Trekking Nepal: Episode II
May 9, 2010
Featuring:
A stone escalator–a fern poultice–an official swindler–and very soggy GORE-TEX.
We eat a hearty breakfast of Dal Baht and boiled eggs and set off into the mountains. The trail is literally a stairway to heaven. Laid into the precipitous canyon wall are thousands upon thousands of rough-hewn stones, forming an ancient staircase, a belt of stone twisting skyward past ferns and Eucalyptus, past waterfalls and vines, up and out of sight into green mists. The fact that each stair is man-made astounds me. In some long-forgotten past, I see wizened villagers with slick and muddy hands planting every stone with individual care. I cannot fathom how many years it took to build this stone-age escalator.
After an hour of climbing and wiping greasy sunblock off my brow with the back of my hand, we come to a plateau. The canopy of ferns opens and unveils a small village clinging to the canyon wall–a green expanse of millet fields and squat huts. Pale curls of smoke rise from a dozen chimneys, seasoning the air with the scent of burning Eucalyptus.
I pause to take in the scene. Dad and the others keep moving, quickly disappearing into a tunnel of green.
Below me is a drop-away view of the Pokhara valley. It makes me dizzy and I turn away, grasping at a clay embankment to steady myself. The wet earth slips through my fingers and I spin and fall backward. With a soft thud I land squarely on my back in the middle of the trail. For a moment I am stranded like an overturned beetle by the weight of my pack. I lay there, eyes unblinking, staring up the hulking skirts of Anapurna South (23,684 ft) and Hiunchuli (21,132 ft). It is an entirely different view. Shelves of granite jut from the earth and vanish into a nimbus of backlit clouds. Vast snowfields, cleaved and lathed by time, twist like layer cake over glittering foundations of ice. A network of ridge lines forks downward, anchoring itself among the soft emerald foothills, like an enormous root system. It is a vision that both startles and soothes me. Looking straight up at these massive chunks of rock is like catching a glimpse of a firm and solid lighthouse while lost at sea; it steadies me. I pick myself up and survey the landscape again. It is more spectacular than any wide angle shot from National Geographic. A thrill rises in my chest–I am entering the legendary Himalayas. This is the real deal.
I run up the staircase to catch the others. My lungs heave, my thighs burn, and my heart feels the slightest pang of loss over leaving the hanging millet fields behind.
We crest a hill and encounter a trail that is so studded with cow pies, it is like a mine field. The patties squat in our path, resembling stinking yurts, slick and treacherous to step on. We walk with care, goose-stepping gingerly over them and other detritus.
The path levels. We share it now with mountain goats, cows, and prune-faced women carrying huge loads of ferns strapped to wooden frames on their backs. No one, not even J.V., can tell me why the women are harvesting ferns. Later, I learn that at least 65 species of fern thrive in Nepal, with both culinary and medicinal uses, everything from tea to cough syrup, from salad garnish to dandruff poultice.
Occasionally we pass a cluster of tin-roofed houses that constitutes a village, and again I marvel at the challenge of having to bring in these building materials on foot. Some of the houses are even made of concrete and brick. What kind of people climb over a mile of stairs with bags of lye or bricks on their backs–even once–let alone repeatedly. I think of their methodical pace of life, which in its own way, is as orderly as a modern assembly line–an industry without revolution.
My thoughts are interrupted by a man who appears to be the Nepali equivalent of a forest ranger, dressed in a khaki shirt and black pants. He asks to see our “permits”. We don’t have permits. We don’t know we need permits. Not even our vaunted guide seems to know anything about permits. The ranger’s face is grave and he shakes his head. He will make us turn back, if we do not pay, he tells us.
We ante up the cash, which amounts to about $40.00 and change. It is an expense we will regret later.
I feel vaguely swindled and it dawns on me that this is probably a way of life in Nepal. We have already been told so many different things by so many different “experts” about what to expect on this trek and how much it will cost, that we are no longer sure of anything until it actually happens. Unreliability and grift are to be expected. The Nepali postal system, for example, delivers packages almost entirely at random, and postal employees think nothing of pilfering nearly every parcel that passes through their fingers. It is rare to receive a care package from home (the U.S.) with anything left in it that could possibly be considered valuable or tasty. Dad and I are learning all this the hard way and it is slowly sinking in. Having a travel checklist or firm plans of any kind, is almost useless. You check, check, and double check, and then throw your fate to the Himalayan wind.
Sobered by the unexpected demand for cash, we walk slowly another hundred yards, wondering how we’re going to pay for food and lodging in the next village. I stare at my GORE-TEX boots, lost in thought. Then, Bump. I plant my nose squarely into Dad’s pack. He has been abruptly stopped on the trail by another Nepali “official”, who motions us to his “office”. We traipse into a wooden shack where candles, used for light, have scorched the walls and where mouse droppings crunch to powder under our feet. This “official” also wants to see our papers. Is this the same guy? It almost looks like him: same hooked nose; same tobacco-stained teeth. But I don’t remember the felt beret that angles across his brow. Dad explains that we just filled out our papers, signed-in, and paid at the last check point. Even so, the official insists we go through the whole ritual again, show our passports, write down our names, addresses, telephone numbers, tell him how long we are planning to stay, and pay again. I am flushed and irritated.
Then the dusty bureaucrat does something that tears through the last of my thinning patience. He poses for a picture. He points to my camera and mugs boyishly with a yellow grin, adjusting his beret to an absurdly rakish angle. He tucks the last of our cash in his shirt pocket and pats it with his blackened fingers. ”You taking photo?”, he asks.
Fortunately, about this time a thundershower breaks loose and cools me off before I blow a fuse.
It starts with a distant roar. At first, I think it is a waterfall. I exit the shack and walk over a bluff expecting to see a mountain cascade, but instead I see a small lake with its surface roiling under pounding raindrops. It is odd. I am completely dry, yet not twenty feet in front of me is a thick curtain of water reaching thousands of feet into the sky. It moves slowly, majestically in my direction, inch by inch. I walk casually away from the roaring wall as if it is an IMAX imitation, with plenty of time to find shelter under a Nepali verandah. Minutes later comes the deafening crash of rain bombarding the tin-roof above.
“The rain,” J.V. says, “Every time. This day.”
“You mean it rains at this time every day?” I ask, understanding his scrambled syntax for the first time.
J.V. nods.
“Well for how long?”
“Sometime is raining two, three hours.”
For a moment, it is awe-inspiring to stand there in the safety and comfort of shelter, watching a tropical downpour so thick you could measure it in cubic feet per second, but I cannot stand the seismic clanging above my head. The tin roof sounds like someone is beating it with a hammer, or as if a whole cupboard of pots and pans is falling on me. I can’t take this for two minutes, much less two hours.
So without hesitation, I step into the deluge. I walk because there is no point in running. In five seconds, I am soaked to the bone. Rivulets of luke-warm water trickle down my calves and into my boots. Dad’s squelching footfalls quickly join mine and together we slosh up the path.
It takes a few minutes, but we soon hear J.V.’s mournful protests trailing somewhere behind us, “I am guide. I am no climbing. You see, is raining. You coming back. I am guide.”
To be continued…
If you enjoyed this post, be sure to read the rest from this author. Marc is a local writer, musician, and physician. He is a regular contributor to ConneXions and has written reviews for Spectrum: Adventist Forum. He loves words and music, windsurfing, and going on adventures with Janine and the kids.(Read more from this author) 
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