Screaming Knees on the Thambuchet Bus

Roadworks camp near Dhunche, Langtang.

I took one look at our porter and thought "You're not much bigger than my son and he's only 13 ... and you're planning on carrying both our backpacks, a load roughly half as heavy a your skinny 50 kilos. I'm probably going to have step in and carry things myself before the trek is over". I would be proved very, very wrong over the next few days.

Sunrise at the bus station. Khatmandu.

Our bus, an ancient Tata long overdue for retiring, rumbled patiently in the dawn as baggage was handed up to the roof and passengers squeezed on board to locate pre-booked seats. Even at this early hour the 'bus station', an open, muddy kerbside lot, was already heaving with passengers, fruit sellers, luggage and bicycles. Underfoot mud, garbage and steel reinforcing rods, polished smooth by a thousand sandals, made you careful of where to step. The tang of cigarette smoke mingled with exhaust fumes and together they vied for nasal recognition with the smell of ripe fruit and the odour of rotting garbage. Many Nepalese wore masks over their mouths to protect themselves from Kathmandu's ever present air pollution.

The ticket office for the Thambuchet bus.

I hadn't even recognised the ticket office, despite standing right next to it, a corrugated iron lean-to under a tree, open on 3 sides and besieged by customers waving crumpled Rupee notes. We hung around waiting for departure, taking in the sights, sounds and smells, until a yell and a blast from the hooter exhorted my son and I to clamber on board, our backpacks long since having disappeared into the pile on the roof under the auspices of our guide, Aashish. I silently wondered if I'd see them again, they weren't even tied down.

Cellphones and cigarettes, a bus station food hawker.

We had, in theory, the best seats on the bus, right up front with a good view out the windshield. But over the years my buns-of-steel have become loaves and my six-pack is now more of a keg, so it was with trepidation that we squeezed into the equivalent of one-and-a-half airline seats. And there was no legroom. And I could see the back of the radiator and a sliver of the passing road below through gaps in the plywood firewall. And the lingering smell of scorched brake pads. And we had 9 hours to go.

From right-to-left: My arm, my son, old guy on the gearbox, another guy on the gearbox and, the dark shape, the driver. Asheesh is just behind us.

The crowded bus wended it's way north, stopping regularly for people to alight or leave, with seatless passengers standing in the aisle or climbing on to the roof. An old Nepali, friendly but silent, was wedged between us and the driver. Perched on the gearbox housing with no handholds he was constantly being thrown onto us as the bus swung around corners. But for the locals this was normal and we decided to just take it in our stride. "This is how most of the world travels." I said to my son, "at least those who can afford it."

Waiting for traffic to clear, plenty of hooting and revving of engines, precious little progress. Somewhere near Trisuli.

With our soundtrack, the falsetto squeal of hindi music from tinny speakers, we climbed out of Kathmandu Valley on a road cut into the side of the mountain, rising through greenery and passing countless villages, emerald rice paddies, terraced fields and even some trout farms. A stop for lunch in Trisuli where the only item on the menu was dal bhat , steamed white rice with a thin gruel of lentils. I'm not a small guy and can eat with the best of them, but watching Aashish and Yong-tashi pack away a mound of dhal bat was an education. Every now and then the cook would come around with a big pot of rice or dhal and offer us more, these two thin guys kept on going long after I couldn't eat another bite. Where did they put it all? We'd eat a lot of dhal bat over the next few days, now and then with the luxury of some chicken curry, yoghurt or spicy achar that would clear you sinuses, and each time we'd give up long before the other two.

A slow afternoon, as usual.

The miles dragged on and my knees ached, being crammed into a slightly bent position for hour after hour. My son and I switching sides every now and then for the hallowed window seat. All the discomfort was momentarily forgotten, or at least ignored, when we rounded a corner and in the distance caught our first glimpse of snow covered peaks and a daytime moon. It was a moment I'll never forget, my son and I grinning and touching fists knuckles-to-knuckles. Finally, the Himalaya!

The main, and only, road to Langtang. Often nothing more than a rough dirt track hugging the mountain side.

The road varied between tar and mud tracks that would do a 4x4 justice. Every so often we came across road crews repairing the more dangerous and eroded stretches with hard-packed gravel held in place by massive wire-cage gabions. Some of the worst sections were in towns and villages where the constant passing of heavy vehicles and the effects of rain had churned the road into mud.

The muddy mire that is the main road through town. At least we're welcome.

At every bend in the journey the driver would blast his hooter to warn oncoming traffic, size determining the right of way. Motorbikes gave way to cars, cars gave way to buses and buses to trucks. My confidence ebbed on a few occasions when I saw the wrecks of buses that had not quite made the turns, or stopped in time, lying far below the road.

Who will give way? Will we back-up a bit or edge past each other? Compare the width of the bus to the width of the road. The drop is hundreds of metres.

At times the road was so narrow that both vehicles would have to creep past each other inch by inch with only a finger width separating us. The driver would rely on a guide sitting on the roof, able to see the length the bus, who'd use complicated whistle signals to say if things were OK or that we were about to scrape. I had to pull my elbow in, from where it was resting on the window ledge, on many occasions.

Prospective passengers.

There were regular military roadblocks on the road and I assume we were in Maoist rebel country due to the many houses with a hammer and sickle painted on them.
Apparently, rooftop riding was not allowed so, approaching a roadblock, the bus would come to a stop and all those on the roof would climb off, some squeezing into the last breathing spaces in the bus while the rest would nonchalantly stroll through the checkpoint. At the checkpoint the bus would stop again and papers would be scrutinized by uniformed men carrying firearms, sometimes they'd squeeze through the bus checking faces and papers. Once the bus had been searched it would be waved on and less than a hundred metres further, in full view of the soldiers, everybody would climb back on again and the bus would clatter and rumble on its way.

The entrance to Langtang National Park, heart of our trek.

On the final long descent to Syabrubensi. I lost count after 12 hairpins, the smell of burnt brake pads isn't conducive to counting.

Don't ask me the correct spelling for the town of Syabrubensi, a walk down the main, and only, street delivered a variety of spellings. Almost each signboard was unique: 'Syabrubensi', 'Syabrubesi', 'Shyabrubensi', 'Sia brubesi' ... and so on. The bus took a break here, so we decamped to a guest house for cooldrinks or tea and to stretch our, by then, decrepit legs.

My son snoozing on the verandah of 'Hotel Peaceful' after tea. Waiting for passengers.

The cramped conditions got too much for my son who clambered onto the roof at Syabrubensi for the the last stretch to Thambuchet. Despite my misgivings about the safety of being perched on a wallowing bus clinging to the edge of a narrow mountain track I decided to let him go. We were here for adventure after all.

On the roof for the last leg of the journey.

Nepalese girl outside a dry stone walled house between Syabrubensi and Thambuchet. She hid when she saw my camera.

Terraced fields contribute to the deforestation of Nepal.

The bus stopped at Thambuchet which was the end of the road. Literally. Meaning the road also stopped at Thambuchet and the bus went as far as it could physically go without taking out a few of the village houses. I disembarked stiffly from the bus, my knees screaming at being released from the tight confines in which they'd spent all day, and we found our way to our guest house and a cold beer.

Understated colours in our room in Thambuchet guest house.

Looking at the old bridge from the new. Exhaustion is written all over his face, nine hours has taken its toll.

We spent the dusk exploring the village, glad to be able to get the blood flowing through our legs. That night, back in our rooms and the luxury of a bed, the two of us chatted briefly before slipping into black sleep. We'd start walking the next day.

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave