Short Version:
We walk from Pisang to Manang, via the High Road.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 7 = 6:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 32:00
Beer Time = 16:00
Long Version:
Pisang Morning:
Up early.
Everyone else we speak to is taking the low road to Manang. We, of course, are taking the high road. And to make it even worse, I've promised not to complain.
The vultures were circling by the time we reached halfway up the hill, which was nowhere near as scary and grim and depressing as it sounds; it was actually rather spectacular, with a bunch of the big carrion birds punctuating their effortless thermal drift with occasional sweeping dives towards some tiny critter on the hillside below us. From the Buddhist stoupa at the top of the hill we could still see the birds, and had yet another panoramic mountain view; Khangsar, Tilicho, Chulu East, Pisang, and Annapurna II and III were all basking in the brilliant sunshine.
We rested for a shorter time than most - mainly cos we'd walked slower up the hill than most - and then set off across the face of the hill towards a cluster of holy buildings full of demons and spinning tops. Then lunch with Swedes at Ngawal, although not before we'd fought our way past a recalcitrant path-blocking fat cow*.
And then oralo! Downhill and downhill and downhill! Sun is shining, nice breeze is blowing, we're walking downhill! Hoorah! Now if only these arsehole Czechs would stop powering past us at inappropriate passing spots and then stopping for a rest before setting off to pass us again...
Still, we saw an eagle, we saw our first yaks, WE SAW THE HAPPY YAK BAKERY!!!
And then we reached Manang, although not before some kids tried to rob Nene of all her sweets while she was photographing baby cows at Braka.
* An actual bovine, not an obese lady
Monday, December 26, 2011
Superheated Metal Cups
Short Version:
Clean! Monks (not monkeys). Moon.
Long Version:
First into the Hotel Hill Top - despite Lovely Wife stopping to play with baby animals of the goaty and doggish varieties - meant that we got the best of the hot water in the showers. Outside the main towns and cities, access to volume hot water is very much hit and miss; usually solar powered, and usually limited to a handful of showers. Stinky and late is a bad combo.
Post-shower, clean and with fluffy hair, we ate delicious foods and learned a new card game: Shitet*, which we played incessantly from here on in the trek, interspersed with the other game Uzir and Ganga taught us: Dumbal**
And then we walked down the 62 steps from our lodge to the main trail through Lower Pisang, up through narrow passageways between buildings, across rickety bridges, up more stairs, past incomrehensibly-mumbling old people, past cows and buffalo, and eventually into the major monastery complex at Upper Pisang, where a monk greeted us with superheated metal cups of hot lemon+honey drink, and where the views were truly spectacular; the Pisang valley stretched away on both sides, Manasalu Himal lurking beyond the curved stone wall at the leftmost, downvalley end. Behind us, Pisang Peak loomed massively. Straight ahead, on the lower slopes of the far side of the valley, we could see people moving, antlike and tiny, at our hotel. Looming above that, though, and dominating the view, Annapurna III. Massive. Glorious.
Closer to us, construction galore, in both Upper and Lower Pisang. Buildings mainly stone in Upper Pisang, with wooden window frames. Lower Pisang had a number of all-wooden buildings going up. Apparently the monastery is very good for business.
Later that night, one of the Quebecois operated on his crushed toenail with his penknife, and the vast snowy slopes all around conspired with the full moon to keep the light bright all night.
* = Someone from Belgium later pointed out that not only were the rules almost identical, but that the name of the game was almost certainly a corruption of "Shithead"
** = We kept score on games won/lost on both games, with beer-buying penalties after the high pass for the most losingest loser
Clean! Monks (not monkeys). Moon.
Long Version:
First into the Hotel Hill Top - despite Lovely Wife stopping to play with baby animals of the goaty and doggish varieties - meant that we got the best of the hot water in the showers. Outside the main towns and cities, access to volume hot water is very much hit and miss; usually solar powered, and usually limited to a handful of showers. Stinky and late is a bad combo.
Post-shower, clean and with fluffy hair, we ate delicious foods and learned a new card game: Shitet*, which we played incessantly from here on in the trek, interspersed with the other game Uzir and Ganga taught us: Dumbal**
And then we walked down the 62 steps from our lodge to the main trail through Lower Pisang, up through narrow passageways between buildings, across rickety bridges, up more stairs, past incomrehensibly-mumbling old people, past cows and buffalo, and eventually into the major monastery complex at Upper Pisang, where a monk greeted us with superheated metal cups of hot lemon+honey drink, and where the views were truly spectacular; the Pisang valley stretched away on both sides, Manasalu Himal lurking beyond the curved stone wall at the leftmost, downvalley end. Behind us, Pisang Peak loomed massively. Straight ahead, on the lower slopes of the far side of the valley, we could see people moving, antlike and tiny, at our hotel. Looming above that, though, and dominating the view, Annapurna III. Massive. Glorious.
Closer to us, construction galore, in both Upper and Lower Pisang. Buildings mainly stone in Upper Pisang, with wooden window frames. Lower Pisang had a number of all-wooden buildings going up. Apparently the monastery is very good for business.
Later that night, one of the Quebecois operated on his crushed toenail with his penknife, and the vast snowy slopes all around conspired with the full moon to keep the light bright all night.
* = Someone from Belgium later pointed out that not only were the rules almost identical, but that the name of the game was almost certainly a corruption of "Shithead"
** = We kept score on games won/lost on both games, with beer-buying penalties after the high pass for the most losingest loser
Friday, December 23, 2011
Another Tardy Note
I'm still in catch-up mode. Not so sunny today, and rain overnight means less frost in the shadows.
I'm still writing about trekking in Nepal, and will be for a whie yet
There are still multiple posts are going up each day; six today.
So, keep your wits about you. 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
I'm still writing about trekking in Nepal, and will be for a whie yet
There are still multiple posts are going up each day; six today.
So, keep your wits about you. 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
Special Dance
Short Version:
We walk from Chame to Pisang. Cow fight.
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 6 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 25:30
Beer Time = 9:30
Long Version:
Chame Morning:
Up off and on all night. Curse you, pot of tea!
The mountain peaks are glowing bright in the pre-dawn light, then light up when touched by the first sunlight.
Early morning villagers walk up and down around the prayer-wheel row but don't spin the wheels - suspect they're considerately noise-averse
Bought playing cards: "Bee" brand, with a picture of a wasp on them. Inside the pack was a calendar card, from 2008.
Didn't buy jacket with cartoon monkey on it. Too small.
Another steep uphill walking day, with musha.
Musha! The Nepali version of the NAmerikan pika!
Kind of like a hamster/gerbil/guinea pig only with bigger ears.
Yesterday we saw one sitting at trailside, calmly watching and waiting for us to depart. When we didn't, and pulled out a camera instead, it left, quickly.
Today's musha didn't stop at all; it raced across the trail midway between Puppet and Nene/Ganga, disappearing into the trailside rockpile without a backwards glance.
There were rockpiles galore today, especially in the vicinity of the roadwork crew. Unlike roadworking crews in the Western world, where you generally see one person driving a machine up and down while several others lean on shovels watching, road crews in Nepal seem to comprise shitloads of people, all of whom are hard at work; hitting rocks with hammers, prying split rocks apart with sections of rebar, or, very occasionally, being rattled about by a pneumatic drill. We found their tent town shortly after - three long tents made of tarpaulins pegged and tied over bent tree frames. Bear in mind that we were up pretty high by now, and it wasn't hugely warm during the day... and was decidedly chilly at night. Looking for a life of luxury? Nepali road construction may not be the right option for you.
Special day today: 11/11/11. That meant that, at 11:11:11am, it was time for a special dance. Kind of like star-jumps mixed with the running man, only with more pointing and less suaveness.
We didn't stay to watch the end of the cow fight. Apparently the little one won.
We walk from Chame to Pisang. Cow fight.
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 6 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 25:30
Beer Time = 9:30
Long Version:
Chame Morning:
Up off and on all night. Curse you, pot of tea!
The mountain peaks are glowing bright in the pre-dawn light, then light up when touched by the first sunlight.
Early morning villagers walk up and down around the prayer-wheel row but don't spin the wheels - suspect they're considerately noise-averse
Bought playing cards: "Bee" brand, with a picture of a wasp on them. Inside the pack was a calendar card, from 2008.
Didn't buy jacket with cartoon monkey on it. Too small.
Another steep uphill walking day, with musha.
Musha! The Nepali version of the NAmerikan pika!
Kind of like a hamster/gerbil/guinea pig only with bigger ears.
Yesterday we saw one sitting at trailside, calmly watching and waiting for us to depart. When we didn't, and pulled out a camera instead, it left, quickly.
Today's musha didn't stop at all; it raced across the trail midway between Puppet and Nene/Ganga, disappearing into the trailside rockpile without a backwards glance.
There were rockpiles galore today, especially in the vicinity of the roadwork crew. Unlike roadworking crews in the Western world, where you generally see one person driving a machine up and down while several others lean on shovels watching, road crews in Nepal seem to comprise shitloads of people, all of whom are hard at work; hitting rocks with hammers, prying split rocks apart with sections of rebar, or, very occasionally, being rattled about by a pneumatic drill. We found their tent town shortly after - three long tents made of tarpaulins pegged and tied over bent tree frames. Bear in mind that we were up pretty high by now, and it wasn't hugely warm during the day... and was decidedly chilly at night. Looking for a life of luxury? Nepali road construction may not be the right option for you.
Special day today: 11/11/11. That meant that, at 11:11:11am, it was time for a special dance. Kind of like star-jumps mixed with the running man, only with more pointing and less suaveness.
We didn't stay to watch the end of the cow fight. Apparently the little one won.
Learning to Talk, Learning to Count
Short Version:
We walk from Bhagarchap to Chame, and explore Chame
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 5 = 4:15
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 21:00
Beer Time = 13:00
Long Version:
Bhagarchhap morning:
Nene eats all the honey at breakfast. Nasty Wife!
Today we walk uphill. We have plenty of time to learn how to say uphill in Nepali (okalo). Ganga tries to teach us to say downhill as well, but it's going to be a couple of weeks before we need to know how to say that, so it doesn't stick (it's oralo, for the record). The uphill here is steep switchbacks, mainly, with some steep not-switchbacks thrown in for variation.
We have awesome mountain views for much of the day: Manasalu, Annapurna II, Lamjung... very cool. Proper mountains, these, snow-capped and massive. The Nepali word for mountain is himal.
We've learned a bunch of Nepali already. Favorites are bhoklagyu (hungry), chhai nah (no/not), and bandar (monkey). Learning budha (husband) and budhi (wife) means we're on the way to being able to insult each other. Even doing it wrong is amusing, as an attempt at "My nasty wife has a monkey head*" is mispronounced and becomes "My nasty wife has a cabbage for a head**."
Puppet v donkey: Round 2! Donkey wins!
There are marijuana plants galore alongside the trail. Ganga refers to them as bhang plants. We also see tamarillo and apple trees, and crops of rice, buckwheat and millet. Prayer flags abound, especially on the bridges. We see a small boy pooping at the side of the road, and realise that we haven't actually seen anyone else doing anything of the sort. There are posters on walls in many of the villages that depict with language-agnostic imagery what not to do (ie poop near your water supply) and why (you'll get sick), and apparently there has been a significant health education initiative in recent years. We, of course, are doing our business in semi-plumbed toilets, mainly of the squatting kind***. These are, essentially, a hole in the ground, albeit porcelain-lined and with an area on either side with ridges, to help with foot grip and/or spillage drainage. In most places, there is a tap near the toilet, and a jug which one fills from the tap, pouring the contents down the hole after one's waste products. Where everything goes, we know not.
We arrive in Chame in the middle of the day, and spend half the afternoon sitting in the sun in the courtyard, chatting to some Quebecois, who are surprisingly nice. One, Stephen, helps the lodgeladies chop up some cucumberish things. They're knobbly, and the ripe ones are red inside. We also meet an Austrian woman, who we assume is a doctor because when we first see her she is helping to treat a wound on the foot of a small child. We later find out she's not medically-inclined at all, but that the wound was plainly infected, and she had some antiseptic stuff, which is a luxury item not possessed by most villagefolk.
Late afternoon we explore the village. There are a number of large prayer-wheels, as there have been throughout the day. Here they have hooked some up to the river, so they spin all the time, thereby sending a perpetual message to the divine. We don't say anything, but privately wonder if having that kind of incessant bombardment might be just a wee bit irritating for your average supernatural entity.
In the evening we have an Everest lager. And we learn to count to ten. Then we go to bed, in our double bed, and have a really crap sleep.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 5:00
Time to Next Beer = 3:00****
* = Mi nahramro budhi bandar touko
** = Mi nahramro budhi bondar touko
*** = The few situpons we find - including at our first lodge, at Bhulbhule - are rendered squatters by virtue of dubious cleanliness and/or soaking-wetness
**** = No more beer until Muktinath, which is after we cross the high pass, by order of Ganga.
We walk from Bhagarchap to Chame, and explore Chame
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 5 = 4:15
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 21:00
Beer Time = 13:00
Long Version:
Bhagarchhap morning:
Nene eats all the honey at breakfast. Nasty Wife!
Today we walk uphill. We have plenty of time to learn how to say uphill in Nepali (okalo). Ganga tries to teach us to say downhill as well, but it's going to be a couple of weeks before we need to know how to say that, so it doesn't stick (it's oralo, for the record). The uphill here is steep switchbacks, mainly, with some steep not-switchbacks thrown in for variation.
We have awesome mountain views for much of the day: Manasalu, Annapurna II, Lamjung... very cool. Proper mountains, these, snow-capped and massive. The Nepali word for mountain is himal.
We've learned a bunch of Nepali already. Favorites are bhoklagyu (hungry), chhai nah (no/not), and bandar (monkey). Learning budha (husband) and budhi (wife) means we're on the way to being able to insult each other. Even doing it wrong is amusing, as an attempt at "My nasty wife has a monkey head*" is mispronounced and becomes "My nasty wife has a cabbage for a head**."
Puppet v donkey: Round 2! Donkey wins!
There are marijuana plants galore alongside the trail. Ganga refers to them as bhang plants. We also see tamarillo and apple trees, and crops of rice, buckwheat and millet. Prayer flags abound, especially on the bridges. We see a small boy pooping at the side of the road, and realise that we haven't actually seen anyone else doing anything of the sort. There are posters on walls in many of the villages that depict with language-agnostic imagery what not to do (ie poop near your water supply) and why (you'll get sick), and apparently there has been a significant health education initiative in recent years. We, of course, are doing our business in semi-plumbed toilets, mainly of the squatting kind***. These are, essentially, a hole in the ground, albeit porcelain-lined and with an area on either side with ridges, to help with foot grip and/or spillage drainage. In most places, there is a tap near the toilet, and a jug which one fills from the tap, pouring the contents down the hole after one's waste products. Where everything goes, we know not.
We arrive in Chame in the middle of the day, and spend half the afternoon sitting in the sun in the courtyard, chatting to some Quebecois, who are surprisingly nice. One, Stephen, helps the lodgeladies chop up some cucumberish things. They're knobbly, and the ripe ones are red inside. We also meet an Austrian woman, who we assume is a doctor because when we first see her she is helping to treat a wound on the foot of a small child. We later find out she's not medically-inclined at all, but that the wound was plainly infected, and she had some antiseptic stuff, which is a luxury item not possessed by most villagefolk.
Late afternoon we explore the village. There are a number of large prayer-wheels, as there have been throughout the day. Here they have hooked some up to the river, so they spin all the time, thereby sending a perpetual message to the divine. We don't say anything, but privately wonder if having that kind of incessant bombardment might be just a wee bit irritating for your average supernatural entity.
In the evening we have an Everest lager. And we learn to count to ten. Then we go to bed, in our double bed, and have a really crap sleep.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 5:00
Time to Next Beer = 3:00****
* = Mi nahramro budhi bandar touko
** = Mi nahramro budhi bondar touko
*** = The few situpons we find - including at our first lodge, at Bhulbhule - are rendered squatters by virtue of dubious cleanliness and/or soaking-wetness
**** = No more beer until Muktinath, which is after we cross the high pass, by order of Ganga.
Tigers and Sheep and Bears and Exploding
Short Version:
We walk from Chyamche to Bhagarchap, and play games
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 4 = 6:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 16:45
Beer Time = 8:45
Long Version:
Chyamche morning:
Streetsweeper is out and sweeping; his short-handled straw brush and shovel increased the time it took to get the job done, but also meant that when there was a chunk to pick up, he was already in position to do so.
Englishman in hotel opposite ours attacks his wife with his Hello Kitty hat's ears. She's not impressed.
Stray dog hangs around for scraps. Nene obliges it. We're saved from acquiring the beast longer-term by the hotel proprietor lady, who scares it away with yelling and suspected deliberate-no-contact kick action.
Tea/coffee mugs: Could you bear a hug? [picture of cute teddy bear]
Speaking of bears, the entire time we were in Nepal, we were plagued by Winnie the Pooh carry-bags. They were everywhere! Assumption is that some minion added a zero to the number required on the manufacturing order sheet, and the extras were dumped on the South Asian market for disposal so as not to impact the asking price on developed markets.
Today saw the first physical action in the Puppet v donkey conflict: on a (relatively) wide section of path, we'd moved well out of the way of the approaching mule train. For some reason, though, one of the beasts in mid-pack lined us up from distance, and came straight for us. No worries, it'll go around us. Or not. Bastard thing.
Also today, an explosion! An actual, exploding explosion, with noise, and smoke, and debris, and crowd management by uniformed men with guns! No moustaches though.
We'd been walking for an hour or so when we saw the first soldier, just after we saw the medevac in progress. The unconscious patient was in a basket, strapped to the back of a grimly-determined-looking middle-aged man. An assortment of people fluttered about the pair, mopping brows and generally not being much use. One of the reasons the locals are keen on the road, presumably.
The soldier was running downtrail, gun banging against his hip with each step. He didn't stop to chat, but the pair that followed did, telling Ganga that there was road construction ahead, and that they were closing the trail behind us to ensure no injuries from the blasting action. We hustled onwards, seeking a good viewing spot for the action, which we found, atop a hill, across the valley from the blast site. We had a prime view, comfy rocks to perch on, sunshine to bask in. Perfect! Then the army guys told us to move. Bastards. We joined the crowd by the symbolic "You're now entering Manang District" archway, next to the razorwire-topped army compound wall, and stared fixedly at the cliff on the far side of the valley. It exploded. Noise. Smoke. Dust. Rockfall.
A little later, eating lunch while watching a pig consuming the wall and roof of its house, we realised that we could tell which sections of road had been blasted through obstructive rock, and which had been carved into a less-steep hillside; the rocks lining the riverbanks were of uniform size where blasting had taken place, ranging from fist- to head-sized. The natural rockpile banks had far greater variety, with rocks ranging from tiny to the size of a house.
It was late afternoon by the time we stopped, at Chame, at the pasang Guesthouse. We sat outside in the sun until the sun went away, at which point the temperature dropped noticeably, and everyone with an ounce of sense went inside. Being nonsensical paid off, though, as the Puppet was the only one to see the middle-aged lady slip and fall on her backside. This, with the backdrop of high, snowy peaks stil bathed in sunshine, was pretty special viewing.
Indoors, we created a paper-and-beans version of the wood-and-steel game we'd seen in overpriced Thamel trinket stores. Unfortunately, we knew nothing whatsoever about how to play; all we knew was that one person had 4 tigers (the white beans) and the other had 20 sheep (the dark red beans). Lucky for us, Uzir figured out a) what we were trying to play and b) that we had no idea how to play it, and he fixed the board and taught us the rules by beating Nene. Twice. Then a Random Old Man stepped forward, and handed Uzir a defeat, then handed over to Nene to indulge in standard boardgame practse... ie thrashing the Puppet. Pretty much everyone in the place was involved by now, either offering advice, moving their chosen supported-player's pieces for them, or just standing behind one of the players and making disapproving noises whenever someone did something stupid (the Random Old Man was particularly good at this).
Pretty soon we were warm and fed and sleepy, and it was off to bed in our wood-walled room, to sleep beneath the watchful gaze of the Chinese baby, lying on its stomach, with the caption "Give me health and a day I will make the Pomp of emperors ridiculous."
We walk from Chyamche to Bhagarchap, and play games
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 4 = 6:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 16:45
Beer Time = 8:45
Long Version:
Chyamche morning:
Streetsweeper is out and sweeping; his short-handled straw brush and shovel increased the time it took to get the job done, but also meant that when there was a chunk to pick up, he was already in position to do so.
Englishman in hotel opposite ours attacks his wife with his Hello Kitty hat's ears. She's not impressed.
Stray dog hangs around for scraps. Nene obliges it. We're saved from acquiring the beast longer-term by the hotel proprietor lady, who scares it away with yelling and suspected deliberate-no-contact kick action.
Tea/coffee mugs: Could you bear a hug? [picture of cute teddy bear]
Speaking of bears, the entire time we were in Nepal, we were plagued by Winnie the Pooh carry-bags. They were everywhere! Assumption is that some minion added a zero to the number required on the manufacturing order sheet, and the extras were dumped on the South Asian market for disposal so as not to impact the asking price on developed markets.
Today saw the first physical action in the Puppet v donkey conflict: on a (relatively) wide section of path, we'd moved well out of the way of the approaching mule train. For some reason, though, one of the beasts in mid-pack lined us up from distance, and came straight for us. No worries, it'll go around us. Or not. Bastard thing.
Also today, an explosion! An actual, exploding explosion, with noise, and smoke, and debris, and crowd management by uniformed men with guns! No moustaches though.
We'd been walking for an hour or so when we saw the first soldier, just after we saw the medevac in progress. The unconscious patient was in a basket, strapped to the back of a grimly-determined-looking middle-aged man. An assortment of people fluttered about the pair, mopping brows and generally not being much use. One of the reasons the locals are keen on the road, presumably.
The soldier was running downtrail, gun banging against his hip with each step. He didn't stop to chat, but the pair that followed did, telling Ganga that there was road construction ahead, and that they were closing the trail behind us to ensure no injuries from the blasting action. We hustled onwards, seeking a good viewing spot for the action, which we found, atop a hill, across the valley from the blast site. We had a prime view, comfy rocks to perch on, sunshine to bask in. Perfect! Then the army guys told us to move. Bastards. We joined the crowd by the symbolic "You're now entering Manang District" archway, next to the razorwire-topped army compound wall, and stared fixedly at the cliff on the far side of the valley. It exploded. Noise. Smoke. Dust. Rockfall.
A little later, eating lunch while watching a pig consuming the wall and roof of its house, we realised that we could tell which sections of road had been blasted through obstructive rock, and which had been carved into a less-steep hillside; the rocks lining the riverbanks were of uniform size where blasting had taken place, ranging from fist- to head-sized. The natural rockpile banks had far greater variety, with rocks ranging from tiny to the size of a house.
It was late afternoon by the time we stopped, at Chame, at the pasang Guesthouse. We sat outside in the sun until the sun went away, at which point the temperature dropped noticeably, and everyone with an ounce of sense went inside. Being nonsensical paid off, though, as the Puppet was the only one to see the middle-aged lady slip and fall on her backside. This, with the backdrop of high, snowy peaks stil bathed in sunshine, was pretty special viewing.
Indoors, we created a paper-and-beans version of the wood-and-steel game we'd seen in overpriced Thamel trinket stores. Unfortunately, we knew nothing whatsoever about how to play; all we knew was that one person had 4 tigers (the white beans) and the other had 20 sheep (the dark red beans). Lucky for us, Uzir figured out a) what we were trying to play and b) that we had no idea how to play it, and he fixed the board and taught us the rules by beating Nene. Twice. Then a Random Old Man stepped forward, and handed Uzir a defeat, then handed over to Nene to indulge in standard boardgame practse... ie thrashing the Puppet. Pretty much everyone in the place was involved by now, either offering advice, moving their chosen supported-player's pieces for them, or just standing behind one of the players and making disapproving noises whenever someone did something stupid (the Random Old Man was particularly good at this).
Pretty soon we were warm and fed and sleepy, and it was off to bed in our wood-walled room, to sleep beneath the watchful gaze of the Chinese baby, lying on its stomach, with the caption "Give me health and a day I will make the Pomp of emperors ridiculous."
Not Necessarily in That Order
Short Version:
We walk from Bahundallah to Chyamche. Chillies, buffalo, waterfall, bees!
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 3 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 10:45
Beer Time = 10:45
Long Version:
Morning in Bahundallah:
We'd both slept well in our bags on our single beds, although there were some crazy dreams* close to morning.
Clouds that had threatened rain - and occasionally delivered, in small doses - had dissipated overnight, and we could see... mountains! Two of them, big buggers, looming at the head of the valley, capped with snow. Exciting!
Lodgekids were doing the washing of the clothes and other cloth things at the outdoor tap. We knew from noseyparker experience that that water was bloody cold even at the hottest part of the afternoon, so we were goosebumpy just watching those kids get stuck into the soaping and scrubbing and - especially - the rinsing. They seemed to be having fun though. The small boy, in particular, kept stopping work to sing little songs and dance little dances. He was, at various times, told off by various elders, and at one point was threatened with a hose-drenching by his older sister.
And then we were off, uptrail, downhill, upriver! The fat cow we saw turned out to be a small buffalo, and then the little old lady we saw walking with the aid of a stick used the stick to beat some full-sized buffalo, and then we hauled ourselves up a hill to Jagat, where we ate delicious foods with extra chillies (koshani!) and didn't visit the cybercafe.
Progress is afoot in this part of Nepal. The dirt road we were walking on on day one rejoined, left, and rejoined the trail repeatedly throughout the morning, and there was steady, if occasional, motorised traffic heading in both directions. Mule trains still outnumber the stinkboxes, but motorvehicles can do multiple journeys in the time it takes a mule train to do one, and can carry more stuff with less complaining. So the road exists, and is being extended. Much of the walking on the lower sections of the main Annapurna Circuit is on the road, which is a bit of a pain in the arse, to be honest. Still, side-trails exist in places, and will, we suspect, come to exist as alternatives to the road on more and more sections of the circuit as time goes by. We walked the road through to Chyamche from Jagat, which meant we got some great views of the large waterfall on the far side of the valley, and of some large black shapes hanging from a massive stone overhang that turned out to be wild beehives.
Chyamche was nice. We took a room with a balcony overlooking the main road, then switched to one at the rear of the building, with no balcony but with views out over a woodworker's yard and across to the waterfall. From this angle, the force of the falling water was very apparent; after its initial 50m drop inside a self-carved stone chute, the water struck a ledge and was propelled several metres horizontally out into thin air before resuming its fall to the river, another 40m below. We got a different view of the fall later in the afternoon, when we hiked back towards Jagat on the old foot trail. It was steep, and narrow, and hard work to walk on the uneven surface. We loved it. Once again, our wandering attracted local kids - this time a pair of rapscallion young boys, who ran up and down the trail with their stick-propelled hoop incessantly. The hoop looked like the most inappropriate toy possible for the environment - basically a skinny, rocky path across the face of a stupidly steep hillside - but on closer inspection the propulsion stick turned out to be attached to the hoop with a loop of wire. Not so stupid after all! Even so, one of the boys took a decent fall when he tripped on a rock, plunging face-first down a short flight of stone steps. Picked himself up, dusted himself off, turned his frown upside-down, and took off again.
Currently the end of the driveable road - there are more sections of road further up, but they're yet to be connected through to the outside world - Chyamche has become a commercial hub of sorts, and a waystation for travellers and traders alike. It's unlikely to last, though - as soon as the next section of road is linked, that role will shift uphill. We saw some sign of what happens when the road comes to town on our exploration walk; there were a number of abandoned lodges back along the foot trail while those at the roadhead were thriving.
We also encountered vast numbers of butterflies, a lot of marijuana, hydro power in miniature, and a madwoman. Not necessarily in that order.
The mad lady was stalking purposefully up and down a section of path, yelling what sounded like they were probably obscenities - notably bhakra, which means goat - and throwing stones at trees. We gave her a wide berth. Later, when we asked what the standard treatment for the mad was here in Nepal, we were informed that she wasn't especially nuts - she was moving her goats, whch were grazing in the trees downslope.
The pot plants were, essentially, weeds. There are some areas where vast quantities of the stuff grow - these are marked on maps as "Fields of marijuana" - but what we were seeing were the scruffiest, most bedraggled-looking plants imaginable. Not sure if that's due to random leaf-harvest at the hands of passersby or animals, or whether that's just what marijuana plants look like when they're not being tended by profit-minded gardeners.
The town, too, had sights to behold; most notably the stocky woman, wide as she was tall, who bestrode the street, censer in hand, chanting, as we were enjoying our first hard-earned trek beer**. She was clad in full traditional Tibetan garb, with a North Face down jacket as top layer. She was, apparently, driving out evil spirits, and blessing the town. Our group get some blessings, too, as Ganga stood in a fresh pile of dung. Apparently that's good luck.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 1
Cumulative Total Beer Time = 2:45
Time to Next Beer = 5:15
* = Asterix, Natalie Portman, busy drinking fountain, NZ's Next Top Model, pooping. Not necessarily in that order.
** = A Tuborg, which was the only beer they actually had. Most places had an assortment drawn from Tuborg, San Miguel, Everest and Gorkha. All lagers, more's the pity. Refreshing though, after a long walk. All locally-brewed, too; the Tuborg (Danish) and San Miguel (Spanish) are brewed in Kathmandu under licence.
We walk from Bahundallah to Chyamche. Chillies, buffalo, waterfall, bees!
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 3 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 10:45
Beer Time = 10:45
Long Version:
Morning in Bahundallah:
We'd both slept well in our bags on our single beds, although there were some crazy dreams* close to morning.
Clouds that had threatened rain - and occasionally delivered, in small doses - had dissipated overnight, and we could see... mountains! Two of them, big buggers, looming at the head of the valley, capped with snow. Exciting!
Lodgekids were doing the washing of the clothes and other cloth things at the outdoor tap. We knew from noseyparker experience that that water was bloody cold even at the hottest part of the afternoon, so we were goosebumpy just watching those kids get stuck into the soaping and scrubbing and - especially - the rinsing. They seemed to be having fun though. The small boy, in particular, kept stopping work to sing little songs and dance little dances. He was, at various times, told off by various elders, and at one point was threatened with a hose-drenching by his older sister.
And then we were off, uptrail, downhill, upriver! The fat cow we saw turned out to be a small buffalo, and then the little old lady we saw walking with the aid of a stick used the stick to beat some full-sized buffalo, and then we hauled ourselves up a hill to Jagat, where we ate delicious foods with extra chillies (koshani!) and didn't visit the cybercafe.
Progress is afoot in this part of Nepal. The dirt road we were walking on on day one rejoined, left, and rejoined the trail repeatedly throughout the morning, and there was steady, if occasional, motorised traffic heading in both directions. Mule trains still outnumber the stinkboxes, but motorvehicles can do multiple journeys in the time it takes a mule train to do one, and can carry more stuff with less complaining. So the road exists, and is being extended. Much of the walking on the lower sections of the main Annapurna Circuit is on the road, which is a bit of a pain in the arse, to be honest. Still, side-trails exist in places, and will, we suspect, come to exist as alternatives to the road on more and more sections of the circuit as time goes by. We walked the road through to Chyamche from Jagat, which meant we got some great views of the large waterfall on the far side of the valley, and of some large black shapes hanging from a massive stone overhang that turned out to be wild beehives.
Chyamche was nice. We took a room with a balcony overlooking the main road, then switched to one at the rear of the building, with no balcony but with views out over a woodworker's yard and across to the waterfall. From this angle, the force of the falling water was very apparent; after its initial 50m drop inside a self-carved stone chute, the water struck a ledge and was propelled several metres horizontally out into thin air before resuming its fall to the river, another 40m below. We got a different view of the fall later in the afternoon, when we hiked back towards Jagat on the old foot trail. It was steep, and narrow, and hard work to walk on the uneven surface. We loved it. Once again, our wandering attracted local kids - this time a pair of rapscallion young boys, who ran up and down the trail with their stick-propelled hoop incessantly. The hoop looked like the most inappropriate toy possible for the environment - basically a skinny, rocky path across the face of a stupidly steep hillside - but on closer inspection the propulsion stick turned out to be attached to the hoop with a loop of wire. Not so stupid after all! Even so, one of the boys took a decent fall when he tripped on a rock, plunging face-first down a short flight of stone steps. Picked himself up, dusted himself off, turned his frown upside-down, and took off again.
Currently the end of the driveable road - there are more sections of road further up, but they're yet to be connected through to the outside world - Chyamche has become a commercial hub of sorts, and a waystation for travellers and traders alike. It's unlikely to last, though - as soon as the next section of road is linked, that role will shift uphill. We saw some sign of what happens when the road comes to town on our exploration walk; there were a number of abandoned lodges back along the foot trail while those at the roadhead were thriving.
We also encountered vast numbers of butterflies, a lot of marijuana, hydro power in miniature, and a madwoman. Not necessarily in that order.
The mad lady was stalking purposefully up and down a section of path, yelling what sounded like they were probably obscenities - notably bhakra, which means goat - and throwing stones at trees. We gave her a wide berth. Later, when we asked what the standard treatment for the mad was here in Nepal, we were informed that she wasn't especially nuts - she was moving her goats, whch were grazing in the trees downslope.
The pot plants were, essentially, weeds. There are some areas where vast quantities of the stuff grow - these are marked on maps as "Fields of marijuana" - but what we were seeing were the scruffiest, most bedraggled-looking plants imaginable. Not sure if that's due to random leaf-harvest at the hands of passersby or animals, or whether that's just what marijuana plants look like when they're not being tended by profit-minded gardeners.
The town, too, had sights to behold; most notably the stocky woman, wide as she was tall, who bestrode the street, censer in hand, chanting, as we were enjoying our first hard-earned trek beer**. She was clad in full traditional Tibetan garb, with a North Face down jacket as top layer. She was, apparently, driving out evil spirits, and blessing the town. Our group get some blessings, too, as Ganga stood in a fresh pile of dung. Apparently that's good luck.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 1
Cumulative Total Beer Time = 2:45
Time to Next Beer = 5:15
* = Asterix, Natalie Portman, busy drinking fountain, NZ's Next Top Model, pooping. Not necessarily in that order.
** = A Tuborg, which was the only beer they actually had. Most places had an assortment drawn from Tuborg, San Miguel, Everest and Gorkha. All lagers, more's the pity. Refreshing though, after a long walk. All locally-brewed, too; the Tuborg (Danish) and San Miguel (Spanish) are brewed in Kathmandu under licence.
A Too-Small Singlet and Lycra Shorts
Short Version:
We walk from Bhulbhule to Bahundallah, and spend an afternoon in the village
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 2 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 6:15
Beer Time = 6:15
Long Version:
Morning in Bhulbule:
Cups of hot lemon+honey drink
Chapati (flatbread) with omelet
Cloud-shrouded ridgelines disappear into rainmist up- and downvalley.
But! At the head of the valley we can see the lower portion of a snow-bearing and truly enormous mountain.
Excellent.
We had an early start, courtesy of the alarm on the Puppetwatch. As usual, the Nenewatch alarm failed to sound. Luckily, we had German lodge-neighbours as a wakeup backup. No fluffing around, either - we were dressed and packed before we hit the dining room, and we bailed pretty soon after eating. Even so, we were among the last to leave, and trekkers who had overnighted in the part of the village on the other bank of the river had been streaming across the suspension bridge for quite a while before we actually got underway.
We'd spent some time talking to Ganga and other Nepali about appropriate clothing before we set out. Guidebooks had been universal in their advice to wear clothes that wouldn't offend our hosts, but a little vague and/or contradictory on exactly how that translated to the real world. Turns out it wasn't too strict; shoulders covered and no short shorts or skirts.
Not everyone had read the same books, obviously; one of the trekkers we saw on day 2 was wearing a too-small singlet and lycra shorts. German, we assumed. Offensive, certainly.
Didn't stop the group of young girls at one of the villages along the way stopping him with a makeshift barricade made of scarves and demanding a toll of pens, paper, or sweets to allow him to pass. We snuck through while they were gloating over their newly-acquired goodies, and carried on up the trail; past a chicken that caught and ate a butterfly as we watched; past many uniformed children on their way to school, many of whom wanted their photo taken either solo or with the inky Puppet; past sleeping cows; past waterfalls and baby goats; past lizards that didn't run even when touched; past cicadas which employed a violent abdominal contraction to generate their vast noise output. We saw a pair of heavily-decorated holy trees, we saw a grumpy old man tell a girl off for asking Nene to photograph her. We saw the path ahead go up a steep hill. Rats.
At the top of the hill we found the village of Bahundallah, just in time for lunch. Hoorah! We sat and looked out across the orange groves (oranges here don't actually get to turn orange, but they're picked and eaten anyway, and they're bloody nice) to the valley that stretched away to the northeast from where we sat atop the ridgeline spur. Good food, full bellies, comfy chairs... nap time! Wait, what? No napping? Asshats.
Out to explore the village, then!
Kids galore, scampering hither and yon, often looking very much like a fall from a precipitous precipice is imminent but somehow managing to stay on their little feets.
Kids and adults alike in various mixes of traditional garb and modern Western clothing; often North Face and other outdoorsy stuff (especially down jackets, worn over any number of styles of undergarment), but just as often slightly weird urbanwear, from tight jeans and street sneakers and shiny thin jackets through to cocktail dresses and heels. In a village with rice straw scattered over the worst of the muddy parts of the dirt trails that serve as footpaths.
A walled school complex, from which uniformed kids and young adults streamed at the close of their school day. Not all kids go to school, but some of those that do travel a LONG way on foot to get there and back.
We'd been hearing a rhythmic thumping for a while, and asked Ganga what its origin might be. He led us into a gated farmyard, calling out to the inhabitants as he drew near the low-roofed building from which the noise was emanating. He explained to the woman and 8ish-year-old girl inside that he had some nosey foreigners who wanted to see them in action, and, with much giggling and shyness on the part of the girl, they started up again.
The woman crouched on the ground just inside the open end of the building, next to a foot-high calf-thick chunk of wood that had been lashed to a long piece of timber that passed over a sawhorse-style brace mid-length before ending at the inner end of the room near where the girl stood, ten feet or so from the woman. As we watched, the girl stood on her end of the piece of wood, pressing it to the floor, then leaped away, causing the chunk attached to the far end, raised two or three feet into the air by her standing on the end of the timber, to come down onto the rice piled on the floor. THUMP! Before her outstretched foot reached the timber for a repeat, the woman was in action; brushing bits of rice that had been ejected from the pile by the force of the blow back into place. THUMP! When the crushing end rose again, the woman had not only hands in motion, brushing errant grains back to the pile, but also her breath, blasting across the pile, scattering split husk segments away from the heavier pieces. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! MOO!* THUMP!
After a prolonged period of thumping, the woman spoke to the girl, who stood on the lever and stayed there. The woman then gathered the rice into a basket and shook it, on an angle that varied from 30 to -30 degrees. Dusty debris streamed away from the basket, leaving husked rice grains, ready for cooking. Not many, though - they were back in action as we left, the renewed thumping following us as we set off.
We meandered back to the lodge, and ate delicious foods (fried rice, and vege spring rolls) while sneakily watching the other trekkers. Some ordered WAY to much food, one took a shower with hearing aids in and killed them irrevocably dead, others played games with local kids until bedtime.
Room very similar to the previous place: Beds are wooden platforms topped with a 3-inch foam mattress; Sheets and pillowcases are white, not new but clean; Incongrous wall decorations - this time a poster for a (very cool-looking!) VW concept car from some years-past auto show; Wide shelf-like windowsills.
Differences from previous place: All walls wood, where Bhulbhule had concrete exterior walls; Floor covered by matting, not linoleum; Exterior blue, not yellow.
Early to bed, again. All this fresh air and walking and eating delicious foods is tiring!
* = The cow in the other part of the room was occasionally quite vocal
We walk from Bhulbhule to Bahundallah, and spend an afternoon in the village
Stats:
Total Walk time Day 2 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 6:15
Beer Time = 6:15
Long Version:
Morning in Bhulbule:
Cups of hot lemon+honey drink
Chapati (flatbread) with omelet
Cloud-shrouded ridgelines disappear into rainmist up- and downvalley.
But! At the head of the valley we can see the lower portion of a snow-bearing and truly enormous mountain.
Excellent.
We had an early start, courtesy of the alarm on the Puppetwatch. As usual, the Nenewatch alarm failed to sound. Luckily, we had German lodge-neighbours as a wakeup backup. No fluffing around, either - we were dressed and packed before we hit the dining room, and we bailed pretty soon after eating. Even so, we were among the last to leave, and trekkers who had overnighted in the part of the village on the other bank of the river had been streaming across the suspension bridge for quite a while before we actually got underway.
We'd spent some time talking to Ganga and other Nepali about appropriate clothing before we set out. Guidebooks had been universal in their advice to wear clothes that wouldn't offend our hosts, but a little vague and/or contradictory on exactly how that translated to the real world. Turns out it wasn't too strict; shoulders covered and no short shorts or skirts.
Not everyone had read the same books, obviously; one of the trekkers we saw on day 2 was wearing a too-small singlet and lycra shorts. German, we assumed. Offensive, certainly.
Didn't stop the group of young girls at one of the villages along the way stopping him with a makeshift barricade made of scarves and demanding a toll of pens, paper, or sweets to allow him to pass. We snuck through while they were gloating over their newly-acquired goodies, and carried on up the trail; past a chicken that caught and ate a butterfly as we watched; past many uniformed children on their way to school, many of whom wanted their photo taken either solo or with the inky Puppet; past sleeping cows; past waterfalls and baby goats; past lizards that didn't run even when touched; past cicadas which employed a violent abdominal contraction to generate their vast noise output. We saw a pair of heavily-decorated holy trees, we saw a grumpy old man tell a girl off for asking Nene to photograph her. We saw the path ahead go up a steep hill. Rats.
At the top of the hill we found the village of Bahundallah, just in time for lunch. Hoorah! We sat and looked out across the orange groves (oranges here don't actually get to turn orange, but they're picked and eaten anyway, and they're bloody nice) to the valley that stretched away to the northeast from where we sat atop the ridgeline spur. Good food, full bellies, comfy chairs... nap time! Wait, what? No napping? Asshats.
Out to explore the village, then!
Kids galore, scampering hither and yon, often looking very much like a fall from a precipitous precipice is imminent but somehow managing to stay on their little feets.
Kids and adults alike in various mixes of traditional garb and modern Western clothing; often North Face and other outdoorsy stuff (especially down jackets, worn over any number of styles of undergarment), but just as often slightly weird urbanwear, from tight jeans and street sneakers and shiny thin jackets through to cocktail dresses and heels. In a village with rice straw scattered over the worst of the muddy parts of the dirt trails that serve as footpaths.
A walled school complex, from which uniformed kids and young adults streamed at the close of their school day. Not all kids go to school, but some of those that do travel a LONG way on foot to get there and back.
We'd been hearing a rhythmic thumping for a while, and asked Ganga what its origin might be. He led us into a gated farmyard, calling out to the inhabitants as he drew near the low-roofed building from which the noise was emanating. He explained to the woman and 8ish-year-old girl inside that he had some nosey foreigners who wanted to see them in action, and, with much giggling and shyness on the part of the girl, they started up again.
The woman crouched on the ground just inside the open end of the building, next to a foot-high calf-thick chunk of wood that had been lashed to a long piece of timber that passed over a sawhorse-style brace mid-length before ending at the inner end of the room near where the girl stood, ten feet or so from the woman. As we watched, the girl stood on her end of the piece of wood, pressing it to the floor, then leaped away, causing the chunk attached to the far end, raised two or three feet into the air by her standing on the end of the timber, to come down onto the rice piled on the floor. THUMP! Before her outstretched foot reached the timber for a repeat, the woman was in action; brushing bits of rice that had been ejected from the pile by the force of the blow back into place. THUMP! When the crushing end rose again, the woman had not only hands in motion, brushing errant grains back to the pile, but also her breath, blasting across the pile, scattering split husk segments away from the heavier pieces. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! MOO!* THUMP!
After a prolonged period of thumping, the woman spoke to the girl, who stood on the lever and stayed there. The woman then gathered the rice into a basket and shook it, on an angle that varied from 30 to -30 degrees. Dusty debris streamed away from the basket, leaving husked rice grains, ready for cooking. Not many, though - they were back in action as we left, the renewed thumping following us as we set off.
We meandered back to the lodge, and ate delicious foods (fried rice, and vege spring rolls) while sneakily watching the other trekkers. Some ordered WAY to much food, one took a shower with hearing aids in and killed them irrevocably dead, others played games with local kids until bedtime.
Room very similar to the previous place: Beds are wooden platforms topped with a 3-inch foam mattress; Sheets and pillowcases are white, not new but clean; Incongrous wall decorations - this time a poster for a (very cool-looking!) VW concept car from some years-past auto show; Wide shelf-like windowsills.
Differences from previous place: All walls wood, where Bhulbhule had concrete exterior walls; Floor covered by matting, not linoleum; Exterior blue, not yellow.
Early to bed, again. All this fresh air and walking and eating delicious foods is tiring!
* = The cow in the other part of the room was occasionally quite vocal
Rice Cycle
Rice likes to have wet feet.
It grows to around a metre high.
The grains we know as rice are in the seedhead - it's a lot like seeded grass.
People cut the stalks at the base and leave them lying.
When dry they are gathered up and bundled together.
Bundles are held at the base and the heads are slapped onto a tarpaulin or canvas lying on the ground.
The rice grains fall from the heads, and are collected in the cloth.
The stalks are piled onto haystacks and left to dry.
The grains are milled, cooked, and eaten.
The hay is fed to animals in winter.
The animals' poop is used to fertilise the next crop.
Two or three crops are sown and harvested in each of the two viable growing seasons (March-May and September-December)
It grows to around a metre high.
The grains we know as rice are in the seedhead - it's a lot like seeded grass.
People cut the stalks at the base and leave them lying.
When dry they are gathered up and bundled together.
Bundles are held at the base and the heads are slapped onto a tarpaulin or canvas lying on the ground.
The rice grains fall from the heads, and are collected in the cloth.
The stalks are piled onto haystacks and left to dry.
The grains are milled, cooked, and eaten.
The hay is fed to animals in winter.
The animals' poop is used to fertilise the next crop.
Two or three crops are sown and harvested in each of the two viable growing seasons (March-May and September-December)
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Tardiness Note
I'm in catch-up mode. That means that, despite being holed up in North Vancouver, recovering from pneumonia and watching a series of beautiful, sunny, perfect skiing days march past outside the window, I'm writing about trekking in Nepal. From a month+ ago.
That, in turn, means multiple posts are going up; five have been uploaded since last night.
So, keep your wits about you. 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
That, in turn, means multiple posts are going up; five have been uploaded since last night.
So, keep your wits about you. 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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)