There's No Place Like Home

The last few days are spent the way any trip should end - on a beach doing a whole lot of nothing. From Kolkata we head south, to the little known coastal town of Bakkali - where the Hooghly river drains into the Indian Ocean. The Lonely Planet barely mentions this place and we are the only tourists making the trip (involving two public busses, a river crossing by row boat, and a packed school bus).

As a result, we are surprised to find a well established and comfortable guesthouse nestled between the rice paddies and banana trees. Five minutes walk away is a huge stretch of sand meeting cool ocean water. The sand is mostly white, with just a tinge of black mud washed down by the monsoon floods.

The place is deserted, apart from a few fishermen trawling the shoreline with their nets. The locals prefer swimming with their buffalo in the small, muddy ponds that litter the low-lying country side. To them the sun scorched sand and salty sea is no place for leisure.

Unfortunately the beach is lacking the one thing that all beaches truly need. Surf. Not one wave breaks onto the shore - the water is gentler than a baby's bath. How can anyone really enjoy a good day at the beach without being dumped head first into the sand and then being dragged out to drown by a murderous rip?

This is a deep blow to morale for Glover. His passion is ocean swimming (long distance swimming through rough surf). Not a day has gone by without him relating yet another story about some day at ocean swimming, when the surf was "maaaassive" and they all got hammered and nearly drowned. It's like a phsychotic version of American Pie: "And this one time, at Ocean Swimming". The lack of surf at Bakkali has him close to tears.

Still it's an ejoyable time: swimming in the cool sea; trekking up the endless expanse of beach, while armies of small red crabs scurry for cover at our approach; burning ourselves under the heavy glare of the equatorial sun. Who could ask for more?

We are the only customers at the guesthouse, and we have the place to ourselves (apart from a few cows that wander around outside our room). The manager tells us to lock our doors when we go out so that monkeys don't get in. Naturally, we leave the doors wide open, hoping to come back to find a monkey kicking back on a bed under the ceiling fan, with a banana smoothie in one hand. Unfortunately, we are without success.

With little else to occupy my mind, my thoughts turn naturally to home. It's been three months and three days since I left those distant shores. How will I adjust to going back? Will I remain a social outcast until I once again master the art of "personal hygiene" and those alien devices of soap and deodorant? Won't I feel naked without my money belt strapped constantly to my waist? And how quiet and empty will my bedroom be without Glover babbling in his sleep across the room?

And what of Glover? How will he get by on his own? This trip started with me heading off to find some cats in Kyrgyzstan. Glover decided he'd meet me for a few weeks travelling in China and then we'd head home. Obviously the plan has got a little muddled since then.

Now Glover's got some mad notion to make his way back to Australia via South East Asia and every other country on the way. He's even thinking about buying a push-bike and riding his way through Bangladesh (a country that is 50% flooded at any given time and riddled with wild animals, including the Bengal Tiger). He's keeping a blog for any of you interested: http://www.jroller.com/page/complier

Then even more worrying questions form. Will I be able to adjust back to sit-down toilets, or will my flatmates come home one day to find me squatting guiltily in the bathtub? Will shitting even be an option once my diet no longer consists of pure curry and rice? And how will I ever manage to make an impression on a girl again, with my "mates" happily relating the tale of me shitting myself in Tibet at every opportunity?

I put these thoughts out of mind. I'll find out soon enough. Now it's back to Kolkata. To the big city smells, the bleeting horns and the swarming herds of people. There is one question I can't put out of mind (though I try, oh how I try!). What will I do about work when I get home?

In truth the funds have been only midly wounded by this trip. Contrary to what most people think, travelling is a damn cheap way to live, assuming you pick your country right. There's no rent, no bills, no car expenses, no expensive piss-ups with the mates. Of course it helps to go a few days without eating here and there, and to sleep in really budget accomodation (such as under steam rollers).

Still, even with cash to live off, it's expected - one must work. Society demands we do "something". Travelling provided me with a certain immunity but now I'm heading back it's time to start "taking things seriously". How else will I be able to land myself that steady girlfriend and buy that house and have those kids I so surely need to be happy? Of course, I'll be too busy working to really make the most of those things once I have them, but you've got to take the good with the bad.

Still there's no use rushing into these things. I'm not flying directly to Sydney. I'm spending two weeks on the Gold Coast for a little break with my extended family. A man needs a holiday after all this travelling. This is however, my final blog - the Leopard's Tale is officially over.

And once I'm back - who knows? Perhaps it really is time to get a job - but of course, there's always South America.

Sensory Assault

Bam! Calcutta hits you with all the subtly of a brick to the face. It's an overwhelming attack on the senses. Tooting horns, revving motorbikes, shouting hawkers and singing buskers all indiscriminately hammer the hapless ears. There is no concept of personal space. The crush of the crowd jostles and manhandles you as people push past. The heavy, humid air settles over you like a wet blanket and with it comes the strong, sickly smell of cooking curries, animal (or maybe human) feces and thick, black smog.

It's an organic, sprawling mess of a city, with no pretense of order or organisation. Crowded beyond belief, people squirm over each other like worms in a bucket. The city stretches out rather than up, and the ability to see the peaceful, blue depth of the sky overhead provides at least some sense of space. It's definitely easier to look up, rather than down at the beggars and mangy dogs digging eagerly through the piles of refuse that litter the street.

Despite the full frontal assault, Calcutta does have its own special style. What it lacks in beauty and charm, it makes up for with a vibrant enthusiasm and endless energy. Crooked lane ways are packed with pokey little shops selling everything a man could never want. Meanwhile, friendly restaurants and tacky bars spring up all over the city like weeds in a field. Outside our hotel is a persistent, old man who promises me everything from hash to “nice, clean girls”, with a discount if I go for a ride in his rickshaw.

Calcutta embraces its history and culture too. Monuments and cultural sites are sprinkled about the city - a weird mix of old and new, grand and tacky. From the ostentatious relics of the English colonial times (such as the stately Queen Victoria memorial and St Paul's Cathedral) to the colourful Indian temples and shrines. These sites survive buried in the midst of a bustling metropolis of industry and commerce. In truth I should not use the name Calcutta. A few years back the city reclaimed its old Indian name of Kolkata. A typical example of these people who move forward to the future but all the while embracing the past.

It's hard for us soft, pampered westerners to spend too long out in the turmoil of the streets. Conditioned to the relatively gentle, organised movements of societies based on order and tailored to the individual rather than the mass, we find the turmoil of the streets overwhelming. Often we seek refuge in the cool, quiet sanctuaries of the restaurants and bars. Many of these have rooftop seating, and we eat our meals watching the slow, graceful glides of the city eagles as they prey upon the unsuspecting flocks of pigeons.

There is much to see and do in Kolkata, but there is little to tell. The sites and sounds are an experience that words do little justice. We have just over a week before my flight home on the 25th, after which Glover will be continuing on his mad quest to reach Australia by land. For us this is too long to spend in a city as intense and overwhelming as Kolkata and we decide to squeeze in one last small side trip. We are heading south to check out what an Indian beach resort is like. It seems an appropriate way to end this little adventure.

Tea Break

It's damn hard work doing this much kickin' back. If there is anything in this world more relaxing than Darjeeling it must surely result in a coma. For us, after two months of hard core travelling, this lazy lifestyle is a welcome change. We sit on the balcony of a Darjeeling tea house, reclining in comfy cane chairs, sipping tea and pretending that we're civilized members of the human race (no one's buying it).

The town of Darjeeling lounges at the top of a steep hill, gazing down upon a lush, green valley of endless tea plantations and bannana trees. Huge, snow capped mountains surround us, though they keep a respectable distance, not wanting to intrude upon our peaceful reverie. Deep in the valley below, fluffy white clouds drift idly by like stoned sheep.

In fairness Darjeeling has a few minor inconveniences. It's height and its proximity to the Himalayan mountains (including Kanchendzonga, the third highest mountain in the world) give Darjeeling a biting chill that we haven't felt since Tibet. In the short, two hour drive up the hill the sweltering heat of the low lands is replaced by a numbing cold and we quickly trade our shorts and sandals for beanies and thermal underwear.

Perhaps a greater challenge is the steep slope that Darjeeling sits on. Our hotel is at the top, affording us some of the most spectacular views. Unfortunately, the number one pub in town sits closer to the bottom. Our daily routine ends with us drinking in the pub while watching old Jackie Chan movies and then stumbling up the hill, weezing and gasping for breath. Any fitness we gained hiking has been totally negated by an inconsistent diet, days of idleness in Kathmandu, and endless, endless shitting.

The lazy lifestyle leaches our vitality but it's too much (or rather, too little) too soon. After a few days a sense of restlessness takes hold and we look for more active ways to spend the time. We take a small hike around the hilltops, visit the botanical gardens and take a tour of the local zoo (which contains two Snow Leopards no less).

It's not enough however. We go days without something going wrong: no one gets injured, no one gets lost and there's not even one instance of bowel failure. It just doesn't feel natural.

So we sign up for a white water rafting trip. Admitedly it's not the eight days of phsychotic, lets-all-drown adventure we had planned for the Sun Kosi but it's the best we can find. We're still a little despondent over the missed rafting trip and we need a fix.

We spend an hour on the river, in a rubber boat. It's not long, but it's enough to get a taste. Only myself, Glover and a German named Stefan are on the trip, so the boat is loaded with a bunch of Indian guides to make up the numbers and the weight. We traverse some fun class III rapids, get thouroughly soaked, but unfortunately manage to keep the boat upright and keep all bodies on board. Between rapids, we make up for this by pushing each other in and floating alongside the raft.

The rafting satisfies somewhat, but we take a last look around Darjeeling for something else exciting to do. There's a "Toy Train" that runs down the hill. It sounds pretty cool, and Glover and myself have visions of sitting on a little model steam train, wearing a conductors hat and tooting the little horn as we round the corners. It's nothing so fun however, it's simply a damn small train built in the 50's and is both noisy and slow. Stefan tells us that he caught it, but after 20 minutes he got bored, jumped off and walked back the two kilometers it had travelled.

We rule out the train. There's a cable cart with supposedly good views but this is closed for maintenance. The only thing left to see is the sunrise for which Darjeeling is famous. Unfortunately this happens at five in the morning. We ask our hotel owner if he can push it back a bit for us so we can sleep in, maybe have a 9am sunrise. The lazy bastard won't have a bar of it however. So we climb out of bed at five and watch from our balcony as the burning globe blankets the snow capped mountain peaks in a soft orange. It is an awesome sight, though the sun itself is hidden by patchy cloud.

With the sunrise viewing accomplished (after which we did the sensible thing and went straight back to bed) we decide it's time to leave Darjeeling. It would be all too easy to linger here and let relaxation become lethargy.

We head back down the hill, first to Siliguri and then on to Malda. This town is halfway between Darjeeling and Kolkata and it seems a logical place to break up the journey. It's a little touristed spot however and we are treated somewhere between celebrities and freaks by the local people.

We take a tour of some ancient Muslim ruins that litter the area. They are surprisingly impressive and it's amazing that this place doesn't see more tourist action. Our movements take us right to the border of neighbouring Bangladesh and we stand on the broken parapets of an old fort looking down on the flooded green landscape of this secluded land.

That night we board the train and head to the great, crowded metropolis of Kolkata. This is the last stop on my wayward journey. From here, in little over a week, I will fly home.

Dinner with Dollie

We travel east to Janakpur. Despite good roads and a decent bus, it takes a full seven hours to travel only 150km. The frequent stops for passenger pick-ups and military check points slow us down and the bus is packed to capacity. Still, it's better than a Tibetan pick-up truck.

There is no denying that Nepal is heavily influenced by its Indian neighbour. Food, clothing, music and religion are borrowed and then spiced with a distinctive Nepalese taste. As we travel east, hugging the Indian border, the Hindu influence becomes more and more obvious. In Janakpur the ethnic culture is called Maithil, and it is a blend of Nepalese and Indian, as well as a unique culture unto itself.

Janakpur has a prolific number of temples scattered throughout the town. According to Hindu mythology, it is in Janakpur that Rama (a popular incarnation of Vishnu, who occasionally chooses to be born as a human when demons need vanquishing) lived with his super hot wife Sita. There's a whole stack of colourful stories about the two, and the different temples around town each have something to do with a part of the overall tale.

We arrive around dinner time and check into a cheap but dingy hotel. It's right in the centre of town, next to the largest temple. Convenient it may be, but we discover later that night that some over-funky religious music bellows out from the temple from dusk till the early hours of the morning. These tunes, partnered with the sticky, humid heat and the persistent mossies makes for poor sleeping.

We head out for dinner, past the rickshaws and the beeping motorbikes. City pigs roam free, working their way through the aromatic garbage of the day. Goats too, wander the streets, but the holy, white cows, with their camel-like hump, are the true lords of Janakpur. They plod slowly along the main streets chewing whatever they can get hold of (grass, cardboard, shop goods). Groups of them laze casually in the middle of the road, while traffic detours around them.

The poor water buffalo must wonder where they went wrong. These sorry creatures are used as beasts of burden; they pull carts and lug equipment across town. They are generally treated with contempt, abused, tied to stakes and herded with sticks through the streets. Meanwhile the cows, their smaller, uglier cousins are treated like royalty.

We are barely a block away from our hotel when a guy on a bike pulls up and starts chatting. He wears a stylish, semi-western outfit, complete with small, "super cool" sunnies. Usually guys like this want to sell us a trek, or take us to a nearby restaurant that coincidentally belongs to a relative of theirs.

This guy however, wants something different. He's a teacher at a local school and wants us to come and talk to the kids the next day. He introduces himself, but his Nepalese name is long and difficult for us. He offers an alternative, "Just call me Sir Love, that's what all the kids call me." We've got no plans as yet but it sounds interesting enough. We give "Sir Love" a non-committal answer and continue on our way.

A few blocks later we find a restaurant and sit down for a meal. Straight away we are approached by two Nepalese girls. They introduce themselves as Dollie and Meena. Dollie asks if they can join us. Well actually it's not really a request: "OK, so we will join you for a drink”. It's immediately obvious that Dollie is a girl who knows how to get things done.

The two girls are local social workers. They are members of just about every community minded group in Nepal and seem completely and selflessly dedicated to making the world a better place - starting with their own backyard. Women's rights are high on their list of concerns, and they explain that women are actively repressed in this conservative Hindu culture.

In fact neither of the two girls should be out at this time of night and they definitely shouldn't be approaching strange westerners in restaurants. Dollie is defiant against these restrictions. She's a fighter. Meena is more reserved. Dollie does the talking and is very definite, while Meena takes a back seat and avoids eye contact. Every so often however, Meena adds a quiet comment to Dollie's and it's obvious that in her own way, she is just as determined as the more direct Dollie.

The two girls ask if we will visit the local Women's Development Center. The center is an arts and crafts shop, where local women are employed, giving them skills, self respect and a salary - elevating their standing in the family and in society. Dollie is free for the day and offers to be our guide.

We have nothing better planned, it sounds like a worthy cause, and we accept. As the two girls make to leave, Dollie makes a further 'suggestion'. "OK, listen. Tomorrow you will come to my house and have lunch. You will eat real Nepalese food." There’s no room for refusal, but it sounds good to us anyway and we gladly accept.

The next morning we head first to the school. We may as well make it a day of community based adventures. The school proves difficult to find, until the school “bus” passes us. It’s really a modified rickshaw, with a rider at front and about ten kids jammed like cattle into an enclosed cage at the back. The guy pedalling must be eighty if he’s a day, and he barely manages walking speed. We follow the little wagon right up to the school.

It’s 10 in the morning but Sir Love hasn’t yet turned up for teaching duties. The head master takes us inside instead. We attempt conversation but he’s not a real talkative guy. That is until I point out his well used cane and ask him about school discipline methods. His eyes light up with glee as he explains to us how to keep little brats in line with a good caning every now and then. He caresses his cane lovingly as he talks, and swings it through the air a couple of times to demonstrate the most effective caning motion.

Sir Love arrives forty five minutes later, wearing his dark shades. By this time, the head master is on the verge of bringing in a kid to demonstrate a good and proper caning. We’re glad of the change of topic caused by Sir Love’s arrival. Apparently he’s late because he had to take care of some “urgent business” on the other side of town. We don’t ask questions. It’s best not to know what someone who calls himself “Sir Love” gets up to on his personal time.

He takes us through a couple of the classrooms. It’s a junior school; the kids are old enough to ask us questions but young enough not to give us too hard a time. All in all, it’s a bit of fun and we cover a range of topics including Aussie geography (Glover and I argue over the spelling of Canberra), Aussie wildlife (no, there are no Kangaroos in the city, yes there are snakes in the toilet sometimes) and Aussie sport (it’s true, Ricky Ponting is a legend).

The most popular questions seem to be about marriage and families. We find ourselves defending our marital status to a bunch of fourth graders. What’s wrong with being single at 27 anyway? We also have no explanation for why our families are so damn small, and why, between the two of us, we have only three brothers and not one sister. Yes, some Australian families do have girls too, just not ours.

We stay for as long as we can, but we have to meet Dollie for lunch. Back in town, Dollie’s brother meets us and takes us to the family home. The house is tiny by our standards, consisting of just two small rooms for the family of six. Each room is multi-purpose, acting as bedroom, living room, kitchen and dining room.

Dollie has to share her double bed with her younger sister. Her two younger brothers share another bed in the same room. At first it seems the girls get the better deal, as their bed is bigger. It turns out that the guys get first choice however, and the smaller bed is the prime real estate due to its strategic positioning directly under the ceiling fan.

We enjoy a deliciously spicy meal of veg curry and rice (served by the women of course), while Dollie chats to us about Nepalese culture and the various ways that she’s working to change it. She’s a living inspiration. I’ve had the pleasure of knowing more than a few social activists in my time. Dollie is one of the most passionate I have met and on top of this, her every action is made with centuries of cultural bigotry stacked against her.

Dollie explains that the income from her work is the sole reason for her freedom to act in the way she does. She explains, almost casually, that should she stop earning money, her family (who disagree with her every action) would most likely cover her in petrol and burn her to cleanse the family shame associated with her improper actions. Her brother would be tasked with the unpleasant job.

It seems hard to believe that this friendly family, who have shown us such generous hospitality, would be capable of such a horrendous crime. How could her brother, who had been playing fondly with Dollie’s hair only moments earlier, burn his own sister alive? I want to believe that Dollie is exaggerating, perhaps she is, but I have no reason to doubt her.

After lunch we hire some push bikes and Dollie takes us out to the Women’s Development Center. She gives us a guided tour of the various sections for painting, pottery and needlework. It’s a spacious, open building with a pretty garden of green grass and trees. The fifty or so women working here are friendly and greet Dollie with fondness. It’s definitely a nicer place to work than any of the cubicle farms I’ve been stationed in (back in the bad old days when I actually worked).

The tour ends with us making a few small purchases. We have to head back to town as Dollie has a Leo Club (the younger arm of the Lion’s Club) meeting at four that afternoon. On the way back we stop at the city council office for Dollie to complete a chore. We push through a crowd of people who look like they’ve been queuing for the entire day. A few commands from Dollie has the all male crowd stepping aside to let us through and we walk straight into the head councilman’s office.

He looks about as pleased to see Dollie as I am to see a Tibetan dunny. There’s a conversation between the two in which Dollie does most of the talking. Glover and I stand by the whole while, trying to look inconspicuous but the councilman ignores us anyway. At the end of the conversation, the councilman throws down a portfolio on the table with obvious distaste and Dollie snatches it up and we make good our escape.

On the way out Dollie explains that she is helping establish a support group for Exploited and Disadvantaged Women and Children in Nepal. The portfolio contains the documents needed to get the group registered. The group will provide training and support to help these disadvantaged minorities gain skills for employment, and also to educate them on their legal rights.

For Dollie this is just a side project in an otherwise packed schedule. I ask her how she finds time and energy for so many worthy causes. “I am a human with a conscience and a heart. What else can I do? I want to change the world, so I need to do these things.” It’s said without pride – just a statement of fact. I feel inadequate; my occasional and uncommitted attempts at “doing good” seem somewhat shallow.

Before disappearing for her meeting Dollie takes us to a couple of local temples and explains a bit of the significance of each to us. Then before she leaves us, there is another ‘request’, “OK, so tonight you will come to my house and have dinner. You will try South Indian food.”

We use the time between Dollie leaving us and dinner to visit one more temple. The Big Monkey Temple was what first attracted our attention to Janakpur and is really the reason we ended up here. It’s the temple of Hanuman, the Monkey God, one of Rama’s sidekicks. We like monkeys.

The temple itself is a bit of a disappointment, a tiny little shack on the outskirts of town. The only attraction is the poor caged monkey, which is said to be the current incarnation of Hanuman. The previous incarnation died only a few years ago after a lifetime of overfeeding and no exercise. Before he died he was apparently one big, fat monkey. This latest incarnation is still in reasonable shape, though it can’t be long before he ends up the same way. We consider coming back at night and setting the monkey God free, or at least slipping him a few beers to make the time pass more easily. We’re not sure how the locals would take to this however.

We meet Dollie back at her house and are once again treated to a feast of curries and fried bread. We are pretty tired after our action packed day, but Dollie (who has a cold) is still going strong. Apparently in the few hours between leaving us and dinner, she and the other Leo members have been to the local hospital and conducted some two hundred patient surveys on the quality of the services at the hospital.

Not surprisingly, the survey responses are none too positive: insufficient beds, medicine shortages, disgusting toilets, and rotten food. Dollie now has to collate the results and present a summary to local agencies in an attempt to force change. She plans to do this before the following morning when she and the other Leo members will return to the hospital and hand out fresh fruit to the patients using funds they raised some months earlier. It’s just another day for Dollie and she seems completely accepting of the difficult challenges she has chosen for herself.

We leave Dollie’s place that night with full bellies and stretched minds. Personally I’m deeply inspired by this girl. With just a few more people like Dollie it won’t take much to change the world for the better.

Welcome to the Jungle

We push through the dense foliage of the Nepalese jungle. Our path lies in the dark shadows of towering trees – ancient giants locked in a slow, deadly battle for supremacy overhead. The thorny undergrowth clutches at us as we force our way through, and the monsoon mud sucks at our feet with every step. Each time we pull our feet from the sucking slime, we discover foul, black leaches clinging to our flesh, draining the sweet, red blood from our bodies.

We drip sweat. Our clothing, soaked through, clings tightly to our skin. The heavy, humid air carries with it distant birdcall, along with the constant, incessant buzzing of mosquitoes. In this wild, steamy jungle we are unwelcome intruders. Glover and myself rely completely on the expertise of our two Nepalese guides, our lives are in their hands. At any moment a rhino may charge, or a Bengal tiger, concealed by the long reeds, may pounce.

Of course, this is what we want. Why else would we be trekking through the wild jungle of the Chitwan Nature Reserve? Obviously we would prefer to just see the rhino or tiger and not actually be gored or eaten, but either way we would end up with some pretty top photos.

We have two guides - standard practice for this dangerous region. The jungle is loaded with animals that place surprisingly less value on human life than humans tend to, and there’s better odds that someone else will get eaten when there’s more of you. In the “safety drill” before the trek starts, our guides explain how we are to deal with each type of animal should one turn nasty.

The solution to the rhino charge is to “run in a zigzag and find a tree to climb”. If possible we should also “throw away a piece of clothing to confuse it”. Ok, so we get naked, run around like we’re on acid and then hang out in a tree. No problem – just like a Friday night out really.

With the leopard you can attempt a barehanded wrestling match - Tarzan style. One of the guides we met explained how he avoided having his jugular ripped out by a leopard. He stuck his hand in the cat’s mouth instead. Luckily the other guide with him managed to drive the leopard away before the guy lost too much flesh, but he had some impressive looking scars.

For the tiger there is no real solution. Basically the best course of action is to just get eaten as quickly as possible. No point in making things messy. Luckily tigers don’t really like eating humans (much) so this threat is minimal.

The greatest danger however. The most feared creature in the entire park is the dreaded sloth bear. This name fails to fill us with the horror that this creature should inspire. Since the bear is an animal that hibernates for half the year, and the sloth is an animal that hibernates for the entire year, we have trouble picturing this fluffy little teddy-bear as a threat. Our guides are adamant however and it’s for this reason that they carry sturdy bamboo staves. Should the bear attack, Glover and myself are to leg it as fast as possible, while the guides engage the bear in a ninja-like duel with their staves.

Once fully prepared for all these risks, we begin our trip with the crossing of the wide, crocodile-infested river that marks the boundary of the Reserve. The crossing is made in a long, unstable dugout canoe and the recent monsoon rains have created a few rapids. They are only small, but big enough that water fills the bottom of the canoe before we reach the far shore.

Once on solid ground we push into the jungle proper, leaving all sign of the river and human habitation well behind. Occasionally we hear the heavy thumping of large animals going about their business in the jungle, but whatever is causing the noise it is too wily for us to track it down.

As we sneak quietly along the muddy paths we hear hoof beats in the distance. We drop low and stay still. A few moments later a herd of small, red deer skitters along the path in front of us before disappearing once more into the tangle of undergrowth.

Only a few hundred meters further on, our guides locate a group of monkeys causing havoc in the trees high above. These curious creatures gaze down on us, black faces poking out from furry, white bodies, with long white tails dangling casually from the high branches. We sneak in quietly for a photo but we are spotted. One monkey squats overhead and starts pissing – a stream of yellow urine misses us by only a few meters. A second monkey joins in the fun and we are forced to beat a hasty retreat. This style of defense is clear sign to me that these truly are the genetic ancestors of mankind.

Our trek takes us deep into the jungle, and we see more deer, as well as many birds, frogs and insects of various shapes and sizes. Our main prey however, the thick skinned rhino avoids us however. We end the trek at lunchtime without a result and head back to town.

It’s not really a town. It’s more like a small village, composed entirely of guesthouses and restaurants. It lies on the edge of the massive nature reserve, and it is a place almost as wild. As we sit and eat our lunch, water buffalo are herded through the main streets of the village. Elephants, with riders aboard, wander past as well, carrying either passengers or goods. The local baby rhino, a fixture for the town, lounges lazily in the sun, enjoying the free food from the locals, and the constant attention from the tourists.

After lunch we decide to get serious. If we’re going to find these damn rhinos it’s time to pull out the big guns. We hire ourselves an elephant. Glover and myself ride in a comfortable basket tied to the creatures back, while the "driver" straddles the neck, steering with nudges to the back of the leathery ears, and the occasional whack across the head with a bamboo cane.

Our driver doesn't speak English but I try asking the name of our elephant anyway. He replies with a string of Nepalese, of which the only word I make out is "God". For all I know the guy said something along the lines of "For God's sake mate, shut up! In case you haven't noticed I'm trying to drive a bloody big elephant here." Still, I take it to mean that the name of our elephant is God and looking at the huge, powerful beast it seems an appropriate name indeed.

So carried on the back of God, we set off on our quest. God powers forward with long, rhythmic steps and our small basket rocks from side to side with a smooth but firm motion. We approach the river at a bend where the water is low. Still it is a good twenty meters to the far shore and I am uncertain that we will make it. In God we trust however, and the huge creature strides casually into the flowing current. He wades through the muddy river as if it were but a puddle, and before I know it we are on the far side.

We enter the jungle, and God pushes through the tall grass, that parts before us like the sea before Moses. Trees close in around us and we are forced to duck often to avoid being knocked from our high perch, some ten feet off the ground.

Occasionally the thick tangle of undergrowth blocks our way completely, but nothing stands in the way of God. At a special command from the driver, God reaches out with his great trunk and encricles the branches in our way. He then pulls back, and miraculously a wide path now exists where none did before.

Again we spot herds of wild deer, though this time it is the larger brown deer sporting curved antlers. When we were on foot the deer scattered quickly at our approach. Now, on the back of God, the deer barely take notice of us. It seems that man is a far greater fear than this huge beast with its giant tusks could ever be.

We press into the depths of the jungle for nearly an hour before we have to head back. We are still without sign of a rhino but we feel satisfied with our trip. Just as we turn back however, God pulls to a halt and shivers. The driver leans low, whispering questions to the creature. God then turns and heads into the underbrush, ploughing through bristled branches.

We come upon a clearing and there in front of us are rhinos: a mother and its baby. They are like two overgrown pigs, coated with a thick armor of leather. Once again they are quite calm in the presence of God, moving away nervously only after they catch the sound of our whispered voices. We manage to get within meters of them, before the mother decides that's enough and the two dissapear back into the wilderness. Our quest complete, God takes us home.

Chariots of Fire

The lock-down periods have been getting shorter and shorter. On the Sunday (the final day of curfew, some five days after the riots) the lock-down is only for three hours. The street is dead empty during these periods, with only the heavily armed soldiers and the occasional wandering tourist disturbing the stillness. We’ve more or less turned our hotel foyer into a living room by this stage and even the staff lounge on the couch with us.

There are three lads from the UK army locked in with us. Three army boys locked in a hotel for five days, with nothing to do but drink beer. The Nepalese government are fools. Surely this is a far greater risk to national security than a few harmless rioters on the street.

As soon as the curfew started we knew we were going to need some supplies. On the first night we sneak out under the cover of darkness, sticking to the less patrolled back streets. We return with two cases of beer - enough to get us through the first few hours at least. Unfortunately this same night is when I eat dodgy back-alley food, and is the last night of the lock-in beer sessions that I am able to fully appreciate.

There’s a short break in the curfew one afternoon and everyone heads out for some fresh air (except me, I’m on the shitter). The army lads are headed to the police station to report that their kayaking gear has been stolen. It hasn’t been stolen of course, but the lads can't see any reason why that should interfere with their insurance claim.

Having been locked in for the last few hours drinking beer, they are restless. They decide a rickshaw race is in order. Amazingly they find four drivers willing to let these mad foreigners drive what is essentially their sole source of income. Each of the three lads and Glover mount up with the driver in the back. They then hurtle as fast as peddle power will allow down the street.

There's no holding back - they are army boys. Pedestrians dive out of the way, taxi drivers swerve and street dogs scatter. The boys hurtle past military check points, where soldiers armed with fully automatic rifles, step hurriedly out of the way, shaking their heads and laughing.

Glover's chain comes off and he is out of the race with engine failure. Two of the army lads jostle for first place, wheels locked against each other, riding side by side in the narrow streets. One pulls to the lead just as they approach the finish line (which is of course the Police Station). Not only do they not get arrested but they call a rematch and the race is on once more, back to the hostel. All this is in a town that is effectively under marshal law.

For us tourists the curfew is a novelty but for the Nepalese it is old news. The army lads have a Nepalese guide with them called 'Pops' (why he has this nickname is never explained). The moment curfew is declared Pops purchases practically his own body weight in hash. He then spends the next five days lying on the floor of his room, stoned out of his mind, listening to UB40 albums on replay and watching big breasted women on MTV with the suond down.

The drinking sessions are nightly. I join them as a spectator for as long as I can manage but I never travel far from the safety of my bedroom and, more importantly, my bathroom. Everyone who's travelled through this region has been through the same thing. By the time curfew has lifted everyone has shared at least one story about shitting. My “Tibetan dysentery” story just wins over the “shitting over a pig trough” story though.

There are a number of females staying at the hotel and this of course does not go unnoticed by the army lads. In true army style, one of the lads manages (despite 'help' from his mates) to pull off a threesome with two Danish girls staying in the hotel. Amazing as this is, what seems more amazing is that as far as any one can tell, Pops was in the room unnoticed the whole time, stoned off his head and oblivious to it all.

Curfew finally is over. The streets are abuzz with hawkers desperate to make up for the five days of lost sales. You can hardly move for touts. The tourists however are clearing out fast. Everyone's seen enough of Kathmandu and they are moving on or heading home. Few new tourists are arriving. Something about mass riots and violence seems to keep all but the most eager away.

Our rafting trip, originally scheduled to have ten people, now has just two. Only two people are stupid enough to hang around for adventure trips amongst the current unrest. The two are of course myself and Glover.

Unfortunately two is not enough for a rafting trip and the whole thing is cancelled. So now our plans have once again changed (if were the type to follow plans, we'd be kicking back in Hong Kong about now). We are following the same route, east through Nepal and then onto India, but we will have to now make it on bus.

Under Siege

A few seconds after finishing the previous post the riot starts. It starts with chanting a little way off in the distance. Within moments the metal shutters for all the shops are slammed down and locked, and the normally crowded streets are suddenly empty. The speed with which all this happens shows just how often this has been done before.

Glover and myself are still in the Internet cafe. It's on the second floor above a small supermarket. This too has closed its metal shutters and we are locked in. As we watch out the window (positioning ourselves so that we can see, but not be seen), a crowd of protestors rounds the corner, chanting and waving banners.

It's obvious this is no ordinary riot. For one thing it's passing through Thamel, a well-established tourist area, normally immune to the political unrest that plagues the rest of the city. From the owner of the Internet cafe we learn that the riot is in response to the brutal killing of 12 Nepalese workers by Muslim extremists in Iraq. The rioters carry signs with anti-Muslim slogans and chant "Muslims out" in Nepalese.

We camp out in the little supermarket, waiting for the rioters to pass. The shop owner, not one to miss an opportunity, sells pastries to us at special "riot day" discounts. There is the noise of serious destruction going on outside, but we are now downstairs and can see none of it. Eventually, after a half hour or more, the noise dies down and the shop owner decides it's safe to let us out (besides, he's run out of pastries to sell us).

We head out into the empty streets, which are now eerily quiet. Our hotel is only a few blocks away and we decide to head back there and gather more information on the situation. About half way back to the hotel we find a small crowd of people gathered around the wreckage of a store. It's a Muslim-owned, leather goods store (cows are sacred to most Nepalese). This is where the noise had been coming from. The mob has ripped open the doors of this shop and with rocks and sticks smashed every window and torn out every fixture and fitting. The shop is totally destroyed.

It's scary how quickly these friendly, easy going Nepalese have become a mass mob, bent on revenge and destruction. As well as Muslims, the riots are aimed at the government (who the Nepalese believe did too little to try and free the hostages). The indiscriminate targeting of Muslims however, and the unchecked aggression and anger is both frightening and disappointing. To the Nepalese, the militant Muslim extremists who brutally murdered their countrymen are no different to the Muslims who have lived peacefully in their community for generations. They are all targets for revenge.

The riots last for the better part of the day, and from the safety of our well-barricaded hotel we watch the protestors march past, chanting and whistling. Other tourists are locked in with us and throughout the day more trickle in. Some have been caught in the middle of the riots, and instead of making tracks like any sensible person would, they've hung around to take photos. This is the sort of foolishness that gets people killed and gives Nepalese riots a bad name (or a worse name anyway). Despite this however, everyone seems to make it back safely and in most cases both the police and the crowds go out of their way to ensure that tourists make it out unharmed. It seems the Nepalese hospitality still grants us a certain immunity, even amongst this chaos.

It's afternoon when the government decides enough is enough. A citywide curfew is called, no one is allowed on the streets. The army is called in and sets up barricades and patrols on nearly every street corner. Thamel attracts less military presence than the other towns. Being full of tourists, rather than Nepalese, it is less of a trouble spot.

So it is that we find ourselves under house arrest. The curfew lasts the rest of the day, and is still going now, three days later. Initially the lock down was stringently enforced. We heard rumors that in the trouble spots of Kathmandu you could be shot for being out. I'm not sure this is true, but there are definitely serious looking police keeping the streets empty. After the first day however, things became a bit more relaxed and in Thamel at least, tourists are allowed to make short trips through the town.

We have come to know all the other guests in our hotel, and generally the days are spent playing cards, reading books or anything else we can think of to entertain ourselves. Everyone is stuck, the airport is non-operational and transport from Kathmandu is too risky for most people to attempt. Our rafting trip has been postponed until Sunday at least, when hopefully things will have settled down.

At meal times we sneak out down back streets and quiet alleys to find out-of-the-way restaurants willing to serve us a meal. We have to take whatever is going and it's at one of the dodgier of these that I manage to pick up yet another case of food poisoning. As a result I've spent the better part of my curfew time on the dunny. At least this time I've got my own, sit down, flushing toilet, which is indoors and warm. Still I can't say I've overly enjoyed my time, and to be honest if I never shit again it will be too soon.

Today is Friday, and typically the local Muslims gather at the city Mosque to pray. This will be a major test of stability for the city. Depending on the extent of the unrest today we will have more of an idea of when the curfew will be lifted. The mosque is a long way from us, so there is no danger. In fact we have felt surprisingly safe throughout the entire trouble. Now we just have to wait and see what will be.