of information or we probably would have got off at the wrong station. It’s very difficult to know at which train station you’re stopping. There are no public announcements on the trains, it’s hard to see any station signage and conductors are phantoms.
When we finally arrived in Gorakhpur, we discovered the monsoon had beaten us there. (It’s been a relatively dry wet season in Delhi so had been lulled into a false sense of security.) It was absolutely teeming. The rain cascaded off the top of the train with the ferocity of a hydropower station spillway. Outside was pandemonium. The roads were flooded and traffic at a standstill.
We dodged puddles all the way to the bus station, and then back again, before finding the bus to Sunauli (which is where we would cross the border into Nepal).
It wasn’t a pointless exercise to walk all the way to the bus station, because there were no destinations in English on any of the buses we passed along the way (with apparently random young men touting for business by calling ‘Sunauli’). After being forewarned of transport scams in other locations, I was wary of just jumping on a bus. When we got to the bus station and tried to buy a ticket, we were told to go back to the corner and get on a white bus with a blue stripe. The station employee even wrote out the destination for us in Hindi (so we could compare it to the sign on the front of the bus). He also told us how much it should cost. The little scrap of paper with his Hindi script will be one of my favourite souvenirs from this trip.
Public buses in India are just like you imagine they would be – un-roadworthy and packed to the rafters. We were crammed into our seats - David and I are not big people, but our shoulders couldn’t co-exist in a seat for two. Of course, his legs didn’t fit either. And then more and more people were crammed into the aisles. And to top it all off, the windows had been left open so the seats were soaking wet and the sills fall of dirty water, which leapt to embrace me every time we took a corner. The three and a half hour journey felt like eight.
And yet, in the middle of this, we got to know, just a wee bit, about the character of our fellow passengers, like the elderly, bare foot man with crippled knuckles who offered his seat to a teenage boy who had been standing during most of the trip.
Apart from dodging cow pats and wading through puddles, crossing the border from India into Nepal was pretty straightforward. We got our exit stamps in our passports at the Indian immigration office, then arranged our visa on arrival and completed our arrival card at the Nepalese equivalent. I was so tired that as we were heading towards the Nepalese welcome gate I wondered briefly what the word ‘Tonepal’ meant (To Nepal - see pic below).
When our feet finally landed on Nepalese ground it was almost 3pm and we were both exhausted and very hungry so we decided to stay put for the night.
Sunauli is dirty, dusty and unfriendly. We were desperate to get out. It's only four kilometres to Bhairawa but after an overnight train and body-jarring bus journey, the last thing we felt like doing was walking. When we approached the taxi drivers, they told us the fare was 500 rupees (US$5.65). Not yet accustomed to the Nepalese currency, we thought this was exorbitant (and it is if you compare it with every other leg of the journey). Fortunately, a hotel tout rescued us and directed us to the public bus. Costing us 15 rupees (US 17 cents). We were the first passengers on the bus, and had to wait a while for it to fill up before it departed. And we don’t just mean the seats – they jam pack as many people into the aisles (and even steps) of the bus as they can. There were probably even people sitting on the roof – we just couldn’t see them.
The next morning we got up at 6.30am with plans to eat breakfast before we left but a power cut put paid to this idea (the power had also been off most of the previous night too) so we walked back to the highway and headed in the direction of the bus stand, when along came a bus with a conductor hanging out its door (as they do), yelling ‘Pokhara’. Even though it was 7.20am (and we’d been told buses only left on the hour, every hour, from 6am to 8am), this time we jumped on without hesitation.
It was a bumpy, crowded, noisy and nausea-inducing journey. One poor young Nepalese woman vomited almost the entire way. After eating, against my better judgement, a thali (mixed platter) from a very quiet roadside eatery during the official lunch stop (pictured below), I would join her…
And yet. This was a trip of a lifetime. The visual splendour of Nepal that unfolded before us – its farmlands, valleys, roaring rivers, trickling steams, cascading waterfalls, colourful people, crazy transport, roaming livestock and soaring mountains – just took my breath way, moment after moment, crazy hairpin bend after hairpin bend.
Above: On the bus to Pokhara after being blessed by a Sadhu (holy man) during a brief stop
We finally arrived in Pokhara about 4pm that day. Retching uncontrollably I vomited about six times in quick succession and then spent three days in bed, too nauseous to drink even water. Fortunately we had the best view in the world from bed, which made it all somehow bearable.
As difficult as this journey was, it was unforgettable and full of joy. In particular, the bus driver played some wonderful Indian music that was a fantastic soundtrack to the whole 'movie' show. It was really easy to be in the present moment. Actually, it was impossible not to be.
Above: The breathtaking peak of Machhapuchhare (known in English as 'Fishtail') soars 6997 metres above sea level. It is the only mountain in the Annapurna Himal that's not climbed because it is revered as a holy mountain.
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