VARANASI to KATHMANDU

Warning: due the extreme distress and discomfort recently suffered by Paul and Rhaani this blog features whole, reasonably grammatical, sentences rather than the disjointed and fragmented thoughts previously posted.

even this ...

So it appears the popularity of our blog has grown to the extent that it is now read by the residents of the countries we are visiting. At least this seems the only explanation for the punishment that was served upon us after our not so glowing reflections on India.

We had thought our next blog would be about breathtaking Himalayan vistas, sweeping mountain valleys and jaw-dropping cliffside views.

Instead thanks to the lying, scum-sucking people at “Paul’s Travels, Varanasi,” we’re producing this special "I swear my left buttock has suffered permanent paralysis" edition of the blog.

Our escape from Varanasi was supposed to be relatively straight forward. The “Paul's Travels” brochure had promised breakfast in Varanasi before an 8hr journey on a luxury AC tourist bus- yes that's the new definition of luxury, a dribble of cold air intermittenty blown in your face - to the Nepalese border; a night in a local hotel, then the next morning another 8hr trip by luxury bus to Kathmandu.

...can't make up for this

Things didn’t take long to veer off track. On our arrival at Paul’s Travel office we were informed us that as there were only four other tourists heading to the Nepal boarder we wouldn't be taking the luxury bus for the first step of the journey. Instead we would have to carry our luggage the 1km to the local bus station were we would join India’s hoi polloi for the 11hr journey- actually it turned out to be 13hrs, but don’t worry we’ll have our own seats!

The journey was your typical extraordinary rendition experience, actually a spot of waterboarding would have been a welcome break from the sweltering heat and the grime the bus offered. Our seats were so devoid of padding that even the fattest Weighwatcher would forgo the diet coke with her burger and fries in the hope of adding a few more pounds of comfort to her buttocks. Our driver was under strict instructions not to exceed 30miles an hour and to stop to let passengers on every 100m. For Londoners just think Charing Cross to Embankment. At one point I thought the conductor was marking the next stoppage point by spitting out the open door but in fairness we didn't stop that many times.

One brief respite from the never ending boredom of the journey was when we were rear-ended and the culprit drove away. Our driver was out the door to inspect the damage, returning with a mangled rear wing panel he sped off in hot(ish) pursuit.

After our all to brief excitement we continued into the dark and at 10pm, after what seemed a lifetime or at least a whole Hollyoaks Sunday omnibus episode we arrived at the border and the 1km walk to our hotel.

insurance claim exhibit a

Having secured our visas in advance - oh yes Greek, they were planned and included in the spreadsheet - we sailed thru customs and had an extra hour to enjoy the home comforts of "Hotel Paradise". Like a stripper who calls herself "chastity" our piece of paradise was guilty of more than a little false advertising. No AC or towels or bedsheets. No soap or toilet paper. No hotwater or light in the bathroom (which was probably a blessing in disguise). One feature the room did boast was a ceiling fan capable of waking the dead and which actually carved a hole in the space time continuum each time it rotated. That and a small but highly motivated colony of mosquitos. It also turned out that our little slice of Paradise was located next to the kitchen. This meant we got to experience close quarters the little known Nepalese method of cleaning dishes by throwing them into a massive metal bowel and shaking it repeatedly until the germs get so traumatized they voluntarily remove themselves.

With the restaurant having a closing time of 1am and an opening time of 5am there was little point in setting our alarm clock. Just in case we did sleep passed the shouting that accompanied the restaurant opening we set the pipes in the bathroom to slow continual drip.

welcome to the cross your fingers school of travel

After having our desired 40minutes sleep we waited next to our luxury AC tourist bus which bizarrely was driven away and instead replaced with a regular local Nepalese bus. They best part of the new bus was the open air luggage rack which used blind faith rather than any sort of strapping system to stop the bags from falling overboard.

While on the bus I managed to get a sneak look at a Nepalese Highway Code manual. In particular the rules on mountain overtaking. Here is a direct quote: if driving a battered old bus full of disgruntled western tourists and uninterested locals please refrain from attempting to overtake two articulated lorries at a blind corner unless armed with a car horn. Studies by Nepalese scientists have established that 60 tonnes of steel can safely occupy the same space when the intermittent blasts of a certain audiowave frequency is added.

all of which left us needing one of these, if only Nepal respected copyright laws

But despite the best efforts of our clearly suicidal driver and the far too frequent stops in a little more than 11hrs we were staring at the “Welcome to Kathmandu” road sign and then two hours later we were actually in the city centre.

By the end of the trip I was conflicted. Part of me wanted to endure the torturous two day journey back to Varanasi, just to find the little prick at “Paul's Travels” and knock him into next week. But I fear if my ass ever got wind of my plan it would form an alliance with my legs and the second I stepped off the bus my legs would give out thus leaving me lying prostrate in the street waving my fist and screaming "next time you little brown shit, you're frickin mine!"

Note: no travel agents were harmed in the making of this blog – unfortunately.