Christmas Shopping

Posted on December 24, 2013 by Fergus

Today’s Christmas shopping list:

1 new leg cast for Scarlett
Pants, socks, trainers and a snorkel for Daddy
Mascara and eyeliner for Mummy (ready for our posh Christmas dinner)
Christmas chocolate
Christmas biscuits
Christmas wine
Christmas beer
Christmas cheese (for one sitting only – we have no fridge)
Christmas funny Thai snacks (fried seaweed, biscuit stick original tasty, taro fish strips, pizza flavour crispy broad beans, seaweed flavour crisps, spicy lobster pringles…)
A teeny, tiny Christmas tree
Teeny, tiny baubles
Beach bungalow decorations (tinsel; balloons; teeny, tiny Santa)

The first item was from the hospital and the best present any of us could have asked for. The doctor says that Scarlett’s leg is healing so well that she may only need two weeks with her half-leg cast, not six. She’s been soldiering on with her hip-high cast for a month and half now and was being very brave about having to manage for another six weeks.

Everything else was from the massive Tesco near Chaweng beach. I know it’s bad form to buy yourself stuff just before Christmas but Samui’s the only place we’re going to visit in the next few months with clothes and shoes big enough for me and I’ve been wanting some trainers. When packing, I thought I wouldn’t need any so left mine at home, but, having ditched my walking boots in Nepal, and now having only sandas, I’ve decided I’m going to need some more enclosed footwear for walking through grass (snakes) and up volcanoes (stones). I’ve also been wanting to go jogging and it’s just not possible in flip flops.

Unfortunately, even hre, the only ones big enough were shockingly bright red. At least it’s a Christmassy colour.

With our bungalow decorated (and my new trainers), it’s finally starting to feel like Christmas here. We have wine and cheese. We’ve wrapped up the girls’ presents, sent at great expense and difficulty from the UK by my mum and dad. We’ve got three walking socks hung up for Santa to fill, a glass of beer (can’t find sherry) for him to drink and some edamame beans for Rudolph (nor carrots). We even have five M&S Christmas puddings (also from my Mum’s aid parcel).

Tomorrow, we’ll open presents in the morning, go swimming in the sea till lunchtime, eat fish at a beach restaurant in the afternoon, then Skype our relatives before heading over to a swanky Italian restaurant in Chaweng for a posh Christmas dinner in the evening (oysters, giant prawns, roulade of turkey with chestnut puree stuffing, pannatone gelato).

Not a traditional Christmas, perhaps, but it should be fun, and will hopefully have enough of what we’re used to feel familiar.

Anyway, the cheese is chopped (and getting slightly sweaty), the chocolate is unwrapped (and beginning to melt) and the Muppet’s Christmas Carol is queued up on the laptop. Time to start those Christmas traditions we can still observe over her in Thailand.

First Impressions of Thailand

Posted on December 21, 2013 by Fergus

Evie

Thailand has a lovely sea and a warm beach. The sea is not as cold as England. The weather can be cold but most of the time it is warm. Bangkok is a bit busy but the islands are nowhere near as busy. The thing I like best is the sea.

Scarlett

Thailand is very hot. It is good that it is hot because it warms you when you have been in the cool sea. Thailand is also fun and exciting since we’ve never been here before. The people are also very friendly especially to children. My favourite thing is the people acting very friendly towards us.

Jemima

Here on Koh Samui it is exceedingly hot and every morning you feel like you want to jump in the sea but normally you are out on other business and we only get to go in the sea in the afternoon. The sea is not exactly cold – not as cold as in England – but if you are a child then if you get cold you can go and lie down on the sand in the sun because it is warm. The sun seems to go down very quickly and I don’t know if I’m imagining it because I like it here so much. My favourite thing is how every day you can splash into the refreshing sea.

Janet

The food is every bit as good as I remember. The smell of the warm air feels like coming home, almost. The language feels so much more familiar than Napali; I understand snatches of it and it makes me feel excited and I want to learn more of it. My favourite thing is the night market food stalls.

Fergus

Thai people smile and laugh so much. It feels so safe and friendly travelling here. Just how I remember – but even better with kids. And the food: wow! I’d remembered that it was good but since arriving I’ve also remembered how I grew my first ever belly here. Curse you fried honey bananas! After three months in the mountains, seeing the sea was such a relief. Is there anything better than throwing yourself into the cool sea on a blazing hot day? My favourite thing is… eating.

All Aboard the Night Train

Posted on December 20, 2013 by Fergus

It’s 3:58am. I’m lying on a top bunk. Beneath me, Evie and Jem lie top-to-tail in another. Across the aisle, Janet’s sleeping above Scarlett, who’s sharing her bunk with the baggage we couldn’t fit in the rack. I can hear Scarlett snoring gently.

We’re on the night train from Bangkok to Surat Thani, en-route to the island of Koh Samui where we plan to spend Christmas. Note I’ve avoided the term “sleeper train”. I’ve not really managed to sleep, the bunks not being made for normal-sized six-foot-sixers like myself. Still, I’m glad I’m here – partly because sleeper trains are inherently exciting and partly because, after all today’s upsets, we nearly didn’t make it at all.

The Pain Coffin (aka My Bunk on the Night Train)

Janet and I travelled on this same train 13 years ago, last time we were backpacking, and it was just as exciting then. Although it’s sad to find the train has fallen into neglect since then. Where there used to be polished steel and crisp, white paintwork, there’s now a line of grime in the joints of the steelwork and the paint is chipped and scratched. The ladder to my bunk has a rivet missing and is tied on with red string. The bedside lamps and fans no longer work. The obvious pride that was once taken in the carriages has gone.

Not that I noticed any of that as we lumbered up the platform with our seven backpacks, laptop bag, camera bag, two crutches, three children, one broken leg and two red-faced, sweating parents.

It had all been so carefully planned. The train left at 7:30pm. Our late checkout at the hotel allowed us to lounge by the pool till 4:00. In the intervening hours we’d graze on delicious Thai street food before returning to our hotel, picking up our bags and catching a taxi to the train station with plenty of time to spare.

Only it didn’t quite work out that way.

As we desperately tried to fit all our belongings back into our bags, already well past our 4pm checkout, we had a horrible realisation.

At some point during the previous day’s journey from Kathmandu to Bangkok, the main strap on Scarlett’s rucksack had broken. Retrieving her pack from the baggage conveyor, I’d noticed that it was now only tied on. Still, the strap was still there and I was sure it could be sewn back in place.

It was only as we hurriedly repacked this afternoon that we discovered something was missing from the bag. And not just any something. One of the most precious of all our somethings: Scarlett’s teddy bear, Stitch. Her favourite bear. The only toy she was allowed to bring travelling. The bear that I’d once raced halfway across Yorkshire to buy on the eve of her birthday because it was the last one available anywhere and she’d fallen in love with him weeks before.

I can only assume that her had bag burst open when the strap broke causing Stitch to fall out and be lost in the hold of the plane or at a cargo terminal in Kathmandu, New Delhi or Bangkok.

Scarlett was devastated. Her sisters were fraught. Janet was in tears. I felt lost in grief. I’d packed him. Why had I put him near the top? Why hadn’t I tied him onto the bag like normal? Why hadn’t we put him in hand luggage?

I called the airport. No teddy bears in Lost and Found.

Was there a department store or mall nearby? Yes. Mah Boon Kong. MBK. “Lots of teddy bears there,” the manager assured me.

“Shall we see if we can find you a teddy bear in Bangkok?” I asked Scarlett, staying calm for everyone’s sake

“But he won’t be the same! He won’t be my Stitchy!”

“I know. No-one will ever replace Stitch. But you could cuddle him and he could make you feel just a little but better. Shall we just have a look?”

“OK.”

Leaving our bags at the hotel, we piled into a taxi. Behind me, Scarlett sat hollow-eyed, her lip trembling, half-buried in Janet’s arms. “I’ll be brave. Don’t be upset, Mummy,” she whispered. I could see her holding back tears.

MBK was not nearby. And it was huge; six floors of little shops, crowded with after-work shoppers. I carried Scarlett, my arms aching by the time we found a toy shop, and they only had a few teddies but two were nice. After much deliberation, Scarlett chose one with a scarf and a label reading, “Huddle Cuddle”. That was his name, apparently. A good sign?

Then back through the teeming mall, a long taxi queue and… Bangkok rush hour.

With an hour and a half to go, our taxi at a standstill, it dawned on me that we might not get back to our hotel and on to the station in time for our train.

With an hour to go, still nowhere near our hotel, we started making desperate plans. Turn the taxi around and head straight for the station while I jumped out and took a motorcycle taxi to the hotel and another taxi onwards? But I didn’t know how I’d carry all the bags myself and didn’t want to leave Janet with a shell-shocked, broken-legged Scarlett and two anxious sisters. All get out and walk? With Tettie on crutches? And where were we, even?

With forty-five minutes to go, we still weren’t at the hotel. We’d never make the train. Why hadn’t we brought our luggage to the mall?

We had to try to make it. Jumping out of the taxi, and with me carrying Scarlett, we ran for the hotel. It wasn’t far.

Thirty-five minutes left and we had our bags. Our many, many, very heavy bags. What was all this stuff? We even had a pair of trekking poles Janet hadn’t dared throw away because they belonged to her mum. I took a big rucksack and Scarlett. Evie and Jem took a smaller rucksack and crutch each, Janet took the other big bag, Scarlett’s small rucksack and the two day bags. We ran for the Metro.

I’d been on the Metro that morning, to buy the tickets. It had been a leisurely 20-minute stroll to the station, another 10 minutes to the ticket office, a few minutes to buy a token, a minute or two more to the platform, five minutes wait for the train, another 10 minutes to Hua Lamphong, the end of the line and Bangkok’s central train station, and finally a further 5 minutes to the platforms.

We ran. Twice we had to stop and let Scarlett hobble along on crutches so my arms could recover and her sisters could have a rest from carrying crutches. Somewhere along the way we dumped the walking poles (sorry, Nana).

Along packed pavements full of commuters we ran, the air thick with heat and petrol fumes. Through the futuristic subway and its icy air-con. Up and down escalators, stairs, lifts. As we reached the platform, a metro train pulled away, leaving us cursing and tapping our feet. Another came. Inside we paced ike caged animals, impatiently counting down the stations. Then out. And up. And into Hua Lamphong!

With moments to spare we collapsed onto the train, wheezing, shaken, sweaty but triumphant. We’d made it.

Of course, Huddle Cuddle won’t ever replace Stitch. But at least Scarlett won’t be bearless over Christmas on Koh Samui. And he now has his own exciting story of how he joined our family, just like his predecessor.

Back to the Hotel Malaysia

Posted on December 18, 2013 by Fergus

In 1982, I was hauled up before the manager of Bangkok’s Hotel Malaysia. He was a stern, disapproving Thai man in a smart double-breasted suit who scowled thunder at me as he sent a bellboy to summon my mother. When she arrived, he explained that I was banned from using the lifts.

Personally, I thought this was terribly unfair. Me and my best friend, Adam, had only been having fun; going up, and down, and up, and down, stopping at every floor, setting the lift off and nipping out of the door to see if we could beat it to the next floor, waiting till someone got in then hitting every button. All good, wholesome fun.

But apparently some people wanted to use the lift without stopping at every floor or sharing a confined space with hysterical nine-year olds. Killjoys.

And so, the ban; which I assume remains in place till this day (the manager never mentioned an expiry date).

The Hotel Malaysia – or Malaysia Hotel as it has inventively been renamed in the intervening years – was also where I learnt to swim. And I’ve wanted to come back here to indulge my nostalgia for a long time. And so here we are.

Only this time its my girls splashing around in the pool. But apart from that, little has changed. The corridors look shabbier but unrenovated. The lifts are the same. The pool is just how I remember, although somehow smaller.

And there’s an older, stern-looking manager who sits at the desk in the lobby… next to the lifts. Could it be him? I’ve used them twice now. I don’t think he recognises me if it is.

Now to start pressing all the buttons.

Sticks & Stones

Posted on December 18, 2013 by Fergus

At home we have a largish cupboard under the stairs. At first it had a hoover in, some cleaning products, a few bottles of wine, and various other odds and ends with no particular home. And a box of tidied-away toys. By the time we left it contained toys and pretty much nothing else. Boxes and boxes of plush and moulded plastic, most of it hardly played with. Some had been popular once but were now ignored. Others had been caught when Janet or I tried to smuggle them out to the car boot under the cover of darkness, becoming firm favourites… for a day or two.

Maybe other kids play with their toys more, I’m not sure. But with the choice of two friends the same age to play with, there’s often no need for toys, and no time to sit quietly and play with them even if they get remembered. However exciting it looked in the shop, no piece of plastic compares to a sister for rampaging around with. And when there is an opportunity to sit quietly, books win out over toys nearly every time. In fact the only toys that got any serious use were the active ones: the trampoline, balls, rackets, light sabers, dressing up clothes… whereas dolls, dolls houses, Barbies, My Little Ponies and the other miscellaneous girly toys were left forgotten in their boxes.

Yet despite knowing this, I was worried that my girls would miss their toys when we travelled. They were only allowed to bring one teddy bear with them, no toys, and one small shared set of pencils, pencil crayons and paper, some felt tip pens each, but nothing else.

Luckily, they haven’t missed their toys at all.

I guess the garden full of sticks we left at home should have been clue enough, but wherever we’ve gone, my girls have found sticks, stones, pieces of discarded string, leaves and flowers to build games around. They all became enormously attached to their trekking sticks. And we’ve spent days skimming stones on the river in Sauraha. Sticks and stones provide more fun than the boxes of toys ever did.

And why shouldn’t they? Everywhere we go the local children are also playing with sticks and stones. Up in the Everest Region, where everything has to be hauled up the valley by a yak or a porter, I never saw a single piece of moulded plastic.

OK, bear with me now. At this point, please imagine for me the sound of screeching tires, the needle scratching off a record, or whatever other sound effect they’d use in a movie to show that the narrative has just come of at a hairpin turn, flown into a chasm and crashed into flames. Because I paused at this point in writing this post for a day or two, wondering how to wrap it up, and at the same time my girls persuaded me to buy them some sweets from a local shop. Some sweets that came with a small, moulded plastic panda. Which they love.

These little pandas have been played with constantly for days. They’ve been to space. They’ve explored. They’ve fought baddies and each other. They’ve been on all manner of adventure and all the while, the sticks lie forgotten. And the stones are left abandoned. These days, the only toys that matter are Panda Policeman, Panda Nurse and Panda Chef, moulded plastic heroes that beat sticks and stones any day.

So much for my knowing sermon on simplicity. I’m off to play on my iPad.

Nepal Through the Eyes of a Grown-Up

Posted on December 17, 2013 by Fergus

Reading back the answers my girls gave in their homeschooling task this morning, I thought I might have a go at it myself. It only seemed fair. – Fergus

Oh, go on then, seeing as everyone else has had a go. – Janet

1. Describe a journey in Nepal including 5 things that are different to England.

Fergus: Wait a minute, didn’t I already write a post all about this. Alright, alright, I’ll do another one. How about walking through Thamel, the tourist district of Kathmandu.

Thamel streets are narrow, uneven and pavementless, flanked by a dizzying repetition of small trekking shops, travel agencies, brassware shops, carved wood shops, ethnic clothes shops, bakeries and restaurants for every national cuisine. Looking up, your vision is filled with placards, billboards and signs for trekking guides, travel agencies, trekking gear shops, restaurants, bakeries, guesthouses…

Every few steps, hawkers offer tiger balm, wooden flutes, strings of beads or approach playing excruciatingly screechy sarangis. “You want? Good price. Where you from, my friend?” And if you dwell for even a second on a window display or stall, the owner comes rushing out. “You like? What you look for? Where you from, my friend?”

And then there’s the traffic; in a land without pavements the car is king, but it’s the motorbikes that’ll get you. Weaving in and out of the pedestrians, cars, carts, wheeled stalls and bicycles, motorbikes come snarling at your heels, beeping for right of way.

Mix into all of this the CD and ethnic goods shops that all play the same Om Mane Padme Hom tune relentlessly on repeat, the dust in the air that has you rasping within hours and the occasional scabrous street dog, and you have journey that is always exhilarating, no matter how short.

Janet: As I’m writing this on the plane, I’ll reflect on the journey this morning to the airport.

Kathmandu awakes to the sound of baying dogs, tea-vendors and the unceasing honking of horns. We leave the hotel before dawn, bleary eyed but ready for the adventure of a new country.

As I leave this strange and wonderful land behind, I notice with an affectionate fondness the myriad of tiny shops, the haphazard layout of the streets and the stunning backdrop of 360 degree mountain ranges.

I am no longer afraid of the seemingly endless series of what we would call ‘near misses’ on the roads in England. The swerving of the taxi past the rickshaws, mangy dogs and motorbikes feels calm at this early hour compared to many of the journeys we’ve made.

It’s a little out of town to the airport, which means we go past some of the more humble residencies of this city. After 3 months, it still never ceases to make me draw in breath sharply and clench my stomach to see some of the places people call home. I vow never again to complain about the children sharing a room as I see the families crowded into shacks with no fronts, huddled around a fire made of rubbish to keep away the morning chills.

We arrive to the usual barrage of offers of help to carry bags (for a few rupees, why not?) and polite enquiries of, “Three daughters? All same same?” which has recently almost been usurped by, “What happen?” in reference to Scarlett’s broken leg.

I’m struck by the contrast between the many and varied international airports I’ve travelled through compared with this one. It’s the little things. Like the fact that the entire row of seats tips forwards as Scarlett sits down – they’re not screwed to the floor. And the fact that we spot 4 birds and 1 cat on our way to the departure gate. Indoors. That’s not normal.

We’ve overstayed our Visas due to Scarlett’s accident, only by a day, but we expect to pay a $66 USD fine. However, with a muttering of, “Today, 17^th”, and a characteristic wobble of the head, we are waved through passport control with no fine to pay. So we have a relatively large sum of money in a currency you can’t change outside of Nepal, no bank, and the limited airport shops. The choice is between some T Shirts that don’t fit any of us, some chocolate, a fridge magnet or a coffee. We settle on a drink each and a T-shirt for Evie (she’s one down) and give the rest to a children’s charity.

It’s a lovely way to spend our last morning. Nothing is quite ‘normal’ but that’s kind of what makes it fun, and it’s definitely what makes it Nepal.

2. Finish this sentence: In Nepal, I have learned…

Fergus: …to slow down.

The internet in Nepal is so slow it is often unusable, so I quickly had to break my web habit. Facebook loses it’s shine when it takes 40 minutes to load. Travel takes ages. Food comes slowly in cafés. Bureaucracy requires more chitties, desks and members of staff than I ever though possible. In fact, any kind of organizational task needs a whole day setting aside to perform.

But if you slow down, it’s fine. When in Nepal, go as fast as the Nepalese go.

Janet: …to be polite. Now being British, we pride ourselves on being polite. I like politeness, and I like people to treat me with courtesy and respect. But even the famed reserve of the English cannot compare to the Nepali culture. The way that everybody in this land conducts themselves is both alien and admirable to me. I realise, slowly, over the months that we spend here, the difference between what I think is polite and what is actually polite here. For example, it’s fine to ask personal questions about your family, your job, even your income. But it’s not OK to raise your voice, to be impatient or, worst of all, to loose your temper.

It’s sometimes a subtle touch of the arm as you hand over money, a nod of the head to acknowledge thanks, and of course the head wobble, but if you can get into the local body language you find people respond with a smile and with a polite interest in getting to know you better. I’m glad we stayed long enough to get a real feel for this part of the Nepali culture.

3. Finish this sentence: In Nepal, I have enjoyed…

Fergus: …spending every day with my family.

Trekking together was wonderful. It gave us the time to talk and to listen. And there’s something about walking that makes thinking somehow clearer. But even in the cities or Sauraha, we’ve had time to really enjoy being in our little family unit. No school or work to separate us. No demands from laundry, shopping, housekeeping or garden to drain our free time. Just us, every day; talking, learning, laughing, playing games, eating, exploring.

Janet: …the mountains. I simply love being in mountains. Since the age of about 13 when I went of my first walking holiday with a group of girlfriends from school I’ve been totally hooked on mountain walking. My greatest achievements in mountaineering don’t amount to much: I’ve done the coast to coast walk (solo!) and the Yorkshire and National 3 Peaks, but nothing on earth can compare to your first view of the Himalayan Massif.

There are no adjectives adequate for the spectacle. I won’t do it the injustice of trying to describe it in words. But for me, this is what I came to Nepal for, and stepping onto the summit of Gokyo Ri and turning around to admire the view on all sides will always be my personal highlight.

4. Finish this sentence: In Nepal, I have endured…

Fergus: …the unexpected.

Of course, Scarlett’s accident was the biggest unexpected event, and I realize now that it threw us all into shock. But there have been other changes of plan, too. Not going to India. Not going to Sri Lanka. Rejigging our time in Thailand to hit most of the beaches after Scarlett’s cast is finally removed in February. Plus, just going to new places means one never truly knows what arrival will bring with it.

Having the future so much in flux can be unsettling but it’s good to be shaken out of my routine. Not knowing what might happen tomorrow brings today into focus and makes me notice the passage of time in a way that I never do back home.

In fact, being thrown into unexpected situations reason – good and bad – is much of what makes travelling so rewarding. In responding to a challenge, you find out who you are and what you’re capable of; you grow.

And doing the same thing you did yesterday never made for much of an anecdote.

Janet: …bureaucracy! OK, so obviously the worst thing that happened was Scarlett breaking her leg, and the resulting shock that I was thrown into. But if you wanted to make a bad situation worse, you couldn’t have done it better than adding in a dose of Nepali bureaucracy to the equation. As a previous post describes, it’s one thing I’ll be glad to leave behind. Not that I’m expecting SE Asia to be much better, I’m just hoping not to have to do anything so ambitious that involves any level of paperwork!

5. Describe a Nepali person you have met. Include what they look like, their personality and your opinion of them.

Fergus: I’m going to go for Phurba Sherpa, too. We were walking with him day in, day out for nearly a month, and got to know him better than anyone else we’ve met.

He had the physique common to many Sherpa people; broad shoulders, thickly-muscled calves, the body of a man who has carried massive loads into the clouds, year after year. He was always calm and polite. He seldom smiled, although the kids would make him laugh sometimes, especially in their wilder moments.

Quiet, understated, assiduous and reliable, he was always working to smooth our relations with locals, to help us order food or find the best place to stop, and was always on hand when needed from dawn till dusk.

He was a family man and, I guess because he was away from his own kids, he became very protective and kind to our own, several times carrying one girl or another when they ran out of steam and often buying sweets or snacks for them as we walked.

Turning up in the Everest Region completely without a guide was a gamble, but it paid off in meeting Phurba.

Janet: One of the silver linings of Scarlett’s accident is getting to know some of the people in Sauraha, near Chitwan National Park. Having returned there to rest and recuperate, some people welcomed us back like old friends, most notably a shop owner who was always very taken with the girls. Being triplets, they attract a lot of attention, and he sold them 3 lovely dresses which he was very proud of as they walked down the main road in them on an almost daily basis.

When he saw Scarlett’s leg in a cast, he was genuinely heartbroken, he took my hand in both his and vowed that if there was anything, anything at all he could do to help us, he would help. He said he has a car, and could drive us to hospital any time of day or night if we needed it. It was very touching.

The help we ended up taking was his offer of teaching Scarlett the Nepali ‘Tiger Moving Game’. As Evie and Jemima headed off to elephant bath time each day, Scarlett and I would make our way down the road to his shop, where we’d play a couple of rounds of this local chess-like game. It helped us to get a change of scene, it gave Scarlett something to look forward to, and made her feel special when she would otherwise have felt left out.

He was a middle aged man, a little larger than the typical Nepali build, with the smart dress sense of a man who has made it into the middle classes of Nepali society. Softly spoken, but outgoing and friendly to everyone, he chatted to us about his early morning badminton matches, the births and deaths within the local community, and the trouble of keeping the dust and bugs out of the shop.

I’ll miss the slow pace of these daily conversations and the feeling of belonging to a tiny part of the community that this friendship gave me and Scarlett during our unexpectedly long stay in this small part of the world.

6. Make 3 recommendations for an English person who is planning to visit Nepal.

Fergus:

Learn to love lentils. Seriously. You could never call the Nepali diet adventurous. In fact, most Nepalis eat the same meal every single day: daal bhat (which literally means dahl and rice but is normally served with some or all of wilted spinach, mild vegetable curry, yoghurt, bitter pickles and popadom). You don’t visit Nepal for the food.
Get fit. Walking up mountains is a lot easier if you’ve, well, walked up some mountains before. Even English ones (which our guide thought hilarious we called mountains at all).
Don’t get carried away buying trekking gear. Like most foreigners we were kitted out in expensive boots, base layers, thermal layers, fleeces, goretex jackets, walking trousers, walking socks, buffs and hats… while many sherpas wore jeans and even flip-flops, with a carrier bag containing trainers and a jacket for when they got higher. Not that I’d go that far, but really, only good boots, walking socks and a warm jacket are really essential. And anything you don’t have, you can buy much cheaper in Nepal once you decide that you need it.

Janet:

Trek! You can’t go to Nepal and not see the mountains. Train for it, prepare for it, buy the right equipment for it (possibly in Thamel at a fraction of English prices) and enjoy it. You won’t regret it.
Lower Your Expectations when it comes to accommodation. You need to learn to be delighted by hot water, rather than disappointed by lack of it. Only then can you truly appreciate your surroundings.
Look Out for those cliff edges. You could break a leg.

7. Finish this sentence: The thing I will most remember about Nepal is…

Fergus: …mountains. No, elephants. No, mountains. Can I have both?

I fell in love with the mountains when we were trekking, and came to love being close up to elephants in the lowlands. In both cases, as I spent more time in their company I came to see their idiosyncrasies. They no longer looked the same (as one another, I mean – I can tell a mountain from an elephant), and I could see what made each interesting, impressive or beautiful.

Janet: …the helicopter ride out of the Annapurna region. The ultimate day of highs and lows. The shock of Scarlett falling. The realisation that it wasn’t just a sprain. The waiting for the insurance to call back. The relief that they would pay for her to be flown out. The crowd of people taking photos as the helicopter landed for us. The way their hair blew back as we sat in the cockpit and waved. Their friendly gestures in many languages, pointing at legs and thumbs up signs, conveying their get-well-soon messages. The stomach flipping take off. The breathtaking panorama of mountains surrounding us. The gnawing anxiety over what Scarett’s X ray would show. The growing guilt that it was my idea to come here, to put her in this danger. The relief that the hospital was well equipped. The surprise that it was in Kathmandu. The dawning of the idea that this could be the end of the trip. The trouble of sleeping on the sofa-bed that first night. The wondering what would happen to a local girl, aged 8, with no such medical care, if the same thing happened to her. Ultimately, the gratitude in realising that we are very, very lucky. Very lucky indeed. These are things that I will remember for ever.

On the Road Again

Posted on December 14, 2013 by Fergus

Is it really three weeks? Tomorrow we get on a bus to travel 7 hours over potholed roads edged with precipitous drops and soaring cliff faces to Kathmandu, then after 24 hours rest and a last chance to eat cheese before hitting SE Asia, we fly first to Delhi then Bangkok, where, after another brief 24 hour rest, we jump on a sleeper train,then a ferry, then a songtiaw to Maenam on the island of Ko Samui. That’s five days of travelling.

But I am really looking forward to it. We’ve been very sedentary here in Sauraha but Scarlett had a checkup with her orthopaedic surgeon this week and he’s happy for her to start moving around more now. So we’re hitting the beach!

Street Life

Posted on November 24, 2013 by Fergus

As much as I’ve come to dislike the noise, hassle and creeping throat infections endemic to Kathmandu, I always like the taxi journeys here.

Maybe it’s because of our first taxi ride from the airport, when I was fresh with excitement for our trip and flooded with the sheer relief at no longer being on a long haul flight, but just looking out of the window is endlessly entertaining. Scene after scene flashes by, almost too briefly to take in. Even as my mind tries to process what I’ve seen, I’m confronted with something new to surprise me. And it’s all made even more exhilarating by the constant shriek of car horns and the fact that right of way seems to go to whichever driver has the most guts and whichever vehicle has the most inertia.

A few of the vignettes I glimpsed on our last break-neck journey through Kathmandu:

A forlorn-looking man sits at a metal table, a single joint of meat and a cleaver upon it. Will he sell it before it goes bad?

A grubby girl in torn clothes crouches on the curb. On a blanket before her she has arranged beautiful piles of chillis and garlic.

A man welding in flip-flops. Sparks scatter over passing traffic.

Two small children wearing fluffy pyjamas, no more than three years old, walk along hand-in-hand beside the traffic.

A crowd clamours around a tea stall. The stall next door remains ignored.

A man disassembling a motor on the pavement.

A sign for an English Boarding School with the word academy misspelled.

Confectionary-coloured buildings: pink, turquoise, lime green, yellow.

Cows crowding at an intersection cause three main roads to slow to a crawl as drivers inch past them.

A woman with five children clustered around her legs makes a dash across the traffic to a chorus of beeping horns and screeching brakes.

An open door reveals a room no larger than our kitchen back home, filled almost entirely with one bed for the whole family.

A woman washes at a public pump, deftly juggling wet hair, toiletries and a sarong to conceal her modesty.

A row of lorries, more ornately painted than a gypsy caravans.

Little shops everywhere. In doorways. On railings. On pavements. Stalls, carts, trays round necks. The air of desperation and poverty increases as the size of premises diminishes.

Dogs everywhere; sleeping, loping, sunbathing, begging, stopping traffic. Some look relatively healthy. More are scabrous or mangy. One has an open wound on its head, what looks like brain showing through.

A gang of laughing teenagers playing on their phones. All the boys are holding hands.

Chickens scratch at the rubble of a collapsed building.

Kathmandu, We’ll Soon Be Seeing You

Posted on November 23, 2013 by Fergus

We’re free! It’s 6am and were all loaded onto the bus waiting to set off back to Sauraha, next to Chitwan National Park.

It was late yesterday by the time Scarlett was discharged from hospital, then, this being Nepal, there was a last minute problem with the internet so we couldn’t get all the paperwork we needed. We were promised it would be sent on but we’ve learned in the last few months that these things are much better sorted out on the spot, so we waited around in our room for an extra few hours.

Eventually we left. But with all out bags and bodies, and Scarlett in her plaster cast and with crutches, there was no way we were going to fit in one vehicle. The hospital had arranged an ambulance for Scarlett which we crammed with as many bags as possible (plus Scarlett and Janet, of course).

The ambulance screeched off into the mental Kathmandu rush hour traffic, sirens blaring. Me, Evie and Jem watched it weave across a packed intersection then tramped off to find a taxi. I was worried that Janet would be stranded with both Scarlett and a mountain of baggage but luckily our taxi driver was equal to the mentalness of the traffic, and without even the aid of a siren, managed to arrive across town mere moments after the ambulance.

We’d splurged on a more expensive hotel for the night – the original Kathmandu Guest House where The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix once stayed – because unlike all the other Thamel guest houses, it has both a garden and restaurant on the ground floor. Not something I’d normally pay $45 a day for but I really didn’t want Scarlett to brave the hectic, pavementless streets of Thamel yet nor did I dare carry her around. Even with able-bodied children, the streets of Thamel take all my concentration to navigate.

We didn’t have tickets to leave Kathmandu yet, and there was loads of organising that needed to be done to clear things with the insurance company and see if we can fly out of Nepal with Scarlett in a full-leg cast, so Janet went off to a cybercafe while I stayed with our girls in the garden.

It as fine at first. Evie and Jem went off exploring, occasionally popping out of flowerbeds or dashing across the lawn, while Scarlett and I did slow circuits of the paths to help her practice with her crutches.

Then Scarlett announced that she needed a wee. And, of course, she was bursting. It was coming. Now.

I immediately began to consider the logistics. Two children off hiding in the undergrowth. One too slow on crutches to reach the toilet in time. No idea where the toilet was.

Letting her crutches fall, I picked up Scarlett, tramped around the lawn calling for her sisters and, having finally found them behind some flowerpots, got Jemima to retrieve the crutches and set off inside. Evie had been to the toilet with Janet earlier, so I asked her to lead the way. So far, so good.

Except, after five minutes wandering through the surprisingly extensive hotel, I began to suspect that Evie was lost. Our next turn took us back into the garden. Yes, she was lost. And my arms were burning from Scarlett’s weight.

Abandoning the search for a downstairs toilet, we made a dash our room. Negotiating the stairs in flip flops while carrying a child who was becoming heavier by the second was made no easier by Jemima leading the way on crutches and a constant barrage of requests from Evie to use the iPad while Tettie was on the loo but eventually we reached our bedroom door.

Wrestling the crutches back from Jemima, I put Scarlett down, found the key and opened the door. I hovered behind her as she hopped inside, managing to keep her balance despite her sisters barging past. I turned to close the door, and CRASH!

She’d fallen. While I was turned, she’d set off again and her crutch had slipped on a rucksack strap. She was crying, gasping in pain, whimpering, “My fractures, my fractures!”

It was all I could do not to burst into tears myself. For first time since we set off in September, I just wanted to be at home, with Scarlett comfortably on the sofa , the other two in the garden, bouncing happily on the trampoline and everything we needed to be safe and secure.

I think Scarlett must have picked up on my upset. After I’d carefully laid her on the bed she started being very brave, telling me earnestly, “I’ll be ok in a minute daddy. Don’t worry.” If anything, I now felt worse.

After half an hour or so and with Scarlett restored by the combined soothing powers of cuddles, ibuprofen, paracetamol and Harry Potter, I was able to carry her carefully down to the guesthouse’s restaurant where, once again, having a garden paid off. I sat with Scarlett while her sisters had somewhere to play (does jumping out on guests from bushes and singing “namaste” count as playing?).

Eventually Janet returned and, with two adults, everything became manageable once more. Plus she’d managed to get tickets out of Kathmandu for the next morning. We were headed back to lovely Sauraha – the only place in Nepal we could imagine holing up for any time with an injured child.

I think Sauraha will be much easier. Scarlett can sit still not he veranda, the lawn or in one of the nice shady huts; I could even string up my hammock. Her sisters can play. There are fewer distractions, fewer dangers, fewer stairs. We know our way around. Of course the fact that Scarlett was able-bodied last time we were here may prove frustrating for her, but we also did a lot of schoolwork there, which she’ll be able to join in with despite her immobility.

Until we return to Kathmandu in three weeks anyway…

A Quiet Night in Kathmandu

Posted on November 18, 2013 by Fergus

I’d never seen Kathmandu so quiet.

I didn’t notice it at first. I was too busy wedging myself into the tiny taxi’s front seat, my knees hard against the dashboard, my neck craned forward to stop my head banging against the roof. And of course, there was the inevitable (and inevitably futile) attempt to get the seatbelt working.

But when I started watching the streets zoom past, it occurred to me that something was very different tonight. Where was the rest of the traffic? Where were all the people? Why were we zooming not crawling?

Even the taxi driver seemed confused. Without a stream of other taxis and mopeds to follow, he hit several potholes, had to swerve to avoid a dog wandering across a deserted junction and even drove on the wrong side of the dual carriageway for part of the journey. Or maybe he was just unused to being able to drive at over 20 miles an hour. I rather doubt he had ever reached such dizzying speeds before.

Whatever the cause, neither he nor his car seemed at ease. The engine rattled disquietingly and, as we progressed, he pulled his coat up over his mouth and his hat low, as if doing so would prevent his vehicle attracting attention.

As we drove the 20 minutes to the tourist district of Thamel, the only other residents of Kathmandu we saw were worried-looking older men hurrying for the shelter of home or small knots of younger men apparently come out to wonder at the emptiness.

Plus many, many groups of lathi or assault rifle wielding policemen in combat fatigues or even riot gear.

It’s election day tomorrow – the first in five years – and here in Nepal, there’s none of the ennui associated with elections back home.

Over the last few weeks we’ve seen rallies, marches and demonstrations everywhere we’ve been. Some were just small but most were thronged with enthusiastic supporters. Even in the mountains, where we’d hoped to sit (or rather walk) this time out, there were leaflets scattered on the paths and posters glued to the walls of every village.

The gatherings have all been peaceful so far (if generally noisy – Nepalese PAs all seem to be bought from the same supplier Metallica uses) but there are apparently threats of violence, especially from the communists if things don’t go their way*.

We’re safe here in the hospital, of course, but the staff have warned us that everything will close tomorrow and transport will be impossible, and the day after we hopefully leave the city.

So why did I brave the streets on the verge of a nationwide riot?

To collect our laundry, of course. Political instability or no, you have to have clean pants.

* (I won’t pretend I understand the political situation. There seem to be a dizzying number of political parties, and each group brandishes a different prominent symbol.

I can recognize the communists (with hammer and sickle, of course) but other major groups carry pictures of cows, suns, flaming brands or umbrellas (for this last group it’s apparently acceptable to just carry actual umbrellas instead of an umbrellas banner… or in some cases to just wear an 80s-style umbrella hat – a cunning plan our own parties could learn from; whenever rain threatened, anyone who didn’t support you would have to either carry your emblem around or get wet. Win-win.).

I even saw one rally where they flags showed something remarkably close to the the Conservative Party’s oak tree symbol. Do they have a Nepalese wing?)