Peak and paw

by Clare Fenech (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Nepal

We first met in the on a dusty pot-holed road, in the dead of night in the town of Pokhara, nestled in the shadow of the Himalayas. It had been a long, arduous, adrenaline filled journey from the intense bustle of sprawling Kathmandu; a whole twelve hours of window gawping as the noisy city gradually morphed into nail-bitingly narrow, jungle lined track. The Prithvi Highway, a direct route to the Annapurna foothills from the capital, is a trading life line for many remote villages; huge trucks, tuk-tuks and make-shift motorbike vans precariously carrying everything and anything you could think of, oil drums, mattresses, goats, plastic bottles. Space was tight. In and out of low-cloud cover and the smoking lorry brakes we climbed, clearings in the mist only serving to remind you just how close to the edge of a chasmic drop you really were; with the rusting skeletons of less fortunate vehicles making you pray silently that you had picked the right driver. I had chosen my steed based purely on affordability. The old Tata engine over-heated at least once an hour, and as myself and nine Nepalese families sat on the side of the mountain road, the children became more and more fascinated with this strange creature aboard their local, with my clothes, hair, skin and jewellery seemingly much more exciting than the breath-taking Himalayas slowly showing themselves in the mist. Just as I thought we couldn’t possibly ascend any further the bus tipped into a nose-dive. We were descending towards Pokhara. Unlike the usual reception for tourist buses arriving on mass in the mornings, where hundreds of taxi and guesthouse representatives compete for the weary travellers attention at the main bus station, my journey came to an end in dark back-streets of Pokhara. Within four minutes, I was lost. Pointing myself towards where the light seemed brightest, I turned into an alleyway and there he was. Two huge round discs for eyes. A low rumbling. A stray dog. I had been warned to expect them; running round in packs being nuisances. This one however, was alone. As it stepped into the yellow street-light, I caught sight of a severely disfigured black nose; a huge fang shaped hole carved out of its centre. Turning on slowly on my heel, I broke in a run, blindly trying to get as far away as I could get from those yellow eyes. Exhausted and now very teary, I couldn’t believe my luck when I stumbled onto a wide road, full of bars, tiny Maruti taxis and street hawkers. I found my hostel and I collapsed in a smelly bundle on the bed. For the next eight days, I explored Pokhara in the company of a large, muscled black dog. His huge scar ridden paws followed me into shrines, temples, bars and cafes; even waiting patiently at the water’s edge as I swam in Lake Phewa. He sat and snoozed underneath my rickety breakfast table (coconut lassi was our favourite) in a tiny family run cafe right by a little pier; together we’d watch the fishermen clambering into their barely floating colourful canoes off for the day’s catch. He gave approving and disapproving sniffs to mountain gear I attempted to buy; Pokhara capitalises on ‘designer’ mountaineering gear tempting trekkers on route to their Himalayan adventures. Locals smiled at my companion from afar, travellers asked whether he was mine as he slept with his head on my lap in my favourite ramshackle blues bar. And then it was time to leave. 6am by the pier. I left my rucksack to be hurled onto the top of a Toyota Hilux roof rack, I knelt down and peered into those huge yellow eyes. He seemed to understand. The pick-up revved into action, kicking up dirt in a cloud of smoke, I watched as he turned away, ears alert for his next lost companion. As we rounded the corner, winding our way to the steep track that seemed to lead to the heavens my Belgian cab buddy asked his name. I smiled into my thoughts. ‘His name is Fang’ I said.