We find out very early that the Elephant Polo World Cup won’t happen for us. We are about forty kilometers away from it at our campground, the Temple Tiger. Forty kilometers in Germany, for instance, means nothing. You can reach that distance in the time he takes you to eat a pretzel. With jungle and mountain terrain, you might as well hold everything else for the day if you plan to take that trip. On the other hand, I hope people watching the Elephant Polo had a great deal of fun, because we sure did.
The beginning of the trip. We leave Kathmandu at nine o’clock in the morning. We are out of the valley within forty-five minutes, and then gaze in wonder at the landscape we are treated to. Several rivers dance their way through forest and rock from mountaintops five and ten and fifteen thousand feet high, the water providing a vital piece of the population’s way of life. People bathe in the water baring it all, aware that thousands of tourists in busses are rolling down the pass and craning their necks to watch. Trees cover the mountains on both sides of the river. Every twenty miles or so, a long chain bridge is linked with the western part of the range, facilitating villagers and their efforts in their perpetual quest to eke out a living off the land. Around here, it’s usually bananas. There are thousands of palm trees, even at this altitude. Near the Pokhara turnoff is a cluster of resort spots for whitewater fanatics. Rows of houses renting canoes and other equipment make up Main Street. From here the traffic thins out considerably, even though the scenery doesn’t. People will have reached their destination with these resorts or the ones in Pokhara, and few continue to go our way. I am also feeling a little carsick.
We finally enter the Tarai Region, the flatlands that share much of its territory with India. Nepal is almost 75 % mountainous, so this feels different. Here we have miles and miles of rice paddies, divided by those little footpaths carved into them. Small huts of every thinkable material house people and their pets, mostly cows and goats. These people are dirt poor, live off the land, and display weary faces I have seen on U.S. Marines and coal miners. The hard daily agenda these people subject themselves to is as clearly written on their faces as a typed memo.
As our car hops along the road, children run alongside the car, waving and trying some of their second grade English on us. Paved roads are now only a memory, and in a few miles we will miss the rocks working our tires. We are driving at a 20 km/h clip and finally reach a bamboo gate, the official entry point of Chitwan National Park. From here, our driver takes us a kilometer or so to a river. I say goodbye to the driver and give him instructions for the next few days ahead. This will be our rendezvous point in about forty-eight hours.
At the river, a couple of scruffy looking locals take our bags and load them into an old, long, refurbished canoe that will take us across the river. Once across, we are loaded into a jeep and make our way to the campgrounds. Again, paved roads will never exist in this area if people are smart about it, and we hop and bump our way through the jungle.
At the camp, we unload our bags and inspect the facilities. Thatched wooden huts are lined up against the river, and it doesn’t take long to realize that this is not the resort my wife had expected. Even she agrees, though, that it is far more outstanding than any hotel could hope to be. There will be three hours of electricity per day, warm water for the same duration, and three warm meals.
We are in time for the elephant safari, so Liebi, Axl, and I take a seat atop a medium-sized elephant. This is tiger country, but even I know the chances of a tiger sighting are as dim as the evening will be in the jungle without light. We need to be realistic.
We immediately spot a lone Indian rhino chomping on some elephant grass. Even with three elephants close to him, the rhino doesn’t feel threatened in the least. He has the look of an animal that just prays that you try anything stupid. 6,000 pounds running at up to 40 km/h will make a battering ram feel like a pat on the back by comparison. These are also 6,000 very good reasons to keep a safe distance, which we do. Later we run across a herd of deer, then a troop of monkeys.
Finally, we return at sunset. Our little son has lost a shoe somewhere along the way, so that takes care of the use of his sneakers. He has also lost a couple of pacifiers, which compounds our problem even more. We find what the limits are with our eighteen-month-old. It’s a questionable decision, to be honest, having included him on our trip. It was also necessary to test how far we can go with him, where his limits are. At sunset, there are hundreds of activities I can think of in the jungle. Our son also knows one: watching the Wiggles. Although he is outnumbered, he wins again, the dictatorship restored. Can’t wait till he grows up. I’ll let him enjoy his throne for now.
The beginning of the trip. We leave Kathmandu at nine o’clock in the morning. We are out of the valley within forty-five minutes, and then gaze in wonder at the landscape we are treated to. Several rivers dance their way through forest and rock from mountaintops five and ten and fifteen thousand feet high, the water providing a vital piece of the population’s way of life. People bathe in the water baring it all, aware that thousands of tourists in busses are rolling down the pass and craning their necks to watch. Trees cover the mountains on both sides of the river. Every twenty miles or so, a long chain bridge is linked with the western part of the range, facilitating villagers and their efforts in their perpetual quest to eke out a living off the land. Around here, it’s usually bananas. There are thousands of palm trees, even at this altitude. Near the Pokhara turnoff is a cluster of resort spots for whitewater fanatics. Rows of houses renting canoes and other equipment make up Main Street. From here the traffic thins out considerably, even though the scenery doesn’t. People will have reached their destination with these resorts or the ones in Pokhara, and few continue to go our way. I am also feeling a little carsick.
We finally enter the Tarai Region, the flatlands that share much of its territory with India. Nepal is almost 75 % mountainous, so this feels different. Here we have miles and miles of rice paddies, divided by those little footpaths carved into them. Small huts of every thinkable material house people and their pets, mostly cows and goats. These people are dirt poor, live off the land, and display weary faces I have seen on U.S. Marines and coal miners. The hard daily agenda these people subject themselves to is as clearly written on their faces as a typed memo.
As our car hops along the road, children run alongside the car, waving and trying some of their second grade English on us. Paved roads are now only a memory, and in a few miles we will miss the rocks working our tires. We are driving at a 20 km/h clip and finally reach a bamboo gate, the official entry point of Chitwan National Park. From here, our driver takes us a kilometer or so to a river. I say goodbye to the driver and give him instructions for the next few days ahead. This will be our rendezvous point in about forty-eight hours.
At the river, a couple of scruffy looking locals take our bags and load them into an old, long, refurbished canoe that will take us across the river. Once across, we are loaded into a jeep and make our way to the campgrounds. Again, paved roads will never exist in this area if people are smart about it, and we hop and bump our way through the jungle.
At the camp, we unload our bags and inspect the facilities. Thatched wooden huts are lined up against the river, and it doesn’t take long to realize that this is not the resort my wife had expected. Even she agrees, though, that it is far more outstanding than any hotel could hope to be. There will be three hours of electricity per day, warm water for the same duration, and three warm meals.
We are in time for the elephant safari, so Liebi, Axl, and I take a seat atop a medium-sized elephant. This is tiger country, but even I know the chances of a tiger sighting are as dim as the evening will be in the jungle without light. We need to be realistic.
We immediately spot a lone Indian rhino chomping on some elephant grass. Even with three elephants close to him, the rhino doesn’t feel threatened in the least. He has the look of an animal that just prays that you try anything stupid. 6,000 pounds running at up to 40 km/h will make a battering ram feel like a pat on the back by comparison. These are also 6,000 very good reasons to keep a safe distance, which we do. Later we run across a herd of deer, then a troop of monkeys.
Finally, we return at sunset. Our little son has lost a shoe somewhere along the way, so that takes care of the use of his sneakers. He has also lost a couple of pacifiers, which compounds our problem even more. We find what the limits are with our eighteen-month-old. It’s a questionable decision, to be honest, having included him on our trip. It was also necessary to test how far we can go with him, where his limits are. At sunset, there are hundreds of activities I can think of in the jungle. Our son also knows one: watching the Wiggles. Although he is outnumbered, he wins again, the dictatorship restored. Can’t wait till he grows up. I’ll let him enjoy his throne for now.
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