Mount Disney

More and more distance is growing between us and the snow capped mountains. Now they loom like a line leading to the clouds rather than as an explosion of power popping up under our feet. The more we descent the more that plant, animal and human animal life rises. Today the forest opened out into terraced hills, villages filled with more than just lodges for trekkers but with a more traditional foundation: Based not on seasonal and unstable tourism but on agriculture and trade. Buddhist Chortens marked the tops of hills – a peaceful counterpart to the eerie caravans of the illegal Israeli which mark the hilltops of the Occupied Palestinian Territories. I kept passing young attractive men holding Khukuris, until one of them walked (ran) past us later, directly us to his guest house. When we finally arrived I took a warm shower in a unlit shed while being dried cold by the wind. We ate next to a wood oven and in the company of a Belgium man who spoke no English, and his Nepali Guide who spoke excellent French.

Trekking creates an interesting situation where new issues intersperse with forgotten thoughts as together they circle the mind during its hours of walking meditation. Trekking itself carries enough development issues to keep one preoccupied for kilometers at a time, while every issue debated is compounded by ones own role in the equation: The commercialisation of rural communities; the tensions it creates among old neighbours and the new business men and women it brings to remote and arid lands. Lodge owners fight for customers, leaving you feel like you have arrived in a popular backpackers suburb rather than a remote mountain village. Farmers ask you to sponsor their children so that they can fulfill their dreams of attending an expensive private schools. They ask determined to provide an 'opportunity' they only dreamed of and they ask despite the economic and social sacrifices it will demand as children leave and never return, or return with unfilled ambitions and frustrations.

Lines of porters sweat their way along the trails, providing imported food for foreign mouths which perhaps the local land could not afford to nurture but which leaves a smell of cultural imperialism and the globalisation of the remote Himalaya. Guided groups of up to thirty people trek by, all with their own porter carrying their bag of 'essentials' including a panel of solar panels and too many changes of clothes. The parties remind me of Reinhold Messner's recent dubbing of Everest as 'Mount Disney'. And yet 'these people' are just enjoying the nature, no different from 'me'. In fact they are bringing more economic development to these rural areas, and to these generations of porters, but again I am reminded of a comment made by Appa Sherpa – A Nepali sidhar (chief Sherpa) who holds the record for his 18 summits of Everest but when asked acbout his 'achievements' replies that he climbs so his sons won't have to. A BBC documentary, Carrying the Burden features the life of a Nepali porters, who often comes not from the mountains of the Sherpas but from the city of Kathmandu. Even the Sherpas are naively viewed by trekkers as partially superhuman; as small strong men, able to walk though wind and snow while carrying a basket filled with a ruck sack weighing 50 kilo and wearing nothing more than passed on clothes and collected odd shoes. The International Porters Protection Group (IPPG) works for the protection of porters rights, by demanding access to medical care when they suffer from what can be deathly altitude sickness or frostbite as well as proper shelter and food and equipement: It is all to common to see groups of porters camping around a fire, cooking the food they have carried as well as the bags of the trekkers who sit inside a warm lodge eating pasta and drinking bottled beer.

The French Speaking Nepali guide in the lodge told us that guiding was indeed his preferred profession. In 2003 the fighting between the Royal Nepalese Army and the Maoists had reached such a level that the dollar bills of the tourists had left the Nepali hills. Wages from sons who had travelled to the cities to work in the tourist resorts had dwindled, and with few young people left in the villages, farming food from the arid land was becoming harder and harder for those who had remained. Families who had built their livelihood around the seasonal income of the trekkers were struggling. The guide himself had no alternative but to borrow money from his friends and family to pay for a plane ticket to South Korea. He worked in a weapons factory alongside many other Nepalis. The factory was supplying the USA. The work was hard but the money was good and much to his relief he managed to pay off his loans and save some money but as soon as peace returned to his country, so did he. The guide explained he was relieved to be back in the mountains; in his home land and doing a job he loved. Business was still slow, but it was enough. Working aboard had helped him to pay the bills when his own country was failing, and had also provided him with a warm company coat, which he was still wearing with the logo of the weapons factory printed on the breast pocket.

We were joined by the attractive khurkuri wielding man who had lured us to his guest house earlier. The guide explained that the man was about twenty years old. He had left school during the fighting in order not to be conscripted by the Maoists who at that time were taking over schools and forming their own army of 'Youth Cadres'. Without an education and with limited English, Mr Khurkuri helps his mother run the guest house. Today he had walked over two hours up the hill to cut a mountain of leaves to feed the family's buffalo. His mother is a big woman who has eight children and who clearly runs the show. Her eldest son is hoping that all of his brothers and sisters will finish their education. I cannot help but wonder the value of this 'idealised' Western ideal.

I wonder where all the husbands are: South Korea? The Gulf? Singapore? Apparently it is easy to divorce around here – you just have to 'cut' the knot tying the wedding string around your wrist, and there is no problem for a woman to remarry.

The final days of the trek seemed to condense all of my previous meditations. The trails were filled with litter from both tourists and locals. Large painted signs advertised Coca Cola and trekkers with their porters leading the way, drank from newly purchased bottles of water. A lovely lady from Cuba asked me if the plastic in the bottles was bad for her health? Why else she wondered, would I prefer to drink boiled water than buy another bottle of plastic? Guides from Kathmandu discussed between themselves the correct route for day two of their two day trek, as it was also their first time in the area. An entrance fee for a national park left me feeling infuriated as biscuit wrappers continued to litter the paths and the park wardens themselves supplemented their salary by setting up a small stall full of shiny packets at the entrance.

Mountain tourism is tricky. Rural people want the same opportunities as those in the urban areas, while trekkers from the urban areas want the same luxuries and are prepared to pay ridiculous amounts for it without regard for the cultural or economic implications. Infrastructure needs to be developed in a way which benefits the local community and protects the fragile mountain ecosystems. Tourists need to realise that money cannot buy them a Shangri-la; if they try it will come at the price of the wilderness and the culture rich lives which it supports.

Internationl Porters Protection Group

A shimmer of silver reflects from the mud. A watch. Bruno picks it up. Examines it. He turns it over. Made in Japan.

'Di!'. A woman's voice calls from above. We look up and a local lady is calling us towards her. Its mine! She shouts pointing to our find.

Bruno looks quizzical. The woman is squatting next to her washing. Her head coloured head scarf pulled tightly around her long black plate which hangs down to her hips.

He folds the watch in his hands. 'What colour is it?' He asks. I shrink. Embarrassed. I would not have the courage to doubt, but I understand why he does.

A crowd of children and young men appear from the mani stones, and what was only moments ago a peaceful afternoon trek, has suddenly become a spectators sport.

The woman's English is shaky, but she is determined that her property is returned. She replies 'white' which could well mean 'silver' and Bruno hands over the watch.

We walk along the mud path turn a corner and come face to face with a line of Japanese photographers.

Mountain Medicine

The beauty of remoteness. I bask in the silence of mountain life as I walk down from the top of Kyangin Ri. High in the Sky where only the birds fly. The go-betweens from the land to the hills, to the mountains to the air. Passing lines of ancient mani stones; rock carved prayers adjacent to wheels of water prayers. Crossing glacier streams, and then re crossing them. Following lines of porters, as they jog down steep mountain paths with their own woven baskets of mountains balanced on their sweat singed brows. The stony hills give way to grassy meadows, overseen by herds of domestic yaks and naks.

We turn a corner and walk into an old man. He is wrinkled to the core, wrapped in a old army jacket and with a wollen hat pulled over his head. He stands in our path and points to his lips. His lips are swollen. They are bloodied. And filled with pus He has some sort of infection, but exactly what I am not sure. He is asking for medicines. We discuss a possible diagnosis: A fungus, a bacteria, a virus? We don't know. I search through my first aid kit as if looking for clues. I pull out boxes and packets and tubes - a range of different antibiotics, anointments and creams. But would a broad range spectrum antibiotic help? And if so how much should we give? Do we have enough? What if we need it ourselves in the next few days?

Remote beauty comes at a high price. Where even food does not grow and children leave for school for years at a time, mountain medicine is a privilege for only the rich. It is possible to charter a helicopter if the 'price' of life can afford to be paid. For others, perhaps they can leave for the 'services' of a city but that leaves them without the security of a family or a community. But for most mountain people, the lack of medical care is not a 'sacrifice' because access to orthodox treatment has never been a luxury they have experienced. The recent arrival of 'Health Posts' often means an increase in the responsibilities of the local midwife, as well as increasing frustrations as she does not have the medicines nor knowledge to fulfill the expectations placed upon her.

Meanwhile, for an old man with no English, and a humbleness beyond equality, his best choice is to catch a foreigner with the 'magic pills'.

We give him a couple of paracetamol and a handwritten sign in English to ask other tourists for the most likely antibiotics. Upon returning from the trek we look up a possible and distant diagnosis in a book entitled, “Where there are No Doctors”.

Shiva's Lakes

I am sitting on a window ledge with the lakes behind me and the sun slowly rising behind the mountains. Listening to really badly recorded Tibetan (or maybe Tamang) music which intermediately has cows mooing and roosters crowing and it is impossible to tell which is real until I remember that there are no cows or roosters at 4380 meters. Stamping comes from the kitchen: A young guy cooking the mornings daal bhat in the kitchen. Yesterday he was singing along to 'I'm too sexy for this shirt' whereas today he seems happy with the moos and crows accompanying this popular home recording. The lake is still dark and covered in a skin of ice, although the sun is spreading a white golden path across it. I had followed its marker rocks yesterday – tracing the footsteps of the pilgrims who believe that the lakes were created by their vagabond Lord, Shiva.

The pilgrims visit the lake to change their scared strings. This means that the rough slated path which circumnavigates the water is covered with discarded holy thread. I walked around thinking of all the thousands of people who had walked so far for their beliefs. Walking with no 'special' equipment and sleeping in roofless barns. I thought about the woman with frozen feet, wooden feet, who was hobbling and hiding her way around Sing Gompa. I thought about how the pilgrimage had killed her and how she had ended up left, abandoned, dying, in a cold desolate lonely place. I thought about the person she must have been and the person she is now – clearly crazy and only sort of alive. I felt privileged to be walking a path which people will sacrifice everything for, while I was 'just' enjoying nature. As soon as the sun peaked down behind the highest peaks, the air around the lake seemed to freeze.

I walked fast through the shadows picking out the most stable slabs and passing mini piles of stone statues which frame the lake, almost as if they were 'natural' creations rather than the man and woman made constructs of the years of pilgrims.

The next day we crossed the pass. I hung a small string of prater flays in the middle of a mountain of flags and thought about the dead, the dying and the living: I though of a woman who I never really knew, but who had recently died, the mother of a dear friend. I thought of how she must feel to be free above the mountains, drifting in the winds. I thought about the woman who is dying from crossing this pass as she sits and waits for her frozen body to consume her, a painful and fateful pilgrimage. I thought of little Gita, who will never see the enormity of the power of nature, but only feel it from the confines of the walls of an institution which saved her. Three parallel realities.

Kyanjin Ri

Looking down on the village below,

Little square blocks with scatterings of coloured dust.

Dusty movements washed still with distance,

Sounds absorbed by space.

In a city I feel insignificant,

In the mountains I feel overwhelmed.

Even up here I am also still a speck of dust,

My Life not even a centimeter of movement of these climbing rocks.

A growth barely comprehensible.

Invisible.

The Stillness of the thinning air,

Carried by the ice kissed wind.

The lost echoes of my aching footsteps,

Leaving imprints for today,

Camouflaged by those to be trod tomorrow.

Colours of prayers fly around me,

Kissing my ears, warming my eyes and filling me with thoughts.

My climb is witnessed by a mountain bird,

She is gliding above me,

Leaving me staring at what can surely only be an eternal Sun?

Trekking in the Sky

An incredible twelve days. A bumpy bus ride to Syrunbensi, with the roof so full that the window next to my inside seat cracked and fell away, discarded and without surprise. Arriving in the dark, as electricity shortages continue to rival the hours with power. A cheap room of 50 rupees, and the only night where an accommodation charge was paid, with other nights being satisfied with a promise to eat freshly home cooked daal bhat and Tibetan breads.

The first days walk began with an interaction with a jolly Tibetan monk who was teaching at the local school and treating us like long lost friends after learning about my time in Dharamasala. Bouncing over one of many suspension bridges to turn around and see a maroon robe flying down the road as a kamikaze buffalo enjoyed the chase.

The days trek led searching feet through bamboo forests and across streams a million times over. The night was spent huddled around an iron stove, the centre piece of all of these small little tea houses, and a small fortune of warmth carried upon backs up vertical paths from the capital many hours drive away and even more days walk. Fires fuelled with wood, leaving a taste of timber in the evenings tato pani, while higher up yak shit provided a more ecological fuel.

Rimche and then Chamje: Small Tamang villages, established upon subsistence farming and surviving on a so far erratic and seasonal tourism. Sherpa women with their Tibetan striped aprons worn the 'wrong' way around as they camouflage their behinds with bright multi colours, in contrast to the women of Tibet who wear their aprons tied around their laps. Grubby tiny toddlers are strapped to working backs with old pieces of cloth; their young faces are filthy and already scared red from the wind, sun and below freezing temperatures.

Living becomes harder as more distance is put between the roads and the dwellings, while every few hundred meters climbs brings harsher nights and thinner airs. Young mothers deal with their herd of children while following the bells of their dzo cow-yak cross breads. They walk hours away from their village to collect yak shit, which they pile into a bamboo basket and hang around their foreheads. They walk hours back to their mud stove, where they then cook the crops which they have managed to harvest in arid soil. Working in groups of friends, never alone, and always with a witty remark to try and persuade the few passing trekkers to spend a night under their two roomed 'Hotel'. Friends are made through jokes and the limited vocabulary of smiles and touches, but money keeps intervening. We shy away from the groups of catered tourists with their too many porters carrying their imported food and guides from far away.

A community project in the town of Langtang: A yak cheese factory. The factory is hydro powered and shares its electricity with Langtang each night. Its profits are invested in a local project after a community meeting. And who taught them to make their tasty hard cheese and delicious 'Italian' bread. "Japanese volunteers" comes the proud reply.

Ancient rows of mani stones lead the way through open hills and towards full bred hairy grazing yaks. Newly constructed prayer wheels revolve in the middle of streams - blessing the water and sending their whispers down to lower elevations. Their singing and squeaking following our wet footsteps, and leaving me wondering who still builds these ancient forms of hydro power?

The Japanese connection becomes more apparent as entire fields are filled with Japanese trekkers, trekking each with two cameras, tripods and even at 4000 meters, protective face masks.

Silence and stillness greats my resting ears at the top of Kyanjin Ri - a 4773 meter peak, which is dwarfed by the 7000 plus meters of the Langtang range, calling our eyes towards the skies. I leave my kata - from Dharamasala to the Himalayas pointing home towards Tibet. I say a Thank you to Tashi and a Thank you for the cycle of Nature.

A long way down, passing ice cold water and rolling rocks, trekking down in blissful happiness as the sun falls behind the soaring peaks just after noon, leaving us walking narrow paths in a never ending dusk. Washing in basins of tepid water and sleeping too deeply under piles of well worn clothes and heavy dusty precious blankets.

The porters keep coming: A never ending stream of supplies for villages too remote to be naturally self sufficient, and for 'trekkers' paying dollars for bottles of beer and packaged chocolates. I observe my leather gortex boots as they carry me through mud and keep my ankles straight across piles of scree. I watch the flip flops of the porters, carrying 50 kg each for 600 rupees a day; sweat pouring from their foreheads as they smile a 'namaste'. I feel the lightness of my own backpack, and wonder why I need so many 'things' for the rest of my every days?

More night time arrivals, and discussions of Tourism. Contradictions of looking for wilderness and finding 'development'. Fears of neo colonialism verses naive dreams of a lost Shangri-la.

The indulgence of a solar powered hot shower, the surprise puja for Buddha's conceptions as people of all ages, sexes, nationalities and beliefs hold candles of light towards their own ignorance in the musty warmth of Thulo Syafru's Tibetan Nepali Tamang Sherpa Gompa. Five local families working together to feed their neighbours and us 'strangers'; an annual privilege we are told.

Walking past wild monkeys and wild marijuana plants. A strange night in Sing Gompa where I fight with a Nepali tourist about an Indian pilgrim with frozen feet. She could be me. Now she is no one. Soon she will 'have been'.

Up to Gosaikunda - Shiva's Lakes. Frozen stillness, echoes of Hindu pilgrims as scared strings lay discarded on black stone cold rocks. High in the Sky lay pockets of transparent glacier water, worshipped through lines of piled rocks and invisible footsteps of bare frozen feet. An outsider, I take a photograph, I read a description, I wonder and then I walk. Up and over Lauribena Pass (4610 meters) and then a very very long way down. A roller coaster walk, testing stamina and yet basking in novelty.

Fresh mountain air, a tired body, aching knee, contentment and extended time. Twelve days feeling like an Eternity - wishing that this could be an eternity as the mountains remind us of our human impermanence and inevitable insignificance despite our desire to conquer and to control. Happiness seems to come from the air, from the routine instinct of walking in the natural nature.

Following a trail leading back down into a 'civilisation' whose disregard for the wild leaves me feeling a revolution towards. Passing working farms, littered villages and packs of other tourists until my feet take me to a bus whose rusty wheels leave me in the middle of Kathmandu...