The bus to Pokhara, in Nepal, gave India one last chance to get its claws into us. We turned up at 7am and were told there were not enough people to fill a bus so we’d have to fork out another 500 rupees each for a minibus or not go at all. Grumbling, we paid. The usual fare: deathly roads and a maniac driver with a penchant for the horn. At first he impressed us with his grasp of health and safety when he stopped one of the passengers from smoking out of the window as it was a fire hazard. But then ruined it when he decided to allow his apprentice, a boy of perhaps twelve, to drive.

“Whoa, NO!” we shouted in unison as he was about to turn the ignition.

“Only for 2,3 kilometres?” said the driver, puzzled.

“NO!” we all shouted again. He relented, and trundled on to the border where we spent the night.

11 hours of this…

The next day was even worse. We were bundled on a local bus for the journey to Pokhara. Local means that it will stop and pick up anyone or anything that can pay. We had a goat on the roof (it fell off and broke all its legs), children on our lap and people clinging to the rear. To cover a distance of about 150 km it took eleven hours.

Aaaah.

After all that then, Pokhara was a breath of fresh air. A calm town set around Nepal’s largest lake, Himalayan peaks sometimes visible in the background, ‘No Honking’ regulations, no hassle from street vendors, honest taxi drivers, water buffallo wallowing in the lake, excellent Western food; in short completely different from it’s Southern neighbour. We struggled to remember why we loved India so much.

No Honking!

Like most tourists we stayed in the Lakeside area, a trekking and adventure sports hub where we picked up some gear for our upcoming Annapurna Circuit trek, ate steaks, wandered along the lake and generally just enjoyed not being harrassed.

A Lakeside cafe. And a water buffallo.

Mud bath.