Nepal & trekking to Tibet

26/7/2007

Flying in a small aircraft knowing that the entire length of the Himalaya lay just beneath the thick voluminous cloud layer was surreal until I saw the proud peak of Everest jutting through the white cover. I had heard from friends and read about the awesomeness of this sight in the book “into thin air”. Yet words, no matter how descriptive can give justice to the magnificence of Everest. It is no wonder that brave men and women of spirit are drawn to it, and that the Nepalese recognize it as a holy mountain. It has a presence that tears at the heart and seemingly expands the mind.

While still lost in my love affair with the endless Himalaya, the blue of the sky, the turbulent clouds and Everest, I sped into Katmandu in the back of a Jeep that was to drive us to the Katmandu guest House in the city centre. Katmandu! The name itself already pulled my mind towards the exotic. It’s a busy, made-up town with endless little shops selling clothes, food, Thankas, stone wok, Tibetan-Nepali antiques & relics of Buddha. Temples and monuments dedicated to the Hindu Gods and Buddha dominate.

Huge imposing monuments built in layers offer relief to the hectic business of the narrow shop laden & people packed streets. Dubar Square is awesome and the Kumar House where the living Child Goddess is housed is fascinating. For me as a Westerner the whole concept is so foreign it seems tragic. Here a child, who is ordained as a reincarnation of a Goddess is housed until she reaches adulthood. She is dressed in fancy regalia for her entire life and paraded for the spiritual entertainment of the people. The Nepalese however, view this as a sacred honour and a duty to the faith of the community.

The modern palace for the king is hideous. The architecture plain, glass and concrete – nothing ornate and in keeping with the intricate Nepalese monuments of worship. It is in keeping though with the disillusionment the people have of royalty. Especially after the slaughter of almost the entire royal family by the crown prince in 2001. The history Nepalese royal throne is covered in blood, betrayal, immorality and intrigue.

The eclectic mix of Buddhism and Hinduism in Katmandu is fascinating; where Buddha is revered, Shiva is worshipped. There seem to be no boundaries; dress, ritual and beliefs blend into each other. Most of the temples though remind me of India and seem to have Hindi influence. A huge colourful effigy of the angry destroyer God, an aspect of Tibetan Buddhists beliefs, dominates a part of the Dubar Square where candles and grains are continually offered to appease him. The 3 of us lighted butter lamp to the destroyer God to appease the Gods asking for a safe journey in the mountains.

(This imposing ugly effigy was used by the police of old to get prisoners to tell the truth – simply by dragging them in front of his menacing face.)

My first impression of the Kathmandu valley was seeing a maze of 2/3/-5 story buildings covering every possible inch of land as far as the eye could see. It has 1.3 million people and the once beautiful green valley (past 30 years ago) has now been replaced by brown adobe and concrete blocks. From the air, I could not see any residential houses or separate dwellings – there are no pools or parks to break the monotony of the true concrete jungle.

Initially I felt more foreign in Katmandu than in India as I found the hawkers more aggressive and the people unsmiling. Yet within 3 days I discovered the softness behind the poker faces. The real problem was that season was over and we were very often the only western faces on the streets. A huge relief to me was the silence of the dogs at night. In fact the noise of the whole town miraculously subsides by 10pm and doesn’t arise until well past sunrise: quiet the opposite to India where I was used to folk up by 4am! There are very few beggars as the government discourages it but hawkers and drug peddlers abound. I was sad to see endless bars and alcohol shops, the damage of tourism. I wandered down “Freak” Street, the hangout of the hippies of the 60’s and 70’s with its street cafes and dark backrooms. We stopped for lunch at Rose’s and we heard that the hippies that arrived in the 60’s had never left, they stayed and hence their influence remained. Apparently they used to sit for hours smoking dope in this street – I saw a place called “Bong” House selling many “decorative” glass “vases”. We were surreptitiously offered hash and marijuana daily by local young men in the street.

We took a cab on the last evening to the large Stupa the Buddahana on the outskirts of town. Now I understand the word “awestruck”. The thousands of Buddhists walking the Kora, the hundreds prostrating, the depths of faith and worship, created an incredible atmosphere. I could sense that this ancient practice was supported by a long tradition. It is overwhelming to experience the almost tangible presence of compassion and belief. The Tibetan presence is huge, the colours, thankas, the monks, the flags everywhere; candles being lit, bells rang, chants, prayer wheels and beads used as ‘om mani padme hum’ is chanted rhythmically.

I moved tingling into myself
The world within alive
Pulsating with swollen energy
I was dizzy with worship

The collective praise embraced me in peace
In joy, in inexplicable love
I sat still yet dynamic inside

Light bright yet full
‘Anicca’, ‘anicca’,
yet so, so alluring,
so joyful and expanding
I am happy with the praise of many.

27/6/2007

We left Katmandu, gray at 8am for the tiny airport and there we were told 30 minutes more than four times as the rain pelted down. Finally, after 2 hours we boarded the oldest Caravan plane I have ever seen along with cargo, potato bags and other sacks inside! We took off smoothly and then wound our way through mountain valley, after mountain valley. Flying below the peaks with cotton wool cloud formations. The most dramatic mountainscape I have ever seen. The clouds broke into pieces and then piled upon each other, stratus; then cumulonimbus. I was waiting for turbulence that never came and then the runway appeared perched upon the only flat piece of land amidst mountain peaks. Narrow and green – enough for a rough stony landing strip like those found in remote safari parks. ‘Yeti Air’ must train the best pilots in the world to maneuver and land on a sliver of land on the side of the mountain within a deep valley. We landed at Simikot, at 2910m, a tiny one horse mountain village that serviced the airstrip and traders on the Nepal-Tibet mountain track.

Our first lunch stop was in a simple adobe and wood homestead where our newly acquired cook Milan had found a room in which to cook.

We had tea in grand style as we 3 sat in a row on makeshift chairs. Michael, a hardened hiker although renowned in SA as a art dealer and gallery owner; Paul, a good looking personal trainer and yoga instrutor; and I, fresh from my beloved India. I took out first flush Indian Darjeeling tea leaves & mixed in some organic masala from Amma’s Ashram with sugar for hot sweet chai; and then surprised all with Soan Papadi, a beyond sweet and moreish Indian cookie – I found while departing from Delhi airport. The last of the treats and luxury for us to enjoy before our long 60km trek uphill through the Himalaya into Tibet
We were wearing our wooden malas, I had bought in Dharamsala from Tibetan traders in exile, ready to give away to Tibetans. I also had my protection “seeds” or mani repa which had been blessed by the Dalai Lama in the front pouch of my backpack.

Clouds of every form
Puffed and white, a concert of
Light and shadow with
Gray in dramatic contrast.
The mountain current wiping up
White, like cream and then
Throwing and swirling to create
Massive compositions of storm clouds

We made our way through a gnarled mountain valley which to me looked to me as large minatours, striated and jagged with its backbone twisting along the uppermost ridges.

The local Nepalese at our morning stop in Simikot had a strong Tibetan influence with the women adorned with chunky turquoise jewelry and long dresses with aprons. They were strong faced, staring, not approachable or friendly but clearly curious. It must be an isolated hard life of survival at this height.
29/6/2007

Trekking in the Himalayas is certainly not for a beginner. A year of training at least! After 3 days of trekking through deep valleys, across numerous rivers and climbing to 4330 metres, I may as well have entered the one week uphill mountainbike extreme: the Cape Epic!

The mountain peaks are always looming higher than our highest climb as we leave one valley and cross into the next. From the flight and the days of trekking I got a sense of the endless mountain peaks and valleys that makes up the himalaya and sculptures the whole of Nepal. No wonder it’s a country whose history has been relatively unscathed by the different invading Empires.

The first day trek was relatively easy – a 4 hour climb to our first campsite on a raised bank on the side of a very fast flowing and cold river. Each stop although marked on the map as a village, was just a place with maybe one or two dwellings. This was different to the Annapurna Circuit or the trek to Everest base camp because it was not a tourist route with ‘teahouses’, rather a trade route that had existed for centuries frequented by caravans of yak, goats or salt or barley traders traveling on foot or pony.

Darwa the Sherpa & Nepali guide always set about erecting our 2 tiny tents It is a remote riverside trail that follows the Karnali River passing remote mountainside villages, until we reach the Tibetan border and the town of Sher.

Not many westerners walk this trail and there are no facilities like tea houses or camping sites catering for western needs. This is wonderful as I feel that I am within the ambient mountain culture of Nepal. The downside is the Local curiosity, which is charming in the beginning but after many days of being stared at – it begins to wear a little thin and when I mean stared at I do not mean casually. When I sit down for tea there is always a mountain man who plonks himself down metre away and just stares. Or a group who stand and stare, watching every movement or action. Privacy is really rare and there’s never a loo nor a tap and the locals spend all their spare time (which they have a lot of ) staring at us. I have to bath in cold rivers so normally have to trek way out from everyone for just a moment of peace.

The villages we have passed through are amazing; some are Tibetan and others local. The Nepalese never being as neat and organised as the Tibetan villages. The children are always excited to see us and come running out of stone or dung houses – often double storey as grain or animals are kept in the ‘basement’. They normally say “hello-pen”. It seems Westerners are notorious for handing out pens.

One of the first Nepalese villages I walked through was built on a hillside where the various houses were terraced below one and another and built with each others wall as a support. There were at least twenty children running around in bedraggled clothes with dirty faces and matted hair. Yet, smiling and open with some enthusiastic to practise their English. They started pointing to my bag, saying “bag”, my hat – “hat” and so on. I often felt bedazzled by their energy & hazle or green oriental eyes appearing illuminous as they shone contrates by muddy faces. There is always something so alluring to me when bright light beauty contrasts with the mundane. Like a lone orchid displaying its perfection even in drought. There is some longing inside of me to reveal my own hidden uniquesness so often hidden because ‘its not appreciated.’ It’s a calling to shine even when unseen, yet its at the same time a hollow call about specialness. The way we are raised to constantly feel special. My need to be special, to find that special partner, that special talent. It breeds self importance and moulds narcissism. I think it was something the great teacher Jesus was highlighting. When he said: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit’; I think he was referring to humbleness. The opposite of parading as self important and so in touch with spirit. These children presented a harsh and hard lesson for me raised to believe in individuality and specialness with a need to have my beauty adored. It is hard for me to consider that all that I deem amazing and interesting or beautiful in me as a personality is actually irrelevant in the calling of going ‘home’ to ‘soul’ or ‘source.’ And here it was in the eyes of these children light up with fun and curiosity yet tinged with the reality of the harshness of survival for them.

I found a remarkable difference on the surface with the children as we got closer to Tibet and Tibetan colonies. The Nepali children in the first village were became a menace to Micheal as a whole gang grabbed and pulled with loud squeals and chants at every part of his body and pack. Which abruptly ended my self reflection.

The one Tibetan village was incredible, beautiful and well designed with cobbled paths, stone walls, fields of grain, barley and fruit trees. The houses were neat alpine style in stone thick wooden frames and windows with flat roofs. The houses were spread out amongst the fields and trees with clay painted stupas standing alone on the higher hills. They reminded every traveler of the need to keep their minds focused on holy omnipresence. Here, the children were all at school further down the slope and we witnessed from above a neat tin roofed school with the children performing a dance in the grounds.

Most people wear traditional Nepal or Tibetan dress, long skirts, striped aprons and collared shirts for the women with studs or necklaces and shiny ornate earrings. Almost every woman has a babe in arms or on her back – whether at home or working in the fields. And then suddenly, the contrast: a “hip” Tibetan teenage girl in jeans, t-shirt and track jacket although still industriously working on the mud drainage system with a hoe.

All the farming implements are archaic and most often it’s a wooden plough pulled by 2 yaks! Women use a hoe made of wood to loosen the soil while planting seeds. I also witnessed a barley harvest where some were cutting the crop with a sickle and other folk were beating the barley on the flat roof tops, separating chaff from wheat.

Enormous Wood piles are stacked in the under the eaves of houses or inside the basements ready for winter and daily cooking.

After walking through another Tibetan village and climbing again another 400 metres we came across a Tibetan monastery called Yalbang with a huge new white stupa outside. As we approached the front doors – it squeaked open as if welcoming us into the large courtyard. The wind had slowly blown the coloured wooden doors open. What greeted me was a large temple wonderfully ornate in Tibetan colours. On the stoop were many murals – scenes of Buddha’s life as well as large depictions of other Past and Future Buddhas and protective gods. Inside it was dank and cool with wooden floors in dark brown with red and green meditation benches filling the inner space. The alter had a huge yellow Buddha and other sculptures of other deities.

Along the length of the side walls were tiny box shelves full of holy texts wrapped in cloth. Books are traditionally not bound, with each long page separate and then collected together by a red silk cloth.

The walls were covered with murals and there were many butter lamps burning with two round bowls of offerings in the front full of fruit, grain and flowers. 7 Bowls of clean still water were laid at the feet of Buddha.

The Tibetan monks in maroon and yellow were welcoming and warm but spoke little English. We did discover that the monastery although seemingly ancient was only 24 years old but had many relics and pieces brought from a Kailash monastery that had been destroyed by the Chinese. The monk pointed to the Karnali River flowing strongly hundreds of meters down; telling me that she had her source at Kailash and the Holy Lake Manasorwa. Kailas, the Holy mountain called and I knew she was my real purpose for trekking into Tibet

The second night at ‘Sili’ was exceptionally beautiful. After walking for 25 kilometres up and up and down and up again we came to the top of a pass that dropped down the other side into a forest of pines and opened onto yet another river. The campsite was a bright patch of green amongst pines on a river. It was traditionally a stopping place for traders but here we were at last alone to enjoy the river and the magnificent surrounds.

I had a refreshing and happy wash in the fast flowing river and I even managed a good hair wash.

My normal routine: up at 5am just before sunup – meditate, pack up my things in the tent. Almost half an hour to digest my loads of Ayurvedic medicine (I had brought along from India), Tibetan altitude sickness herbs, electrolytes & general vitamins. Then dress in the same track pants with a T shirt freshly washed in the river the day before; roll up sleeping bag & secure back pack. Hop out of tent and stumble down to river to wash face and brush teeth. By 6:30am tea is ready on a ground sheet between our tents followed by oats and honey and a crude oily French toast made tasty with sugar and honey. Everything tastes and smells of the kerosene used for cooking.

We chat and spend at least ½ hour talking about our bowel movements. This has been excellent for me and finally got me over my anal problem. Must be my English upbringing but I have always avoided all debates about my bowels and of course I have had endless problems with my stomach, hence the ayurveda treatments. Then we all have to rush up to the bush with our toilet rolls! I have found a yoga ‘shoulder stand’ before breakfast most useful!

The ponies are then rounded up and our bags packed on 5 of them; the final load is left to a porter, who I marvel at everyday with his huge back straining against his head strap.

It’s really difficult getting used to a staff of 5 just for us 3. This is standard practice for trekking groups; the conditions are really harsh and the area remote so a fair amount of equipment and food is needed. It also supplies work to a whole community of people who survive of Nepals mountaineering tourism.

Only Dawa Sherpa and Milan the cook speak English and they are knowledgeable, efficient and super fit coming alive at high cold altitudes. We have along a local pony herder and porter who will only come as far as Sher, thereafter we will use yaks, a jeep and a truck at different stages in Tibet.

Michael, Paul and I gear up, after breakfast, taking a packed lunch and set off climbing a rough and sandy path that is often strewn with rocks and boulders. The ponies follow within an hour and usually catch up with me when I stop for a relaxing lazy lunch of biscuits, cheese and a chapatti, on the side of the track or next to a stream.

We generally walk separately out and I have wonderful times walking in the massive range of mountains on my own. It feels perfectly safe even though I often pass a group of rough looking herders and monstrous yaks with menacing sharp horns.

Once I stopped with Michael and Paul at a tumbling waterfall and in no time I was in my panties screaming and jumping beneath the freezing cold fall of water. The passing local traders found it more than amusing!
We usually make camp by 3-ish and I rush to the nearby river to wash really quickly because of curious locals and the freezing water
By then its cold and I jump into my tent, zip up to relax, stretch, read and write.

Supper of dahl, rice, chiapatti, whatever local vegetables could be found along the way is laid out on the ground sheet. Milan manages to produce meal varieties with ONE kerosene-cooker – somehow 4 hot pots come out at once. The porter, minus his load, enjoys singing which he does shyly with a smile of brown chipped teeth and warm twinkly eyes.

On the fourth night we have climbed up to yet another valley at 3500 metres next to one hut which seems to be a pit stop for the locals.
Two children watch us and chatter continually. They are very grubby with runny noses and big smiles but we are exhausted and disinterested company. Michael feels the altitude now and soon purges himself of his supper while the children stand and stare close up. I’m happy that I have taken the Tibetan herbal remedy and have walked slowly because Im still feeling chirpy. This night I meditate, in the silence for 45 minutes after supper and then write and read with my headlamp.

Tomorrow we climb 1000 metres to 4500 to a town Hilse just before Tibetan border.

My fitness is holding up for 26 kilometres a day uphill if I go at my own pace which is about 5 hours! I stop to take pictures and relax for an hour at lunch. Some days I took up to 7 hours to get to camp. I love the freedom of the mountain paths. The dramatic landscape is awe inspiring and I am absorbed by everything: the changing vegetation from green with black rock to sandstone to pine forests to endless waterfalls, streams and broad rivers. I love the blue-green skies, the hot clear days that often threaten rain in the afternoons with massive dark cumulonimbus cloudss. The birdlife and wildlife is scarce but I am entertained by goats that carry their own food or have hand sown bags of salt on their backs; Yaks with nose rings and earrings, ponies with crowns and ornate bridles.

My thoughts are clear & simple – I find myself thinking about past adventures in beautiful places. – The lone five day vision quest in the Cedarberg Mountains; beautiful Bali, Sailing in the Seychelles, diving in the Maldives, walking through the rain forest and the sun temples in Mexico, camel riding around the great pyramids in Egypt, swimming in tropical Mauritius, Boating up the Amazon, Climbing up sugarloaf in Rio, walking the desolate beaches of Agulus on the Whale Trail, Climbing in the Drakensburg, exploring the Tsitsikama coastal forest on the Otter Trail, absorbing the red rock of Sedona, driving through Big Sur and falling into the hot springs in the Vedanta Valley, and so on.
Gratitude floods me as I think of the most beautiful places in the world with their natural magnificence. I wonder if somehow I can draw just one breath of this beauty into my heart – my heart would burst with grace and I could share this expansiveness.

I have also entertained Michael, who I hardly know with some of the funny things I have done in my life: cabaret dancing, Miss Hobie International, the Scope magazine bikini calendar; my days of leading in winning race horses in hats and ‘skoene’.

He in turn has filled my hair with wild flowers everyday. We have laughed at each others camplaints. Michael for wanting more tasty light meals and me for asking for thinner chiapattis and orange dahl.

Mostly, my mind has been calm and steady. Hiking alone leaves me to sing Indian chants “ Siva Siva Siva Shambo……” or try out my newly learnt Sanskrit mantras: “om namo Narianaha; om mani padme hum; om aim sarasswati soha;”

1/7/2007 (Sunday)

Today we left our valley of Turang Gompa in the cold and mist and headed up and up. The visibility was poor and in no time even with slow step my breath was heaving. We left straight after breakfast which was not good for my digestion on a high altitude climb. So I went ultra slow in my P.J’s of fleece and long johns having been too lazyand cold to take them off when I woke up.

A wind was blowing at our backs and my progress up Naruhagna Pass to 4580m was slow but steady. I passed huge herds of goats carrying their grain and some salt for the traders. I fell in love with the goats with their strange shaped heads, different fuzzy hairstyles and horns.

Many of the herders were barefoot in Temperatures of 5-10 degrees celsius. I was lucky today as halfway up our cook Milan offered to take my pack allowing me to cruise up the climb to the top. We were welcomed by a huge cairn with Tibetan flags flapping with the wind and mist. More herders appeared from the mist with hundreds of goats making it a truly magical experience. We took a picture of all of us including the porter who seemed near collapse with his basket strapped to his head.

1/1-2/2007

In no time we were descending down 1000ms into the most dramatic valley – desolated and stony with large glaciers and stony avalanches. My first view of Tibet! The mountain range opposite me across the Kamali River, which becomes the Sacred Tsungpo in Tibet. I felt light and expanded and walked in awe of the height of the ranges around and the wonderful view across an open plain into Tibet with a tiny patch of green: the border town of Sher @ 3720ms.

We decided to take the short cut, straight down, skidding and sliding on dust, sand and stones, descending 800 metres in a no time.

Paul decided he was on a skateboard and as he started to zoom and twirl down something clicked in me to let go of all fears. Like a teenage running behind him, I also zigzagged and let the gravitational force drag me as I found my ‘skateboard’ rhythm. The dust kicked up thicker than the earlier mist. At the bottom, covered in dust yet panting with exhiliration, we came to the path next to the river. My first sighting was a chopped up dead animal already skinned and cooking on a fire with no cook in sight. Anything that dies is used immediately and I thought it was possibly a yak that fell or reached his last breath. The smell was overpowering. I was keen to walk on, remembering again the difficulty to survive in this rugged unforgiving landscape.

When I looked ahead I knew from experience that there would be no bathing in a populated frontier village. I was covered in dust, so I decided to strip and jump into the freezing cold river. I lasted literally 20 seconds. I couldn’t bring myself to go under the water which im sure was zero degrees! Colder than the Atlantic off Clifton beach in cape Town, for sure. My feet and legs went bright red and burnt. Of course Paul took up the challenge and attacked the water with me squealing because the river was flowing very fast – true white water. He jumped under twice and this got Michael up into the cold as well.

Arriving at Hilsa was sickening for me and I felt immediately irritable aswell as vulnerable. Our tents were already erected in a really dirty and dusty square patch, behind a low stone wall. The villagers looked dusty too and the village itself desolate, dry and windy. Everything was covered in a layer of dust even the inside of my tent! The tiny cooking room we rented from a villager was a charming Tibetan kitchen although dark with no windows causing it to smell of Yak butter and kerosene. Wooden benches were set against the wall in a ‘L’ shape and low bright red tables in front. The benches were covered with handmade Tibetan Yak wool carpets. The tiny light was powered by a small solar panel. On the walls were posters of erotic looking western women along side Buddhist symbols. Our cook got to work on the dung floor to make tea, with all our packaged and tinned food layed out beside him.

Our Tibetan host, an older traditional Tibetan woman switched on a radio operated by a tiny solar panel on the roof. Indian music began to waft into the room – I cheered up. Yet after tea, I felt nauseous again and tired. Too much wind and sun exposure, too many sad faces peering at me, too many unsettling emotions and , I told myself, the dust in a biting wind is so hard to face. I climbed into my dusty tent and stretched out on a dusty sleeping bag, closing my eyes to shut out the world.

We all dozed and Michael supervised supper which I knew I would not be able to eat. I was feeling so low. Hilsa was a pit a lost traders town on the border of Tibet. Michael and Paul dragged me into the street (a dirt path) and we found a “hotel” – an upstairs room, similar to our kitchen with a dung floor but with a window! Locals streamed in – Michael and Paul had a Lhasa beer – and me with my bloated tummy – hot water, as I couldn’t communicate herbal or black tea with anyone. Michael searched the scanty wooden shelves with its numeous old bottles and packets and could only come up with one thing we garlic.

There’s a wood stove in the centre, yet no extraction pipe and the smoke fills the room. Most of the kitchen work is done on the dung floor. The hostess in trousers, yet in Tibetan jewelry – set about hacking meat on the floor with an upright knife on a block of wood. Her daughter made the dough-flour and water on a plate on the floor, while her young son chopped the potatoes into clumps on the floor. Every now and then the floor was sprinkled with water to reduce the dust from rising. The meat was then thrown into a pan with oil and the room filled with smoke and the smell of oily meat. My nausea reached an all time high: yet there was no option: a pitiful street, a dusty tiny tent or here. The locals sipped tea and Paul and Michael had their Lhasa beer served extremely slowly by our hostess in tiny glasses.