Short Version:
We stagger from Tadapani to Syauli Bazaar
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 21 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 102:30
Beer Time = 29:30
Long Version:
Tadapani Morning:
The occasional night-time toilet expedition is not unheard-of, despite the difficulties inherent in an unlit environment with unstable narrow stairs, holes in the ground on the path and a hole in the ground at the end of the path.
Multiple night-time toilet expeditions generally indicate something awry.
Multiple night-time toilet expeditions followed by in-room vomiting bouts are a pretty solid sign that all's not right in the world.
Of course, Nene's clued-up enough that, even in the throes of some serious not-well, she's grabbed a bucket and parked it next to the bed to catch the detritus.
There is a lot of detritus.
Eventually, the sun comes up, hugely and orangely, and there's a delicious Puppetbreakfast but no Nenefood, and later still we hit the trail, albeit somewhat gingerly, two steps - and a retch - ahead of the complainy old Britischers.
********
Downhill. Lots of downhill. With monkeys. And mountains. And many short stops for Nene to resist vomiting on her feet.
Somehow, she managed the 2.5 hour walk downhill to Ghandruk, where we stopped for lunch. She even managed to eat half of her plain chapati before borrowing a bed for a wee lie-down. Puppetfacestuffing carried on uninterrupted. A chocolate croissant, high in the Himalayas!
Nap over, we walked downhill some more. And by "some more" I mean "for two hours."
Stairs, stairs and more stairs. Sore quads, uneven steps, stream-crossings, buffalo and kids and a woman fundraising for a school for orphans.
And then, gloriously, not long after we were briefly forced off the path by a large uphill-bound gaggle of enormously fat women heading UP the evil hill we'd just come down, we reached Syauli Bazaar, where Nene did some more sleeping while an elderly couple demonstrated appropriate workload-sharing to a beer-guzzling watchPuppet: HE sat atop the haystack, arranging the hay nicely; SHE gathered hay from the surrounding fields, bundled it together, carried it to the haystack, and then climbed a ladder and hoisted the hay up to the top of the 3m-high stack where she held it until HE deigned to take it from her upraised, outstretched hands.
Later on, the stars came out, and were beautiful.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 3
Beer Time = 5:30
Time to Next Beer = 2:30
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Reasons Canadialand is Awesome #23
Headline on the main page of the Vancouver Sun online:
Photos: Shoes with severed feet found over the years
Photos: Shoes with severed feet found over the years
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Nepali Flat
Short Version:
We walk from Ghorepani to Tadapani. Butt-slapping, tooting, hooting and hollering. And complaining. Not necessarily in that order.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 20 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 98:00
Beer Time = 25:00
Long Version:
Ghorepani Morning:
The sunrise is, apparently, spectacular from from Poon Hill. So we...
...stay in bed, and watch the first rays of yet another gorgeous cloudless day paint the mountains rosy orange/peach colors while we stay snug and warm and lazy in our fat sleeping bags* while drinking passable coffee.
********
Our walk pace has been increasing steadily since Thorong La, to the point where we're blasting past all and sundry on the trails. Not so fast, though, that Ganga couldn't sneak on ahead, hide in the bushes, and scare the bejeebers out of Nene as she approached by making mutant cat noises.
The forest east of Poon Hill is mainly huge rhododenrons, which look like elderly puriri once they're enormous and sufficiently gnarled. Apparently they're really spectacular when in bloom.
The terrain was much more like NZ than it was higher in the Himalayas, with steep, wooded slopes and some big trees. Throughout the day we were largely enclosed by forest, but we did get some sneaky peeks out between the trees; mountains to the left of us, and, for the first time in a long time, to the right we started to see vistas that stretched away into a distance that was actually distant, rather than terminating abruptly at one or several bloody great big mountains.
We started the day walking up, just for a change. After several false summits, though, we actually hit some down. Down! And then up. Down. Up. Apparently this is what they call "flat" here; it's when the up and the down are approximately equal, and cancel each other out. We spent some time in river valleys, which made the hike even more NZ-like, although the slippery foot-polished marble steps were somewhat different.
The five hour trek from Ghorepani to Tadapani took us three hours. We were first in, so got the best room (end of the row, extra window in the end wall, facing downvalley) and the best part of the solar hot water in the showers. We also got the best spot in the sun outside, where we sat to enjoy our ginger and honey tea.
Unfortunately, it was the most disgusting tea in the cosmos.
Holy heck, it was vile!
Turns out that one really can't underestimate the importance of thoroughly cleansing one's grater between grating garlic and grating ginger.
Luckily, the lentil/mushroom burgers were phenomenally good, to the point that not only did we have one for lunch alongside a cheese/bean burrito, we also had one each for dinner, which we ate in the dining room, where the warmth of the under-table brazier was greatly appreciated by all the various happy trekkers.
Except the large group of elderly British people, who complained incessantly.
About everything.
For ages.
What a pack of arsebiscuits!
The whiny Englischers were so painful to listen to - and such a big group that not listening was more difficult than it ought to have been - that we left early, wandering up the scarily steep and narrow and wobbly stairs to the upstairs balcony and in to our room, where we put ourselves to bed with books. Later, when the age-mismatched Spanish couple who were our next-door neighbours for he night arrived in their room, we weren't making any noise - with e-books there's not even the sound of pages turning.
So it may be that they didn't realise that noise would be clearly audible in adjoining rooms.
Or it may be that they just didn't care.
Whatever the reason, we were treated to a veritable symphony of butt-slapping, burping, naughty-sounding laughing, and farting before they settled down and shut up for the night. We had great difficulty containing our merriment.
* = Fartsacks.
We walk from Ghorepani to Tadapani. Butt-slapping, tooting, hooting and hollering. And complaining. Not necessarily in that order.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 20 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 98:00
Beer Time = 25:00
Long Version:
Ghorepani Morning:
The sunrise is, apparently, spectacular from from Poon Hill. So we...
...stay in bed, and watch the first rays of yet another gorgeous cloudless day paint the mountains rosy orange/peach colors while we stay snug and warm and lazy in our fat sleeping bags* while drinking passable coffee.
********
Our walk pace has been increasing steadily since Thorong La, to the point where we're blasting past all and sundry on the trails. Not so fast, though, that Ganga couldn't sneak on ahead, hide in the bushes, and scare the bejeebers out of Nene as she approached by making mutant cat noises.
The forest east of Poon Hill is mainly huge rhododenrons, which look like elderly puriri once they're enormous and sufficiently gnarled. Apparently they're really spectacular when in bloom.
The terrain was much more like NZ than it was higher in the Himalayas, with steep, wooded slopes and some big trees. Throughout the day we were largely enclosed by forest, but we did get some sneaky peeks out between the trees; mountains to the left of us, and, for the first time in a long time, to the right we started to see vistas that stretched away into a distance that was actually distant, rather than terminating abruptly at one or several bloody great big mountains.
We started the day walking up, just for a change. After several false summits, though, we actually hit some down. Down! And then up. Down. Up. Apparently this is what they call "flat" here; it's when the up and the down are approximately equal, and cancel each other out. We spent some time in river valleys, which made the hike even more NZ-like, although the slippery foot-polished marble steps were somewhat different.
The five hour trek from Ghorepani to Tadapani took us three hours. We were first in, so got the best room (end of the row, extra window in the end wall, facing downvalley) and the best part of the solar hot water in the showers. We also got the best spot in the sun outside, where we sat to enjoy our ginger and honey tea.
Unfortunately, it was the most disgusting tea in the cosmos.
Holy heck, it was vile!
Turns out that one really can't underestimate the importance of thoroughly cleansing one's grater between grating garlic and grating ginger.
Luckily, the lentil/mushroom burgers were phenomenally good, to the point that not only did we have one for lunch alongside a cheese/bean burrito, we also had one each for dinner, which we ate in the dining room, where the warmth of the under-table brazier was greatly appreciated by all the various happy trekkers.
Except the large group of elderly British people, who complained incessantly.
About everything.
For ages.
What a pack of arsebiscuits!
The whiny Englischers were so painful to listen to - and such a big group that not listening was more difficult than it ought to have been - that we left early, wandering up the scarily steep and narrow and wobbly stairs to the upstairs balcony and in to our room, where we put ourselves to bed with books. Later, when the age-mismatched Spanish couple who were our next-door neighbours for he night arrived in their room, we weren't making any noise - with e-books there's not even the sound of pages turning.
So it may be that they didn't realise that noise would be clearly audible in adjoining rooms.
Or it may be that they just didn't care.
Whatever the reason, we were treated to a veritable symphony of butt-slapping, burping, naughty-sounding laughing, and farting before they settled down and shut up for the night. We had great difficulty containing our merriment.
* = Fartsacks.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Poon!
Short Version:
We walk from Shikha to Ghorepani, then up Poon Hill.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 19 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 95:00
Beer Time = 22:00
Long Version:
Shikha Morning:
Incredible views of Dhaulagiri and Tukuche mountains scraping the first light out of the sky as we dress and pack and head into the dining room not long before 0700.
Closer to hand, we watch the village wake up as we eat; sleepy-faced people and animals are emerging from their (sometimes shared) niches; the sounds and smells of village life begin to manifest...
...and then around the corner from the low end of the main street: hundreds of marathoners. Not en masse; one by one initially, then clumps, then bigger clumps building to a constant stream then tailing off to less and less-comfortable-looking solo runners* towards the back of the field.
Horses and buffalo emerging from their night-time accommodation win the battle with the runners for trail space, mainly through sheer mass. This is entertaining viewing.
One of the last runners comes in to the hotel for emergency poopage.
********
Lycra-clad ultra-fitness nuts safely past, we set off.
Uphill.
Up many, many stone stairs.
It wasn't long before we passed the race sweepers, one of whom was only too happy to furnish information about Racing the Planet: Nepal, which saw two hundred and some extreme masochists from all over the world** take part in a seven-day, six-Stage, 250 kilometer, self-supported endurance foot race. The "self-supported" bit means they had to carry all their crap, including sleeping bags, mattress pads, clothes, and food for the day. No food was to be purchased along the way; the competitors were only to consume foodstuffs they'd started the day carrying. We spoke to one racer (the pooper) who had been threatened with a time penalty for buying and eating a Mars bar on Day Two. He wasn't too worried, as he was 3rd-to-last at the time. He also said that he planned "...never drink ten pints and agree to anything like this ever again..." (Yes, he was English).
We passed several backmarkers throughout the morning, repassing some after stopping for baby goat cuddles***. We then got to cheer them on as they passed the table where we'd parked ourselves to eat chocolate and pizza and momos in the sunshine next to the rose garden in the courtyard of Ghorepani's Tukuche View Hotel. And the view really was something else: not just Tukuche, but also Himchul, Niligiri, Dhaulagiri and many of the Annapurnas. Seriously awesome.
People were telling us, though, that the view was EVEN BETTER up at the top of the hill.
Not just any hill, either; this is Poon Hill, and that's one of the most awesome place names ever.
So we went, and it was a bit like climbing Mount Maunganui in terms of steepness and stairsness, and then at the top the views were indescribably stunning.
Awesomeness.
Spectacularity.
Mountains on all sides, draped in golden late-afternoon sunlight.
The only thing that could have made it better would have been a homo-erotic photo-session romp starring a near-elderly Japanese man and his young Nepali guide. And then we got EXACTLY THAT, and our lives were complete.
Then we watched the sunset, and that kicked it up another notch.
Poon Hill rules.
* = "Runners" may not be quite the right word for some of them; "mincers," maybe, or "hobblers."
** = Apart from poor countries, countries on the non-Amerikan side of a war, hot countries, or countries where wearing lycra in public gets you stoned (and not in the "fields of marijuana" sense of the phrase). Basically it was Amerikans, Canadialanders, Orstralianuses, Japaneezers, and assorted Euromonkeys. The intertubes says there were a few random SAmerikans and some SAfrikaaaaaants as well.
*** = That's a cuddle where one or more of the participants is a baby goat. Didn't want to call it a kid cuddle.
We walk from Shikha to Ghorepani, then up Poon Hill.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 19 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 95:00
Beer Time = 22:00
Long Version:
Shikha Morning:
Incredible views of Dhaulagiri and Tukuche mountains scraping the first light out of the sky as we dress and pack and head into the dining room not long before 0700.
Closer to hand, we watch the village wake up as we eat; sleepy-faced people and animals are emerging from their (sometimes shared) niches; the sounds and smells of village life begin to manifest...
...and then around the corner from the low end of the main street: hundreds of marathoners. Not en masse; one by one initially, then clumps, then bigger clumps building to a constant stream then tailing off to less and less-comfortable-looking solo runners* towards the back of the field.
Horses and buffalo emerging from their night-time accommodation win the battle with the runners for trail space, mainly through sheer mass. This is entertaining viewing.
One of the last runners comes in to the hotel for emergency poopage.
********
Lycra-clad ultra-fitness nuts safely past, we set off.
Uphill.
Up many, many stone stairs.
It wasn't long before we passed the race sweepers, one of whom was only too happy to furnish information about Racing the Planet: Nepal, which saw two hundred and some extreme masochists from all over the world** take part in a seven-day, six-Stage, 250 kilometer, self-supported endurance foot race. The "self-supported" bit means they had to carry all their crap, including sleeping bags, mattress pads, clothes, and food for the day. No food was to be purchased along the way; the competitors were only to consume foodstuffs they'd started the day carrying. We spoke to one racer (the pooper) who had been threatened with a time penalty for buying and eating a Mars bar on Day Two. He wasn't too worried, as he was 3rd-to-last at the time. He also said that he planned "...never drink ten pints and agree to anything like this ever again..." (Yes, he was English).
We passed several backmarkers throughout the morning, repassing some after stopping for baby goat cuddles***. We then got to cheer them on as they passed the table where we'd parked ourselves to eat chocolate and pizza and momos in the sunshine next to the rose garden in the courtyard of Ghorepani's Tukuche View Hotel. And the view really was something else: not just Tukuche, but also Himchul, Niligiri, Dhaulagiri and many of the Annapurnas. Seriously awesome.
People were telling us, though, that the view was EVEN BETTER up at the top of the hill.
Not just any hill, either; this is Poon Hill, and that's one of the most awesome place names ever.
So we went, and it was a bit like climbing Mount Maunganui in terms of steepness and stairsness, and then at the top the views were indescribably stunning.
Awesomeness.
Spectacularity.
Mountains on all sides, draped in golden late-afternoon sunlight.
The only thing that could have made it better would have been a homo-erotic photo-session romp starring a near-elderly Japanese man and his young Nepali guide. And then we got EXACTLY THAT, and our lives were complete.
Then we watched the sunset, and that kicked it up another notch.
Poon Hill rules.
* = "Runners" may not be quite the right word for some of them; "mincers," maybe, or "hobblers."
** = Apart from poor countries, countries on the non-Amerikan side of a war, hot countries, or countries where wearing lycra in public gets you stoned (and not in the "fields of marijuana" sense of the phrase). Basically it was Amerikans, Canadialanders, Orstralianuses, Japaneezers, and assorted Euromonkeys. The intertubes says there were a few random SAmerikans and some SAfrikaaaaaants as well.
*** = That's a cuddle where one or more of the participants is a baby goat. Didn't want to call it a kid cuddle.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Eat Your Way to Freedom
Short Version:
We walk from Tatopani to Shikha. Children sell us greens at exorbitant prices.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 18 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 91:30
Beer Time = 34:30
Long Version:
Tatopani Morning:
Amerikan man at next table, arriving just before we leave, requests "real coffee." A plunger is brought to his table. We are envious, although this morning's unreal coffee was significantly better than some of the watery filth we've encountered.
The sun is bathing the tops of the Niligiri peaks. The Mongolian Horde across the way is taking photographs of it.
********
We've managed to get ourselves a day ahead of where we were supposed to be so we lined up a short day of walking... which meant a sleep-in and a late start! Once underway, we had a brief roadwalk, punctuated by multitudes of uniformed schoolchildren heading the other direction, towards the regional high school. One nicely-presented young chap sold Janine some not-orange oranges; the citrus here never changes exterior color, although the flesh inside still tastes deliciously ripe and delicious.
We crossed the river on a wobbly suspension bridge that, had we encountered it a couple of weeks back, would have given us the willies. We hardly noticed it. We did notice the accretionist building on the far side though - it looked like house had been built upon house a number of times, creating a teetering monstrosity that looked like a drawing out of a children's picture book brought to life. An architectural movement waiting to happen.
Can you guess what direction we walked next?
If you guessed "Up," you were right! Ten points Ravenclaw!
We were preceded up the steep stone stairs by a couple with a baby in a backpack, and we were walking against a growing tide of orange-vending schoolchildren coming downhill. Nene and Uzir bought more green oranges, from assorted more-or-less cute kids, at variously-inflated (for Nene) or REALLY LOW (Uzir) prices. One kid tried a Puppet-oriented green orange sales pitch. Bad idea. No sale. Same for the scaryweird cleaver-wielding marijuana salesman.
At one point our rapid uphill progress* was blocked by a sizeable herd of mules. Muleherds were nowhere to be seen. What WAS to be seen was an increasingly-irate little old mad lady, stuck on the uphill side. The muleherds appeared from the woods at roadside as we were encouraging the beasties to move aside by hitting them with sticks. The madwoman scolded them mightily in Nepali. They mocked her. She became angrier. Not sure if her eyes look in different directions all the time or only when she's feeling murderous. Suspect the milky, blind eye is milky and blind all the time, but don't actually have proof.
The stairs we'd been climbing were irregularly-spaced, different heights, and made of a bunch of different types of rock, including huge slabs of marble which had been polished smooth by the passage of thousands of boots. At times it felt like we were strolling around on some incredibly wealthy personage's kitchen countertop.
And then we reached the top of the steepest stair-section yet, rolling into Shikha, to yet another Moonlight Guesthouse** in time for beer-enhanced lunch in the sun on the roof, followed by book-reading and yak-watching and mountain-ogling and chillie-eating followed by sugar-eating, which actually made the worst of the mouth-inferno go away! There was a hibiscus growing outside the dining room window, and ears of corn hung from widows and eaves of many of the village buildings. the village seemed prosperous, with well-fed, healthy-looking people going about their business, and animals galore, from buffalo, horses and cows through goats and chickens galore. Many chickens were kept under upturned baskets, although at one point we espied a chicken chasing a chicken chasing a pigeon. We also saw a herd of baby goats which had been placed in a large basket attempting to eat their way out of confinement, with some success.
The guesthouse didn't just have a hibiscus growing outside; it had plastic hibiscus flowers in several of the communal areas as well. And it had an awesome array of posters, including a mutant-looking tiger using its massive claws to rip bloody channels in the flanks of a mutant-looking fleeing deer (in the stairwell between the first and second floors) and the Effiel Tower (sic) superimposed atop a background that included Mount Fuji. It also had no guests other than us, which is great when you want your popcorn soon, and for getting to chat to the lodgefolks, but probably not so great from the perspective of the continued fiscal solvency of the hotel.
Later, apple pies. Not a typo; pies. Plural. Nom nom nom nom nom.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 18:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = The requirement for walking bestarde no longer in force after the high pass crossing at Thorong La
** = Not a chain of affiliated Moonlight Guesthouses, just samenamed random hotels.
We walk from Tatopani to Shikha. Children sell us greens at exorbitant prices.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 18 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 91:30
Beer Time = 34:30
Long Version:
Tatopani Morning:
Amerikan man at next table, arriving just before we leave, requests "real coffee." A plunger is brought to his table. We are envious, although this morning's unreal coffee was significantly better than some of the watery filth we've encountered.
The sun is bathing the tops of the Niligiri peaks. The Mongolian Horde across the way is taking photographs of it.
********
We've managed to get ourselves a day ahead of where we were supposed to be so we lined up a short day of walking... which meant a sleep-in and a late start! Once underway, we had a brief roadwalk, punctuated by multitudes of uniformed schoolchildren heading the other direction, towards the regional high school. One nicely-presented young chap sold Janine some not-orange oranges; the citrus here never changes exterior color, although the flesh inside still tastes deliciously ripe and delicious.
We crossed the river on a wobbly suspension bridge that, had we encountered it a couple of weeks back, would have given us the willies. We hardly noticed it. We did notice the accretionist building on the far side though - it looked like house had been built upon house a number of times, creating a teetering monstrosity that looked like a drawing out of a children's picture book brought to life. An architectural movement waiting to happen.
Can you guess what direction we walked next?
If you guessed "Up," you were right! Ten points Ravenclaw!
We were preceded up the steep stone stairs by a couple with a baby in a backpack, and we were walking against a growing tide of orange-vending schoolchildren coming downhill. Nene and Uzir bought more green oranges, from assorted more-or-less cute kids, at variously-inflated (for Nene) or REALLY LOW (Uzir) prices. One kid tried a Puppet-oriented green orange sales pitch. Bad idea. No sale. Same for the scaryweird cleaver-wielding marijuana salesman.
At one point our rapid uphill progress* was blocked by a sizeable herd of mules. Muleherds were nowhere to be seen. What WAS to be seen was an increasingly-irate little old mad lady, stuck on the uphill side. The muleherds appeared from the woods at roadside as we were encouraging the beasties to move aside by hitting them with sticks. The madwoman scolded them mightily in Nepali. They mocked her. She became angrier. Not sure if her eyes look in different directions all the time or only when she's feeling murderous. Suspect the milky, blind eye is milky and blind all the time, but don't actually have proof.
The stairs we'd been climbing were irregularly-spaced, different heights, and made of a bunch of different types of rock, including huge slabs of marble which had been polished smooth by the passage of thousands of boots. At times it felt like we were strolling around on some incredibly wealthy personage's kitchen countertop.
And then we reached the top of the steepest stair-section yet, rolling into Shikha, to yet another Moonlight Guesthouse** in time for beer-enhanced lunch in the sun on the roof, followed by book-reading and yak-watching and mountain-ogling and chillie-eating followed by sugar-eating, which actually made the worst of the mouth-inferno go away! There was a hibiscus growing outside the dining room window, and ears of corn hung from widows and eaves of many of the village buildings. the village seemed prosperous, with well-fed, healthy-looking people going about their business, and animals galore, from buffalo, horses and cows through goats and chickens galore. Many chickens were kept under upturned baskets, although at one point we espied a chicken chasing a chicken chasing a pigeon. We also saw a herd of baby goats which had been placed in a large basket attempting to eat their way out of confinement, with some success.
The guesthouse didn't just have a hibiscus growing outside; it had plastic hibiscus flowers in several of the communal areas as well. And it had an awesome array of posters, including a mutant-looking tiger using its massive claws to rip bloody channels in the flanks of a mutant-looking fleeing deer (in the stairwell between the first and second floors) and the Effiel Tower (sic) superimposed atop a background that included Mount Fuji. It also had no guests other than us, which is great when you want your popcorn soon, and for getting to chat to the lodgefolks, but probably not so great from the perspective of the continued fiscal solvency of the hotel.
Later, apple pies. Not a typo; pies. Plural. Nom nom nom nom nom.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 18:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = The requirement for walking bestarde no longer in force after the high pass crossing at Thorong La
** = Not a chain of affiliated Moonlight Guesthouses, just samenamed random hotels.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The Future is Now! (wait a minute... no it's not, it's in THE FUTURE)
Short Version:
We walk from Larjung to Tatopani. Hot pool action!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 17 = 7:45
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 88:30
Beer Time = 39:30
Long Version:
Larjung Morning, Take II:
Another early start, and once again friendly lodge staff bustle about as we sterilise water and eat our delicious eggy breakfast.
The two highest peaks of Dhaulagiri are catching the first sunlight as we set off.
********
Our preference for not-road walking meant that instead of heading south out of town down the road we went east, across the valley and the river's several branches, and into the forest, where we meandered our way along, and up, and down, and and up, and along, and etc throughout most of the early morning.
Mid-morning saw us back on the west side of the river, perched on stone walls outside a lodge, eating cookies and listening to two Nepali women arguing inside. We'd been asked if we wanted to go in for a cup of tea, but the disagreement was quite vehement, and the day was nice, so we stayed where we were, feeding bits of biscuit to the chickens, and the occasional whole cookie to the retarded man who wandered over to join us.
And then we were off again, through villages large and small, wealthy and not, crossing and recrossing the river, which had dropped away from the long wide upper valley and into a steep gorge filled with cream-and-green boulders.
We stopped for lunch at a lodge near the base of a huge waterfall that poured over the western cliff and into the gorge, and sat in the sun beneath a tamarillo tree as a waiter in a Misfits t-shirt took our order. Kind of idyllic, until the sun dropped behind the lip of the cliff, and the cook came and stood next to us to conduct a shouted conversation with her friends on the other side of the river, and the "potato rosty w egg" arrived with no egg but with extra rubberiness. Nene's egg drop soup* was good though, and seeing the old bloke getting his gnarled and twisted legs massaged by younger women was a neat peek into the future.
We walked the sunny side of the river all afternoon, past schools and temples and lodges, past oranges and buckwheat growing, past millet and beans drying, past beehives made from hollowed logs with mud-cemented endcaps, past a petrol-powered rice-mill machine - vastly different from what we'd seen way back in Bahundallah! - and past villages of all shapes and sizes. One village had the main trail winding right past the doorsteps and through the front yards of the homes, which was kind of odd.
We learned how to say "lizard"**.
And then we were crossing the river on one last rickety bridge, and making our way down the main street of Tatopani*** to our lodge, where we spent just enough time to stare out our room window at the massive group of identically-clad East Asians - including a dwarf - who'd overrun the lodge across the street and to get ourselves prepped for our eagerly- and long-awaited trip to the Tatopani Hot Springs.
Unfortunately, the asshat Israelis reappeared not long after we arrived.
Fortunately, they got into the other pool, which put them out of earshot, and hidden from view by the central fountain thing at which various porters and guides were bathing; lots of suds, some undies, occasional nudity. One of the undies-clad ones looked like a cross between Stop-era Perry Farrell and modern-day Lote Tuqiri.
We lounged for a couple of hours, drinking beer and enjoying the soak, then dried off and walked home, past the Bob Marley bar and past the men watching old pro-wrestling footage of Andre the Giant on a tiny TV in a semi-closed grocery store.
Cheese-bean burrito and salami pizza and early to bed.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 1
Beer Time = 31:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = Soup (tomato, this time) with an egg cracked into it.
** = Chaparro
*** = "Hot Water"
We walk from Larjung to Tatopani. Hot pool action!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 17 = 7:45
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 88:30
Beer Time = 39:30
Long Version:
Larjung Morning, Take II:
Another early start, and once again friendly lodge staff bustle about as we sterilise water and eat our delicious eggy breakfast.
The two highest peaks of Dhaulagiri are catching the first sunlight as we set off.
********
Our preference for not-road walking meant that instead of heading south out of town down the road we went east, across the valley and the river's several branches, and into the forest, where we meandered our way along, and up, and down, and and up, and along, and etc throughout most of the early morning.
Mid-morning saw us back on the west side of the river, perched on stone walls outside a lodge, eating cookies and listening to two Nepali women arguing inside. We'd been asked if we wanted to go in for a cup of tea, but the disagreement was quite vehement, and the day was nice, so we stayed where we were, feeding bits of biscuit to the chickens, and the occasional whole cookie to the retarded man who wandered over to join us.
And then we were off again, through villages large and small, wealthy and not, crossing and recrossing the river, which had dropped away from the long wide upper valley and into a steep gorge filled with cream-and-green boulders.
We stopped for lunch at a lodge near the base of a huge waterfall that poured over the western cliff and into the gorge, and sat in the sun beneath a tamarillo tree as a waiter in a Misfits t-shirt took our order. Kind of idyllic, until the sun dropped behind the lip of the cliff, and the cook came and stood next to us to conduct a shouted conversation with her friends on the other side of the river, and the "potato rosty w egg" arrived with no egg but with extra rubberiness. Nene's egg drop soup* was good though, and seeing the old bloke getting his gnarled and twisted legs massaged by younger women was a neat peek into the future.
We walked the sunny side of the river all afternoon, past schools and temples and lodges, past oranges and buckwheat growing, past millet and beans drying, past beehives made from hollowed logs with mud-cemented endcaps, past a petrol-powered rice-mill machine - vastly different from what we'd seen way back in Bahundallah! - and past villages of all shapes and sizes. One village had the main trail winding right past the doorsteps and through the front yards of the homes, which was kind of odd.
We learned how to say "lizard"**.
And then we were crossing the river on one last rickety bridge, and making our way down the main street of Tatopani*** to our lodge, where we spent just enough time to stare out our room window at the massive group of identically-clad East Asians - including a dwarf - who'd overrun the lodge across the street and to get ourselves prepped for our eagerly- and long-awaited trip to the Tatopani Hot Springs.
Unfortunately, the asshat Israelis reappeared not long after we arrived.
Fortunately, they got into the other pool, which put them out of earshot, and hidden from view by the central fountain thing at which various porters and guides were bathing; lots of suds, some undies, occasional nudity. One of the undies-clad ones looked like a cross between Stop-era Perry Farrell and modern-day Lote Tuqiri.
We lounged for a couple of hours, drinking beer and enjoying the soak, then dried off and walked home, past the Bob Marley bar and past the men watching old pro-wrestling footage of Andre the Giant on a tiny TV in a semi-closed grocery store.
Cheese-bean burrito and salami pizza and early to bed.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 1
Beer Time = 31:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = Soup (tomato, this time) with an egg cracked into it.
** = Chaparro
*** = "Hot Water"
Monday, January 16, 2012
Ascent of the White Mountain
Short Version:
We walk up a big hill, and back down again. Yak v dog: Yak wins! Yak v Uzir: Uzir wins!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 16 = 8:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 80:45
Beer Time = 47:45
Long Version:
Larjung Morning:
In direct contrast to yesterday's leisurely start, today we're up at 0545 after a fitful night's sleep.
Barbie Girl by 90s Danish one-hit-wonder pop group Aqua plays softly on the radio as we eat breakfast and sterilise water.
No other tourists are awake; it's just us and a whole bunch of Nepali folks, who are scurrying about doing the stuff that people in service industries do when the people they're paid to service are not around. It's an interesting glimpse into a world that overlays ours.
We're out of the lodge and heading downvalley by 0630. Stars, mountains, cold.
********
The mountain called Dhaulagiri had been largely behind clouds as we travelled down the valley the day before. Every so often the cloud would clear, and we'd get a glimpse of its looming immensity. It's pretty big: 7th-highest in the world at 8,167m. We decided to walk up it.
First, though, we had to walk along the road, where we acquired a dog. Then we had to walk up the wrong trail a little bit, and crash through bushes and down a small cliff to get back to the road near the start of the right trail. Then we walked up, through forest and across open, grassy slopes, to a field of poo with a wonderful view. A small cottage lurked at the top end of the field. We broke in, a little bit, and looked at the stuff inside. Based on possessions, the inhabitants were not particularly wealthy. Having said that, they might have had lots of love in their lives, you never know. And they really did have a spectacular view; poo, stretching away to the edge of the high plateau. And then an enormous, gorgeous mountain that filled the rest of the eyespace; the Nilgiri Himal, which is a group of three high peaks agglomerated together to form one whopping great big hunk of impressiveness.
Then we walked up a near-vertical face for a while. Notes say:
Up.
More up.
Snow patches. Some thrown.
Up. Steep. Tired legs. Slippery bits.
Reach snowline after many yaks.
Neither the "Up"/"Steep" comments nor the "many yaks" one really convey the full extent of their subjects; it really was blimmin steep, and if we hadn't shaken sticks at the yaks I'd be saying that there were more yaks than you could shake a stick at*. As it was, though, stick-shaking was necessary in order to proceed up past the seasonal yakherd houses, currently inhabited not by yakherds but by yaks.
Yaks!
Big yaks, small yaks,
Yaks of white, yaks of black.
Yaks on knolls, yaks in dells,
Yaks with horns, yaks with bells.
Yaks up high, yaks down low,
In the houses, in the snow.
Serious, extreme yakkage, and we blundered right into the middle of it. It was like we'd rounded a corner and found ourselves in the middle of a loosely-agglomerated convocation of grumpy behemoths. Scratch that; it wasn't LIKE that, it WAS that. And, just as you'd expect from any group of big, tetchy critters, one of them moved to block our path, and made grumbly noises.
Fortunately, our new dog was on the case, growling throatily at the big lummox** and baring an impressive array of toothy weaponry.
Unfortunately, the yak agitator was singularly unimpressed.
Fortunately, Uzir was on the case, yelling mightily and brandishing a big stick. That sent the lead yak's impressedness rating rocketing from none to some, and when Uzir leaped at the yak, swinging his stick in a serious "I'm attempting to hit you" manner, the yak bailed.
Hail Uzir, banisher of yakky aggressors!
Path clear, we were free to keep going. Up.
Grass/Rock/Dirt with patches of snow gave way to snow with patches of grass/rock/dirt, and then the bald spots ceased and we were slogging through shin-deep snow up one last major pitch to a ridgeline where we fixed the fallen sign:
Dhaulagiri Icefall Viewpoint: 3900m
Less than halfway to the summit, we'd reached the bottom of the huge icefall that spills down from the shoulder of the mountain that suddenly filled half the sky ahead of us. Victory is ours! We danced around a little bit in the snow, then parked ourselves in one of the roofless houses scattered around the flat spot where ridge meet massif to eat boiled eggs and chapatis.
Best lunch ever!
The post-lunch snowfight was pretty awesome also, especially when handfuls of snow were dumped down the back of Janine's pants. How we all*** laughed: Ha ha ha!
Then we walked back down. Took a lot less time than the walk up. Featured snow-throwing until the snow disappeared. Then featured yak-dung-throwing, which was all fun and games until someone (Nene) hit someone else (Puppet) in the face with a robust chunk, engendering a PuppetSulk that lasted down the steepest pitches, past the grovelly cottage and its returned inhabitants, past the found sunglasses that made Ganga look like an elderly Japanese woman, and through to the first of the small lakes nestled amongst fields of bhang and thistles and ferns.
And then we got a bit lost, and Uzir climbed down a cliff that the rest of us went around, and we found a holy lake where praying for rain happens, and where Nene really should have stopped the dog chasing the endangered nesting birds.
And then we hit the road, and the dog went home, and we found Uzir, and we reached Larjung and the lodge and the beer and the popcorn as the last of the sun disappeared behind Dhaulagiri, which we'd just climbed, but not all the way to the top like Eva Martinez did in 2007, making her the first Mexican woman to reach the summit.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 31:45
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = No-one really knows whence came this expression, but the term slush fund can be traced back to the olden days, like the early 1800s, when fried salt pork was a staple food aboard ships. At the end of a voyage, the grease at the bottom of the pork barrel, called "slush," was sold to candle and soap makers. The money usually helped provide little extras that the crew couldn't otherwise afford, hence the term "slush fund." After the U.S. Civil War, the term was applied to a contingency fund set aside by Congress, outside of the regular operating budget, that was often used for bribes and other corrupt purposes.
** = Not actually a type of ox, and not a Dr Seuss critter; a lummox is a clumsy person, possibly derived from a lommock, which is a large chunk of food from the 1800s
*** = May not have included Nene
We walk up a big hill, and back down again. Yak v dog: Yak wins! Yak v Uzir: Uzir wins!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 16 = 8:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 80:45
Beer Time = 47:45
Long Version:
Larjung Morning:
In direct contrast to yesterday's leisurely start, today we're up at 0545 after a fitful night's sleep.
Barbie Girl by 90s Danish one-hit-wonder pop group Aqua plays softly on the radio as we eat breakfast and sterilise water.
No other tourists are awake; it's just us and a whole bunch of Nepali folks, who are scurrying about doing the stuff that people in service industries do when the people they're paid to service are not around. It's an interesting glimpse into a world that overlays ours.
We're out of the lodge and heading downvalley by 0630. Stars, mountains, cold.
********
The mountain called Dhaulagiri had been largely behind clouds as we travelled down the valley the day before. Every so often the cloud would clear, and we'd get a glimpse of its looming immensity. It's pretty big: 7th-highest in the world at 8,167m. We decided to walk up it.
First, though, we had to walk along the road, where we acquired a dog. Then we had to walk up the wrong trail a little bit, and crash through bushes and down a small cliff to get back to the road near the start of the right trail. Then we walked up, through forest and across open, grassy slopes, to a field of poo with a wonderful view. A small cottage lurked at the top end of the field. We broke in, a little bit, and looked at the stuff inside. Based on possessions, the inhabitants were not particularly wealthy. Having said that, they might have had lots of love in their lives, you never know. And they really did have a spectacular view; poo, stretching away to the edge of the high plateau. And then an enormous, gorgeous mountain that filled the rest of the eyespace; the Nilgiri Himal, which is a group of three high peaks agglomerated together to form one whopping great big hunk of impressiveness.
Then we walked up a near-vertical face for a while. Notes say:
Up.
More up.
Snow patches. Some thrown.
Up. Steep. Tired legs. Slippery bits.
Reach snowline after many yaks.
Neither the "Up"/"Steep" comments nor the "many yaks" one really convey the full extent of their subjects; it really was blimmin steep, and if we hadn't shaken sticks at the yaks I'd be saying that there were more yaks than you could shake a stick at*. As it was, though, stick-shaking was necessary in order to proceed up past the seasonal yakherd houses, currently inhabited not by yakherds but by yaks.
Yaks!
Big yaks, small yaks,
Yaks of white, yaks of black.
Yaks on knolls, yaks in dells,
Yaks with horns, yaks with bells.
Yaks up high, yaks down low,
In the houses, in the snow.
Serious, extreme yakkage, and we blundered right into the middle of it. It was like we'd rounded a corner and found ourselves in the middle of a loosely-agglomerated convocation of grumpy behemoths. Scratch that; it wasn't LIKE that, it WAS that. And, just as you'd expect from any group of big, tetchy critters, one of them moved to block our path, and made grumbly noises.
Fortunately, our new dog was on the case, growling throatily at the big lummox** and baring an impressive array of toothy weaponry.
Unfortunately, the yak agitator was singularly unimpressed.
Fortunately, Uzir was on the case, yelling mightily and brandishing a big stick. That sent the lead yak's impressedness rating rocketing from none to some, and when Uzir leaped at the yak, swinging his stick in a serious "I'm attempting to hit you" manner, the yak bailed.
Hail Uzir, banisher of yakky aggressors!
Path clear, we were free to keep going. Up.
Grass/Rock/Dirt with patches of snow gave way to snow with patches of grass/rock/dirt, and then the bald spots ceased and we were slogging through shin-deep snow up one last major pitch to a ridgeline where we fixed the fallen sign:
Dhaulagiri Icefall Viewpoint: 3900m
Less than halfway to the summit, we'd reached the bottom of the huge icefall that spills down from the shoulder of the mountain that suddenly filled half the sky ahead of us. Victory is ours! We danced around a little bit in the snow, then parked ourselves in one of the roofless houses scattered around the flat spot where ridge meet massif to eat boiled eggs and chapatis.
Best lunch ever!
The post-lunch snowfight was pretty awesome also, especially when handfuls of snow were dumped down the back of Janine's pants. How we all*** laughed: Ha ha ha!
Then we walked back down. Took a lot less time than the walk up. Featured snow-throwing until the snow disappeared. Then featured yak-dung-throwing, which was all fun and games until someone (Nene) hit someone else (Puppet) in the face with a robust chunk, engendering a PuppetSulk that lasted down the steepest pitches, past the grovelly cottage and its returned inhabitants, past the found sunglasses that made Ganga look like an elderly Japanese woman, and through to the first of the small lakes nestled amongst fields of bhang and thistles and ferns.
And then we got a bit lost, and Uzir climbed down a cliff that the rest of us went around, and we found a holy lake where praying for rain happens, and where Nene really should have stopped the dog chasing the endangered nesting birds.
And then we hit the road, and the dog went home, and we found Uzir, and we reached Larjung and the lodge and the beer and the popcorn as the last of the sun disappeared behind Dhaulagiri, which we'd just climbed, but not all the way to the top like Eva Martinez did in 2007, making her the first Mexican woman to reach the summit.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 31:45
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = No-one really knows whence came this expression, but the term slush fund can be traced back to the olden days, like the early 1800s, when fried salt pork was a staple food aboard ships. At the end of a voyage, the grease at the bottom of the pork barrel, called "slush," was sold to candle and soap makers. The money usually helped provide little extras that the crew couldn't otherwise afford, hence the term "slush fund." After the U.S. Civil War, the term was applied to a contingency fund set aside by Congress, outside of the regular operating budget, that was often used for bribes and other corrupt purposes.
** = Not actually a type of ox, and not a Dr Seuss critter; a lummox is a clumsy person, possibly derived from a lommock, which is a large chunk of food from the 1800s
*** = May not have included Nene
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Holdy Paws? Slidy Paws! Pause.
Ski til you drop, or are struck down by a cold inherited from a two-year-old. Then ski some more.
Four more posts up today, from our new local wifi-enabled cafe (we get "Local" discount). Would have posted from home, but the open network we'd been using has been locked down and renamed to "GetYourOwnInternet"
REMINDER:
If you don't understand what's being said, it may be because you've missed one or more previous posts, rather than because you're limited - scroll down until you see a post you've read, work your way up from there
x
Four more posts up today, from our new local wifi-enabled cafe (we get "Local" discount). Would have posted from home, but the open network we'd been using has been locked down and renamed to "GetYourOwnInternet"
REMINDER:
If you don't understand what's being said, it may be because you've missed one or more previous posts, rather than because you're limited - scroll down until you see a post you've read, work your way up from there
x
...and a Deep-Fried Snickers Bar
Short Version:
We sleep in, then walk from Marpha to Larjung.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 15 = 3:45
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 70:15
Beer Time = 37:15
Long Version:
Marpha Morning:
We're awake at 0630, but stay in bed for another hour. Luxury!
The clouds that threatened rain yesterday afternoon have gone, and the orchards and fields we can see from our window are bathed in sunlight.
When we finally drag ourselves out of bed and out to the conservatory for breakfast, we see locals galore going about their business outside; some are plowing fields with handmade implements strapped onto water buffalo*; others are on the road, travelling to school, or to a near (or far!) village with things to sell. Some of these people have huge bundles of stuff perched on their heads.
The conservatory is cold, so we go downstairs to a grand-looking open atrium area with a huge table that just happens to have a fired-up brazier underneath one end. Warm feets = happy us!
********
Most maps of the Annapurna Circuit show the route following the road for pretty much the whole length of the Kali Gandhaki valley run. That didn't really appeal - despite having had a crack at walking the road between Muktinath and Marpha and finding it nowhere near as bad as we'd feared it might be - and it turned out that there was an alternate trail on the far side of the river, untried by guide or porter, that led where we wanted to go. So, a step (or several) into the unknown!
We started on the road, but soon turned left/east, crossing a bridge and passing through a place that signs indicated was a Tibetan Camp and then turning south, downvalley, along unpaved and semi-paved paths bounded by stone walls. Water was abundant, orchards flourished on all sides, and the people in the villages we passed through looked happy and prosperous in comparison to their counterparts on the other side of Thorong La. We passed a seemingly well-provisioned school, devoid of children as it was a Saturday (who knew?!?!?), which is the one day each week that children do not attend**.
We saw a tiny musha, and a skink, and we climbed some hills. The terrain reminded us of Flagstaff, AZ, and Bend, OR. One hill was high enough that we were looking down on birds of prey circling in the thermal updrafts. Every hill we climbed, though, we descended again, returning each time to the river, which we eventually crossed next to a large bridge that would have spanned the entire river valley, back when all its sections were intact. As it was, we found a series of small, rudimentary timber bridges, each spanning one slender arm of the low-water-season river, and rejoined the road just north of Kobang, which was a mid-sized village beneath a cliff pockmarked with inhabited caves.
We arrived at our lodge in Larjung just as the wind picked up to unpleasant levels, and found Uzir waiting for us on the rooftop terrace. We also found that we could see down across the flat roof and into the central courtyard of the building next-door, which meant we got to watch a man hanging goat parts from hooks, as well as having a birds-eye view of the corn and chillies drying in the sun. We negotiated a tortuous path to our room via the dining room, which had been filled by a large group of Germans who didn't deign to get themselves or their masses of gear out of the way so we - or the people attempting to bring them their lunches - could get past. Wankers.
We ate delicious foods not near the Germans, then set off to explore the village. Unfortunately, that meant walking up, although not especially arduously. We passed water buffalo and chickens and cows, we saw corn and beans and buckwheat drying, we saw a truck that had rolled down a bank. We saw men plowing fields, women carrying hay, children playing on the flat rooftops. One did a cartwheel to impress Nene and lost his shoe over the edge of the roof. We saw a temple or three, and we saw a carpenter's workshop, which was interesting enough that Ganga stepped in a large cowpat while staring in through the window.
Oh, and we saw mountains, including the one we were planning to climb in the morning.
Then we ate delicious foods, and a deep-fried Snickers bar, and then we went to bed. At 7:30pm.
* = Byushi, which we variously misheard as mushi, yushi, and bushi before getting it right. If we got it right.
** = Early start half-day on Friday as well. Sunday to Thursday children from 6 to 18 are expected to be in school between 10am and 4pm
We sleep in, then walk from Marpha to Larjung.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 15 = 3:45
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 70:15
Beer Time = 37:15
Long Version:
Marpha Morning:
We're awake at 0630, but stay in bed for another hour. Luxury!
The clouds that threatened rain yesterday afternoon have gone, and the orchards and fields we can see from our window are bathed in sunlight.
When we finally drag ourselves out of bed and out to the conservatory for breakfast, we see locals galore going about their business outside; some are plowing fields with handmade implements strapped onto water buffalo*; others are on the road, travelling to school, or to a near (or far!) village with things to sell. Some of these people have huge bundles of stuff perched on their heads.
The conservatory is cold, so we go downstairs to a grand-looking open atrium area with a huge table that just happens to have a fired-up brazier underneath one end. Warm feets = happy us!
********
Most maps of the Annapurna Circuit show the route following the road for pretty much the whole length of the Kali Gandhaki valley run. That didn't really appeal - despite having had a crack at walking the road between Muktinath and Marpha and finding it nowhere near as bad as we'd feared it might be - and it turned out that there was an alternate trail on the far side of the river, untried by guide or porter, that led where we wanted to go. So, a step (or several) into the unknown!
We started on the road, but soon turned left/east, crossing a bridge and passing through a place that signs indicated was a Tibetan Camp and then turning south, downvalley, along unpaved and semi-paved paths bounded by stone walls. Water was abundant, orchards flourished on all sides, and the people in the villages we passed through looked happy and prosperous in comparison to their counterparts on the other side of Thorong La. We passed a seemingly well-provisioned school, devoid of children as it was a Saturday (who knew?!?!?), which is the one day each week that children do not attend**.
We saw a tiny musha, and a skink, and we climbed some hills. The terrain reminded us of Flagstaff, AZ, and Bend, OR. One hill was high enough that we were looking down on birds of prey circling in the thermal updrafts. Every hill we climbed, though, we descended again, returning each time to the river, which we eventually crossed next to a large bridge that would have spanned the entire river valley, back when all its sections were intact. As it was, we found a series of small, rudimentary timber bridges, each spanning one slender arm of the low-water-season river, and rejoined the road just north of Kobang, which was a mid-sized village beneath a cliff pockmarked with inhabited caves.
We arrived at our lodge in Larjung just as the wind picked up to unpleasant levels, and found Uzir waiting for us on the rooftop terrace. We also found that we could see down across the flat roof and into the central courtyard of the building next-door, which meant we got to watch a man hanging goat parts from hooks, as well as having a birds-eye view of the corn and chillies drying in the sun. We negotiated a tortuous path to our room via the dining room, which had been filled by a large group of Germans who didn't deign to get themselves or their masses of gear out of the way so we - or the people attempting to bring them their lunches - could get past. Wankers.
We ate delicious foods not near the Germans, then set off to explore the village. Unfortunately, that meant walking up, although not especially arduously. We passed water buffalo and chickens and cows, we saw corn and beans and buckwheat drying, we saw a truck that had rolled down a bank. We saw men plowing fields, women carrying hay, children playing on the flat rooftops. One did a cartwheel to impress Nene and lost his shoe over the edge of the roof. We saw a temple or three, and we saw a carpenter's workshop, which was interesting enough that Ganga stepped in a large cowpat while staring in through the window.
Oh, and we saw mountains, including the one we were planning to climb in the morning.
Then we ate delicious foods, and a deep-fried Snickers bar, and then we went to bed. At 7:30pm.
* = Byushi, which we variously misheard as mushi, yushi, and bushi before getting it right. If we got it right.
** = Early start half-day on Friday as well. Sunday to Thursday children from 6 to 18 are expected to be in school between 10am and 4pm
Apple Brandy
Short Version:
We walk from Muktinath to Marpha. Marpha is famous for apple brandy, so we drink some in a huge, pink, empty building.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 14 = 5:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 65:30
Beer Time = 33:30
Long Version:
Muktinath Morning:
A Swiss man blocks the upstairs toilet. A French woman thinks Lovely Wife did it.
In the streets, women are setting up their looms and stalls for the coming day's tourist sales nagging. They sell scarves they've woven, black Tibetan rocks containing fossilized nautilii, and yak tails. And other crap. The loom frames are made not from dressed timber, but from variously gnarled and bent and twisted pieces of tree.
A man who looks scarily like a young Graham Henry grimaces at us as we stride by on our way out of town.
********
The valley below Muktinath is a vastly more pleasant place than the arid dustbowl higher up. Streams criss-crossed the trail, happy-looking animals were abundant...the only blemish on the morning's hike were the ever-more-painful toes.
We bypassed a big chunk of road-walking, and dropped into the wide, flat-bottomed gravel-bed through which a) the Kali Gandakhi (Black River) wends its braided course*, and b) we will be walking for the next several days, although only today are we expected to feel the full wrath of the incredibly strong wind that picks up late morning and blows until nightfall.
Once again, we were lucky; the wind made a half-strength appearance mid-afternoon. We were glad to not be facing the full-blown version!
We lunched at Jomsom, the district capital, which was large, and had scary crazy motorcyclists riding wherever they felt like riding at whatever speed they felt like riding. Jomsom also hosts the Army Mountain War Training compound, which we walked past, and the regional airport, which had been closed by high winds for the past several days. That meant, apparently, that the local jeep owners had been raking in the US dollars and Euros as tourists desperate to make it to Kathmandu in time to catch their outbound international flights abandoned hope of catching their planned connecting flight and sought alternate transportation, at any (inflated) cost. Depending which source you consult, some, many, or most tourists now stop their trek at Muktinath and take a jeep to Jomsom, then fly to Pokhara and on from there to Kathmandu. We were, then, a minority as we hiked on, from Muktinath to Jomsom, and then onwards, south past crazy striated rock faces and on towards Marpha, where we found a butchery.
There were other things too, of course: orchards of various fruit trees (but especially apples); fields of vegetables; insistent, persistent street-vendors; houses with rows of sausages hanging beneath the eaves; the bottom end of the stairs that lead to the hilltop temple that somepuppet refused to visit... but the butchery was pretty special. An open, dirt-floored courtyard full of bloodied, knife-wielding men. Hunks of meat; semi-solid puddled masses of gore; bonepiles; pools of blood. The water-race that had burbled along beside and beneath the flat flagstones of the street ran red downstream of this charnelhouse.
It was good to get back into the countryside, except for the facts that we'd been walking for a long time, and there was something gone seriously and painfully awry inside the puppetboots. The sight of Uzir waving from the doorway of the Rita Guesthouse was a welcome one, as was the hot water that flowed from the showerhead in the bathroom attached to our astroturf-floored bedroom.
Later, post-toenail self-surgery and bathroom sink underwear laundry, we sat at a table in a tomato-plant-filled conservatory, beneath lampshades made of hats, and drank local apple brandy. We tried it straight, then started mixing it with lemonade to render it vaguely palatable. The fact that it came in a relabelled kerosene bottle should have been a clue. We made a wee bit of noise, later in the evening, but as we were the only guests in the enormous hotel, it wasn't a problem. Nor were we loud enough to compete with the truly eerie noises coming from outside; a hair-raising hooting cacophony that Uzir said was foxes. Sounded more like hyenas.
Learned to say red nose and chillies**. Spilled glass of Seabuckthorn juice*** on self. Expressed desire to not walk on the road any more, ever. Woke up in bed several hours later, with headache and dry mouth.
* = Braided when water levels are low, that is; when the rains are in, and when the big melt is happening, the whole valley is a torrent.
** = Rato nak and koshani, respectively
** = Juice made from seabuckthorns, of course. Duh!
We walk from Muktinath to Marpha. Marpha is famous for apple brandy, so we drink some in a huge, pink, empty building.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 14 = 5:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 65:30
Beer Time = 33:30
Long Version:
Muktinath Morning:
A Swiss man blocks the upstairs toilet. A French woman thinks Lovely Wife did it.
In the streets, women are setting up their looms and stalls for the coming day's tourist sales nagging. They sell scarves they've woven, black Tibetan rocks containing fossilized nautilii, and yak tails. And other crap. The loom frames are made not from dressed timber, but from variously gnarled and bent and twisted pieces of tree.
A man who looks scarily like a young Graham Henry grimaces at us as we stride by on our way out of town.
********
The valley below Muktinath is a vastly more pleasant place than the arid dustbowl higher up. Streams criss-crossed the trail, happy-looking animals were abundant...the only blemish on the morning's hike were the ever-more-painful toes.
We bypassed a big chunk of road-walking, and dropped into the wide, flat-bottomed gravel-bed through which a) the Kali Gandakhi (Black River) wends its braided course*, and b) we will be walking for the next several days, although only today are we expected to feel the full wrath of the incredibly strong wind that picks up late morning and blows until nightfall.
Once again, we were lucky; the wind made a half-strength appearance mid-afternoon. We were glad to not be facing the full-blown version!
We lunched at Jomsom, the district capital, which was large, and had scary crazy motorcyclists riding wherever they felt like riding at whatever speed they felt like riding. Jomsom also hosts the Army Mountain War Training compound, which we walked past, and the regional airport, which had been closed by high winds for the past several days. That meant, apparently, that the local jeep owners had been raking in the US dollars and Euros as tourists desperate to make it to Kathmandu in time to catch their outbound international flights abandoned hope of catching their planned connecting flight and sought alternate transportation, at any (inflated) cost. Depending which source you consult, some, many, or most tourists now stop their trek at Muktinath and take a jeep to Jomsom, then fly to Pokhara and on from there to Kathmandu. We were, then, a minority as we hiked on, from Muktinath to Jomsom, and then onwards, south past crazy striated rock faces and on towards Marpha, where we found a butchery.
There were other things too, of course: orchards of various fruit trees (but especially apples); fields of vegetables; insistent, persistent street-vendors; houses with rows of sausages hanging beneath the eaves; the bottom end of the stairs that lead to the hilltop temple that somepuppet refused to visit... but the butchery was pretty special. An open, dirt-floored courtyard full of bloodied, knife-wielding men. Hunks of meat; semi-solid puddled masses of gore; bonepiles; pools of blood. The water-race that had burbled along beside and beneath the flat flagstones of the street ran red downstream of this charnelhouse.
It was good to get back into the countryside, except for the facts that we'd been walking for a long time, and there was something gone seriously and painfully awry inside the puppetboots. The sight of Uzir waving from the doorway of the Rita Guesthouse was a welcome one, as was the hot water that flowed from the showerhead in the bathroom attached to our astroturf-floored bedroom.
Later, post-toenail self-surgery and bathroom sink underwear laundry, we sat at a table in a tomato-plant-filled conservatory, beneath lampshades made of hats, and drank local apple brandy. We tried it straight, then started mixing it with lemonade to render it vaguely palatable. The fact that it came in a relabelled kerosene bottle should have been a clue. We made a wee bit of noise, later in the evening, but as we were the only guests in the enormous hotel, it wasn't a problem. Nor were we loud enough to compete with the truly eerie noises coming from outside; a hair-raising hooting cacophony that Uzir said was foxes. Sounded more like hyenas.
Learned to say red nose and chillies**. Spilled glass of Seabuckthorn juice*** on self. Expressed desire to not walk on the road any more, ever. Woke up in bed several hours later, with headache and dry mouth.
* = Braided when water levels are low, that is; when the rains are in, and when the big melt is happening, the whole valley is a torrent.
** = Rato nak and koshani, respectively
** = Juice made from seabuckthorns, of course. Duh!
Over the Top
Short Version:
We walk from High Camp to Muktinath via the Thorong La Pass, which is 5400m above sea level (that's quite high).
Temple. Beer. Cheese.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 13 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 60:00
Beer Time = 44:00
Long Version:
High Camp Morning:
It's cold. Lips are chapped from overnight mouth-breathing.
We're packed and are in for breakfast before 5am, and are ready to roll with bellies full of eggs and (really good!) chapatis not long after that.
********
Tiny lights of many colors were strung out along the trail in both directions when we set off; each one a trekker's headlamp. Some people had been walking since 4am. We were, for a change, faster than most, and we executed many passing maneuvres, with varying degrees of rankness, as we hauled ever-higher. The day dawned flawlessly cloudless as we climbed, and - despite uphill antipathy and the effects of altitude - we were having a darn good time as we approached Thorong La, the highest point on our trip.
When we reached the top, there were prayer flags, cups of hot lemon+honey in the low-ceilinged tea-house, snickers bars, and a special dance. There were also beardsicles galore; it was blimmin cold. Apparently after 10am the wind picks up; we were there at 0730 and it was already howling through the pass at a furious rate of knots. We didn't stay long, yet we stayed too long, and it took a while to warm up on the downhill run. The snowfights maybe didn't help.
The trail down from the pass was dusty, and steep. It followed a steep valley, with Thorong Peak to one side, and another mountain just as large on the other. Half an hour or so downhill we hit the topmost section of the new road, and from there on the signs of human activity began to become more and more common; a number of ruined buildings stood near the lip of one plateau, and we found a newly-constructed tea-house (with some Swiss chaps drinking beer at a table in the courtyard) soon after. The trail and the road played double-helix for a while, and then, as the valley began to open out, the road curved away to the north, to connect another village into the matrix. We veered south, and rounded a cliff to see the most incredible display of prayer flags; from multiple points on the cliff high above, the strings of yellow, red, blue, and white flags stretched in all directions. People risked life and limb to get to some of the mount points. We appreciated the effort; it looked really cool.
Below the prayer flags sprawled the Muktinath Temple complex; one of the most famed and holy Hindu temple complexes in the world*. We skirted the fenceline and descended into Muktinath, which seemed like a bustling metropolis after the privations and simplified lifestyle of the high places. There were multi-storey buildings under construction**, and we probably looked like small-town folks come to the big city as we walked through the town***.
We were among the first groups in to the Muktinath Hotel - and Uzir had blasted on ahead of us, as he did most days, fed up with our snail-like pace and our habit of pelting him with snow as he negotiated steep, twisting paths while carrying all our shit. That meant we got one of the best rooms in the place; perched above the main, restaurant floor were four rooms with a terrace area that was in full sunshine when we arrived. There was also a toilet up there, which was pretty excellent, and came in handy once we started in on the beers we'd been earning and not drinking since Chame, while listening to a musical Buddhist ceremony somewhere out of sight but within earshot and marvelling at the big jars of pickled cabbage fermenting in the sun on the low terrace wall.
And then we got clean, which was pretty amazingly good.
And then we had another beer, and some delicious foods. With cheese.
Cheese! Banned from the acceptable foods list as soon as we left Kathmandu and its tourist-gullet-friendly food-safety standards, this most glorious of foodstuffs had been sorely missed! The bean and cheese burrito was so wonderful it was re-ordered at dinnertime.
First, though, we had some walking to do.
Back up the hill to the temple complex, and in through the imposing gates. Bells everywhere, all different sizes and tones. We know, because they're being rung constantly. Small temples have linga, big temple has 106 water spouts shaped like cow heads, and 2 shaped like dragon heads. We counted the dragon ones, took Ganga's word about the cow numbers. Could have asked Uzir to count for us as he dipped a hand in the water flowing from each mouth for good luck, but didn't. Rang bells instead. At a side temple that smelled like wee, we saw the everlasting flames, which were small, burning natural gas leaks. Unless, as we were told, firmly and repeatedly, they weren't gas. Or electric. Or anything else worldly.
Back at the hotel, we played with a kitten that looked, as Lovely Wife put it, like a dishrag, and played cards with Uzir and Ganga and another guy from their village, who had dirty fingernails and cheated. Towel-clad tourists wandered through the dining hall at irregular intervals in search of the shower, which was directly off the restaurant.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 28:00
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = Sound familiar? There were many famous, holy temples. We visited all of them. More to come.
** = Or, possibly, being pulled down. Hard to tell.
*** = Actually, we probably looked like just another scruffy pair of tourists hitting town after crossing the Pass, disshevelled and stinky after several days in places where hot and/or running water was at a premium.
We walk from High Camp to Muktinath via the Thorong La Pass, which is 5400m above sea level (that's quite high).
Temple. Beer. Cheese.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 13 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 60:00
Beer Time = 44:00
Long Version:
High Camp Morning:
It's cold. Lips are chapped from overnight mouth-breathing.
We're packed and are in for breakfast before 5am, and are ready to roll with bellies full of eggs and (really good!) chapatis not long after that.
********
Tiny lights of many colors were strung out along the trail in both directions when we set off; each one a trekker's headlamp. Some people had been walking since 4am. We were, for a change, faster than most, and we executed many passing maneuvres, with varying degrees of rankness, as we hauled ever-higher. The day dawned flawlessly cloudless as we climbed, and - despite uphill antipathy and the effects of altitude - we were having a darn good time as we approached Thorong La, the highest point on our trip.
When we reached the top, there were prayer flags, cups of hot lemon+honey in the low-ceilinged tea-house, snickers bars, and a special dance. There were also beardsicles galore; it was blimmin cold. Apparently after 10am the wind picks up; we were there at 0730 and it was already howling through the pass at a furious rate of knots. We didn't stay long, yet we stayed too long, and it took a while to warm up on the downhill run. The snowfights maybe didn't help.
The trail down from the pass was dusty, and steep. It followed a steep valley, with Thorong Peak to one side, and another mountain just as large on the other. Half an hour or so downhill we hit the topmost section of the new road, and from there on the signs of human activity began to become more and more common; a number of ruined buildings stood near the lip of one plateau, and we found a newly-constructed tea-house (with some Swiss chaps drinking beer at a table in the courtyard) soon after. The trail and the road played double-helix for a while, and then, as the valley began to open out, the road curved away to the north, to connect another village into the matrix. We veered south, and rounded a cliff to see the most incredible display of prayer flags; from multiple points on the cliff high above, the strings of yellow, red, blue, and white flags stretched in all directions. People risked life and limb to get to some of the mount points. We appreciated the effort; it looked really cool.
Below the prayer flags sprawled the Muktinath Temple complex; one of the most famed and holy Hindu temple complexes in the world*. We skirted the fenceline and descended into Muktinath, which seemed like a bustling metropolis after the privations and simplified lifestyle of the high places. There were multi-storey buildings under construction**, and we probably looked like small-town folks come to the big city as we walked through the town***.
We were among the first groups in to the Muktinath Hotel - and Uzir had blasted on ahead of us, as he did most days, fed up with our snail-like pace and our habit of pelting him with snow as he negotiated steep, twisting paths while carrying all our shit. That meant we got one of the best rooms in the place; perched above the main, restaurant floor were four rooms with a terrace area that was in full sunshine when we arrived. There was also a toilet up there, which was pretty excellent, and came in handy once we started in on the beers we'd been earning and not drinking since Chame, while listening to a musical Buddhist ceremony somewhere out of sight but within earshot and marvelling at the big jars of pickled cabbage fermenting in the sun on the low terrace wall.
And then we got clean, which was pretty amazingly good.
And then we had another beer, and some delicious foods. With cheese.
Cheese! Banned from the acceptable foods list as soon as we left Kathmandu and its tourist-gullet-friendly food-safety standards, this most glorious of foodstuffs had been sorely missed! The bean and cheese burrito was so wonderful it was re-ordered at dinnertime.
First, though, we had some walking to do.
Back up the hill to the temple complex, and in through the imposing gates. Bells everywhere, all different sizes and tones. We know, because they're being rung constantly. Small temples have linga, big temple has 106 water spouts shaped like cow heads, and 2 shaped like dragon heads. We counted the dragon ones, took Ganga's word about the cow numbers. Could have asked Uzir to count for us as he dipped a hand in the water flowing from each mouth for good luck, but didn't. Rang bells instead. At a side temple that smelled like wee, we saw the everlasting flames, which were small, burning natural gas leaks. Unless, as we were told, firmly and repeatedly, they weren't gas. Or electric. Or anything else worldly.
Back at the hotel, we played with a kitten that looked, as Lovely Wife put it, like a dishrag, and played cards with Uzir and Ganga and another guy from their village, who had dirty fingernails and cheated. Towel-clad tourists wandered through the dining hall at irregular intervals in search of the shower, which was directly off the restaurant.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 28:00
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = Sound familiar? There were many famous, holy temples. We visited all of them. More to come.
** = Or, possibly, being pulled down. Hard to tell.
*** = Actually, we probably looked like just another scruffy pair of tourists hitting town after crossing the Pass, disshevelled and stinky after several days in places where hot and/or running water was at a premium.
Condiments of Destruction
Short Version:
We walk from the place of yaks, past some yaks, to High Camp, which is very nice indeed, thank you very much. Altitude.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 12 = 4:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 55:30
Beer Time = 39:30
Long Version:
Yak Kharka Morning:
We like condiments.
One of us likes salt*. The other likes pepper.
Unfortunately, there's no certain way to tell in advance whether it's salt or pepper in any given shaker in the high-mountain lodge dining halls.
Certainly once the lid comes off during shaking, sending a cascade of pepper onto one's breakfast, you know which one is which, but that's cold comfort when one's Lovely Wife is laughing uncontrollably at the look on your face as you contemplate the small mountain of grotty brown pepper that's now the only thing visible on the plate that was once adorned by a delicious-looking omelette**.
Luckily, the salt-shaker had the same issue, so the scores are balanced soon after when Lovely Wife's delicious fried-egg-on-chapati breakfast is indundated with salt.
Our cabin-neighbors, a British couple, tell tales of how their knees were broken.
There is no electricity. We watch a man break the ice which has formed on part of the hydro power station next-door. Power is restored.
********
In an unexpected twist, we spent the day walking uphill, with some across in the mix for variety. Yaks were relatively abundant, as were fancy T-marked pigeon-type birds. And trekkers.
Most of the other trekkers stopped for the night at Thorong Pedi, 2.5 hours uphill from Yak Kharka. That's a short day of walking, but hard work at altitude. The main reason for stopping, though, is the fact that many people experience difficulty sleeping at altitude, and the higher one goes the worse it gets. We paused for 2 minutes, then resumed our climb towards the upper reaches.
The hill upside of Thorong Pedi was steep. It took us an hour of hard work to climb to the top, to High Camp; our destination for this last, highest, pre-Pass-crossing night. Crossing the 5400m Thorong La Pass was, at the start of the trip, a remote and not-particularly-significant prospect, but as we'd drawn nearer, and as evening-time dining hall conversations had become dominated more and more by its imminence and difficulty, and after at least two other groups of trekkers - including a couple of Canadian women with whom we'd become friends - turned back rather than incur the wrath of altitude effects beyond what had been struck above 4000m... crossing the Pass became a bit of a big deal. The climb to High Camp, for example, would have been hard even at sea level, but at altitude was really something else; breathing is hard work, and you're breathing hard just walking slowly along the flat***.
High Camp was really nice, mostly. The rooms were on the small side, but on the positive side of the ledger, they were clean, and had windows and nice curtains, and the dining room - despite a floor that sloped noticeably downvalley - was spacious, and warm, and had amazing views down the valley towards Yak Kharka and of the mountains surrounding us on all sides**** - including the side we were to walk up in the morning. It wasn't all plain sailing, though; we were warned to take care in the toilets, as the water so copiously spilled (by tourists) and poured (by staff) on the floor of the toilets had become ice, and was slippery. This, of course, meant that one of us (clue: not a woman) concentrated so hard on not falling into the toilet that a vehement connection was made between head and ceiling support beam. Lucky the roof didn't fall in.
The omelette sandwich came with fries. Seven of them.
The post-lunch walk took us up a rocky knoll to the north of the lodge. Brightly-colored Buddhist prayer flags flapped in the wind as we played silly buggers for the camera and tried not to fall down cliffs while spellbound by the incredible views on every side. Annapurna III, Gangapurna, Khangsar, the Tilicho Range, several Chulus, Thorong Peak, and more. Many of the trekkers staying at Thorong Pedi made the climb up as an altitude acclimatisation exercise. We were pleased we weren't walking back down the hill; the knowledge that every step on the downward path was a step you were going to have to reverse - again - in the morning surely rankled.
The puddles outside were frozen at 3:30pm, which made us suspect we were in for a cold night. We were right. We ate delicious foods and played cards with Ganga and Uzir, and with a Belgian couple who had become engaged four days earlier, at Ice Lake. She sang Stevie Wonder songs under her breath but still lost.
* = Nun [pr: noon] in Nepali
** = Omelet, usually, on menus. Sometimes omlet. Once, omleet. Pie was once written as pai.
*** = Not that there's any flat in Nepal
**** = All of which were very unlike Tilicho Base Camp
We walk from the place of yaks, past some yaks, to High Camp, which is very nice indeed, thank you very much. Altitude.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 12 = 4:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 55:30
Beer Time = 39:30
Long Version:
Yak Kharka Morning:
We like condiments.
One of us likes salt*. The other likes pepper.
Unfortunately, there's no certain way to tell in advance whether it's salt or pepper in any given shaker in the high-mountain lodge dining halls.
Certainly once the lid comes off during shaking, sending a cascade of pepper onto one's breakfast, you know which one is which, but that's cold comfort when one's Lovely Wife is laughing uncontrollably at the look on your face as you contemplate the small mountain of grotty brown pepper that's now the only thing visible on the plate that was once adorned by a delicious-looking omelette**.
Luckily, the salt-shaker had the same issue, so the scores are balanced soon after when Lovely Wife's delicious fried-egg-on-chapati breakfast is indundated with salt.
Our cabin-neighbors, a British couple, tell tales of how their knees were broken.
There is no electricity. We watch a man break the ice which has formed on part of the hydro power station next-door. Power is restored.
********
In an unexpected twist, we spent the day walking uphill, with some across in the mix for variety. Yaks were relatively abundant, as were fancy T-marked pigeon-type birds. And trekkers.
Most of the other trekkers stopped for the night at Thorong Pedi, 2.5 hours uphill from Yak Kharka. That's a short day of walking, but hard work at altitude. The main reason for stopping, though, is the fact that many people experience difficulty sleeping at altitude, and the higher one goes the worse it gets. We paused for 2 minutes, then resumed our climb towards the upper reaches.
The hill upside of Thorong Pedi was steep. It took us an hour of hard work to climb to the top, to High Camp; our destination for this last, highest, pre-Pass-crossing night. Crossing the 5400m Thorong La Pass was, at the start of the trip, a remote and not-particularly-significant prospect, but as we'd drawn nearer, and as evening-time dining hall conversations had become dominated more and more by its imminence and difficulty, and after at least two other groups of trekkers - including a couple of Canadian women with whom we'd become friends - turned back rather than incur the wrath of altitude effects beyond what had been struck above 4000m... crossing the Pass became a bit of a big deal. The climb to High Camp, for example, would have been hard even at sea level, but at altitude was really something else; breathing is hard work, and you're breathing hard just walking slowly along the flat***.
High Camp was really nice, mostly. The rooms were on the small side, but on the positive side of the ledger, they were clean, and had windows and nice curtains, and the dining room - despite a floor that sloped noticeably downvalley - was spacious, and warm, and had amazing views down the valley towards Yak Kharka and of the mountains surrounding us on all sides**** - including the side we were to walk up in the morning. It wasn't all plain sailing, though; we were warned to take care in the toilets, as the water so copiously spilled (by tourists) and poured (by staff) on the floor of the toilets had become ice, and was slippery. This, of course, meant that one of us (clue: not a woman) concentrated so hard on not falling into the toilet that a vehement connection was made between head and ceiling support beam. Lucky the roof didn't fall in.
The omelette sandwich came with fries. Seven of them.
The post-lunch walk took us up a rocky knoll to the north of the lodge. Brightly-colored Buddhist prayer flags flapped in the wind as we played silly buggers for the camera and tried not to fall down cliffs while spellbound by the incredible views on every side. Annapurna III, Gangapurna, Khangsar, the Tilicho Range, several Chulus, Thorong Peak, and more. Many of the trekkers staying at Thorong Pedi made the climb up as an altitude acclimatisation exercise. We were pleased we weren't walking back down the hill; the knowledge that every step on the downward path was a step you were going to have to reverse - again - in the morning surely rankled.
The puddles outside were frozen at 3:30pm, which made us suspect we were in for a cold night. We were right. We ate delicious foods and played cards with Ganga and Uzir, and with a Belgian couple who had become engaged four days earlier, at Ice Lake. She sang Stevie Wonder songs under her breath but still lost.
* = Nun [pr: noon] in Nepali
** = Omelet, usually, on menus. Sometimes omlet. Once, omleet. Pie was once written as pai.
*** = Not that there's any flat in Nepal
**** = All of which were very unlike Tilicho Base Camp
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