‘How is it man?’ he asked.
I had another sip.
‘It’s good,’ I said, although my voice had taken on the sound of a man who had smoked two packs a day for the last 80 years.
‘It is alcohol?’
‘Yes it is a Rakshi. It is the local wine.’
‘Man it’s not even eleven o’clock.’
‘You no want it?’ he asked, a little hurt.
‘Yes I want it,’ I replied, going into diplomat mode. ‘Sorry man, just not used to drinking alcohol at ten thirty in the morning. But it’s ok, I’m on holiday.’
He seemed pleased with my response, and the smile returned to his face. Having shot myself in the foot, I now had to finish the wine. I waited until he wasn’t looking, readied a snickers bar, pinched my nose and skulled the cat piss, then shoved a snickers in my mouth and chewed violently, before releasing the grip I had on my nostrils. It had soured – nay, ruined – my Snickers bar, but the alternative still keeps me up at night.
*
As it turns out, Rakshi is stronger than an ox, and I was forced into a light-headed descent into Bhandar. We approached the other side of the town (it was barely 50 metres long) and looked straight down. We could see our target at the bottom of our next valley. Bhandar lies at an altitude of 2200m, so we had a good 500 vertical metres to descend.
We made our way down an excellent trekker path, made of large stones piled constructively to form a kind of staircase. The distant and daunting Lamjura Pass slipped in and out of view as we dropped into a dry, desolate valley. It didn’t take too long, the stroll to Bhandar. Nima had gone ahead with the bags and as I rounded a bend I saw him sitting on a large rock, waiting for us to catch up. He had Nepali music blaring from his phone. I smiled and took a seat next to him and just kind of breathed it all in.
It was dry, but beautiful in a different way, this valley. We continued before too long, leaving the rocky staircase above us, moving on to the gently undulating valley floor. Then suddenly we were in Bhandar and it was only 2pm. Subash checked me in at the Shobha Lodge and Restaurant, a cream-coloured, three-storey building made from mortar, with all the doors and window frames painted a deep, forest-green colour. Tradition dictated that I treat myself to an Everest Beer, so that’s exactly what I did.
Chapter Seven
Bhandar to Sete and over the Lamjura Pass
We all left Bhandar at the same time, but it wasn’t long before the Swedes dropped out of sight. The path ran horizontal for a good long while, much to my delight, with only the slightest of elevation changes. After a while the path narrowed and we could peer over the edge and see a drop of perhaps a thousand feet down to a river that thundered violently below us. I watched in interest as two figures made their way slowly down a path. I squinted against the sunlight and realised that it was, in fact, our two Swedish friends.
‘Subash, look, it’s those Swedish guys!’ I called to him.
‘Ah yes, they is taking the old ways,’ he answered me. ‘This is the very long ways, maybe is adding them two hours onto the trekking.’
‘The guides just paid for themselves,’ said Dale in the dramatic voice of an American movie trailer narrator.
We began losing altitude as we dropped down towards a quaint little town called Kinja, which at 1630m (5347ft), was the lowest point of my entire trek. We pulled in for lunch, sitting in the sunlight and watching as hybrid yaks made their way through the town, carrying supplies to restock the mountain shops and lodges. We’d eaten lunch, rested, filled up water bottles and were about to leave when a pair of tired looking Swedes scrambled into town with very confused looks on their faces.
*
I had a tough afternoon. The path zigzagged its way up the face of a very steep valley wall. It was real agricultural country. At times huge buffalos blocked the path and we warily had to circumnavigate them without falling off the track. Everywhere rhododendron flowers added some much needed colour to the dry, brown countryside. Up and up we continued to go. Honestly, it wasn’t a lot of fun. It was warm, I was leaking from every pore, my tired legs were aching from the previous day’s toil and we still had a long way to go. At 2520 metres (8267ft), Sete was a good 900 metres higher than Kinja, and it was an entire backflip from the previous days, when we’d completed all the climbing in the morning. Now we had a hard slog straight after lunch after a very easy morning.
Whose stupid fucking idea was this? I berated myself. Yay, let’s go ‘walking’ in the Himalayan foothills.
Anyway, I shan’t complain. I passed a family sitting on the ground. Mum, dad and four kids, and they were just there having the best time in each other’s company. They laughed, sang and called out a heart-warming ‘namaste’ to me as I trundled on past them. They lightened my mood considerably. Once high above them and out of sight, I asked Subash if it would be alright to take a photo of them. He said it wasn’t a problem, so I put on my largest lens and snapped a picture that I just love to look at.
The house was built on a steep slope, so although they were sitting on the ground, they were actually at roof height. The roof itself consisted of wooden slats being held down by large rocks, while the walls were just shaped stones piled on top of each other, but were not held together by any kind of slurry. Woven straw was spread at intervals to aid in the waterproofing process. How effective it actually was, I’m not sure.
In a better mood, I made my way into Sete, checking in at the rather grand-looking Sunrise Lodge and Restaurant, made of carved stone and corrugated iron. The first thing I always did when going in to a new lodge for the first time was to check the toilet. My jaw dropped when I saw a western-style dunny in this place. Hooray!
My room was small, but had a double bed in it, a rare luxury. I think if I’d thrown the mattress on the floor and slept on the rungs, it may have been slightly more comfortable. The walls were made of spaced pine that was taped together to prevent other people from seeing in. When they had run out of tape, they had simply stuffed cloth or linen in between the gaps.
A thunderous noise in the night wrenched me instantly from a deep slumber. It was pitch-black, but I could feel things landing on my sleeping bag. I fumbled around blindly for my head torch, and shivering I managed to flick the light on. Well, it was hailing. And it was hailing inside my room. I sighed a deep and heart-felt sigh and watched as ice particles landed all around me. I flicked the light off, crawled deeper into my sleeping bag, pulled the cord tight above my head, and cocooned myself off from the world.
*
The new day dawned miraculously bright. The air was cool and clearer than crystal. Birds chirped and flowers blossomed. I was a touch apprehensive this day. It was Lamjura Pass day. The guide book told me to eat well this morning, so I ordered two of everything; two omelettes, two pieces of Tibetan Bread (kind of a mixture of white bread and a doughnut) and a large pot of masala chai tea. Subash looked at me as though I had gone mad, but I finished it all, packed my stuff and waddled out through the front door.
‘Ok Alex,’ Subash began, and I knew I was about to get a briefing for the day.
‘Why does he call you Alex?’ Dale interrupted.
‘Yeah I don’t know. You know my name is Gordon, right Subash?’
‘Yes, but is the very hard name to be saying,’ He defended himself.
‘I don’t know why, you have every single one of those letters in your alphabet.’
‘Ok, so you no want me to call you Mr Alex?’
‘Well, I don’t really care, but it just isn’t my name.’
‘Ok so Mr Gorong, today we are doing the Lamjura Pass,’ said Subash, continuing his briefing. Dale and I looked at each other and began laughing, but Subash continued undeterred. ‘Is the pass at 3530 metres. If you can’t do this pass, there is no ways you can do the Three Passes trekking. So take your time, carry your jacket because weather maybe bad at the pass, and let’s go.’
Off we went for perhaps 20 metres of level ground before the ascent really
began. It is hard to describe the trail better than it’s described in Lonely Planet: Trekking in the Nepal Himalaya, which says, ‘The trail picks its way through a dripping, moss-cloaked forest of gnarled rhododendron, magnolia, maple and birch trees.’
It wasn’t long before we reached the snowline, pushing on for hour after hour towards the cloudless sky. We clambered over large roots that disrupted the path, pushed branches out of our way, fought our way over mossy rocks and leapt lightly over fallen trees. Despite the exertion required, I was having quite a good time. Dale and Andy were going for it this morning and I found it hard to match their blistering pace, so I just went at my own speed and continued to enjoy myself.
We stopped for a rest and a lemon and ginger tea at a small shop which offered the most amazing views of Mount Numbur’s pyramidal peak. The Sherpa name for the mountain is Shorong Yul Lha, meaning ‘God of the Solu’. Standing at 6959 metres (22831ft), it was the tallest mountain I had ever seen.
Clouds began to form above the pass and the wind picked up. The temperature plummeted and despite the heat my body was generating from the climb, I was forced to pull my jacket on. As lunch time approached, so too did the pass; and as I took my final, weary steps towards the restaurant we would be eating at, I saw a little boy of perhaps only three years in my peripheral vision with a snowball in his hand. I looked at him and smiled. He smiled back and went to throw the snowball at me, but it landed about a didgeridoo’s length from him, and absolutely nowhere near me. I laughed and made my own snowball and did a little underarm throw which broke gently on his jacket, to his utter delight. I went closer to him and allowed him to hit me with the next snowball. I looked up to see his mother watching us from the doorway, laughing with joy that her son had found someone to play with.
It was getting cold and it began to snow ever so gently, almost imperceptible to the human eye. I needed to get inside and thaw out my frozen hands. Inside I found the gang in a small room, seated in a semi-circle around an old, clay oven. Subash barked an order and Nima jumped up to give me his seat, right in front of the oven. I put my hand on his shoulder and insisted that he keep his seat, which made him feel a little uneasy, but he soon overcame this and was his happy self once more.
We all sat and watched as the lady of the house prepared the food right in front of us. Having a love for all things cooking, I felt deeply privileged to witness this spectacle unfold, and I made a great deal of mental notes on all the ingredients and techniques that she applied to achieve some really delicate flavours. When I returned to Australia nearly a month later, I missed Dhal Bhat Takheri, and so I began making it for myself, based largely on what I had seen this lady do on a little yak-dung stove at the top of a high pass.
Outside Andy asked a middle-aged woman for permission to give her son a small piece of candy. He was about two years old, as cute as a button and had snot sprawled up either side of his face. He took the sweet and then looked at his mother, who said something like, ‘Now what do you say?’
He put his hands together, lifted them up to just below his chin in a praying action, and bowed his head slightly while muttering some form of ‘thank you’. It was just too cute. Then I looked down, and this little newborn puppy with the bushiest mountain hair came stumbling towards me and chirped – it wasn’t a bark - and I just couldn’t believe all the cuteness. I really couldn’t. I threw on my backpack, snapped a quick photo of the cute dog, cried out ‘zam zam!’, and we were off like a dog shot in the arse.
We went over a final rise that marked the pass, snapped some pictures of the cairn and prayer flag, before dropping down into yet another valley. It is quite a strange sensation. For two days we’d been making our way along the floor of the last valley, and that view was all we had. It was spectacular, don’t get me wrong, but it is your whole world. Then, within seconds of going over the pass, you no longer have the view you had before, but are instead presented with a whole new view; and it will be your entire world until you scramble into the next valley. This world we entered now was prehistoric.
Ancient fir and rhododendron trees formed a dense forest that stifled the path. Some of the trees soared at least 50 metres or more from the ground and it seriously looked like a scene from Jurassic Park. The descent was gradual over loose football-sized rocks, so you could never take your eyes from your feet for too long. We walked for perhaps two hours before the track took a steeper approach and we dropped dramatically into the little township of Junbesi. Most people stay in Junbesi for the night as most guide books for the area recommend this, but Subash had a different idea. He persuaded me to carry on past Junbesi to stay at the Everest View Hotel, where (you guessed it) I should be able to get my first view of Everest the following morning.
‘Subash, I’m really tired mate, how far is this hotel?’ I asked while plonking myself on the ground.
‘Is only a gradual climb, maybe one and half hours.’
‘Ok,’ I sighed, getting back to my feet and walking out of Junbesi. We crossed a wooden bridge over a raging river and I followed Subash to the base of a hill that he began to climb.
‘Hold on, hold on.’ I stopped him. ‘We are going up there?’
‘Yes man.’
If I stood at the base of the slope with toes touching the bottom, I could almost touch the wall at head-height with an outstretched arm. I don’t care where you’re from, that is not a gradual climb.
‘Subash, that is not gradual mate, that is a fucking cliff!’
‘Yes but peoples in Nepal are calling this the flat country. We is calling it ‘the Nepali Flat’.’
‘I’ll flatten you,’ I grumbled under my breath. Sulking, I joined him on the precipice and willed my exhausted legs to keep pushing me up. The rest of the day was a blur. I was utterly spent. I plundered on in a bubble of pain and anguish. It better be clear tomorrow, I thought.
Eventually we stumbled upon the hotel.
‘I’ll have one beer and two waters!’ I cried as I struggled over the final (and always incredibly steep) few stairs.
I was the last to arrive, so naturally I was handed the worst room in the house. The bed was so short that my knees dangled over the edge. The mattress seemed to be made of sheeted titanium and it was so uncomfortable that my mind refused to enter a subconscious state, despite my utter fatigue. So I just kind of laid there, not daring to move in case I exposed any inch of skin to the cold, cold air, as visions of mountains drifted through my tired mind.
Chapter Eight
Glimpsing Everest and Getting Sick
I was up with the first light and dressed quickly. We were at 2900 metres (9514 ft) above sea level and the mornings saw temperatures plummet to well below freezing. I made my way eagerly over to a viewing platform and just stared at the stage in front of me. Everest was off to the left of the picture and was about the size of my thumbnail.
It was hard to feel any emotional attachment to something so far away. To something that I had come from so far away to see. The looming peaks in the forefront of the view seemed so much higher than Everest, but were in fact over 2000 metres lower. These 6000-something metre peaks were gorgeous, knife-edged ridges rising almost vertically up into a crystal-clear sky. And then there was Everest, a thick black chunk, unable to boast any kind of eloquence. It looked like the ugly duckling that had been shunted to the back of the picture. But then the sun glinted over a distant mountain, the barrier to the valley, and Everest caught the golden reflection in the plume of snow being wind-blasted from the summit. Everest alone had a snow plume, so Everest alone glistened in gold. I stood and stared for what felt like an eternity, my eyes transfixed on the summit, the highest point on earth.
I ate breakfast with the Sherpas in the kitchen - another omelette with Tibetan bread – before getting the hell out of that place. It was a real shit pit.
We passed a little girl in the morning that stopped me to ask something in the Nepalese language.
‘What did she say, Subash?’
&n
bsp; ‘She wants you to give her a balloon.’
I laughed, thinking it was rather random. I instead gave her a Mars Bar and she seemed pretty content with that.
It was quite an uneventful day. Other than seeing a pair of monkeys and hundreds and hundreds of mules, nothing really interesting happened. My knees began to ache from the pressure exerted on them after all the descending we had done over the past few days; but the other guide, Gopal, was also complaining of sore knees, so I guessed it was just normal.
The final trek took us down through to the town of Nanthala, and then it was a casual stroll through a cosy looking town to the Himalayan Trekker Lodge. It was always the most amazing feeling arriving at your lodge for the night. Then you’d get busy with some hiker rituals. Once you arrive at your lodge you don’t have to be anywhere or do anything. It is marvellous. So I’d savour the sensation of taking my boots off, allowing myself a good 10 to 15 minutes to slowly remove them. I’d seen a sign advertising a hot-water shower. So I informed the man of my intention, he added $4 to my bill, and then I went into the shower room. It had been five days since I had showered and I had climbed about 5500 vertical metres (18000ft) in that time. I was a bit stinky.
I’m not going to say it was glorious. The water came out in more of a mist than a stream. It took about 10 minutes for the water to heat up, which left me standing in the middle of a freezing cold room, butt naked, wondering why on earth I hadn’t run the shower before undressing. It took about five minutes to get sufficiently wet enough to even form a lather with the soap, and then about 20 minutes to get it all washed off. And I was shivering the whole time. I managed to get dressed and shivered my way up to my sleeping bag, but realised as I entered my room that my backpack, and therefore my sleeping bag, still had not arrived. Where was Nima? I quickly jumped back into the filthy clothes I’d been wearing all day, notified Subash of Nima’s absence, then crawled into bed (apparently made from diamond, but without the beauty) and covered myself with a paper-thin blanket.
The Nepali Flat Page 5