| Dumdum |
Posted
on 12-Jun-01 02:15 AM
The anti-Gyanendra processions had started. On seeing a militant-looking mob, our bus driver took a devious route. We were standing near Devi's Fall, a strange underground waterfall in which a Swiss couple named Davis had disappeared many years ago, when someone told us that more royals had died.
When the new King was taken out in a procession, there had been riots and tear gas shells were fired. By the time we returned, the violence had reached Pokhara. People were running and pelting stones. We were offloaded from the bus some three kilometres from our hotel and asked to find our way back. One brave taxi driver agreed to drop us to our destination if we paid him Rs 150. "Indian, not Nepali."
As we got down in front of the hotel, a big slogan-shouting procession came down the road. Our cab driver just grabbed the hundred rupee note from Dan's hand and fled.
Towards evening, things began to gain a semblance of normalcy. The boats were back on the water. At the tiny island temple in the middle of Phewa Lake, we met our friends from Calcutta. They had decided to skip Chitwan and return to Kathmandu, even though their flight back home was three days away. "They tell us the Greenline bus will go tomorrow," said the father.
"No." A woman tourist who overheard us as she as she got into her boat seemed to have more information. "We just came from Kathmandu by the Greenline. The driver said they are cancelling tomorrow. A curfew has been announced in Kathmandu. No point going there." The bush telegraph was at work again.
But it all seemed so far away as we floated on the tranquil lake. As if on cue, the clouds parted and the entire Annapurna range came into magnificent view. We watched the peaks shimmer in the setting sun, even as King Dhipendra was being cremated on the ghats of the Pashupatinath temple in Kathmandu.
PORBATH, our appropriately named man from the travel agency, came bright and early -- his shaven head glistening head in the sun -- to take us to the Greenline bus station. There, we got our next major jolt. The buses, like the lady had said, were not running. There was no way they could reach Kathmandu before the curfew, which was scheduled to start at noon. We were told we could try again tomorrow.
But our flight out of Kathmandu was tomorrow! It was again beginning to look like we would be stuck here forever. We started counting our money. Could we afford to stay in Pokhara for four more days?
The next flight to Bangalore was only on Sunday!
Porbath sprang into action. He rang the airport. "Some local flights are taking off," he shouted, as he ran out of the bus station and jumped onto his bike. "Get your bus tickets cancelled and follow me to the airport."
The Greenline man stamped our tickets and told us we would get our refund in Bangalore.
At the airport, there was chaos. Many exotically-named domestic airlines in Nepal crisscross the country like taxis. They are quick, cheap and totally unpredictable. Shangri-La was taking off later. So was Buddha. But we got two seats on Cosmic, which was leaving in 15 minutes.
Half-an-hour later, we reached Tribhuvan, still in a daze. Sandesh (how do they get these perfect names?), our tour operator in Kathmandu, hadn't turned up. He probably he didn't even know we were here.
There was pandemonium at this airport as well. Flights hadn't taken off. The curfew was just an hour away. Bleary-eyed trekkers with heavy rucksacks sat hopelessly on the floor. We rang Sandesh, but he was stuck. He told us to get hold of a taxi and reach our hotel quickly. We found a man with a decrepit jalopy who was willing to help us for Rs 300, Indian.
Back in our familiar hotel -- this was where we first stayed when we began our Nepal holiday -- we felt warm and safe. Bindu Sakya, a member of the family that owned the hotel, told us not to worry. "Consider this your home," she said. "Stay as long as like." The Indian channels were back on television and we saw, for the first time, the riot scenes that had frightened our families back home.
Meanwhile, journalists had started arriving from all over the world; we soon found some friends in the hotel. By now, the curfew was on and the streets were totally deserted. Not even a dog moved. Everything was so still. Every now and then, open vehicles full of gun-toting, tonsured policemen zoomed through. Apparently, all police and army personnel, as well as all male government servants, had been ordered to shave their heads.
Bindu told me that Uma Reddy's flight had been cancelled and she had to buy a fresh ticket for the next day's Indian Airlines flight to Bangalore via Delhi. But, as she was driving down from her mountain resort, her car was stopped by an angry crowd about eight kilometres from the airport. "Uma and her daughter walked the rest of the way. She left her suitcase behind. I have to send it to Bangalore. But she made it to the flight."
We still didn't know if we could leave the next day. All the Royal Nepal Airlines flights had been cancelled ever since trouble broke out. Besides, if there was a curfew, how would we reach the airport? If we did somehow manage to reach and they cancelled the flight, would we have to sleep the night there?
These were imponderables that, just then, had no answers. We hadn't visited the Pashupatinath temple, but decided to give it a go-by. By 9 am, we were packed and ready, waiting to hear if our flight would take off at 2 pm. Someone said there would be a curfew again at noon. By 10 am, we came to know that the flight was definitely taking off as scheduled. No one, though, had any clue about the curfew.
Bindu packed us off to the airport by 11 am. "If you are stuck," she said, "just give a call and we'll pick you back somehow."
Tribhuvan airport was packed chock-a-block with tense, weary travellers. It was hot and humid and there was no place to sit. No queues. No announcements. Yet, just being there was sheer bliss.
Finally, our flight took off, filled with relieved tourists. Beneath, in that beautiful land, the bizarre drama continued to unfold. There were so many unanswered questions and no real answers. Perhaps, there never would be any.
|
