REAL-LIFE SHANGRI-LA

Arnold Abrams

At the New Delhi air terminal the busy ticket official smiled knowingly when I enquired about flights to Katmandu. "Ah, you're going to Nepal," he said. "If you want to see something special, sit on the left side of the plane."

So, an hour after take-off, as the jet rushed east towards the tiny kingdom located between northern India and Tibet, I looked through my window—and saw the roof of the world. There, stretching up to meet me, were the mighty Himalayas, the highest mountains on earth. And although we were flying at 32,000 feet, we seemed almost to be touching the tallest peaks. Beyond the mountains, lying in waves of green and brown, was my destination. Nepal, the last of the never-never lands open to outsiders.

In shape this country is a narrow rectangle, slightly larger than England in area. Visiting Nepal is like going back in time, for this lofty country remains a living copy of the past even as it adjusts to the present and prepares for the future.

Nepal's character is represented by Katmandu, a city filled with palaces and temples, tiny cafés and colorful bazaars. Magicians, fortunetellers and Hindu holy men wander through the narrow streets, competing for space with bicycles and rickshaws, taxis and oxcarts, geese, dogs and pedestrians. Street hawkers sell everything from food to jade bracelets and ivory backscratchers.

In the capital and surrounding Katmandu Valley, there are some 2700 temples. Those temples are major attractions for the rapidly expanding tourist trade. Another highlight of the Katmandu Valley—where more than half the kingdom's population lives—is the Kodari Highway. It was built by Chinese engineers as part of a Peking aid program. The road leads to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet.

To get a fuller sense of what this country is about, I toured the Terai, the south's low-lying belt of forests and jungles, once among the world's great hunting grounds. With nine others, I made the 45-minute flight south and spent several days at Tiger Tops, a lodge in Chitwan National Park. This $60-a-day lodge lacks such things as hot running water and electricity, but it provides a taste of the extraordinary. From the airfield, it was a two-hour trip to the lodge—by elephant.

We jolted along through dense jungle on the big animal's back. Soon we began to see wildlife—deer, wild boar, buffalo, and brilliantly plumed birds. Finally we reached Tiger Tops: a cluster of two-story tree houses, standing on stilts some 20 feet above the ground.

One day there, I went for a 15-mile canoe trip on the nearby river. Our canoe slipped silently past crocodiles, deer and birds—a dreamlike world. But then we came upon a large rhinos staying in mid-stream, blocking our route. Rather than wait for him to leave, my two Nepalese guides pulled hard to build up speed, then began shouting. The rhino rose up and started running. But when he emerged from the water and reached the embankment, it was too steep to climb.

Trapped, the big animal turned to face us, head down and horn up. An in no-cent meeting had turned into an ugly confrontation. But just as the current swept us up to him, he broke away and ran—not at us, but along the rocky bank beside us. Finally, after what seemed like a very long minute, a gap appeared in the embankment. The rhino saw it, and it was all over.

I flew to the area of Himalayas by a government helicopter. Nearing our goal, as we reached 16,000 feet, the cloud parted and we saw the peaks of the Himalayas. We were no longer above them in a giant airliner but among them in a tiny helicopter, dwarfed by their size and beauty. We climbed to 18,000 feet, where the pilot had to put on an oxygen mask, and still I had to crane my neck to see the towering peaks. Somewhat distant and aloof, like a monarch, stood Mount Everest, whose Tibetan name of Chomolungma—"Goddess Mother of the World"—seemed appropriate.

The descent from the Everest area took me through river valleys and forest trails. There were small villages along the trails which provided places for rest, where I could drink sweet, strong Nepalese tea, and where I was welcome to spend the night and share a peasant family's food. Can one imagine that people in London, New York or any other Western city would casually open their doors to strangers, inviting them to spend the night and share family meals? It happens everywhere, all the time, in this "land of time and trust," as an English mountaineer said.

Nepalese friendliness and charm, in fact, are what make the most lasting impression—even more than the scenery. If this country isn't Shangri-La, it certainly comes close enough.