We went up another flight of creaky stairs into the dining room, which had maps and mountaineering memorabilia plastered all over the walls.
‘You want to go for the walks?’ Subash asked me.
‘Yeah ok, I need some exercise.’
We made our way back down the stairs and out onto the street. Jiri had many trekking shops, but I didn’t see a single tourist in Jiri other than myself. In its heyday, Jiri was a bustling epicentre for all things trekking, but it has been in a steady decline ever since the opening of the airport in Lukla. Even the road doesn’t conclude at Jiri anymore, but carries on to the next town of Shivalaya (where we were hiking to the following day); and it is even possible to catch a lift along a muddy goat-track to the next town of Bhandar if you so choose to, but what would be the point in that?
We made our way down the cobbled street and veered off onto a muddy track, coming across a gang of six men working with the most primitive of tools on some drainage system across the path. As we came to within 150 metres of them, they all stopped work, put down their tools and stared at me with expressionless faces. I felt a little uneasy, to be honest.
I smiled and said ‘hello’ as I passed, but their expressions remained unchanged. I could probably take five of them, I joked to myself. But six, that’s tough! I watch a lot of Kung Fu.
We did a little loop and then began to climb for the very first time up the side of a hill towards a Buddhist shrine, perhaps only 40 vertical metres above the town.
Well I was hopelessly out of shape. Jiri was only 2100m (6890 ft) above sea level and the oxygen was plentiful, but within a few seconds I was breathing deeply and my heart was racing. I was trying very hard to breathe as silently as possible so as not to alert Subash of my conditioning. I was only half way up and needed a rest, but I wasn’t going to let on. I stopped, took out my camera and began taking some photos of nothing in particular.
At the top sat a golden Buddha and I was intrigued to note that in his left hand was the same three-pronged trident that Lord Shiva was holding. Subash’s religious knowledge wasn’t his strongest asset, so I vowed to do some research into the matter when I returned to civilisation.
We made our way back to the lodge and sat upstairs in the communal dining room.
‘Right, who wants a beer?’ I asked the boys, but they stared sheepishly at the floor. ‘Come on, it’s ok, first day of the trek so I am buying the beers.’ They smiled and accepted my offer so we ordered three Everest Beers. To my horror the lady went to the cupboard to get them, not a fridge as I had imagined.
‘Subash, ask her if she has any cold beers mate.’
‘Yes is having. Why you want the cold beer?’
‘All beer should be cold. Ice cold,’ I answered him, not able to believe I was having this conversation.
‘No ways man. Nepal is a cold country so we like the warm beer.’
I shook my head in disgust. I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and say ‘la la la la la’ over and over again to drown out the noise. Where I’m from, serving someone a warm beer is punishable by death.
My beer arrived and it was just cold enough to drink. We had several of them, and I even tried a Nepali bitter called Gurkha, but it was putrid and one sip was all I needed. So I jumped back on the Everest Beer and we drank until we were merry.
‘Yo Alex man are you bored?’ Subash asked me after a moment of silence.
‘No mate I’m not bored.’
‘No man, not bored – bald?’
‘That’s a strange question, but yeah, slowly,’ I said while pointing to the top of my head.
He burst out laughing, then said, a little exasperated, ‘No man! Cored!’
‘Am I cored? What does that mean?’ It was my turn to get a little exasperated. Subash’s English had gone to shit after a couple of beverages. ‘Ah you mean cold?’
‘Yes!’
‘No I’m not cold.’
And we went into a fit of laughter. I think it was the Everest beer talking.
*
I was having quite a pleasant sleep until about 1am. I was awoken by someone booting me in the guts. I quickly realised that it had been a dream, but the pain had not gone away. I needed the dunny, big style. Now, let me point out that, including the family that ran the lodge, there were only seven of us staying under that roof.
I saw out the gripe, and waited, hoping in vain that it was a one-off. They never are. I heard footsteps stir in the room above me. They headed for the stairs and then, with a sense of dread, I realised that they were going to use the only toilet. Something from deep down inside me gurgled. And then the second wave hit me with exponential force. Why didn’t you go the first time you fool!
I had a stressful eight minutes forty-two seconds there, but I managed to hold on. Before I’d even finished my business, I heard the steps again and the latch to the toilet started to rattle. The person on the other side of the door was probably thinking – What a coincidence, fancy the toilet being busy at this time of night!
As it turned out it was Nima. Both times.
‘Good morning, Nima,’ I greeted him, back in the dining area the next morning.
‘Ah morning sir,’ he said.
‘You sleep well?’ I asked.
‘Ah yes sir, but then no sir. I awaken up a maybe one morning time with direa’. Waking up a many times sir. Been high altitude working and then back Kathmandu. Drank a chang pin dup gul traga then last night more beer. All mix in stom and no good sir.’
‘Ah no good,’ I said, not really knowing what to say, but he seemed pleased with my response. This was one of the times I actually knew what he was talking about, and I’m sure he sensed this. I certainly think that sometimes he looks at me during his speeches and thinks: This guy has no idea what I’m talking about.
Subash joined us and we ordered breakfast. I ordered what was known as the ‘Set Breakfast’, which was about six times more expensive than any other option. This must be huge, I reasoned. Well the set breakfast is scrambled eggs, fried potato and four pieces of crummy toast. I could have made the same thing from the menu for at least half the price. Then I did a quick conversion into Australian dollars, and told myself to stop whinging. It was about three bucks.
‘Thank you – darnaybaad,’ I said to my hosts.
‘You’re welcome, enjoy your trekking,’ they said.
Then we were off.
I strapped on my boots for the first time in Nepal, before hitting the literal road to Shivalaya, following it out of town for perhaps a kilometre, before veering off onto a well-trodden path. We ascended into a pine forest that unleashed a glorious aroma as the trees were warmed by the sun’s first rays. It was perhaps already 9am, but the sun can take a while to reach you in the Himalaya. We re-joined the road for a while, which meandered up the side of the valley, but we soon forsook this route and made a bee-line for the top.
I passed an old man and greeted him with a Namaste, which caused his face to light up with a huge grin, and he responded with another Namaste. I passed two young school girls in identical uniforms apparently on their way to class. There was quite a steep drop into a ravine on one side, the other a vertical dirt wall. The path was less than 30cm wide. I stopped and moved to the edge to let them pass. They didn’t bat an eye lid, but once past me, they both called out ‘thank you’ in unison, without even turning around. ‘You’re welcome,’ I called, but they were already gone.
It was exhausting work climbing out of our first valley. My old man would call it ‘a real lung-buster’. By the time we had reached the top, we had ascended only 300 vertical metres, but it was straight up.
We sat down for a rest.
‘You know that me and the Nima was worried for you,’ Subash said as we sat on green grass overlooking a gloriously sun-lit valley. There was barely a sound, save for a gust of wind blowing gently below us in the valley. A small twin engine plane soared overhead, bound for Lukla with a plane load of tourists. Cirrus clouds high above us f
ormed an intriguing pattern in the sky. It made me feel abundantly happy. Here I was, sitting in the foothills of the Himalaya, and I had it all to myself. Save for a lone Canadian trekker marching the opposite way towards Jiri, I did not see one other foreigner on the hike to Shivalaya. Great for me, but not so great for the businesses that sit and watch potential income flying straight over their heads.
‘Why was that?’ I asked.
‘Well this is a tough trek man, and we was worried how you going to go. We didn’t know if your walking is good. But now I saw you walk and I am happy. I keep turning around and say “Teksa? teksa?” Asking if you is ok. And always you say, “Teksa teksa.” This is good man. Bistari bistari. Slowly slowly. I tell you now man, best cure in Himalaya is water. If you is drinking four litres of water each day, no way you will get mountain sickness for sure.’
I felt pretty pleased with myself. We stood up and gently strolled across the ridge-line, covered in much of the same pine-trees as lower down in the valley. Something grand caught the corner of my left eye; the scale of which I knew was huge, despite not even knowing what it was. I turned my head slowly, and stood dumbstruck to see the largest mountains I have ever seen in my life. They were probably 50km away, but the size and majesty of them made them seem close enough to touch. You could see heavy snow gracing the peaks, of which we could see dozens, while glaciers carved their way down the slopes. Now it felt like we were in the Himalayas.
‘What are those mountains, Subash?’ I asked him.
‘Those are not mountains, those are hills.’ He shat on my parade.
*
Shivalaya, our destination for the night, sits at an altitude of 1767m (5797ft), so we had a good 600 metres to descend, and in true Himalayan spirit, it was pretty much straight down. We made our way into a steep gully being formed by the relentless flow of glacial melt water. Rhododendron flowers – the gorgeous national flower of Nepal, a brilliant red in colour, and large enough to cover the palm of your hand – were beginning to blossom, telling us that spring was about to be in full swing. The lower we went, the gentler the slope became, until we were walking almost horizontally next to a picturesque stream with miraculously clear water flowing quickly between perfectly rounded stones. We came across an iron suspension bridge and crossed it into Shivalaya. What a lovely little place it is.
A second suspension bridge brought us into the actual township, which was absolutely immaculate. There wasn’t a single piece of rubbish on the ground, which was in stark contrast to Jiri, which was, if I’m honest, a bit of a tip. Immediately on the right Subash turned into the River Guest House, sat down, threw his arms out wide and said, ‘Welcome to Shivalaya man, this is your second Himalayan home.’
The River Guest House was painted in exactly the same format as every other lodge in Shivalaya. It is painted in white and blue – the walls all being white and the railings blue – achieving quite a striking effect. Nima picked up my keys and hauled my bag up onto the next floor up and deposited it in my room. I climbed up the three widely-spaced stairs to get up onto the veranda and cautiously tip-toed my way across the floor made from unfastened wooden planks that flexed and groaned under my weight. It must have looked like I was walking the tight-rope, because I looked down to see Subash laughing so hard I was worried he was going to piss himself.
I ducked my way through a five-foot high doorway and into my second room. A three-quarter sized single bed lay up against the far wall, which was made of some kind of mortar, and painted a hideous shade of lime green. The other walls were made of wooden planks not altogether properly spaced, which left gaps at irregular intervals, giving key-whole glimpses of the adjacent rooms. The sound carried. You could hear a mouse fart in any one of those rooms. I prodded the bed gently and almost broke a fingernail.
‘What do you want for lunch man?’ Subash asked me as I re-joined the boys downstairs.
‘Do they have Dal Bhat?’
‘Of course man.’
Well, it was aromatic and the green vegetables were exceptionally flavoursome, however I think the actual lentil soup itself lacked a bit of a kick. The pickled vegetables were very spicy, but they lost marks on one of the side plates, serving this vegetable that I have never seen before that was sour enough to make your tongue shrivel up and die. It was inedible. It may have just been there for presentation.
After lunch Subash led me for a walk a little further down into the valley alongside the river. It was just a perfect setting for a town. The area looked like the mergence of three-or-so valleys and Shivalaya had plonked itself smack-bang in the middle of it. I can imagine the person, all those years ago, that strolled into this valley and thought: ‘I want to live here.’ Why wouldn’t ya?
Chapter Six
Shivalaya to Bhandar
Despite the circumstances I slept rather well in Shivalaya and by 7am I emerged from the lodge into beams of sunlight being shot out of an impossibly deep-blue sky. I raised both fists in the air, leant back, raised my face to the sky and did a tremendous Chewbacca yawn. Everywhere mothers ushered their children inside, windows closed, doors slammed shut and vacancy signs were turned around the other way.
I looked over to my left and saw an old man walking my way, crossing the suspension bridge in a slow, deliberate manner. He was carrying a large cardboard box. I pulled up a pew and watched him with interest. Then I watched in horror as he stopped half-way across, turned to the side of the bridge and unloaded the contents of the box straight down into that sublime-looking, crystal-clear water. It was his rubbish. My jaw dropped. If you’d done that where I’m from, you’d have been thrown in after it for the crocodiles’ breakfast.
The night before, my isolation from other tourists had been brought to an end with the arrival of two Australian blokes in their late twenties named Dale and Andy, along with two Swedish trekkers. We’d sat up for a while in the communal area drinking a few beers and sharing notes on our respective trips. But mostly we just talked about squatting dunnies and our experiences of them.
We assembled in the courtyard at roughly the same time.
‘Ok so Alex this morning is the first of the difficult,’ Subash told me in what was to become an every-morning briefing. I noticed that the other four trekkers tuned in as well. ‘We is going up for maybe the two hours, maybe one and the half hours, maybe the three hours. It is depending on you. Bistari bistari, slowly slowly we go and we is getting there quickly. We have lunch in Deurali, then we is going back down to the Bhandar to be sleeping. Any questions?’
‘Nope, let’s do it.’
I was a little bit apprehensive about this morning’s trek. Yesterday had been a doddle in comparison, because this morning we had to go straight up for a vertical kilometre (3280ft) to Deurali, which sits at an altitude of 2705m (8874 ft).
We all hit the trail one after the other, with the two other Aussies in the lead, followed by myself and then the two Swedes. The climb was arduous. I’d take 15 to 20 steps, and pause for a minute to catch my breath before taking another 15 to 20 steps. This time there was no hiding my breathing. It is hard when you’re gasping. After perhaps 10 minutes of climbing I allowed myself a little break and a drink of water. I turned around and was shocked to see that the rusting, corrugated iron rooves of Shivalaya’s 40-or-so buildings were already a distant speck. Perhaps I wasn’t making such bad time.
I remounted my pack and kept going. It wasn’t long before I rounded up Dale and Andy and overtook them when the path was wide enough for me to do so. I complemented myself on choosing to bring a porter along with me (those guys only had a guide, Gopal, while the Swedes were completely on their own). Before too long I was out of sight. Although I am a competitive person, I knew it wasn’t a race and that we were trekking for the love of being out in the wilderness and to see the greatest mountain range of them all; but once I overtook those guys, I refused to let them catch me again. I had a lot of fitness to gain for the passes, so I knew a bit of imaginary competition would be good
for me.
A couple of hours passed. Large, nameless and snow-graced mountains appeared behind, giving me a legitimate excuse to stop, breathe and snap some photographs.
At 10.10am I dragged my knackered ass over a rocky staircase and realised with the most wondrous feeling of elation that I could climb no higher. We had arrived at Deurali, announced by a multitude of prayer flags strewn from anything you could possibly tie a piece of string to, as well as several rocky walls that ran the length of the town with a seemingly infinite number of Buddhist incantations carved into the surface.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Subash while turning around to face me, but unbeknownst to him, I already was. A smile, followed by a look that may have been pity overcame his face. Then he added, ‘Wait here, I get us some things.’
I sat there in the sunlight, recovering, ever so happy that we only had to go down for the rest of the day. I watched with interest – or at least that’s what I’m going to call it – as Subash returned from a little shop carrying two glasses of what looked to be urine with a little steam coming off the top. I let out a moan while he was still out of earshot, dreading a hot drink when all I could think about was an ice-cold refreshment.
‘Here man I get this for us,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘Just drink it man.’
I didn’t like the sound of this. If he couldn’t even tell me what it was, that meant it was not a good thing. I had a sip, and my face tried to implode into the back of my skull. It was the most sour, revolting thing I have ever tasted in my life. Take the most disgusting white wine you’ve ever tried, pee in it a little bit, and you would not even be close to experiencing what I did that day (but it would be a good start).
The Nepali Flat Page 4