So as we neared that “town” we were told by a guy who had been there before that this wasn’t Chitwan. That it was further away and could only be gotten to via 4 wheel drive. This wasn’t entirely true- you could also get there by elephant. We went with the 4x4 option at the lack of our personal elephants.
The bus pulled up at this deserted piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere. It was empty land with a giant forest in the distance. There were Nepali people waiting with 4 wheel drives on this patch. Each was a delegate from their respective “resort”. I’ll explain the inverted comma’s later. We placed all luggage on the back of a “ute” (again- it was a very sorry excise for one and sounded like the engine would fall out at any given time) and realised that with all the luggage, there was no room to sit. So Jimbo and I stood up and grabbed onto the frame and held o for our dear lives. This wasn’t too bad, except our risk of concussion suddenly sky rocketed.
Picture grabbing onto a metal beam that’s parallel with the ground and about as thick as a thin can of Red Bull which lies at approximately head height. Now picture yourself on the back of a car doing this. Simple, isn’t it? You’re probably wondering what’s with all the picturing? Well, I just wanted to see which of you had imaginations. And for those with extra imagination- think of that drive again, except add what essentially feels like a road pockered with pot holes. Yes, dear readers, Nepals roads are bad. And these weren’t roads, simply a patch of dirt made more even than the ground next to it. So while we chundered along in our vehicle with no suspension and suspect engine, Jimbo and I looked like we were head-banging along to rock music. Apart from the look of terror in our eyes as all we could see was that metal beam oscillating from small to big as we rocked on.
Now when you hear the word “resort” I’m sure what springs to mind is sunshine, maybe a beach, with an awesome hotel with a pool side bar and lots of scantily clad women. This was also my definition until I went to Chitwan. By “resort” they meant a hotel of sorts with a yet-to-be finished garden in the front and a massive wasp hive straight outside our window. Resort, indeed. On the plus side, the resort had it’s very own elephant, with whom Jimbo came to be quite attached to.
That was also the day we met the guy whom we called Stalin Reborn: if there was a gene for dictatorship, this guy had it! It was a group of tourists from Poland. Serious travellers: you know the sort? All carrying a dSLR, high powered binoculars, enough luggage to provide warmth to all inhabitants of Antarctica and as many guidebooks for any place as physically available for any given location. These are those people that have done so much research that they know all the facts about the place before they get there and for some strange reason, decide to tell everyone at the opportune moment. Not that I understood them.
Their leader was Stalin Reborn. The guy was a dick. He didn’t speak, he barked. It was like he was giving commands to troops everytime he said something. We had the tour guide give us a presentation about the nature reserve we were visiting nearby. Stalin decided to translate, at great length, everything that was said and also to correct the locals on the information they provided.
Not everyone was that bad though. We met 2 Canadians Rachy and Jack, who were very cool and…. strange. It seems to be the thing with Candians: they seem to be universally very, very strange. Not in the “oh my God, they are social retards!” or the “I can’t believe they just did/said that” kinda way, but more in the “huh? why do they speak so slowly” way.
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