MONSOONAL NEPAL; a traveller's journal with pictures.

First Days.

2005-09-14T18:27:00.000+10:00

There are so many pictures that you can skim to their story alone, or delve deeper via my diary. It is un-edited and frank, showing another, inner journey between the lines.

Although we visited many, you will find no snaps of temples showing people.This is out of simple respect. All photos of people are shown only with their permission.

The really dangerous things missed our cameras too. We were too busy running!

If you want to skip to the trek proper, go to 'Looking Back Over our Trail'. Navigate the index at the right of every page to get around, and click any pic for an enlargement.

Right then, off we go! Let me introduce you to

FOUR STUBBORN BASTARDS IN NEPAL.

Here's three of us; the fourth is behind the camera:

We look happy because we've just done something great! We've climbed to Ghorepani and then on to Poon Hill. (3210 m.) It was hard. Just a bit.

Here's the fourth one, squinting something horrible:

Kathmandu. 11 July 05.

2005-09-13T22:15:00.000+10:00

Matthew, Nadashri and I have met here to go trekking, even though it will soon be the monsoon season. This is not the best time, we know, but it is all we have. So here we are, determinded to have a wonderful time, to grow and to heal.

We walk the cobbled streets of this ancient and defiled city. In times past the local economy must have been much better than it is now. Bricks, seen everywhere in multistoried walls, temples and rustic little homes, are hand made. They, like the cobbles, are worn but still being used. Buildings look precarious but are inhabited, houses are patchworked together over generations.

Like the mountains, (blue ghosts on the skyline,) buildings are high - narrow mazes link the streets which suddenly open out into courtyards paved with stone where temples loom from darkness. There are so many styles, so much dedicated work, once. Now all is filthy, broken, with pervading odours of old dust and decay.

Cows graze mounds of plastic bags. They look well fed, though dirty. Their small udders are active, blood vessels prominent, the skin clean in contrast to their grimy coats. Someone milks them.

Dogs seem well fed too, rounded and calmly self-assured. None of the little nooks of small shrines are used by them. They recline serenely in front of temples, trot in small groups through dark streets, sleep on worn earth outside doors or bark suddenly from houses, their voices and silhouettes jumping up startlingly.

We passed a man asleep on concrete steps, one leg on the step above as if it was a pillow. He had a bandage around his head which looked very white against his dark skin and hair, his face turned away to stone like a bad boy in the corner.

12 July Morning from my window -

A woman clad in a wine coloured dress tied to the left, treads a rusty corregated iron roof after splashing water from a shining pewter vase, into the street several stories below. She gestures with praying hands held before her face.
The roof is walled to form a courtyard, a few sick looking plants provide the only green.
She descends through a gap between sheets of iron - I see the top of a large cylinder in there.

On an adjacent rooftop, another brightly clothed woman (smock topped dress, gathered burnt orange skirt,) splashes water, stabbing her hand out over the roofs’ edge. Droplets stain discoloured corrugated iron. Then she waters her plants.

Last night, by a temple to Shiva, we were splattered by water from buildings high above. We thought urine perhaps. Now I consider it was blessed water.
( A man witnessing our splashing raised his hand in a gesture of acceptance which I later learnt to be ‘What to do?’ I shrugged back, in agreement.)

An acrid smell. Like fireworks. Small tin handbells ring.

Far below, people roll a brass container in a small stone courtyard. They are scrubbing it. Water stains the dust.

himalayan clouds -
wisps of incense twist
from the balcony

Here's a picture of the Hotel's communal fount, on the roof outside my window. Clothes are washed here, and hung from lines or windows. We pondered as to why animals are depicted on the pipe, but it's fairly common, we later found.

high above
these shabby streets -
saris in a row

Crows woke me this morning to a windowful of grey mist muted and homogenous, blanking the view like an exposed negative.

Ancient cobblestones thick with dust. A man sweeps them clean with his whisk.
Such poor conditions yet he honours it, does the best he can. Courage is here, and acceptance.

We had breakfast on a high rooftop: Muesli and yoghurt,omelete,Lassis and milky Nepali tea, Delicious!

Dusk. Showered again and changed. Matthew and Nadashree are at the internet café. We walked and searched and shopped all day. Two rickshaw rides though.

Saw an injured puppy walking on its two front legs, its useless back ones stuck stiffly out in front. "It fell off there," a boy told us, gesturing straight up.

beneath
the shelter of her legs --
a paraplegic dog

Saw an old woman bowed with a gigantic sack, a baby in her arms.

Had chai in the market place. Our portraits were drawn by a man who bit his roll of paper. Cost r80. I took the paper, intending to draw him in return, but he ripped it out of my hands.
Talked to another, “60 years” - we identified that each was 60 - "I wish you 20 more,” I say.
“Come, I want to give you gift,” he says, gesturing towards his stall. Yer right.

Feel like a deer with dogs at my legs. Each wants a piece of me.
There is warmth here though. Clear eyes and respect in response to honesty and polite directness.

Matt is tired. Not my usual Matt. Wants to sleep early. Is stressed, wanting to buy boots and coats. Watching over us girls. Tomorrow we shall move on.

2005-09-12T22:11:00.000+10:00

There are trees in inner courtyards, some with red stains of worship on their roots and bark.

Monkeys at the temple attracted much attention, as they always do. A small female climbed a metal pole, pulled on a blue nylon rope and finding it secure, lay on it like a hammock. Then she squirmed backwards, making playful progress. Finished with effortless brachiation up the rope to the roof, where she sat and looked bored.

Men sit around an ancient temple that is filthy as high as hands can reach.

Eagles’ feather fingers stroke the air.
Between the mountains and the city stoops, crows and pigeons fly.

Rhogan dhal and lassis on the roof with Matt (Krishnadas) and Nadashri. A pot of mint tea.

Later, talks on my bed. About giving and the nasty feeling of self-aggrandishment that comes. About moving on, letting go, and being invisible.

A Katydid says ‘Cyvet cyvet’ somewhere outside, in that wide jumble of broken buildings and high rooftop gardens. A dog barks.

A lot of houses look dangerous. One not far away leans like the tower in Pisa, but the top stories are lit.
Another in near streets has a bulging wall which is propped with a beam against the next building.
Fallen bricks leave an atrophied wall - the nextdoor section is rubble.

Monday

0430 I am woken from my usual fitful sleep by a strange metallic sound. At last I rise to investigate; a single window is lighted in the four-story building behind my hotel. The sound seems to be coming from there.
I imagine a cutting/mincing instrument of some kind, structured so blades retract as it is lifted, and engage as it is pounded down.

A green bucket and a tin bowl are in the window. Later, when the sound stops, The bowl goes, and water is tipped on the corregated iron beneath.

Crows begin to caw, then sparrows chirp. Windows open to muffled crashes. Far away a flute begins a complex melody. It is joined by a sitar and maybe a tabla.
A rooster crows, answered by another in a different direction- they pass their voices back and forth - another joins in.
A different bird goes cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep rapidly.
The flute rises, then a human voice; a male. Dogs bark. Bells ring, the flute winds, rising and falling, the man’s voice, confident and soothing, sings, overlaps.
Pigeons arrive, preen on the stone window eyebrow between stories. Coo-coo coo, coo-coo-coo, coo-coo coo, they say. They are plump and stately.

The corregated iron rectangle is pushed back from beneath, exposing the lit space with the cylinder that I saw yesterday. I wonder if the woman will come back to flick water from this roof. Now a handbell rings continuously, stops- begins- I see another woman on yet another balcony; she is clad in pale orange, a wrap skirt. Her long black hair is loose. She has a bell, a flame, and a shining pewter jug. She’s lit a shrine light beside a potted plant. Water stains the ledge and drips down the wall.

Now I see another woman moving about in the stairwell of another house, and a black-haired man in a khaki singlet reaches down through the window to place a tin pot carefully outside.

There is the sound again. A pump, I think!

A woman in a green wrap skirt bends from the waist, her wet hair reaching almost to the ground as she sweeps the roof-top opposite me. She uses a whisk, tosses dust and papers over the side.

-chunk-chunk chunk-chunk chunk-chunk on and on…

Another woman, another shrine. Graceful movements concealed by a blue-painted drum on the roof edge. Her hands place something one by one in the pot plants.

The woman opposite has finished sweeping, and moves wearily, her face impassive, as she collects flowers and leaves from her pot-plants. She leans forward to examine them, brushing her hair back behind her ears. It is thin: she is old.
She has two bright brass jugs, one reddish, one golden. They are placed beneath stairs to the right of the roof.

The pump goes on. Music rises, weaves faintly, far away. Birds call. Roosters signal, doves gug grey sounds, metal containers and plastic ones are heard as they are used.

This roof-top world is amazingly diverse. Old brick shingles like scales fall from the edges and are patched with iron, everywhere bricks hold sheet iron in place, sometimes potplants do the job. I wonder how someone could reach them but all are growing. Here, the potted plants are well.

The old woman leans over a blue plastic bucket. Her hand splashes from the water to her face, at first as if she is stitching it with a needle, then with a flat palm. She throws water on the concrete court, hobbles, bent double, with a palm bent for water, to another corner. Then she wanders back. Her feet are bare, and as she holds her skirt up I glimpse a wine petticoat. Her top is beige.

The pump has stopped.

She carries the brass urns carefully inside, following her splashes, bent double. A dog, woolly as a sheep, is tied in the stairwell.

Again the pump. Chink-CHONK…

Bells and pump, birds and voices, flute and sitar blend.

Outside the hotel door, streets are freshly swept, linear arcs from whisks criss-cross. Tiny altars have appeared outside homes, even our hotel. A single stone is cleaned, a circle of ochre made and inside is placed little baskets made of banana leaves containing chilli, flowers, rice,cakes, grains, teeny fishes, and bits of fruit. There are also slow-burning twists of rope, sometimes accompanied by an incense stick.
Red smears are everywhere.

Every shrine bleeds with it. Trees have another bark of red layers. Images are daubed, their faces, knees and bellies sanguine. Even pot-plants are smeared. People also carry red between their eyes, sometimes in startling splats.

I see rubbish collectors, yolked with baskets bobbing (scales of justice) filled with plastic bags and other debris.
Where are the cows?
An ancient stone urn lies on the street. It is a cone, the hole in the middle narrow compared to the thick walls. The road is broken here; I see water flowing under the pavement.

Here's our Bhuddist Cafe.

2245 We had a pleasant day shopping for Matt’s boots and snacking in this cafe containing a shrine.It's one of our favourite places.

The photos came out well! We sent some away to Baz, John, and to Nadashree’s family.Then we took a taxi to BHUDANUTH.

Drove through awfulness: dust crowds fumes degraded land heat noise… Very upsetting.

asian traffic’s
beep beep beep -
the frog pond.

Above this squalor, the rich and serene religious houses, the places of worship, the affluent. (The affluent above the effluent.)

Prayer flags show the wind passing. Matt meditates, does yoga on a mat on the roof.

Later we go for food then walk the circle of the stupa, Matt turning every prayer wheel. From darkness dogs come. One nips me on the thigh; they are more interested in Nadashree than me but I think her smell has extended to me also.

Women come forward from the gloom with smiles, to a bier of candles. We are invited to light some. We do. One each, to be polite. Then we are told we owe them money. As we fossick in the dark a grinning woman with a bandage around her head suddenly appears. She raises her eyes to heaven, gestures prayerfully. But oh, her breath!

pious eyes look upwards
over praying hands --
the reek of whiskey

It is much cleaner here, fewer smells, wider streets. Danger and neglect are all around though; Nadashree steps into a deep puddle in the dark, her jandle is wedged vertically in mud and for a while we can’t retrieve it.
Other casual hazards about. Wires on askew posts dangle precariously and look unsafe. These dogs.

This morning, waking to gongs (ever increasing pulses) and chanting, I see two young boys run from the Monastery shed with small white parcels in their hands. They seem excited.
Chanting continues till 0630.

-rhythmic claps - drumbeats, the hum of chants, monks in magenta-wine coloured robes…
Crows arrk arrk caark caark… a plane flies by…

0800 Now sounds seem to intensify as the hazed-out light grows more glaring, and heat begins to rise.

mosquitoes gather
on the inside of our screen -
trying to escape

2005-09-11T22:09:00.000+10:00

He thrusts bright purses at me - ‘You buy!’ His body gives as I hug him gently - he is at first stiff, then he leans into me - I stand with him at my leg, my arm about his shoulders. ‘You buy.’ He smiles winningly.
What to do?

He has to learn to charm, to exploit tourists like me; I should just pay him and go, let him be pleased that his charm and skills have worked. But. But maybe it is MY ego, my wants that hold me back. I want him to know that I see HIM not the art, and that his targets are also human. I buy him mango juice but leave the purses.

you buy you buy -
in the street waif’s eyes
I see my son

There’s a bit missing were we visited an ancient nest of temples. Matthew will know where it was. He and Nad were keen to see it, but I found it oppressive. As if dark influences were sticking up from deep in the Earth. People paid them homage, but mechanically, with neither thought nor emotion, save their own selfish needs.
It was hot.
Matthew wanted to go in the main temple, but was denied. He stood on the steps wearing his white clothes, a red mark between his brows, and pleaded with the temple guardian. He got a leaf with soft pap on it, but no entry.
A dirty creek with a lake stood sullenly beside the numerous stone images and plinths. Nadashree and Krishnadas wandered, paying homage to them. People knelt on steps before a white-clad, bearded man. Children loitered near us, smiling shyly.

at the temple
children’s hands outstretched
for sweets

I was simply miserable.

The others sat beside me, trying to discover what was wrong. I gestured at the hills over to our right. There were houses there. That’s where I want to be, I said.
Matthew was quiet, thinking. He seemed to come to a decision. “Then we will go there, “ he said. “ We will go straight there, by taxi.”

We did. It was NAGARKOT.

Beside the Galaxy Guesthouse we met Dhurba. He worked there sometimes. We decided to stay further up the hill though, at The Hotel at the End of the Universe. Dhurba walked there with us, and later we sang and played in the courtyard.

…We sit around the table on a paved courtyard in Nagarkot playing African drums, a didgereedoo and guitars, singing bhajans. Here at The Hotel at the End of the Universe, we are two Nepalese, a Spaniard and two Australian Kiwis.

It is cooler here. The wind blows gently, mist obscures the Himalayas and settles into the valley. Conifers finger the air.

“Tomorrow if there is wind or rain we may see the mountains.”

5am. Dhurba wakes me, tapping quietly on my door. Neither Matt nor Nad are awake, though they were sure they would be, as arranged. Dhurba and I set off into the mist to his house in the valley. He has a school there and is keen to show me.

Dhurba on his way down to the valley.

Down and down we went into the valley, following water-eroded tracks cut deeply into the soil, scambling down rocks. At last we reached Dhurba’s place, nestled in fertile land surrounded by his garden and bounded by misty paddy-covered hills.
The children came. They knelt on the ground, in a row, in front of Dhurba‘s corrugated blackboard. They were ragged, dirty, and poorly dressed. All had bare feet.

****** Since my return to Australia I've been sending winter woolies for these children. He has eighteen altogether. If you'd like to help with clothes or if you could give any odd foriegn currency left over from travelling, leave me a message and I will send you Dhurba's address.
I should explain that education is not free in Nepal. These children come from poor families who can't afford the fees, so Dhurba teaches them as best he can but receives no payment for it.

The old woman and the chicken.

On our way back up the hills from Dhurba's house we stopped to catch our breath at a house with a dirt courtyard. I was reluctant to go in, but Dhurba and Matthew already had and were sitting in shade. An old woman who sat on the porch didn't seem to mind our intrusion, in fact she didn't look at us but continued to focus her attention on her hands. There she held a small chicken that had lost its eye. She gently smeared a green paste on the bleeding socket; the chicken's head was wet from her administrations and it cheeped quietly, but didn't seem to be in distress.
After some time she put the chick under an upturned raffia basket, with a hen. There was food there, and water; air circulated through the weave and it must have been cooler than it was outside in the hot sunlight; the chicken settled down quickly.

Nepalese courtyard
overturned baskets cheep
in the sun

Impromptu Music in the dust.

I forget how it started.

After we'd climbed out of Dhurba's valley, Matthew began to play his guitar at the top of the hill near the Galaxy. Before long a group had formed around my son, clapping and singing. Counter-rhythms and harmonies developed, we grew more animated. The group expanded; drums appeared, then a didgerdoo made of bamboo, and another guitar with its owner. We danced. Two women with headloads stopped a short distance away. They smiled at my Polynesian-influenced dances.

One by one Nepalese began to go solo. Tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, other voices joined in to give us folk-songs. We kept time, danced, smiled and felt the bonds between us grow as can only happen with shared music. We played on and on. Matthew squatted in the dust on the corner, Nadashri and I stood in front of him on the road and tiers of people crouched up the bank behind him or perched on rocks beside him. Someone brought me a wicker chair with stubby legs. The sun sank lower and lower.
In darkness we parted for food at last, agreeing to meet at a small shrine by the Galaxy Hotel to play music that night. But a wind came up, big time. We were all so tired that we stayed inside at The End of the Universe and crashed into bed. For the first time in over two years, I slept soundly.

0600 Thursday. Still in Nagarkot. But as I reach out with my awareness I know that we will leave today. I will shower and be ready when Krishnadas and Nadashree appear.

I was wrong. They slept til late and did not want to go. We talked about it though, and planned our next few days. We defined our objectives and our dreams as well. It was wonderful. ( I've erased most of it until I get it put into columns.)

AIMS AND OBJECTIVES.

Nadashree:

*trekking in Nature.
*Good social culture.

Matthew:

*Kathy’s happiness. *Nadashree’s happiness * trekking
*Time with Nadashree, *To see big mountains hopefully
*To sing to Annapurna.

Kathy:

To find perspective:
*how to be happy * get wider view… go up mountains
* where I am going

Spend good time with Matt
* communicate well with Matt
Learn about relating; can I still do it?

See what my resources are.

To reconnect with life and find a new way of doing things.

* Dream/Vision: communicating with village people in a hut drinking warm drinks in a misty valley, with Yaks inside etc etc.

RESOLVED: To leave as early as possible for Mulkarkha. Try to do first stage - see how we go and re-assess.

(And so we did. )

Nadashree and I went walking to the village for a meal. Along the way we found people waiting for us and Krishnadas, to play and dance. “I like your beautiful dance, Mama.” They went to the liason point as arranged but of course we did not come last night.

Tonight though, there is a great playing beating piping singing at The End of the Universe.
It is windy again. The men sit out in the courtyard in the dark, drinking and making music.

Nadashree and I watch Johnnie Depp finding Neverland.
Dhurba gives us a card each, in farewell, but he is coming with us in the morning.

Friday. From NAGARKOT to KATHMANDU. (About 30 k.)

0540 Matt calls us to come and see - the sun rises gold behind a peak. We stand beside Kali’s temple above the hotel. Bells ring. In silence the mountain speaks.

We begin our walk. It will be more than 30k over two days. We walk, walk, walk. It is hard.

In the village Matt plays guitar. Children gather with wrapt expressions - he invites them, encourages, guides them to strum. We applaud. I give the cheerful shopkeeper a gift; some band-aides. She laughs, holds me enthusiastically in a prolonged embrace. As we leave she gives me a stick.

Deva Kumari

Again we climb.
Dhurba makes a mistake and leads us off course down and down into the valley. We see a poor house there. We pass Buffalo and goats as Dhurba speaks to a woman, to get directions. Children cluster under the open roof, their hair matted and salted with nits. There is a boy lying on the floor with a blanket over him, but I can see he is bare from the waist down. He has cerebral palsy, his legs hyper-extended and useless. He has never walked. That poor mother.

Up we go, and up. I nearly fall going around a big rock, my heavy backpack catching as I search for footing. I’m glad of Deva‘s stick. My breath comes hard, and for a while I am dizzy, my head aching.

At last we reach a mud-smoothed house at the top of our climb. We stay the night, grateful for food and rest, although the beds upstairs are nothing more than wooden benches covered with a thin mat, and the rooms smell of dirt and goats. Downstairs, the floors are pounded earth, there’s no electricity and no shower.

Matt again plays to the children here. Again the wrapt expressions, the shyness.

Nadashree and I draw on their hands with a biro. Birds, dogs, flowers, a deer for the girls. A moon and stars for a boy.

blue moon
inked on a child’s hand --
he holds it up

Dhurba cuts their nails when I give him my clippers.

The children are filthy. Their clothes are torn and stiff. I put cream on their faces, hands and feet. Their skin is wrinkled with accumulated dust. They are adorable.

We eat dhal bhat in the dark kitchen, by candlelight. We decide to go for the Jomsom trek, discussing it in private, then Matt asks Dhurba if he will come with us, as our guide. He is delighted, his face and body very expressive.

He and Raji sing and do hand-dances, ‘Risham piriri, risham piriri, oorayna jauki, dada ma bhanjyang, risham piriri.’ (Scarf in the wind. Blown away into a hill tree… scarf in the wind.)

I see a firefly! Like a spark flying! It attracts my attention; Raji catches it and shows me. Just an ordinary looking beetle when its light is out. Again, despite the early night and discomfort, I sleep until morning!

Sat. We awake in a Nepalese house. Dust.
The first thing I hear are chickens’ squeaking voices which I at first think is a mattress, as if I could forget the boards beneath me! Smallish chooks walk about with a purpose, orbited erratically by these excited chicks.

The sky begins to blush.

Matt runs up the beaten dirt path, “Come and look!” I grab the camera and follow….into forbidden land to the (army) lookout point. I take some photos though the viewfinder images are not brilliant. We will see.

bright
above the clouds --
mountains.

Nad sits on the verandah above us, pretending to speak to Papa on her mobile.

A plane flies overhead. I do a mime for the locals who have met here, waving my stick in an exaggerated manner. ‘Help! Help! Come and get me! Too much up! “ I lean on the stick, hobble like an old woman, lean forward on it, panting. This part at least is drawn from experience.

Walked a long hot day. Happily. Much laughter, especially from Nadashree, who is delightful. Much Spanish between she and Matt. Many stops, shade being of priority. Many drinks.

Matt lay down in shit,

Nad amused us by sticking a thorn to her nose, like a rhinoceros,

and Dhurba taught me the folk song, Resham piridi, complete with hand actions.

But Matt is disturbed by my brittleness. I wounded by his seeming judgement, cutting my feet away just as I begin to laugh. The rest of the journey heavy for me.

On and on, in hot sun. Matthew spotted a short cut, down into pine woods, the earth thick with accumulated needles. They three slept there, and so did I, briefly.
Then down and down for nearly an hour, to a waterfall. (The village only ten minutes away being a common fable.) Down and down for another hour. About 1000m in all. Through a checkpoint where we had to show our passports and pay a fee because we’d come through the National Park. Past the reserviour, under trees past strident insects, down beside the pipe, down towards Kathmandu. Down steps, passing between people squatting to prepare their evening meal, and the houses where they’d eat them.

Space, personal especially, seems to be perceived differently here to that in Western countries.
There is talk of ‘castes’ by Dhurba, who shows us a ‘lower caste’ man and a boy working a little metal forge by the path, but the other side of a fence. They squat in the dust, the boy with a bellows which seems to please the flame. Matthew and I chat to them. They look happy and strong. It must be hot work. We drip with sweat.
It stings my eyes.

Down down down forever down stone steps boulder steps concrete steps on down…. …to a squalid square bordered by shops beyond monsoon drains. There’s an unseemly scramble for buses. When we do get one, (packed in) it goes for some time through countryside picking up people without stopping entirely. Sacks are passed up. A young woman with a baby is jolted sideways, leaning against the steps; I rise in alarm to give her my seat but Dhurba has the aisle and he bids me to sit. Later he stands for a woman with children.

We stop at a Military road block. People stream off. A young man in Jungle greens enters the bus and scrutinizes us all. Our eyes meet briefly. He turns back down the steps, motions us on.

Beep beep blaring onward we go to stop again, abruptly. No petrol. The driver heads off with a yellow can.

Another bus arrives. We run, jolting along with backpacks dangling, me with my new stick. Tired legs. Light rain … paddy fields … Nadashree in, Dhurba in, me (bus moving) Matt behind; I lurch on wobbly legs, unbalanced, hurt my arm. These people do not care. Matt safely on board.

Hell. Strident discordant music. Heat dust noise swerving beeping filth. No headlights, no streetlights people everywhere -decay decay in sight and smell. Out into rain. Matthew and Dhurba find a taxi. “Metre on OK” he agrees.

Me a heap in the front, too tired to care, especially emotionally. Stunned and unfeeling. Cars flash headlights briefly at each other, beep! Dark figures in rain-slick streets -- everyone waits, swerves, steps back or away --street stalls clutter the road edges, shops yawn onto pathways and people people people moving sitting spitting speaking….

Matthew notices that the metre is not on as promised. He growls at the driver, who at once puts it on, but it already reads r60! Dhurba begins a loud and animated conversation with the driver, in Nepalese. He told us later that it went like this:

“ I am just ripping off these tourists; let me be!” “These are my friends of five years you do fair to them.” A traffic light! Aha! Another! Still no streetlights, and no more traffic lights. We stop. Dhurba’s angry tones, and Matt’s. R200 passed. The taxi gone.

We walk to our hotel. Himalaya Guesthouse. I climb the six stories to my room then down again to change money for Baba Dhurba. We are paying him in advance for two days as our guide, so he can go back to Nargakot tonight to get his things. We are to meet here tomorrow, at 3pm.

No linen on my bed. No pillow. No towel. And of course, no toilet paper. I shower, change, wash my clothes. Go downstairs for water to drink. Then I sleep on the bare mattress, an hour at a time.

SUNDAY I lie on my bed in dramatic inner dialogue. Perhaps I will go home. To Brisbane, anyway. If I annoy Matt it is the same situation as it was with my mother - better for Matt and all if I am gone.

At about 0930 Nadashree comes up. Cheerful, as ever Notices my lack of linen. I say it doesn’t matter. Later, Matthew comes up---again with the sheets-- and shortly a woman comes with linen. I help her make the bed. She protests.

11am-ish Matt, Nad and I take Nepali tea on the balcony by my room. We talk on my bed later, and I decide to stay. It seemed he was concerned that I was too ‘high’ and would soon crash. I told him that he precipitated the crash. If he says don’t be as I am it is confusing since what is, is. I am just this. He means no harm I know. I appreciate his concern, and he did not intend criticism, it seems.

We go for lunch. N goes back to leave a message for Dhurba to say where we are, but when I get back at around four pm there’s been no sight of him. I tell the hotel staff that I am upstairs in my room and to send my friend up to me when he comes.

7pm In fact, he has been three times, and was turned away each time! I see him by chance when I descend to enquire anew about him. He showers, we take tea, water, and watch TV. M and N do not come. At last, at 2030, we go to an Indian restaurant in an inexpensive part of town. Both the prices and the food are wonderful. By phone we learn that M&N are back, and we find them as we pass. Matt has bought a Gortex jacket, a flash walking stick, and Nad a drawing pad, for me. I’m touched.

We will go at 0600. For now, I sit beneath the fan, await their return. What to do? Where?

MONDAY. 0530. Up, showered. Light rain falls; it was intermittent during the night. Just as well I brought the linen woman’s washing in last night. Down to meet Dhurba and tell him the sad news re money. After yesterday’s shopping, we don’t have enough to pay for the bus. We visit Matt and Nat briefly. Matt is grumpy. We rush off to cancel our bus booking, “Half an hour away.”

Through filthy streets sloughed by rain we go, the streets already busy. Presently Dhurba exclaims in delight, recalling that his mother is here in Kathmandu and that he is free! We go to see her after the bus business is done. I have no money of course, just my book (The DaVinci Code) and jandles. He pays for my passage in a grimy little van/bus, then we walk beside a foul river. Children scavange there for string, and anything else that they can sell.

I see a mongoose! It runs across the path, then back. It is brown as dirt, rat-like but not a rat. Again we see it in a garden; it is weaselish. It looks at us, then it runs. So fast.

Dhurba only learned last night that his mother is here. It has been a year since last they met and she does not know that he is here in Kathmandu. He is very excited. We gain entrance to a coutyard via a barred gate and up the stairs he goes to cries of greeting. She is in a chair on the landing, a tiny woman clad in an orange sari. She is reserved, alert, beaming. He kneels, lifting her feet, which he kisses.

D has told the children I can draw. They bring exercise books and a pencil. I try. They are truly beautiful children. Faeryish. I am reasonably pleased with the results. D runs out to feed me small morsels of curry as I draw. Dhurba’s mother gives me a mango. I thank her holding the fruit as part of the blessing, namaste.

Back we walk through stench and litter, over the black river (clonk clonk clonk on sturdy boards) down streets puddled with fine black mud, where we are eyed, greeted, welcomed by locals. “You not tourist,” says Dhurba. Indeed. I am not.

We visit his brother’s wife. Again his mother’s feet are kissed. I sit outside the small sunken shop where I am sheltered from the rain that falls lightly, persistently. A chook limps through puddles, finding plenty of morsels. “It’s a good life for chickens here,” I say. “Not so good sometime,” says Dhurba; we nod and smile knowingly.

In a sentry-box a soldier sits atop the high brick wall opposite us. He has a rifle.

sentry with a gun --
morning glory falls
from metal spikes

I put my arm around Dhurba’s nephew. He leans lightly towards me. We touch heads, smiling.
‘Bok bok,’ I say to the chook. ‘Baaawk?’ It stops, eyes me. The boy chuckles.

Women pass in bright clothes, stepping over the mud. Their hair bounces in soft clouds, shining and clean. Some of them look at me in surprise, sitting with these Nepalese so casually. Everyone responds to ‘Namaste,’ especially when it is accompanied by the reverential gesture of praying hands and bowed head. ‘I salute the God within you.’ But it is a versatile greeting, too. As we leave, with bows and praying hands for all, I kiss his mother softly on her cheek.

Later back in the Guesthouse/hotel, Nadashree is pre-menstrual, restless and grumpy. Matt’s gut is a bit troublesome. He goes shopping. She does too, separately. I read on my bed.

Matthew comes back, lies on the floor, then the bed as we talk. I tell him I have realised that I jumped to conclusions re his concerns for me the other day. I apologise. He touched and grateful. We talk of language: simplification, melding, symbology and rhythm. I read from this diary, noting that I have simplified the language, as we do every day now. Then I notice that for the first time since we met at the airport, he is speaking in normal patterns again.

Nad comes back; she has brought a book for me -Paulo Caelho, The Alchemist.’ Also some muesli,(NOTE THIS MUESLI ) and milk. I have mango juice and chocolate that I got for children in the street, and of course, my mango gift. We order soup and toasted garlic bread, which is made downstairs and delivered to MattNad’s room. Matthew is still not well, but he takes two bowls. He’s sleepy. Nadashree is cute and giggly. She plays along with word games and fantasy so well. She is an actress by trade.

The guest-house owners’ daughter was married atop Everest last week, the first Nepalese woman to reach the summit. I look at dozens of photos while awaiting the soup. Her parents are so proud! She is on TV and in the papers and has gone to the US as a celebrity.

Our trek begins! We catch the bus early, and head for Pokhara, eight hours away. I make lists of images as we go, hoping for haiku.

monsoon -
soapy men beneath
the drain

himalayan rain -
the frail white net he flings
this fisherman

ancient silos -
wheat between the bricks
and in the fields

a fallen boulder
built into the wall -
surrender

yellow lanterns -
pumpkin blossoms
climb the wall

The bus climbs for hours, a concrete - coloured river churning to our right. The monsoon has begun; water cascades down the cliffs to our left and rushes away busily. Lovely vegetation grows everywhere; we are in jungle now, but fields of corn, bedraggled and sad-looking, appear more often as we gain altitude.
We stop at a road-side restaurant, and line up, several layers thick, waiting to served from a kind of Bain-Marie filled with asian food.

trees up the hill
from the river -
we queue for food.

It is still raining lightly so we sit beneath a raffia shelter to eat. Suddenly a girl pops up from the corn-field beside us. She looks me in the eye, making that dreadfully expressive gesture of carrying her empty hand to her mouth. Then she holds her cupped hands out, one on top of the other, to beg. I rise and take her omelete and noodles, then repeat that when she asks again.

begger in the corn -
openhanded blossoms
rich with sun

She holds her sopping dress out to show us she is wet. Dhurba buys her noodles as we run back to the bus.

At POKHARA I am disappointed because it is not what I expected. I had hoped that we would be beside our track, and that the mountains would be here to inspire us. Actually, I haven’t taken the time to know what or where Pokhara is, since Matthew’s had my Lonely Planet.

He and the others are excited though. The lake shimmers invitingly, but there are no mountains to be seen, and I think huh! not as nice as New Zealand.

I come upon a snake-charmer with his traditional cobra rearing from a basket as he plays an Indian flute. There’s a lovely python in another basket, and I pick it up, draping it around my neck as I caress its smooth skin. Nadashree takes pictures. The Charmer puts the cobra -basket over my head, inviting another photo, just as I spy Matthew and Dhurba’s faces. They are not happy, their expressions disapproving as they talk together. The Snake-charmer says, as he passes to remove the python, “ Five hundred rupees, Mam.”
“ Hah! Not bloody likely!” I say. “Look, I expect this is your livelihood, so I will give you something, but not that much!’ I peel out R30 for him.
Honestly! One can’t even admire a snake without incurring expenses!
But my little heart is wounded by Matthew’s disapproval. Down I go again.

So, when he and Nad fail to inform Dhurba and I that they intend to eat out on the lake, and we have trouble getting food, I go all sad. Dhurba conspires with me; they take no notice of him and he feels as left out as I do.

Matthew drops me in it, metaphorically speaking, telling some street hawkers that I will come and see their wares. “They are Tibetans, Mum, and one of them has cracks and stains on her hands from stringing beads.” They pressure me, and I buy some sandlewood beads, paying far to much.

We hire a boat as dusk falls, and row out near the middle. But the moon has come up, and it is full. It is 16 months tonight since Peter died. I am silent, enfolded in this moon.

Nadashree says that it is the Solstice and she wants to do a ceremony. She lights candles and invites us to write down things we want to release. The other three do that, reading them out then burning them, the ashes drifting out into the dark water.
We eat out there and paddle about quietly for an hour or two.

Dhurba sleeps on a mat outside, on the concrete. Matthew-Krisnadas and Virginia-Nadashree sleep on another even higher little roof above him, for a while, so they can see the stars. Then they come back to their room next door to mine.

In the morning Krishnadas rouses us with shouts of “Mountain alert! Mountain alert! “ We run out and watch as the Annapurnas flirt with us, revealing bits of themselves as they drop their veils of cloud. It is sunny, and my washing is dry. We have breakfast on the wee balcony outside our doors,

and, freshly showered, Nadashree examines Krishnadas’ hair for nits. She’s also had them for a day or so at least; we bought lice-shampoo in Kathmandu and I go through her long tresses now and again with the nit-comb I brought her. Some neat gift, eh? But rare, and welcome.

We shop and send emails, happily. Buffalo wander, trailing their warm smell. Soldiers and policemen with rifles patrol the streets, looking for Maoists. Barbed wire loops along roadsides and atop high walls. Children run up, handing us notes that say how poor they are and that we must give them money. We buy them biscuits and fruit juice instead. Then they want their photos taken. We do.

At Nadashree’s suggestion we hire bicycles and go a-riding. The seats are exceedingly hard, but to my surprise, I remember how to ride, and scarcely even wobble. Locals stare as I pass though; a 60year-old Western woman on a bike is not often seen, obviously. Shopkeepers wave and cheer as I go by.

We go up a hill around the lake to the north of the town. Wind of our passage cools us. We call to each other and ring our bells often as people wander in front of us. We are a team.

At the top of the hill, a crowd waits for a wedding party. The water is clear blue, the sun is hot. Nadashree wants to swim but my son tells her sternly it is not appropriate. Nepalis will be offended; we must respect them. Nad is not happy. I would also like to swim, but instead as we ride back, I look for some secluded place where we can fling ourselves unobserved. Nup. None.

I go to visit Baba-Dhurba’s friends, and we go back there for dinner. They are very welcoming, very warm. D translates for us. I am forced by politeness to drink a tumbler of home-made millet whiskey. Um…

Back at the hotel, we talk late, excited to be heading off for our trek proper in the morning! It is after 220am before I turn my light out. Dhurba takes his mat out to the roof.

At first light I go out to see the mountains, almost tripping over Dhurba who has moved into my room, his feet sticking out by the door. It has begun to rain, lightly sprinkling Amma satchels out on the roof. I guess M and N have been there already, and later, when rain comes harder, I retrieve them.

We order breakfast and eat it on the verandah, with Nepalese tea, before scuffying to pack in time to catch the bus.
“Marm, where are my boots?’ says D. They are gone. So are the sneakers I gave him, and all the boots as well, except Nadashree's.
Matt had sprayed them all with water-repellant last night, unbeknownst to me, and left them outside because they stank. Thieves have come this way, and we can not go today.
We notify the owner, and find a plank leaning against the wall to the roof.

Elizabeth had organised insurance for me; we examine the documents and see that it does not cover the theft of items left ‘in a public place.’ Never-the-less we decide to put in a police report, so Matthew tries to concoct a story whereby the boots were all inside. He is wearing his tee-shirt that says ‘Honesty.’ I tell him to look down.
We buy new boots. Nad and I set off on bikes to get ponchos, and I spill myself onto the road as a kerb kicks me. Tomorrow, then.

2005-09-10T22:07:00.000+10:00

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.

Come on team; it's easy for us!

2005-09-09T22:02:00.000+10:00

MON 13 July MEETING.

OBJECTIVES:
*to find out what is happening
*What will we do now
*where we are all at.

Disclosures/concerns
Mum
*It is the end of the trail
* How is KD to go on
* She’ll have to go soon to be in time for the plane
*Time to walk if necessary
* We have to go and get our stored things from Pokhara.

Dhurba:
* Feeling OK.
* Wishing for leg. (ie KD’s sore foot,)
* Feeling sad because Mum is sad.

Nadashree:
*Feeling heavy, something is down
* It is not the end
*Waiting for foot, but Thorung La is castle in the sky
*Reality Mum going back
*No big goal Thorung La
*Wants to go with Kdsa
* Wants Kathy to be happy.

Krishnadas: (recorded by Nadashree)
*Sometimes depress because foot
*Heavy atmosphere
*Thorung La no possible ?? 1 week
* More things to do
*Muktinath to see
* The foot is better.

WHAT GOALS.

Kathy:
Get to Kathmandu before 18th
*Walk from Nagarkot give stick and photos to Deva Kumari
* Take photos to Dhurba’s adopted family at Pokhara
*Spend a day at Pokhara…bikes and boats
* Buy some gifts at Pokhara,
*Send emails, photos etc
* get blackboard, pens and clothes for Dhurba’s pupils

Dhurba:
* Leave Nagarkot 23rd
* That Krishnadas, Nadashree and Kathy is happy.

Nadashree:
* Not to say bye from here
* Be in Nature more
*Spend time everybody happiness
*Chocolate and cheese
*Riding and boating in Pokhara
*Vipassana?
*Motorbike riding.

KD:
* See the mountains more
*Walk up some big hills
*Motorbike
* Spend time with Kathy and she’s happy
*See Muktinath.

PLAN OF ACTION.

To Pokhara ASAP
KD on horse to Jomsom -- others walk
KD booking plane.

1 Try to walk to Muktinath
2 Go Jomsom
3 Pokhara
4 Kathmandu
5 Go Nagarkot
6 Walk to Kathmandu again and take stick back.

~~~~~~~~~~~

14 to Jomsom
15 to Pokhara.

Two of these Yak were killed. We tried not to look, but I found the butching process fascinating. It seemed to be a communal project, with several men doing the work of dividing the carcass after carefully removing the skin. Actually, the killed beast was turned on its back, its own skin peeled off like a tent.
We didn't hear a sound from the beasts, and think they must have been bled. Certainly among the many villagers who passed by with tin containers full of meat, there were several with cups of blood.

It took all day, and at the end there was nothing left at the site. Hopeful dogs came and sniffed around but there were only a few chips.
But dogs barked all night, not only in this village but in neighbouring ones.

two yaks
slaughtered on the stones
by Muktinath
where pilgrims pray --
dogs bark all night

WEDNESDAY 13 JULY. From the town below Muktinath,( RANIPAUWA) to JHARKOT, along the desert above KAGBENI, across the riverbed and many stones to JOMSOM.

Below Ranipauwa, people are bringing in the wheat, stacking the hay on rooftops.

Jharkot. The Gompa (where we went to get help for Matt's foot,) sticks up at the highest point.

JOMSOM.

A thinner me. Sometimes Nepalese spelling has me in stitches... Click on the picture to see why.

Thurs 14 July 0630

Back in our room (R6 Kaligandiki The River View,) the day after a long slog with more adventures.
Said river churns past, contrary to the wind as always, the willows beside it waving their long branches in the other current.

We have bookings: by helicopter to Pokhara today - which was to have been confirmed by 2000hrs yesterday, and wasn’t, or by aircraft tomorrow, weather permitting.

Nadashree and Krishnadas announced last night that they were going to head out early to see the lake.
There was some consternation looking for the muesli, which we have carried around for the entire trek, (1kg) and which can not now be located. Dhurba is upset. I tell him don’t worry. We are all tired and not being very realistic.
It’s 0700 now and the ‘JIMI HENDRIX Oct 1967’ door is shut but with no padlock. So the intrepid adventurers are still inside.

Retrospective in italics, interspersed with present time.

So. Ten hours of struggle yesterday, especially for my son, who decided at 0730 yesterday, (while awaiting the horse-man,) that he would walk. The foot was much better.
The horseman took the news well:
Matt: "One problem. I'm walking."
HM: "No problem."
Later though, when Matthew tried to apologize, he was unsmiling and said, "You drive me crazy."
Yep, me too, Horseman.

Matt went to the ‘real Muktinath’ the day before, after our meeting. Quite an accomplishment. He used two sticks, and went slowly.

Here he is, putting on the agony.

But coming towards me with those sticks I had a flashback of his father doggedly continuing on crutches when he had deep vein thromboses. Matt is like him, especially as he was then. I see him so often in Matthew’s expressions and body movements.

It was a happy time for him, Nadashree and Dhurba though.

The journey to Jomsom began at 0730. Slowly. (Bet the horseman wished he’d been on time! 0700 was the allotted hour.) Nadashree and Durba went on ahead to order food for us.

My sunny son on the way to Jomsom.

They had omelets and chapattis waiting at the Peace House in Jharkot, when we popped in, grabbed our take-aways and left. At first, walking again through the oasis-town, I was looking forward to meeting N and D again and sharing a picnic, but 20 mins before we stopped, nausea and dizziness overtook me. It was hot. We rested by a wall next to a stream. I couldn’t eat.
Shortly after we resumed our journey I again got nauseous and had to sit beneath a tree. I noticed that I was trembling, hot then goosebump cold. Dizzy too.
A little later, down the track, it occurred to me that I may be hypoglycaemic since I hadn’t eaten for two days prior to this morn. Dhurba had two sweets in his pocket. Viola! Nausea faded. Dizziness went.
We stopped again at ‘Romeo and Juliet’ guesthouse where we’d got the scarves on the way up. I forced down a couple of biscuits but had to lie down on the couch. Fanta fixed me. The lady bahini gave me roasted/fried wheat and gentle touches as she passed.

Matt brought some things from her, spending his horse-money, intending to set up a stall in the West sometime.

The old dreadlocked dog moved from the sun to the shade.

We set out strongly, stopping again at a stone shelter in the middle of a high rocky desert plain, joined by other travellers. A Frenchman and his woman, their guide, three nepali and a horseman.
Also a troupe of schoolchildren with their teacher! He recognised us from Jimi Hendrix and greeted us warmly. Just an ordinary excursion for them -urk-

Our gang ate biscuits, drank water, sang and laughed. D smoked, hidden inside.

0730

Noises from the Jimi Hendrix room! They are waking up. Donkeys pass by dongdongdongdong

….Over a high pass, the wind whipping our clothes and stinging our legs with small stones! We take photos, balanced on the wind.

Danger on the narrow path, the wind knocking us, stones falling away from underfoot, sliding in rattles away.
Donkeys passed, laden with tourists. I stopped by the land side of the pass rather than the drop side, and just as well, for one donkey came too close, knocked me with a saddlebag and sent me a-topple onto my bum.
(“Sorry, sorry,” said the guide as he went by on his donkey.) Matt gave the errant donkey a smack on its rear.

Next stop, Hotel Hillton, Eklebahati (or Little Kagbeni.) Nad and Dhurba have gone on ahead again: there is lemon tea waiting and food ordered. We are tired, though Dhurba has been surfing loose rocks. M and I inspect the fossills we‘ve collected from the highlands, and decide which to keep, size and weight being a big factor.

0750

Aha! Nadashree! She comes in. I kiss her. “Thee beeg one es sore,” so he sleeps.

…We came to the floodplain, M and I, D and N having gone ahead. The plain has changed; the river is more focussed, deeper, wilder.

0800. Nadashree comes in again - “There is a call - there will be more planes - maybe today is good time - on the second plane we have seats.”
“YAAAAAAAAAAA!” goes Dhurba. He jumps up, runs out, comes back subdued: “IF plane come. Bastards.” Oh well. It got him out of bed.
He’s been lying there, eyes sparkling, at Nadashree’s comments re no trek for her and KD today. “What did I tell you last night?” I say when she has gone. He turns his laughing face away.

He’s back in bed now, talking to the proprietress outside the door.
“Namaste Sukmaya bahini,” I call.
‘Namaste didi,” she replies, looking in, then talking to Dhurba in Nepalese.
“What did she say about the plane?” I ask when she has gone.
“If the helicopter come, possible flight. If Ghurka airlines come, possible flight. Any airlines come, possible flight for tourist.

I go Airlines! I have chance to fly. Why bother sleeping in beds,” he says, putting his shoes on. “I wash my face after plane ride,” he says, his face one big smile.
“You may have to wash your pants,” I tell him, smiling back.
The wind busies the prayer flags and the trees. Flights? We’ll see.

D is off to the booking office. I ask, “Which are we going on? Airplane or helicopter?”
“Oooo I want to go sky! Many times I book airplane -- I work travel agent. I go airplane! I want to go seat!”

He has never flown. Matt and I have been describing take-off to him, the magic of flight. He gets soooo excited, wants his picture taken getting on the plane.

…The river yesterday. We cross a ricketty wooden bridge, the wind catching our backpacks, rocking us sideways as the bridge sways. We hold the wire and our sticks, our feet clomping on uneven boards, stumbling with the wind and the slope; a slab of stone replaces a board and tips the bridge askew.

Shortly after we cross smaller torrents, on logs laid across. They move as we tread them. One by one, we pass.

Stones, stones, stones. All kinds, mixed together. Unlikely conglomerates fall back to the river bed, some stones already river-rounded, some sharp slabs. Towering cliffs dwarf us. Again, all kinds; some great spectacular faults, folded or at angles, some vertical.

0930.

Donkeys pass by dongdongdongdong… They have yellow sacks bulging on their backs.
“Whaaa a ah!” says the donkey man.
A man goes by loaded with a huge white sack that rises above his head and reaches below his buttocks.Matthew goes “Owerowerowower,” waking in his bed across the way.

…… Stones wait to fall from all heights, of all sizes, colours and shapes. We hurry past as best we can, over stones of all colours…. as far from the cliff as we can.
Dhurba and Nadashree wait, far away. We catch up. D has gone ahead; we can see Jomsom, perched on a headland to the right of the plain, stretching away and away.

I trudge towards a block; a wire basketful of stones intending to lean, backpack first, there. Black sandy soil parts, slurps, grabs my feet. Mud. I go down, knees first, then hands, feet crossed.
“Nadashri!” I call to her, departing.
She and matt come, Nad exclaiming, “ Oh dear! Are you hhurt?”
I push myself up using my stick and there is much hilarity re the perfect imprint.
“Hollywood!” says Nadashree, and she prints my name, KATHY EARSMAN, 2005, there, in case it turns into a fossil. She doubs mud on Matt’s nose. He daubs hers.

My legs from knees down are caked as are my now heavy boots. Nadashree puts mud on my nose. I use my hand as a pallette, paint streaks on her laughing cheeks, her forehead, and she mine.

“Wish I had the camera to get that,” I say to Matt after she’d gone.
“I got it,” he says, smiling. The camera is with Dhurba, a dot in the distance..

2005-09-08T22:00:00.000+10:00

Road works : because the river is no longer in thready shallow channels, we have to climb to where masked workers labour in stone. Over piles of loose sharp fragments, we climb.
“ Yeeeeee-oooo” yell the men above, and rocks come crashing down.
Matt says, “Let me go first.”(Follow me, Dhurba.) He scans the unstable cliff above, the piles of shifting rocks ahead,and he calls to the workers in Nepalese.
We pass them, with greetings; namaste and praying hands. They smile at our mud-smeared faces. “What happen?” they ask, and we reply, “Sunscreen.” One young man runs after us, “What really happen?” he asks.

A young man is despatched by an older one to guide us through the rubble ahead. The path is by footfall, stones slithering, sliding underfoot. No-path. Hairy. The wind blows.
“You come,” says the boy, when I hesitate for rest. Matthew manages to get over the loose stones OK despite his sore foot. He looks back at me, watching my progress and I only fall twice, in safe bits, the last as we go down to the river, skidding on my butt and one elbow. So elegant. Not.
---- In my room, Matt stuffs his mouth with rice and curry, clowning.
“Now you have to say ‘Pimpilimpauxa or Pamploma,” says Nadashree. They sing ‘policky policky’ and ‘pimpimplosa,’ looking into each other’s eyes.

0930. Dhurba: “Airplane come! Yayayayayaga!” We hear it pass. M and D go up on the roof to see.

“Backpack! Backpack!” says Dhurba. “Is this our plane?” I ask. “No. Another plane is coming.” He looks at me, smiling, then impulsively kisses me.

Another plane lands! We are packing.

0945. Both planes have left. “Another is coming.” We wait.

15 July. POKHARA!

Took off (finally) this morning at ten to nine. So exciting, especially for Baba (Dhurba), after we missed the third and last plane yesterday. Nothing flies in the afternoon due to famous winds that blow then.

It was a beautiful, wondrous flight. Amazing. Waterfalls from above the plane to way way below and rivers weaving out of sight.We passed Poon Hill, the tower at the top where we stood an emblem.Terraced fields like stained glass windows. The countours aligned, rimmed with darker tones.

I have climbed
higher than a plane flies --
amazing

We saw the waterfall across the track; it came from high above the plane and swept far into the valley. WOW!
Dhurba was a delight to see. He loved it. Tongue out, eyes ashine, he gazed out the window with such a range of vulnerable expressions on his face that I could not look at him. We tried to direct him re his seatbelt, sitting back for take-off, cotton wool inj his ears, swallowing etc.
Matt called out landmarks; he knew exactly where we were as we flew across the terrain we‘d traversed. We held hands; all four Stubborn Bastards, and we sang our song.

Later I held D’s hand and Nad held mine from her seat behind me. The plane’s seats were single file down a central aisle. Not as powerful during take-off as a big plane, as we’d decribed to Dhurba, but he said later, ”Pee-pee,” pointing down. So he was pretty impressed.

We asked a passerby to take a photo of the four of us. It would have been the first. But a soldier came and stopped us. it seems it is a security risk to show the plane. We didn't tell him we'd already taken one. Or two.

Luxuries! A towel! Yaaaaay! Sitdown toilet! Yaaay! Air as easy to breathe as it is for eyes to see. Warmth, so cold shower is a pleasure. Places to put clothes in shower so they stay dry. A basin to wash clothes and places to hang them. Fans.
I greet my stored belongings like friends. Sheesh, I’d forgotten most of them. My book. My jandles. Aaaah. A soft bed. Space. Green dappled light. Shops. Email. Film developers.
Matt plays guitar, lying on his bed in the next room. D is ‘Going City,’ and will take the film. He wants to go email two hours.

Oh huge day. M,N and I lay about making up songs and stories, as D disappeared after I paid him.

Beautiful Nadashri
sleeping on the bed
she is like a poem
I don't understand

The photos are great! Some good ones!

Last days, and a SEQUEL.

2005-09-07T20:58:00.000+10:00

We relax in Pokhara, but forget about the monsoon, which makes its presence known in the afternoon. So we don't get to do the things we'd planned, aside from some shopping, getting the photos developed, and hair cuts. Mine turns out like a man's. Matt has his head shaved to rid himself of nits, once and for all.

We eat dinner late at night, water falling like corrugated iron beyond the lights.

candle-light --
a gecko dines above
the lovers

Back to Kathmandu briefly, then we return to Nagarkot, where Dhurba pampers us and his neighbours, in his house. He cooks on his wood stove, bringing us food all day.
Matthew, lying on a mat upstairs, eating one of these treats with Nadashree, drops some. Nadashree shines a torch on it. Matt is helpless with laughter. "It's so metaphorical!" he gasps at last. It is. (He makes a mistake, she illuminates it. It happens all the time.)

Dhurba and I found some second-hand children's clothes for sale in Kathmandu. R30 a piece. We select R1000 worth of good, reasonably warm garments, and as we walk away D tells me the clothes were from Red Cross.
A villager helps D carry the bag down from the taxi to D house.

Dhurba also buys gifts for his friends and his estranged daughter, leaving her present at her school, anonymously.

AND Matthew and I buy a guitar for Dhurba, from all of us. (See below.)

There are lessons and songs at D's house, though it is sad too, for we must leave.

We set off for Kathmandu again, and to return Deva's stick to her.

On the way back to Kathmandu from Nagarkot for the second and last time.

We took the stick back to Deva Kumari, with thanks and photographs of herself. We gave her one of the Amazing Stick atop Poon Hill with me, as well.

Here's a picture of the Four Stubborn Bs at last! Taken by a schoolboy.

It's raining and without Deva's stick to keep me stable, I have just fallen down a cliff. What will they do without me to interact histrionically with sundry hazards?

Later, in Kathmandu, we buy Dhurba a guitar. It is a surprise and he does not suspect anything. We smuggle it into the Hotel and write loving messages on the back.

Brave smiles at the airport.

SEQUEL.

First pictures of Lukus Earsman-Moriones, born 26th April, 06, in Pamplona, Spain.

I sent him the money and we are awaiting news of the registration of Dhurba's Orphanage, NAGARHOPE. Any day now...

*** Update 5th Sept, 06.

News of Neil:

http://www.blog.com.np/united-we-blog/category/guest-column/page/2/

Dhurba has his Orphanage, (which he called 'NagarkotHope' because the name NagarHope' was taken.) I send him money and parcels of clothes, toys and sweets for the children, but can't tap into International Charities because D hasn't got his registration number yet.

Krishnadas and Nadashri are married, and Lukas is growing very fast. I visited them in Pamplona, Spain, in July, arriving one year to the day of my first diary entry in Nepal.

The world moves on,and Nepal has changed. Many say it is for the better.

My memories of our time there have taken on a vivid quality. I will never forget the people I met, the poverty, the anguish and the warmth. It was gut-wrenching stuff, very basic.

I can't help wondering if, years after the advent of Peak Oil, the Western World will be like Nepal?

.

Here's Neil! ie Neil Horning:

http://www.blog.com.np/united-we-blog/2006/07/04/maoist-army-in-writing-interview-with-comrade-commissar/

Remember we travelled with him for a while? .

Oct 10, 07

KrishnaDas and Nadashri have a baby girl, born 10 April, just 16 days before Lukas' birthday. Photos to follow.

Dhurba has attracted another benefactor in Ireland, who has raised a considerable amount of money for NagarHope. We found out about each other through this blog, via Google.

http://nagarhope.travellerspoint.com/archive/112006/

Doc tried to set up a Non Governmental Organisation a few months ago, in order to register the orphanage (it seems it wasn't registered after all,) and to buy some land, but he had some difficulties. He's going back to Nepal soon, and this time will stay for two or three years.

Dhurba went trekking in snow and sustained frostbite, which continues to trouble him. I am awaiting news and further developments.

More about Neil:

http://neilsnepal.wordpress.com/about/