Short Version:
Visa shenanigans. High foods are odd.
Long Version:
Even the long version is a long story short:
NZers visiting India are eligible for (required to obtain) visa-on-arrival.
It's a pain in the arse
Everything has to be handwritten in quadruplicate by many men, it takes so long that your bags are likely to have been blown up as unattended potential bomb-type items by the time you get through, and it can only be used for one non-transit (ie leaving the airport) entry to India.
In any given year.
So visiting Delhi on the way out of Nepal was a great idea, right up to the point where we decided to skip the flooded Bangkok and go to Delhi on the way TO Nepal as well, unwittingly blowing our one chance at being allowed in to India.
Luckily, there's a potential solution: Obtain a Transit Visa from the Indian Embassy in Kathmandu.
Unluckily, they might decline our application. Or they might not. It will depend on... things.
And the only way to find out? Wait for several hours then give them some nonrefundable moneys then wait some more hours.
********
Hours waited, moneys paid, more hours waited... visas acquired.
********
Then we spent some more hours looking at art. Especially pictures of dancing skeletons, and a fat blue man with fire facial hair and varying numbers of arms and corpses and severed head adornments.
And then we walked up eight flights of stairs to a rooftop restaurant where everything was served scarily flattened, crumbed, deep-fried and garlic-flavored.
Everything.
Including the pineapple and apple fritters, and the banana.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Alarming Developments
Short Version:
We explore Pokhara, which doesn't agree with one of us. Bus action!
Long Version:
Nene's alarm went off at 0600. Nene did not wake up.
Waking up in a psychedelic room was disorienting. The bright green, bright yellow, and bright orange walls were a bit much. And it was REALLY weird to not be getting out of bed into a cold morning, pooping into a hole in the ground, and then walking for several hours.
Instead, we ate delicious foods then went back to bed.
Later, we found espresso, and it was good.
Later still, we ate more pizza, window-shopped for art and random stuff, saw Honey Hunter bicycles, and ate more delicious foods in a place oddly dominated by Western women dining solo, or in large groups.
Then we went home, where Nene slept through about ten hours of Puppetvomiting. Then she was awake for a day of solo exploring while Puppetnapping occurred, interspersed with Puppetwatching of televised sports* and unintelligible local comedies.
Eventually, we left Pokhara, on a bus labelled Tourists Only! that was full of locals, including two young women who transferred on mid-intersection from a taxi labelled Anis & Menis, which was is just about the best taxi company name ever. We had the best seats in the bus; front pair on the passenger side. Excellent views out past the heavily-populated control cabin to the outside world. Unfortunately, the excellent seats we had weren't actually ours - we'd not realised that there were allocated seats, and had just sat in the ones we liked best. Luckily, the couple who were supposed to sit there waived their rights to the seats, and we stayed there for the rest of the day, which is how long it took us to reach Kathmandu, despite only stopping a couple of times; breakfast at 0930 at a place with the most foul-smelling urinals in the world; lunch at a riverside place with a curry-dominated self-serve buffet arrangement. Our bus ticket came with a lunch voucher. For a different establishment. They didn't seem to notice or care.
The bus-wranglers herded us all back on the bus, and we went up, and up, and up. Past the black polythene urinal we'd visited on the way out, then over the pass and down into the Kathmandu valley, where before long we hit the first of the slumburbs on the outskirts of the city, which became one lengthy passage through a grim landscape full of people and animals and stink. At least in the Kathmandu slums they had people picking through the trash in search of interesting stuff, which made for a lot less vile fume action than in the nastier outliers of Pokhara, where the piles of trash were on fire. Of course, Kathmandu stinks worse as it is.
And then, before we knew it, we were ejected from the bus into the seething city. All the conditioning we'd acquired in Delhi seemed to have evaporated during the weeks we'd spent in the wilderness, and being surrounded by hordes was a bit disconcerting, but a taxi to the International Guesthouse sorted that out, and then it was food and sleep o'clock, right up until 0430, when Nene's alarm went off.
Nene did not wake up.
* = Replays of old cricket matches between random countries, including a full ODI series between SAfrika and Orstralia. It's quite disconcerting falling asleep watching a cricket match, then waking up to find that, in what is apparently the same match, the score has changed in a way that is not possible
We explore Pokhara, which doesn't agree with one of us. Bus action!
Long Version:
Nene's alarm went off at 0600. Nene did not wake up.
Waking up in a psychedelic room was disorienting. The bright green, bright yellow, and bright orange walls were a bit much. And it was REALLY weird to not be getting out of bed into a cold morning, pooping into a hole in the ground, and then walking for several hours.
Instead, we ate delicious foods then went back to bed.
Later, we found espresso, and it was good.
Later still, we ate more pizza, window-shopped for art and random stuff, saw Honey Hunter bicycles, and ate more delicious foods in a place oddly dominated by Western women dining solo, or in large groups.
Then we went home, where Nene slept through about ten hours of Puppetvomiting. Then she was awake for a day of solo exploring while Puppetnapping occurred, interspersed with Puppetwatching of televised sports* and unintelligible local comedies.
Eventually, we left Pokhara, on a bus labelled Tourists Only! that was full of locals, including two young women who transferred on mid-intersection from a taxi labelled Anis & Menis, which was is just about the best taxi company name ever. We had the best seats in the bus; front pair on the passenger side. Excellent views out past the heavily-populated control cabin to the outside world. Unfortunately, the excellent seats we had weren't actually ours - we'd not realised that there were allocated seats, and had just sat in the ones we liked best. Luckily, the couple who were supposed to sit there waived their rights to the seats, and we stayed there for the rest of the day, which is how long it took us to reach Kathmandu, despite only stopping a couple of times; breakfast at 0930 at a place with the most foul-smelling urinals in the world; lunch at a riverside place with a curry-dominated self-serve buffet arrangement. Our bus ticket came with a lunch voucher. For a different establishment. They didn't seem to notice or care.
The bus-wranglers herded us all back on the bus, and we went up, and up, and up. Past the black polythene urinal we'd visited on the way out, then over the pass and down into the Kathmandu valley, where before long we hit the first of the slumburbs on the outskirts of the city, which became one lengthy passage through a grim landscape full of people and animals and stink. At least in the Kathmandu slums they had people picking through the trash in search of interesting stuff, which made for a lot less vile fume action than in the nastier outliers of Pokhara, where the piles of trash were on fire. Of course, Kathmandu stinks worse as it is.
And then, before we knew it, we were ejected from the bus into the seething city. All the conditioning we'd acquired in Delhi seemed to have evaporated during the weeks we'd spent in the wilderness, and being surrounded by hordes was a bit disconcerting, but a taxi to the International Guesthouse sorted that out, and then it was food and sleep o'clock, right up until 0430, when Nene's alarm went off.
Nene did not wake up.
* = Replays of old cricket matches between random countries, including a full ODI series between SAfrika and Orstralia. It's quite disconcerting falling asleep watching a cricket match, then waking up to find that, in what is apparently the same match, the score has changed in a way that is not possible
No More Walk!
Short Version:
We walk from Syauli Bazaar to Naya Pul. We stop walking.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 22 = 1:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 104:00
Beer Time = 7:00
Long Version:
Syauli Bazaar Morning:
It's the last day of trekking, and we sleep in, partly because we don't really want the trek to end, and partly because we're buggered from yesterday.
Fishtail looms, bathed in sun, above the dining room where we breakfast on a tasty omlet and some delicious banana pancakes.
One of the serving-wenches has a ridiculously squeaky voice.
Our "big cups" of coffee come in glass handles, more usually associated with beer-quaffage
The reception counter sits atop a glass-fronted cabiinet. There is a random assortment of junk in the cabinet:
- a plastic dog with a waggy tail. It is old and dirty*
- a blender jug with lid
- an assortment of juice cans, no two alike
- drinking straws
- candles
- envelopes
- a can of tuna
- more drinking straws
For 21 days Uzir uncomplainingly carried all our crap, and even though we paid him to do it, it seemed just a wee bit unfair.
The whole village turned out to watch and laugh as we set off, then, with two big duffel bags strappeed to the Puppetnoggin. There may have been some complaining. There was certainly only six minutes of Puppetcarry.
Nenecarry followed, and lasted eight minutes.
Then we were back to normal, with a newfound appreciation not only for Uzir's efforts carrying our 25kg load, but also for his 105kg record effort.
Sunny Saturday means many people about; working in the fields, walking the road, building haystacks. There were also some strange nutcases around; one guy threw rocks at us from atop a cliff, another wandered past carrying a sickle and with a "seeking-victims" look on his face.
We hit Biranthanti, and specialty shops started to appear (we'd had only limited-goods general stores up in the hills). By the time we reached the outskirts of Nayapul, there were stores selling beauty stuff, shampoo and other hair stuff, hardware, electronics**, and random junk. There were also geese with bandit masks made of rooster-comb***
And then there were buses, and taxis, and we waited a bit while Ganga did some negotiating, and then the four of us and all our stuff somehow managed to fit into a Suzuki Swift hatchback. The driver had spider-web graphics on his gloves, bells and medallions and other crap hanging from his rearview mirror, and pictures of Hindu gods all over the place. And he drove really blimmin fast on really shitty roads, somehow managing to not run over any of the people and cows and other vehicles executing random-seeming manoeuvres, including the motorcycle cop with the enormous gun.
We drove past a store signed "Grossery" and then we reached Pokhara, and our hotel, and our room, where each wall was a different colour and the bedspread had lime green and bright yellow flowers, and where there was a bath in the bathroom. And then we went out and ate pizza and drank beer and said our farewells to Ganga and Uzir at a lakefront restaurant with a balcony overlooking a park where an elaborate festival of some sort was underway, and we did some reminiscing about the trek, and then they set off for Kathmandu and we wiped a tiny tear from each of our eyes and then had a nap before heading out to wander the streets of Pokhara.
Pokhara's lakefront district is similar to Thamel in Kathmandu, only less intense. We wandered aimlessly, looking at stuff and warding off sales attempts. Eventually, hunger spoke loud, and we stopped to eat delicious foods, including fried cashew nuts, tandoori chicken, and a wonderfully-flavored malai kofta which had, instead of cylinders of potato drowned in the sauce, two large Madonna-tit-shaped piles poking out like model volcanic islands in a thick brown ocean of tastiness. It was good that the foods were delicious, because the service was terrible (although that may have had something to do with the 20+ Orstralian teens who ordered just before we did).
Oh, and they played Joan Armatrading on the stereo. The whole album.
When asked to play something good they turned it down a bit.
Waking in the middle of the night to the sound of someone climbing the stairs to the third floor of the hotel, going in to the room next to ours, urinating, then leaving again was kind of odd, as was the discovery that the ceiling of our room had glow-in-the-dark stars and moons and planets on it.
* = Nothing wrong with old and dirty
** = Basically just selling shitty old TVs
*** = I assume not actually made from rooster combs. That would mean the geese were mugging roosters for their hats, and then fashioning them into supervillain eyemasks. Which is possible but unlikely.
We walk from Syauli Bazaar to Naya Pul. We stop walking.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 22 = 1:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 104:00
Beer Time = 7:00
Long Version:
Syauli Bazaar Morning:
It's the last day of trekking, and we sleep in, partly because we don't really want the trek to end, and partly because we're buggered from yesterday.
Fishtail looms, bathed in sun, above the dining room where we breakfast on a tasty omlet and some delicious banana pancakes.
One of the serving-wenches has a ridiculously squeaky voice.
Our "big cups" of coffee come in glass handles, more usually associated with beer-quaffage
The reception counter sits atop a glass-fronted cabiinet. There is a random assortment of junk in the cabinet:
- a plastic dog with a waggy tail. It is old and dirty*
- a blender jug with lid
- an assortment of juice cans, no two alike
- drinking straws
- candles
- envelopes
- a can of tuna
- more drinking straws
For 21 days Uzir uncomplainingly carried all our crap, and even though we paid him to do it, it seemed just a wee bit unfair.
The whole village turned out to watch and laugh as we set off, then, with two big duffel bags strappeed to the Puppetnoggin. There may have been some complaining. There was certainly only six minutes of Puppetcarry.
Nenecarry followed, and lasted eight minutes.
Then we were back to normal, with a newfound appreciation not only for Uzir's efforts carrying our 25kg load, but also for his 105kg record effort.
Sunny Saturday means many people about; working in the fields, walking the road, building haystacks. There were also some strange nutcases around; one guy threw rocks at us from atop a cliff, another wandered past carrying a sickle and with a "seeking-victims" look on his face.
We hit Biranthanti, and specialty shops started to appear (we'd had only limited-goods general stores up in the hills). By the time we reached the outskirts of Nayapul, there were stores selling beauty stuff, shampoo and other hair stuff, hardware, electronics**, and random junk. There were also geese with bandit masks made of rooster-comb***
And then there were buses, and taxis, and we waited a bit while Ganga did some negotiating, and then the four of us and all our stuff somehow managed to fit into a Suzuki Swift hatchback. The driver had spider-web graphics on his gloves, bells and medallions and other crap hanging from his rearview mirror, and pictures of Hindu gods all over the place. And he drove really blimmin fast on really shitty roads, somehow managing to not run over any of the people and cows and other vehicles executing random-seeming manoeuvres, including the motorcycle cop with the enormous gun.
We drove past a store signed "Grossery" and then we reached Pokhara, and our hotel, and our room, where each wall was a different colour and the bedspread had lime green and bright yellow flowers, and where there was a bath in the bathroom. And then we went out and ate pizza and drank beer and said our farewells to Ganga and Uzir at a lakefront restaurant with a balcony overlooking a park where an elaborate festival of some sort was underway, and we did some reminiscing about the trek, and then they set off for Kathmandu and we wiped a tiny tear from each of our eyes and then had a nap before heading out to wander the streets of Pokhara.
Pokhara's lakefront district is similar to Thamel in Kathmandu, only less intense. We wandered aimlessly, looking at stuff and warding off sales attempts. Eventually, hunger spoke loud, and we stopped to eat delicious foods, including fried cashew nuts, tandoori chicken, and a wonderfully-flavored malai kofta which had, instead of cylinders of potato drowned in the sauce, two large Madonna-tit-shaped piles poking out like model volcanic islands in a thick brown ocean of tastiness. It was good that the foods were delicious, because the service was terrible (although that may have had something to do with the 20+ Orstralian teens who ordered just before we did).
Oh, and they played Joan Armatrading on the stereo. The whole album.
When asked to play something good they turned it down a bit.
Waking in the middle of the night to the sound of someone climbing the stairs to the third floor of the hotel, going in to the room next to ours, urinating, then leaving again was kind of odd, as was the discovery that the ceiling of our room had glow-in-the-dark stars and moons and planets on it.
* = Nothing wrong with old and dirty
** = Basically just selling shitty old TVs
*** = I assume not actually made from rooster combs. That would mean the geese were mugging roosters for their hats, and then fashioning them into supervillain eyemasks. Which is possible but unlikely.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Don't Eat the Salad!
Short Version:
We stagger from Tadapani to Syauli Bazaar
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 21 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 102:30
Beer Time = 29:30
Long Version:
Tadapani Morning:
The occasional night-time toilet expedition is not unheard-of, despite the difficulties inherent in an unlit environment with unstable narrow stairs, holes in the ground on the path and a hole in the ground at the end of the path.
Multiple night-time toilet expeditions generally indicate something awry.
Multiple night-time toilet expeditions followed by in-room vomiting bouts are a pretty solid sign that all's not right in the world.
Of course, Nene's clued-up enough that, even in the throes of some serious not-well, she's grabbed a bucket and parked it next to the bed to catch the detritus.
There is a lot of detritus.
Eventually, the sun comes up, hugely and orangely, and there's a delicious Puppetbreakfast but no Nenefood, and later still we hit the trail, albeit somewhat gingerly, two steps - and a retch - ahead of the complainy old Britischers.
********
Downhill. Lots of downhill. With monkeys. And mountains. And many short stops for Nene to resist vomiting on her feet.
Somehow, she managed the 2.5 hour walk downhill to Ghandruk, where we stopped for lunch. She even managed to eat half of her plain chapati before borrowing a bed for a wee lie-down. Puppetfacestuffing carried on uninterrupted. A chocolate croissant, high in the Himalayas!
Nap over, we walked downhill some more. And by "some more" I mean "for two hours."
Stairs, stairs and more stairs. Sore quads, uneven steps, stream-crossings, buffalo and kids and a woman fundraising for a school for orphans.
And then, gloriously, not long after we were briefly forced off the path by a large uphill-bound gaggle of enormously fat women heading UP the evil hill we'd just come down, we reached Syauli Bazaar, where Nene did some more sleeping while an elderly couple demonstrated appropriate workload-sharing to a beer-guzzling watchPuppet: HE sat atop the haystack, arranging the hay nicely; SHE gathered hay from the surrounding fields, bundled it together, carried it to the haystack, and then climbed a ladder and hoisted the hay up to the top of the 3m-high stack where she held it until HE deigned to take it from her upraised, outstretched hands.
Later on, the stars came out, and were beautiful.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 3
Beer Time = 5:30
Time to Next Beer = 2:30
We stagger from Tadapani to Syauli Bazaar
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 21 = 4:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 102:30
Beer Time = 29:30
Long Version:
Tadapani Morning:
The occasional night-time toilet expedition is not unheard-of, despite the difficulties inherent in an unlit environment with unstable narrow stairs, holes in the ground on the path and a hole in the ground at the end of the path.
Multiple night-time toilet expeditions generally indicate something awry.
Multiple night-time toilet expeditions followed by in-room vomiting bouts are a pretty solid sign that all's not right in the world.
Of course, Nene's clued-up enough that, even in the throes of some serious not-well, she's grabbed a bucket and parked it next to the bed to catch the detritus.
There is a lot of detritus.
Eventually, the sun comes up, hugely and orangely, and there's a delicious Puppetbreakfast but no Nenefood, and later still we hit the trail, albeit somewhat gingerly, two steps - and a retch - ahead of the complainy old Britischers.
********
Downhill. Lots of downhill. With monkeys. And mountains. And many short stops for Nene to resist vomiting on her feet.
Somehow, she managed the 2.5 hour walk downhill to Ghandruk, where we stopped for lunch. She even managed to eat half of her plain chapati before borrowing a bed for a wee lie-down. Puppetfacestuffing carried on uninterrupted. A chocolate croissant, high in the Himalayas!
Nap over, we walked downhill some more. And by "some more" I mean "for two hours."
Stairs, stairs and more stairs. Sore quads, uneven steps, stream-crossings, buffalo and kids and a woman fundraising for a school for orphans.
And then, gloriously, not long after we were briefly forced off the path by a large uphill-bound gaggle of enormously fat women heading UP the evil hill we'd just come down, we reached Syauli Bazaar, where Nene did some more sleeping while an elderly couple demonstrated appropriate workload-sharing to a beer-guzzling watchPuppet: HE sat atop the haystack, arranging the hay nicely; SHE gathered hay from the surrounding fields, bundled it together, carried it to the haystack, and then climbed a ladder and hoisted the hay up to the top of the 3m-high stack where she held it until HE deigned to take it from her upraised, outstretched hands.
Later on, the stars came out, and were beautiful.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 3
Beer Time = 5:30
Time to Next Beer = 2:30
Friday, January 27, 2012
Reasons Canadialand is Awesome #23
Headline on the main page of the Vancouver Sun online:
Photos: Shoes with severed feet found over the years
Photos: Shoes with severed feet found over the years
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Nepali Flat
Short Version:
We walk from Ghorepani to Tadapani. Butt-slapping, tooting, hooting and hollering. And complaining. Not necessarily in that order.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 20 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 98:00
Beer Time = 25:00
Long Version:
Ghorepani Morning:
The sunrise is, apparently, spectacular from from Poon Hill. So we...
...stay in bed, and watch the first rays of yet another gorgeous cloudless day paint the mountains rosy orange/peach colors while we stay snug and warm and lazy in our fat sleeping bags* while drinking passable coffee.
********
Our walk pace has been increasing steadily since Thorong La, to the point where we're blasting past all and sundry on the trails. Not so fast, though, that Ganga couldn't sneak on ahead, hide in the bushes, and scare the bejeebers out of Nene as she approached by making mutant cat noises.
The forest east of Poon Hill is mainly huge rhododenrons, which look like elderly puriri once they're enormous and sufficiently gnarled. Apparently they're really spectacular when in bloom.
The terrain was much more like NZ than it was higher in the Himalayas, with steep, wooded slopes and some big trees. Throughout the day we were largely enclosed by forest, but we did get some sneaky peeks out between the trees; mountains to the left of us, and, for the first time in a long time, to the right we started to see vistas that stretched away into a distance that was actually distant, rather than terminating abruptly at one or several bloody great big mountains.
We started the day walking up, just for a change. After several false summits, though, we actually hit some down. Down! And then up. Down. Up. Apparently this is what they call "flat" here; it's when the up and the down are approximately equal, and cancel each other out. We spent some time in river valleys, which made the hike even more NZ-like, although the slippery foot-polished marble steps were somewhat different.
The five hour trek from Ghorepani to Tadapani took us three hours. We were first in, so got the best room (end of the row, extra window in the end wall, facing downvalley) and the best part of the solar hot water in the showers. We also got the best spot in the sun outside, where we sat to enjoy our ginger and honey tea.
Unfortunately, it was the most disgusting tea in the cosmos.
Holy heck, it was vile!
Turns out that one really can't underestimate the importance of thoroughly cleansing one's grater between grating garlic and grating ginger.
Luckily, the lentil/mushroom burgers were phenomenally good, to the point that not only did we have one for lunch alongside a cheese/bean burrito, we also had one each for dinner, which we ate in the dining room, where the warmth of the under-table brazier was greatly appreciated by all the various happy trekkers.
Except the large group of elderly British people, who complained incessantly.
About everything.
For ages.
What a pack of arsebiscuits!
The whiny Englischers were so painful to listen to - and such a big group that not listening was more difficult than it ought to have been - that we left early, wandering up the scarily steep and narrow and wobbly stairs to the upstairs balcony and in to our room, where we put ourselves to bed with books. Later, when the age-mismatched Spanish couple who were our next-door neighbours for he night arrived in their room, we weren't making any noise - with e-books there's not even the sound of pages turning.
So it may be that they didn't realise that noise would be clearly audible in adjoining rooms.
Or it may be that they just didn't care.
Whatever the reason, we were treated to a veritable symphony of butt-slapping, burping, naughty-sounding laughing, and farting before they settled down and shut up for the night. We had great difficulty containing our merriment.
* = Fartsacks.
We walk from Ghorepani to Tadapani. Butt-slapping, tooting, hooting and hollering. And complaining. Not necessarily in that order.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 20 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 98:00
Beer Time = 25:00
Long Version:
Ghorepani Morning:
The sunrise is, apparently, spectacular from from Poon Hill. So we...
...stay in bed, and watch the first rays of yet another gorgeous cloudless day paint the mountains rosy orange/peach colors while we stay snug and warm and lazy in our fat sleeping bags* while drinking passable coffee.
********
Our walk pace has been increasing steadily since Thorong La, to the point where we're blasting past all and sundry on the trails. Not so fast, though, that Ganga couldn't sneak on ahead, hide in the bushes, and scare the bejeebers out of Nene as she approached by making mutant cat noises.
The forest east of Poon Hill is mainly huge rhododenrons, which look like elderly puriri once they're enormous and sufficiently gnarled. Apparently they're really spectacular when in bloom.
The terrain was much more like NZ than it was higher in the Himalayas, with steep, wooded slopes and some big trees. Throughout the day we were largely enclosed by forest, but we did get some sneaky peeks out between the trees; mountains to the left of us, and, for the first time in a long time, to the right we started to see vistas that stretched away into a distance that was actually distant, rather than terminating abruptly at one or several bloody great big mountains.
We started the day walking up, just for a change. After several false summits, though, we actually hit some down. Down! And then up. Down. Up. Apparently this is what they call "flat" here; it's when the up and the down are approximately equal, and cancel each other out. We spent some time in river valleys, which made the hike even more NZ-like, although the slippery foot-polished marble steps were somewhat different.
The five hour trek from Ghorepani to Tadapani took us three hours. We were first in, so got the best room (end of the row, extra window in the end wall, facing downvalley) and the best part of the solar hot water in the showers. We also got the best spot in the sun outside, where we sat to enjoy our ginger and honey tea.
Unfortunately, it was the most disgusting tea in the cosmos.
Holy heck, it was vile!
Turns out that one really can't underestimate the importance of thoroughly cleansing one's grater between grating garlic and grating ginger.
Luckily, the lentil/mushroom burgers were phenomenally good, to the point that not only did we have one for lunch alongside a cheese/bean burrito, we also had one each for dinner, which we ate in the dining room, where the warmth of the under-table brazier was greatly appreciated by all the various happy trekkers.
Except the large group of elderly British people, who complained incessantly.
About everything.
For ages.
What a pack of arsebiscuits!
The whiny Englischers were so painful to listen to - and such a big group that not listening was more difficult than it ought to have been - that we left early, wandering up the scarily steep and narrow and wobbly stairs to the upstairs balcony and in to our room, where we put ourselves to bed with books. Later, when the age-mismatched Spanish couple who were our next-door neighbours for he night arrived in their room, we weren't making any noise - with e-books there's not even the sound of pages turning.
So it may be that they didn't realise that noise would be clearly audible in adjoining rooms.
Or it may be that they just didn't care.
Whatever the reason, we were treated to a veritable symphony of butt-slapping, burping, naughty-sounding laughing, and farting before they settled down and shut up for the night. We had great difficulty containing our merriment.
* = Fartsacks.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Poon!
Short Version:
We walk from Shikha to Ghorepani, then up Poon Hill.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 19 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 95:00
Beer Time = 22:00
Long Version:
Shikha Morning:
Incredible views of Dhaulagiri and Tukuche mountains scraping the first light out of the sky as we dress and pack and head into the dining room not long before 0700.
Closer to hand, we watch the village wake up as we eat; sleepy-faced people and animals are emerging from their (sometimes shared) niches; the sounds and smells of village life begin to manifest...
...and then around the corner from the low end of the main street: hundreds of marathoners. Not en masse; one by one initially, then clumps, then bigger clumps building to a constant stream then tailing off to less and less-comfortable-looking solo runners* towards the back of the field.
Horses and buffalo emerging from their night-time accommodation win the battle with the runners for trail space, mainly through sheer mass. This is entertaining viewing.
One of the last runners comes in to the hotel for emergency poopage.
********
Lycra-clad ultra-fitness nuts safely past, we set off.
Uphill.
Up many, many stone stairs.
It wasn't long before we passed the race sweepers, one of whom was only too happy to furnish information about Racing the Planet: Nepal, which saw two hundred and some extreme masochists from all over the world** take part in a seven-day, six-Stage, 250 kilometer, self-supported endurance foot race. The "self-supported" bit means they had to carry all their crap, including sleeping bags, mattress pads, clothes, and food for the day. No food was to be purchased along the way; the competitors were only to consume foodstuffs they'd started the day carrying. We spoke to one racer (the pooper) who had been threatened with a time penalty for buying and eating a Mars bar on Day Two. He wasn't too worried, as he was 3rd-to-last at the time. He also said that he planned "...never drink ten pints and agree to anything like this ever again..." (Yes, he was English).
We passed several backmarkers throughout the morning, repassing some after stopping for baby goat cuddles***. We then got to cheer them on as they passed the table where we'd parked ourselves to eat chocolate and pizza and momos in the sunshine next to the rose garden in the courtyard of Ghorepani's Tukuche View Hotel. And the view really was something else: not just Tukuche, but also Himchul, Niligiri, Dhaulagiri and many of the Annapurnas. Seriously awesome.
People were telling us, though, that the view was EVEN BETTER up at the top of the hill.
Not just any hill, either; this is Poon Hill, and that's one of the most awesome place names ever.
So we went, and it was a bit like climbing Mount Maunganui in terms of steepness and stairsness, and then at the top the views were indescribably stunning.
Awesomeness.
Spectacularity.
Mountains on all sides, draped in golden late-afternoon sunlight.
The only thing that could have made it better would have been a homo-erotic photo-session romp starring a near-elderly Japanese man and his young Nepali guide. And then we got EXACTLY THAT, and our lives were complete.
Then we watched the sunset, and that kicked it up another notch.
Poon Hill rules.
* = "Runners" may not be quite the right word for some of them; "mincers," maybe, or "hobblers."
** = Apart from poor countries, countries on the non-Amerikan side of a war, hot countries, or countries where wearing lycra in public gets you stoned (and not in the "fields of marijuana" sense of the phrase). Basically it was Amerikans, Canadialanders, Orstralianuses, Japaneezers, and assorted Euromonkeys. The intertubes says there were a few random SAmerikans and some SAfrikaaaaaants as well.
*** = That's a cuddle where one or more of the participants is a baby goat. Didn't want to call it a kid cuddle.
We walk from Shikha to Ghorepani, then up Poon Hill.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 19 = 3:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 95:00
Beer Time = 22:00
Long Version:
Shikha Morning:
Incredible views of Dhaulagiri and Tukuche mountains scraping the first light out of the sky as we dress and pack and head into the dining room not long before 0700.
Closer to hand, we watch the village wake up as we eat; sleepy-faced people and animals are emerging from their (sometimes shared) niches; the sounds and smells of village life begin to manifest...
...and then around the corner from the low end of the main street: hundreds of marathoners. Not en masse; one by one initially, then clumps, then bigger clumps building to a constant stream then tailing off to less and less-comfortable-looking solo runners* towards the back of the field.
Horses and buffalo emerging from their night-time accommodation win the battle with the runners for trail space, mainly through sheer mass. This is entertaining viewing.
One of the last runners comes in to the hotel for emergency poopage.
********
Lycra-clad ultra-fitness nuts safely past, we set off.
Uphill.
Up many, many stone stairs.
It wasn't long before we passed the race sweepers, one of whom was only too happy to furnish information about Racing the Planet: Nepal, which saw two hundred and some extreme masochists from all over the world** take part in a seven-day, six-Stage, 250 kilometer, self-supported endurance foot race. The "self-supported" bit means they had to carry all their crap, including sleeping bags, mattress pads, clothes, and food for the day. No food was to be purchased along the way; the competitors were only to consume foodstuffs they'd started the day carrying. We spoke to one racer (the pooper) who had been threatened with a time penalty for buying and eating a Mars bar on Day Two. He wasn't too worried, as he was 3rd-to-last at the time. He also said that he planned "...never drink ten pints and agree to anything like this ever again..." (Yes, he was English).
We passed several backmarkers throughout the morning, repassing some after stopping for baby goat cuddles***. We then got to cheer them on as they passed the table where we'd parked ourselves to eat chocolate and pizza and momos in the sunshine next to the rose garden in the courtyard of Ghorepani's Tukuche View Hotel. And the view really was something else: not just Tukuche, but also Himchul, Niligiri, Dhaulagiri and many of the Annapurnas. Seriously awesome.
People were telling us, though, that the view was EVEN BETTER up at the top of the hill.
Not just any hill, either; this is Poon Hill, and that's one of the most awesome place names ever.
So we went, and it was a bit like climbing Mount Maunganui in terms of steepness and stairsness, and then at the top the views were indescribably stunning.
Awesomeness.
Spectacularity.
Mountains on all sides, draped in golden late-afternoon sunlight.
The only thing that could have made it better would have been a homo-erotic photo-session romp starring a near-elderly Japanese man and his young Nepali guide. And then we got EXACTLY THAT, and our lives were complete.
Then we watched the sunset, and that kicked it up another notch.
Poon Hill rules.
* = "Runners" may not be quite the right word for some of them; "mincers," maybe, or "hobblers."
** = Apart from poor countries, countries on the non-Amerikan side of a war, hot countries, or countries where wearing lycra in public gets you stoned (and not in the "fields of marijuana" sense of the phrase). Basically it was Amerikans, Canadialanders, Orstralianuses, Japaneezers, and assorted Euromonkeys. The intertubes says there were a few random SAmerikans and some SAfrikaaaaaants as well.
*** = That's a cuddle where one or more of the participants is a baby goat. Didn't want to call it a kid cuddle.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Eat Your Way to Freedom
Short Version:
We walk from Tatopani to Shikha. Children sell us greens at exorbitant prices.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 18 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 91:30
Beer Time = 34:30
Long Version:
Tatopani Morning:
Amerikan man at next table, arriving just before we leave, requests "real coffee." A plunger is brought to his table. We are envious, although this morning's unreal coffee was significantly better than some of the watery filth we've encountered.
The sun is bathing the tops of the Niligiri peaks. The Mongolian Horde across the way is taking photographs of it.
********
We've managed to get ourselves a day ahead of where we were supposed to be so we lined up a short day of walking... which meant a sleep-in and a late start! Once underway, we had a brief roadwalk, punctuated by multitudes of uniformed schoolchildren heading the other direction, towards the regional high school. One nicely-presented young chap sold Janine some not-orange oranges; the citrus here never changes exterior color, although the flesh inside still tastes deliciously ripe and delicious.
We crossed the river on a wobbly suspension bridge that, had we encountered it a couple of weeks back, would have given us the willies. We hardly noticed it. We did notice the accretionist building on the far side though - it looked like house had been built upon house a number of times, creating a teetering monstrosity that looked like a drawing out of a children's picture book brought to life. An architectural movement waiting to happen.
Can you guess what direction we walked next?
If you guessed "Up," you were right! Ten points Ravenclaw!
We were preceded up the steep stone stairs by a couple with a baby in a backpack, and we were walking against a growing tide of orange-vending schoolchildren coming downhill. Nene and Uzir bought more green oranges, from assorted more-or-less cute kids, at variously-inflated (for Nene) or REALLY LOW (Uzir) prices. One kid tried a Puppet-oriented green orange sales pitch. Bad idea. No sale. Same for the scaryweird cleaver-wielding marijuana salesman.
At one point our rapid uphill progress* was blocked by a sizeable herd of mules. Muleherds were nowhere to be seen. What WAS to be seen was an increasingly-irate little old mad lady, stuck on the uphill side. The muleherds appeared from the woods at roadside as we were encouraging the beasties to move aside by hitting them with sticks. The madwoman scolded them mightily in Nepali. They mocked her. She became angrier. Not sure if her eyes look in different directions all the time or only when she's feeling murderous. Suspect the milky, blind eye is milky and blind all the time, but don't actually have proof.
The stairs we'd been climbing were irregularly-spaced, different heights, and made of a bunch of different types of rock, including huge slabs of marble which had been polished smooth by the passage of thousands of boots. At times it felt like we were strolling around on some incredibly wealthy personage's kitchen countertop.
And then we reached the top of the steepest stair-section yet, rolling into Shikha, to yet another Moonlight Guesthouse** in time for beer-enhanced lunch in the sun on the roof, followed by book-reading and yak-watching and mountain-ogling and chillie-eating followed by sugar-eating, which actually made the worst of the mouth-inferno go away! There was a hibiscus growing outside the dining room window, and ears of corn hung from widows and eaves of many of the village buildings. the village seemed prosperous, with well-fed, healthy-looking people going about their business, and animals galore, from buffalo, horses and cows through goats and chickens galore. Many chickens were kept under upturned baskets, although at one point we espied a chicken chasing a chicken chasing a pigeon. We also saw a herd of baby goats which had been placed in a large basket attempting to eat their way out of confinement, with some success.
The guesthouse didn't just have a hibiscus growing outside; it had plastic hibiscus flowers in several of the communal areas as well. And it had an awesome array of posters, including a mutant-looking tiger using its massive claws to rip bloody channels in the flanks of a mutant-looking fleeing deer (in the stairwell between the first and second floors) and the Effiel Tower (sic) superimposed atop a background that included Mount Fuji. It also had no guests other than us, which is great when you want your popcorn soon, and for getting to chat to the lodgefolks, but probably not so great from the perspective of the continued fiscal solvency of the hotel.
Later, apple pies. Not a typo; pies. Plural. Nom nom nom nom nom.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 18:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = The requirement for walking bestarde no longer in force after the high pass crossing at Thorong La
** = Not a chain of affiliated Moonlight Guesthouses, just samenamed random hotels.
We walk from Tatopani to Shikha. Children sell us greens at exorbitant prices.
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 18 = 3:00
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 91:30
Beer Time = 34:30
Long Version:
Tatopani Morning:
Amerikan man at next table, arriving just before we leave, requests "real coffee." A plunger is brought to his table. We are envious, although this morning's unreal coffee was significantly better than some of the watery filth we've encountered.
The sun is bathing the tops of the Niligiri peaks. The Mongolian Horde across the way is taking photographs of it.
********
We've managed to get ourselves a day ahead of where we were supposed to be so we lined up a short day of walking... which meant a sleep-in and a late start! Once underway, we had a brief roadwalk, punctuated by multitudes of uniformed schoolchildren heading the other direction, towards the regional high school. One nicely-presented young chap sold Janine some not-orange oranges; the citrus here never changes exterior color, although the flesh inside still tastes deliciously ripe and delicious.
We crossed the river on a wobbly suspension bridge that, had we encountered it a couple of weeks back, would have given us the willies. We hardly noticed it. We did notice the accretionist building on the far side though - it looked like house had been built upon house a number of times, creating a teetering monstrosity that looked like a drawing out of a children's picture book brought to life. An architectural movement waiting to happen.
Can you guess what direction we walked next?
If you guessed "Up," you were right! Ten points Ravenclaw!
We were preceded up the steep stone stairs by a couple with a baby in a backpack, and we were walking against a growing tide of orange-vending schoolchildren coming downhill. Nene and Uzir bought more green oranges, from assorted more-or-less cute kids, at variously-inflated (for Nene) or REALLY LOW (Uzir) prices. One kid tried a Puppet-oriented green orange sales pitch. Bad idea. No sale. Same for the scaryweird cleaver-wielding marijuana salesman.
At one point our rapid uphill progress* was blocked by a sizeable herd of mules. Muleherds were nowhere to be seen. What WAS to be seen was an increasingly-irate little old mad lady, stuck on the uphill side. The muleherds appeared from the woods at roadside as we were encouraging the beasties to move aside by hitting them with sticks. The madwoman scolded them mightily in Nepali. They mocked her. She became angrier. Not sure if her eyes look in different directions all the time or only when she's feeling murderous. Suspect the milky, blind eye is milky and blind all the time, but don't actually have proof.
The stairs we'd been climbing were irregularly-spaced, different heights, and made of a bunch of different types of rock, including huge slabs of marble which had been polished smooth by the passage of thousands of boots. At times it felt like we were strolling around on some incredibly wealthy personage's kitchen countertop.
And then we reached the top of the steepest stair-section yet, rolling into Shikha, to yet another Moonlight Guesthouse** in time for beer-enhanced lunch in the sun on the roof, followed by book-reading and yak-watching and mountain-ogling and chillie-eating followed by sugar-eating, which actually made the worst of the mouth-inferno go away! There was a hibiscus growing outside the dining room window, and ears of corn hung from widows and eaves of many of the village buildings. the village seemed prosperous, with well-fed, healthy-looking people going about their business, and animals galore, from buffalo, horses and cows through goats and chickens galore. Many chickens were kept under upturned baskets, although at one point we espied a chicken chasing a chicken chasing a pigeon. We also saw a herd of baby goats which had been placed in a large basket attempting to eat their way out of confinement, with some success.
The guesthouse didn't just have a hibiscus growing outside; it had plastic hibiscus flowers in several of the communal areas as well. And it had an awesome array of posters, including a mutant-looking tiger using its massive claws to rip bloody channels in the flanks of a mutant-looking fleeing deer (in the stairwell between the first and second floors) and the Effiel Tower (sic) superimposed atop a background that included Mount Fuji. It also had no guests other than us, which is great when you want your popcorn soon, and for getting to chat to the lodgefolks, but probably not so great from the perspective of the continued fiscal solvency of the hotel.
Later, apple pies. Not a typo; pies. Plural. Nom nom nom nom nom.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 18:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = The requirement for walking bestarde no longer in force after the high pass crossing at Thorong La
** = Not a chain of affiliated Moonlight Guesthouses, just samenamed random hotels.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The Future is Now! (wait a minute... no it's not, it's in THE FUTURE)
Short Version:
We walk from Larjung to Tatopani. Hot pool action!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 17 = 7:45
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 88:30
Beer Time = 39:30
Long Version:
Larjung Morning, Take II:
Another early start, and once again friendly lodge staff bustle about as we sterilise water and eat our delicious eggy breakfast.
The two highest peaks of Dhaulagiri are catching the first sunlight as we set off.
********
Our preference for not-road walking meant that instead of heading south out of town down the road we went east, across the valley and the river's several branches, and into the forest, where we meandered our way along, and up, and down, and and up, and along, and etc throughout most of the early morning.
Mid-morning saw us back on the west side of the river, perched on stone walls outside a lodge, eating cookies and listening to two Nepali women arguing inside. We'd been asked if we wanted to go in for a cup of tea, but the disagreement was quite vehement, and the day was nice, so we stayed where we were, feeding bits of biscuit to the chickens, and the occasional whole cookie to the retarded man who wandered over to join us.
And then we were off again, through villages large and small, wealthy and not, crossing and recrossing the river, which had dropped away from the long wide upper valley and into a steep gorge filled with cream-and-green boulders.
We stopped for lunch at a lodge near the base of a huge waterfall that poured over the western cliff and into the gorge, and sat in the sun beneath a tamarillo tree as a waiter in a Misfits t-shirt took our order. Kind of idyllic, until the sun dropped behind the lip of the cliff, and the cook came and stood next to us to conduct a shouted conversation with her friends on the other side of the river, and the "potato rosty w egg" arrived with no egg but with extra rubberiness. Nene's egg drop soup* was good though, and seeing the old bloke getting his gnarled and twisted legs massaged by younger women was a neat peek into the future.
We walked the sunny side of the river all afternoon, past schools and temples and lodges, past oranges and buckwheat growing, past millet and beans drying, past beehives made from hollowed logs with mud-cemented endcaps, past a petrol-powered rice-mill machine - vastly different from what we'd seen way back in Bahundallah! - and past villages of all shapes and sizes. One village had the main trail winding right past the doorsteps and through the front yards of the homes, which was kind of odd.
We learned how to say "lizard"**.
And then we were crossing the river on one last rickety bridge, and making our way down the main street of Tatopani*** to our lodge, where we spent just enough time to stare out our room window at the massive group of identically-clad East Asians - including a dwarf - who'd overrun the lodge across the street and to get ourselves prepped for our eagerly- and long-awaited trip to the Tatopani Hot Springs.
Unfortunately, the asshat Israelis reappeared not long after we arrived.
Fortunately, they got into the other pool, which put them out of earshot, and hidden from view by the central fountain thing at which various porters and guides were bathing; lots of suds, some undies, occasional nudity. One of the undies-clad ones looked like a cross between Stop-era Perry Farrell and modern-day Lote Tuqiri.
We lounged for a couple of hours, drinking beer and enjoying the soak, then dried off and walked home, past the Bob Marley bar and past the men watching old pro-wrestling footage of Andre the Giant on a tiny TV in a semi-closed grocery store.
Cheese-bean burrito and salami pizza and early to bed.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 1
Beer Time = 31:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = Soup (tomato, this time) with an egg cracked into it.
** = Chaparro
*** = "Hot Water"
We walk from Larjung to Tatopani. Hot pool action!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 17 = 7:45
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 88:30
Beer Time = 39:30
Long Version:
Larjung Morning, Take II:
Another early start, and once again friendly lodge staff bustle about as we sterilise water and eat our delicious eggy breakfast.
The two highest peaks of Dhaulagiri are catching the first sunlight as we set off.
********
Our preference for not-road walking meant that instead of heading south out of town down the road we went east, across the valley and the river's several branches, and into the forest, where we meandered our way along, and up, and down, and and up, and along, and etc throughout most of the early morning.
Mid-morning saw us back on the west side of the river, perched on stone walls outside a lodge, eating cookies and listening to two Nepali women arguing inside. We'd been asked if we wanted to go in for a cup of tea, but the disagreement was quite vehement, and the day was nice, so we stayed where we were, feeding bits of biscuit to the chickens, and the occasional whole cookie to the retarded man who wandered over to join us.
And then we were off again, through villages large and small, wealthy and not, crossing and recrossing the river, which had dropped away from the long wide upper valley and into a steep gorge filled with cream-and-green boulders.
We stopped for lunch at a lodge near the base of a huge waterfall that poured over the western cliff and into the gorge, and sat in the sun beneath a tamarillo tree as a waiter in a Misfits t-shirt took our order. Kind of idyllic, until the sun dropped behind the lip of the cliff, and the cook came and stood next to us to conduct a shouted conversation with her friends on the other side of the river, and the "potato rosty w egg" arrived with no egg but with extra rubberiness. Nene's egg drop soup* was good though, and seeing the old bloke getting his gnarled and twisted legs massaged by younger women was a neat peek into the future.
We walked the sunny side of the river all afternoon, past schools and temples and lodges, past oranges and buckwheat growing, past millet and beans drying, past beehives made from hollowed logs with mud-cemented endcaps, past a petrol-powered rice-mill machine - vastly different from what we'd seen way back in Bahundallah! - and past villages of all shapes and sizes. One village had the main trail winding right past the doorsteps and through the front yards of the homes, which was kind of odd.
We learned how to say "lizard"**.
And then we were crossing the river on one last rickety bridge, and making our way down the main street of Tatopani*** to our lodge, where we spent just enough time to stare out our room window at the massive group of identically-clad East Asians - including a dwarf - who'd overrun the lodge across the street and to get ourselves prepped for our eagerly- and long-awaited trip to the Tatopani Hot Springs.
Unfortunately, the asshat Israelis reappeared not long after we arrived.
Fortunately, they got into the other pool, which put them out of earshot, and hidden from view by the central fountain thing at which various porters and guides were bathing; lots of suds, some undies, occasional nudity. One of the undies-clad ones looked like a cross between Stop-era Perry Farrell and modern-day Lote Tuqiri.
We lounged for a couple of hours, drinking beer and enjoying the soak, then dried off and walked home, past the Bob Marley bar and past the men watching old pro-wrestling footage of Andre the Giant on a tiny TV in a semi-closed grocery store.
Cheese-bean burrito and salami pizza and early to bed.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 1
Beer Time = 31:30
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = Soup (tomato, this time) with an egg cracked into it.
** = Chaparro
*** = "Hot Water"
Monday, January 16, 2012
Ascent of the White Mountain
Short Version:
We walk up a big hill, and back down again. Yak v dog: Yak wins! Yak v Uzir: Uzir wins!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 16 = 8:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 80:45
Beer Time = 47:45
Long Version:
Larjung Morning:
In direct contrast to yesterday's leisurely start, today we're up at 0545 after a fitful night's sleep.
Barbie Girl by 90s Danish one-hit-wonder pop group Aqua plays softly on the radio as we eat breakfast and sterilise water.
No other tourists are awake; it's just us and a whole bunch of Nepali folks, who are scurrying about doing the stuff that people in service industries do when the people they're paid to service are not around. It's an interesting glimpse into a world that overlays ours.
We're out of the lodge and heading downvalley by 0630. Stars, mountains, cold.
********
The mountain called Dhaulagiri had been largely behind clouds as we travelled down the valley the day before. Every so often the cloud would clear, and we'd get a glimpse of its looming immensity. It's pretty big: 7th-highest in the world at 8,167m. We decided to walk up it.
First, though, we had to walk along the road, where we acquired a dog. Then we had to walk up the wrong trail a little bit, and crash through bushes and down a small cliff to get back to the road near the start of the right trail. Then we walked up, through forest and across open, grassy slopes, to a field of poo with a wonderful view. A small cottage lurked at the top end of the field. We broke in, a little bit, and looked at the stuff inside. Based on possessions, the inhabitants were not particularly wealthy. Having said that, they might have had lots of love in their lives, you never know. And they really did have a spectacular view; poo, stretching away to the edge of the high plateau. And then an enormous, gorgeous mountain that filled the rest of the eyespace; the Nilgiri Himal, which is a group of three high peaks agglomerated together to form one whopping great big hunk of impressiveness.
Then we walked up a near-vertical face for a while. Notes say:
Up.
More up.
Snow patches. Some thrown.
Up. Steep. Tired legs. Slippery bits.
Reach snowline after many yaks.
Neither the "Up"/"Steep" comments nor the "many yaks" one really convey the full extent of their subjects; it really was blimmin steep, and if we hadn't shaken sticks at the yaks I'd be saying that there were more yaks than you could shake a stick at*. As it was, though, stick-shaking was necessary in order to proceed up past the seasonal yakherd houses, currently inhabited not by yakherds but by yaks.
Yaks!
Big yaks, small yaks,
Yaks of white, yaks of black.
Yaks on knolls, yaks in dells,
Yaks with horns, yaks with bells.
Yaks up high, yaks down low,
In the houses, in the snow.
Serious, extreme yakkage, and we blundered right into the middle of it. It was like we'd rounded a corner and found ourselves in the middle of a loosely-agglomerated convocation of grumpy behemoths. Scratch that; it wasn't LIKE that, it WAS that. And, just as you'd expect from any group of big, tetchy critters, one of them moved to block our path, and made grumbly noises.
Fortunately, our new dog was on the case, growling throatily at the big lummox** and baring an impressive array of toothy weaponry.
Unfortunately, the yak agitator was singularly unimpressed.
Fortunately, Uzir was on the case, yelling mightily and brandishing a big stick. That sent the lead yak's impressedness rating rocketing from none to some, and when Uzir leaped at the yak, swinging his stick in a serious "I'm attempting to hit you" manner, the yak bailed.
Hail Uzir, banisher of yakky aggressors!
Path clear, we were free to keep going. Up.
Grass/Rock/Dirt with patches of snow gave way to snow with patches of grass/rock/dirt, and then the bald spots ceased and we were slogging through shin-deep snow up one last major pitch to a ridgeline where we fixed the fallen sign:
Dhaulagiri Icefall Viewpoint: 3900m
Less than halfway to the summit, we'd reached the bottom of the huge icefall that spills down from the shoulder of the mountain that suddenly filled half the sky ahead of us. Victory is ours! We danced around a little bit in the snow, then parked ourselves in one of the roofless houses scattered around the flat spot where ridge meet massif to eat boiled eggs and chapatis.
Best lunch ever!
The post-lunch snowfight was pretty awesome also, especially when handfuls of snow were dumped down the back of Janine's pants. How we all*** laughed: Ha ha ha!
Then we walked back down. Took a lot less time than the walk up. Featured snow-throwing until the snow disappeared. Then featured yak-dung-throwing, which was all fun and games until someone (Nene) hit someone else (Puppet) in the face with a robust chunk, engendering a PuppetSulk that lasted down the steepest pitches, past the grovelly cottage and its returned inhabitants, past the found sunglasses that made Ganga look like an elderly Japanese woman, and through to the first of the small lakes nestled amongst fields of bhang and thistles and ferns.
And then we got a bit lost, and Uzir climbed down a cliff that the rest of us went around, and we found a holy lake where praying for rain happens, and where Nene really should have stopped the dog chasing the endangered nesting birds.
And then we hit the road, and the dog went home, and we found Uzir, and we reached Larjung and the lodge and the beer and the popcorn as the last of the sun disappeared behind Dhaulagiri, which we'd just climbed, but not all the way to the top like Eva Martinez did in 2007, making her the first Mexican woman to reach the summit.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 31:45
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = No-one really knows whence came this expression, but the term slush fund can be traced back to the olden days, like the early 1800s, when fried salt pork was a staple food aboard ships. At the end of a voyage, the grease at the bottom of the pork barrel, called "slush," was sold to candle and soap makers. The money usually helped provide little extras that the crew couldn't otherwise afford, hence the term "slush fund." After the U.S. Civil War, the term was applied to a contingency fund set aside by Congress, outside of the regular operating budget, that was often used for bribes and other corrupt purposes.
** = Not actually a type of ox, and not a Dr Seuss critter; a lummox is a clumsy person, possibly derived from a lommock, which is a large chunk of food from the 1800s
*** = May not have included Nene
We walk up a big hill, and back down again. Yak v dog: Yak wins! Yak v Uzir: Uzir wins!
Stats:
Total Walk Time Day 16 = 8:30
Cumulative Total Walk Time = 80:45
Beer Time = 47:45
Long Version:
Larjung Morning:
In direct contrast to yesterday's leisurely start, today we're up at 0545 after a fitful night's sleep.
Barbie Girl by 90s Danish one-hit-wonder pop group Aqua plays softly on the radio as we eat breakfast and sterilise water.
No other tourists are awake; it's just us and a whole bunch of Nepali folks, who are scurrying about doing the stuff that people in service industries do when the people they're paid to service are not around. It's an interesting glimpse into a world that overlays ours.
We're out of the lodge and heading downvalley by 0630. Stars, mountains, cold.
********
The mountain called Dhaulagiri had been largely behind clouds as we travelled down the valley the day before. Every so often the cloud would clear, and we'd get a glimpse of its looming immensity. It's pretty big: 7th-highest in the world at 8,167m. We decided to walk up it.
First, though, we had to walk along the road, where we acquired a dog. Then we had to walk up the wrong trail a little bit, and crash through bushes and down a small cliff to get back to the road near the start of the right trail. Then we walked up, through forest and across open, grassy slopes, to a field of poo with a wonderful view. A small cottage lurked at the top end of the field. We broke in, a little bit, and looked at the stuff inside. Based on possessions, the inhabitants were not particularly wealthy. Having said that, they might have had lots of love in their lives, you never know. And they really did have a spectacular view; poo, stretching away to the edge of the high plateau. And then an enormous, gorgeous mountain that filled the rest of the eyespace; the Nilgiri Himal, which is a group of three high peaks agglomerated together to form one whopping great big hunk of impressiveness.
Then we walked up a near-vertical face for a while. Notes say:
Up.
More up.
Snow patches. Some thrown.
Up. Steep. Tired legs. Slippery bits.
Reach snowline after many yaks.
Neither the "Up"/"Steep" comments nor the "many yaks" one really convey the full extent of their subjects; it really was blimmin steep, and if we hadn't shaken sticks at the yaks I'd be saying that there were more yaks than you could shake a stick at*. As it was, though, stick-shaking was necessary in order to proceed up past the seasonal yakherd houses, currently inhabited not by yakherds but by yaks.
Yaks!
Big yaks, small yaks,
Yaks of white, yaks of black.
Yaks on knolls, yaks in dells,
Yaks with horns, yaks with bells.
Yaks up high, yaks down low,
In the houses, in the snow.
Serious, extreme yakkage, and we blundered right into the middle of it. It was like we'd rounded a corner and found ourselves in the middle of a loosely-agglomerated convocation of grumpy behemoths. Scratch that; it wasn't LIKE that, it WAS that. And, just as you'd expect from any group of big, tetchy critters, one of them moved to block our path, and made grumbly noises.
Fortunately, our new dog was on the case, growling throatily at the big lummox** and baring an impressive array of toothy weaponry.
Unfortunately, the yak agitator was singularly unimpressed.
Fortunately, Uzir was on the case, yelling mightily and brandishing a big stick. That sent the lead yak's impressedness rating rocketing from none to some, and when Uzir leaped at the yak, swinging his stick in a serious "I'm attempting to hit you" manner, the yak bailed.
Hail Uzir, banisher of yakky aggressors!
Path clear, we were free to keep going. Up.
Grass/Rock/Dirt with patches of snow gave way to snow with patches of grass/rock/dirt, and then the bald spots ceased and we were slogging through shin-deep snow up one last major pitch to a ridgeline where we fixed the fallen sign:
Dhaulagiri Icefall Viewpoint: 3900m
Less than halfway to the summit, we'd reached the bottom of the huge icefall that spills down from the shoulder of the mountain that suddenly filled half the sky ahead of us. Victory is ours! We danced around a little bit in the snow, then parked ourselves in one of the roofless houses scattered around the flat spot where ridge meet massif to eat boiled eggs and chapatis.
Best lunch ever!
The post-lunch snowfight was pretty awesome also, especially when handfuls of snow were dumped down the back of Janine's pants. How we all*** laughed: Ha ha ha!
Then we walked back down. Took a lot less time than the walk up. Featured snow-throwing until the snow disappeared. Then featured yak-dung-throwing, which was all fun and games until someone (Nene) hit someone else (Puppet) in the face with a robust chunk, engendering a PuppetSulk that lasted down the steepest pitches, past the grovelly cottage and its returned inhabitants, past the found sunglasses that made Ganga look like an elderly Japanese woman, and through to the first of the small lakes nestled amongst fields of bhang and thistles and ferns.
And then we got a bit lost, and Uzir climbed down a cliff that the rest of us went around, and we found a holy lake where praying for rain happens, and where Nene really should have stopped the dog chasing the endangered nesting birds.
And then we hit the road, and the dog went home, and we found Uzir, and we reached Larjung and the lodge and the beer and the popcorn as the last of the sun disappeared behind Dhaulagiri, which we'd just climbed, but not all the way to the top like Eva Martinez did in 2007, making her the first Mexican woman to reach the summit.
Beer Stats:
Beer Drunk = 2
Beer Time = 31:45
Time to Next Beer = 0:00
* = No-one really knows whence came this expression, but the term slush fund can be traced back to the olden days, like the early 1800s, when fried salt pork was a staple food aboard ships. At the end of a voyage, the grease at the bottom of the pork barrel, called "slush," was sold to candle and soap makers. The money usually helped provide little extras that the crew couldn't otherwise afford, hence the term "slush fund." After the U.S. Civil War, the term was applied to a contingency fund set aside by Congress, outside of the regular operating budget, that was often used for bribes and other corrupt purposes.
** = Not actually a type of ox, and not a Dr Seuss critter; a lummox is a clumsy person, possibly derived from a lommock, which is a large chunk of food from the 1800s
*** = May not have included Nene
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)