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...

Krazy Kathmandu

Another bus journey. This time leaving from the 'tourist' bus station. This pre-fix of 'tourist' not only means that your bus ticket will be twice the price of a ticket on a local bus, but it (in theory) means that it will take half the time or maybe one third of the time, or at least much less time. Arriving at the bus station was another reminder of the ability of peace time Nepal to develop and adapt to the new influx of tourists: Hot croissants and apple filled rolls loitered in front of me on wooden trays, as mobile baker boys frantically tried to sell their fresh produce before the buses departed. And 'buses' refers to over twenty buses. I was amazed at the amount of tourists. Backpacks piled with expensive trekking gear, or inexpensive copies, were stacked onto roof racks (no outside perches on these buses) while lines of touts tried to match tickets with vehicles.

The Ali Ba Ba Bus was found. Although it was the same price as the rest, it was also half the size and seemingly twice as old. We all piled in. Treeeeeeeeedle Tri Treeeeeeeeedling around every winding corner. The commission racket with the bus driver and the fancy road side restaurants were emphasised after an almighty three stops in under six hours: Pokhara to Kathmandu – upwards and downwards and with as many toilet and fried food stops as your wallet would desire. A beautiful journey, and although it is not quite as spectacular as a flight on a clear day, it is definitely far more conducive to meditation as the hours combined with the views of daily life trundle past the window revealing nature and its colonisers.

The fields were full of women who from an outsiders impression still seem to be the backbone of manual labour – building the roads, carrying bundles of wood with the help of a piece of cloth tied around their foreheads, working their khukuris at the side of the roads with tiny tots strapped to their backs, culling entire harvests with one old machete. When I have asked the opinions of Nepali friends as to why the it is the physically 'weaker' sex are the ones doing all the 'hard' work I am told that it still comes back to the 'hunting and gathering' division of labour: In the modern Nepali world they tell me, the men are more likely to be receiving an education and therefore finding employment in the cities where they will work in factories, offices or restaurants. So while the men are working their 'brains', women are left working their muscles and from the very young to the very old work by filling the roles of the farmers, construction workers and manual labourers. However, I am still not convinced, as I seem to see a highly disproportionate number of men sitting drinking Nepali cheya at the road side, working very hard at day time gambling...

Driving through the mountains while keeping an eye to the sky for a glance of snowy topped peaks, I really feel amazement at how so much of Nepal seems to be built on a carved piece of hill. The landscape is a patchwork of makoi, baat and alou fields, which seem to pile one on top of another, with terraces jutting out from each and every woman-made corner. Just like in Dhramasala, it seems to be defying the ethos of the mountains to cut them horizontal, and I guess nature has a way to rebalance gravity with the help of the monsoon rains and seemingly surprise landslides. Meanwhile, designer concrete houses stand newly constructed and complete with a tiled social statement of a roof. They stand in contrast to the landscape, and in contrast to the mud walls of the small traditional Nepali houses, which are often left looking unfinished – as the optimistic owners leave the 'roof off' in case future funds allow for the building of another floor.

There are potted flowers everywhere – standing outside window ledges, above doors, in rusty tin cans lining shop fronts. Their brightness distracts from the piles of discarded rubbish, and black plastic bags which seem to be trying to return to nature rather unsuccessfully, as the mix and mingle with the mud or stick to the concrete of the roads. The irony of the wave of environmental awareness which has washed over Europe and North America but evaporated over Asia, continues to make ripples even in the Ali Ba Ba Bus: Rows of educated and eco friendly tourists tut tut at the lack of waste disposal which spoils their view and pollutes the nature which we have all traveled here to see. Rows of educated people, spending money to explore the wild while listening to music powered by piles of non degradable batteries, and buying packets of imported Mars Bars, Kit Kats, Walkers Crisps and of course bottles of Coke, which all come wrapped up in plastic before being placed in another plastic bag. As a continuous traveller I am very conscious of my ecological footprint. But I wonder how to reduce my consumption as I watch women my age who will return to live in a room for a house and a whose entire life's wardrobe would fit into half of my rucksack?

The approach into the Kathmandu Valley is marked by a glance of the peaks from Lang Tang, which circle the ever growing city, leaving it sitting like a pile of eggs in the bottom of a great big eternal nest, perched high up on a tree, the branches of which are usually hidden by low laying clouds.

I notice many new factories lining the road, but the shops still look the same – with doorways so small that it must take a magician to manipulate the massive modern furniture inside. The heavy scented air is as cold as it is thick with dirt and incense. Back in the tacky tourist centre of Thamel, the onslaught of senses continue. Sounds surround me as men bellow in my ears advertising their 'cheap cheap' guest houses, trekking trips, chess boards and of course, tiger balm. Children high as kites cause havoc on the non existent pavements, climbing three at a time on stationary motor bikes, or entertaining themselves by running rings around frustrated security guards and every now and then running to a tourist to beg for money, water or food, or maybe just to have a cheeky hug/grope of an under dressed female. Rickshaws, taxis, mopeds, bikes and people all fight for their space on the tiny narrow lanes. These mobile beeps and shouts intermingle with the constant playing of Kathmandu's theme tunes of 'Om Mani Padhe Hum', while is accompanied by the whistles of the flute touts trying to tempt a buyer for their palm tree of instruments by playing them persistently from dawn to dusk. As the light fades into evening, these day time vendors are replaced by glassy eyed guys following you with whispers of 'Hashish' and 'Smoke'.

The buildings seem to have risen higher than three years ago, many have also acquired glass for their previously wooden and window-less frames. The walls and road sides are crammed full with signs, prayer flags and posters which sway in the cool breeze; a reminder – in case it was forgotten – that the mighty mountains rise above and around, waiting and seemingly intransigent to our frivolities and temporary lives at the bottom of a nest, on top of a tree in the middle of somewhere called the Himalayas.

Fewa Lake

So I am sitting in Mike's Restaurant, at the Lake Side, Pokhara. It is more expensive than when I was last here, and it now has a path built through it. There are many more tourists. Richer tourists. I last sat here three years ago. When I had absolutely no idea what the future would hold. Now I again have no idea what the next three years of my life will reveal.

Watching as a square flat peddle 'boat' is being maneuvered backwards and forwards. Filled with Nepali tourists who laugh as they keep arriving back at their starting point. Now a group of kids have just arrived. A straggly haired girl is asking for my pens, picking up my tea, opening my bag, shaking my book. She is tough. Too Tough. Her friends come. One has a bloody elbow. A small graze. It turns out he fell off his bike – riding on the stony dirty road too fast. “Next time go slowly” I say. He wants money “to clean up my arm” he tells me. I laugh at him and tell him to be a “strong man”. Another shows me a tiny cut on his knee and once again asks me to “fix it” with his palm out turned. I work my Magic. He is unimpressed. I give him some more 'tickles' as he stifles a smile.

This is something which has changed in three years. I am no longer scared of these pushy little street wise, life wise people. I have a new respect for them as well as a new barrier against them. Laughing and Laughter.

The small terrorists move onto the next table to terrify a Northface clad North American couple. The elderly couple look dressed in preparation of a safari rather than for a cup of tea by Fewa Lake, but then again, maybe their uninvited guests are providing them with adequate adventure. I stop watching their obvious discomfort and instead find myself staring at their Nepali counterparts: A traditionally dressed elderly Nepali couple who are skillfully climbing on board a rowing boat. The bent woman bends further to slowly release the rusty chain, freeing their little boat from the muddy root covered shore. The topi topped man sits at the back of the boat and slowly maneuvers the shabby wooden vehicle 180 degrees to face the distant bank across the flat calm of the lake. Slowly – so slowly – they (he) paddles across the dark liquid water. Their rehearsed controlled movements are in such a contrast to two small pirates who have just hijacked a tin yellow peddle paddle boat and are mercilessly ramming it backwards and forwards into the row of rusting tin yellow peddle paddle boats.

A little further along the lake shore gathers a group of women. Their vibrant pink sairees shout out at my eyes; a strange but beautiful juxtaposition against the dark brown of the soft mud they are squatting on. Their gold piercing dangle along their ear lobes and travel up their ears. Their golden noses glimmer in the equally golden afternoon sun, as they tilt their heads backwards and forwards in rhythm to the movements of their working arms. If you focus, if you really isolate your ears, it is possible to hear the rangle jangle clang clung clink of their rows of bangles which they bash together as they rub their piles of bright washing (what appears to be) clean. I sit and gaze and stare and wonder what happens during the time they pick up their wet clothes stamp them next to the muddy soil and then lift them back into the air - washed?

Another woman appears into my field of vision. She walks towards the water with her back to me. She is wearing a printed batik lungi pulled up to her armpits. She stands knee deep in the clam still water and bends towards the liquid lake, sending velvet ripples outwards from an equal direction all around her. She washes her lengths of hair as the other women scrub their clothes, the children play in the paddle peddle boats and somewhere between the muddy soil in front of me and the shadows of the same muddy shore fading beyond my vision, drifts a small wooden boat, with two ageless figures, who are silhouetted by the sun; suspended by the water.

The word 'suspended' triggers an association. This makes me look upwards. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the sun, my eyes finally focus and latch onto what my thoughts were searching for. Sure enough I spy a rangi changi multicoloured parachute bellowing up and around, outwards and contained, with two gliding bodies suspended below. Lifted by the warm air currents, circling the town. Further in the distance the same distinguishable dots appear to be circling the clouds. Clouds which pad the beautiful snow covered peaks of the Annapurna range.

Again – if you listen carefully it is possible to hear the 'Whaooo' of excited floating screams, which echo down on the same living air which carried them on their wonderful journey to no where in particular.

Pokhara's Peace Pagoda

Peace Pagodas. A visit to another one. Another hike up another hill. But this time rather than overlooking the cooling clouds hugging Darjeeling, the Peace Pagoda was surrounded by the white fluffy clouds of the Himalayas, warming the 7000 plus meter peaks. Below in the green terraced valley stretches out the city of Pokhara. Is it really so massive? Where do all the houses hide when I walk past the green hills and muddy lake? Does Fewa Lake provide so many crooked corners for all of these little concrete blocks to pile unseen by those strolling along the main tourist trail? What spreads out before me is one of the largest cities in Nepal – a tourist hotspot, that continued to attract backpackers during the conflict while at the same time reeling in thousands of internally displaced nepalis throughout the region. People travelled to Pokhara looking for employment or to escape the fighting in the more rural regions.

As I sit in the shade of the stunning white Japanese Peace Pagoda, surveying the city below and the mountains above, an old Nepali man approaches. He is wearing old flip flops which are flip flopping off and on his feet. His head is capped with the traditional Nepali embroidered topi, and he wears a tweed waistcoat over a T-shirt telling all to 'Visit Malaysia'. He squats down by my side and begins to talk. He lives next to the Peace Pagoda. He complains about the number of tourists. I agree. Although I wonder why he wants to talk to me if he has an aversion to tourists? There seems to be a constant stream of people who have rowed across Fewa Lake and then hiked through the jungle to share this view. This popularity is a reflection of the tourist boom which has hit Nepal in 'peace time'.

There are now many more tourists than in 2005. Many more. Since the formation of the new Maoist led Communist Government of Nepal in April this year, there has been a renewed influx of richer, older and even younger tourists. Pre arranged package tours of older 'luxury trekkers' and young rich parents hike around with toddles stacked into new North Face baby carriers. Such groups have flooded the new 'safety' of this imagined Shangri-La. As a result, it is now expensive to be a backpacker in Nepal. As with tourists hotspots throughout the world, the popularity of a destination brings a here massive hike in prices. India now seems incredibly cheap in comparison, and Pokhara is even taking on a resort like feel.

As young little people wearing 'yak yak yak' t-shirts, baseballs caps and faces painted extra white with sun block trek up to visit the Peace Pagoda, I think of the long haired rasta Nepali girl I saw this morning. She was filthy, with filthy dreads and no 'guardian' in sight, only a smaller dirtier child who seemed to be in her care. Such street children have also flooded the city in recent years. During the two decade conflict, children were either trafficked, ran away from forced recruitment or more commonly, were drawn towards its magnetic promise of employment. It is of no surprise that the city seems to be spreading before my watching eyes, and I wonder about the more practical problems of infrastructure, water provision and waste disposal, let alone the cultural tensions which both the tourists and the Nepali youths must be bringing.

These cases of internal displacement will not disappear with 'peace', especially as in the words of my Nepali friend, “the government has too many other problems to deal with right now”. However, these parallel worlds seem to continue as the children staff the kitchens or tout on the streets and the tourists pay triple the price of three years ago for 'original' souvenirs mass manufactured in Pokhara's back streets.

I ask the old man sitting next to me if he ever needs to go to the city – although it is just a few hundred meters below, it seems like it would be quite an adventure for him. He replies 'sometimes'. But he grows his own crops: Ahlu, makai, daal, baat. As if he has read my mind, he confides that his worry this year is 'pani': The monsoon did not bring enough rain, and now as the sun burns down from the clear blue sky, he is worried about his rice. I watch as tourists enjoying the beautiful day, huffing and puffing towards the pagoda, camera's dangling from wrists, dispose of their plastic pani bottles in the burnt out bins that lay around the well watered gardens.

I wish Namaste to the old farmer, who despite his aversion to tourists, does not reveals his original attention for joining in my meditations by asking I would like to buy some of his home grown marijuana.