Himalaya (2004)

by Michael Palin

  I watch kingfishers skimming along the shoreline and a fish-eagle with bold, rufous wings hunting in our wake, snapping up tiny fish and eating them on the wing. After a while, I drift into a deep sleep in which I dream someone shouts.

  ‘Michael! Crocodile!’

  I wake up to hear someone shouting.

  ‘Michael! Crocodile! Look!’

  And I do, just in time to catch sight of a grey metallic shape the size of a small submarine turn its panto-villain face towards me and slide into the river, sending out waves of repulsion and muddy brown water. I feel sorry for crocodiles. Just because God gave them teeth too big for their mouths and yellow eyes that open and shut like Porsche headlights you can’t imagine them ever having a single decent thought. But for all I know, they might be quite lovable, salt-of-the-earth reptiles who, given half a chance, might well help an old lady across the road and surprise us all by not eating her.

  Worn out by all this mental exercise, I go back to sleep until lunch. And what a lunch. The cooks have achieved a minor miracle. In a tiny space beside the toilet they have cooked up the crab, prawn and lobster with turmeric, quince, chilli, coriander, onions and ginger into a perfectly balanced and gorgeously fresh-tasting stew, which must rate as one of the best meals on the entire journey.

  After this celebration, sober reality intrudes. Time is no longer on our side. One of the boats is not even making nine knots and, in a last hope of reaching our rendezvous, we lash the two Fenis together and use the power of the better performing engine.

  From here on, it’s all anxiety. Looking at watches and trying not to look at them at the same time. Watching the sky, cursing the slightest headwind, fearing the worst at every change in engine tone.

  With less than an hour to go until sunset, the waterway opens out into a wider bay and suddenly we are at the sea. Not far ahead, with huge relief, we catch sight of the jetty at Katka, where we have arranged to meet up with our forestry launch. The only thing missing is the forestry launch.

  By the time we reach the tall, mud-encrusted pier and the launch still isn’t there, we have resigned ourselves to the fact that it’s never going to be there in time. We look around helplessly.

  The place is silent and empty apart from the curved ribcages of boats long since abandoned to the mud.

  Then into the bay comes another boat, a plain but picturesque small trawler with pointed prow, central cabin and some heavy structure at the stern. It’s moving steadily towards the jetty. Ishraq issues orders. As soon as the fishing boat reaches the shore, the bemused crew find themselves, literally, roped into the final sequence of a BBC television series.

  Feni 3, acting as camera boat, is roped up to the trawler and a complicated procedure worked out, in which, having delivered my last piece to camera from the fishing boat, the ropes will be loosened and I and the plucky little trawler will drift off into the sunset.

  It is a crazy, impossibly risky idea, depending on split-second timing, but, with total credit to everyone concerned, we complete a successful take minutes before the sun and the Bay of Bengal merge.

  In the last words of this last shot, I say that, despite all the wonders I have seen, the majestic scenery of a half-dozen countries, the power and majesty of the highest mountain range on earth, it is the people I’ve met that will stick in my mind.

  The enjoyment of the world is immeasurably enhanced not just by meeting people who think, look, talk and dress differently from yourself, but by having to depend on them. The trio of Bangladeshi fishermen who learnt the arcane art of television filming in a little less than half an hour are only the last of a long list of those who had every reason to think that we were completely mad, but who decided, against all the odds, to be our friends instead.

  In the heady rush of our emergency ending, I almost forgot why we were here. Only after the camera’s turned off for the last time and we’re heading for the muddy shores of the Sundarban Islands do I have time to feel that umbilical connection between the water I’m on now and the remote mountains where it all began for us, many months and several thousand miles ago.

  Acknowledgements

  At four o’clock on the morning of 25 September 2003, in a cheerless hotel foyer in Delhi, Roger, cameraman Nigel Meakin and I celebrated, as best we could, an anniversary of sorts. It was 15 years ago to the day that, at the Reform Club in London, Roger had called ‘Action!’ and set Around the World in Eighty Days in motion. One thing we all agreed on that morning in Delhi is that not for one minute had any of us imagined we’d still be travelling together five series and a decade and a half later.

  I owe Roger a great debt of thanks for being patient and tolerant, careful, critical and above all wonderful company. As series producer, he took the lion’s share of responsibility for Himalaya and, as co-director, led Saga Platoon through Pakistan, India and Bangladesh.

  John-Paul Davidson, who directed us in Nepal, Tibet and Yunnan in China, Nagaland, Assam and Bhutan, is a veteran of the Himalaya and his unflagging mix of energy, enthusiasm and invention was only matched by his empathy with the people, his love of the countries and his ability to produce fresh-brewed ground coffee at any altitude. Nigel Meakin made a mockery of the passing years by producing superb work in often awful and uncomfortable circumstances. Peter Meakin, his son and heir, is not only a credit to the family filming business, but also a dab hand with the sound recorder who got us out of a hole or two when altitude sickness struck. For a few weeks we were sadly deprived of John Pritchard’s affable company, as it was he who the altitude struck. His replacement, Chris Joyce, came out from England at very short notice, and ably picked up the baton (or whatever it is that sound recordists hold).

  Vanessa Courtney, iron fist in velvet glove, negotiated us brilliantly through the choppy waters of security-ridden Pakistan and India, and the manic delights of Bangladesh. Claire Houdret soothed frayed nerves in Nepal, Nina Huang Fan was a tower of strength in China and Havana Marking and Natalia Fernandez kept morale up in the rarely trodden pathways of Nagaland and Assam. No-one could have looked after us better in the high Himalaya than Wongchu Sherpa, Mingmar Dorji Sherpa (who reached the top of Everest on 17 May 2004) and Nawang Dorjee Sherpa. Mingmar was both on-screen and off-screen star in Tibet.

  Life on the road would not be complete without Basil Pao, gastronomic adviser, menu translator, peerless photographer and, I suspect, closet trekker.

  In the front office, the experienced hands and cool heads of Anne James and Mirabel Brook once again set our journey up with speed and great efficiency. Anne watched us through to the end, whilst Sue Grant stepped into Mirabel’s shoes with aplomb. Natalia Fernandez worked tirelessly throughout the series, counting us out and counting us back. Lyn Dougherty and Steve Abbott took on the care of finances, and kept us both above the law and in the black. Paul Bird has done just about everything for us, short of coming on the journey, and Alison Davies has been wonderfully encouraging, as ever, as well as uncomplainingly taking on perhaps the worst job in the world - deciphering my sound tapes.

  Special thanks to the sage of Harlesden, Alex Richardson, who should by now have been made the first saint of the editing world. Thanks too to Saska Simpson for taking on Alex’s role on one of the shows. And to Lorraine Heggessey, Nicola Moody and Tom Archer at the BBC for their continuous and constructive support.

  Apart from those mentioned in my text I would like to thank others without whom Himalaya would have remained just another mountain range: Jonny Bealby, Abdul Kadur Jaffer, General Rashid Quereshi, Anuraag Jacob, Onkar Singh, Holly Williams, Mr Yang Le, Sun Shuyun, Mr Ding Duzhang, Yatish Bahuguna, Fazal Kamal, Doug Scott. We would have got nowhere without Maqsood Ul-Mulk and Hindukush Trails in Pakistan, Royal Expeditions in New Delhi, Peak Promotions in Nepal, Chhundu Travel in Bhutan and Purvi Discovery in Assam. Special thanks to all at Whitehouse Cox who made me two shoulder bags that went with me everywhere, and to Mike Griffin for all those farewells and welcomes.

  Enormous thank
s, too, to all those at Weidenfeld & Nicolson who have worked wonders to produce a complex book in such a short time, Michael Dover, my editor, whose unflappable and generous support was never more necessary, David Rowley, my art director and designer, who has done a fine job at a furious pace, ably assisted by Austin Taylor and Justin Hunt.

  To Claire Marsden for making sure I spelt her name right, as well as about 4000 others. Thank you also to Tara Redmond and Angela Martin for making sure the world knows we exist and, finally, special thanks to Richard Hussey, who rejected a life of ease to stay on and see this book through production.

  Reading Matter

  Footprint, Lonely Planet and Rough Guides were never far from my side, but Isobel Shaw’s Pakistan Handbook, Michael Buckley’s Bradt Guide to Tibet and Francoise Pommaret’s Odyssey Guide to Bhutan were outstanding. The beautifully illustrated Insight Guides add a touch of local colour. I eagerly devoured Patrick French’s three books on the history of the region: Younghusband, Tibet Tibet and Liberty or Death, whilst among other favourites were Kathleen Jamie’s Among Muslims, Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard, Geoffrey Moorhouse’s To The Frontier, Peter Hopkins’ Trespassers on the Roof of the World, Sun Shuyun’s Ten Thousand Miles Without a Cloud, Namu’s enchanting Leaving Mother Lake and Romesh Bhattacharji’s travels in Assam, Lands of Early Dawn.

  Partridge and mountain peaks. A romantic image of home comes to life in a truck painter’s yard in Peshawar.

  PAKISTAN

  At the Khyber Pass. The Grand Trunk Road (to the right) winds into Afghanistan.

  Gunsmith, Darra, North-West Frontier.

  Dental Alley, aka Qissa Khwani Bazaar, Peshawar. Abdul Wahid (bottom) thinks the whole head might have to come off.

  Palatial hospitality at Chateau Fatehjang.

  At Prince Malik’s travelling pavilion I meet an exjockey, on the left. The sport cost him an arm.

  Bull-racing near Taxila.

  At Rumbur. Kalash girls, barley field, dry-stone wall, traditional costume, modern foot.

  Threading our way through the Hindu Kush. The rugged route out of the Kalash valleys.

  Chitral.With Siraj Ul-Mulk at a madrassa (a religious school) in the mosque his grandfather built.

  A boy recites the Koran, which he must learn by heart.

  No lie-in when the band’s around. Early-morning music heralds the start of the Polo Festival at the Shandur Pass.

  Winning combination. Truc and Bulbul Jan.

  Pakistanis are cricket mad, even at 10,000 feet (3050 m).

  Solving the world’s problems with Imran Khan. His dog’s heard it all before.

  At Rawalpindi, crossing the most famous road in the subcontinent. First laid across north India some five hundred years ago.

  My first taste of the high life. Dropping off at Concordia, where great glaciers meet K2 at three miles above sea level.

  Street cleaners in Rawalpindi take a photo break. In the background, Shaan Shahid, Lollywood heart-throb, dominates the billboards.

  Prayers at the 330-year-old Badshahi Mosque, Lahore.

  My night with the stars. Shaan Shahid (left), and other top Pakistani thesps, on set at the Bari Studios, Lahore.

  Who is the fairest of them all? Last-minute checks at Bari Studios.

  Unblocking the fountains. Shalimar Gardens, Lahore.

  Buffalo-assisted lawnmower, Shalimar Gardens.

  Wagah border crossing. A red-letter day for the local porters as the BBC leaves Pakistan.

  Pakistan’s Punjabi Rangers strut their stuff at the border.

  With their Indian counterparts, they prepare for competitive flag-lowering.

  INDIA

  Ablutions in the Amrit Sarover, the ‘pool of nectar’, at the Golden Temple, Amritsar.

  With two guardians of the temple. Their robes and spears symbolize the dual nature of the Sikhs: service and defence.

  Kalka, Himachal Pradesh (Himalaya Province). The public pump still has a vital role in Indian life. And the railways are the biggest single employer in the world.

  First glimpse of the scale of Shimla, 7260 feet (2213 m) above sea level. Provincial capital of Himachal Pradesh.

  Aboard the Himalayan Queen on the 57-mile run from Kalka to Shimla.

  The Vice-Regal Lodge at Shimla.

  Keeping out of the sun or keeping out of the book? Shy ladies on the Ridge at Shimla.

  On the road to Dharamsala. Our well-hennaed driver, ‘Red’, and a lunch bristling with green chillies.

  Country life in Himachal Pradesh. Rich land, poor farmers.

  Bulrush fields hide the river south of Dharamsala.

  Tibet in India. Hanging prayer flags out near the Lhagyal Ri temple at McLeodganj.

  At the Tibet Medical and Astrology Centre. I learn from Phurbu Tsering that I was an elephant in my previous life.

  Surely the most approachable of all world leaders, the Dalai Lama is a powerful man, totally lacking the trappings, or the presumptions, of the powerful.

  Mr Gulam Butt, proprietor of Clermont Houseboats through thick and thin times, runs through a lists of previous guests, including Nelson Rockefeller and George Harrison.

  The Kashmir Martyrs’ Graveyard, one of many for those Muslims who’ve died fighting, or because of fighting, for freedom from India.

  The remains of the Greenway Hotel, Srinagar, destroyed by the Indian army after Islamic militants holed up there.

  A selection of the famous and once much sought-after houseboats of Srinagar.

  NEPAL

  Hindu Nepal. In Patan’s Durbar Square stone elephants, carved 380 years ago, guard the entrance to Shiva’s temple.

  Kathmandu. In the grounds of the Royal Palace, the great and good of Nepal stand in line for the royal tika.

  Before it all went wrong. Adrian Griffith talks to the galla, the recruiting officer, prior to addressing the village in fluent Nepali.

  Some of the 251 would-be Gurkhas start stretching the sinews. Only 44 will get to the next stage of testing.

  Crossing the cable bridge at Dopali, having been forced to abandon Gurkha recruiting after Maoist guerrillas abducted Adrian and other senior officers.

  The steep, stone steps out of Chomrung. They look helpful, but became slow torture.

  Machhapuchhre, ‘Fish Tail Mountain’, is looking in much better shape than I am, as Wongchu (who has twice climbed Everest) hangs patiently behind me.

  A mug of garlic soup as the afternoon mist comes down over Machhapuchhre, the sacred mountain they say has never been climbed.

  A doorway in Patan shows the fine design and craftsmanship of the Newari people.

  Durbar Square, Patan. Kunder Dixit, urbane, resourceful editor of the Nepali Times. A man does puja, a ritual offering to the gods at Krishna Mandir.

  The view that makes it all worthwhile. The Annapurna Sanctuary, a 360-degree panorama with nine summits reaching 23,000 feet (7000 m).

  With Pratima on a bridge over the Bagmati River at Pashupatinath, the most important Hindu temple complex in Nepal.

  Male members of the family lay a deceased relative on the funeral pyre at the cremation ghats at Pashupatinath.

  Sadhus, itinerants who have renounced all worldly possessions and dedicated their life to lord Shiva, at Pashupatinath.

  The world’s most sociable hermits. These sadhus will do anything for you, including their Roy Wood and Wizzard impersonation.

  Prayer flags flutter from the huge stupa at Boudhanath, the most important Buddhist site in Kathmandu and heart of the city’s Tibetan community.

  Women are prominent in Nepali rural life. In the Himalayan foothills, a woman carries home scrub for cattle feed.

  Shopkeeper in crimson sari on the road to the Tibetan border.

  TIBET

  Road-sweeping gang takes a breather in Nyalam.

  A circle dance takes shape in a village on the way to Everest Base Camp. These folk get-togethers are an important time for matchmaking.

  Man of the plateau. Sheepski
n coat, earring and extended sleeves instead of gloves.

  Chomolungma, ‘Goddess Mother of the Earth’. The best name westerners could come up with for the world’s highest mountain was Everest.

  Everest Base Camp, just before Sunday lunch.

  Tashilempo Monastery, Shigatse: boys are sent away to monasteries from the age of six, emulating the traditional English boarding-school approach to education.

  The magnificent Potala Palace in Lhasa.

  Walking with Migmar in the Barkor, one of the few areas of Lhasa where the traditional Tibetan houses are still preserved. In the foreground, a prostrating pilgrim.

  Am I right? Monk makes his point in ritual debating at the Sera monastery.