We then drove further down the road to a large compound and open field where there were large wooden stair constructs lined up in front of the road and it was from here that we were able to straddle the elephants. With our English compadres in tow, we sat in the four corners of the saddle, with our legs dangling over the edge and disembarked aboard the monolithic beast to stomp our way at a meandering pace into the tree branches and bushes that constituted the jungle before us. There was much to take photographs of it seemed as behind me, lenses and optics were changed at intervals to record the same fine specimens of trees and birds much in the same manner as the day before. Opportunities of stable platforms to take photographs presented themselves throughout the trundle as our elephant was seemingly stricken by urinary incontinence and relieved itself at will. We did stumble across a rhinoceros and it's baby, lazily sauntering around, casually grazing on the low lying foliage. With mild excitement and hushed whispers, our group swayed the elephant through the trees to get closer and with such intrusion, the beast and its child did nought but proceed to laydown for an indifferent power nap.
We continued our trundle across streams and circled our way back to the disembarkment towers, built with straps of bamboo and hope. After scrambling back off the back of the beast, we paid a nominal extra fee to our rider and proceeded to feed copious amounts of bananas to the dexterous nose of the elephant. This did answer the question of the many toilet breaks taken throughout the walk.
With the elephant ride concluded, we scurried back down the road to witness the finale of the elephant games. We crept our way through the show grounds, slinking between families, crude fair rides built from washing lines and the bundles of fairy floss to find position along the crash barriers on the side of the race track. After a short intermission by a ranting official with a loud speaker, the elephants made their way back into the grounds and arched their way behind the spectators to line up in their starting positions. As the countdown was heard over the speaker system, the beasts shuffled in their place until they prematurely surged forward slightly before it was time. The race was on. As the fifteen elephants thudded their way across the ground, the crowd hollered and cheered, blowing horns in encouragement. Whilst the majority of elephants completed the standard formula of run-turn around-run required by the event, there was some forfeiting along the way as the slower riders steered their beasts off the course to bask in their own disappointment.
With our empty stomachs making themselves known and the games winding up, we left with the hordes of spectators and made our way back into town. We had a fair idea of what would be awaiting us back at the prison base camp that would be passed off as dinner, so we continued along until we came upon the first obvious-looking restaurant and played the eternal game of hope for the best. Guided by what could only have been touches of the divine, we entered the gates of a large stone building that had lights and circled through the gardens to find ourselves in the middle of the fine dining set and our stomachs roared with delight. We feasted down on steaks and vegetable, rich soups and soon found that our drained energy reserves of which had previously been barely supplemented by candy had promptly started to recharge their was back to mid health. This truly was a blessed find as there would be another day of bus travel before us of which would no doubt prove disastrous on our otherwise empty and flailing stomachs. And so with a skip in our step, we emerged through the darkness back to the jungle camp, with troves of take-away naan breads in hand and began the process of setting aside the less smelly clothing and packing everything else snugly back into our trusty bags. And with Melatonin washed down with the warm poison of cheap spirits, we soon embraced the mercy of the subconscious dance into the dream time once more.
Chapter Fourteen: Travelling on Faith and Duct Tape to Buddha
It was a knock at the thin, wooden door that awoke me from my slumber. I lurched out of bed with a start and moved to open the door, expecting this to be our traditional breakfast wake up call, but instead found our insane guide and the driver demanding that we grab our things and jump onto the jeep as it was ready to go now. Thankfully, we had the foresight to repack the majority of our things before drifting off into the abyss, as the workers marched into the room and began to collect our bags and brought them out to the awaiting vehicle as we quickly jammed the remains of our stuff into whichever backpack would accept it. Whilst still being mentally sound asleep, the helpful intentions and pseudo encouraging catch phrases from our ring master were waved off with grunts and the omniscient beggar hand.
We alighted into a larger but similarly modified jeep with a small portion of the travelling Korean circus and made quick time back to the communal bus terminal in which we had first arrived, bouncing as we clipped dips in the road and rattled over the cobblestones of broken dreams. We pulled into the mustard-enclosed culdersac and surveyed the likely candidates on offer and hazarded a guess at which would be our valiant steed into the distant lands that were the birthplace of the Buddha. There was a discernible difference in quality between the available rides and as we a descended down the order past each of the coaches, shiny buses and then the beaten up four wheel drives we pulled up beside what would unquestionably be ours. We stood before ‘The Gardenia’, the pale blue vagabond, an ageing coach held together with rust and prayer beads, with the motif of Shiva the Destroyer emblazed on the hood. It would be under her watchful eye and vengeance that we would we be carried safely on the next leg of our journey.
Sarah quickly ruffled through her hand bag to consume the necessary number of valiums to make this tolerable, whilst I elected to inhale down two breakfast cigarettes as our bags were thrown onto the roof of what would most logically be a fiery and painful carriage of death. Stepping through what would in time become the constant revolving front door, we were greeted by vast and brightly coloured religious motifs depicting a variety of Hindu gods, Buddhas in various stages of recline, as well as sinister smiling Jesus heads. The interior reflected the drivers disposition in that whilst running on fumes and good fortune, he had covered his bases of misguided faith so that which ever afterlife would await us, they would surely forgive things such as poor maintenance and safety. We continued down the isle of our carriage and found our seats at the rear and attempted to make ourselves comfortable but not before Sarah indeed had to change her seat due to it not being attached to the bus itself. As we made out way out of Chitwan and towards Lumbini, the silence of the other passengers was overshadowed by the constant sound of rattling sheet metal on bolts and of windows which were not quite installed. In the window beside me, as barred off as it was with steel beams and Jesus fish, it was strangely filled half way with water. As we slowed and sped up the undulating water line proved to be a hypnotic distraction which would only be broken by the incessant and nauseating musical horn attached to our coach. Whilst amusing as it was at the start of this ordeal, it now sounded like a symphony of puppies, kittens and human babies being blended with a grinder. Resigning to our fate, we dined on the stale naan that we had smuggled aboard and nibbled at what could have potentially be our last meal.
We continued along our way through to the outskirts of another township and encountered a variety of designated pit stops early on, the first was to allow on a procession of locals selling a diverse range of goods from peanuts and water bottles to questionable oranges. The coach meandered along with traffic until we came across our next stop minutes later to which alighted a troupe of beggars casually walking the isle, one showing the stumped remains of his hand. Unfortunately, he did not take as much care and grace hiding the fact that his other hand was clenching a fist full of cash. Some of the passengers threw in the equivalent of coins to the cup around his neck but by the time he arrived at the back of the bus, he was waved away as the levels of empathy and compassion had sufficiently ebbed away.
The small street children were next to do their rounds, scurrying onto the bus with stalks of obscenely fried corn. Seeing that the fires that lined the smal
l market area alongside the bus were fuelled by mounds of rubbish we elected to decline his bright eyes with the insistence that we not in the possession of any money. The young, beady-eyed observer stayed with us as the exit was blocked by others and continually pulled at the seams of my patchwork pants and pointed to the camera and ipad, unconvinced that we were indeed broke. After ensuring that my money was safely in its pocket and camera was stashed, I found a lonely koala key ring hiding at the bottom of my bag and palmed this out onto the small child. At first he looked at it inquisitively with bewilderment as this was not the course of his regular transactions. He seemed to quickly realise that this was some sort of gift offering and beamed a smile as he scurried away, no doubt filled with the hopes that this treasure of cheaply made Chinese plastic and fur would not be confiscated by his handler.
As we snaked our way out of civilisation and onto the desolate rural roads, the cacophony of rattles and horns was permeated by the mixture of radio hits and Hindi babble love tunes that were emitted from the previously unknown stereo set up. It had become clear that this coach part timed as a local bus route and every couple of kilometres there would be more passengers getting on and off the bus and as we lost our privilege of the back row and were squeezed up against the side seats, smooshed up between paintings and bags. As the view out of the window increasingly became more rural and jungle than we had experienced during the jungle jeep ride, Sarah's began to show the obvious signs of increasing psychosis. It would not be sated with left over naans or staling Pringles and evidently the Valium had worn off. As the joyful tunes of Bollywood covers fought for noise supremacy in the coach, Sarah began to get more restless in her seat. I envisioned the mad tusker, pushed past to point of beastial rationalism, destroying the bus with eyes of fire or contending with a switch blade wielding ninja taking over the drivers wheel sending us over the edge. In either case, it became obvious that the music must be drowned out to prevent my own impending doom. I searched through the backpack wedged between us and found my iPod and acquired the musical lullabies of our people. Necrophagist to the rescue.
Whilst we shared the head phones between us, the mixture of Hindi and brutal death metal did not exactly work together in harmonious unity due to differing time signatures and inappropriately placed blast beats but it did lull the majestic she-beast into submission and she resided into a less psychotic state of rage. We thus continued our journey on our gallant metal steed and traversed the mountain roads of sheer cliffs, with its numerous road side memorials indicating the plethora of past mishaps. We winded our way down sections of road, narrowly missing the odd pedestrian and similarly adorned religious coaches, no doubt running them off the road. The scenery once again began to flatten out as we pulled into a green shack in the middle of some vegetable fields to partake in bathroom breaks and lunch.
Departing the bus we first huffed down cigarettes under the watchful stares of our other passengers and once the novelty of our apparent spectacle had passed, we shuffled down the hall to the awaiting restaurant and convenience store. As my gaze swept across the counter top filled with an assortment of chip packets and chocolate necessities, I was greeted by the sight of pre-cooked pieces of chicken and crumbed whole fish heads laying on what was presumably recycled paint can lids. The Costa Rican traveller in front of me, after looking at the offerings, ordered the curry and would later mention that he enjoyed the spices - God help him. At my turn at the counter, I opted for Kit Kats, Bounty chocolate bars and cola. Variety is the spice of life after all. On hearing that the toilet facilities were held at the rear of the building, I took this moment to relieve myself, as the gentle rocking and shuddering of the past few hours had begun to work last nights nourishment along its way journey to the low lands. What I found however was a low half wall overlooking workers in the field which contained a repulsive hole in the ground. Whilst there was no paper on hand, it did come with the luxury of a rusting shower head and a bucket. Serenity in perfection.
Without much ceremony, we were soon back on the bus - a kilogram lighter - for another hour or so until the rural setting morphed into a dusty commercial and light industrial area. It was here when the coach shuddered to a halt and we were told that we would soon be picked up by a taxi that it dawned on us - amidst the stench of stale piss and shanty town scenery - that this is what happens when you book things on whims at midnight on a Wednesday stoned out of our minds. Whilst many things seem like a good idea stoned at midnight on a Wednesday, being dropped off by a decrepit bus held together with duct tape and hope into the middle of nowhere for a hypothetical secondary form of transport in the third world was surely a different kind of adventure than originally envisioned. Looking blankly around at our present destination, it was obvious that this non-descript location was nothing more than the side of the road in front of a rubbish pile used by a furniture manufacturing shop. Our luggage was hurled down to us from atop of the bus and as it pulled away, leaving us standing in its dust, we exchanged confused glances with a mature French Canadian and the brave little Costa Rican lad. Miraculously, a banged up taxi in the form of a small Suzuki did arrive on the scene and we thusly all crammed in and made the perilous ten kilometre journey across narrow bridges and danced between the oncoming traffic consisting of dump trucks and ox carts towards the town of Lumbini.
As our new found companions had not booked anything in advance and were taking this visit on the fly, we found ourselves in the middle of the town listening as directions were given to local establishments. They exited the car and into the arms of beggars and excited children, throwing some money back to us to cover their share of the fare and we were once again on our way, as we back tracked a small distance out of the town and arrived at the forested gates of the Buddha Garden Resort. As we pulled into the drive way we were brought to the front doors of some run down and decrepit cottages and our hearts sunk. This was indeed what we deserved was the first thought at hand. With no other obvious signs of entrance ways, we exchanged confused glances with each other before some staff emerged from through the trees and we realised that we were at the worker’s quarters and would have to walk a small way to the actual resort. As we checked into the restaurant reception area, we were informed that we were staying on a forty hectare nature reserve filled with all mannor of deer and bird life. We were also only a short walk away from the main attraction of the area - the sacred Lumbini temple complex.
We were subsequently shown the way down the path until we came to our small thatched cottage over-looking the fields and we were left to our own devices. This was a pleasant surprise from the military boot camp in Chitwan we had just escaped from and our thoughts crossed to the poor saps that had chosen to disembark in the centre of the shanty town - they truly did not know the tranquillity they were missing out on . . . but perhaps ignorance is bliss. The interior of our habitat provided us with two beds with large white mosquito netting held up from each of the four posts. A small bathroom was connected at the rear of the room between the front door and a large woven wooden desk. We unpacked our bags and attempted to recharge our electronics. Throughout our excursion into the wild lands, the she-beast had an affinity with all things of an electronic nature in such a peculiar way that lights and radios would turn themselves on and off and she would tend to cause interference with television ariels. Tonight, however, she would blow three different light bulbs and cause the heating to turn itself off so there we found ourselves sitting and watching the mist roll through the valley to consume our new camp into complete darkness.
Chapter Fifteen : Tranquillity And Destitution
It seemed rather fitting that the days post-Christmas we would find ourselves venturing out to the birth place of another religious deity, but not before partaking in a hearty breakfast at the combination office and restaurant. With stomachs filled with a farm-grown organic breakfast, we departed from our sanctuary and began our journey to the sacred birth place of the Buddha in the temple district of Lumbini. The road ran
like a raised scar across the surrounding fields as we retraced our way back into the village and crossed the small and narrow bridges, mindful of the trucks and tourist buses that narrowly missed each other with a series of beeps and toots. The open fields before us parted way for walled compounds at various stages of construction whilst the opposite side of the road remained shrub land surrounded by a high ornate stone and steel fence that continued far beyond the reaches of sight.
Continuing along our way, we noticed a group of small children playing in the fenced shrub land off to the side and like startled animals, they suddenly noticed us. With a small cry of foreign language, we watched as they began to race through the trees and scurry through the gaps between and under the stone fence line. We quickly found ourselves surrounded by a group of a dozen small, dirty- faced children with hands outstretched. “Chocolate! Money! Chocolate!” they cried. They circled and grabbed at hands and pleaded for foodstuffs with the look of dying angels smeared across their faces that personified agony at being told we did not have any coins or chocolate. It would appear that chocolate was indeed the methamphetamines of small lost children. Whilst this time we truly did not have neither of these requested items on us, our circling band of small children had obviously lost faith in the words of strangers and continued to persist with their begging as we walked down this road into the main town centre. Fortunately, I recalled that what we DID have were the sacred totems of our people - cheap koala and kangaroo key rings. I stopped and tried to open my backpack to the squeals of delight of the children and their grasping hands. As their gaze fell upon the packet of key rings with a mixture of hunger and spellbound confusion, I began to hand them out to each of the children before one of the more impatient little bastards grabbed out at the bag and ripped the plastic open, sending key rings flying into the air. As the children dropped to the ground and snatched up all the rings they could handle, they scurried off back over the fences and into the make shift hovels that they had emerged from, leaving us standing bewildered and alone on the side of the road.
Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 11
