Pokhara: Suspended Between Chaos and Water

Day Four. Kathmandu to Pokhara. This kind of transition feels seamless at least on paper: a 25-minute flight, a quick drive, a day of aquatic adrenaline and sacred islets. But in Nepal, time doesn’t flow—it sort of eddies and churns, like the rivers we were about to ride.

We woke up at the kind of hour usually reserved for long-haul truckers and insomniac philosophers. By 6:30, I had already inhaled a double portion of masala scrambled eggs and was staring into the pre-dawn chaos of Kathmandu, waiting for our bus to unglue itself from the urban thicket. It finally emerged, like an animal from underbrush, and we made our way to the domestic terminal, which, in Nepal, is like stepping back into aviation’s early adolescence: charming, chaotic, and slightly suspect.

The flight was delayed. But if you’re ever stuck in an airport in Nepal, here’s a tip: sit on the plane’s right side. When you finally ascend into the clouds, the Himalayas—those mythic vertebrae of the earth—glide past your window like silent, disapproving gods. The whole thing feels curated by a divine cinematographer with a drone license.

Arrival in Pokhara was like exiting a washing machine and landing in a yoga retreat. The air was lighter, the traffic quieter, the mountains closer. We dropped our bags at the Lake Star Hotel—where the Wi-Fi pretends to work and the views don’t need to—and met Nani, our trekking guide. She looked part-sherpa, part-Google Maps, and all competence.

Holy Waters and Temple Dreams

First stop: Phewa Lake, a sheet of blue serenity with just enough algae to remind you this isn’t Switzerland. We hired a boat—more of a floating bathtub with a roof—and slid across the water to the Barahi Durga Temple, perched stoically on a tiny island. It’s dedicated to a fearsome form of Durga, and you can feel it: incense in the air, prayer bells in your ears, ducks occasionally judging you from the shore.

Boating here isn’t just sightseeing—it’s spiritual tourism with a paddle. The kind that makes you wonder if you should’ve studied comparative religion instead of marketing.

White Water, Black Rumours

But the real thrill came later. I had heard whispers of the Upper Seti Rafting experience—Class III and IV rapids, jungle cliffs, and a complete absence of tourist bureaucracy. So I rounded up two fellow adrenaline-hungry companions and we booked a half-day descent down the river.

The rafting itself? Madness in liquid form. The river roared and gurgled like a caffeinated god. We paddled through foamy surges and narrow rock channels that looked straight out of a National Geographic spread titled “How Not to Die in Nepal.”

Our guide, a wiry man who laughed in the face of hydraulics, barked instructions like a drill sergeant possessed by Shiva. We surfed eddies, flipped once (almost), and floated under cliffs that looked like they’d been hand-carved for Instagram glory. At one point, I swear I saw an eagle laugh at us.

After surviving, we celebrated not with sterile sports drinks, but with an impromptu lesson in Nepalese river lore and a light snack—crisps and what might have been yak jerky.

The Cultural Split

While off getting bruised by Poseidon’s Nepali cousin, the rest of our group took a more civilised route through Pokhara. They spent the day exploring the International Mountain Museum—a monument to humanity’s obsession with peaks and peril—before continuing to Devi’s Falls. This thunderous cascade disappears into the Earth like a magician’s trick.

Their cultural pilgrimage didn’t stop there. They climbed the steps to the World Peace Pagoda (or Shanti Stupa), a gleaming white dome of Buddhist serenity that sits like a celestial punctuation mark above the city. From its terraces, they claimed, the views were panoramic enough to make poets out of cynics. They also visited Yes Helping Hand, a local textile workshop empowering women through fabric, colour, and solidarity—part social enterprise, part creative sanctuary. Of course, there was shopping. There’s always shopping.

I’ll admit, part of me wishes I’d seen the Pagoda in the sky and the textile centre’s quiet dignity. Both places carry weight and meaning that go far beyond guidebook checkmarks. But truth be told, I had no regrets. The day had been unbearably, almost theatrically hot—the kind of heat that wilts even the thought of walking uphill. And in that furnace of a day, few things felt more right than letting the river slap us awake while being guided by professionals who knew every bend, surge, and secret of the Seti’s liquid spine.

Oil, Bones, and Rebirth

After conquering the rapids—and briefly reconsidering all my life choices mid-whirlpool—I decided to gift my battered body something gentler: an Ayurvedic massage. My two aquatic comrades joined in the experiment, and soon we found ourselves in a dimly lit sanctuary of sandalwood scents and whispered Sanskrit.

The massage was not the gentle spa whisper I had imagined. No. This was a ritual. A holy alliance of elbows, warm oil, and ancient vengeance on tension. Muscles I didn’t know I had were discovered, scolded, and released. The therapist, petite but endowed with Himalayan strength, moved with a monk’s precision and a sculptor’s confidence. I emerged an hour later, somehow both liquefied and upright. Highly recommended, especially if you’ve spent the day arguing with a river.

Bedtime Comes With a View

By late afternoon, Pokhara was painted in golden tones, and the lake mirrored the sky like a shy sibling. The air was full of trekking whispers. Everyone was prepping boots, taping feet, and overthinking snack strategy. Four days of hiking were about to start, but for now, serenity.

I fell asleep early, with legs still humming from paddling and the memory of whitewater still ricocheting in my spine. The lake murmured. The mountains blinked. Pokhara was holding its breath for the next chapter.