Leaving Kathmandu: A Beginner's Guide

If you are a budget backpacker trying to get from Kathmandu, Nepal to Dharamsala, India, please observe the following steps:

Take a 14-hour bus ride in the rain from Kathmandu to the border town of Sunauli. Sit in the bus with the engine off for hours while traffic is allowed one direction at a time on a horribly underfunded, partly unpaved, pothole-riddled road.

Spend the night in a dodgy hotel in Sunauli. Lay out to dry your belongings that got wet in the rain on the roof of the bus on the way there.

Pass through Nepali and Indian immigration. Observe the corrupt Indian immigration officer try to demand baksheesh from an Italian sadhu who supposedly does not have his paperwork in order. Watch the ensuing screaming match. Smile and make sure your own paperwork is in order.

Pay twice the public bus fare to take a 2-hour Jeep taxi ride to the Indian town of Gorakhpur. Rest assured, it will end up hotter and more crowded than the bus would have been.

Forget your card in the ATM at the State Bank of India.

Spend another night in a hotel. Spring for A/C and a TV this time. Eat ice cream and enjoy the view from the top of Hotel President overlooking glorious downtown Gorakhpur (psssh). Watch part of Mission Impossible II before the cable goes out just as it's getting good.

Wake at 7 AM to wait in the horrendous queue of summer travellers to buy a train ticket to Delhi. Don't mind the person behind you virtually spooning you standing up. The trains will all be overbooked so you may as well sleep in.

Accept that you won't be getting on a train from Gorakhpur. Take an 8 1/2 hour bus ride to Lucknow, the capital of Uttar Pradesh and a more major stop on the train route.

Spend another night in a dodgy hotel.

Wake up again at the crack of dawn to buy a train ticket to Delhi. Wait in the "ladies only" queue only to be told when you reach the front that you should be in the "foreign tourists" queue.

Spend four hours before the train comes at the post office attempting to mail a package home. Dealing with Indian bureaucracy will be just the thing for your already paper-thin patience.

Pay a visit to the State Bank of India to see about getting that ATM card back. Interrupt the vice president in the middle of an important meeting to sweet talk him into making phone calls for you. You're a foreigner after all!

Go back to your dodgy hotel room and watch American sit-coms while you wait for your train, which will be 7 1/2 hours late. Go back and forth to the train station three times because every time you will be told a different ETA.

Take a 10-hour overnight train to India's capital city, Delhi. Toss and turn all night. Vow to take valium on the next one. Get your hair sucked into the ceiling fan when you climb down from your sleeper to use the toilet.

Take a 12-hour overnight train to the town of Pathankot in the northern state of Punjab. Watch your step around the 150 waitlisted passengers sleeping in the middle of the aisles. Don't mind the dozen or so sets of Indian eyes glued to your every move. Try to sleep through the overlapping stream of chai and coffee wallahs offering their wares in the same quick monotone, "chai-ahhh, chai-ahhh, chai-ahhh" or "coffee coffee coffee."

Take a 5-hour public bus to Dharamsala. Sit in the front seat and practically be deafened by the constant blast of the horn reminding all others on the road of the Indian traffic mantra, "Might is right." Hang on tight when the bus swerves to avoid cows in the middle of the road.

Find a guesthouse. Any guesthouse will do at this point. Collapse in an exhausted puddle on your inch-thick mattress.

Greetings from Dharamsala, home of the Tibetan Government in Exile and His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama! In 1949, the newly established Communist government extended sovereignty to Tibet and imposed a regime that has left 1.2 million Tibetans dead, millions more in forced labor camps and the destruction of 90% of Tibet's religious institutions. Fearing for his own life and the lives of those who followed him, the spiritual leader of Tibet, the Dalai Lama, led his people into exile in India in 1959. He and his entourage traveled by foot across the Himalaya into the valley here, where they have been granted political asylum and the right to set up headquarters for what has been a 45-year struggle for liberation.

The Tibetan presence is clear as you see dozens of burgundy and saffron-robed Buddhist monks roaming the streets along with Tibetan men and women in their traditional dress, or chubas, and the women with their overlaying horizontally-striped aprons. Tibetan culture is alive and well here and there's even a institute of performing arts and a library and archive of Tibetan works.

The town I am staying in is called Bhagsu, a village 2km from the Tibetan headquarters set among the foothills of the Indian Himalaya and exactly the kind of place I was looking for after the utterly exhausting journey described above. Guesthouses are scattered and hidden among the hills and winding rock trails lead to waterfalls, temples and astonishing views of the mountains above and valley below.

Lower Bhagsu is full of Indian honeymooners and familes on summer holiday. Upper Bhagsu is full of western travelers, most of whom come to Dharamsala to practice yoga, enroll in 10-day Vipassana meditation retreats, take language courses, learn to play instruments or volunteer their time teaching English to Tibetan monks. At this point I don't have much planned for my time here other than to do a bit of exploring and get some serious R&R. I may take an Indian or Tibetan cooking course or learn to make jewelery, but realistically I envision myself with my nose planted firmly in a book.

Today I sat and talked with a vacationing family from Punjab down in the cold pools below the waterfall. They offered me Black Label whiskey and caramels (!) and asked me about life in America. When I tried to answer they told me to slow down and speak clear English (!). Later when walking back to my guesthouse, I past a small courtyard where an Australian man playing classical Spanish guitar and a French man playing a 4-stringed classical Indian instrument called a tambura had drawn a small crowd. I put a flower in my teeth, danced around a bit and got talking to one of the Indian men there. Turns out I was smack in front of the guesthouse Chris had stayed at when he was here a few weeks ago and the man, Nosho, had become quite good friends with him during his time here. Small world. Tonight I was invited to "booze" with some young Indians vacationing here from Delhi. God I love this country. I am so thrilled to be back.