Nepal

Kathmandu. I spent most of my time in Thamel, the tourist sector. It’s a congested, hot, dusty overgrown hive of noise and bustle. Peddlers sell fruit, juice, instruments, kukri knives, antiques and marijuana off the dusty streets. Merchants beckon you into their garage door-fronts to sell you clothes, pashminas, antiques, wool-craft, paintings, Buddhist statues and anything else a tourist might buy. Add hotels, bars, bakeries, money exchange desks, beggars, two-seater bicycle-taxis honking their squeaky horns, cars, scooters and tourists, and you’ve got a healthy throng. It took us a day to get our permits sorted out and we were on a bus to Besisahar, the start of the Annapurna circuit.

Sourced from www.muktinath.org

 NB: Thanks to my awesome camera, most of my pictures have been GPS-tagged. Google has a neat feature which presents the photo album overlaid onto the map, here.

A flat tyre did this

It is worth noting that there is only one road exiting Kathmandu in the direction of India. This road is treacherous, windy and absolutely packed. On the day we left a bus had had the misfortune of getting a flat tyre. Lacking a spare, the bus blocked one of the precious two lanes for some time. The traffic going up and over the hill ground to a standstill which took us over an hour to get through. Also, the breaks on our bus were squeaking loudly – an indicator that the brake pads are worn and require replacing. Such is the way of things. We changed busses once and spent a night in the “Mountain View Hotel”, a dingy little lodge in Besisahar at 760m above sea level.

Day one of the hike began and much later than it should have been as the sun was already up and burning. The sweat poured off us just walking along the flat and we found shady spots to take breaks. We made it a short day and rested in a tiny bungalow next to the river in Khudi. In future we would be getting up in the early hours and then waiting for the heat to pass before continuing on. At least in theory.

The next day took us high into the rice paddy terraced hillsides as far as around Lampata. It was becoming apparent that Rowena was having a difficult time on the up-hill so we called it a day and hired a porter (Minrasi) to carry her pack thereon. Thus we became four. A sign boasted hot pools, around 40mins walk away. What wasn’t clear to us was that it was a 40min steep decline to the level of the river through overgrown, leech-infested terrain requiring a guide to navigate (thus requiring a 1hr ascent to return). Well we made it and it was spectacular, but it was hard earned.

 

 

The peace and love hotel, with a healthy crop of 'peace and love'.

 

Rising early, we left the rice paddies and eventually returned to the level of the river. The valley became a steep gorge whose sheer cliff banks reached up and into the clouds. We saw several spectacular waterfalls and some huge wild bee nests which had been built beneath an overhang on the opposite side of the gorge. We saw the first real signs of the road being built and spent the night in a village which seemed to have the sole purpose of serving the road construction project. It emerged that night that Min had a pretty decent sized cyst growing on his thigh which he hadn’t told us about and played down as unimportant. Rowena had packed the über first aid kit with some kick-ass antibiotics, which we gently forced upon Min. In the days that followed it seemed to have helped and the last I heard it pretty much fine.

Sheer

According to the map we were to be treated to a ‘Long Hot Climb’, which it was. On the opposite side of the valley construction work was being carried out. A partial path had been blasted from the vertical rock wall and work crews were jack-hammering through the remnants and tipping huge boulders over the crag and into the river. They closed the track for blasting, as fragments of rock were all over the track even on our side of the valley.  Even with no rucksack Rowena had a rough time ascending the long hot climb, so it was a relief to find a large plateau, the village Tal (1700m) and a lodge to stay in.

For a small town up a long valley and miles away from any road access, Tal surprised me. First was the soccer field, and moreover, the soccer match being held there. Players had proper boots and uniforms, referees had flags, whistles, and even a LED number board for calling players on and off the field. They had to chase a chicken off the field once, but it was otherwise very much a proper game of soccer. Behind the soccer field was a huge waterfall and a building which housed a power generator. The town had power. Lastly was the cultural event/festival being held that night. It was a sort of cabaret where locals performed various dances – some traditional, some more, uh… ‘modern’. I entertained some locals with my guitar for a short time outside our lodge, and later invited myself to join some local guys playing electric guitar.

Multifail

 

Powering the Amp

Rowena was so sick the next morning she hardly got out of bed. Max and Rowena had attempted the circuit seven years ago from the other side. At Muktinath Rowena fell ill from altitude sickness and they had to turn back, so it had been prearranged that if Rowena were unable to make it up and over the pass she would turn back with her porter, and we would rendezvous on the other side. By lunchtime Rowena was up and showing some signs of improvement, but judging on the past days walking it was clear she would not make it over the pass regardless of her condition. She was confident she could make it down with Min’s help so we divvied up the group kitty and left Min to look after her and parted ways. And then there were two.

Under Construction

 Max and I walked as far as Bagarchap and stopped a bit early, but just before a steep climb (which we’d tackle in the morning). We passed several porters carrying ridiculous loads along the narrow, treacherous route. Some with huge bundles of polythene piping or big sheets of plywood which effectively became a sail when the wind rose. The drops were sheer and the river below merciless. Max assisted some locals erecting a sign who were doing it wrong.

We felt the first effects of altitude as we ascended the next morning and kept chitchat to a minimum. I described it as if someone were slowly tightening the screws to your skull. Just a very slight pressure in the back of your head. A village sat on the plateau at the top, surrounded by orchards and fields of buckwheat and corn. The people were less interested in foreigners here and no longer shouted ‘Namaste!’ from their lodges as you trudged past.

Upon arriving in Chame (2670m) I was excited to learn (via a big sign painted on a rock) that internet access was available. I was disappointed to learn how much they charged for it; ten rupees per minute. It’s a pittance when converted back to Swiss francs but a lot compared to local amenities such as food and lodging. It was also the first town (of many) which charged for recharging batteries. This irked me a lot. The locals had evidently identified a sore-spot from which money could be squeezed. The rooms had been purpose built to exclude power sockets. Furthermore the services, menus and prices are dictated to all lodges via a local governing body, ensuring that there was no competition between lodges and that no exceptions to ridiculous service related costs were made. This eliminates bargain hunting, haggling (to a greater extent) and gives you peace of mind that a place isn’t trying to rip you off. It does however ensure that prices, services and even menus of all restaurants and lodges across town are fixed; so if one place *is* ripping you off so is everyone else in town. This also removes the incentive for lodges and restaurants to improve their services or think outside the square placed firmly around them.

It was also about then that Max and I counted up our group kitty and realised to our great dismay that if the prices kept increasing at the rate they were, we wouldn’t have enough cash to last us to the other side. The so-called ATM in Chame was in fact a credit card facility and in our wisdom we had left the credit card with Rowena (also, she needed it). My credit card had been closed when I left Switzerland because I couldn’t hold one without a fixed Swiss address (bureaucracy). I changed my foreign currency into Rupees and did a recount. We’d make it if we weren’t too slow about it. Probably. This put somewhat of an uneasy time constraint on the whole trip and it mean we had to reduce our tea breaks, choose simpler hotels, skip desert and stick to cheaper foods - rice. From the moment we started trying to reduce our spending the trip changed, and added an element of urgency to was otherwise a carefree journey through the mountains. We discussed options and we decided we’d try and organise something through Rowena when she got to civilisation. Somehow.

But don’t get the wrong impression. Chame is a nice place. I guess you could say that it… has its charm. It sports many facilities including a bank, bakeries, police, shoe repairs, western union, the aforementioned internet and even credit card processing. We knew of one Nepalese guy who walked a full day to Chame just to go to the bank (returning the next day). It’s paved. There’s a hot pool on the other side of the river which the locals use - just a concrete pit with a hot pipe and a cold pipe right next to the raging river. It’s fantastic. It was in Chame where we met an Australian couple for the first time, who we’d keep bumping into throughout the trek.

We were up at sparrow-fart the next morning and off. It was a long, hot day which brought us all the way to Upper Pisang. We were befriended by a local cook at the lodge we stayed at. Max explained our financial situation to him and he arranged for us to defer our payment until we returned to Kathmandu, where we could pay a relative of the owner. It was Friday and a large group of Israelis arrived. I’ve typically found Israelis to be quite secular. They band tightly together and speak only in Hebrew, so there’s little opportunity to interact. Contrary to my predispositions, one of the girls in this group was open and friendly. They were about to begin their Sabbath and she explained what they were doing. The girls lit candles, they sang some songs in Hebrew and read a verse from their bible. I joined them playing cards for a while and retired.

 

Upper Pisang. Because it's so high.

Lower Pisang

Max began to struggle with altitude related symptoms from Pisang onwards. He was drinking huge amounts of water – sometimes six litres in a day – was experiencing dizziness and just didn’t feel quite right. We took the low route, drinking lots of water and stopping frequently for breaks. At the end of an another arduous day we arrived in Manang.

Manang, at 3540m, is the last ‘big’ town before crossing the pass. Since ascending too quickly is generally bad news most people, us included, use Manang for their altitude acclimatisation rest day. It has internet (at a ridiculous 30rp/min), cafes, bakeries, two movie theatres (which play the same movie each day at the same time – don’t ask), a post office (donkey mail), a pharmacy, a doctor, and a bunch of shops selling groceries, clothes, trekking gear, souvenirs, and other sundry useless crap you can carry over the pass if you want. Yes, it’s quite the bustling town and quite touristy (read: expensive). 

Our saviours, Paras and Yem

Our financial dilemma being far from solved, we made repeated attempts to contact Rowena. She seemed to be unresponsive to our emails during the first rest day, but we managed to contact Minrasi who had been in touch with her. He forwarded us the phone number of the lodge she was staying at in Besisahar. She was sick and had been in hospital there. It took some ringing around, but we finally managed to get in touch with her. She said she was improving and up and about again. Max considered heading back but she said it wasn’t necessary. So here’s how we solved our financial issue: Rowena gave 20’000 rupees to the owner of her lodge, who would then pass it on to the owner of another lodge (the Himilayan) in Besisahar, who was a friend of the ACAP (Annapurna Conversation Area Project) officer in Manang, who was sitting next to the local doctor, who happened to have 20’000 rupees lying around which was then passed to us. It’s difficult to explain what it’s like to be stuck in a mountain town with no means of exit and dwindling money, and to have all your problems evaporate like that. It’s like winning Lotto on your way to the tax department to declare bankruptcy. It’s an understatement to say we were grateful. These two guys saved our trip. Thanks to the ACAP officer Paras. Thanks to the good doctor Yem. Thanks to Rowena.

Two days in Manang left me longing for the road, but Max was still struggling with the altitude so we only made short days. We stopped after only a few hours at a charming little place in the middle of nowhere run by an elderly couple, and spent the evening chatting with two French guys who’d just crossed the pass on their mountain bikes (!) and were now coming down. 

 

Moo

Next stop was in Yak Kharka (4’150m). They’d built a micro hydro-scheme and were using the power for lights and water heating in the lodge. Considering that the generator, the cement, the sections of metal piping, etc all has to be carried for a week by donkey this is a stupendous feat. Max couldn’t believe, and obstinately emphasised, that they were using their precious electric power to heat water in uninsulated, open copper cylinders, outside with the water outflow at the bottom instead of the top where the hot water is. After much explaining, gesturing and drawing Max conveyed upon them how they might improve their heating efficiency by moving the whole show inside, using their existing wetback stove, a few pipes, a bucket and a toilet cistern valve.

Max had been stewing over Rowena’s situation over the past days and, combined with the continued effects of mild altitude symptoms, awoke the next morning with a solid conviction to turn back to Besisahar. She had been in hospital on a saline drip to keep her fluids up, and he wanted to return and nurse her to health. I convinced him to call her, and Rowena in turn convinced Max that she was improving steadily and about to leave Besisahar. This news settled him greatly, and it was agreed to meet on the other side of the pass and to communicate further via email. The meeting point, as understood and conveyed by Max (this becomes a crucial mote of information later on in the story) was to be Kagbeni. Understood. Cross the pass, walk to Kagbeni, connect via email, meet with Rowena. It was the “foolproof plan”. What could possibly go wrong?

Dum dum dum…

Next day, up early and onwards through the drizzle. It was still overcast so the magnificent views of the mountains were still denied to us. The air was beginning to thin noticeably and uphill became a slow, place-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other affair. Thorong Phedy (4’550m) was a welcome sight after a fairly miserable day’s slog. The main cafeteria was double-glazed and there was under-table heating to keep your feet warm. There were music instruments – including another backpacker guitar just like mine! (It had nylon strings and no pickup… but how great is that?) Two friends of the owner were visiting from Kathmandu. They’d previously been in a jazz band together so, inevitably, come evening the instruments came from their cases. I brought my guitar to the party and we jammed a little before an amp was set up and the lead guitarist got to work. And boy could he play. It was a really cool experience in the most unexpected of places. 

The crossing. Waking at 5am, breakfast, cuppa, gone. It was still dark as we started out but to our incredible fortune, the sky was cloudless. We walked in a long chain of people, by starlight and lamplight, plodding methodically up the zigzag trail. I remember how the dew on the mountain shrubs glistened in the lamplight and the silhouette of the mountain ranges on the dark blue glow of the dawn sky. (Very poetic, I know.) It got colder as we climbed, and the ground became frosted. We stopped at the high camp to fill up on water, breaking through a thin layer of surface ice. The sun rose from behind the range, its harsh rays warming all it touched while the shadows remained frozen. The air was thin. There was no conversation. Max and I were focussing on keeping our oxygen levels in equilibrium, drawing deep breaths and keeping the length of our stride constant. For a sixty-six year old, Max did superbly. He found his old mountaineering rhythm and kept on like clockwork. Old man my ass. After three days of overcast weather and drizzle we marvelled at our luck. Entire mountain ranges appeared from all sides; some above, some below. It was by any measure the most fantastic day of the trip.

At long last we reached the pass. 5400m. Half cruising altitude. What a moment. I sat down with the guitar and played until my fingers froze after two songs. I did Haka (had to be done). We celebrated and blew 400 rupees on chocolate bars from the little shop which was (inevitably) there. And then, since our magical window of luck had served its purpose, the clouds rolled in. We began the steep, 1500m knee-grinding descent to Muktinath. The other side of the pass was barren and dusty; a complete contrast to the lush, green valley we’d come up. Muktinath, at 3800m, is of religious significance to many Indians, and a popular pilgrimage destination

We stayed only one night before walking along the dusty road to Kagbeni. It was our first taste of hiking alongside a road (as opposed to a trail), and we didn’t like it. Jeeps carrying tourists tear up and down the valley with engines roaring, gears grinding, brakes squealing and horns blasting at each blind corner, covering roadside pedestrians in dust. As a result, tourists opt to take a jeep. The downward spiral is complete.

I was impressed by Kagbeni at first. We somehow lost the main road into town and ended up crossing a makeshift bridge somewhere upstream before meandering into the town along the river past the grain fields and fruit orchards. The township itself is ancient; narrow alleyways and archways built completely by hand from stacked rocks and wooden poles, held together by clay and mud. The cobbled river-stone streets were quiet and cool, despite the heat. Chickens and calves wandered aimlessly through the streets.

Our first order of business was to check at the ACAP office to see whether Rowena had signed in. She hadn’t. Expecting her arrival we took residence in the Green Kitchen, the nicest place we could find which boasted organic food.  We left a message for Rowena at the ACAP office should she arrive. There was even internet down the street at the ‘YakDonalds’, albeit sporadic. Powercuts were frequent and the satellite-internet was weather dependent, so it took some time to learn that Rowena hadn’t replied to any emails. We sent an email asking if she was well and about her whereabouts, and if she could reply asap. 

Day two of Kagbeni changed many things for us. It rained heavily and the streets became mud puddles. Several large herds of goats were herded through the streets, leaving mud and droppings in their wake. It became apparent how hungry and malnourished the tiny calves we’d seen earlier were. Mud caked everything, and there was no grass. We saw four calves chowing down on a cardboard box in the mud and scat. One of them found and ate a cake of soap. To our shock we saw the maid from our hotel washing dishes in the brown, swollen creek which ran through the town only meters downstream from a (presumably curing) animal hide. We resolved not to eat from the lodge any more, which was expensive anyway. Even worse, still no sign of Rowena. We sent another email and tried to call the ACAP office in Jomsom where she would have arrived by plane, but neither the police nor the ACAP office (which was in the same building) had a landline. The cellphone tower was consistently down, so none of the personnel were contactable. We made friends at YakDonalds and they gave us a guided tour of their garden. Max explained how to correctly fell a tree using axes, and explained the benefits above buying and bringing a chainsaw into such a remote and unserviceable area. Also, there were no trees. Weird. I did my best to remove the Sasser virus which had infected their computers. Where was Rowena?

Max didn’t sleep that night. His wife was missing, last seen recovering from hospital treatment in Kagbeni. Remembering back on Max’s state the next morning even now, I can’t help but feel a touch of disappointment towards Rowena for not answering a single email. It would have solved so much. We tried to check our emails before we left but couldn’t, because the internet was down. So on the morning of the third day we started walking early (to avoid the strong winds which started daily at 11am) along the road towards Jomsom. Our plan was formulated thus: Go to Jomsom. Check at the police checkpoint and the ACAP office to see if Rowena had signed in. If still no sign of Rowena, check at the airport to see if she’d been on any passenger flights. If still no sign of Rowena, inform the New Zealand embassy of a missing person. Tough talk I know, but we were desperate.

Lulz

Rowena had left a note, including a hand drawn picture of us, with the Jomsom police checkpoint. They recognised us straight away and handed us the note. She was well and staying in Marpha. We tried to get money from the long-anticipated ATM, which only accepts credit cards. So on we marched, out of the muddy streets of Jomsom and onwards along the increasingly congested road to Marpha. At about half way a fully laden Jomsom bound bus passed us, then came to a sudden halt. Rowena got out. And then we were three.

Reunited

And so comes to light the grandiose, mother of all misunderstandings between Max and Rowena as to the place of meeting. Rowena had meant Marpha, Max had understood Kagbeni, where we’d waited for two days in comms silence. The ‘foolproof plan’ was laid bare and found wanting. But we were together again and that was, all questions aside and above all, the most important thing.

Kids / bugs.

The saving grace of Marpha is that the road did not run through the town. Not being awoken by bus horns outside your bedroom is a luxury not to be taken for granted. As are mud free streets. We met Edith, a German girl at our hostel travelling alone, in the same direction as us. She joined our merry band and we became four.

Bridge repair / Greenery

The next few days consisted of walking along the roadside, getting out of the way of traffic and being blasted by horns. When possible we used tracks which ran on the opposite side of the river. We risked life and limb once and took a bus. Tatopani with its hot springs was a highlight, and we stayed an extra day to soak our muscles.

Save the environment? / Hitchin a ride

Two busses meet.... and pass!

At long last we left the road. The path went up, up, up and we went with it. Again, Rowena struggled with the ascent but did marvellously. It rained heavily part way up the mountain. We had aspirations of making it to Goropani but Rowena conked out earlier than expected. I carried her backpack for her till the next town, singing The Weight (“Take a load of Rowie…”). I’d recently spent a lot of time waiting, little time walking, and was slowly getting ready to see civilisation again. Also, we’d wanted to see the sunrise at Poon Hill which would either mean a long hike today or a short hike tomorrow and a long wait till the day after (more waiting). Edith and I opted to push on to Goropani and let Max and Rowena take their time without the pressure of us fit youngsters. We split the kitty (again) and then we were two.

Edith and I made Goropani after dark. We rose at 5am and joined the long, long chain of hikers up to Poon Hill to see the sunrise. I couldn’t believe how many people were there. The place just filled up. Again we were lucky as there was little cloud cover, and caught some great views of the mountains and valleys as the sun rose. What came next was the brutal descent to the valley floor. It was worse than the descent to Muktinath as they’d built steps down the whole mountain. By the time we reached the bottom my knees were weak and my thighs were killing me. We grit our teeth, hiked the day through, and made it through the heat and down the valley until we found the main road, caught a bus and made into Pokhara after nightfall.

I feel like I look

Epilogue
Max and Rowena arrived two days later. After three weeks of eating back-country mountain food I had my first taste of food poisoning from foolishly eating western-style food in expensive restaurants around the tourist quarter of Pokhara. It laid me flat for 36 hours but thanks to Rowena’s experience we caught it early. I participated in an Open Mic night in Pokhara with my backpacker guitar. It sounds great plugged in, but the owner got drunk (or something) and a little crazy and broke a string on it. With the exception of a two-day trip into the hills near Bhaktapur, I whittled the rest of my time away in Kathmandu. We went for a two-day rafting trip, including an overnight camp on a beach beside the river. I'd recommend only the single-day trip as the the second day was short and they'd forgotten mattresses (!). I got to ride on the top of a truck though. I made contact with the family of a Nepalese couchsurfer I’d hosted in Zürich. Her older brother Bigyan generously showed us his neighbourhood and invited us back to his family’s house for a traditional Nepalese dinner. It was without question the best dal baht I’ve ever had.

 Solo / Harmonica Duet

 Israeli chick / This will not end well

Dashain in full... swing

The time slowly rolled around to leave. For Max and Rowena it was to be Home, via Singapore. I was destined for Thailand for part two of the grand adventure.