Bangkok and Home

Our trip ended with a four hour flight from Kathmandu to Bangkok, Thailand. We checked into the Mandarin Oriental Hotel on the river, one of the finest hotels in the world. After weeks of yak dung stoves, frozen rooms, and holes in the floor for toilets, this was paradise.

I'll try to post some Bangkok pix later, but it's a big city and frankly, it paled in comparison to the remarkable things we had seen in prior days.

A relaxing three days, then a flight to Tokyo, and home yesterday. I slept from 6:30 p.m. to 7:30 this morning. Glad to be back? I suppose. Definitely looking forward to the next adventure though.

Thanks for following!

Ciao, Jeff

Kathmandu

After crossing the Tibetan/ Nepalese border, we stop at Andheri for a quiet lunch. We had no idea that we would not be leaving for over four hours.

A truck has overturned on the highway from the border to Kathmandu seriously injuring a young boy. The truck lies on its side completely blocking the road. We wait in a small cafe in Andheri for the owner of the truck to be located. Nepal is now Maoist and there is no organized justice system. Instead, a committee of towns people is assembled to negotiate a settlement with the truck owner. And we wait. And wait . . .

To create peer pressure to leverage the truck driver to commit to pay for the medical care of the boy, the residents of Andheri erect barracades to block all traffic coming and going. The cops do nothing.

Finally, after four hours, we leave Andheri behind and continue the journey to Kathmandu. A stark contrast to the high plateau lying several thousand feet higher and behind us. Unfortunately, it is now becoming dark and we have over two hours of twisting, rutted road ahead of us into Kathmandu.

Our drivers, intent on setting new land speed records, race around blind corners in the dark flashing brights in hopes of discouraging head-0n crashes. Pamala holds her hands over her eyes for the better part of the journey.

When we enter Kathmandu proper, it is is pitch dark. There are millions of cars, busses, bikes, pedestrians, etc. all swerving in and out at high speed. The headlights and tail lights take on the appearance of a kalidescope. There is no telling where one car stops and another begins. The margins between the passing cars and trucks is measured in inches. Somehow, we manage to arrive at our hotel. And the serious drinking immediately began.

What the town lacks in color, the residents supply in spades.

In Kathmandu, there are no traffic signals. There are no traffic cops. There are no traffic signs. And even if there were, no one would pay a bit of attention. There are two million people in Kathmandu, and every single one of them has wheels: pedi-cabs, cars, push-carts, bicycles, motorcycles, you name it. Passing is the national sport. No matter how bad the traffic is, no matter how gridlocked it has become, you pass. You pass on the sidewalk, you pass in the oncoming lanes, you pass everwhere. Somehow, the traffic keeps movig and no one gets killed.