From Ghandruk to Pokhara — Gravity, Monks & the Illusion of Choice

The day began, as all spiritually overcompensating travel days should, at an hour usually reserved for insomnia or existential dread: 5:30 AM. But instead of regret, we were met by the Himalayan gods themselves, casually unveiling the Annapurna South and the iconic Fish Tail like a magician’s final trick. For a moment, all was right with the world. Then, clouds rolled in with the subtlety of a tax audit, and the peaks vanished behind their habitual veil. Himalayan sunrises, it turns out, are diva acts—stunning, but brief and temperamental.

After breakfast, we strapped on our packs and descended toward Birethanti. But let’s pause here for a moment—not to rest our knees, though God knows they needed it—but to give a standing ovation (which they also needed) to the unsung heroes of this whole Himalayan escapade: the porters.

They’re often called Sherpas, though strictly speaking, that’s an ethnic group from the Solukhumbu region, not a job title. In the Annapurna region, most porters are from Gurung or Magar communities, and they carry 20 to 30 kilograms of our bloated, overly-packed bags using a namlo — a head strap that redefines pain and grace. Ours, led by the stoic and tireless Nani, moved like mountain spirits, often arriving at guesthouses long before us, our neatly arranged gear. They’ve carried the gear of mountaineers and tourists alike for generations, weathering monsoons, landslides, and Western overpacking habits with a smile that says, “I’ve seen worse.”

We hobbled downhill through cascading stone staircases and photogenic villages—each featuring a machete-wielding toddler, as is custom—until misfortune struck. One of our own twisted his foot: a fracture. He was dispatched to Birethanti on a local “bus,” which resembled a vehicle only in the same way instant noodles resemble cuisine. We waved him off solemnly. He waved like a martyr. We trudged on.

Eventually we hit asphalt—five long, unnecessary kilometers of it. A psychological desert. But finally, Birethanti. And salvation: our bus from Kathmandu. Porters tipped, thanks exchanged, knees crumbling, we headed for lunch.

Tashi Palkhel: Of Momos, Monks and Misunderstood Rituals

Tashi Palkhel is a Tibetan refugee village near Pokhara, home to families who fled Chinese occupation in the 1950s and ‘60s. The village boasts a humble yet deeply atmospheric monastery, handwoven carpets, and a momo stand that will make you question everything you thought you knew about dumplings.

After devouring noodles and dumplings at a cheerful shack, we entered the monastery. At 14:45, the puja began: a symphonic, incense-laced onslaught of mantra, meditation, and the kind of trumpet that sounds like a dinosaur waking up. The monks, dressed in crimson and saffron, chanted scriptural verses in haunting rhythms, interspersed with meditation periods that vibrated the air around us.

I found it profoundly moving—meditative, intense, timeless. Others, less so. By the 30-minute mark, the exodus began: some to stretch, some to sleep, some presumably to plot escape. By minute 45, only I and another pilgrim of patience remained. That is, until the rest of the group asked us to leave, five minutes before the end. We nodded in shame: a missed opportunity, and a mild dishonour to the monks. I’ve made a mental note: when we reach Namobuddha at the end of this trip, I will do the full puja. No exits. No excuses.\

Reassembled by Oil and Elbows: The Trekker’s Massage

Before dinner — and after marching downhill for hours like Himalayan hobbits in Gore-Tex — I rewarded my noble legs with a 90-minute trekkers massage that can only be described as both a spiritual experience and a consensual mugging.

Along with my ever-suffering roommate (who by now qualifies for sainthood), we walked into a modest massage place in Pokhara that promised healing through a magical blend of Thai pressure points and Ayurvedic kneading. What followed was an expertly choreographed dance of stretching, twisting, pulling, pummeling, and what I can only assume was an exorcism of lactic acid.

Designed for weary souls who mistake “vacation” for “pain pilgrimage,” the trekkers massage is more than relaxation. It’s a full-scale neuromuscular intervention, coaxing sore calves back to life, identifying mysterious tight spots you didn’t know existed, and reviving joints with a flurry of warming oils and zen brutality.

After nearly dozing off during the neck portion (somewhere between Nirvana and nap time), I left the spa with better posture, lighter legs, and a renewed belief in reincarnation — assuming I don’t have to do those stone stairs again in the next life.

Evening Divided: The Pokhara Dinner Schism

Freshly oiled and smug with relief, we convened by the lakeside to decide how best to reward ourselves. Someone uttered the holy phrase: “street food.” Spirits lifted. Hopes soared. Noses twitched.

But alas, ideological rifts formed faster than you can say “momo.” The group split in two: on one side, the bourgeoisie faction, who desired wine glasses and tablecloths; on the other, we, the proletariat, chose flavor over frills, scent over setting, spice over social status.

I, of course, stood proudly with the proletarians. We dined like kings on plastic stools beside a smoking grill manned by a one-eyed genius whose samosas should be UNESCO-protected. Chicken skewers, greasy noodles, momos with mysterious fillings — everything doused in a mix of cumin, chili, and pride.

Sure, we lacked ambiance and matching cutlery. But we gained something greater: character and cholesterol.

Pokhara: A Class War by the Lake

Evening came with the soft neon buzz of Pokhara’s Lakeside. The plan was simple: street food by the water. Fried noodles, grilled skewers, spice, chaos—everything a traveller craves after spiritual enlightenment and meniscus abuse.

But alas, our group fractured like an overboiled momo.

• Group A: The bourgeois contingent, concerned with hygiene, ambiance, and chair integrity. They headed to a well-kept establishment called the Green Beach Restaurant, where the menu was laminated and the garlic was portion-controlled.
• Group B: My people. The proletarian gastronomes. We chose the shack with flickering fluorescent lights, rusted pots, and a grill that might have been illegal. Full of locals. And it was glorious. The name is Durbar Sekuwa Corner. The lake fish grilled tasted like rebellion. The skewers? Possibly sentient. The beer? Cold and mildly radioactive. But we were happy, filthy, and full of life.

Back at the hotel, we toasted with raksi and Gorkha Beer. A long, unpredictable, deeply human day came to a close. No one climbed anything. No one carried anything. We earned it.

Tomorrow, the illusion of rest. Spoiler: it won’t last.