The 'New Beautiful' family

What truly made our time in Pokhara was stumbling across The New Beautiful Cafe, a modest, street-side restaurant that I miss dearly already. It is a must for anyone craving home comforts and the warmest family welcome in town.

The owner, Shambhu, had us at "hello", offering us discounts on the menu prices and grinning

broadly at us. And then the food they could cook, it was unbelievably good, dishes from all over the world, all made completely fresh to order and with such love and devotion. We were hooked.

Shambhu's gentle wife, Parbali, would welcome us by taking our hands and calling me "Sister". Her younger brother, Samip, spent hours beating the boys at Bagh-Chal (a brilliant game of goats and tigers on a grid). Then there were their two adorable children, Pranisha and Pranaish, who we played with. Pranaish, the little boy, kept coming back to me to play

with a set of small wheels that once belonged to a toy truck. So contented was he with this broken old thing; so giddy with excitement when I rolled them over to him, making "vroom vroom" noises.

On our last evening with them, we bought them all presents to thank them for their gorgeous hospitality. Wide-eyed, they thanked us endlessly for the gifts and insisted they treat us to breakfast before our long trip to Kathmandu.

At breakfast, they pushed mountain fridge magnets into our hands and gave us a little family photograph of themselves. Such beautiful and kind people, this is the Nepali way.

Pokhara: a naked man, a lightning boat and a snow-capped sunrise

After our time in Chitwan, which was scheduled to thrill, we were looking forward to slowing down the pace in Pokhara - one gateway to the Himalaya kingdom.

We immediately fell in love with the peaceful rippling of Phewa Lake (Nepal's second largest), the towering mountains that wrapped tightly around it and the horn-free streets of laid-back Lakeside.

"Perfect", we said, "just what we need." Anyone would think we had been on the road for months, not days, but we greedily indulged ourselves with some peace, quiet and home-cooked wonders.

And then came the naked man. After a hearty, rooftop meal with our new friend, Tom, we ambled back to our hotel, taking in the many shops and restaurants presenting their worldly goods, the giggling groups of children darting back and forth and the friendly dogs on the block meeting up, probably exchanging stories of finding tasty food titbits outside restaurants. Caught up in this state of mild distraction, I didn't notice the naked man until I'm stood just one metre away from him. The naked man of Pokhara (I'm sure he must be infamous by now) did not look at us, as we stood silently agog, he just carried on walking down the street, holding a piece of dirty cloth at his side (that could have been put to better use!). "Tarzan", a local guy threw at us and pointed, "he Tarzan."

We saw naked man three more times during our stay. Still naked, still carrying that same piece of tatty cloth.

The next day, the three of us hired a rowing boat for an afternoon on the lake. The

sun was streaming down and the still water unveiled reflections of mountains as we sailed toward the Hindu Barahi temple, built on a small island in the lake. We spotted monkeys jumping through the thick jungle terrain on the far lakeside and let the screeching sounds of cicadas fill our ears as they sang their song to celebrate the heat of the day.

Lulled by the scene, it took us a while to notice the dark clouds rolling in, and we watched as waves began to crest on the lake, rocking our humble rowing boat as each one slapped against its wooden side. "No panic", we thought as we started to paddle back. And then came a great clap of thunder and lightning forked in the near distance - just a couple of miles away. So then the panic kicked in and, after a small setback for Tom while he put down his oar to reason with himself that we were the highest point on the lake, the boys rowed us to shore at speed, battling against the wind and waves that had crept up on us. Dry land had never felt so good!

Unruffled, the following day we were back on the water, to hawl ourselves up to the Peace Pagoda - a beautiful Buddhist stupa designed to provide a focus for people of all races and creeds, and to help unite them in their search for world peace.

While Nepal is overwhelmingly 85% Hindu, the areas bordering Tibet and specific parts of Kathmandu and Pokhara offer colourful glimpses into the rich Tibetan Buddhist culture. Many Tibetans fled their native land during the war in 1959, just ahead of the Chinese army, which destroyed thousands of monasteries and killed hundreds of thousands of monks as they advanced. Tibetan refugees have made Nepal their home, selling hand-strung beads and prayer wheels, introducing delicious momos into hundreds of restaurants and piping out the serene Buddhist mantra Om Mani Padme Hum from music stores in tourist areas. Despite their past turmoil, Tibetan's have hearts of gold, and the brilliant gold of the peace stupa glistened down on us as we took in the views of the lake, Pokhara and the mountains that enshrine it.

During our lakeside chill out, we also managed a pre-dawn taxi ride to the top of Sarangkot, a high green hill at the northern end of Phewa Lake that separates Pokhara from the Annapurna Himalaya range. We did not get off to a good start: rain was hurtling down on Pokhara, we were locked in our hotel and the taxi driver was 25 minutes late. But we were determined to see sunrise, and so we ascended in our rattling taxi, woken up by the aroma of a burning clutch. The

taxi could only take us so far, so we picked our way up the rocky path by the dim light, gasping for breath in our urgency to reach the summit for sunrise.

At the top, there were still some clouds, but we could see the snowy peaks crisply and we watched as shades of orange, pink and purple filled the sky and reflected off the white-capped mountains. Beneath us, the river valley glistened a rich, dewy green, and a few low-hanging clouds clung on to the hill-tops. Just beautiful!

The perfect few days to prepare us for our first trek, Nepal style.

Chasing rhinos

As quickly as we had been flung into the colourful consciousness of the city, we were bumping and bouncing our way out, from pothole to rubble, on the five hour tourist bus to Chitwan National Park. At this stage of our trip, we very much felt like tourists, not travellers, but we were hopeful that once we had done the 'guidebook greats', we could don the baggy trousers and head scarves and find our travelling mojo (updates on this transformation to follow).

Famous as one of the best places to stalk wildlife in Asia, and one of the last places to allow tourists to go on foot (at your own peril), Chitwan translates as 'heart of the jungle' and we had high hopes of spying on one-horned rhinos.

We were blessed with an animal-guru of a guide, friendly, round-faced Tilak, and a great group of people who were staying in our lodge of relaxed luxury just outside the park. We shared laughs, beers, banquets, mosquito bites and sunsets during our 3 days of safari seclusion - and we sweated in unison in the balmy heat of the Terai region of Nepal.

There are many ways you can enter the national park, each coming with a reasonable price tag and standard T&Cs: 'No animals guaranteed, ok!'. So you pay your fee in blind faith and hope for the best.

As it's the end of the monsoon season in Nepal, the grass in the park is up to 8 feet tall so the best, for us, was spotting the one-horned rhino. We could be spitting distance from a leopard or royal Bengal tiger and be totally oblivious. But for the portly rhino, there's no hiding that big bottom and we'd heard recent reports of spottings and chasings - we would take either!

And so, we started our adventure in the 932 sqkm of sal forest, water marshes and rippling elephant grassland in a narrow, wooden canoe. Greeted by a few basking crocs, kingfishers and wild deer, we sailed down the silty river with the taste of anticipation (and bug spray) on our lips. Mistaking a few buffalos for rhinos, and rustling trees for monkeys, we then took to the jungle on foot - a new, thrilling taste of fear as Tilak instructed us to run for our lives if we came across a charging rhino. No such luck though - a few more deer, some fat furry caterpillars and an unwelcome leech.

Following a quick diversion to the elephant breeding centre (not recommended for animal lovers), that evening we were jeeped to a local, Tharu village to watch a group of very agile local boys and men perform the traditional Tharu stick dance, spiced up with fire, a man dressed up as a very convincing woman and a giant, dancing peacock. At the end, the girls from our group, including myself, got up on the dusty, wooden stage to join in. It was fast and sweaty as our throbbing feet slapped on the hard floor, but the energy and excitement was infectious and we laughed and danced until it hurt! After a few high fives with the performers, we dragged sweat-drenched bodies home - buzzing with contentment. But still, we dreamed of rhinos.

4.30am and Tilak is pounding on our door - it was jeep safari time! We flew down the quiet roads to get to the park, watching the pink sunrise over the mountains in the distance. Keeping quiet along the track through the park, we saw lots of spotted deer and stags, shuffling wild boar and nimble monkeys - but the rhino hopes remained, like an absent guest at this wild party. Still, the sight of the snowy peaks of the Annapurna skyline as we drove out of the jungle was more than consolation - we went from dense forest to iced mountain views in seconds.

That afternoon it was elephant safari time, something I wasn't completely sure about - how happy could an elephant be with 300 kgs of human on its back? But I went with the jungle swing of things, and didn't want to miss out on the precious rhino spot. We sauntered through the jungle and marshland atop this incredibly powerful, and sadly, incredibly tame animal, and spotted lean samba deer, stags and a quick-footed barking deer. There was also the not so rare breed of noisy Chinese tourists who surely frightened off all the other wildlife with their bellowing calls of "Which country?!"to neighbouring elephant groups.

So, that was our chance over, no rhino. We had only seen the prints of a mother and baby. It was becoming as mythical a beast as the little-seen, Himalayan snow leopard.

At 5.30am on our last morning in Chitwan, I toyed with the idea of having a lie-in while Med and some of the others went out on Tilak's bird walk. But, never a person to miss out, I threw on some clothes and headed out still full of sleep - despite gulping down a coffee with three teaspoons of sugar. We squelched and slipped along the muddy river bank, noone really over-enthused but the sightings of herons and other avian sightings. And then came a call that jolted us all out of our sleep-starved state: "RHINO!" "RHINO!" COME!" - and we all scurry after Tilak to see if it's really true.

There, just 20 metres away on the other side of the river, was a enormous male rhino, cooling off in the water as he munched his way through kilos of breakfast - fresh, long grass. We took in the amazing view, grinning at each other, and then back at the rhino. At last! Tilak showed us, over and over again, our pathway to run should the rhino start to charge. But Mr.Rhino seemed happy enough in the water, watching us from time to time before continuing to chomp away with that powerful jaw of his. We even got the delight of his big bottom, all nobbly and notched like compacted pebbles on a beach.

So, we chased down our rhino, and thankfully he didn't chase us. Dhanyabad, Chitwan!

Pepsi and puja

Caught up in the enchanting whirlwind of Kathmandu, it's easy to forget the fabric of the country we're in. A 6am taxi ride to the bus station offered just the quiet exposure we needed to step back and see it, without keeping one eye peeled for motorbikes and street hawkers.

The first Europeans and Americans didn't enter Nepal until the 1950s, but now there are thousands of shops selling western food, clothes and shampoo. Religion is very much at the forefront of almost every Nepali person's life, but on the way home from giving puja to the gods, many can be found flogging singing bowls and necklaces to pale-faced tourists. Traditional motifs (including the swastika, still used in Buddhism and Hinduism as a symbol of good luck and refreshingly free from the corruption of those Nazis) are sprinkled with international football emblems and clothing brands. A mountain shack with a hole-in-the-ground toilet has a bottle of Harpic in the corner. Nepali families in their old, crumbling homes crowd around the latest T.V to watch American wrestling.

That morning, I watched a shoeless woman with her puja bowl amble past a large Pepsi advertisement, and right next to it sat an ageing man on his haunches, playing with a mobile phone. The capital city has none of the glossy, high-rise buildings and air-conditioned metropolis found in India's biggest cities, but there's certainly an aspiration for it as Nepal plants more roots in the international community.

For now, we're lucky enough to see it with much of its antiquity and historic charm - and can chuckle at the local 'Walmart' food stall and eccentric 'Hard Rock cafe'.

Temples, tiger balm and tongba in Kathmandu

First stop on our trail: Nepal. Or more specifically, Kathmandu, which really isn't Nepal at all - rather its flamboyant and frenzied cousin knocking travellers, and wannabe trekkers, sideways.

After a whirlwind taxi journey that shook us out of our weary plane coma, we settled into our hotel with its rooftop garden and mountain views. As we are in the last month of the monsoon season in Nepal, the sky started to ink and heavy rain let rip on the city as we negotiated the 64 zips and clips on our brand new backpacks. The rain unveils a fresh, cooler city and we stepped outside.

Kathmandu is a feast for all our senses, pumping with traffic, people, and the occasional rabid dog. In the din of blaring horns (which, it's worth noting, don't compare in decibels or frequency to Indian horns), chiming cycle-rickshaws, revved-up engines, women, and even children, carrying impossibly heavy loads on their backs, tiger balm sellers and other retailers hawking their goods, we walked past shops selling just about everything, each adding their own flecks of colour to the vibrant paint pallet of Kathmandu.

Sharing beer and Tibetan momos (dumplings) on a rooftop in Thamel, we toasted our 12 month adventure as we looked out to the Swayambhunath temple and mountains beyond. Subhakamana!

The next day we headed for Durbar Square, the pulsing heart of the old town where the Nepali kings once ruled. Anchored with Hindu and Buddhist monasteries, standing side by side, it is a World Heritage Site that is treated as a busy market place, casual hang out and traffic thoroughfare - we took about five minutes to digest the scene.

Trying to shake off our would-be guides and trinket sellers, it soon dawned on us that something unusual was happening. Everywhere we looked there were hundreds, if not thousands, of women and young girls in luscious, red saris; men in traditional, checkered Nepali cloth hats; Sadhu holy men in orange and red robes with faces painted like African warriors - all flowing past us in a kaleidoscope of colour. We later learned it was Teej - Nepal's fasting festival for Hindu women.

Making our way through the heaving crowd of ruby red, with small pockets of dancing and drumming, we witnessed beautiful Nepali women, adorned with beads and sequins, queuing through the streets to give puja - praying for marital bliss, the well being of their husbands and

children and purification of their own body and soul.

We would occasionally stand on the edge of the crowd, overwhelmed, and let the whirl of colours and movement rush by, astonished to see rickshaws, handcarts, bicycles and even motorcycles forcing themselves through the scarlet throngs without touching a soul. We followed the queue out of the square and looked back in wonder at what we had just witnessed.

Welcome to Nepal!

The festival got us into the rhythm of the city and we drifted through the winding streets, encountering temples at every crossroad and chowk. We sheltered from monsoon rains atop the Swayambhunath temple and watched monkeys huddling together to keep dry; we headed to the wealthy district of Patan, once a fiercely independent state but now a quiet suburb of Kathmandu; we shared Tibetan food and tongba (a millet-based drink that is like Sake to the Japanese); we settled into Nepal and looked forward to the month that lies ahead of us.

On the road again

It is with much delight, relief and eternal longing that I announce the next chapter of my Aireytales. With the courage and meaningful experiences I discovered in India and Sri Lanka firmly under my belt, I am on the road again for a 12 month trip to the far flung corners of our beautiful earth.

The travelling bug, it's infectious - that's how people talk about it. 'You've got the bug' 'you've been bitten' - as if you've come down with some dreadful disease. Well I'm quite pleased with how my own infection is taking shape. Taking a year away from normal life can be a big, head-scratching decision, but, for me, it was a natural one. Four months in India and Sri Lanka last year showed me the way - meeting inspiring people who were drifting from one country to the next, getting down to the bare bones of a place and carrying a bit of it with them as they continued to the next adventure.

And so, with their inspiring stories and collective charisma in mind, I booked my round the world flight, this time with a companion - my boyfriend, Med. So with 12 months ahead of us, my travelling bug is about to get the feast of its life!

Almost the best view in Sri Lanka

On the tear-dropped island of Sri Lanka, it is claimed that the best view can be found atop the mighty Adam's Peak, with a vantage point of 2243 metres.

Adam's Peak is religiously schizophrenic, with Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and Christianity claiming a piece of the pie. The rock formation at the summit is revered as the footprint of the Buddha, in Hindu tradition of Shiva, Muslims believe it to be where Adam first set foot and Portuguese Christians claim it belongs to St. Thomas, the disciple of Jesus.

Hindu and Buddhist pilgrims scale the mountain in swarms from December to April as for much of the rest of the year dense clouds smother the peak. So, we rock up at the end of July; the term 'off peak' has never been more appropriate!

Nonetheless, we decided to climb the peak of Adam, Shiva, the Buddha and St. Thomas in the way all pilgrims do - reaching the summit for sunrise. Setting off in a small group at 2.30am - laden with biscuits, smothered in leech repellent and clutching metal torches - we perpetually stepped upwards for two and a half hours in the dead of night. The stray dogs from the small village of Delhousie also accompanied us all the way to the top, negotiating twice as many legs up the big steps despite their joint problems induced by years of pilgrimages.

Conditions grew worse as we ascended and I thanked Adam, Shiva, the Buddha and St.Thomas simultaneously for the waterproof coat I'd purchased on a market stall the day before. It may have been coloured yolky yellow and white and nick-named 'the fried egg', but at that moment in time it was the best item of clothing I had ever owned.

We couldn't see more than a metre in any direction as the mist enshrined the holy mountain to protect it from the wind and rain. Another interesting addition to the climb was the small river that had started to flow down the steps. We squelched and slipped upwards and upwards, stopping only briefly to catch our breaths.


Meeting just two other small groups on the way up, we made it to the top (first, if you are wondering) at 5am. Out of nowhere, a small door opened, bathing us in light so bright it hurt our eyes. A barely clothed man told us to come inside for tea as the gate to the summit would not open until 6am. We were wrongly sceptical and, after climbing up to the gate to realise it was bolted shut, we sheepishly returned to escape the worsening weather.


Inside the small room sat two men with just a cloth around their waists. There eyes were fixed on a fuzzy black and white TV set that intermittently spurted out ceremonial music and white noise. They were displeased to see us but dutifully offered us sweet, hot tea as more intrepid Westerners squeezed in their isolated home. I lapped up the tea and the atmosphere. Before me were complete strangers, water-logged and windswept, drinking tea and sharing biscuits up a mountain without a care in the world.

As the clock hands crawled to 6am, we braved the elements, leaving our damp hue behind us in the house. What should have been the best view in Sri Lanka was only mist and murk and mystery. Not a soul stepped foot on the very top to see the contested footprint or temple. The prospect of removing our shoes and plunging through puddles was not a tempting one.

The descent back down bashed our knees and our spirits and we were overjoyed to return to the hotel and hot shower.

For days afterwards, I could still smell the herbal leech repellent and my body froze at the sight of more steps. But our challenge was unforgettable and we proved there's no such thing as 'off peak'!