Looking back over our foot-trail.

SAT 25 July.
NAYA PUL TO BIRETHANTI (1000m) - TIRKEDUNGA (1525m).

The trek begins!

Another noisy bus-ride climbing through verdant bushland. We stop where stalls line the road, and take food. A little girl clad in a ruffled red dress clutches a chunk of bread. She is very appealing. These people are poor; their clothes are dirty and thin, the stalls crude and cluttered, and the stoves just skeletons with a flame beneath. “Just think,” says Nadashree,” someone said, ‘let’s get a stall together.’ And here they are.” We ponder this, soberly.

Down wet and slippery rocks we go, carefully. Over flat stones, through a village (Birethanti)where people call to us to buy. Children run beside us, ‘School pen! School-pen! Sweets! Cash! Photo!” Chooks peck about, minding their own business.
We discover that there is no bank here, as Lonely Planet proclaimed. The Maoists put an end to it. Leeches loop about blindly on walls and in the stones.

trekking over
sharp paving stones -
my newly broken tooth.


We stopped at The Stone Spear for the night(Tirkedunga.) As for the last few days, I did not keep notes, but I recall that we were tired, climbing the stairs to our rooms wearily. I kicked my little toe on them during the night, raising a bloody flap that troubled me for days. We washed, hung our clothes on the balcony high above endless green jungle, and after Dhal bhat in the kitchen, slept.

BANTHANTI. 26 June.


Back to 2200 m. Walked a steep 500m yesterday, over several hours.

There was a wonderful waterfall, and of course Nadashree/Virginia wanted to swim. She did.

It was quite a long way down rocks to the river, and I was tired so I elected to stay and watch the packs as Matthew/Krishnadas and Dhurba joined her, cavorting in the shining water. Their laughter and singing wafted up to me.
Donkeys passed, then a porter with a basket on his back containing an old man! These steps are steep! Amazing.

Nasty nettles grew on the steps there. Not recognising them for what they were, I got several red burning patches where I'd brushed against them.

Matt came and relieved me, insisting that I go down to swim. The steps were difficult, but it didn't take long to get down and I paddled as Nad and Dhurba put their shoes on.

We stopped here at Tirkedunga because I asked them to. I have symptoms of an upper respiratory tract infection. Also some signs of altitude - I have to remember to breathe more deeply. Slept. Slept. Slept.
Feel better this mane though the URTI still there. Matt got tired last pm too, and also slept. His pack is very heavy.

We saw Annapurna, lit with sun, peeking through a gap in the tall hills beside this town. A river falls in twisted threads all the way down.

It rained overnight. There was a leech inside, on the ceiling, when Nad and I were eating. Matt stayed alone in his room, feeling tired. We laughed at ‘Step out - where’s my bottom? - hello bottom - step out.” I had a small leech on me the day before last.

8am and the sun has got its hat on. Mist blanked out everything at first, then moved like a legion of ghosts, up and along. Now it is all around the hilltops which disappear into cloud. Beyond them, if the low clouds evaporate, we may see the Himalayas again, for the sky is blue.

Matt and Nad sing in their room, and laugh. Dhurba and I laugh foolishly, playing with his new word-toy, discovered over the last hard steps yesterday. Lagging behind the others, I’d been saying, “Too much up.” Someone suggested I pray for down and I being Ambrose Bierce: “Oh yer, the laws of physics are likely to be annulled at my request; these ancient mountains’ topography are likely to be reconfigured at my whim.”
At once, around the next corner, we came to a small place that led down. There were cries of gratefulness to God/ the Universe. Around another corner. Upward steps as far as we could see.
“Bastard!” I said.
“Krishnadas is bastard?” said Dhurba.
“No. God is bastard,” I said.
Dhurba rocked about laughing. He kept using ‘bastard’ in that context, staggering about in helpless laughter. Of course I provoked it too.

“Mountain alert” says Matthew from the next room, and there it is, behind a clearing veil of cloud.
Soon though, large drifts of cloud sail up from deep in the valley from which we climbed yesterday. They obscure the view.

Matt gives me a demonstation about how to use the water in Asian toilets. In turn, I mime my difficulty, crouched and toppling backwards, pouring, reaching, yukk!

Later, “Do you want some breakfast, Mum?’ Matt calls from next door.
“No, I think I’ll operate on photosynthesis today,” I reply, “Of course I want some breakfast! What am I, a bloody plant?”

Am marked by the journey: many angry bites,rashes, bruises from my fall off the bike, scratches, the tick bite, discolouration at my ankles, and the cut where I kicked the step at Tikedhunga. Last night, after a shower, (with cold water, on ripped vinyl, temperamental taps and no safe place to put clothes,) I stepped out onto smooth concrete, skidded and sat down. Bumped my head, jarred my wrist. They have both had a bashing now, and are OK so guess my bone density must be good.
Call to nature. Bastard.
0900 The valley is filled with rising mist now! The view again blanked out in glaring white.
Toilet ordeal over, we are almost packed ready to face the trail again.

stone steps
always upwards -
bastards

26 JUNE

nepali guest house -
knee high steps
up to bed

We stayed another night. Matthew was weak and sleepy, his back sore, his tummy delicate. He’s afebrile, but me worried. He says he feels like he did when he had Malaria a few weeks ago. He had a couple of my Vibramycin. I have enough to last + 15 days post return, so can buy more in OZ. He can share mine.
Me stuffed up also.
There was a big storm last night. We were totally blacked out and no water. I talked late with a young American named Neil, who is studying the Moaists for his thesis. He’s asking locals a series of questions about them, and passing word that he wants to meet them.

Neil and Dhurba.

MON 27
GHOREPANI (2750m) at last!!!

We have reached the end of the Up. We take triumphant photographs but they are among the two rolls we had developed in Jomsom, and are no good. I'm going to try and get them re-developed.



Wrapped in sleeping bags we watch the sun set over the Annapurnas. There’s a lot of cloud, both below and above the peaks but the upper sky is turning tilled-field orange on blue, so we hope the peaks will soon blaze.

Matthew is stoked. We made it! He took a picture from my window.
Dhurba is trying on his new warm clothes, with much delight.

Quickly the scene outside ghosts out - mist going opaque as the sun sinks. Tomorrow before the valley mists rise will be the best time to see the mountains.

We have all showered, without towels, ( I think I will start a towels for Nepal campaign) and have dressed warmly. I have a bright red rosette on my L) shoulder and another on my chest as mementos of leeches.


Ghorepani dunny.

From Tirkedunga to Ghorepani (in retrospect.)

The walk was taxing. I set off alone to be joined by Neil as I washed my smalls in a stream. No water today and toilet… Later when the others caught up, we stopped at a teahouse for refreshments.
There was some stiff climbing: Ulleri (1960m,) Banthanti (2250m,) then on...



At Nangathanti (2460m)Nadashree played ‘bullfight’ with a kitten. She is very entertaining. I took some pictures.



We discovered to our dismay that cash was low! Neil also found that he couldn’t change the larger notes he had, so I loaned him r50, which he promised to deliver to a lodge in Ghoropani, giving us directions as he went on ahead.


Matt came in; mountain clearly there! He took a couple of pictures. Which one is it? So close! We are right on the fault line. Matthew’s face is shining: “That’s GREAT!!”


By the end of the walk today I was crying with fatigue despite my pack being carried by Matt and Dhurba at the end. This cold didn’t help, and we are at altitude 2750m.

ghorepani dusk -
the mountains silence
speaks

We will have to watch our rupees because cash is low, but tonight we will celebrate with whisky! A capful each.
We have dinner by the fire: Dhal Bhat. X 2 and chicken curry for me, N has noodles with her much beloved cheese. We dry our clothes, are warm and fed.




up the window
a leech climbs
the Himalayas






Nadashree climbed to the uppermost lodges, searching for one with a good view, and was unexpectedly given R50! Neil had been there, and had kept his word.











TUES 28 POON HILL ( 3210m)


We awake to mountains, mountains.
We climb again to see them better; up and up Poon Hill. AH!





Bees and flowers; bumbling furry orange-backed fumblers in the daisies, in the moist and lovely bulbs, in the orchids spilling from the trees.
Birds - we heard a silver-throated tale in Hindistani tones- we listened to its purity and were cleansed.








We climbed again and I cried with altitude and flies that bit me and because I hit my nose with my staff when I tried to knock one off my arm.





To reach beyond the mist high high to Poon Hill where there are mountains all around. And we took pictures.


















Dhurba slept at the top. He teases me that I cry at the bite of a butterfly and I him because he sleeps after such a SMALL climb. 3210metres high we go and are blessed with mountains, with birds and bees and flowers.
And leeches.
A fat one just makes its slow loopy escape across the floor as I talk with Matt and Nad re perhaps staying one more night. There is a splash, a circular red slash which Nadashree notices between my toes. There is a well there; the fount of the leech. I rescue this successful seeker of my protein and let it go out the window to lay eggs.


I had chicken for tea
And the leech had me-
Tra la tra lee
On Ilk lae moor ba’t ‘at.


- we sing-



We sang earlier today after we came down from Poon Hill, sitting in the courtyard as local women washed clothes at the communal tap. We did a little haka for them, then I sang an impromptu song about Poon Hill.
It went something like this:

‘But we came down the right way,
by bees that spoke of summer
and the warmth of Earth.
We heard a bird -
a silver-throated bird
that spoke
in Hindistani
of silver-throated secrets
only he and we
can know.
For my heart is a bird
a silver-singing bird;
I have heard its secrets
that only I can know.’







Wed 29th. On our way to CHITRE (2470m), SIKHA;(1980m) GHASA; (1780m) to TATOPANI(1190M.)

Now the Great Down begins, as we descend into the deepest valley in the world.
The vista comes upon me suddenly, shockingly, as the ground drops away to the river in miniature, colours fading with distance. Stone steps lead the way...

The beginning of the Down. Wow!




















Matthew warned me that down would be as bad or worse than going up, but I was still looking forward to it. However, Nepal is a land of extremes. We went down for days, all day. Here is my diary entry at the end of day 1 of the Down:

PHALATE ‘Nice View Lodge.’.

In a magnificent setting - a deep green valley with quaking Aspen-like trees. We slept in a poor hut but a sturdy one. Nadashree not happy as she wanted to go on, but we had come down a great way and my L) knee was troubling me, despite being bound with my scarf. Matthew was gaunt and tired, Dhurba was also tired as the downward trail was hard on his polio-wasted leg and hyper flexed knee.
He negotiated for r20 per double room. There were switches and lights, but no windows, no showers, thin mattresses over wood, and a corrugated iron roof.

We have found a shelter
and its not the Ritz -
climbing up the staircase
we must do the splits.

I sang the above to Nadashree and she smiled a little. We will eat and sleep, begin again at dawn or soon after.
A very drunk man came staggering down the steps, carrying his flip-flops. He tried to talk to us, then lurched off towards the lighted kitchen. Amazing to see him so far from anywhere, and down all those steps!

We had dhal bhat in the poor kitchen, after sitting around the fire with the family. Dhurba sang and we kept time, too tired to do much else. My cold is nearly gone but some asthma remains.

The toilet avoided until dawn; steps down a hazard in the dark, and stones for the dunny housed in a stick/plank shed. Products off the edge into the gully.

There was a great rain in the night. Lightning and loud thunder. Drops through holes in the roof. One long roar after a flash - the hut shook and I had visions of being swept away, wood snapping and splintering, tumbling down….
We are told that Neil is staying nearby.
Matt thinks the long thunder was an avalanche echoing through the valley.

THURSDAY 30 TATOPANI.

What a day yesterday was! We walked, walked, walked. Down down down. My leg protested. I wrapped it firmly in my wide bandage, which helped, but it still hurt, getting steadily worse. I don’t think it is injured, since there is no pain on weight bearing, just bending it, therefore it is due to unaccustomed exercise only and will heal strongly. I use the stick and go carefully.

Breakfast in a tea-house; beautiful soft Nepalese bread at 5R each. I saved my two hard-boiled eggs for later. We use iodine to make safe the water which flows clear and tempting from communal founts and cheerful streams.

Chooks clean the floor. A young woman cooks quickly and well at a woodfire shaped like an igloo, with a long entrance. Potato/veg curry taken by Dhurba. Nadashree happy. My nose is still runny so I am glad to be allowed to burn tissues here.


Watching Nepali working the rice paddies with an ox.





Um ... yes, that is my nightie. Nothing else was dry enough to wear that day, and I thought, "Who's going to notice?"





We come upon Neil again in Sikha. He has met the Maoists! He has photos, recordings and written replies, including a letter. He’s delighted! We are also excited, wanting to hear all about his meetings.
As we talk, a woman passes the door, carrying a baby in a basket. Then a man comes in. He tosses his backpack on a bench to our left, and with confidence, puts something on the table in front of us. It is a book of receipts. He is the Maoist Regional Commander.
They are asking for a donation of 1000R each. We do not have it. I look him in the eyes and tell him this, offering to give him anything else of value we may have. His eyes are clear. He seems a nice man. I find the sewing kit. He nods. Matthew gives him two pens and two batteries. We add two ponchos. He smiles faintly. “Can I have a receipt?” I ask. He writes me one, in clear English. He helps me repack my bag.
Neil gives him 2000R, with good grace, “I expected to pay a fine and I am happy to do it. I’m a rich American, and I led them to you guys.”
I say namaste to the Commander as he leaves, bow with praying hands. He stiffens his spine, draws a breath and says, “ We do not do namaste as Maoists. It has its origins with castes; it is class oriented. We are equals in Maoism.” Then he leaves.
We are soooo stimulated!

Later on we pass a meeting. A man’s loud voice sounds fanatical, it reminds me of Hitler, or a preacher. He is at the front of a group of people on a verandah. There’s a rifle beside him.
I decide it is prudent to walk past.


So,TATOPANI at last. It was hard going, the thousands of downward steps a challenge for my knee. But I powered up the ‘up’ bits! Amazing.
I left a boiled egg for my son, walking alone behind us. Nadashree is following at a distance, coming to terms with her behaviour last night, Matt says.

The last downward trail of 380m took us to GHAR KHOLA village:

temple to Shiva -
donkeys ring their bells
as they pass

Matthew visited a dilapidated little temple, perched above the Kali Gandakhi. I watched him treading carefully across ricketty re-enforcements, my breath loud despite attempts to hush it. He rang the bell before he entered, as is customary. Donkeys came over the long swing bridge, their smells and dong dong dong dongs as much a presence as their bulky wet bodies crowding by.


The temple is in the background, as Matt/KD strikes an heroic pose.




I cross the Kali Gandaki. Nadashree and Dhurba wait, tiny dots on the far side.




On we go...


TREKKERS’ LODGE.

Dhurba has found us a place, which had been closed since the tourist season has passed. It is beside the river which roars constantly. We are at the bottom of the deepest valley in the world. A thin waterfall threads straight down from the top of a sheer cliff behind us, on the other side of the Kali Ghandiki.
Fireflies flitted about the garden last night, like fairy lanterns - they were in the dark street too. Light rain fell - there is no lighting in the street - we used torches to cross the monsoon drains (slabs of rock) and traverse the uneven surface - small steps up to the candle-lit restaurant, (Bob Marley.) Dhal bhat.


Dhurba with the lodge owner and her son. This little boy has a frozen elbow due to an uncorrected dislocation.


Neil turned up shortly after us. Over dinner he told us he’d been to the meeting and is now on his way to Beni.
Everyone but me went down to the hot springs; it was down some very steep stone steps by the river and the light was poor. (Steps leading out of sight…) I got into a bit of a panic when it got dark and no-one had returned. One slip could have had nasty repercussions, way out here.
They enjoyed it though it was very hot. Matt left his Mala there and is keen to find it, asking around this morning and just now proposing that we stay a day.
Cold shower for me last pm. Slept well to strange dreams and woke knowing my Pete was still dead, his loss overwhelming.

Barely a twinge in my body this morning. My knee is perfect. Amazing. There’s an odd bright rash again where my socks have been. I look at my body with its scars and remember his - he never seemed to grow old though the shape of his body changed it was always firm and fine.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror outside. Good lord is that me?

During laundry washing I hear a strange sound; perhaps the Wookie’s voice was inspired by this noise! A buffalo tied in a stall nearby bawls at me, her mouth wide.
I take her water in the bucket we use for laundry - she sucks it straight down. I get more for a second, larger one, but Buff #1 wants more and the bucket is tipped over next to the wall.
“Bring it back girls, I am afraid of you,” I say, but I have to go and get it, leaning past those great curving horns. In the course of this day I fetch several bucketsful for them and well before dusk we are friends.







Here's the Guest-house owner feeding the buffalo. She has skeins of hay which unravell artistically. See how big the buffs are!






As I get the third bucketful, Dhurba comes saying, “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
There is a MONEYCHANGER here! My last US $50 has saved us! Dhurba is paid back (ie expenses incurred on behalf of the group,) and I give Matt half, plus all the change.
Now we don’t have to hurry on. Nadashree’s apple cheeks are back with her dancing eyes and flashng smile. Matthew is eating extra. We rest. I talk a lot with Neil, go for a dip with him in the hot pool while Dhurba cooks our dhal bhat.
The water is hot. I ease myself in, fully clothed because there are locals there, and I am not lovely. It is some time before I realise that I am still wearing my bum-bag! Passport, tickets, my trekking permit and all are wet. Not too bad though. Nearly dry now.

We write postcards, but can’t find a post office. Perhaps it is better to carry them ourselves to Jomsom where there is an airport, though Beni is only a day from here.
We have two new films.



Dhurba cooked us a lovely dinner, with lots of greens including pumpkin tendrils from the garden. The women wouldn’t let me wash up.


We played ‘Pictionary’ with the women and children, at Matt’s instigation, using scraps of paper. It was fun.









Dhurba, as always, is very good with children; a born teacher.










Watching a young woman weaving today, we learn that she is 24 and has three children, who play nearby.
“The same age as Neil,” I say.
“Where are your children?” she asks him.
“Mine are swimin’ around down here and I’m not letting’ ‘em out,” he says. I can’t stop laughing.
I have grown fond of him, but tomorrow he is leaving.

Nadashree has a small bat in her room.

1 July. Onward to DANA;(1400m) RUKCHE; (1560M) TO GHASA (2120M.)

Rain rain rain rain as you can see by the state of this book. We did not leave until after midday. D and I went first, the others did meditation after a slow pack after breakfast after sleeping in …


And so it rained.





A charming couple show us how to eat cashews.


We met porters, barefoot and unprotected, when they set their burdens down near someone’s porch. We also. M and N met us there as we dressed in rain-gear. They brought Toblerones. I gave the porters a piece each.



Such water! Long long waterfalls fell from high cliffs, the river churned and roared,
concrete coloured water meeting white,ever rising, rushing down to India, bringing life.





















I did chook imitations for children as we waited (soaking,) for tea at another porch in a village. We had Nepali bread, eggs, cheese and Toblerone with chai at a Teahouse.
The woman who serves us seems to live here alone; her bed is a room next door; we see a mosquito net. A thin mattress on the earth is her sofa. She is elderly, thin and gracefully feminine. She sits on a teeny low stool. I give her cheese and bread, which seems to surprise her, but she takes it with a smile.
Chickens will clean her floor when we leave.



We LOVE walking in the rain. Brave wheat sprouts from droppings, mules pass, jingling, men drive them clad in plastic bags.
The track turns into creeks. We climb them carefully.

I notice a young Nepalese couple struggling on a flight of stones. “Is she all right?” I ask.
“Can you help us?” says the man, “She has hurt her foot.”
I go back, we search my pack for the wide crepe bandage but it is difficult with water sluicing past us and rain on my glasses. I find the smaller one and bind her swollen foot. I offer her my staff but the man goes and finds a bamboo one for her. Matt gives them two Iboprufen. She is able to walk after that. They have come from Beni and have hours yet to go.


At RUKCHE we stop at a guesthouse beside a beautiful high waterfall and a rushing gorge, the owner running beside us to bargain in the rain.
Yes yes, a fire, free bed, dhal dhat.
The fire is brought in a metal bowl, set on the stone floor of the lounge. There is no chimney = smoke which rises, wafts to sting our eyes and choke us. We wash our clothes in cold water - mud has gotten into my pack when I set it down to bind the foot - we hang clothes upstairs from railings, and around the fire. Documents are wet (again) - I lay mine out on the bed to dry.

Nadashree is not so well. She eats a little - noodles- we consume dhat bhat and millet whiskey.
Dhurba can’t sleep. He is worried about the checkpoint just ahead, having left his ID behind at Pokhara.

SAT 2 July.

This morning I sit in the kitchen drinking Nepali tea with locals who pop in from the rain. The porters were here early, then they set off, laden, their loads under plastic. Men bearing huge burdens pass, bright plastic dripping.



I am trying to draw Max, a cute puppy, but he won’t stay still.

I draw the proprietress/owner, just a sketch, but she is moved. Her eyes fill up with tears, she hides her face in her shawl. I give the picture to her. It is on her pillow.




Two Babas come in. I draw them too, with urgings from Dhurba and Matthew, who have joined us. They come out OK, and we take photos of them with their portraits and Dhurba. We arrange to meet in Jomsom.

As we leave, a man stands on the bridge, miming a tragedy that took the lives of young men who went swimming in the lake way above in the fierce rush of the waterfall.



Up and up again we go. Rain falls. We pick our way around soggy rockslides. We cross the river again.














on a swing bridge orchids high above the gorge





We climb. 500m (or so) endless steps in the rain.
A black dog comes with us for a long way, running ahead of D and I as we lead the trail, or trotting alongside. We are beginning to wonder if this dog has adopted us when porters come the other way and suddenly the dog trots back with one of them.


For hours we climb past marjuana as far as we can see.


There are more mudslides and rock falls; the trail is getting dangerous.



GHASA.



Here is the bridge that leads to the Army/ Police check point. This is the time and place that Dhurba has dreaded.




















But now we are safe and sound, lying about in my room. It is still raining. We have few dry clothes. We’ve been held by the military, and the police at Ghasa. For one and a half hours. Because Dhurba left his ID behind.
Nat and Matt went on ahead to see the ‘big soldier’ who had indicated “Not possible” via walkie-talkie to the soldiers at the post by the swing bridge. Ie Dhurba can not proceed. Matt stepped forward demanding to know what is to be done. “Here is my sixty-year old mother. She can’t go back. Who do I have to speak to to get this decision reversed? I want to see him NOW.”
D and I stayed behind, wet and cold. He took his boots off and casually rolled up his trousers so they could see his withered leg and deformed foot.
I suddenly saw my Pete sitting in Jungle greens with his rifle and I cried.
The bridge was shut at 630pm and we went to an adjacent house. Little chickens ran, wet and lively, cheeping. A woman gathered them, piled them in her hands, took them inside.
I asked for the toilet. A soldier took me behind a building and told me to go there.
A new shift of soldiers came. One spoke roughly to Dhurba in Nepalese,”Why did you leave your ID behind?” Later he was kind, (though a great spitter,) reminding me of Larry. He asked me how old I was at one point, and I asked his age also - 35. The other chap guarding us was 36.
News came through at last. OK.

We trouped off and were met by Matthew who had come back to carry D’s bag, who then took mine. On we trudged, cold and wet, to meet Captain Rasin for his signature. He was a charming young man who made a little speech to Matt as we parted, saying how pleased he was, personally, to meet him, and that he hoped they would meet again.
Later, in darkness and rain, we found shelter.

But the BIGGEST THING was the waterfall we had to cross, high above the river! Water fell thundering, swirling dangerously across the track, even big rocks almost submerged, swift current fleeing over slick smooth stones to plunge into the gorge far, far below.
Dhurba was ahead of me as I laboured up the steep path. He reached a corner, looked, and turned back to me, his tongue hanging out.
No wonder. As we watched, there was a great crash as something fell, a gush of water and debris followed by more crashes as whatever it was went tumbling down, around and OVER the edge, boom booming all the way down. The water rose as we watched, creeping up the sandy stones at the track’s edge.
There were big stepping stones but they were almost submerged, and the first one was over a great swooping swirl that scooped very quickly past us and went straight down.
I said, “Let’s see what Krishnadas says,” and we waited anxiously for him and Nad to catch up. A local suddenly appeared walking swiftly up the slope. To my amazement he jumped onto the first rock and wearing flip-flops, skipped across the stepping stones.
Matthew evaluated the situation in a businesslike manner and didn’t waste any time. He found the shallowest place a way back from the edge. He laid our staffs in front of us and showed us how to cross abreast. The local turned back and helped us to get out. Matt, Nadashree and Dhurba went first, then he came back for me. It was all over in short order. The air was filled with the water plume. We hurried away.







As we set off the next morning, children's voices wafted out to us through misty rain, seeming like something from a dream. "ABCDEFG..." Matthew wrote it down for them, and we all sang. A monk wandered down to see what was going on.



















Sun 3 July. GHASA to KOTHETHANTI.


Whew! Whew! Whew!
Most amazing day of amazing days! On the trail you can see behind this house at LETE (2530m), I nearly got KILLED by a big rock which fell at my feet without warning, breaking into smaller pieces at the bottom as it rolled a bit - they flew off, hitting my legs, scattering like chickens.
No-one was hurt! Amazing! The rock fell among us, straight down, impacting inches into the ground. I felt the air displaced.

We, D and I, were high above the river (hidden in mist but roaring.) The track was littered with fallen stones and earth, splitting away from the edge in running cracks, slippery with donkey dung, sloping ever upwards.
We came to the workers Neil had told us about,”They are desperate for bandages,” he said, and brought a crepe one to give them.
We set our bags down near the top, on a wide curve. A tree was fallen from the cliff above, its roots still in the soaking soil. Young men toiled in the mud from slips, and drove metal spikes into the earth. Most of them were barefooted; they tore at the rocks and dirt with bare hands.
I gave them the bandage from Neil, some rubber gloves, guaze bandages and bandaides.
“That’s enough,” said Dhurbar so I stood up and said, “That is to SHARE among you,” as one man, (they were boys, really) took off with all of it.
The others weren’t happy. He is the boss. D growled at me for not passing the bandages to him and I growled back reminding him that he has a mouth in his head! He admitted then that he didn’t know that this one person would take it all.

So. I opened the pack again and gave them Matt’s cloth to be torn up, the wide crepe bandage, two guaze bandages and swabs, two occlusive dressings and a wad of cotton wool I’d used to wrap my ankle when breaking in my boots. Resealed the bag. Stood back a bit from the circle of boys trying to light cigarettes donated by Dhurba, using the so-called waterproof matches I got in NZ.
D laughed, threw them the box and began to walk towards me, then
WHOMP!

The boys ran downhill. I reversed, stumbling towards the edge then upwards. Dhurba grabbed his pack as he passed, I dashed back and snatched mine, and we ran, dragging our backpacks. The boys called, ”Bye bye!” and from a safer distance, we waved.

At the top of the hill, dogs barked and circled us. When they seemed to be closing I waved my stick and flew at them. Our hearts pumping with altitude, exertion and stress, we hurried on.
When the other two caught up they said they’d seen this big rock in the middle of the path, and saw that it had only recently fallen. We told them what happened and huffed about how lucky we’d been.




4 July. KOKTETANTI - TUKCHE (2590m).

0600. Morning, misty and grey, but the mountains are visible in black and white. Matthew is very attracted by them - he has binoculars now, (from the lodge owner, aged 65,) and is examining cornices from the roof. There is a long glacier-like bench-ful of piled snow also. He wants to go up to the ice-fall, but besides this threat of avalanche there is evidence of dirty snow lower down and waterfalls nearby.

But we are into the rainshadow. Now the river flows past within a wide shallow bed, in a much calmer mood. All night it sounded like soft, steady rain.




As you can see, pilgrims, the river is quite calm...

















My bed is hard, as they are, here. I woke often, as usual. Dogs barked for a long time, chasing something up the street.
Another amazing day packed with adventure but no light to record it.




Workers. Under plastic because it is raining.


We pass by to smiles and 'Namaste.'


TUKCHE (2590 metres)<

Oh my goodness! More and more adventures. We are exhausted.
There were demolition explosions, for which we had to wait, milling together with locals. All of us were tired, perhaps especially me. I slowed everybody down. Matt massaged my feet.



Dhurba and I had a hard time crossing this plain of pebbles. It was threaded with winding streams but they were to deep and swift for us to cross, especially since his withered leg and foot got terribly cold when we tried.
















After a meal at a table with a skirt, I am asked what I'd like to drink. "Oh just a glass of milk," I say. An hour and a half later the guesthouse owner tells me that someone had to milk the Buffalo, away in the forest. I would never had asked had I realised it would be this much trouble. Of course the price was high.
The next day Dhurba tells me that there are no buffalo at this altitude, and that they got cow's milk from another lodge.


cold wind --
fire beneath a table
with a skirt

5 July. TUKCHE via MARFA (2680m) to JOMSOM (2713m.)

0720 More mountains this morning. Matt and me watch them slipping out from behind clouds/mist. “It’s as if they don’t exist,” says he, “Until they appear.’
Blue sky, more and more of it. Perhaps we will see mountains aplenty!

D and I set out for Jomsom. We marched and marched, barely stopping and I’ll have to recall it in more detail later -am very tired and went into a connuption this afty.


Marpha um Arfa um Matta at Marfa.






The beautiful Nadashri.









Dhurba and I walked from0930 - 1330. M and N arrived 1430.
Sent email to Baz. Postcard and ticket change, photos, all have to wait. A rest day manana. Aaaaaah!

universal language
always causing laughter -
farts

6 July. JOMSOM.



Tried to change ticket mane. The usual Asian difficulties on the phone; I tell M to let it be. He upset. I feel like a big pest.
As I wait, I leaf through ‘Into Thin Air,’ thinking to buy it for my son. The owner-man tells me,”Excuse me. Be careful this book. It is new book.” I put it back and leave.
We are treated like wallets here. Constant attempts are made to get our money, and there is contempt if we do not buy. It is exhausting.
Yesterday, as I came downstairs the lady owner offered me the phone for international calls. I thanked her, thinking that it would be part of the honour system we have elsewhere, but no. It is expensive.
Then she noticed my feet were bare, as I headed out to buy thongs. She exclaimed with concern and led me off to get some. To her shop.
Every time we poke our heads out we are asked when we want to eat. She turned the electricity on when there were no hot showers as promised, then turned it off again at night. It was pitch black, and the eyes do not adjust.

Dhurba has got my ticket changed! Yaaaay! I go now on 21st Aug at 12md.




7th July.
0730. We awake to mountains again. Snow covered. Against blue sky.
“Major mountain alert” says Matt, and we climb the wooden steps to the roof. The soil there is fine, damp and cool beneath my bare feet. Dhurba spreads his arms wide, sings “Bum bum boolay!” to the town. Nad, smiling, walks about in an early morning just-woken shuffle. Matt/Krishnadas wants to climb the hills, and probably will.


We move to JIMI HENDRIX.

We changed Guesthouses yesterday. We are now at Jimi Hendrix, allegedly frequented by him once. There’s a quote from one of his songs written on the wall and dated 1967. Above KD & Nadashree’s room is painted, ‘The Jimi Hendrix Room,’ where he stayed. There are ‘poems’ to him and to pot all over the walls.
This place is much better. Poorer by far but welcoming, friendly and with charactor.

The river churns by, just the other side of the pathway where ringing donkeys pass and men stroll, wearing their little hats, in the morning sunshine. Women hang washing in the inner courtyards. Cows, horses and goats are still inside their stalls. There are few chooks here; too cold for them in winter, I expect.
Nad cradles a kitten, tenderly. She wraps it in a purple scarf, like a baby, then she croons over it, her eyes lit, her face soft and gentle.

0830. M and N leave to climb the hills -only about 1500 m. “It will take about four hours, says Matt.”
D and I head off to do the washing at a communal fount. On the way we pass an ingenious little water-driven mill, powdered with flour inside and smelling wonderful.
The fount is pretty grubby, and the surrounding area is littered with plastic, odd shoes and old clothes. A man showers there, keeping his shorts on. Dhurba tosses our washing into the cubicle with him.
The concrete is slippery, oozy with slime and grey soap sludge. Dhurba squats, lays his wrap down and begins to scrub clothes on this clean surface, using the usual hard orange soap. I help, but he isn’t impressed with my efforts, though he lets me rinse.
Behind the washing-place is the Army camp, bordered by coils of vicious-looking wire.

washing flaps
from razor wire --
river passes by

As we wait for our clothes to dry I look for M and N in the bare hills, but don’t see them. My eye is attracted by a bird flying very fast beside the high cliffs. It looks like it is playing, riding winds. Sometimes it moves too quickly for my eye to follow and it seems to disappear suddenly, reappearing some distance away as I scan for it. Perhaps it is insectivorous, not playing but hunting.

A beautiful young woman comes by with two baskets. She has a big conical one on her back and another small one, into which she scoops animal droppings, flinging them over her shoulder in a flowing gesture.
Ah, the vagaries of fate that made her so lovely yet placed her here, collecting dung for a living!

scarf in the wind -
the dung collector’s
pretty face

Tomorrow is some anniversary re the king, and his picture (and that of his wife,) appeared suddenly, pasted in public places. By evening many of them are defaced.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men patrol the streets and watch from barbed wire sentry posts. Rifles are pointed at us casually, or lie leaning against walls in silent threat, but the people here are well dressed, clean and healthy-looking, possibly due in part to high employment by the Army and Police forces.

Yesterday a string of men marched down from one of the hills, then past us in the main street. They were very young, (one of them a European!) some of them with flat rocks strapped to their backs. They smiled and chatted to each other, seeming to be in good spirits and with energy.

This king is not liked. Behind the scenes we hear persistent stories that the previous king and his family were killed , not by the Crown Prince as is usually touted, but by his own son, Paris. Apparently Paris is known be to a bad sod, with a reputation for gun infringements and assaults. No-one seems convinced that his small injury at the time of the murders means that he is innocent.

river flows
against the wind --
king’s birthday

We visited a local ceremony last night, attended by Babas, one of them the dark chap I drew.
He told me his name, but I have forgotten it, alas. Dhurba said he was coming to Jimi Hendrix last night, but there were soldiers passing as we left, and D thinks he may have been afraid. He is, he says. They may hit him. They do, occording to local wisdom, incommon with many tales we have heard along the track, they often do.

dark shapes patrol --
we pass with greetings
namaste

M and D left last night, bound for the Baba-house, in light rain. Nadashree had gone out alone, so I sat and untangled her purple skein, (newly purchased.) D came back shortly, in high excitement, “Oh come marm: Krishnadas dances with Nepali - there are many women, bhajans, oh come please!”
We search for the camera in vain and by the time we get there the musical bit is over. I join the crowd, cross-legged on the mat by my son, and listen to speeches, then the presentation of laminated certificates. Locals are given their certificates in recognition of abstainence from alcohol and /or smoking. It is handed first to the speaker at the microphone, who reads the account, then to a Baba, who hands it to the recipient. Another Baba leans forward from the holy enclosure, daubing the celebrated one with red between the eyes, to applause.
Then comes chanting, lighted little bowls on a chain swing over and over to bells, bells.
The Baba, (a Brahman, I am told,) is intense, focussing on the altar which contains rows of dark round shapes, like small polished turtle shells. He rings a bell continuously with one practiced hand, the other holds a lamp-thing which sometimes sends smoke with which he blesses the congregation. We turn on a personal axis, clockwise, once. Then we’re invited forward. Matt and I are collected, space is cleared for us to pass. I hang back but am urged forward to receive sugar in cupped hands, and a brown liquid is tipped on it. I taste then put the rest on my hair, as others do.
We are invited to share the Babas’ mat. I sit and am joined by Krishnadas, Dhurba, a young girl, and other Babas. (The roof leaks close to my L) shoulder, wets the mat.) A young man engages Matt with questions, speaking animatedly. Matthew/ Krishnadas responds, wide-eyed, alert and natural, with humour. Dhurba translates for him after a while. (Nad comes in and sits with us!)
They are the usual questions: ‘Do you believe in science or religion? Can science make a dead body walk? What has gone when the body dies? He monopolises the group.
Matt gives very good, original replies ringing with honesty. I see that others appreciate this.
When it is proclaimed, “A dead body can’t walk from Naya Pul to Jomsom,” I say, “I brought mine here!” which causes laughter.

Dhal bhat for dinner, tho Nadashree has ‘sping rolls’ x 2. It’s in a kind of short pastry and not the Chinese one I expect. They drink cider and home-made wine as Matt plays guitar and sings.
We also sang earlier today, as we sat with local customers in the dining room. They helped us to wind Shree’s tangled skeins. I gave them a rendition of ‘Dona Nobis Parchem,’ and they sang Nepali songs to us. It was wonderful.

over broken stone
prayer flags facing China
never still

1545 All day the wind has blown. People have passed by but Krishnadas and Nadashri have not come home.

We could not get our photos developed since ‘the boss man did not come back.’ They do not know when he will be here.
Dhurba and I slept in our room.
Later we walked back to the airport part of town and yes, we can get photos. They will be ready at 630pm, so we had Nepalese tea and went to the internet. One from Ron beginning, ‘The third week of hell…’ Replied to him, Baz and Trav. The photos were ready, only half an hour late and were poorly developed. -sigh-
M and N were there when we returned! Matthew has collected fossils for me! They are excellent!


Nilgiri from the summit.


Photos taken from the mountains above Jomsom.


A wild mountain girl.









FRI.8th

Big talk this morning -- we go on today so we can meet together at the end in time for my plane. Dhurba has news that his friend is at Pokhara.
By the time we scanned photos and sent them it was really too late to go. So we stayed on.
I drew Dhurba at his request, watched by locals who pop in all the time. One man proclaimed,”Exact’ and kept saying WOW! Which helped.

I went out cutting cow-food with Sukmaya, (the guesthouse owner) and her daughter. Cowfood is a lanky form of clover with yellow flowers. We reaped it with a sythe, put it in conical baskets which are suspended from one’s forehead by a wide strap.
We also collected ‘buckwheat,’ which is like kumara but there was no sign of tubers. I really like the stuff. There was coriander growing in the gardens there, (allotments?) which we gathered as well.
Back at the lodge I sat and trimmed the roots off the buckwheat, much to the surprise of some folks.
Likewise carrying the produce home, two with head baskets and I with a brimming armful of cow-food.
Tonight I had a ‘shower’ with a bucket of warm water, then sat with Dhurba in the kitchen area listening to their animated tales.
Matthew seems happy.



From Jomsom, via KAGBENI (2810m) to JHARKOT (3500m.)


Jarkot and Muktinath in the left middle distance.







Workers.










One comes down to help me cross.







Sunday 10 July.
Yesterday, (ah, was it only yesterday?) we walked for eight hours through the desert in the heat of day.


Then, after refreshments here at Romeo and Juliette Guesthouse,
we walked another 1 ½ hours uphill. We thought the distant township was realted to this guesthouse where we rested and brought scarves (for Kura and Moira-Wyn,) but we were mistaken. In fact we are now only one hour (almost vertically,) from Muktinath, but Matthew has hurt his heel, so we are stuck.


We bathed it in cold water, rubbed it with Ayuvedic linament, bound it with a new crepe bandage and elevated it. He was fretful though; wanted a local cure. He sent me out to find some comfry. I returned with dock, new moist leaves and a couple of clean bigger ones, from a nearby stream. There was no comfry to be seen. He wanted the dock pulverized, heated and applied as a poultice, he wanted to drink it. I told him I’ve never heard of it being taken internally, though it is used as a local application in New Zealand.
D and I went out to find a local herbalist. We climbed again, and at last found the Monastry (Gompa) where there is the Muktinath School of Traditional Medicine. We waited there, and waited. I found a tack in my shoe and put it in the notice board.


At last we arranged for someone to come to to the Guesthouse, and just after 2pm a monk came. He palpated Matthew’s foot, felt pulses in both arms, went away and returned with red paste, cloth, and two small bags of powdered herbs.
The red paste is applied and looks gory. It is covered by cloth and bound with the crepe. The herbs are to be taken , ½ tsp at a time, one packet in boiling water and the other to be cooked for ten minutes in soup.
(They proved to be “Not nice,” according to my son, but he took them stoically.)
We gave a donation for the Gompa, as the monk sat on the floor with us watching a CD about a woman who travelled to Tibet, 20years or so ago when visitors were forbidden. Locals laughed at the scenes shown, for they were not of Tibet, but the wide river bed just below us, and of Kagbeni.

Maybe Matthew will take a horse to Muktinath tomorrow. He also wants me to try and see if I can ride, so we can see if I could go over the Pass this way.

The Campaigner against Drink and Alcohol is here, (the chap who engaged Matt with questions, ) walking the streets with a little flag and clipboard. Getting recruits. The flag has a white sickle moon and star, crudely sewn in white material.

Retrospective: Jomsom to Jharkot.

Hotel Hill-ton, at Little Kagbeni, in the desert, had a wonderful pattina on the old boards of his dining room floor. Thick and strong still, the varnish was worn into the smooothness of the wood.
An old man paced here. He wore John Lennon glasses. I haven’t seen many glasses in Nepal, especially not out here.

in the desert
a hungry cow
eats dung

When we set off again, (D and I first as usual,) ‘Rich Tibetans’ on horses passed us jingling and with wool ornaments flying. The women smiled widely, their faces bronze, their clothes bright.
“ A lot of Tibetans are rich,” says Durbar; “Gold. Also because they look after each other. Their whole culture is at threat.”


Above KAGBENI we stopped to breathe. Somehow it got difficult. I lay on the plateau and coughed for a while, but Matthew, Nadashree and Dhurba recovered before me and began to play cricket with a tennis ball.








The scenery is absolutely magnificent. Breathtaking desert dry stony land, high folded strata dropping sharply to the Kali Gandaki, on the banks of which is the old Tibetan village of KAGBENI. We didn't stop, but I wish we had.
It was very hot. D and I were far ahead of the others, and the sun was burning me badly.

Near Jharkot, I lagged behind badly, so Matthew came back and walked with me. This town is an oasis and quite lovely with lots of flowers and green grass, flowing little streams cleverly directed, and a rural atmosphere.
A woman and a boy came up to us, the boy showing Matthew the ulcers in his mother’s mouth, and asking for help. He showed us that he already had antibiotics and Vit B tablets, so Matt told him to give her citrus juice and keep her mouth clean.

Dhurba rejoined us, and as Matthew and Nadashri went off to investigate the accomodation D had found, he and I sat on a stone wall. Our packs were all off, lined up there: a common site along the trail.
Goats ran down the cobbles, going at their usual rapid pace, eager to leap and find anything eatable. A crippled man goes after them and herds them back. One leg is much shorter than the other, and he holds the thigh in order to walk. The lower leg is not wasted though, so I conclude that he has an unset femural fracture. No doubt the fragments have over-ridden and are unstable.

the crippled man
holds his leg
herding goats

Calves and foals were driven past. ‘Different castes,’ said Dhurba with a smile.

calves and foals
together in a herd --
different castes

At last M and N returned, and we headed off to the Peace House , (which I later called ‘Piece o’ piss house,’ because of the way both Nadashri and Dhurba pronounce it,) longing for rest. As we neared the hotel, a drunk Nepalese, dazzled by Nadashri’s beauty, said “Namaste” and collided with a post. He slithered down it spiral fashion, and we couldn’t help laughing. He made quite a -bonk!- noise when he hit the pole, too.

So. I went straight to bed and slept soundly. Not Matthew though. He and D went sightseeing.
Dhurba and I went out walking this afty and I saw the place where Matthew fell. It was off one of the flat house-tops. He fell about 4 -5 feet, onto a rock. It got dark quickly, and Matt said, “Follow me, Dhurba,” and then stepped off into darkness. D said “Where have you gone?” as it was so black, but he found his way back down to help Matthew back to the Peacehouse.
Matthew was very fortunate not to have been seriously injured. I’m sure it was his fitness, rockclimbing experience and years of yoga that saved him. Plus luck.

We saw poor little calves again, looking miserable and nibbling on onion shoots. I started collecting bits of dropped cow-food, and gathered grass from a stream-bed for them. It came up, unexpectedly, roots and all, splattering my sleeve and face. Dhurba found this most amusing: “You tourists like six-year old children.”

It seems that Nadashri had also said, “Follow me Dhurba,” then fell flat on her back. So it’s become another shared phrase of ‘Follow me Dhurba,’ followed by, ‘No, let’s wait till it’s dark.’

We had a milk chai at a teahouse, (where a toddler played with a machete,) and I saw cows return from the fields to be milked before their calves drank. Up here people are not so kind to cows; they are hit and kicked. Perhaps it’s because they are Tibetans.

Later, I helped a mother and daughter thresh wheat, pick out remaining ears, and stack the straw. Durba watched. It seems men don’t do this kind of work.

gold and grey
finches in the wheat
early harvest

MON 11 July.

We left late yesterday, after breakfast in Matt and Nad’s room. Omelet and two chapattis for me. Likewise them. Matt’s foot is a bit better. I bound it again for him so he can get his boot on. The horse and man are coming at noon.
Dhurba and I set off, across a lovely meadow bounded by rock fences and a stream. Lacy trees give shade. A calf feeds here on yellow clover, a foal lies outstretched, asleep, and a healthy-looking horse pulls at lush grass.
“That’s Krishnadas’ horse,” says Dhurba, “Fifty rupee half hour to feed.”

We climb. Out of the green and quickly into steep dry hills, up and up. The air is thin and my heart is soon slapping, but after only half an hour, there is Muktinath. We can hardly believe it! We walk the paved streets, going down.

MUKTINATH 4710 m

It lacks the oasis-sense of Jharkot. There is bare soil everywhere, stubby shrubs and dock in seed, the occasional patch of small trees.
Sad calves dawdle, their heads down, their tails tucked under.

Children play though, as children do: beside the guesthouse we chose, a small boy is inventive with his meagre resources. He sits atop a stack of stuffed sacks, beating a blue plastic container with a stick. Boom, boom, boom-boom. Up and down he climbs. He nestles in a couple of places, putting his head down in one.
He puts his lips on the drum, then his head inside as he beats. He sings. He puts his head inside again again sings.
Apparently by accident he rolls the drum and looks at me with delight as it careers down a small slope. He runs after it, retrieves it, rolls it over and over again, smiling…

Here's the child described above. He's only two, and has a baby sister. His Mum runs the Guesthouse. He's an amazing little boy. Matthew gave him the tennis ball they hit around the plateau above Kagbeni.




D leaves me here and goes to meet Krishnadas/Matthew and Nadashri. At last they arrive in light rain, Matt sitting high, my son against an unlikely setting.

We consider again which place to stay. Even off-season it is expensive.
Matt/KD indicates a fenced area on the hill above us. “That’s the real Muktinath,” he says, “There are many temples there; for thousands of years it has been a place of enduring pligrimage for both Hindus and Buddhists.”
I wonder why. I didn’t expect the streets to be lined with gold, but I must have expected Something because I’m somewhat let down.
Matthew observes that viewing temples would not appeal to me and I agree.
“You’re good with exploring the outer things but not the inner,” he says, or something like that.
I tell him that I have looked and found nothing that holds meaning for me now. That my present state of no-god is peaceful, comparatively, and that perhaps this is enlightenment, realising that there is no caring diety so we must care for each other and the planet.
A helicopter delivers a group of Indians to the fenced area, then flies then away after an hour.

The Pass, so close, is like the neck of a bottle, firmly corked. It is a wedge at the end of the world. I came here hoping for something to prove me wrong; to link with my beloved.
Last night I dreamed Peter was alive. We were going to re-marry. I said, “We are still married of course. But people told me he was dead. Do you realise what you have put me through by telling me he was dead?”
I said, “I love you, Peter Earsman,” but don’t remember meeting him.

So now I must return, as I did from the dream, as I must from the dream of my quest in Nepal for some trace of him, some evidence that he lives in spirit. There is nothing here, not even a link to my old lucid dream about a thin path before the Himalayas. I will go back, perhaps leaving my son here, back to an internal landscape as bleak as this one.

holy Muktinath --
godforsaken barren
squalid poverty

I’m writing this in retrospect, the day after, because the reality of it swallowed me and I went to bed, leaving my son and my friends in the cold.

0945.
This morning the cows have been herded to goodness-knows-where, leaving their bedraggled calves to roam alone or in small sad groups.

Dhurba washes clothes at the communal pump, squatting on the concrete.
I have no clean clothes. There is a ‘hot shower’ here, housed with an evil-smelling asian toilet - it is next door to this room and the odour pervades relentlessly.
I have no towel of course, no soap, (Dhurba has it,) and no clean underwear. Soon I will wash and put them on wet.

This place is hellish. It must be dreadful in winter. Yet people get on with their lives. So must I.

Animals have a very poor deal here. How the cows survive I do not know. Donkeys work hard, weighted down with neck bells and heavy loads, their hides gangrenous in places where the wooden saddles have been.
Dogs are filthy, their coats dreadlocked. Some have infected eyes or damaged limbs. Most sleep during the day. I doubt they get much meat, yet they do not attack chooks, goats, or people.
Goats seem self-sufficient and lively - they leap in and grab food from here and there; (a rooftop, an embankment, a high field,) and they chase each other playfully.

I am so tired of this squalor, this abject poverty. Yet creatures adapt.
The mountains. Like gods, are impassive, their impressiveness often hidden behind
clouds.