Fond memories of Pokhara Airport

Among the various chapters of my career, my time at Pokhara Airport remains especially close to my heart. In the early 1980s, when I was stationed there, the airport was a small but vital outpost nestled beneath the majestic Annapurna range. 

The Pokhara Airport of the past was nothing like the modern airfields we see today. Back then, it had a simplicity and charm that was uniquely its own—rugged, chaotic at times, but somehow efficient in its own way.

The Control Tower was a modest one-room, single-story structure located across the runway. That little building still stands today as a silent witness to the airfield’s early days. The runway itself was unpaved—a grassy, rocky strip that stretched across the open landscape. Despite its rough surface, it performed surprisingly well in all weather conditions, especially for the handful of flights operated by the only airline at the time—Royal Nepal Airlines.

The airport owned almost 1,500 ropani (approximately 76 hectares) of land, yet most of it was unfenced and unguarded. Only the immediate runway strip had fencing—and even that was constantly being torn down. Local residents would break through it regularly for easy passage across the field or to let their cattle inside to graze. The Civil Aviation Office tried time and again to repair the fencing, but it often felt like a futile battle. We’d fix it in the morning, only to find it dismantled again the next day.

Runway shared by cattle and mules

Security at the airport was minimal. It was overseen by an Assistant Sub-Inspector who commanded a small team of personnel—far too few to monitor the entire airfield round the clock. As a result, the runway often resembled more of a grazing field than an airstrip. Cattle roamed freely during the day, and at night, the area turned into a resting ground for mules (Khachad).

Mules were the lifeline of the region in those days—the primary means of transporting goods to and from the surrounding hills, including the remote regions of Mustang and the Annapurna Circuit. So in a way, the Pokhara runway was serving both aerial and animal traffic.

The siren system: A creative air traffic solution

One of the most fascinating aspects of Pokhara Airport in those early days was the siren system—our unique method of alerting staff and villagers to incoming aircraft.

Whenever a departure message was received from Kathmandu for a Pokhara-bound flight, the Control Tower would sound a long, single-stretch siren. This was the first signal, announcing that the aircraft had departed and was en route. Upon hearing this, security personnel were dispatched to both ends of the runway to begin the task of chasing away cattle and clearing the field.

As the aircraft approached the valley, a second siren would sound—this time in two alternate stretches. By this point, the runway was usually clear, and the aircraft would begin descending. But there were occasions when animals still lingered on the strip even as the plane neared the valley. In such cases, the aircraft would circle and hold over Pokhara, waiting for the all-clear.

Finally, the third siren—in three short, alternating bursts—would signal that the aircraft was on final approach. It was the last cue, urging the security team to ensure not a single cow or goat was left in the plane’s path.

This rudimentary system—so dependent on sirens, manpower, and quick thinking—may sound almost laughable today. But back then, it worked. It was a uniquely Nepalese solution to a uniquely Nepalese problem.

A time of resourcefulness and resilience

Looking back, I often smile at how resourceful we had to be. There was no radar, no automated alarms, no advanced perimeter surveillance. Everything was done by ear, eye, and instinct.

And yet, flights operated safely. Aircraft landed and took off without incident. And we, the small crew of controllers and security staff, kept it all going with little more than whistles, sirens, and stubborn persistence.

Pokhara Airport in those days was more than just an airfield—it was a village meeting ground, a grazing field, a mule depot, and an aviation outpost all in one. It wasn’t perfect—but it was alive, real, and unforgettable.

The day the cattle won

Some memories from my time in the control tower are etched permanently into my mind—and one of them involves a runway full of cattle, an angry pilot, and a diverted flight that caused quite a stir all the way to Kathmandu.

It was a typical morning at Pokhara Airport in the late 1980s. I was on duty as the Air Traffic Controller, sipping my tea while keeping an eye on the radio. As usual, the runway resembled more of a grazing pasture than an airfield. Cattle roamed freely across the strip, completely unbothered by the notion of aviation. This wasn’t unusual—we were used to it. What was unusual that day was the silence after I sounded the siren.

Normally, the siren—a long, stretched signal—would send the airport security personnel scrambling to clear the runway. But that day, nobody moved. No one came. The runway remained busy—not with aircraft, but with cows.

A new security officer had just taken charge at the airport. Perhaps he hadn’t been properly briefed on the daily routine, or perhaps his subordinates didn’t take him seriously yet. Either way, the system failed—and it failed spectacularly.

Meanwhile, the first scheduled flight of the day—Avro 748, registration 9N-AAV—had departed Kathmandu and was approaching Pokhara. I informed the captain about the runway situation, trying to keep my voice as professional as possible.

What I got in return was a furious explosion over the radio.

“What the hell are you people doing there?” the captain shouted. “Why haven’t you cleared the runway? This is unbelievable!”

I didn’t respond right away. I glanced sideways. My boss, the Airport Manager, was standing beside me, listening carefully. I turned to him and asked, “Sir, shall we send our chaukidars (guards) to clear the runway?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No. Never.”

And that was that.

The aircraft circled overhead. The Avro made a few loops around the valley, the captain growing angrier with every turn. His voice was sharp, almost theatrical in its outrage.

“Do you even understand what you’re doing down there? I have forty-four passengers on board!”

I took a breath and replied calmly:

“Sorry sir, the runway is still not clear.”

Eventually, with no resolution in sight, the captain had no choice. He declared a diversion and turned the aircraft back to Kathmandu.

A reaction from the top

That flight was carrying mostly tourists, and its diversion caused quite a ripple effect. The incident was taken very seriously by headquarters. That very afternoon, the new security chief was immediately transferred. By the evening, a replacement had already arrived. The message was clear: such lapses would not be tolerated.

After that day, I never saw a similar incident at Pokhara. Security was beefed up. Fencing was reinforced. Procedures became stricter. Today, the airport is well-guarded, with enough personnel to monitor and manage the airfield. The days of runway cattle herds are long gone—at least in Pokhara.

That day, the cattle won the battle. But in the long run, the airport won the war.

• Manandhar is former director general at the Civil Aviation Authority of Nepal