Ripples Following Ripples ~ THE
ANNAPURNA CIRCUIT
Our
bus left on time, and we had a good run to Dumre,
where we stopped for a while, and I got off to buy
some mandarins, not re-alizing that the woman I bought
them from was Ashok’s mother! She also didn’t
recognize me. I then bumped into someone who remembered
me from the previous year, and who told me that Ashok
was waiting for me, hoping to go with me on the trek
(I’d been in touch with him by email, you see).
He took me back to Ashok’s mother, and I explained
that I already had a porter and couldn’t take
him, but that I might call in and see him on the way
back from Pokhara. He should have been waiting in
the market, though.
There was a delay on the road to Besisahar and when
we got there, I had to get off to show my permit.
Then, because the bus was going on to Khudi,
we stayed on, but the road the rest of the way was
almost as bad as that to Syabru, with the bus rocking
like a boat on a rough sea! Several times, I was sure
we would go over the side. Khudi was the end of the
road, and from there we walked to Bulbule,
to stay overnight. It was quiet and peaceful.
November 3rd ~ the day of the dreaded U.S. election,
the results of which I did not learn until some days
later ~ we set out on our first full-day's trek, but
hadn’t gone very far when who should catch us
up but Ashok; he’d followed us from Dumre the
previous day and stayed overnight in Besisahar, walking
from there. This put me in a dilemma, as I already
had Subha with me, but he so wanted to go that I decided
to take him, paying for his food along the way. He
carried some of our baggage, making it easier for
us, and we reached Syange at noon, where
someone tried to persuade me to stay in his lodge;
I wanted to continue to Jagat, but knew that
Subha and Ashok were tired, so I flipped a coin: heads,
we go on, tails, we stay. It came up tails. But then
we discovered Ashok had forgotten his identity-card,
and to proceed without it would be potentially dangerous,
as we would pass several army check-posts, and he
might be suspected of being a Maoist rebel. Not willing
to risk trying to talk him through such check-posts
and explain that I'd known him for 10 years already,
we decided that he would have to go back; the army
did not have a good record as far as human-rights
were concerned, and was as guilty of un-warranted
brutality and summary executions as their opposite
counterparts, the Maoists. I gave him some money for
his return trip, and we set off in different directions.
On our way, Subha re-vealed that Ashok had told him
during the night that he earned Rs5000 per month at
his job at a Dumre furniture-factory, whereas he’d
told me ~ as he had done last year, too ~ that he
earned just Rs1600; and this was for an 8-hour day,
5½-day week. I’d wondered how anyone
could survive on just Rs1600 per month, let alone
support a wife and two kids on it! I'd sent him money
several times to help him out. Now, Rs5000 isn’t
a for-tune, but many people in many countries manage
on that amount and less, as a matter of having to.
The manager of the lodge was named Naru,
and by joking about the mythical Yeti, I soon found
a way to turn our conversation Dharma-wards. Beside
his lodge ~ and indeed, almost all along the trail
to the highest point ~ ran a roaring river; we were
seldom out of sound of this river until we parted
company with it on the 7th day out. I told him that,
in my childhood home there was a grand-father-clock
with a sonorous tick-tock, tick-tock, but
we had grown so used to it, and it was such a part
of us, that we didn't hear it unless we made a special
effort to do so. Just like this river be-side your
lodge, I said: you probably don't hear it or pay attention
to it anymore, as it is here and you've grown used
to it, whereas visitors like myself, are very aware
of it. This river, however, is your guru, constantly
teaching and reminding you that life is like a stream,
never still for a moment, but always changing. Listen
to it now and then, especially when you are sad or
things don’t go as you would like them to, and
try to understand that all things come and go, arise
and pass away.
Naru ~ like both Subha and Ashok ~ had several small
children; he also had to deal with complete strangers
on a daily basis and try to satisfy their needs and
wants, and sometimes, some of these strangers ~ of
different cultures and temperaments ~ aren’t
easy to deal with; his life was not simply a matter
of providing them with what they wanted in exchange
for the money he needed from them. When I spoke to
him about the river, inter-spersing my speech with
a key Sanskrit word now and then, I could see that
he was receptive and could understand, although he
didn't know I was a monk, as I didn't tell him, and
I wasn’t in monk's attire. When I left him the
next day, there was a light in his eyes that wasn't
there when we'd arrived; I'd touched him.
This is known as the 'Annapurna Circuit Trek,’
Annapurna being the main peak of a group of mountains
in Central Nepal, many of which rise to over 7,000
meters asl, and Annapurna itself to over 8,000. The
Annapurna Circuit is apparently the most-popular trek
in the world, attracting people from all over ~ all
a little crazy, like me, to want to do this in the
first place, otherwise they wouldn't risk their lives
so ~ and sometimes, the trails are quite crowded;
with most people going up to Thorung-la,
and few coming down; I was to understand why this
should be later. The weather was warm, with clear
skies; it was to remain so most of the way.
We passed several groups of porters busy cooking lunch
beside streams ~ “Oh, we’re just in time,”
I joked, but they didn’t invite us. Other times,
I asked people what time was the next bus; some realized
I was joking, but others didn’t.
I held a kitten along the way; it was so trusting
and affectionate. You don’t see many cats in
Nepal; Nepalese don’t seem to like them ~ they
prefer damn barking dogs!
High on a narrow path, with the river far below us,
we met a mule-train coming down. Unwisely, I took
the precipice-side of the track, and would have been
alright had not one of the mules lurched slightly
as it passed me, and one of the bundles on its back
caught me just a little off-balance, tipping me over
the side. Down I went, but luckily, at this point,
the drop was not great ~ only a meter or so ~ and
my fall was halted by a tree and some brush and stinging-nettles;
only my dignity was hurt. Two mule-teers quickly hurried
to haul me back up to the path, and I was left to
pick half the jungle out of my clothes and woolen
hat!
We frequently met or overtook mule-trains, and the
paths were lit-tered with their droppings; now and
then, we came across mule 'piss-stops,' where the
ground was sodden and brown from mule-pee. These animals
are docile; hard-working and uncomplaining, they carry
huge loads, and in return are fed very meagerly. Often,
they are led by boys as young as 12 or 13 ~ no school
for them! ~ and they cover greater distances in a
day than I did during my 5 - 7 hours. I saw two mule-trains
loaded with empty beer-bottles, the result of a demand
by mainly trekkers to indulge in what is a distinct
luxury in these isolated places; in Kathmandu or Pokhara,
a bottle of beer might cost Rs100 or so ~ having no
interest in it, I really didn’t know ~ while
up in the mountains, it would be double that. But
at least glass bottles have some value and are recycled,
unlike the plastic 'mineral-water' bottles, which
are simply thrown away, to litter the landscape for
countless years. On my treks, I carried several half-liter
plastic Coke bottles, which I filled with water and
added purification liquid to each; this was enough,
ap-parently, to kill most of the microbes and harmful
bacteria. Before setting out in the mornings, I generally
made two bottles of coffee ~ cold, of course, but
tasty, nevertheless ~ using Nescafe and powdered-milk;
these usually lasted me until I halted for the day.
The trails, for the most part, were uneven and rock-strewn,
and seldom or for very long did we have the pleasure
of smooth and even patches. The rocks on them varied
in size from huge boul-ders, down through head-sized,
to pebbles that crunched and slid underfoot; the hardest
to deal with I found to be the irregular-shaped, cobble-sized
stones, which could twist and roll danger-ously when
stepped on.
Through and in the vicinity of some villages, people
had set flat stones in place to create steps, making
for easier walking, while in others, nothing at all
had been done to improve upon what na-ture had created.
Once, rounding a bend in the track, I saw an elderly
man tossing loose stones from the path. There were
no cameras or reporters around to record this; was
he doing it be-cause he saw a need and cared about
others? It was the only time I saw anyone doing anything
like this. Numerous times, I saw and heard people
cutting trees in the ever-dwindling forests, but not
once did I see anyone planting saplings to eventually
re-place them. How might it be, I wondered, if the
lamas came out of their monasteries ~ such as exist
in some places along the trails ~ and set an example
to the people by working on the tracks and planting
trees instead of merely chanting twice a day and other-wise
whiling away their time on frivolous pursuits such
as playing cards and flying kites, as I sometimes
observed them doing?
Landslides are common in the mountains, and we often
had to scramble across debris of scree, dust and shale
where once there had been a path, and which, at any
moment, could shift again, sending us down a slope
or over a cliff to almost-certain death. And at the
best of times, the paths we trod were rarely more
than a meter wide, with great drops on one or sometimes
both sides. From time to time I wondered at my foolhardiness
in undertaking such a venture, when limbs may easily
be broken, days away from any medical assistance,
where even helicopter-rescue ~ very costly, when it
can take place ~ is not an option. Moreover, like
the people who live in these regions, I have no in-surance,
and am vulnerable; and knowing this, I still do what
I do.
We were above the tree-line by this time, surrounded
by snow-capped peaks, with frozen water-falls hanging
down their sides. As the sun began to sink behind
the mountains, almost immedi-ately it became very
cold, even though it remained light for a while. Some
lodges had electric-light, powered by solar-panels.
Sometimes, during four or five hours of hard trekking,
I might take only one break, although I told Subha
to stop and rest whenever he felt like instead of
trying to keep up with me all the time, and indeed,
he heeded my advice and was often half-an-hour behind
me, although towards the end of the trek, spurred
on, perhaps, by me saying that he seemed to be getting
older while I was getting younger, he made a distinct
effort to reduce the gap between us, so that I joked
more with him and said I was having a hard time keeping
up with him, even though he was always behind me.
It was good to come to a settlement and halt for the
day at some lodge, with the possibility of a hot shower
~ such a luxury! Only once did I pay Rs100 for a room,
and that was at 'High Camp' when there was little
choice; sometimes, I paid Rs50, but usually, only
Rs40. Understand, though, that rooms were tiny, often
with paper-thin walls or gaps between the boards,
but good enough, with a quilt or two, for a night;
and fortunately, nowhere did I en-counter bed-bugs,
fleas, or lice. Also, the toilets ~ mainly of the
squatter-type ~ were remarkably clean, if simple,
and only once did I come across one that was dirty,
and this was in a lodge named Nirvana, strangely enough!
This toilet-cleanliness is un-doubtedly due to the
requirements of the trekkers, as the locals aren’t
noteworthy for their hygiene, and indeed, were we
to think too much about it, we would hesitate to eat
anything.
Now, I don't know what I smelled like at times, but
I think not too bad, as I'm pretty sensitive about
such things. However, I came to see that Subha, though
he’d been serving trekkers for 4 years, wasn’t
very fond of water, and I had to urge him to take
a shower when such was available, as he quickly came
to smell decidedly pungent, and was unpleasant to
be near. At one point, I asked if he had any soap,
and when he said he didn't, I gave him some of mine,
just as I gave him some of my socks when I saw his
one-and-only pair was worn out. Although he had money
to spare from the Rs200 I gave him every day this
time (followed, at trek’s end, by the full amount),
he was reluctant to spend any. He was seldom charged
more than Rs50 for his large rice-meals, which he
ate twice a day, while I paid upwards of Rs120 for
the same thing; he was also served free tea. But if
I’ve noted some of his less-positive qualities,
I must hasten to say that he never complained about
anything, or asked anything more from me than what
we’d agreed upon. I knew he considered my pace
fast ~ and indeed, we completed the whole trek ~ from
when we started in Kathmandu to our arrival in Pokhara
~ in just 13 days, when most other people took at
least 16. I did this, not because I was in a hurry
to finish it and get out of the mountains, but because
I wanted to push myself and see what I was capable
of, and I felt fit and well because of it.
Needless to say, as we progressed up the trail, it
got colder and colder until at night, the temperature
fell well below zero. Still, the weather remained
fine and clear, and no snow fell. Even at alti-tudes
of 3 - 4 thousand meters asl, however, there were
mice in the lodges, and several times, I became aware
of them getting at the foodstuffs in my bags.
Of course, the views from up there ~ as they had been
from other places ~ were fantastic, and worth all
the bother we’d undergone. As I mentioned earlier,
the weather really favored us, and we hardly saw a
cloud until the final 3 days. The mountains were so
clear-cut against the empty blue sky, except when
the sun, beat-ing down on them, occasionally caused
spume. Sometimes, we would see eagles soaring above,
and there were the ubiquitous Himalayan choughs. Other
forms of wildlife were rarely encoun-tered ~ no snow-leopards
or bears, and hardly a yeti in sight! Yetis, to be
sure, often came up in my conversations, and when
asked if I were married ~ a frequent question ~ I
used to say, "Not yet; I'm too young for that;
and anyway, I'm looking for a nice young yeti-girl
first." Well, since there's next-to-no-chance
of find-ing one, I guess I'll continue to escape,
and remain single!
We passed through various kinds of terrain, from cultivated
ar-eas, thick jungle, oak- and pine-forests, and barren
heights above the tree-line, where almost nothing
grew ~ almost nothing; there was always some
kind of hardy vegetation, clinging to and be-tween
the rocks, even if it was only moss or lichen, beautiful
upon close examination. Numerous waterfalls cascaded
from riven cliffs, some of them for hundreds of meters,
some raging torrents, and others like fine-combed
hair, just drifting down.
Each day, as we ascended, we soon found it necessary
to shed our jackets, hats and gloves, and before long,
our sweaters, too, which we’d donned before
setting out; we became warm from our exertions, as
well as from the heat of the rising sun. There was
a great difference in temperature between light and
shade, and we knew, as we watched the shadows retreat
before the advancing sunlight, that we’d soon
be warmer.
After a few days of paying the menu-prices in the
lodges, I found it was possible to haggle, and upon
arriving at a lodge, I would first ask about the price
of a room, and was usually able to get a small reduction,
from Rs50 to Rs40 (I’d had good training in
the flea-markets in England, where haggling is expected;
everyone likes to feel that they've got a bargain),
and then asked how much dahl-baht cost, and when told,
the expression on my face often caused them to ask
what I would like to pay, and this was quite a bit
less than the menu-price. Sometimes, I paid Rs70 or
Rs80, rather than the marked price of Rs150/Rs180.
Once, I was stopped by a young hippy-looking guy who
claimed he was a Maoist and demanded money, but I
concluded he had either been smoking dope or was drunk,
so went on my way. Reaching Tal, I came to
a hotel named EVERGREEN, which re-minded
me of Bet in Manila, so took a room there as the only
guest. I had a chat with someone who’d been
on the same bus from Kathmandu with us. He wasn’t
working at Evergreen but was attached to the medical-center
as a doctor. Slowly, I was able to open his mind somewhat,
and he expressed a desire to accompany us to Dharapani
the next day. When pressed as to what I did, I told
him I am a monk, but on the condition he didn’t
tell anyone else, as even Subha didn’t know.
I told him what I thought of Christians trying to
convert Nepalese, and he was in complete agreement
with me; he said he was an atheist.
We met the doctor at his hotel, and his company along
the way was quite pleasant; normally, because Subha’s
English was only rudimentary, I walked in silence.
We reached Dharapani in just under 2 hours, and he
left us to make a phone-call. I registered at the
check-post, then we stopped to rest a while a little
further on.
As I mentioned earlier, there were many foreign trekkers
on these trails, but I noticed, as I’d done
on other treks, that a great per-centage of them never
greeted other trekkers when they met or passed, but
went along with unsmiling faces; sometimes, they did
not even return one's greeting when addressed first,
and I often wondered why this should be, until near
the end, I felt like shouting at them: 'Good bloody
morning!' Nor was it only the foreigners who
behaved like this, but Nepalese, too, until I calculated
that only about 10% of the people met along the way
~ native or foreign ~ would deign to wish others 'Namaste'
or 'Good Morning' ~ except for little children, who
had learned to tap-into the tourist-trade, and whose
Namaste was usually a prelude for a request
for "One pen", "Sweet/chocolate",
or "One rupee".
The campers or people trekking in groups were the
most stand-offish ~ as well as their guides and porters,
who seemed to have been instructed not to speak to
anyone but the people they were escorting. They appeared
to be insulated not just by warm cloth-es, but in
their attitudes. Of course, to put together a camping
ex-pedition must cost a lot of money and logistical-arrangements,
as they carry ~ at least, the porters do ~ all they
require, including all their food, cooking-gear, kerosene,
and even toilet-tents! Their porters are extremely
strong, and commonly carry 50 kgs or more, by a strap
around their foreheads. Perhaps they are in-duced
to do this by the trekking-agencies, for extra pay,
but it is still inhumane to expect and allow them
to do this, as it reduces them to beasts of burden.
The agencies in places like Kathmandu or Pokhara who
organize such expeditions for foreigners are only
partly to blame for this, wishing to maximize their
profits ~ some-thing common all over the world ~ but
the campers themselves must also share responsibility
for seeing it every day and allowing it to go on before
their eyes, when they could easily employ more porters
to share the loads. Would the campers themselves ~
could they ~ carry such loads as they expect
their porters to carry all day for even 50 meters?
If they could not, then they shouldn’t expect
others to do it for them, regardless of the fact that
they can afford to pay them. The pack that I paid
Subha to carry for me weighed no more than 15 kgs
at its heaviest, and got lighter as we went along;
my own stuff, divided into two smaller bags, weighed
about the same.
One day, I greeted a group of middle-aged women, and
was so surprised by their cheery response ~ they were
Australians ~ that I felt I had to comment on it,
and told of my observations; they said they had noticed
it, too, and also didn't understand.
I did make some friends on the trek, though. Reaching
High Camp ~ the last of the lodges before
the Pass ~ The Pass, which I’d been
kind of dreading, and I'm sure I wasn't alone in this
~ I fell into conversation with some Norwegians, somewhat
younger than me, but we seemed to have much in common
(one was a therapist). I lingered over lunch with
them ~ two men and a woman ~ and later had dinner
with them. The hours passed quickly in their company,
as they tend to do when you're enjoying yourself,
and we exchanged books and email-addresses.
The previous year, when I did the second-half of this
trek, smok-ing was permitted in the dining-rooms of
the lodges ~ or at least, tolerated ~ where people
would gather in the evenings and sit around a fire
of some sort before retiring to their unheated rooms;
the smoke there was often so thick that I would soon
leave in pro-test. This year, however, it was different;
the lodge-keepers must have decided to conform to
the standard of lodges on other trails, where smoking
in the dining-rooms was not allowed. Progress!
The sandals that had borne me throughout the Langtang
trek were in need of repair, but being a veteran traveler,
I carry with me things that enable me to deal with
such contingencies, and over two days, I had them
almost as good as they'd ever been. In my baggage,
I had a spare pair, and higher up the trail, I switched
to wearing these, and indeed, wore them to cross the
pass; need-less to say, I wore socks with them, and
my feet weren't cold; the sandals didn't let me down.
Again, like at high altitudes on my other treks, I
couldn’t sleep more than 10 minutes at a time
~ probably because of the thin air ~ and found it
very hard to sleep again; some nights, I slept no
more than an hour, but the strange thing was, I wasn't
at all tired, and in fact, felt energized. After the
night below the high pass, we climbed 600 meters to
the top, some of the way on iced-over paths, then
descended 2,200 meters to our next rest-stop, a total
of 6 hours; this was really moving! No need to say
that there was quite a change in temperature. Gasping
and panting as I plodded upwards, with numerous stops
to get my breath, my lips and tongue were so cold
that I couldn't speak clearly; it felt like I'd just
been to the dentist and the anesthetic hadn’t
yet worn off.
Now, I said that no snow fell while we were trekking,
but there were some patches of old snow on both sides
of The Pass ~ some of them over 100 meters in extent
~ which we had to cross. The actual path in these
places was iced over and very risky to cross, and
the smallest slip could send one plunging over the
edge, so we had to climb onto the snow-covered slope
above and make our way very cautiously. Others had
done this before us, so there were footprints in the
20 cm-deep snow for us to follow and use, and the
snow, though still crisply soft, wasn't wet, so our
feet remained relatively dry. I was greatly relieved
when we were over these snow-patches, and for the
rest of the trek, we didn't have to deal with any
more hima ~ (Sanskrit for snow).
Descending on the other side was harder than going
up, and I could see why most people did the trek in
an anti-clockwise direc-tion, as the trail varied
from rocky through gravel to dust, with treacherous
patches of ice and snow to traverse; it was often
very steep. Far below us, we could see several small
settlements.
We stopped an hour short of Muktinath for our first
sit-down rest of 15 minutes, then continued, with
a short break at the temple to see the ‘eternal’
flame, and reached the check-post at Muktinath, 5
hours after we set out; we were the first of those
who’d left the High Camp that morning, and had
made excellent time, consider-ing that the norm was
7 hours. We’d seen the last of the snow.
Passing on, we stopped at Jarkot for dahl-baht,
and might have stayed there if the lodge-keeper had
lowered his room-rate. We continued, stopping at a
couple of wayside lodges to check rates before settling
for Nirvana, where I got a bucket of warm
water for shaving and washing, and felt greatly refreshed.
It was very windy there but became calm as the sun
set; we were near the Kali Gandaki Valley, where strong
winds blow from noon until night. I tended my feet,
which had become sore again from the long descent;
my fingers and thumbs were also cracked. I did not
know how Subha felt about my pace, but he didn’t
complain.
Down we went, reaching Jomsom, where I registered
at the check-post, and stopped a while before going
on to Marpha, just over an hour further on; by the
time we got to this picturesque place, it was very
windy and rather cold. I checked into Snow Leopard
Guest House, outside of which was a sign listing the
facilities, one of which was ‘Modern Ammonites’
~ a bit of a contra-diction in terms! They meant amenities,
of course. I got a nice room there and washed some
clothes. My nose was sore from excess mucus; it seemed
to freeze in my nostrils.
I don't remember how many bridges we crossed, but
it was a large number. Many were modern steel suspension-bridges
of recent construction, and these were easy to cross,
but others ~ though also strung on steel cables ~
had only boards to walk on, and in some cases, the
boards looked as if they could give way at any time,
sending you hurtling into the foaming stream far below.
Yet other bridges were simply logs across a stream,
and without a steady sense of balance, you could easily
fall into the icy water; fortunately, I managed alright,
although there were times when my feet got a bit wet
crossing small streams running across the path ~ and
there were many of these ~ by means of stepping-stones
that were not always strategically-placed and sometimes
didn’t even reach the surface.
Reaching Tatopani, I checked into the hotel I’d
stayed in before, and went down to soak in the hot
water. For Rs10, you may lie there for as long as
you like and soak the dirt off your skin and the aches
from your muscles and bones. I soaked for over an
hour, during which time Subha appeared, never intending
to go in himself, even though it was his 3rd time
in Tatopani. After much urging on my part, however,
he got in, and as a result, my olfac-tory nerves were
not bothered by his b.o. for a while afterwards.
From Tatopani, we made the long climb, taking 7 hours
~ during which, we rose 1,600 meters ~ to Ghorapani,
and by the time we got there, it was wreathed in cloud.
I thought it would rain, but this interpretation was
incorrect, and it didn't; it was certainly very cold
up there, however, on that, our final night out.
Halfway to Ghorapani, a young boy in a village asked
me ~ in quite-clear English ~ for medicine. When I
asked what for, he in-dicated one of his toes, the
nail of which was torn and infected. Well, having
suffered similarly myself and knowing how painful
it could be, I gestured for him to sit on a low wall
nearby, while I took out my medical-kit, applied some
antiseptic cream to the nail, covered it with gauze,
and taped it up. He winced a bit while I was doing
this, but when it was finished, he got up and walked
away without a word of thanks. Now, I'd known for
some time, but never understood, that Nepalese ~ and
Indians ~ rarely say thanks; it doesn't appear to
be part of their culture, as it is with ours. This
boy knew enough English to be able to ask me for medicine,
so he ought to have known how to say thanks, too.
I'd not tended his wound with the idea of being thanked,
but his non-thanks was quite glaring. Gratitude is
an admirable quality, and you would expect it to be
part of any culture.
(Over many years, I observed that Indians seldom say
things like, 'Thank-you; please come again', when
I visited their shops or res-taurants in countries
where they’ve taken up residence. I saw it so
many times in Australia, Malaysia, Singapore, the
US and UK; it was/is so rare, that when it does happen,
it stands out! If this really is the custom in India,
surely they’d notice the contrary manner in
other countries, where they adopt ways and adapt to
other things different from what they knew before
~ and some-times negative things ~ so why not this
more-courteous way?)
As had happened on my other treks where there were
long and steep descents of hours and hours at a time,
so, too, on this one: my heels, bearing the brunt
of my weight, cracked and became very painful. Luckily,
I had ointment for it with me this time, and at our
halts, would apply it and bandage the affected parts
so that there was some relief and improvement instead
of further deterio-ration. Several places on my right
thumb and fingers also cracked ~ perhaps due to constantly
gripping my staff ~ and I frequently noticed people
looking at the colored electrical tape ~ green, blue,
yellow, or red ~ that I used instead of band-aids,
as it stayed on longer. Because of the pain from these
cracked heels, I could walk only slowly when I first
started off in the mornings, but after a while, fell
into my usual stride, and the pain receded.
I had no trouble with my weak right ankle until the
last day, when, during the long descent of 6 hours
from Ghorapani at 2,750 mts to the motorable road
at 1,580 meters, it started to ache, causing me to
cry out at times. However, it didn't give way, and
I was able to maintain a good speed.
Before starting this trek, I had heard that, towards
the end, Maoist insurgents were intercepting trekkers
and extorting as much as Rs4000 each from them, calling
it a 'donation'. As we went on, we continued to hear
such tales, and then a new one ~ that the army had
been in and cleared them out. This report was later
modified ~ that they had merely moved the scene of
their modus operandi, and were, in fact,
better placed to make their 'collections'. As we approached
this area, therefore, I was more-or-less prepared
to have to pay, as I'd heard that a refusal to do
so would result, at the very least, in being turned
back and not allowed to proceed any further. I wasn’t
petrified by fear, though, and as we went on, deeper
and deeper into rebel-infested territory, no-one made
any attempt to stop us, and we got through without
seeing a single Maoist ~ or at least, none who identified
themselves as such.
And so, my longest trek in terms of distance drew
to a close, and sooner than I expected. We reached
the road all of a sudden, as it were; it was a bit
of an anti-climax to get back to 'civilization' and
find taxis waiting to take people like us to Pokhara,
35 kms away. That day, Nov 14th, happened to be the
culminating day of the Hindu Festival of Lights ~
Deepavali ~ and if any buses were running,
they were nowhere in sight. After waiting in vain
for some time, therefore, I negotiated with one of
the cab-drivers and agreed upon a fare, but before
getting into his battered vehicle, I gave my staff
to a tea-shop owner, saying that if he saw another
trekker who might have some use for it, he could pass
it to him. With that, we started on our first car-journey
in two weeks, and within an hour, had checked into
a hotel in Lakeside. I got Subha a room at half-rate,
but having slept free the whole trek, he wasn't happy
with my negotiations on his behalf, even though I
intended to pay for his room myself. He spoke about
a place down the road where he could sleep for free,
but by this time, he’d availed himself of the
shower, so I told him he could not leave now. I paid
him off, giving him the $50 bonus that my friend,
Victor, had re-quested me to, and although he was
surprised by this, he hardly thanked me. He left for
Kathmandu the next day, while I stayed in Pokhara
to rest for a few days.
Internet charges had come down to a reasonable rate
since the previous year, so I soon began to write
an account of this trek, as I’d done about the
other one, and when I’d finished after 2 days,
sent it off to a number of people. Some days later,
I was sur-prised to get an email from Betty Dunstan,
of all people; we re-sumed our correspondence for
some months, until I grew tired of sparring with her;
she was like a dog at a bone in an argument.
When I’d had enough of Pokhara, I bought some
pastries from a local bakery, where the young guy
was friendly and polite, and with these for the trip,
got a bus to Kathmandu. It took ten long hours! There
were two stops for food, and several checkpoints,
with backed-up traffic; and such is the mentality
of these people, that so many try to overtake and
squeeze through, causing a greater jam. And all this
time, I’d been holding on, careful not to fart,
as I’d had diarrhea in the night and early morning.
I got to the hotel and dashed for the toilet, just
in time!
Fed-up with the bike I’d bought, I went to look
at some others, and seeing one I liked, took it for
a test-ride, and knew this was the one. I negotiated
with the shop-owner, and although the price was rather
high, I bought it. The other one I managed to sell
at a loss, but was glad to get rid of the cheap thing!
I called the Sakais, and they invited me to visit
them the following Sunday. In the meantime, I took
several long rides, including up to Nagdhunga and
down the other side to Naubise and beyond; the bike
went well. I got a new bell for it, but it was a waste
of money, as no-one paid any heed to it, and later,
when I met a young guy who complained that even with
a degree, he couldn’t find a job, I told him
his degree was like my bell ~ useless!
I weighed myself on the street, but when the dial
read 76 kgs, I thought it must be wrong, so went to
another, and the reading was 70 kgs; was there a conspiracy
of scales against me?
One morning, I scolded someone in a cyber-place for
repeatedly sneezing explosively and told him he shouldn’t
share his bacteria with others. I got stuck in a traffic-jam
on my way to Patan, and was amazed at how many people
tried to squeeze through, not seeing that they were
only making it worse! Kathmandu has be-come so congested;
there are far too many vehicles of all kinds on its
narrow streets.
Sakai-san met me on his bike at the agreed-upon place,
and led the way to his home nearby. There, they told
me it was their 12th wedding-anniversary, and invited
me to join them for lunch in a restaurant at the museum
at Durbar Square; I felt honored that they should
share their special day with me. The food was very
nice; they joined me for vegetarian. Back at the house,
I weighed myself on their scales, and was pleased
at the reading of 70 kgs (if only it would remain
at this!) I arranged to come a few days later and
stay overnight.
Planning to go to India, I needed a visa, so duly
got in line outside the Embassy, waiting for it to
open. I got talking to a Jewish-Croatian woman from
the US named Vlasta, who said she’d
just done a course at Kopan; we had quite a lot to
talk about, and were later joined by a guy from Tasmania
named Ian, who said he was captain of a research-ship
operating off Palawan. The time we had to wait ~ some
hours ~ passed rather pleasantly. We exchanged email-addresses.
I was told to come back again in a few days to apply
for the visa; that morning was only to pay a fee of
Rs300 to cover the cost of a telex which they claimed
they had to send to one’s homeland to check
that one had no criminal re-cord or anything, but
I suspect it was just a scam to squeeze more money
from us. Anyway, had they not heard of computers?
What could I do but go along with their silly and
unnecessary game-playing? I applied for the visa,
and paid the fee, and was told to come again to collect
it the next afternoon. I went to the Sakais’,
taking with me a bag of stuff to leave there until
I re-turned from India. I thought I would be back
after their upcoming vacation in Thailand, where they
would stay on a small island near Phuket. After breakfast
on the roof, I took my leave of them, and later went
for my passport. I was too early, and had to wait
an hour outside, but eventually got it.
Thinking to visit Kopan, and see how it looked 30
years after I was there, I rode to Bodnath, but it
had changed so much since I was last there, and had
become a night-mare. I took the wrong way and got
lost, ending up on a different hill, from where I
could see Kopan, but by this time I was tired so returned
to Kathmandu. Checking my email later, I got one from
Vlasta, saying she’d like to accompany me to
Pokhara the next day, and asking me to call her as
soon as possible. I’d already got my ticket,
so I went to the bus-office again to make another
reservation, and call and leave a message for her.
Back at the hotel, I paid my bill, and left early
in the morning. The bus was waiting, and Vlasta turned
up. My bags and bike were loaded, we left on time,
and had a good trip, talking most of the time. She
told me that Ian was already in Pokhara and was wait-ing
for us to contact him when we got there. It was a
while before I began to wonder why she’d suddenly
decided to leave in the middle of her meditation-course
and go to Pokhara. Was she chasing one of us? She
told me she’d been married twice, and both times
ended in divorce; was she on the hunt?
We got off the bus in the town, and stopped at a cyber-café
to email Ian; I went outside while she did this, and
who should come by just then but Ian himself! We were
surprised to see each other! We all walked down to
Lakeside, where I checked into a hotel, and agreed
to meet them later for dinner; Ian was staying some-where
above the lake, and Vlasta found a hotel somewhat
nearer. We met at the appointed place and sat talking
until our food came. I’d ordered spaghetti,
and Vlasta had fish, even though she claimed to be
vegetarian. Before I knew it, she had dumped a piece
on my plate, saying, “Here, try this!”
I told her off. When it came time to pay, I was embarrassed
that we all had to ‘go dutch’; if I’d
known earlier, I would have offered to pay for all.
We then went in our different directions. My correspondence
with Blasta ~ as I’d come to think of her by
then ~ didn’t survive, as I told her I didn’t
want to continue. She had many fantasies and ideas,
and was always changing her mind; she also had the
nasty habit of trying to manipulate people; maybe
it was her husbands who had pressed for divorce! Ian
also escaped her clutches.
The next day, I went to visit Santosh, my guide from
the previous year; since then, he’d got married,
and I gave him a gift of money. It was good to see
him and his family again. At the bakery, the young
guy was happy to see me again; his name was Liladhar.
He said he would make something sugar-free for me.
I contacted Bishal, the boy who’d helped me
with my dislocated shoulder, and he came to see me,
out of work. His wife had given birth since I last
saw him, and he asked me to help him set up a small
business, but I was tired of people trying to fleece
me, so I bought him some provisions instead of giving
him money.
On the way back to town from a long ride one day,
a motorbike turned right in front of me without looking
to see if anything was coming; another inch or so
and I would have hit him. It wasn’t the last
time this would happen.
After some long rides in and around Pokhara, I got
ready to leave for India. As I was about to get on
the crowded bus, a young guy somewhat plaintively
asked if I wanted a guide-porter; he could see that
I was about to get on the bus and wouldn’t need
a guide, but still he asked, obviously hard-up; he
stayed in my mind and I wish I’d given him something).
It was a nine-hours’ trip, and I was tired when
we got there.
I‘d passed through Butwal before but without
staying. I soon found a hotel, and haggled for a room,
before going out on my bike. Then, something happened
that would have far-reaching ef-fects: overtaking
a rickshaw, my right pedal hit the kerb and bent;
the chain also came off. I searched for a place where
I could get the pedal straightened, but no-one could
do it; eventually, be-cause they were so cheap, I
had new peddles fitted, not knowing that, like shoes,
they were right-and-left specific.
I caught a bus to Nepalganj the next morning,
not wanting to go to Gorakhpur again. Like the previous
day, the trip took 9 hours, and upon arrival, instead
of loading my bike up ~ quite a job! ~ I got a rickshaw
to carry my bags to a nearby hotel, and gave him Rs20;
he seemed pleased enough, and asked if I’d like
him to take me to the border, 8 kms away, in the morning,
for Rs40. I told him to come at 6:30. It was much
warmer there on the plains than in the hills, and
I was able to shower in cold water.
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