15.09.2010 - 15.09.2010
We wanted to head to Pokhara but decided to take our time and see a village or two on the way. We could either get a local bus or raft down the Trisuli river, we fancied a white-knuckle ride, but we’d done a lot of local buses already so we decided to go rafting.
Sarah, Simon and I headed to the rafting centre. There we met Rosemary, a 60+ New Yorker who didn’t really get what was going on. She turned up wearing jeans, a blouse and slinky sandals. “Will this boat have a toilet on it?” she asked. She’d been sold a ‘boat trip’
The raft got carried out and we were all handed helmets and life jackets, Rosemary’s face dropped, “Oh my god! I was expecting something with more of a hull.”
We couldn’t hold back and all burst out laughing.
We hit the water and we all got into the rafting, Rosemary provided us with laugh after laugh, although she was totally serious.
“I would have thought we would have had seat belts… do you think my camera will be ok if its gets wet? Its not water proof… if we go in, do you think I’ll get wet?”
After 2 hours Simon said, “wouldn’t it be great to raft in a thunder storm!” within 5 minutes we were being pelted by thumb nail size raindrops, being shaken by earth trembling thunder and being blinded by flash lightening.
“Wouldn’t it be great if you kept your mouth shut!” I said.
As the rain stopped the river became shrouded in a 3 metre high vale of mist, it just added to the beauty of the landscape.
At the end of the rafting we sat in a small shed and ate a pack lunch included in the rafting fee. Rosemary asked to see the manager because everyone had two boiled eggs and she only had one. “I don’t think this is the sort of shed that has a manager. You can have one of my boiled eggs.”
Things got really exciting when we got the local bus to Gorka, we clung onto the seats in front as the driver wrestled with the 30 year old bus trying to keep it in a straight line on the mountain side roads. I noticed that his windscreen wipers weren’t working but there were bits of tobacco stuck to the screen. There was a 50-metre drop into the river less than a metre from the side of the road.
At Gorkha we checked into the Gorkha Inn, Simon got talking to the manager’s son, who was about 16 and a bit... special. The conversation went like this:
Simon: “Namaste, what’s your name?”
Manager’s son: “André”
Simon: “did you say André?”
As Simon got more and more frustrated with the special kid Sarah and I were wetting ourselves laughing. We decided to call him Ruprikt the monkey boy.