Searching for the Asian Rhino in Chitwan National Park

In the white light of early morning, a light mist hovers over the river, softening the dark silhouette of the trees on the opposite bank.  

It's just after dawn in Nepal's Chitwan National Park and we have set out on elephant-back to see if we can spot some of the most endangered animals in the world.

The enormous beast beneath us gingerly steps through the clear, shallow current and sways up the opposite bank into the dark, hushed forest. Her footfalls crunch quietly on the narrow path; other than the occasional bird calls, there are no other sounds.

We are alone, elephant, mahout and 4 travellers draped into a square wooden hoodah balanced precariously on her back like an ill-fitting party hat.  Leaning against the hard wooden rails, we hold our breaths and scan the undergrowth. 

A slight movement, a rustle of leaves ... and moist dark eyes; a family of spotted deer evaluates us before bounding off. 

We settle again into a breathless silence and scan, hoping for the dark shape of a leopard lounging on a tree limb, or the amber eyes of a Bengal tiger watching from a tuft of grass. 

With luck, those sharp movements in the elephant grass might yield the endangered One-Horned Asian Rhinoceros.  

We know they are out there.  But they could be anywhere in the park's almost 1,000 sq. km.

That morning we content ourselves with deer – including a dead one hung high in a tree by a parsimonious but unseen leopard. 


Chitwan is Nepal's tropical crown jewel.  Once the hunting domain of the Royal Family, it remains a bulwark against the pressures of a growing, land-hungry population.   Inattention to poaching during the Maoist insurgency and destruction from serious floods a decade ago had undermined conservation efforts, but today the park is again secure and a steady stream of adventurous tourists are proving the wisdom of protecting vulnerable species.




The park provides travellers with a variety of ways to get close to the wildlife.  On our second day, we climb aboard a jeep for a safari deeper into the forest than the lumbering elephants could take us. 

An earnest park ranger leads us to gharial and elephant breeding programs and points out beautiful Kingfishers, gangly Mariboo storks and frightening crocodiles sunning themselves on a bank mere meters from a work team of villagers clearing the river of choking Water Hyacinthes.

  

But still, the big 'catches' - rhinos and tigers - elude us.




 








We content ourselves that afternoon by watching near-naked thrill seekers take baths with the elephants - and avoid the temptation to join them.

It is not until our last morning in the park that we hit the jackpot on a 'walking safari'.    









The excursion starts with a moody drift along the mist-shrouded river in a wobbly dugout canoe.  A local villager poles us downstream, tilting the gunnels towards the croc-infested water with every thrust.  


The silent riverbanks yield no signs of the big animals we are seeking, so we clamber ashore and head off into the forest on foot.



Babu, the park ranger seems edgy.  He urges us to stay together and points out huge footprints and steaming piles of dung.  Rhinos had followed this path within the past hour.  Our guides are unarmed, and my mind jumps back to warnings I had read about the bad-tempered beasts we are hoping to encounter.  As we walk, I scan the forest for climbable trees.





Suddenly, Babu's urgent hiss breaks the silence.  "Here, this way".  He plunges off the main trail and scrambles down a bank, and then stops - one hand up for silence. 

There, across the still, dark waters of a small pond are two One-Horned Asian Rhinos, up to their knees in water, contented munching on weeds. 







We have a few breathless minutes to snap photos before the short-tempered beasts lumber out of the water and disappear into the undergrowth.

The walk back to the river is a blur.  We stay close to Babu, glancing nervously over our shoulders, scanning the brush for movement.  This is no 'stroll in the woods'.  We understand the risks of being on the turf of these beasts and of being the weaker species.

Most tourists come to Nepal to challenge themselves on the high mountain treks - Everest and Anapurna.  But our trip had revealed a range of other, less tramelled destinations.  Chitwan had been an unexpected highlight.






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The People of the LangTang Valley, Nepal

All photos by Francisco (F) and Jordan (J)

A boy outside his family's home (F)

Boys in the Dunche schoolyard (F)

A horse wanders by a woman washing clothes (J)

Sitting by the path, her village's fields beyond (F)

Serving Dahl to hungry travellers (F)

Our hostess in her kitchen (J)

Playing in the yard at Kyanjin Gomba (J)

Tamang woman at the door to her home (F)

A break for tea in the warm afternoon sun (J)

A 3-day hike into the village with supplies (F)

Carrying firewood up to the village (F)

Preparing the harvest (F)

Taking a break (F)

Porters working their way up a steep trail (F)

Helping mom shift the water supply (J)

Escape from Kathmandu - the LangTang Trek

Gasping for breath in the thin, cold air, I look up at the trail.  A series of jumbled rocks forming an impossibly steep, uneven stairway that twists and turns towards an unseen summit.  There has to be a summit.  Somewhere.  I mean come on.  We’ve been climbing for 5 hours.

 

“One foot in front of the other” I keep saying to myself.  “One step at a time.”

 


 

Our guide, Norbu Lama (known to his Canadian friends as Vishwa – wisdom of the universe) of Peak Endeavours Nepal had recommended a trek in the Langtang Valley north of Kathmandu on the Tibetan border.  It  is far less crowded than the more popular Everest and Anapurna treks, is considered relatively easy, and would get us onto the mountain trails quickly.

 It also has a strong cultural component.   The valley is home to the Tamang people who share language and lifestyle with the people of Tibet. 

 But as an office-bound, middle-aged Canadian with wonky knees I knew that it would be a challenge.  

 

The Road to Dunche

 

The first leg of the trip is a frightening, 8-hour, 120 km drive from Kathmandu to the village of Dunche. 

Yes, 8 hours.  The single lane ‘highway’ threads its way along steep-sided gorges, through grimy rag-tag villages and past cascading terraced fields so precise they appear to have been combed. 


 

 

Nearer to Dunche, the road rises steeply in tear-shaped hairpins sliced into near vertical cliffs high above a braided turquoise river. 

 

 

Where landslides have destroyed the roadbed, a bulldozer merely pushed aside some boulders to create a precarious passage that appears ready to collapse again under the weight of our vehicle. 



 

 

Despite a competent driver, solid Toyota “jeep” and relatively steely nerves, I still have to close my eyes, particular when we meet an overloaded bus and have to back up around a blind curve.

 

 

 

 

Lower Langtang

 The first day of hiking takes us on a steady climb out of Dunche to the ridge straddling town of Thulo Syabru where we visit a vividly painted temple and watch a vivid sunset paint the snow peaks of Ganesh Himal a vivid pink.

 

The second day is the most gruelling of the trip – hiking down 500 meters of elevation and then back up 700 meters over the course of 6 hours.  We feel for our big-hearted porter Tej who trudges along with both of our overloaded duffle bags on his back.

As gruelling as it seems, the scenery is spectacular – a mature, open, moss-draped pine and rhododendron forest spills down a narrow gorge of tumbled black stones towards a roaring white turquoise river – more beautiful than any movie set designer could conjure. 











Through the strong verticals of the forest, tantalizing glimpse of pristine snow capped peaks.   Langtan Lirung - at over 24,000 feet above sea level, isn't even one of Nepal's 10 highest peaks.

 

 

Our reward is the Ganesh View tea house at Remche – a dining hall and a row of tiny plank cells perched precariously on the side of the valley with a spectacular view of the ridges fading in shades of blue into the sunset.  (And solar-heated shower!)

Beyond Remche, it’s a somewhat easier climb past the unattractive jumble of competing tea houses at Lama Hotel and climbing out of the gorge at Gorha Tabela into the broad, U-shaped Upper Langtang valley.

Upper Langtang

The landscape changes significantly once the valley broadens out.  The trail emerges from the forest into an open, alpine landscape resplendent in the autumn golden browns, reds and oranges of late November.  The sense of open space is uplifting; the light is clear and white. 

All around us, the pristine shards of mountains whose names I can’t pronounce gaze at us over the black shoulders of lower ridges.  Occasionally, the thorn shrubs beside the path rustle – a yak reaches with its tongue to grasp the last green leaves.  Villagers bustle past with a pleasant ‘Namaste’, carrying heavy burdens of firewood, food supplies or office furniture. 

At this point, we’ve reached 3,000 meters (10,000 ft) above sea level and are warned of the dangers of altitude sickness – avoid overexertion, stay hydrated, don’t climb more than 300 meters in a day.

 

We spend a night in the bustling Langtang village in hut built of loosely fitted grey stones. By the time dark shadows of evening reach the snow peaks, the temperature slips below zero and there’s little to do but crawl into our down sleeping bags and sleep for 10 hours.


 

 

The final push brings us to the ‘top village’ of Kyanjin Gumba, at 12,700 feet above sea level (and thin air estimated to be ¼ atmospheric pressure).  It’s a cluster of tea houses and lodges that lives off of yaks, cheese and trekkers.   

We use this as a base of operations for the next 3 days, with day hikes up to the foot of the Langtang Lirung glacier, an expedition to the peak of Kyanjin Ri (15,750 ft) and a flat hike across an impressive alluvial delta (right) and up the valley to the lookout at Jatang. 

 

Our hosts are a happy young family – their two-year-old toddler making friends with all who happen by.  The accommodations are basic – we have to break the ice on the water barrel beside the squat toilet every morning to ‘flush’ and wash up.  The food is identical at every stop – local Dahl Bhat (lentils, rice and curried potatoes), pizza (cheese and ketchup on Tibetan break) or Chow Mein (noodles fried with vegetables). 


 

 

But it all adds up to a huge reward for having put one foot in front of the other for endless hours, trudging up steep slippery slopes with your eyes glued to the trail ahead. 

 

The penalty … now you have to trudge back down.

 

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Kathmandu - Exotic chaos

The very name of the city evokes an ‘edge-of-the-world’ exoticism that attracts misfits: Kathmandu, capital city of the mountain kingdom of Nepal. 

Nestled in a broad, fertile valley behind a wall of protective ridges, it remains isolated in many ways.





Once a city state at the caravan cross-roads between the kingdoms of India and Tibet, Kathmandu achieved its golden apex in the late 1600s when the Malla kings absorbed foreign influences and competed to build impressive palaces and temples.

Then in the latter half of the 1700s, Prithvi Narayan Shah, the ruler of the tiny hilltop kingdom of Gorkha, created “Greater Nepal” by conquering almost 50 other Himalayan states – building a bulwark that held the British Empire at bay and royal bloodline that survives to this day.

Modernization arrived slowly.  The Shah kings (and the parallel and even more powerful Rana family of Prime Ministers) kept the country isolated.

It wasn’t until the 1950s that a shaky democratic system was established, dismantled and re-grown.  A Maoist insurgency (and eventual government), the mass murder of the Royal Family in 2001 and rampant political corruption have kept Kathmandu and Nepal in a form of economic and social suspended animation for the past 2 decades.

Today Kathmandu retains an air of other-worldly, medieval exoticism – a stage set Spielberg would have dreamt up for the filthy outpost of some strange, eroded empire. 

Along the old city’s random tangle of dusty, narrow lanes, simple wooden shutters are all that separate the tiny, dark shops from the bustle of peddle carts, armies of revving kamikaze motor bikes and tentative taxis – brushing side-mirrors against the elbows of the pedestrian throngs.  


Behind those shutters, the city’s merchants good-naturedly bargain for every manner of goods and services. 



 

At Kathmandu’s heart is the glorious Durbar Square – a relatively calm pedestrian zone crowded with intricately decorated temples and towers, impressive statues and gates, and palaces from a range of eras protecting beautiful chowks (courtyards). 


 

• ·      -  The jewel-like Kumari Bahal palace – built by the Malla kings, still houses the prepubescent Living Goddess – who appears in at the intricately carved 3rd floor window at designated audience hours.
• ·      -  The erotic tantric carvings on the struts of the Jagannath Temple – guides are hesitant to point it out to women and children.

• ·      -  The Hanuman Dohka – a 1908 royal palace modelled on London’s National Gallery is now a dusty museum dedicated to the final, tragic Shah kings. 

• ·      -  My favourite was the nine-storey wooden Basantapur Tower – built in 1770 and decorated in intricately carved screens and  roof struts.  From the top floor, the king could survey the entire valley, ensuring all was well by checking chimneys for cooking fires. 

 

One of the pleasures of Kathmandu is exploring the blending of Bhuddism and Hinduism at impressive religious sites. 
 

We visited the Bodhnath (Boudha) Stupa, a massive, pristine-white structure rising from the centre of an oval square of narrow brick buildings. 

Masses of pilgrims - many in the maroon robes of monks, circumnavigate the base of the structure, spinning each of the 147 prayer wheels set into niches as they walk and chant. 

Above them, a perfectly proportioned dome is topped by a tall plinth where the mesmerizing painted eyes of Buddha gaze out from below a 13-tiered gilded tower.  Colourful prayer flags are strung from the highest point and flutter against a clear blue sky. 

 

These two sites, and the evocative Swayambhunath (monkey temple) that mixes Buddhist and Hindu iconography on a steep suburban hillside, are rare outposts of serenity amidst the filth, pollution and noise of this chaotic city.  A day or two and most visitors are ready to flee to the mountains.   

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