A Lost Kingdom in a Hidden Valley at the End of the World

Walking up steep slopes in high altitudes, through clouds and mist is an experience like no other. You breathe in short gasps, your lungs labour, your heart hammers so hard that you can hear your pulse in your ears and feel it in your arms and legs.

You are at the same time cold from the low temperature, and hot from the intense exercise. Parts of your clothes, the back and chest, become damp and cold. Other parts, such as socks get damp and hot.

When you pause you get cold, when you move you get tired. It is an experience like no other.

This was an acclimatisation day. We were staying the night at Namche again and had headed out to explore the hills nearby. Unfortunately the mist of the night before hadn't cleared, and the ascent to the ridge at the top of the town was in very low visibility. To be honest though, it was such hard work, we couldn't have seen much anyway.

At the top, Indra turned to us apologetically. 'I saw the weather report on the internet this morning. its going to get worse over the next few days. We might not be able to see Everest today either'. He looked almost ready to cry, anticipating our disappointment.

'Its not your fault if the weather is crap', Mark said.

'Anyway, Everest isnt a mountain out there, I added pretentiously. 'Its in here', I thumped my chest. 'Like Vegas or Gracelands'.

'What do you want to do?' Indra asked. 'Its ten o'clock now. We could go back to the hotel?'.

'Where are we now?' I asked.

'This is Namche airport. They dont use it now, since Lukla opened, except in emergencies. Its too dangerous.'

'Your not kidding!' I said. The short sloped runway ended in a rock field, with some extremely large boulders a few yards after that. Landing here would take a genius. Or a madman.

'LOOK!' Mark called out from the far end of the runway. 'There is a patch of blue sky. Lets try and catch it'.

'Yes, its that way to the viewpoint', Indra added excitedly. 'Lets go'.

So we started scrambling up the slope as fast as we could, this time not noticing the physical exertion. At the top was a half ruined Buddhist monument. Everything was still wreathed in billowing fog.

'Wheres the blue sky gone?' Mark asked.

'Over there, Over there!' Indra was pointing and shouting.

And then, suddenly in a patch of blue, appeared right above us, a massive peak, towering over us, snow capped in glory.

'And there too!' I pointed in another direction. The clouds lifted a second to reveal another peak.

All at once, it seemed as though the clouds started boiling away. Peak after peak appeared surrounding us in the most unearthly and divine beauty.

We stood dumbfounded. To have this landscape revealed to us in such a way was astonishing.

'There is where we are going'. Indra pointed. 'Everest'.

Through a gap in two nearby mountains, a valley went off to the North. At the end, a range of impassable mountains It looked like a lost kingdom in hidden valley at the end of the world. At that moment, the journey came alive for me in a completely new way. I was desperate to get to that remote area.

We carried on over the ridge, and spent the next few hours wandering round, still in a bit of a daze. The landscape looked a bit like a western film - shrubs and rocks and pines and paths meandering through them.

On a ridge with a great view of Everest was a Stupa with an inscription to Hillary. He is worshipped in this area for the amount of philanthropic work he did, opening up schools and hospitals and bringing economic prosperity to the sherpa people.

Below was the town of KumJung, a collection of stone houses, small fields, and dry stone walls. It was a lot less touristy than Namche, and a lot flatter too.

After lunch, we went to the small Buddhist Gompa. Inside, next to the statues of Avelokiteshvara and Manjushri Buddhas, in a small cabinet, they had an alleged Yeti Scalp. It looked for all the world like an antique wig.

We walked back, still on quite a high. It had really been an incredible day. To have the views we had, after such a unpromising start was fortunate in the extreme. The trek had been beautiful up till now, but today it took on another dimension.

After the vision this morning, I want more than anything to head up to the lost kingdom in the hidden valley. And tomorrow, I will.

Neil

'I'm from California, just north of San Francisco, a place called Sausiloit. Well I live there now but I grew up in New Jersey, just north of New York.

'What do I do? I'm an Ice Cream Maker. I have a small company that makes organic ice cream. We have four scoop shops but we also distribute to thirty five states as well too.

'In fact it was on a trip to base camp seven years ago that I came up with the idea of getting into Ice cream. My brother had emailed to say me why didn't I open up a scoop shop in san Rafael, but it was on the trip up here that I decided to do it, and wrote a business plan.

'Before I was working in Gap, in the finance department. I studied consumer economics at Cornell University before that. Its Ivy League. but nothing like Harvard or Yale. I did a lto of rowing there.

'But I got fed up with doing that. I left my job and flat two days before I came out to Nepal. That wasn't fun.

'But the trip was amazing. I hadn't done a lot of travelling abroad, once to Turkey. When I was young, we went on road trips with my family. We didn't have a lot of money so we drove everywhere. Florida, California. Once we spent five weeks, 97000 miles in a chevy van.

'The ice cream started off as a scoop shop. I would make the ice cream in the morning and sell it in the afternoon. Now I have a factory, and employ about fifty people. Sometimes i wonder how I got there.

'Its high end stuff. We kind of copete with Haazen Daaz and Ben and Jerry's but whilst they might sell strange combinations, we concentrate on the classical flavours done really well. We cant export to Europe due to laws about pasteurisation, but we hope to go national next year.

'We try and be an ethical as possible. We donate part of our profits to good causes, we support all sorts of foundations. Its all organic and recyclable. I really like tricking people into organic stuff- if its great tasting stuff at a good price, people will buy it whether it is organic or not.

'Yeah I have a girl. Been dating for about a year. Met on twitter of all places - she was retreating about a competition that we were running. She's a writer, and when that doesn't bring in enough money she works in a bar.

'I love the rugs and carpets they sell here. Just got this Yak Hair one for a hundred dollars. Although I don't know where I will put it, I live on a boat and there is not much space'.

Neil was easy to talk to and fun to be around. He had a good sense of humour and had an interesting story to his life.

It was just a shame that he only had a few days to trek here. He left us the next day when he heard a weather report and was worried about getting back to Kathmandu.

I am looking forward to trying Three Twins Ice Cream. If you get a chance to try any, then I bet it will be as nice as its owner.

The Highest Hairdresser in the World

'You didn't snore last night'. I said to Mark. We had shared a room for the first time.

'Thats because I didn't sleep! I have a cold, 'Mark pronounced, 'I was coughing and sneezing, and had temperature issues. At first I was too hot in my sleeping bag then too cold. The night seemed to go on forever'.

'One of the other group, the old Irish guy, asked me if I was the one having problems sleeping last night', whispered Neil the American to us (he was the guy we had shared a flight with yesterday). 'I think he heard you'.

'I suppose you two slept all night?' Mark asked mock bitterly.

"Yup' I said smugly.

The mornings walk was utterly glorious. Imagine the landscape of Yosemite in California, the quaint characterful buildings of Alpine Switzerland and the colours of Highland Scotland in the Autumn. A milky river thundered below us, steeply wooded slopes on either side, and high above the snowy mountains rose.

Neil joined us for the mornings walk. He had been to this area a couple of times before so was confident enough to do it without guide or porter. We made extremely quick time, and quickly outpaced the larger group who were staying in the same hotel as us.

'They are with Royal Mountain Travel too,' Indra told us. 'They are going to Base camp. We will probably see them quite a lot'.

We stopped for an early lunch, and then over a steel bridge, we started a steep ascent to our destination for the night, Namche Bazaar. Mark was extremely quick, I could scarcely keep him in sight, let alone keep up with him.

Indra estimated our arrival time to be between about six to seven hours from when we left. We rounded the bend and got to Namche Bazaar at one thirty, making our total travelling time five and a half hours, including an hours break. This was really fast, but I knew that it would be foolish to even try to keep this up at the higher altitudes.

After a hot shower at the hotel we explored the town. Namche was a strange place. Perched a steep slope in half a bowl shaped valley, it seemed to be mostly hotels and restaurants. All seemed quite new, but were attractively made in stone.

In the centre, just behind a Buddhist Stupa, was a tented market, looking nothing so much like a cheap car boot sale. The goods were all chinese knock offs of high street brands. This was the Tibetan Market, where itinerant traders were allowed to come over the high passes once a week to trade here.

We passed a sign for 'The Highest Barber in the World'. I had intended to have ny hair cut in Kathmandu before we left but ran out of time.

'I'm going in', I said.

'Are you sure?' Mark replied. 'You're hair looks fine'.

'Nah, its getting too long'. So I sat down in the barbers chair.

Mark started a commentary after a few minutes. 'Looking good! You're gonna need a leather jacket when you finish, you're gonna look so cool!

'And a comb in your back pocket so you can check it regularly.

'And you will probably need some oil as well to give the bit at the back a nice shine!'

'Will you back off! I can't help it that I am losing my hair!'

'Hasn't he finished yet. Its not like you had a lot to start with'.

'Are sure you want to start matey! I can bring you down anytime!'

The banter carried on back and forth until the Highest Hairdresser in the World had finished.

As the cloud started rolling in from the ridge, covering the higher hotels, we stumbled tiredly back up to the hotel le Base camp. The other group were straggling back too, and we joined them in common room to chat in front of the wood heater.

The Drunken Ghost of Doramba

I am not sure if I can find out any stories about this area, but I have one from my village, Indra said.

My Grandmother grew up in a village called Dorumba in the District of Ramechap. It was a small village with only a few houses, quite a long way from the road.

When she was young, they were haunted by a Ghost. Each evening the Ghost would come and knock on the door and demand alcohol. It wasn't aggressive or malicious or did anything bad, it just wanted to drink roxy. It would sit by the fire and drink until the fire went out and the night went cold.

Each time the Ghost would look slightly different, It might be a little bit taller one day, then another it might have a bit more hair, and a third it might be a lot younger.

It was said that the Ghost was a spirit of an old man who used to drink in the village. One day, he was staggering home drunk and fell down a hole and was never seen again.

My Grandmas parents were scared of the Ghost but didn't want to offend it. So they kept serving it every evening,

However, one evening, the mother came up to the Ghost wringing her hands, 'We have run out of Roxy' She said.

'But don't worry! There is a house up on the hill that has plenty to drink'. She took the Ghost outside, and pointed at the ridge. A light was glimmering up there.

'Ok ok, I will go up there' the Ghost grumbled, and set off.

'Follow that twinkling light. Don't stop till you get there,' the Mother said. 'And don't try and come back down, there are all sorts of holes where you might fall in and never come back'!

But there wasn't a house up there at all! My grandmothers mother had cleverly taken the Ghost outside just as the North Star was rising over the horizon. The twinkling light was the star which he could never reach and would never come back.

Landing in a Prop Plane

'We're landing there! I was seized by giggles.

'Yup!' Neil, a rangy Californian next to me grinned. 'Thats Lukla Airport. Crazy isn't it!'

The small prop plane was cramped. About twelve passengers were hunched over in small seats, but the cockpit door was open and we had almost a pilots view of the mighty mountains ahead of us.

We had headed north and east of Kathmandu for about forty minutes, weaving and twisting through mountains for the last twenty. At times the valley walls were only a hundred or so metres to our left and right. Ahead of us snowy mountains reared to incredible heights.

Our destination Lukla, was perched on a small flat ish ledge of one of the mountains. The runway was a steep slope ending in northing. This was rushing up towards us.

I don't really get nervous in these situations. The pilots are professionals who have done it a thousand times. But it seemed such a ridiculously small and remote and unfeasible landing strip that I couldn't help the laughter.

We landed safely, the pilot got a round of applause, and we started walking.

The first day, to Phakding, was only a couple of hours along mostly flat path. Stone lodges and guesthouses appeared in small clumps, trees and foliage in between, the milky river below us. Occasionally trains of yaks and donkeys would pass us, and porters bearing improbably loads. It was warm and pleasant.

At the guesthouse, I slept all afternoon whilst Mark explored. Unfortunately, when I rose at sundown, I discovered he had locked me in the room. I had to bangon the foor for what seemed like hours before a German came up the stairs and heard my distress.

Dinner and some cards and we were back in the bedroom by 9pm.

'Ok, breakfast at 7, leave at 7.30' Indra said. 'Sleep well'.

Compare and Contrast the main Hindu and Buddhist Temples in Kathmandu

'Uh do I have to!' Mark groaned as we left the Buddhist temple.

'Yup, you've got until supper time. When was the last essay that you wrote?'

'I dunno! Years ago!'

'It'll be good for you.'

We had risen early, despite the beers of the night before. Mark went to find a sleeping bag, whilst I dropped my bike at the travel agents for them to look after and visited the Indian Embassy to see if I could get my re-entry visa sorted. He was more successful than me - the visa section was not open on Sundays.

Indra checked all our gear, declared it satisfactory, and then headed off. Mark decided that as we had most of the day left, we should see some sights, so we hired a cab to take us two of the main tourist attractions, the HIndu and Buddhist temples.

The Hindu temple was built over a river that eventually flows into the Ganges. Built along the ghats, or steps, were funeral biers where cremations took place. One of them was lit.

Smoke drifted up. The scent of it, mostly just burning sandalwood, made me feel slightly nauseous. Or maybe it was the dirty grey sludge of the river underneath, flower garlands and rubbish and other flotsam mixing on the surface.

We were constantly hassled. Guides came up to us and started droning on about something then asking for bakshish. Holy men painted in orange and white charged for photos. Dirty children begged for money. We climbed up further to a quiet area and had a coke.

'Im not sure how I feel about this place', I said. 'I really hate it when people hustle in religious places. Westerners are scared enough of spirit as it is, making them feel ripped off will only put them off more'.

Marked looked at me blankly.

'But on the other hand, this place is really alive. Funerals and cremations are taking place right in front of people, death is part of life here. Its not hidden away. Cathedrals in England back in the old days used to be like this here - people haggling in the cloisters, selling trinkets and souvenirs, gossip and socialising. This place is alive, not like some air-conditioned museum with an audio guide'.

'Whatever!' Mark grinned at me. 'Shall we try the Buddhist temple? The monkey temple?'

It was on the other side of the city, and took awhile in the cab to get there.

'Apparently AJ got lost in the catacombs here, and was rescued by a dwarf Llama!' Mark giggled.

The immediate feeling of the Buddhist monastery was much calmer. It was set on a hill with great views over the city. We were not hassled as much, but on the top there was stall after stall of trinkets and trash.

The monkeys were everywhere. Sometimes grooming each other, sometimes playing, sometimes fighting.

The temple did not seem that different in style to the Hindu temple. May of the carvings seemed to be of deities, and the style was very similar. The building were a slightly different style, there were less bells and more prayer wheels, but incense and flowers were being offered just the same.

I wonder what Mark thought? If he does answer the essay questions, I will post his thoughts too.

The Trek Starts Now

'At last! Good to see you fella!'. We hugged. 'You too', Mark answered with feeling. 'Indra!, great to see you again! Thanks for meeting me. Didn't know you'd be here!'

Indra, our guide for the next two weeks had come by the hotel at 2pm, and taken me to the airport to meet Mark. It had been six months since we had seen each other, and both had been through a lot.

We piled into the car, stashed the gear in hotel, did a bit of paperwork with Indra and Raju from the travel agent about the trek, and then headed out again. A quick taxi ride to somewhere over the other side of the city,climbed some steps, and we were on a rooftop restaurant, overlooking the old city, watching the sun set over the distant mountains, a cold beer in front of us.

'So how you been! I have been reading your adventures. The tractor driver, what an arse! Dan sounds like a good man, and the deserts sounded amazing'.

it was strange hearing someone talk about people that I knew and adventures that I had had. 'Yeah, its been amazing'. I admitted. 'But how have you been?'.

Mark paused. 'Mixed. Its been a tough month. Up and down. I've been through a lot. But lets talk about that another time.

'Look at the view. The mountains in the background, its amazing here. I have dreamt for two years of coming back. I can't wait'.

It was magical, sitting there, under the dying sunlight, the city below us lit up in a fading orange, savouring an old friendship, and preparing for the adventure we would undertake together.

We drank another beer, and then another. We had some food, and then back to Thamel, another bar and some more beer.

'Last one. We are not going to be drinking much on the trek'.

'Last one' I agreed. 'The trek starts now'.

Meat Street

'Just about to go to the airport'. A message from Mark.

'What are you doing online? I thought you were going to be here in two hours!' I replied.

'No, I LEAVE on the 25th. I arrive on the 26th, stupid. Don't you read your mails?'

'Oh, er, OK. Any tips of what I should do till you get here?'

'You're in Kathmandu man, its amazing! Just go out of the hotel, turn left and follow it down. See what happens'.

I wasn't too upset that Mark was a day later than anticipated. I needed another rest day, and I knew it would be all go once he arrived.

Many people for many years had raved about Nepal. Apart from the traffic, Kathmandu seemed to entice nothing but good comments. I left the hotel and turned left with an attitude of 'go on then, prove it', almost not really wanting to like the place.

Within a hundred yards the tourist ghetto of souvenir tat and textile shops was behind me. There were no European faces at all, just crowds of smiling Nepalese.

The road narrowed into a lane, and the buildings seemed to tower over me. They looked old, the woodwork was all a very dark brown almost black with age. Windows and doors carved into intricate shapes. The bricks were slimmer and longer than normal more modern bricks.

It reminded me somewhat of old kung fu films, set in ancient China. It felt much more Oriental than Indian.

Small shops peeped out of the of the old facades. Some of them pharmacists, some shoe shops, some clothes shops. But mostly there were butchers shops, proudly displaying their produce on tables outside.

It always has fascinate me how different cultures treat and prepare meat. For many, slaughter is almost a ritual or religious job, in some cultures, it is a very low caste job, in ours for instance there is an obsession with hygiene and animal welfare.

It affects how the meat is actually prepared. For some cultures, knives are not part of the cutlery set, so meat is chopped to size in the butchers shop. We are fussy about bones in our food, so it is often filleted.

How it is stored, how it is packaged, where it is sold, how it is then cooked, how it is served. All are really intriguing points of cross cultural understanding.

When night had fallen, I took another stroll, and found flesh of another kind on display. The signs were quite discreet at first, inconspicuously placed next to a barbers sign, or a restaurant advertising.

'Dance Bar', or 'Dance with Shower', or 'Girl Bar Dance with Shower'. They read.

Very quickly a seedy side to the Thamel district started appearing. 'Come in, come in, just looking' one of the men outside called to me. 'Best Dance, lots of girls' another called. Meat street of another kind.

As a red light district goes, it was not as in your face as Amsterdam or as lurid as Bangkok, but seeing the furtive men ducking in, it still left a slightly sour taste in my mouth. I had not seen this side to any of the cities I had visited so far, and hoped that it would be the last.

However, on first impressions, I liked Kathmandu. A blend of oriental and indian atmospheres, a capital city that had not lost its character, an old city still thriving and living. I was not hassled unduly for anything, the traffic was not as bad as I had feared, the climate was cool but not cold. I could feel the magic of Kathmandu settling over me.

Fatalistic Voices, Fierce Determination

One of the tasks when you take an advanced motorcycling course is to give a commentary on the road you are driving. If you cant describe adequately what is happening with the traffic, the surface, the conditions and potential dangers you are going too fast.

Driving in India and Nepal, you get a lot of practice doing this. The speed is not great, but all the time you have to be aware.

A little voice inside me gives a running commentary; 'Surface getting bumpy in metres, drop a gear, slow down', or 'motorcycles joining in from the left. Modify speed, look for the gaps', or 'bus belching fumes ahead. Pull out, see if there is space to overtake. yes, accelerate now', or even 'oncoming tractor slowing down. Expect the unexpected'.

Almost all of the time this is really helpful. It keeps your focus on the road, constantly alert, never allowing you an instant to switch of concentration.

But sometimes, the little voice that gives the commentary goes a bit too far.

In Bandipur the sun was shining down when I left. A clear blue sky, a crisp feel to the air. I carried my gear up to the bike, loaded up, and kicked her awake in one go.

But when I rounded the ridge to descend back to the main road, a blanket of obscured everything but the distant mountains. Almost like in a plane when you break through the cloud layer, and you see an infinite carpet of cotton wool stretching before you.

'This is a weather inversion'. The little voice remembered something from a geography lesson a long time ago. 'It is clear on the top of the mountains, but foggy, damp and rainy below'.

I took a few pictures and carried on down the road. 'Sharp turn to the left, watch that patch of moisture, make sure you are upright', said the voice. 'Road dry for twenty metres, then looks slippy. Drop down a gear'. After all the driving I had done, this was no problem. Much easier than anything in Himachel Pradesh.

When I got to the main road, the mist was not as bad as I had feared. Visibility was a good fifty metres, traffic was light and the road was mostly dry. A milestone said 'Kathmandu 146km'. I started off.

'Road a bit wet ahead. Slow down drop a gear'. 'Town ahead, be careful of people running out, slow down'. 'Two lorries, not room to overtake, stay behind them'. Twenty minutes later, I passed another milestone, Kathmandu 135km.

'Still a bit wet. You could easily come off here, keep speed down'. 'There is no kerb on the left here. If you hit that bump, you could easily slip down the slope and crash on the rocks below'. 'If you loose control on this un-tarmacced surface, you could slide the bike straight under the wheels of that oncoming lorry'. Another twenty minutes later the milestone said 127km.

'Wouldn't it be ironic to crash right now, just before you put the bike away for two weeks', the voice whispered as I took a bend. 'Just imagine if you had a little accident and bruised your leg, you wouldn't have to climb up Everest', it added. 'You still have 120km to go. At this speed its going to take you hours. You'll never get there'.

What was wrong with me. This little voice wasn't some angel or demon in my head. It was me, talking to myself, commenting on the road.

'You haven't had an accident in ages. Surely the chances are you will have one now'. 'Those buses could easily pull over and knock you over'. '115km, you'll never make it'.

'STOP IT!' I yelled, my voice drowned by the engine. I pulled over.

'Shut the fuck up', I shouted at myself. 'You are speaking shit. Fucking shut UP!' I was really upset. Why was the voice, normally so calm and helpful putting these poisonous thoughts into my head. Was it fate, would I really not make it to Kathmandu? I had heard from guidebooks and guides, that the road up was really twisty and windy, and Kathmandu a gridlocked and choked with traffic.

'I will not have you speak like this', I began lecturing myself, as I would a child. 'I will NOT put up with it. This is MY head, and these are MY voices. I will NOT let you put nasty thoughts in there'. I was beginning to get warmed up now.

'And furthermore, I WILL make it to Kathmandu. I have driven over 5000km on roads worse than this. I can handle this traffic, I can handle Kathmandu, I can handle YOU! I will get there, and if you cannot say anything helpful, then you can just sit in SILENCE!'. I roared the last sentence, now in quite a rage, scarcely noticing the small crowd that had gathered to watch the strange European shouting at himself.

I got back on the bike, kick started it aggressively and started off. There was a fierce determination inside me now. I would make Kathmandu, I would not crash, I had not come all this way for it to go wrong now. If it was fate for it to happen, well fate could frankly go and stick it where the sun don't shine, I was not going to let anything bad go wrong.

The milestones started coming quickly now. 104km, 85km, 61km. I drove confidently and assertively. 48km, 36, 23. The road or traffic hadn't deteriorated too much.

Eleven Kilometres out, some roadworks started and the traffic flow slowed. A few more lorries appeared. I was still the most powerful bike on the road, easily able to swiftly overtake them even on the steep slopes.

And then Kathmandu was before me, opening up as I crossed a ridge. The mountains were clear in the distance, it looked close enough to touch. I drove into the centre, looking for the congestion. Sure, it was busy, but nothing like even small cities in India.

The GPS on my phone had started working, so finding the hotel was easy. 'That'll show you' I muttered to the voice as I parked Ambliss up for the night and unloaded.

I am still not quite sure what to make of this little episode. Part of me thinks that it was a triumph of will over fate, but another part of me thinks it was a a depressive reaction to all the rum that I had consumed the night before.

Whatever I was in Kathmandu, safe, strong and ready for the next adventure.

A little slice of Staffroom in Bandipur

'You get a real different opinion of the place if you stay here for a while. One, two days, you just see the pretty tourist side. Two weeks, you start to see the real picture. A month or more and it really starts to irritate you'.

The speaker was a young Austrian girl called Esther. She had been volunteering at the local Government school with her English friend Kate, and a tall and skinny German lad called Clarence. It was late at night in the guesthouse, and we were drinking rum to celebrate them all having finished their stint.

'You see the parents beat the children', Kate picked up the story. 'Once a girl came in with a huge black eye, but she wouldn't speak about it. I saw the headmaster beat a child because her father was too drunk to bring her in on time'.

'Physical punishment is very normal here', Clarence agreed. 'They have a lesson on morality, how to behave. There are pictures in there of children being beaten if they are not polite'.

'Ha! those books on morality are a joke' Kate chipped in. There are some very strange stories. One was about a father calling his son in prison asking where he should plant the potatoes. The son said to dig up the bodies in the garden and hide them somewhere. The Police came to find the bodies, they dug up the whole garden, but couldn't find them. However, they left the garden in the perfect state to plant the potatoes'. We all laughed at the strange tale.

"What are the kids like?' I asked.

'Naughty! They cant pay attention. Five minutes thats it. They have to be there, but often they don't have a teacher, so they don't know how to behave in a classroom'.

'Sounds just like kids at home', I laughed too.

'As well as the naughty ones, you get the girls flirting with you'. Clarence rolled his eyes. 'Its not just them, its the fathers trying to set you up with them here though!'

'Ha, you should try being a girl here. Every sleaze bag tries it on with you'. Kate poured more rum for us all.

It was a nice atmosphere, and they welcomed me into their little circle. The negative comments were just letting off steam. WHen you live and work closely with kids, and adults, you need a safe place to get the minor irritations and frustrations out so you can do the good that they did with a clear conscience. Reminded me of staffrooms back home.

'But the tourists! Urgh, The ones who stay up at the Old Hotel. Coming in to the learning centre, sniffing round, offering advice. THey say you can teach them German. I can barely teach them English!'. Esther, the Austrian girl harrumphed.

'But has it been worthwhile? The hard work, the lack of pay?'

'Oh without doubt. I would do it again. And this is a good place. I could have stayed in Kathmandu or at an Orphage in Pokhara. The capital is too busy, and at the orphanage the director ran off with all the money!'.

We drank the hotel dry of coke, polished off two large bottles of rum and kept the waitress up well passed her bedtime. We talked of more strange stories in Nepali schools, the German Oktoberfest, pony trekking in South America and how to party in Pokhara.

I would have loved to stay longer in Bandipur. It was a fascinating and beautiful little town, full of charm, but also I was able to see parts of the real life and story underneath. Another time, another me would love to have stayed to volunteer at the school and see more.

But this me had a bike, a road and a destination on the morrow. I left the teachers with their rum and crawled off to bed.

The Polar Bear who Loved Oranges Too Much

When my Grandfather was small, a Polar bear came down from the mountains and lived in this cave.

It would eat crops and goats and sheep, but most of all it loved the oranges. There are a lot of plantations down in the valley and none were safe from the bear.

There was no guns in the area, and no one knew what to do or where exactly the bear lived. But my Grandfather was brave, so one night he followed it back to its cave.

Next night, when it went to find Oranges, my father went to the cave and gathered up lots and lots of grass and wood. As morning came, he lit a big fire in the entrance to the cave.

The bear returning from his hunt, saw the fire, and had to leave. He went higher up into the mountains. he had to leave because he like Oranges too much!

Gupta and the Sword that No One Sees

A long time ago, a Monster came down from the Mountains and started terrorising the area round Bandipur. It started by eating crops, then sheep, then oxen, and finally started picking off villagers.

It had the body of a Lion, a Cobra for a tail, and was covered in scales like a fish. It was said that no man could kill the beast and no iron could pierce its armoured hide.

The villagers, in their desparation asked the King of Nepal to help. He posted a reward, and said that any man who killed the beast would become the Lord of the Region.

Many Knights came to try their luck. Famous warriors, brave soldiers, strong and fearless men. All heavily armed and well armoured. All went off to find the monster in his lair, but none returned.

In the village, there was a young boy called Gupta who watched them all. He wanted nothing more than to be a Knight, but he only had a sword made from bamboo.

The Knights on their way to slay the monster would laugh at him. 'You will never become a Knight with just a wooden sword!' they laughed. But they never came back from the monster.

Eventually Gupta decided that he would have try his luck. His father, the priest of the village, begged him not to go, but Gupta was adamant. 'Very well, if you must go, let me bless your sword', said his father.

The next morning Gupta set off. He knew the mountains well, and where the lair of the monster lay. Whilst it was out hunting in the forrest, he hid in the cave.

As night fell, the monster returned to his cave. 'I smell human!' it roared. 'Is there another one come to try and kill me. No man can do this, and no metal blade can pierce my scales!'.

But Gupta was only a boy, and his sword was made of bamboo. It had no edge, but its point was very sharp. He leapt up, and thrust as hard as he could. The sharp point slid in-between the scales and slew the creature.

'I am no man!' he shouted. 'I am only a boy. And this sword is made of bamboo'.

Back in the village, Gupta was treated like a hero. He was rewarded by the King and became Lord of Bandipur.

The Monster was left in the cave, and over time his body turned into rock. It is still possible to see parts of his body, one is shaped like a cobra, another like fish scales, a third like a roaring Tiger.

Gupta was afraid that no one would believe that his wooden sword had slain the monster, so he wrapped it in silk and told the villagers that Shiva had blessed the blade, and to look at it was death. A shrine was built for the sword and once each year it is bought out and paraded through the village. But its silk wrapping is never taken off, so it became called the sword that no one sees.

Bandipur and the Cave with Two Stories

'Its seven kilometres to Dumre, then you turn off and another eight to Bandipur'.

'Is that all!' I had only been on the road an hour. I had decided to split the 190km to Kathmandu into two days, stopping at the small hill station of Bandipur.

'Yes, its very nice there. make sure you visit the cave'. The roadside chai shop owner was large, jolly and friendly. 'Its about an hours walk form the village'.

I had taken my time in the morning, enjoying a large breakfast in a cafe overlooking Lake Pokhara. I was slightly nervous about hitting the road again after a few days break, and was delaying departure by writing postcards.

But I needn't have worried. Ambliss was fresh from her service, and was roaring to get going. The road was clear and ran through some gorgeous valleys thick with tropical foliage, occasionally crossing wide rivers, the mountains ever present in the background.

Just before Bandipur I was stopped at a toll booth. 'Five rupees, for the bike', the guard asked. I paid, and headed up the road about fifty metres. But I could get no further, The road through the village was out of bounds to motor vehicles.

Bandipur turned out to be a delightful street of old victorian brick built buildings. The village wasn't large, five minutes and I was already at the end.

It reminded me a little of Shimla, a European feel to the place, but with a distinctly Nepalese flavour. The street had some interesting looking shops, and two small temples that reminded of the God houses in Himachel Pradesh.

I found a hotel, got my stuff from the bike, and went out for a longer look round.

At the end of the market street a path led up to a temple, where a sword blessed by Shiva is housed. Apparently any mortal who looks apon it will immediately perish.

It was locked, and kids were playing in the yard, so I couldn't put it to the test.. A sign pointed to the cave though so on the recommendation of the chai shop owner, I carried on.

The path crested the hill, and then descended the mountainside, paving stones and steps, slick with moss, through the sub tropical foliage.

I passed a couple of other tourists. 'Its huge!' one said. 'Have you got a torch?' another asked. 'Take the guide', the third said.

When I got to the cave, a young and friendly girl took me in. Lighting the way with a bright handheld lamp we clambered over the rocks in the entrance, and turned a corner, and then descended.

The cave was huge. Underfoot slippery limestone, on each side, fantastically carved stalactites and stalagmites, and the ceiling vaulting away into the darkness, sometimes over fifty metres high.

Chamber after chamber led on deep into the hillside. Sometimes we had to climb up, sometimes we had to scramble down slopes. Eventually we came to a ladder leading deep into the darkness.

'This is the Cobra, this is the Tiger, this is the King Crown'. My guide pointed out different stalagmite foundations. It was eery and spooky and not for the faint hearted.

Back at the entrance, I chatted to the Manager. 'There are two stories to the cave. 'The Polar Bear who Loved Oranges too Much' and 'Gupta and the Sword that No One Sees'. My English is not good, but I will try to tell you'. I cannot vouch for their veracity.

I climbed back up the long and winding stair, and got to the top just in time for sunset.