Chitwan to Pokhara, Nepal
03/18/10
“I’m glad I wore pants,” Boxie-boo said as our elephant bashed through the forest. Branches and leaves continuously brushed against our faces, shoulders and legs. We were sitting on an elephant’s back in a small box with two tourists from Holland, each person facing off a different corner, held in position with a piece of wood between our legs; our backs banging each other as the elephant thudded and swayed through the jungle. Boxie-boo and I were at the front, aligned with each shoulder of the trainer, his legs spread wide against the elephant’s neck, while we sat with our legs dangling against the massive shoulders.
When the bushes thickened our elephant did not mind. She simply smashed his way over them, through them, hiding us from the sunlight, away from the traffic and villages, from all civilization, from the sound of trucks backfiring against the morning howls of roosters and barking dogs. I could feel the roped on box gripping the elephant’s back, hear the vegetation snapping, feel the whirling chaos of spider webs incessantly brushing across our faces, the forbidden sensation of owning the jungle, of fearing nothing. All animals, for us, were small and scrawny in comparison to the beast we rode. Even tall trees, leaned against the elephant’s shoulders, were unworthy to stop us, simply pushed aside, whacking their branches against our legs and shoulders, while we paused, stopped silently in massive bushes, we moved aside the twigs and leaves to scan the world below.
“Welcome to the jungle,” I said in my best Axel Rose (lead singer of Guns N’ Roses) voice. Nobody understood why voice was suddenly high-pitched and heavy metal screaming. I choose to instantly stop talking.
Without warning, our trainer leaved the thin paths, slamming our elephant directly in an area of packed bushes. “Rhino,” he said, almost too nonchalantly, looking back at us. I responded by giving him the quizzical expression of a concerned dog. When he looked forward, I decided that what was about to happen needed preparation. I quickly put my hand in my pants to re-arrange the horrid wedgie I had developed from my crotch relentlessly slamming into the wooden post. Thankfully, my moan of relief was barely audible under the sound of the thrashing and trampling of plants. The trainer pointed towards a thick bush, about the size of city bus. I looked at Boxie-boo. She looked back at me. I instantly shared her prevailing and insightful appreciation for wearing pants. Although, it may not have been a smart move to take off my sweater. Hopefully the women on tour presumed they were the result of me being a great lover, not an obsession with giving cats piggyback rides.
Instead of moving around this colossal barricade of leaves and branches, he had our elephant ram through the bushes like a bulldozer. Through the incoming slash and whipping of wood, I spotted two rhinos hidden amongst the shrubs. My hat was closed lined by branches off my head, which I luckily caught quickly, as we crashed through the wall of heavy hedging. I tried to take a photo, but the driver told me to wait. He had a plan. Albeit, a plan I would have never thought of myself even though it was so simple. Instead of moving our elephant in a good position to photograph the rhinos, he used our elephant to crash into the rhinos from behind, then forcibly push them into an opening between the trees. Once head-butted by our elephant into the clearing, he called to the other drivers with a whistle. Within a minute, the two rhinos were surrounded by giant elephants and camera-happy tourists.
In this moment, the air was so still, I felt as if I could not exist within it. I felt my eyes swallow up every sight. I could still feel the tremor of whipped branches, leaves dragging against my skin. Beyond the rhinos were the remains of the great push, the rubble, the leftover debris from a collapsed wall of vegetation. Without control, my eyebrows were raised and my tongue pressed against my teeth. There were no more sounds of movement; the light of the sun now twitching through the canopy. There we were, within a couple feet of two rhinos, of one the most dangerous animals in the world, looking down at them from an elephant’s back. In my neck I felt my pulse now, throbbing, my voice slurring in and out of breath, and behind us, where we had been, a new opening allowed a low breeze to swing, shooting up leaves below us on the trail. With the chaos turned almost instantly into an overpowering silence, the new setting hit hard like an incoming fever, the nerves of my skin quivering. I could have been the montage of someone else’s dream.
In 2005 in Chiang Mai, northern Thailand, I rode an elephant in the peak forests, possibly entering Burma. This experience was completely different. I had never seen an elephant used to bash down plants and move large and extremely dangerous animals out of a bush. On our safari a day earlier, we were able to get within 20 metres at best of some rhinos, but the dense forest made them barely visible and impossible to photograph well. On the elephants, we were within reach of touching rhinos, looking down at them casually, protected by our elephant’s giant frames and enormous feet.
The advantage of riding an elephant continued throughout the day. Animals seemed less likely to run away, in comparison to the sound of heading out on safari with the sound of truck tires spitting up rocks and engines roaring between gears. We were able to get close to many wild boars, various types of deer, fox and other small animals like rabbits. Unlike a truck, not only was the elephant quiet, it was able to cross rivers and enter areas without roads. It was, however, not without its challenges.
Riding an elephant was exhausting. It felt like sitting on an exaggerated horse, swaying a foot or two within our box seat with each giant step. The giant feet caused branches and even small bushes to break into small pieces, allowing the ride, although swaying, to feel relatively stable. Its massive movements were surprisingly quiet, almost gentle. Our elephant occasionally stopped to eat the vegetation, frustrating our driver, who used a bamboo stick to bash her in the head, making us feel sorry for the animal. Thankfully, he never used his metal, fire-poker-like stick, but other drivers did. One elephant’s ear was bleeding, which caused Boxie-boo to get a little sad. It was tough to see an animal’s head banged with a metal pole.
On the positive side, our driver was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, content to point at various animals. At times, he pointed his elephant towards bushes to feed and gave the animal opportunity to rest. In total, we spent two hours on the elephant’s back, before dismounting on a wooden staircase.
Back at the Rainbow Safari Resort - again, ‘resort’ used very lightly as it rarely had electricity, dripping cold showerheads and gave me bedbugs - we packed our bags quickly after having scrambled eggs for breakfast. We left for another horrifying ride from Chitwan to Pokhara, a small, lakeside town in the Himalayas. It was a long drive along a similar highway from Kathmandu to Chitwan, often unpaved without railings alongside a steep cliffs and deadly descents.
We arrived in Pokhara and got a room at Phil’s Inn, a quaint lakefront guesthouse with a beautiful room by budget standards. This town reminded me of places in Thailand - a complete tourist trap - with multiple clothing, camera and backpacking equipment stores. There were internet cafes on almost every street and restaurants with local and western cuisine.
After a long day of riding elephants and swerving along one of Nepal’s dangerous highways for five hours, we ended our night on the roof of our guest house enjoying some local rum and cola. Looking off towards the lake, the distant mountains in the backdrop, we watched the sun slowly melt into the water; the light almost replacing itself almost too perfectly by the moon and enough stars to see all the constellations. It was a calm night, with few sounds and we listened closely to the hum of generators along the water’s edge, attempting to charge the city with power. We recharged with the city and relaxed, talking about the day and about how surprised we were to see so many kids wearing fake wrestling t-shirts. At 10 p.m., our room had power briefly, allowing us to shower with minimal light, while the leaky toilet damped the floor.
It was a relaxing night, one to be remembered, even though nothing happened beyond stars and conversations with us and Liam. I decided that this is what traveling should be all about: Cold drinks. Riding elephants. Sitting on roof tops talking about fake wrestling. But this was also because I was a little bit drunk.
That’s all for now.
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