FC Elephant – FC Pachyderm:
1-3

“Stop, you cannot cycle further, this is a ‘chakka jam’.”
We are cycling over the Ring Road to go to the district of Thamel. It was suspiciously quiet on this normally very busy road that completely encircles the towns of Kathmandu and Patan. In front of us a cordon of men is standing in a black cloud of smoke, behind them two busses have been placed crossways on the road to block the traffic. The sharp, penetrating smell of burning car tyres enters our noses; cycling isn’t always healthy.
“Can we please pass through; we understand your commitments but like to go on to meet some friends.”
“Okay, you can walk past the barriers, and then cycle again. Have a nice day.”
“Yeah, you too, thanks.”

Chakka jams (traffic blockades) and banda’s (strikes during which the traffic and often great parts of public life are brought to a standstill) are the order of the day the end of 2006. The reasons vary, from a traffic death to the unclear management of universities, but most of the time they are a political statement. Not only de Maoists use them, by now it has become a regular Nepali custom. The serious financial-economic consequence this brings about in this ever so poor country is readily accepted by the people. Many Nepali welcome the strikes and blockades like a pleasant extra day off of which they never tire. It seems to be a thorn in the flesh of the anarchists in the present power-vacuum that there is still time to work besides the hundreds of annual Hindu-festivals and these banda’s.
It’s nice and quiet on the streets and we speed past Jawalakhel, via Pulchowki Road and over the holy, smelly Bagmati River to Kathmandu, where we have an appointment with two other Dutch cyclists: Rob and Aranka. Rob and Aranka have been cycling over this globe for almost two years now and saw many kilometres pass under their wheels in Europe and Asia (you can find a link to their travel stories at www.bikesportive.nl).
We have come into contact via our mutual friend Sascha, who thought we would hit it off together… and he proves to be more than right. The same evening we invite Aranka and Rob to cycle to the Royal Chitwan National Park together, to celebrate Christmas with and between the elephants.

Two days later, Christmas Day, the moment has come. We decorate our bicycles with Christmas garlands and small santaclauses and cycle out of the busy town. Unfortunately there is no chakka jam today.
After the pass leading out of Kathmandu Valley we descend alongside the Mahesh and Trisuli Rivers, over the Pritvi Highway. Now and then we catch a glimpse of the snowy peaks of Ganesh Himal, Himal Chuli and the twin peaks of Manaslu Himal. For the first time in four-and-a-half-years we cycle with another couple and it is more fun than we could have imagined. All of us are cycling at our own speed and still we remain fairly close to each other. At night we share a room with the house rat in a small hotel in Baikunthapuri and exchange travel experiences.

The next morning we climb and descend dozens of kilometres, see monkeys and birds and pass villages that are packed with fruit stalls and fish stands. Past the busy town of Nagargunj, where hundreds of Nepali cyclists and rickshaws accompany us, the road becomes level for the first time in over a year, an almost new experience for the four of us. A fresh glass of sugarcane juice is our fuel when we dive off the big road and bump over a narrow path to our destination: Sauraha. A bit too soon the night falls and like phantoms in the night we bounce over the last kilometres without seeing a lot. Fortunately everything goes well and after half an hour we are sitting at a campfire at the Annapurna View Lodge and are moved by the noise of Chitwan’s trumpeting elephants.

Then the moment has come: breakfast is eaten; let’s go to the football field! It’s already very busy there, when we manage to find ourselves a spot alongside the sideline. The different teams get their instructions, de mahouts take their places high in the sky and then the referee’s whistle sounds. A direct pass to the left, a short run from the fast midfielder and the attack commences. Two centre forwards plod ahead quite fast, the goalkeeper assumes his position, but the sweeper sees the danger and turns the offensive.

Immediately the roles are reversed: the other party pressures the hasty retreating players with a rapid charge. Via something that resembles a one-two the ball rolls to the other side, where the goalkeeper is dozing already: he is standing back-to-front in his goal and his rider urges him to pay attention. But it is too late: the centre forward receives the ball in one flowing movement, accidentally makes a shearing-movement and unexpectedly shoots the ball with his trunk between the posts. It is 0-1 for FC Pachyderm!

Half an hour and tons of pleasure watching the event later the match is over; FC Pachyderm gloriously defeated FC Elephant by 1-3, the winning team heavily gambols over the field.
Just like the winning team we, being a few of the scarce white tourists, are interviewed many times by local and international television and newspaper journalists. Aranka and I even manage to infiltrate the Dutch children news program, which means the score is 1-0 for the ladies.

In the following days other spectacles take place as well: sprinting matches. Several teams from different countries, amongst which even a Dutch team, participate. The preliminary rounds are held and on the final day the six best athletes have made it to the last race. In the burning sun the air quivers with tension, row after row of spectators are sitting and standing lining the field, some even climb in trees and on busses in order not to miss out on the highlight of the day.
The six participants that have qualified nervously shake their legs and heads to release some tension. The last buckets of water are swallowed. Then the time has come: all of them stand before the starting line, brace themselves, take a deep breath and wait for the liberating whistle signal. Pffftttt… seemingly inert the finalists get moving and start to jog, their pace slowly changes into running.

The mahouts shout themselves hoarse and the speed picks up even more. Trunks sling from left to right, ears flap from back to front, spectators fearfully shrink back when the colossus pass at a short distance, the ground trembles and shakes and an earthquake seems very near. At first the two eldest runners have a head start, until the smallest of the six takes a spurt and overtakes the rest just before the finish line and wins! The mahout has no chance to congratulate his winner, because the eight-hundred kilos takes a second sprint to his proud mother who is standing in the audience a bit further away.

We retreat to our hotel, asking ourselves whether the soccer and athletics games on television or in a stadium will ever be attractive to watch again…