Descending into the Kathmandu valley we realised that Nepal would be that little bit different. Snow-capped mountains in the distance, acres of terraced hillsides, brickworks billowing out smoke and a sprawling city. There was a different class of tourists stepping off the plane - none of the usual hippy backpackers of south east Asia, but now a fitter, sturdier and healthier youth ready to tackle some of the highest peaks in the world. We felt a little intimidated. My fascination with custom controls was rewarded once again by learning that we had not indeed exceeded our limit of "one perambulator, one tricycle and one walking stick". Phew.The drop in temperature was significant and refreshing. At last we were back in the 20s. Hey we might even have to use a blanket in bed. We took a taxi down to Freak Street, the old hippy hangout of the 1970s. It’s now rather run down but quieter than its successor in Thamel. Our hotel room was on the 5th floor (no lift), our unfit bodies regretted that choice, but the view over the roof tops was spectacular and it allowed us to privately watch early morning Hindu ceremonies being performed by lay people. Tinkling of hand bells to the four corners of the house, bugle horns calling the gods and sprinkling of rice to feed them. Above eagles soared and pigeons took advantage of the offerings.

Our guest house was on the edge of Durbar Square, a so-called pedestrianised area home to the old Royal Palace, numerous temples and the House of the Living Goddess. There are several living goddesses in Nepal but the Kumari Devi is the most important. She becomes a goddess around the age of four and her reign ends at puberty or "at any other serious accidental loss of blood". The temples are similar to tiered pagodas. The first evening we installed ourselves on one and watched the world go by. We had arrived at the beginning of a series of festivals marking yet another New Year (we have so far experienced 4 "New Years" since being away), and through the square disorganised groups of energetic boys and men banged drums and hawled small deities on bamboo supports. "You shouldn't go down there" we were advised by a Nepali "there'll be Indians amongst the crowd and they will steal everything". Now where have we heard that sentiment before about a country's neighbours? - ah yes, everywhere. The "pedestrianised" area was not in fact a safe place to wander around in since we were in constant danger of being attacked by touts wanting to be a guide, hawkers selling Tiger Balm, and motorbikes weaving through the fruit and veg stalls.

The BMW (I can't call it "THE bike" now for obvious reasons) had arrived in Kathmandu the day before we did. Our choice of importing it into Nepal rather than India was entirely justified when it cost us just 5 USD (plus 7 USD tip for the efficient customs agent) and 3 hours work to get it out of hock and assembled at the warehouse. We felt lucky that the only object the thieving hands could nick from the crate was the lefthand mirror. Once we had retrieved Simon's bike we could now concentrate on my bike. The story goes like this ...

... it was back in February this year whilst lounging, as you do, in a hammock on the beach on Koh Chang that I had the idea of getting a bike myself. We had agreed at the beginning that we would undertake this adventure on just one bike due to the companionship (being so close on the bike we talk alot and point things out to each other) and it being cheaper, safer etc. But after almost one year I realised that I had the ideal opportunity to do the riding myself and I felt I needed to prove something. Contrary to common belief "just being a pillion" is NOT a joyride. OK, you don't have to concentrate as much, but you have just as much responsibility for keeping the bike upright, pointing out hazards and navigating. However, if I were honest to myself, I knew this would be my last chance to be an overlander, and quite frankly I was jealous of my female friends who can give themselves this title - thanks Iris, Trui, Monika, Lisa R and Kate (you do count even though you haven't set off yet). Unfortunately Simon wasn't too amused by my suggestion, though my feminine guile won him over. Seriously, I thank him dearly for his emotional and physical support in what is probably a rash decision. We both know that at the end of the day Simon will take most of the brunt of maintaining the bike, but if you can't or won't follow your dreams ...

So the decision was made and a plan needed to be put into action. As luck would have it last year we met Marc, a Belgian journalist, in both Turkmenistan and Uzbeksitan. He had described to us his desire to buy an Royal Enfield in India and ride it overland home. We contacted Marc to find out if he had been successful and luckily received all the information we required to buy one. He also confirmed our fears that India was no longer the place to do it since recent laws, that could not even be dodged in India, prevented us from buying an Indian built bike from India and riding it home (we could have shipped it though). Ridiculously matters were different in Nepal and we were allowed to buy that same bike, but the fact that it was registered it in Nepal meant that we could obtain the necessary documentation to ride it home.

From Thailand we got in contact with the only Enfield dealership in Kathmandu and reserved a black 500cc Bullet. The stupid thing was that I had NEVER even seen one in the flesh and was just relying on my instinct that a classic looking bike would be cool! Is that female logic? Nonetheless we raced down to the dealership whereupon I must admit I was a tad disappointed. It didn't have that look that I had been expecting but I couldn't put my finger on it. Simon took it out for a test drive to his initial satisfaction and then he found a "quiet" road for me. Boy it was heavy, nothing like my Yahama trail bike at home. And worse still was the gear change. Simon had warned me that since it was fundamentally an old British bike then the gear lever was now on the right side instead of the left. My coordination went up the wall. All my natural reactions gained by riding a Japanese bike had to be ignored and that was not an easy thing. My first test "drive" last approximately 30 seconds and the first test "push" was considerably longer. Having stalled it I was unable to start it again - forgot to tell you it's a kick start and not electric! Determined not to be deterred we agreed to join the Enfield riders at the weekend on one of their rideouts.

In the meantime there was a certain 40th birthday to be celebrated. Having opened all five of his presents (four new T-shirts and a second-hand siamese cat detective murder-mystery novel) we headed out for a day trip to Pulchowki rhododendron forest. I hadn't realised that rhododendrons actually originate from the Himalayas since they prefer high altitudes. We slowly climbed up to 2,700m on the bike with not a bloom in sight until we got ignominiously stopped by the army. We were informed that we couldn't continue any further. We pleaded our cause and the young army guys melted. "OK then, we will go and pick some flowers for you because if our big boss sees you we will be in trouble" the only English speaker offered. "Are you sure we can't accompany you" I whined. "Alright then". At that we followed 3 guys in combats and with shooters into the forest single file. Wait a minute, this felt deja-vu and a little bit dodgey. My mind raced as I imagined that these were not innocent army guys but Maoist rebels (more about them later) and they were taking us hostage. However, needing to trust them they led us further through the undergrowth. Suddenly they stopped and one guy was ordered to remove his body armour and shooter. To our amazement soon he was scaling a tree 20m high and was picking us blooms. In England rhododendrons are bushes but in their native habitat they are huge trees. After a photo call we headed back. In the evening we celebrated at the Everest Steak House. Superb rump steaks imported from India (sacred cow and all that) and chips for the princely sum of 4 USD.

Simon's 40th birthday party - how bizarre!

So that the Enfield would not be a one horse race we decided to test drive the other "options". There were many rebadged Japanese bikes built in China which were dirt cheap and small - 125cc. These were easily rejected. However Honda also build bikes in India which would be much more reliable than the notoriously unreliable Enfield. I took out the largest one - CBZ at precisely 156.8cc. It was simple to ride but had little character. The rebadged Kawaski Pulsar with a branding "Definitely Male" and the Yahama Enticer "BBC On Two Wheels winner of Best Cruiser 2002" were possibilities. Decisions, decisions. It wasn't simplified by the death trap that was lent to me on the Enfield Riders outing. They let me loose on a 30 year old clapped out 350cc. It vibrated, it wobbled and it stalled. It felt like it had a puncture. Simon ordered me off it when he spotted that the rear wheel bearings were "@#&^ed". Not a good advertisement for the Enfield. The group ride of Enfields, BSAs and BMWs lasted only 20 minutes but we ended up on a grassed ledge of the Kathmandu valley overlooking the capital and Himalaya range peeked through the clouds. Here we spent the afternoon chatting to two extremes of ex-pats who were making their home in Nepal - the American hippy couple and the British pastor of the International Church and his wife. We drank chang (Tibetan rice beer) and Nepali milk tea, both were foul.

The final test drive a couple of days later proved much more positive and lasted longer than 30 seconds. It was now or never, so I took the plunge. You can imagine the bureaucracy involved in buying the bike as a foreigner since we had to deal with both Nepali and British authorities. My special thanks go out to the ever-efficient Sue Collins at the RAC for organising the Carnet de Passages, Clive Davy at HSBC for the bank guarantee, Pad for the bank forms and Dad for transferring the money although it was against his better fatherly judgement.

Girl with a new toy

A day off from bike duties we popped off to Bhaktapur just a few kilometres away. Unbeknownst to us we were visiting the town on the first day of one of the most important festivals in the country, Bisket Jatra. As we paid our 10 USD entry fee to the world heritage site we were informed that the chariot tug-of-war would start at 4pm. A little confused, Simon held up the Lonely Planet book and asked if it were like the one on the front cover. "It is exactly that one". What luck. We entered the truely beautiful and peaceful city thanking the Germans for cleaning it up in the 1970s and making the city centre really pedestrianised. Just like Kathmandu there were shrines to Hindu gods on every corner with food smeared to their mouths as offerings. Sparrows had a field day. We wandered through the empty streets wondering where all the New Year's revellers were. By 4pm we realised that they were all in the main square waiting for the big event to start. We jostled for position on the steps of a 5 tiered pagoda temple and watched the so-called preparation of the wooden chariot carrying the image of the god Bhairab. This entailed children climbing all over this probable centuries old relic and huge thick hemp ropes being fixed at each end. Every available space was filled with spectators and participators. Only an hour later than advertised the tug-of-war started. between the eastenders and westenders of the town. Several leaders and kids hung onto the chariot as they chanted encouragement (seemingly it sounded like "Hamas") to the large group of men trying to pull the rickety chariot to their end of the square. The crowd cheered on their neighbourhood. We were told that this struggle could last days so after 30 satisfying minutes we broke free to return back to the capital. We passed through the rest of the empty temple square where kids were playing cricket against the religious monuments. Cricket has become particularly popular since the World Cup in India. Children of all ages can be seen trying the sport down alleyways using makeshift bats and balls.

Handicrafts in Bhaktapur

As we made our way to the bus stop we were approached by a couple of young girls clearly wishing to practice their English. I have really been amazed at the standard of spoken English (not their spelling) and these girls were no exception - remember that the British did not colonize Nepal, although we did try to invade, the Gurkhas proved too much of an oppposition. The girls were 14 years old and both wished to become doctors. I loved the way that they repeated Simon's grumble of "Do you mind" as they racked their vocabulary banks for the meaning. I carried on the conversation with them until the half-expected request came, "May I ask you a question?" Pause. "Could you please buy us an English dictionary because our written English is not so good. There is a bookshop just here" ...

We found ourselves in Nepal in a strange transitional period. The politics of the country were intriguing. You may remember a few years ago the reported tragic event of a deranged prince shooting the King of Nepal and many family members. This "Royal Scandal" has had many repercussions. The general Nepali public didn't trust the official report and they demonstrated for the truth. Many believe that the murders were all instigated by the dead King's brother who simply wanted the throne himself. He is now nicknamed "The Bloody King" for this reason. This all sounded pretty medieval but may be backed up by his current rule of thumb. Only last year he dismissed the democratically elected parliament and installed his own henchmen so that he is effectively ruling the people himself. The people are also worried about his son and heir to the throne, a known drug addict. This is one monarchy I will be keeping an eye on.

When the war in Iraq started the price of fuel was increased by 8% to 70c a litre and also rationed to 2 litres per motorbike and 10 litres per car. The rationing never worked and was dropped but the price hike remained. In the fashion of all good students, they came out to demonstrate whilst we were there, setting alight a petrol tanker. We kind of got caught up at the back of the riot police and realised that we would have to make a swift exit. All rather unnerving. It was reported later that all eight of Kathmandu's fire engines were called out to tackle the blaze. Rather unfortunately the students' leader was shot dead by the police during the riot and this of course prompted further demonstrations. His family was consequently paid off with 7,000 USD and a promise to find work abroad for the eldest son “providing it wasn't in the Middle East”. There were then general strikes which plagued us for the rest of the trip.

On a good note there had recently been a ceasefire announced by the Maoist rebels. They were mainly murdering Nepali citizens in the countryside, but there had been reports of tourists being attacked on popular trekking routes. This had severely effected Nepali tourism, a mainstay of its economy. A result of the ceasefire was the emergence of the Maoists as a political party. They held their first rally in the centre of Kathmandu, attracting 25,000 people. Guess who got caught up riding their bike through the dispersing crowd? At the best of times dealing with pedestrians is hard enough since their road sense is non-existant. There are no designated crossings so they wander across 4 lanes at their leisure, usually ignoring all horns. All other traffic is just as bad. No-one uses their mirrors, if they indeed have any, and certainly no-one looks right as they pull out into traffic. Size also matters in Nepal. As a two wheeler you stand no chance against oncoming larger vehicles. Quite simply they have right of way even if it is on your side of the road. The cyclists are no better. There is one size and model of bicycle in Nepal and it has no gears. Added to this the fact that it can of course carry 2 passengers - one on the cross bar and the other over the rear wheel does not make it the most stable of vehicles as it struggles up hills and its driver turns his head to gawp at us. As I write this now I am amused by the fact that despite this description, in my opinion Nepali traffic is now tame compared with Indian, but I will allow Simon to rant on about that one in the next newsletter.

Two weeks into Nepal we had cause for another celebration - one year on the road. We chose to spend it on the Bhote Kosi river, near the Tibetan border, white water rafting. Just a couple of days were enough to exhaust us. The first day Simon decided to relive his youth by kayaking instead and battled to keep his head above water as he followed us downstream. Wisely he joined us in the raft the next day as we got tossed from side to side in the torrents and just about managed to dodge the raw sewage outlets dribbling overhead from the riverside villages.

Getting ‘templed-out’ is a sympton that many long term travellers suffer from. We were no exceptions and agreed only to go to the most famous ones recommended by the guide book. In Kathmandu, Pashupatinath is the most important Hindu temple complex. It is built along the Bagmati river which is its holiest, the equivalent of the Ganges in India. Although as non-Hindus we were not allowed into the sacred parts, we were in fact permitted to watch the daily cremations taking place on 8 platforms by the river. Stacks of wood were carefully built and the shrouded body, having been paraded through the city, was placed on top. The cremation took quite some time and the ashes were swept into the river. Unburnt bones had to be raked over on the shallow riverbed to avoid clogging up the flow, and kids paddled in the river unperturbed.

Half a day’s ride west of the capital took us to Ghorka, of soldier fame, where we climbed up stone steps for one hour up to reach another ‘highlight’ of the Lonely Planet. Views of the Annapurna and Himalaya ranges from the top of the ridge were impossible due to the heat haze, and the Hindu temple was itself out of bounds for the non-believer. We were however allowed to walk around the temple precinct bare foot (no leather was permitted) admiring the outside of the structures. Simon had noticed that the stone ground was stained and sticky and animal fur was abundant. It turned out we had just missed the annual sacrifice of 100 buffalo and 1,000 goats at the temple. There was no smell but we were forced to tiptoe between the patches of congealed blood. The army who marshal the site kindly showed us the chopping blocks for the beasts and also that for the chickens which get sacrificed daily at noon.

Although on a biking tour we knew we couldn’t really leave Nepal without having done some form of trek. Walking does not come naturally to either of us, why would it if you have 2 wheels? I did some investigations and suggested that we attempt the Royal Trek, so called because Prince Charles did it in 1980. It was advertised as being suitable for kids (Mick Jagger also did it) so therefore we thought it would be perfect. On reaching Pokhara in the west of the country and base camp for many Annapurna treks we were told that this trek was no longer ‘fashionable’ and we would find ourselves being the only people undertaking it. The guy at the information centre tried to persuade us to do a slightly more challenging and significantly more rewarding six day trek higher up. It was called the Ghorepani/Poon Hill trek. Simon studied the map and predicted that it would be too difficult for us. I take full responsibility for persuading him otherwise. I think you can see where this one is leading …

… We were both dead nervous as we got into the taxi to take us to the trail head. I don’t think we had felt like this since we set off last year. Matters weren’t helped either by the fact that Simon was just starting a bout of giardiasis (diarrhea). We were told that the route was very well signed and we would meet many other trekkers. Even so Simon had planned the route meticulously, even plotting points into the GPS. The first day’s walk was only 6km as the crow flies and was meant to take us up a valley. What we had failed to appreciate fully however was the contour lines on the map. On an OS map in England the contour lines represent every 10m, but in the Annapurna range this is impossible due to the steep terrain. They consequently represent a change of 40m which is a considerable difference. Looking at the map we thought parts of the route looked flat but infact the path could climb and fall within the same 40m contour without it suggesting any challenge.

Whose big idea was this?

My unfit body struggled from day one, but my stubborness pushed me forwards. How on earth could I give up when young barefoot girls carrying huge slabs of slate on their backs simply supported by a strap around their foreheads were passing us by? Slowly but surely, porters earning 5USD a day carried enormous ‘kitchen-sink’ overpacked rucksacks for ‘lazy’ trekkers. We, on the other hand, had chosen to travel light and independently.

"Hold on, we can't keep up with you!"

Reluctantly we had to stop short of our planned night’s accommodation. We had been climbing ever since lunch (we had climbed the equivalent height of Ben Nevis - the highest peak in Britain) and we were simply exhausted. The unexpected sign that we were only 4,252 steps from our destination was devastating. Fortunately we found a rundown hostel on the mountainside. We were the only guests and paid just 1.50 USD for the night. Once we got rehydrated we chatted to the owner. We watched the twinkling lights of a lucky village on the other side of the valley. “My aunt lives in that village. It takes me 3 hours to walk there.” As the crow flew it was only 2km away. We tried to explain to him that that was the same time it takes to drive between London and Manchester, a distance of 320km!

The following morning we had to rise early to make up the distance we hadn’t covered the day before. We caught intermittent glimpses of Annapurna South at 7,219m as school children gaily bounded past us shouting “Namaste” and more porters this time hauling wicker baskets full of produce. How have people got so much energy? It’s embarrasing. This day however was far more rewarding as we passed through alpine meadows and lunched on fresh tea, warm chapatis and tinned cheese. Now that brought a smile to Simon’s face, as did the sweet smell of wild jasmine do to mine.

Small pleasures

The third day saw yet another continuous climb alongside a cascading river in a rhododendron forest. As we reached 3,200m (10,500ft) the blooms were in abundance. The exersion was beginning to take its toll and I became quite light headed. But our mid-way point in the trek was nearing and the realisation of a day’s rest at Ghorepani was enough to keep me going. We had been recommended the Super View guesthouse for its superb view from the bedrooms of most of the Annapurna range, not for its congenial manager. Obviously trying to constantly please his ever dwindling number of guests he tended to follow us around advising us to use the communal flipflops, go inside when it was raining and making generally inane comments. Simon’s blood was boiling and so in his inimitable style took great pleasure in answering the manager’s question “Going upstairs for a rest sir?” with the retort “No, if you really want to know I’m going for a shit” Remember he still had giardiasis.

Annapurna South - a view from bed

We were rewarded with a wonderfully clear sunrise following the night’s storm. No point in getting up at 5am to trudge up Poon Hill to join the market place of tea stalls and photographers catching the view of the Annapurna when you could do it from your own 1.30 USD a night bedroom. So we left Ghorepani in higher spirits in the knowledge that it was downhill from here on. A stray dog joined us down the mountain but eventually got frustrated by our lack of speed and latched onto some faster moving Japanese trekkers. I soon discovered however that downhill was not necessarily easier on dodgey knees. The hired walking stick helped but it didn’t make travel any faster on the slate stonework. We stopped for a deserved cup of tea in a thriving village and watched two buffalo ploughing a field on a terrace. The design of the wooden yoke tethering them together could not have changed in thousands of years. Moments like this made us realise how there are some parts of the world where progress just doesn’t rear its ugly head. Some of the villages that we had passed through may have had electricity and wells but the fact that they were so remote meant that EVERYTHING in the village had to be transported by human or donkey power over a period of 2 to 3 days. There were no roads nor a landing strip in the vicinity. A donkey cannot carry more than 70kg and the load must obviously be small. And because of the tight, twisty paths anything bulky was carried by humans. We watched in awe as a single porter carried a 2m high medicine cabinet uphill to the clinic. Another one had four water barrels and a bicycle strapped to his back. They were true work horses.

Everything is carried up the valley

We somehow managed to combine two days walking into one. This may have been a mistake. The final descent saw the rain clouds open and we were forced to seek shelter for some time. But we still had another steep uphill and to cross over a torrential river on the most frightening suspension bridge ever. I waited for locals to cross in the opposite direction and flinched as they kissed the end support thanking the gods for a safe traverse. We scrambled up yet another landslide and clung close to the rock face as the narrow path was inches away from a sheer drop into the icy river. The hot spring village of Tatopani was a breath of fresh air. We thought we deserved our first beer of the trek but it went straight to our heads. We found just enough energy to stumble down to the hot spring in the river and Simon’s inhibitions went right out the window as he adorned himself in a pair of my black M&S knickers to make himself ‘respectable’ in the pool.

Unfortunately the hot waters didn’t have sufficient healing powers to cure my stiff calf muscles. More downhill stretches were taking their toll and I was in complete agony. Mid afternoon we learnt that a 2 day general strike was due to start the following day and this would effect all forms of transport, buses and taxis alike. We didn’t like the prospect of being holed up in small village for 2 days so had to put on a spurt to get to the nearest village with a road leading out of it. My pace was painfully slow, but Simon stormed on ahead to arrange a taxi. We thought that we were being fleeced when we had to agree on paying 23 USD to get us back to Pokhara. We had no choice. However the journey lasted over 3 hours on rough roads and by the time we reached civilisation we would have been prepared to pay twice that amount.

So would we go trekking again? Been there, done that and a unanimous NO. Granted the scenery was awesome amongst the highest mountains in the world but the effort required to see them FOR US was too much. Nonetheless I am sincerely envious of those able to do it. For those like us who want a bit of the adventure from their armchair I can thoroughly recommend two books on the mountaineering theme. The first is “Into Thin Air” by Jon Krauker. This is his riveting account of an infamous 1996 Everest disaster which claimed 8 lives. The other is “The Ascent of Rum Doodle” by humourist W E Bowman, a satire on a typical disastrous British expedition and upper class twittery.

Back in the capital we organised Indian and Pakistani visas, two completely contrasting processes. The first chaotic and bureaucratic beyond belief and the second refined and simple. We are grateful to Ted Simon (still the Edmund Hillary of the overlanding biking world - and only about 10 years younger) who informed us of the difficulties of obtaining Pakistani visas from India.

By now my bike and paperwork were at long last ready. A front disk brake and crash bars had been fitted. Most Nepalis used their crash bars to hang shopping and helmets off. Before we could leave for India we had to run the bike in for 500km and give it its first service. A run to Chitwan National Park to see the rhinos and tigers seemed ideal.

Fingerprints for the registration document!

We took a 100km tortuous but beautiful route over the mountains. Simon was 100 metres in front, all was going well as we took the bends and enjoyed the scenery. I approached a standard bend, as I exited it I thought I could hear rain on my helmet. But no water to be seen. A few metres later on I realised that the noise was that of an insect buzzing around my helmet. No, not one but several. I stopped the bike and realised that bees were swarming around me. You can't plan for that scenario so I quickly had to decide what to do as they started stinging my neck. I had to abandon the bike and start running, taking off my helmet and screaming for Simon. They stung my hands, neck, throat and scalp. "Luckily" Simon had been stung as well and had stopped further on down. God knows how long I would have had to wait until he realised that I wasn't following him if he hadn't been attacked as well. Simon struggled to pick up his own bike (dropped during his efforts to rid the beasts) and rode back to pick me up like a knight in shining armour. We rode as fast as we could brushing off the bees until we were clear. Then we had to retrieve his helmet and my bike and stuff. We did this on several sweeps of the area since the bees were still around. Not a pleasant experience. My head and neck were extremely painful and we had to remove some 16 barbs still left in my skin. Luckily I carry antihistimene tablets in my bag so we both popped one. We wondered what had prompted the attack. Simon recalled watching some kind of hawk at the bend where the bees swarmed, and we subsequently learnt that it was probably a Honey Kite known to attack hives! Seven days on and the swelling had subsided but the itching was annoying. Looking back on the incident now I think we should have tried to outrun the bees. By stopping and removing our helmets only allowed the insects to regroup and get caught up in our (my) hair. Does anyone have advice for other bikers?

Chitwan National Park couldn't compete with anything in Africa, but we did manage to see a couple of rhinos, peacocks and wild chickens (wild? - they were furious). We sat on an elephant’s back as he showered us with water and then got thrown into the river with his dung floating past us!

Our time in Nepal was coming to an end so we returned to the capital for the final time passing the many hundreds of women and children bashing rocks at the side of the road. We have marvelled at what we call the ‘Rock Management Crisis’. Nepal seems to suffer from having too many rocks, of the wrong size, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. It therefore employs thousands of people to move these rocks around the country, usually on their head or back, and then get some poor individual sitting under a pathetic sun awning to bash them through a metal hoop to make road stone. We read that an old woman earned only 7 rupees per bucket for doing this, just 10c.

We also rode past several truck and bus cadavres. I am so surprised that we have not yet witnessed an accident, even in India, but the remains on the road sides are scary. Everyone seems to take them so lightly. A headline in one of Kathmandu’s English language newspapers read “Bus Mishap”. This mishap was the death of 30 passengers “commuting to a Maoist convention”. There were 150 people on board (inside and on the roof), we calculated that it would only safely carry 60. Several died on the spot and others “breathed their last” on the way to hospital.

We had been advised to visit Nepal AFTER India because it was much more relaxing and laid back. What on earth was in store for us next?

===============
Statistics:

Number of weeks = 6.5
Miles in country= 905
Kilometres in country = 1,450
Total miles so far = 24,070
Total kilometres so far = 38,515