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
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
...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
Monday, December 26, 2011
Tard III
Three days of drizzle and incessant overeating - apparently this is normal for Vancouver at this time of year.
Six more posts up today, so now's not the time to let your guard down and revert to unthinking witlessness.
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
Six more posts up today, so now's not the time to let your guard down and revert to unthinking witlessness.
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
The Place of Yaks
Short Version:
More Israeli asshattery, more walking. A purple velour birthday. A yak at Yak Kharka
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 11 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 51:30
Beer Time = 35:30
Long Version:
Sheree Kharka Morning:
Israeli noise wakes us up.
Israeli girl jumps the queue for the toilet.
Amerikan guy jumps the queue for the toilet. Israeli girl is still in there. Israeli girl had not latched the door. Amerikan guy gets yelled at. Israeli girl storms off. Puppet amusement.
Asshat Israelis keep leaving the dining room door open. Cold air enters. Other groups take turns shutting the door and making rude comments. Each comment louder than the last. Eventually one Israeli guy clicks that everyone hates them and that they should not leave the door open. Round of applause.
Mountains spectacular in pre-dawn light. Sun touches high places first, then steadily encroaches into lower regions.
********
Somehow, we're walking uphill again. Buddhist holy places are abundant; seems like there's one on every high rock outcrop. We find a seasonal yakherd village. It's currently empty, and surprisingly large, sprawling out across a small plateau. We follow a wall up and then across the face of the hill. In winter, the villagers herd their animals into the field enclosed by this wall, where the long grass and their hay stores provide food for the beasts when there's not much else about. For now, the animals are outside the wall, roaming free-ish. We see a large flock of naur, or blue sheep. They look - and act - a lot like the mountain goats we saw in the Rockies a year ago, only with more fighting.
Over the northern ridge, we descend quickly into the next valley. There is snow, so we throw it at each other. The game of "sneak rocks into the Puppet backpack when he's not watching" continues.
At the bottom of the valley, we cross a bridge and start up the other side. The "No Complaining" agreement is stretched. We see more naur, and then rejoin the main Annapurna Circuit trail for the final few hundred yards past the small hydro power station and into Yak Kharka*, where we acquire a small free-standing chalet that is much like the one in Turangi in which we stayed while assaulting Mt Ruapehu in January, except this one is pink, inside and out.
The views from the dining room are stupendous. The wind is whipping loose snow off the mountain tops; it looks like it's cold up there! It's warm here, lower down, in the sun, inside, near the fire. An English man does magic tricks for a little old lady, people sing "Happy Birthday to You" to a Polish woman in a purple velour tracksuit (top and bottom). They are terrible singers**. The apple pie looks delicious. The apple pie IS delicious. There is a yak outside. It is large. We are excited.
* = The Place of Yaks, apparently. Which probably means that Sheree Kharka, where we stayed last night, is The Place of Sherees
** = To be fair, it's apparently a really difficult song to sing well. Which explains why we've never heard it sound anything other than horrendous
More Israeli asshattery, more walking. A purple velour birthday. A yak at Yak Kharka
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 11 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 51:30
Beer Time = 35:30
Long Version:
Sheree Kharka Morning:
Israeli noise wakes us up.
Israeli girl jumps the queue for the toilet.
Amerikan guy jumps the queue for the toilet. Israeli girl is still in there. Israeli girl had not latched the door. Amerikan guy gets yelled at. Israeli girl storms off. Puppet amusement.
Asshat Israelis keep leaving the dining room door open. Cold air enters. Other groups take turns shutting the door and making rude comments. Each comment louder than the last. Eventually one Israeli guy clicks that everyone hates them and that they should not leave the door open. Round of applause.
Mountains spectacular in pre-dawn light. Sun touches high places first, then steadily encroaches into lower regions.
********
Somehow, we're walking uphill again. Buddhist holy places are abundant; seems like there's one on every high rock outcrop. We find a seasonal yakherd village. It's currently empty, and surprisingly large, sprawling out across a small plateau. We follow a wall up and then across the face of the hill. In winter, the villagers herd their animals into the field enclosed by this wall, where the long grass and their hay stores provide food for the beasts when there's not much else about. For now, the animals are outside the wall, roaming free-ish. We see a large flock of naur, or blue sheep. They look - and act - a lot like the mountain goats we saw in the Rockies a year ago, only with more fighting.
Over the northern ridge, we descend quickly into the next valley. There is snow, so we throw it at each other. The game of "sneak rocks into the Puppet backpack when he's not watching" continues.
At the bottom of the valley, we cross a bridge and start up the other side. The "No Complaining" agreement is stretched. We see more naur, and then rejoin the main Annapurna Circuit trail for the final few hundred yards past the small hydro power station and into Yak Kharka*, where we acquire a small free-standing chalet that is much like the one in Turangi in which we stayed while assaulting Mt Ruapehu in January, except this one is pink, inside and out.
The views from the dining room are stupendous. The wind is whipping loose snow off the mountain tops; it looks like it's cold up there! It's warm here, lower down, in the sun, inside, near the fire. An English man does magic tricks for a little old lady, people sing "Happy Birthday to You" to a Polish woman in a purple velour tracksuit (top and bottom). They are terrible singers**. The apple pie looks delicious. The apple pie IS delicious. There is a yak outside. It is large. We are excited.
* = The Place of Yaks, apparently. Which probably means that Sheree Kharka, where we stayed last night, is The Place of Sherees
** = To be fair, it's apparently a really difficult song to sing well. Which explains why we've never heard it sound anything other than horrendous
Holy Frozen Shit Fight, Batman!
Short Version:
Cold. We walk up a hill to a lake, then hike back down to find ourselves shafted. We meet our first Israelites, and are unimpressed.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 10 = 7:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 48:00
Beer Time = 32:00
Long Version:
Tilicho Base Camp Morning:
Where are we? What is this grim place? Are those tents? Are people sleeping in those tents? Are they mad?
Both lodges had been full of trekkers, and the fields around the lodges were festooned with colorful, frozen tents, where younger,hardier,more frugal, and/or stupider trekkers had spent the bloody cold night. Icicles were everywhere. Every puddle was frozen solid. Even the several fast-flowing streams in the vicinity were ice-choked. The dining room was warm by comparison; the dung fire had a knot of shivering people huddled around it as it worked to warm the fairly cavernous - albeit low-ceilinged - sparsely-decorated space. If it weren't for the dive fin nailed to the wall the place would have been essentially unadorned; as it was we found ourselves reading and re-reading the words on the fin, placed there to commemorate the Polish deep dive at altitude team who'd submerged themselves in Tilicho Lake back in 2007.
We set off early for the hike up to Tilicho Lake, leaving the bulk of our gear at Base Camp. Three hours later, we arrived at the lake. That's three hours of uphill; hauling ourselves up a series of steep switchbacks, back and forth across a steep, unstable scree slope.
The bright sunshine at lakeside was glorious, though, and we sat for a while, cups of hot lemon+honey drink in hand, before the rise of the chilly, biting wind drove us back down the hill. Snow-covered mountains loomed on all sides, with Tilicho Peak particularly imposing at the western, upper end of the valley. Glacier-carved ridges split the valley and its streams; these met at the bend where the valley turned southeast, beside the flat spot where the Base Camp lodges had been built.
Depending on which source one consults, and what one accepts as the definition of or criteria for calling a body of water a lake, Tilicho is either the world's highest lake, or something like the 20th-highest. There were a number of signs referring to it as the highest. No signs said "cold," but there were icebergs floating around, and snow to the shoreline on all sides, so that's a fair bet. Other signs espoused the holiness and sacredness of the lake and surrounding area. We threw frozen yak shit at each other.
Back at Base Camp, we gathered our gear together, ate the worst meal of the entire trek (also one of the priciest), and hid Lovely Wife away in a dark room. An hour later, sun-induced headache a thing of the past, we set off back down the trail we'd come up the previous afternoon. Turns out that there really were apparently-levitating standing stones all over the place, and that the stairways really were treacherous and surrounded by gaping pits. Also, there were spectacular frozen waterfalls. Oh, and an avalanche.
A few hours later, we beat dusk to the lodge at Sheree Kharka, where we'd lunched (and napped!) the previous day, and where we'd booked a room for tonight. "Sorry," they said. "A big group arrived, so we gave your room away." ... "But we booked!" ... "Yeah, sorry about that."
Luckily, there's a half-built new lodge two minutes downtrail.
Unluckily, that lodge is also full.
Luckily, there's a half-finished, not-yet-furnished room that we can have, with temporarily-emplaced foam mattresses on the floor. This is quite a relief.
In the dining room that evening an old man wandered around with plastic bags on his feet, an Amerikan got told off by a porter for insulting the gods by putting his feet too far into the flaming brazier, and some Israelis were rude to the lodge staff and kept leaving the door to the frigid outside world open.
Cold. We walk up a hill to a lake, then hike back down to find ourselves shafted. We meet our first Israelites, and are unimpressed.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 10 = 7:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 48:00
Beer Time = 32:00
Long Version:
Tilicho Base Camp Morning:
Where are we? What is this grim place? Are those tents? Are people sleeping in those tents? Are they mad?
Both lodges had been full of trekkers, and the fields around the lodges were festooned with colorful, frozen tents, where younger,hardier,more frugal, and/or stupider trekkers had spent the bloody cold night. Icicles were everywhere. Every puddle was frozen solid. Even the several fast-flowing streams in the vicinity were ice-choked. The dining room was warm by comparison; the dung fire had a knot of shivering people huddled around it as it worked to warm the fairly cavernous - albeit low-ceilinged - sparsely-decorated space. If it weren't for the dive fin nailed to the wall the place would have been essentially unadorned; as it was we found ourselves reading and re-reading the words on the fin, placed there to commemorate the Polish deep dive at altitude team who'd submerged themselves in Tilicho Lake back in 2007.
We set off early for the hike up to Tilicho Lake, leaving the bulk of our gear at Base Camp. Three hours later, we arrived at the lake. That's three hours of uphill; hauling ourselves up a series of steep switchbacks, back and forth across a steep, unstable scree slope.
The bright sunshine at lakeside was glorious, though, and we sat for a while, cups of hot lemon+honey drink in hand, before the rise of the chilly, biting wind drove us back down the hill. Snow-covered mountains loomed on all sides, with Tilicho Peak particularly imposing at the western, upper end of the valley. Glacier-carved ridges split the valley and its streams; these met at the bend where the valley turned southeast, beside the flat spot where the Base Camp lodges had been built.
Depending on which source one consults, and what one accepts as the definition of or criteria for calling a body of water a lake, Tilicho is either the world's highest lake, or something like the 20th-highest. There were a number of signs referring to it as the highest. No signs said "cold," but there were icebergs floating around, and snow to the shoreline on all sides, so that's a fair bet. Other signs espoused the holiness and sacredness of the lake and surrounding area. We threw frozen yak shit at each other.
Back at Base Camp, we gathered our gear together, ate the worst meal of the entire trek (also one of the priciest), and hid Lovely Wife away in a dark room. An hour later, sun-induced headache a thing of the past, we set off back down the trail we'd come up the previous afternoon. Turns out that there really were apparently-levitating standing stones all over the place, and that the stairways really were treacherous and surrounded by gaping pits. Also, there were spectacular frozen waterfalls. Oh, and an avalanche.
A few hours later, we beat dusk to the lodge at Sheree Kharka, where we'd lunched (and napped!) the previous day, and where we'd booked a room for tonight. "Sorry," they said. "A big group arrived, so we gave your room away." ... "But we booked!" ... "Yeah, sorry about that."
Luckily, there's a half-built new lodge two minutes downtrail.
Unluckily, that lodge is also full.
Luckily, there's a half-finished, not-yet-furnished room that we can have, with temporarily-emplaced foam mattresses on the floor. This is quite a relief.
In the dining room that evening an old man wandered around with plastic bags on his feet, an Amerikan got told off by a porter for insulting the gods by putting his feet too far into the flaming brazier, and some Israelis were rude to the lodge staff and kept leaving the door to the frigid outside world open.
Sick!
Short Version:
Sick! We walk somewhere, apparently.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 9 = 6:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 41:00
Beer Time = 25:00
Long Version:
Manang Morning:
That heavily-garlicked fried rice tasted delicious at dinner-time. Not so lovely coming back up at 1am. And 3am. And 5am. I'm not sure how Lovely Wife managed to sleep through the racket, to be honest. And we're out of toilet paper. Yes, we bought a new roll yesterday. It's been a busy night.
No breakfast. In fact, please don't mention food. Too late. Please excuse me, I have something that I need to attend to with some urgency.
They made me walk up hills. I've had more fun.
The last time I was this sick, Lovely Wife had poisoned me, in the forest in Oregon. I spent a day at death's door, writhing around in our tent, superheated/freezing/superheated/repeat. Then we went mountain-biking, and she pushed me up all the hills.
This time around, I didn't have the luxury of spending a day in bed. I still had Lovely Wife pushing me up hills though. Unfortunately for both of us, the entire day basically involved us walking up hills. Apart from the bit where we had some steep, tricky descents to manage; in those bits, Nene and Ganga watched nervously as unsteady Puppet-tottering threatened the cliff edge.
We made it in the end, though, to Tilicho Base Camp. I'm told that on the way, some of the following happened:
- We walked uphill for a couple of hours, then stopped for a cup of tea at Khangsar, which is on the lower slopes across the valley from the mountain of the same name. Hot water and small pieces of Mars bar were fed into the Puppetmaw, along with some drugs
- We walked uphill for another couple of hours, then stopped for lunch at Sheree Kharka. Puppetnap in an empty sunroom. Puppetawakening in a room totally full of evil Czechs. Disorienting. More hot water and Mars bar. Left a big sweaty patch on the sleepsurface. More drugs.
- We walked through a bizarre landscape: steep scree slopes with pernicious rock and dust avalanches; huge standing stones appeared to levitate off the ground up- and downslope from the trail. Maybe too many drugs?
- We climbed a tortuous set of uneven, narrow, and, in some places gone, set of stairs. Then we descended three or four more. Occasional oubliettes gaped hungrily.
Tilicho Base Camp was a bit grim. Our room was like a prison cell, with thick dank stone walls and a tiny, barred window. And it was cold. We huddled around the firestove in the dining room. The mildly retarded lodge guy fed yak dung into it at regular intervals. A puppy provided entertainment. The food was awful. Early to bed.
Sick! We walk somewhere, apparently.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 9 = 6:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 41:00
Beer Time = 25:00
Long Version:
Manang Morning:
That heavily-garlicked fried rice tasted delicious at dinner-time. Not so lovely coming back up at 1am. And 3am. And 5am. I'm not sure how Lovely Wife managed to sleep through the racket, to be honest. And we're out of toilet paper. Yes, we bought a new roll yesterday. It's been a busy night.
No breakfast. In fact, please don't mention food. Too late. Please excuse me, I have something that I need to attend to with some urgency.
They made me walk up hills. I've had more fun.
The last time I was this sick, Lovely Wife had poisoned me, in the forest in Oregon. I spent a day at death's door, writhing around in our tent, superheated/freezing/superheated/repeat. Then we went mountain-biking, and she pushed me up all the hills.
This time around, I didn't have the luxury of spending a day in bed. I still had Lovely Wife pushing me up hills though. Unfortunately for both of us, the entire day basically involved us walking up hills. Apart from the bit where we had some steep, tricky descents to manage; in those bits, Nene and Ganga watched nervously as unsteady Puppet-tottering threatened the cliff edge.
We made it in the end, though, to Tilicho Base Camp. I'm told that on the way, some of the following happened:
- We walked uphill for a couple of hours, then stopped for a cup of tea at Khangsar, which is on the lower slopes across the valley from the mountain of the same name. Hot water and small pieces of Mars bar were fed into the Puppetmaw, along with some drugs
- We walked uphill for another couple of hours, then stopped for lunch at Sheree Kharka. Puppetnap in an empty sunroom. Puppetawakening in a room totally full of evil Czechs. Disorienting. More hot water and Mars bar. Left a big sweaty patch on the sleepsurface. More drugs.
- We walked through a bizarre landscape: steep scree slopes with pernicious rock and dust avalanches; huge standing stones appeared to levitate off the ground up- and downslope from the trail. Maybe too many drugs?
- We climbed a tortuous set of uneven, narrow, and, in some places gone, set of stairs. Then we descended three or four more. Occasional oubliettes gaped hungrily.
Tilicho Base Camp was a bit grim. Our room was like a prison cell, with thick dank stone walls and a tiny, barred window. And it was cold. We huddled around the firestove in the dining room. The mildly retarded lodge guy fed yak dung into it at regular intervals. A puppy provided entertainment. The food was awful. Early to bed.
Death Biscuits
Short Version:
A day-trip, up a hill. Another special dance, another funeral.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 8 = 2:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 34:30
Beer Time = 18:30
Long Version:
Altitude sickness is not fun, apparently. Headaches, blurry vision, nausea, other unpleasantnesses. Kind of like a hangover, only not curable with a steak, cheese and japaleno (sic) pie and a litre of chocolate milk - the cure for altitude sickness is descent. Sounds easy? So long as it's not night-time, and your onwards route isn't forward and up, maybe. At any rate, we didn't want it, ergo precautions:
- walk slowly
- spread significant climbs across several days
- climb and descend to help acclimatisation
Climb and descend we had covered, having taken the high road from Pisang to Manang. Walking slowy we'd been doing since the start of the trek. And now we stay an extra day in Manang, to help our bodies adjust to how high above sea level we've come: Manang is at 3,519m
So, a good night's sleep, then a restful day, another good night's sleep, and we'll be ready to roll!
Or, of course, we could have a shitty night's sleep, courtesy of homeward-bound local yakherders partying it up and having massive-volume cellphone conversations. Outside our room. All blimmin night.
Then, instead of rest, we could go for a walk. Up a hill. A big hill. And for anyone reading this who's not been to altitude, even when you're not sick, doing anything is significantly more difficult than it is in the lowlands; strolling along the flat is enough to get one's lungs burning and heart pumping, let alone walking up steep hills. Or having snow fights. Or doing a special dance* to celebrate being higher than the highest point in New Zealand, which is Aoraki/Mt Cook at 3,754m.
The site of the dance was another Buddhist holy spot - they like high places - with a seasonal yakherd village nestled in at the base. Patches of snow lay all around, prayer flags fluttered in the fresh breeze, an enormous glacier hung high in the valley between Annapurna II and Gangapurna... and down below, the Buddhists prepared a fiery farewell for one of their departed.
We were too far away (up, mainly) to see much detail of the funerary proceedings, but it was still interesting. And, when we eventually made it back to Manang after a couple of goat-heavy detours and found our way (somehow!) to the Buddhist temple, we found an extra-special ceremony in progress, to honour the deceased. They invited us in, gave us popcorn and packets of biscuits**, and bade us watch, and listen. Which we did, rapt. Drums, with curved beating sticks! Gongs! Cymbals! Clarinetty oboeish trumpetlike horn things! Lot of chanting!
When we leave, we get blasted with holy smoke(!), then make our way past projector houses (mountain-oriented movies for trekkers on their extra-day layover) and some fairly distinctive architecture: houses are 2-storey beasts, with an enclosed courtyard extending the lower floor area outside, providing the household animals wonderful indoor/outdoor flow. The people live in the upper storey of the house, and extend their living area up onto the flat roof, generally using ladders made from tree trunks (they look like prtially-completed dugout canoes stood on end). Often, the divide between storeys is obvious from the outside, as the stone wall is broken by a piece of timber, oftentimes resting upon goat horns that protrude from between the stones. Occasionally dangerously.
Back at the lodge, we stare fixedly at the mountains that surround us on all sides. They're enormous, and marvellous. Then we eat food and go to bed happy. But not for long...
* = Not dissimilar to the dance from 11:11:11 on 11/11/11. Maybe more pointing and other arm gesticulating, less energetic jumping.
** = Plain crackers for the Puppet, Chocolate creams for everyone else. Cue much complaining.
A day-trip, up a hill. Another special dance, another funeral.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 8 = 2:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 34:30
Beer Time = 18:30
Long Version:
Altitude sickness is not fun, apparently. Headaches, blurry vision, nausea, other unpleasantnesses. Kind of like a hangover, only not curable with a steak, cheese and japaleno (sic) pie and a litre of chocolate milk - the cure for altitude sickness is descent. Sounds easy? So long as it's not night-time, and your onwards route isn't forward and up, maybe. At any rate, we didn't want it, ergo precautions:
- walk slowly
- spread significant climbs across several days
- climb and descend to help acclimatisation
Climb and descend we had covered, having taken the high road from Pisang to Manang. Walking slowy we'd been doing since the start of the trek. And now we stay an extra day in Manang, to help our bodies adjust to how high above sea level we've come: Manang is at 3,519m
So, a good night's sleep, then a restful day, another good night's sleep, and we'll be ready to roll!
Or, of course, we could have a shitty night's sleep, courtesy of homeward-bound local yakherders partying it up and having massive-volume cellphone conversations. Outside our room. All blimmin night.
Then, instead of rest, we could go for a walk. Up a hill. A big hill. And for anyone reading this who's not been to altitude, even when you're not sick, doing anything is significantly more difficult than it is in the lowlands; strolling along the flat is enough to get one's lungs burning and heart pumping, let alone walking up steep hills. Or having snow fights. Or doing a special dance* to celebrate being higher than the highest point in New Zealand, which is Aoraki/Mt Cook at 3,754m.
The site of the dance was another Buddhist holy spot - they like high places - with a seasonal yakherd village nestled in at the base. Patches of snow lay all around, prayer flags fluttered in the fresh breeze, an enormous glacier hung high in the valley between Annapurna II and Gangapurna... and down below, the Buddhists prepared a fiery farewell for one of their departed.
We were too far away (up, mainly) to see much detail of the funerary proceedings, but it was still interesting. And, when we eventually made it back to Manang after a couple of goat-heavy detours and found our way (somehow!) to the Buddhist temple, we found an extra-special ceremony in progress, to honour the deceased. They invited us in, gave us popcorn and packets of biscuits**, and bade us watch, and listen. Which we did, rapt. Drums, with curved beating sticks! Gongs! Cymbals! Clarinetty oboeish trumpetlike horn things! Lot of chanting!
When we leave, we get blasted with holy smoke(!), then make our way past projector houses (mountain-oriented movies for trekkers on their extra-day layover) and some fairly distinctive architecture: houses are 2-storey beasts, with an enclosed courtyard extending the lower floor area outside, providing the household animals wonderful indoor/outdoor flow. The people live in the upper storey of the house, and extend their living area up onto the flat roof, generally using ladders made from tree trunks (they look like prtially-completed dugout canoes stood on end). Often, the divide between storeys is obvious from the outside, as the stone wall is broken by a piece of timber, oftentimes resting upon goat horns that protrude from between the stones. Occasionally dangerously.
Back at the lodge, we stare fixedly at the mountains that surround us on all sides. They're enormous, and marvellous. Then we eat food and go to bed happy. But not for long...
* = Not dissimilar to the dance from 11:11:11 on 11/11/11. Maybe more pointing and other arm gesticulating, less energetic jumping.
** = Plain crackers for the Puppet, Chocolate creams for everyone else. Cue much complaining.
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