Thankfully, breakfast was produced a lot quicker in the New Asia Hotel than their evening meal. We devoured this and set off down the smelly line of huts to the Tourist Office. From here we were directed to the Immigration Office for our Trekking Permits.
On the way we encountered a travelling ear-cleaning duo. “Just looking”, said the tall man as he tugged Georges ear lobe and produced a file of letters of recommendation from previous customers. We shook them off, amazed at their audacity, and put in our Trekking Permit Application Forms at an efficient office run by amicable officials.
Back in the sun we ascertained that there was fuck-all worth seeing in Pokhara (I am sure that it has changed radically and become a tourist paradise since 1983) and headed back north to the Post and Telegraph Office. George wanted to cable his mum with a request for more money after discovering and dismissing the colossal cost of phoning the UK from the prestigious New Crystal Hotel.
On the way we stopped for a coke in a café which was packed with the trekking “show people” (posers) with their daysacks, funny ethnic hats and exaggerated tales of the rigours of short easy local treks that they had taken.
Our next port of call was the Post Office where I spent about twenty minutes in a mob while the stamp vendor lazily dispensed a few stamps every now and then, in between adding up some figures in his book. The glue on the stamps was hopeless so I retained them to stick on with UHU glue later on.
Up the road in the Telegraph Office we composed a telegram requesting George’s mum to give Martin £500 to bring out with him when he met us in Delhi. It cost 10 Nepalese Rupees per word and the message comprised ten words. When the cashier started counting the words in the address, the cost became ludicrous and George crumpled the form into a ball and tossed it in the bin.
We took tea on the lawn back at the New Asia Hotel before trudging back down to the Immigration Office to pick up our passports and trekking permits, which cost us 60 Nepalese Rupees for 7 days in the mountains.
Our next endeavours to hire backpacks and sleeping bags in the shops opposite Pokhara’s simple grass airfield were an absolute dead loss. We walked on to find the New Hotel Holiday Restaurant, determined to continue with our trek ill-equipped as we were. Either the hire shops had bugger all equipment because they had hired it all out, or it was reserved for saps that had booked treks with them complete with all the trimmings.
We ate the usual egg curry after an exceptionally long wait and chatted to a Ghurkha who was home on his first leave in 5 years. After dinner we were joined by a Czech who lived in Australia. This marvellous old boy had just returned from a seven-day trek to Annapurna that was listed in the guidebook as a twelve-day affair (probably for the purposes of sensible altitude acclimatisation).
He had achieved this by long days walking with minimum kit. Apparently, he had also done the GB to Australia overland hippy trail in a VW Combi in 1970. Cheered by this chat, we walked down to the New Crystal Hotel so that George could ring home. This he did, to dubious effect, the phone having been answered by his dopey brother Darren for a one-sided conversation. Hopefully, the wretch would convey the request for money to his mum, but George seemed to think otherwise.
In near despair we headed back to the New Asia Hotel for a cuppa. My money (local currency) had run out and I was unable to change up more money in the New Asia Hotel or the New Crystal Hotel, where we sat in the lobby drinking expensive tea watching a procession of pudgy, pink, ill-looking residents filed in and out. With hindsight today, many had flown from other parts of the world to this high-altitude destination and had not acclimatised to the altitude yet.
George attempted to cheer himself up with a chocolate milkshake and a cheese sandwich. We went up to our room and decided against packing tonight and went to bed hoping for a better day tomorrow.
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