From Syabrubesi back to Kathmandu
Before returning to Kathmandu, the paths of good old acquaintances finally separate. Some take a jeep for speeding, others less fortunate, like us, take one of those awful buses that are waiting at seven, smoking and roaring, in front of the hotels.
Ready for departure
For the last time the sleeping bag is rolled up and tied up, a last goodbye to the friendly service personal in the hotel and off we go. It has almost been forgotten, the down-and-fro twist in the bus, the stinking exhaust gases from the oncoming vehicles, the tight seats that are too small, even for me.
Sardines in a can
However, we have not forgotten that it is a local bus, which means that it stops every few metres where a dog has pissed. What we don't know is that this bus not only stops all the time, but also ignores the physical limits of filling a hollow space.
Today, however, the effects are noticeable. On all street corners there are groups of people who all want to be taken along. They probably spent the party with relatives and now all want to go home.
That's how you imagine the goose stuffing
Now one of these unforgettable stories begins, which are anything but funny when experienced, but get their special touch when told later.
Actually, it all begins quite harmlessly. The aisle quickly fills up with passengers, small, big, old and young, some with a lot of luggage and all kinds of bits and pieces. At some point, as a silent observer, one thinks that the loading potential is exhausted and that the bus will pass by the next waiting passengers with an apologetic smile.
Of course not! The bus always stops, ALWAYS. Entire legions squeeze through the entrance, throwing an appreciative glance through the crowded bus and squeeze in, regardless of space. Those standing next to us and leaning against Sitaram (the poor guy is sitting at the aisle) slowly change colour, you hear a soft moan and loud swearing, but that doesn't stop the driver from welcoming new groups of passengers.
Now we as preferred sitting passengers also get a bit uneasy, because a little girl next to Sitaram is slowly but surely crushed. At first she shyly refuses his offer to sit on his knees, but the still increasing pressure from all sides finally makes her give in.
Insane! A borderline experience
I have always enjoyed driving local buses on all continents, many filled to the limits, but this spectacle is unique. And once again a sensation for all the senses. The voices of the people mixed with the hum of the engine and the permanent honking of the horn.
The heads floating next to us, some above the others, some disappearing in the dense crowd. The beguiling, nose irritating smells, Sweating, Alcohol, Vomiting … But again and again someone jokes, and loud laughter fills the sardine can …
Somehow it seems to be borderline to me (well, Sitaram also finds it strange). For the passengers it seems to be nothing special, and as it is the day after New Year, everything has been experienced.
The Road? The old song
The road, by the way, is just as bumpy as on the way there, it seems even worse. The only advantage is that the passengers can no longer be thrown around, there is simply not enough space.
As a macabre pastime I imagine what would happen if the brakes failed. I estimate that there would be at least 50 deaths, including a few tourists. So for a pastime it's better to find a few minutes sleep in all the chaos.
The last Dal Bhat
In the next bigger town a stop, the sardine can empties in lightning speed, and yes, hope dies last – people scatter in all directions. Sigh of relief. Sitaram orders – oh wonder! – the three hundred fiftyth Dal Bhat and eats it as always with great pleasure.
Sitaram and Dal Bhat - inseparable twins
You have to imagine this (we have talked about it many times): a person eats the same dish year in, year out at least twice a day (sometimes also for breakfast).
So it would be the same if I ate spaghetti carbonara or Älplermagronen (a Swiss dish) or Risotto Milanese two to three times a day (for years). Unbelievable! But he enjoys it, again and again, twice a day, for the rest of his life.
That is the wonderful thing about cultural differences. How infinitely diverse man is and lives. Although he is made up of 100% of the same components. Everything that is different is culturally conditioned.
That's why you travel.
But even the worst bus trip comes to an end at some point (not to forget: after the stopover, the bus filled up with the same idiotic number of passengers, not even the slightest difference to before, but like everything in life, you get used to it).
An unrecognizable backpack
The final stop is somewhere on the side of the road in Kathmandu. The person in charge of the “luggage compartment”, a rather unsympathetic guy with a dyed quiff, opens it, and for a moment everyone catches their breath.
Our luggage is not recognizable, you don't even know which bag belongs to whom, because everything is covered with a thick layer of dust and dirt. A young traveller is so upset that he is on the verge of strangling the quiff.
I'm somehow too tired to get excited, we carefully take our rucksacks into a taxi and let us drive the last meters to Thamel. Then I invite Sitaram to a farewell beer, but it becomes clear that the young man has never drunk alcohol before. Then it's the wrong time to start it, so we toast with beer and Lassidrink to the last eight days and wish ourselves all the best forthe future, which is a bit longer for him, a bit shorter for me …
P.S. Matching Song: J. Geils Band - No Anchovies please
And here the journey continues ...
