Chuck eat Chuck Cafe

So after some discussion I decide its a good idea to exit Pokhara's laid back lake side delights earlier than planned. The alternative is to get stranded here as a few days of strikes are rumoured. Depending on the influence of those calling the strikes they can be vigorously or loosely enforced. Meaning no buses, no shops open, no-one passes Go! or collects 200 pounds. The upshot is I leap into a taxi at 6.30am with Doctor Canada (real name Tanner) and leave behind the hiking, yoga, good food and group dinners which have made up my last days in the hills.
In theory the 200km to Kathmandu is 6 hours away. On the road we listen to our tunes and watch the scenery unfold, baulking at the odd crumpled bus at the bottom of the valley which has lost the road. After not very long we are stuck in a traffic queue of buses backed right up. We wait, admiring the wild ganga field outside the bus. Eventually curiosity overcomes us and we get out to investigate. The river is in flood. The rain was heavy last night and again today, with copious lightning last night. The monsoon is coming early. As luck would have it there's an army barracks nearby so maybe they've sorted us a passage through. The queue edges forward. It appears we all just go for it, one vehicle from each direction. Vehicles cross one at a time. And then its our turn. Our bus heads out into the water and spectacularly breaks down exactly mid river blocking traffic crossing both ways. Upstream is a steady flow of water. Down stream is a huge twirl of razor wire spanning the whole river to prevent any unauthorised access to the military barracks. Ace.
The Nepalese, unlike the Sri Lankans, don't thrive on high drama. The bus guys roll up their jeans and get out and assess the situation. We lean out the windows and take photos and giggle. Some rock throwing under tyres and fruitless pushing later confirms we are wedged and going nowhere fast. Already there was a huge crowd all around the river. Guys on motorbikes dive headlong into the torrent staggering through with helpers as the water rises over their tanks. We scratch our heads. We all need to get out to reduce the weight or we sleep here. I'm told "ladies to the river bank!" but elect to join the guys and push instead. I wade around back wishing fervently that my legs were longer as the river pushes on my thighs. Get two hands on the coach and together we heave. Many more people watch than help, maybe they value their flip flops or maybe its just our bus, our business. However in a strange reversal of fortune for once its the Nepalese photgraphing the tourists as we push and holler. Its starting to rain again. We need to get out.
All around us people watch from the banks, some stand knee deep in the water. Motorbikes continue to hurl themselves across. Two local buses rev their engines hard and roar around us, lilting at a crazy angle. People shout and point and film the whole thing.
At full stretch in a bunch of guys at the back we holler and yell and shove the old banger. Eventually we start to win. The useless bus is shoved out of the river. I get stranded on the wrong side and have to ask a kind old Nepali guy to hold my hand to cross over the torrent. We pick our way across, England and Nepal joined like we are walking up the isle at a surreal wedding. The bus pushers walk up to a tea shack and we all celebrate our stranding with a beer. They get no tourists stopping here at all. As we sit in a line on the benches they take more photos of us. Chickens peck around us and, disconcertingly, eat bits of old chicken curry off plates left under the fire. By another reversal of fortune an appropriately named "Adventure Holidays" replacement bus turns up to retrieve us and we tumble onto it. A full twelve hours later we roll in to the big city with muddy feet and wait to see what the next few days will bring....