BEBOBL

There are three places one can go in Nepal without acquiring a trekking permit: Kathmandu, Pokhara and Chitwan National Park. We are on our way to the third. To get there, of course, we must endure one of those things I have grown to love, another bus ride. This one, with its squeaky seats, shockless suspension and overheating engine is no different from the rest. We started on the same stretch of road that brought us to Pokhara but somehow, in this bus, the pot holes seemed wider and deeper. It was impossible to sleep, impossible to read and writing was more like doodling. I'm not sure I'm ever going to read what I put on that pad of paper.

The bus was filled to the limit and then some. Three people were sitting in the aisle on bamboo stools, and one girl was lying stretched out on the floor behind me. The bus boy was constantly stepping through the maze to get to the back and grab more stools.

Through all of the bus rides that we've been taking, I've been trying to decide which country deserves the BEBOBL award. That's the 'Beep Early Beep Often Beep Long' award. Nepal I've decided wins hands down (hands down on the horn that is). Horns are everything here. A working horn is more important than treaded tires (this bus has two bald ones, one of which blew out on the way) and certainly more important that shocks. A horn honk here means everything from "I want to pass", "I am passing", "I have passed", to "I'm fine thanks, and you?", "Meet me for tea at noon", and "Who was that woman I saw you with last night?" Who needs words when you have a horn?

Earlier today we were prime candidates for a horn honking crescendo. We were waiting for the bus with our bags on the side of the road. What taxi driver could resist the temptation? One after the other the taxi drivers slowed, stuck their head, neck and shoulders out the window and laid on the horn. I got tired of saying "No" and shaking my head. Couldn't the second, third and forth taxi drivers in line see that I'd waved the one in front of them on? Maybe each one figured I'd tire of the whole ordeal and forfeit my bus ticket for a ride. Nothing doing. I paid my 180 Rs (US$2.24) for a five hour bus ride from hell, and I wasn't going to give that up for any 25 year old Toyota Corolla with bald tires and a loose front end.

When the bus finally showed up, I wondered if I'd made the right choice. This wasn't the semi comfortable Swiss Tour bus that had brought us seven hours to Pokhara. This was a glorified local bus. It was dirty, old, uncomfortable and packed. Well what could we do? After simultaneously raising our eyebrows and exclaiming "This is the bus?", John and I climbed on-board and squeezed ourselves into the two remaining narrow vinyl seats.

Five hours passed about as slowly as five hours can pass until, finally, at 2:00 pm we arrived outside the Royal Chitwan National Park. As soon as the bus stopped, a mob surrounded it. Every jeep driver, taxi driver and rickshaw driver was vying for our business to get us into town.

We took the first jeep driver we saw up on his offer and headed over dirt roads, farm fields and small rivers to the tiny Thoru village of Sauraha. We should have expected that the jeep driver was employed by one of the many hotels in town. He deposited us right at the door step of the Jungle resort. Resort of course wouldn't be the term I would have used. The rooms were just big enough to hold two twin beds, each draped with holey mosquito netting. The walls were grey, although I could tell that at one point in time the cement had been whitewashed. The bathroom had a sink and a toilet that were old and rusty and the floor was cement covered with a layer of thin linoleum. The cost: 200 Rs (US$4).

We decided to stay, looking for another hotel while lugging around our packs and our bag of Tibetan carpets was more than we could handle after that long bus ride. And my toe, despite not having used it all day, was throbbing. We deposited our bags and headed to the dining room for some chow mein (actually stir fried noodles) and to ask the hotel owner about things to do in the Park. He was waiting for us when we got to the door. I think we were his only customers.

The food in the hotel was lousy, but the advice on what to do was good. Only we didn't want to book anything right away. We wanted to do some research. It turned out to be a good idea. We found a cheaper jeep ride and one that left in the morning and not the afternoon. Despite what they told us, we didn't believe that you can see more animals in the afternoon than in the morning.

We ended our first day near the Chitwan National Park by dining in town. I asked the waiter what the Bhang Lassi was. A yogurt drink with cinammon, banana and marijuana. Well, it almost sounded good. I ordered a soda. John and I ordered spaghetti for dinner and sat back to watch the ox-carts move toward the river as the sun slowly set behind them.