Charles stood looking like a ruffled blond crane with his bare feet only inches from the rat's tail. "Kill it," shrieked Charlotte: Anne by this stage was in a foetal position on the bed rocking backwards and forwards sobbing and muttering, "There is a place called Surrey. I live there. I will wake up soon and I will be at home." She would open one eye occasionally and the shuddering and sobbing would increase still more.
Charles looked down at the rat and said," Big old chap isn't he? " He lent forward and clapped his hands loudly: perhaps the rat took this as approbation for it made determined jump towards his nose. Backing away hastily he said. "Stay calm girls - I'll get the wallah." and left. Beautiful, fey, tranquil Charlotte whose never raised her voice or showed any real sign of irritation was beside herself with fear and indignation. Anne was now catatonic, whimpering,"Leatherhead," or "Guildford." It became fairly obvious that as the only one who was still showing some sign of sanity this was going to be my problem.
I armed myself with my book and my remaining sandal stood up and brandishing them both while making wild howls and yelps I managed to force a retreat from the rat into the bathroom. I hastily shut and locked the door whereupon Charlotte, until now a total fiend, collapsed into peals of hysterical laughter - "Why did you lock the door? It can't turn the handle."
'You'll see," I muttered darkly, a little hurt that my heroics had not been appreciated for their valour. Charles returned with the manager - not a happy man to be woken at three in the morning. Charlotte explained about the rat - unda. No he said smiling piteously at this memsahib and her little knowledge of Indian vermin - a chooha , a small mouse - no harm. "Show them," she said to me. I told her it would get out again and they were no help - let them look in the morning. We all agreed that this was best, lights were turned off and we tried to close our eyes and sleep.
"Ow, bloody hell, who locked the stupid sodding door," was all it needed for Charlotte to roll over and tell me I was a genius - Charles meanwhile limped down the passage way looking for another toilet. All to soon it was time to get up, wash, avoid the rat and the breakfast and head for the border. Raxaul on the Indian side was calm and sleep in the early morning: beyond the border guards we could see lines of buses and people hurrying about.
She beckoned us to come quickly and by some miracle had got us seats on the last bus out of Bhirgunj that day. Anne was so relieved that we would soon be on the last leg of the journey that she walked quite perklily to the bus and hopped aboard. These were not tourist buses - oh they existed complete with air conditioning and upholstered seats - these were country buses; they took families home, goats to market, children to hospital and old grannies to see their families. All of these and their luggage needed to be loaded and then there was us. Charles refused point blank to ride on the roof - very foolishly I felt - he would have had plenty of leg room and lots of lovely fresh air. Charlotte had commandeered three seats at the back of the bus and feeling Charles had missed his chance with the roof, we took them, A toothless, wrinkled Nepali lady offered him her bedroll to sit on and he, rather, ungraciously accepted it and settled into the middle of the aisle. The engine turned over and there in front of us was the road already climbing away from the heat of the terai towards the blue of the mountains and the promise of journey's end.
I t is theoretically an eight and a half hour drive from the border to Kathmandu, in reality it is more like thirteen to fourteen hours, The road climbs from the sea level of Biharbaba, I looked out of the window, and gave my grown up heart to another city.The GAP year traveller had not really been invented yet so the travellers that were there were visiting for religion - like the Maharishi man - cool dude, or drugs - found some primo dope yesterday man - up at that monkey temple - I was like so stoned. Or those, like us seeking adventure and new experiences. There were place to go to find out where to go, like Aunt Jane's for breakfast. Aunt Jane had been in the Peace Corps and started her little breakfast shop when she realised no one was having a cooked breakfast. Her porridge was fabulous as were the pancakes and maple syrup. You got there at about 8.30 met up with people you vaguely knew and were told the good things to go and see that day. Having delivered us safely Charles was catching up on his sleep and trying to restore his somewhat battered ego. Anne was recovered from the journey and Charlotte and I were in our element. An old friend from Calcutta - Peace Corps again came in and told us we should go to Bhaktapur as there was a huge festival there and it was very special. Bhaktapur is the most beautiful of the three cities, steeped in history and culture and truly lovely to visit. I deferred because Desmond and Dubby were flying in that afternoon so Charlotte and Anne set off alone and I went to my friend Yeshe's restaurant for a game of backgammon and a discussion of the merits of Fulham making it to the FA cup final. An eclectic mix of clientele.
By the late afternoon Desmond and Dubby had arrived at the OM where we all sat drinking rum and hot lemon and after catching up with faraway Calcutta Dubby asked me where my friends were. I told him I had no idea where Charles was and that Charlotte and Anne had gone to a festival at Bhaktapur. There were intakes of breath around the table and just as they were about to explain Charlotte and Anne were escorted in by our Peace Corps friend of the morning. They looked grey and Anne had some sort of red dye on her white kurta and in her hair. I reached out to brush it away and she leaped to her feet. screamed and ran off to the hotel. The regulars in the bar drew closer - even though they knew what had happened this should provide some entertainment for a few nights to come.
"It was a festival," Charlotte said weakly, " a festival of sacrifice. Hundreds and hundreds of buffalo having their throats slit, the blood sprayed round as a blessing and then decapitated and spread across the square. The blood didn't catch me but it did poor Anne and the crowd was so thick we could only move forward to that awful carpet of buffalo heads". Mr Peace Corps had realised his error and gone to look for us and by sheer fluke did find Charlotte and Anne and get them out. They left the next morning choosing the safer option of river rafting and a visit to Varanasi.
I stayed on - I was having way too much fun and besides I had met someone. After the girls left he moved into the hotel room with me and shared my bed and made me laugh and gave me nits. And then - he was a heroin addict - clean when I first met him - using by the time I left. I was told, truthfully or not, that he, along with several others, died at a beach party in Goa where the heroin had been so pure they had all overdosed. I would like to think he is a middle aged regenerated ex hippy somewhere but I think he probably lies in an unmarked grave in Goa. He came from Wimbledon. Drugs are wicked and evil and destructive and they take our dreams and flatter us for awhile and destroy.
So I flew back to Calcutta on a plane, with an itchy scalp and a sore heart for someone who laughed me into bed and let me rabbit on as much as I wanted to and listened to my silly theories and demanded like a sultan to be told a bedtime story and had no self control when he saw the needle. But the rest of my heart knew it would be back to these mountains and this city that I loved.
NB - Fulham did make to the cup and the gentleman in question chartered a plane and took all his friends to Wembley to see them win.
My kind of Kathmandu: An artist's impression of the emerald valley
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