The Nepalese rainforest canopy closes in around us. Enormous ants and spiders slip off the trees onto our raincoats. All is silent but for the crunch of bracken under deer hooves.
The family's elephant stops and trumpets back. Then she spins in a circle.
'She's lovesick,' our guide explains. 'Her mate was calling to her from another part of the park.'
At night, wild bull elephants leave the rainforest in Chitwan National Park, south central Nepal, and make their way to the Sauraha Elephant Breeding Centre where 20 or so females are chained up so that wild bulls can mate with them, keeping the dwindling Asian elephant population thriving. Sometimes, the cows break free of their chains and slip into the National Park to find their old flames.
Elephant is the best mode of transport to get a bird's eye view of the 360sq miles of parkland and its population of deer, antelope, hyenas, jackal, 543 species of birds and even tigers.
'Don't worry, only one fisherman is eaten each year,' our guide reassures us.
A short motorcycle ride out of Chitwan's National Park, past the flood plains of grazing water buffalo, is Tharu village, a rural Nepalese settlement of mud-and-thatch huts.
Locals here happily offer us shade in their single-room homes, which are thick with smoke both because they cook indoors without ventilation, and because the smoke wards off malaria-baring mosquitoes.
Disappointingly, lakeside Pokhara is a 'stop-gap' town, rammed with youth hostels, steakhouses and tourist shops selling overpriced McVities biscuits and cheap Kama Sutras.
It is also the starting point before trekking to Annapurna Base Camp.
The weather makes it impossible for us to trek or even take a helicopter flight over the town to catch the views. Even so, the scenery is luscious all year round, with green virgin farmland and lakes sitting in front of frosty-capped Everest peaks.
The capital, Kathmandu, is a massive contrast: a crush of traffic and crescendo of horns.
The city sits 1,350m above sea level. In the 12th century, the area was run by three different kings. Today, it has almost a million inhabitants. Sellers spread their wares on pavements - neat rows of tiny chillies and blackened bananas.
Emaciated brown cows stand about. A woman has set up an old Singer sewing machine in the street. Next to her, a monkey and dog fight over an abandoned ice cream cone.
Monkeys here have free reign. They are considered holy, reputedly evolving from the lice in the beard of the Bodhisattva of Wisdom when he was creating the hill that the temple stands on.
The Hindu temple just off central Durbar Square is one of the most intriguing of the dozens on offer. Named Kumari Ghar, it is home to a young girl believed to be the human incarnation of a Hindu goddess.
Driving out of the city past the River Bagmati, we stumble upon a Hindu cremation.
Brick plinths and ghats (or steps that lead down to the water) are lined up for the services. A widow walks past me wailing, then stops beside a plinth.
The spot, which used to be a forest, is where Lord Shiva is said to have landed when he descended to Earth from heaven. The air hangs with choking funeral smoke.
A group of children splash in the river, which is polluted with litter, ash and bones. In an hour, the last of the cremated husband's body will be pushed into the water, too. The sons will leap in and scoop the water over their heads.
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