The Durian Apocalypse

It appears that the monsoon has arrived about a month early. And while this means beautiful fireworks shows in the skies, and incredible thunderclaps shaking the walls, it also means that my explorations of Kathmandu may have to be postponed ’til I return in October.

It’s a city that can be difficult to appreciate fully upon first glance. But once one begins to veer from the beaten path, and look between the cracks, its wonders begin, little by little, to reveal themselves. And before you know it, you’re intoxicated.

Day 7 – Upper Pisang to Chame

Once I got outside, and set off down the trail a bit…

…I began to feel pretty good, even thinking that I should perhaps give Manang a try after all. But by the time I’d reached Lower Pisang – steep descents can be more taxing than one might think – it was obvious that that would be out of the question.

My goal was Chame, and heaping quantities of sweet, juicy Grapes. I figured that keeping a modest pace, I could manage it in four or five hours. Turned out to be right on the mark, but there were times when I wasn’t sure I could make it. I did more less okay on the flat stretches, but even the slightest incline for the shortest duration had me sweating in rivers and panting for air. Luckily, there were a lot more of the former than there were the latter.

But it was fun hiking in the wrong direction. Hiking counter-clockwise, you know there are lots of other trekkers on the trail at the same time, but don’t really see them so much. But hiking the other way, you see them at just the right frequency: enough to stop and enjoy a bit of a chat, and feel not so alone on the mountain; but not so much that it becomes a burden to have to talk to or acknowledge scads of fellow-trekkers coming at you 24/7.

There were plenty of locals out and about as well, performing various tasks. Included among them:

If my body, in its weakened state, was being taxed close to its limit, my eyes were enjoying the feast of a lifetime. When we’d hiked this route a few days before, it’d been totally socked in with clouds. But while the scenery had still been enjoyable enough, if we’d known what we’d been missing, we’d have probably been forlorn beyond imagining (either that, or have stopped and waited for clear skies).

Because, holy fucking shit. If this feels like far too many photos to give a taste of the experience, at least know that I actually took so very many more.

 

Arrived to Chame safe and sound…

…and made a beeline for the Grape-seller lady. And, no Grapes. Had had a feeling that that could end up being the case, but was still fairly gutted. Walking dejectedly back to my Lodge, though, I noticed another Grapes-selling stand: a father/daughter operation. Preparing to get two kilos then, and another two in the morning, it occurred to me that these cats could be sold out by morning, so I told ‘em to serve me up four kilos.

Here my limited-but-persistent knowledge of Urdu came in handy again. The two were pretty confused – “Char.” … “Char??” Recognising the word for “four”, I eagerly repeated, “Yeah! Char! Char! Char!” Which prompted first them, and then myself, to bust out laughing. Here he is weighing them out.

The most astonishingly scenic hiking ever, followed by mountains of fresh, delicious Grapes down by the roaring river: this was a good day.

On my way down to the river for lunch, I passed a French girl lounging in the garden area in front of her Lodge. I offered her some Grapes, and she rather cluelessly assumed: “Oh, you bought too many, and you can’t finish them all?”

Laughing out loud, I responded, “Oh, believe me, I can finish them [I’d only brought half of the four kilos with me]. But I like sharing fruit!”

On my way back up, she was still sitting there, so I stopped to chat for a while. Turned out she had taken ill as well. This was to be her third night in Chame; and she would decide in the morning whether to go on ahead, or turn back.

Indeed, since returning to Alobar, I’ve talked to a great many people who had come down with more less the same symptoms I’d had – but they all took anti-diahhreal meds, reasoning that, “Trekking when you have diarrhea is not fun.” A sentiment with which I can fully agree…but, fuckin’ drugs, they ain’t for me. Also here at Alobar at the moment are three – count ‘em! – peeps who had to get choppered back to Kathmandu from the Everest base camp trek: one because of a broken ankle, one because of a broken elbow, and one because of extreme AMS.

Day 8 – Chame to Danakyu

I felt better on this day, but also there was more up and down hiking on this day, so it was still a pretty good struggle – and also another snowy smorgasbord for the eyes. If this day’s scenery – again new to me, as Kieran and I had hiked this stretch under cover of cloud – didn’t surpass the previous day’s it was at least its equal. Prepare for another photographic onslaught…

The final stretch, from Timang to Danakyu, was particularly magical, as not only were the mountain peaks still prominent, but the drop in elevation meant that now the road (we’d taken the trail on the way up) was also passing through lush areas of water and tree.

Had intended to hike to Dharepani – another hour or so away — but by the time I reached Danakyu, it had begun to rain, so I stopped at the same Lodge as we’d done on the way up.

Not only was the grandson in his usual amped-up state, but his sister was there as well. Together they formed the most misbehaved team of hoodlums perhaps in the entire universe. Ah, well. On the upside, it was a right stormy night: not only rainy, but quite windy as well.

I passed a girl in the hall, checking in shortly after me, and she asked me how may day had been. After searching some moments for some words to describe, I could only, at last, excitedly stammer, “Amazing!”

And indeed it had been a staggeringly fine two days. It’s funny: I’d have liked to have gone over the pass with Kieran (and Alex if he’d been around). But apart from that, I really can’t regret having had to turn back. Could almost say just the opposite, considering how marvelous were those two days’ hikes – easily the best two days of all my Nepal trekkings. Well, shit plays out the way it does for a reason, as they say.

But first, if I may, a brief Public Service Announcement. Coupla very highly recommended recent (ish) blog posts from a coupla very highly recommended bloggers, each concerning the near (ish)-term future — and each with quite good discussions as well.

• “Getting There“, by Steve Ludlum
• “Business As Usual“, by Dmitry Orlov

Day 5 – Dikhur Pokhari to Upper Pisang

The hour-or-so hike from Pokhari to Pisang is fairly flat; and once we’d got going, I felt pretty decent. Was even joking to Kieran what a tool I looked like hanging my gloves (first time I’d had to wear them, and even then not for very long) off the zipper of my windbreaker and my hat off of my belt.

We were hiking with a pair of French girls whom we’d met back in Danakyu – they’d been there having lunch when we’d checked in to the lodge. In  Pokhari, they’d stayed at the lodge right across the road from ours, and set out for the day at the same time. The views were, predictably enough, breathtaking.

Halfway or so along, a trail splits off from the road, leading to Upper Pisang. We thought to take the trail, but the French girls were skeptical, and preferred to use the road all the way to Lower Pisang, and then climb up from there. We arrived to the two routes’ confluence at exactly the same time – just as Kieran had (perhaps somewhat jokingly) predicted would happen.

I’d felt fine after leaving the road and beginning to climb up the hill; but the final, quite steep, ascent into Upper Pisang nearly killed me dead. We stopped at the first place along the trail, Kieran to have some tea, and myself to see if I could get sorted out.

It shortly became clear that the latter was not going to be happening, so I decided to put down stakes for the day, and spend the day at rest. Kieran decided to stay as well, as he needed to send some e-mails, and the town’s Internet café wouldn’t open until 5:00 in the PM.

The place – the Yak & Yeti – turned out to be the best Lodge ever in the world.

A funky-as-hell architecture plastered straight into the side of the hill, with a seventy-year-old proprietor who could be a character in a David Lynch movie. And, surely, the best view in the whole, wide World.

The walls are lined with some fine artistic teachings…

…as well as many and sundry photos and newspaper clippings of the Lodge’s estimable chief – apparently a legendary figure in these parts.

Here’s the heated Dining Room – that’s the fireplace there, in front of the chair.

There’s also an adjacent, un-heated Dining Area, in which the Master sits…

…gabbing with his friends, and yelling down words of advice to passersby on the road below.

Also at the Lodge were some more Alobar friends: an Australienne name of “Tess”, who had shared our dorm, and a Canadienne name of “Rachel” who’d been in a different dorm. They were getting ready to leave for the day, waiting for a Swedish friend of theirs who was also not feeling so well, and was a bit late getting started.

When our room was ready, I went straight away to bed, and Kieran went out to explore the village. He’d later report to me that there was an Archery tournament (!) going on outside, if I’d care to go have a look. Which sounded more awesome than life itself (actually, I could hear the rowdiness from our room) – but it was like the most taxing journey of my life itself just to manage to get myself to the can.

My symptoms were diarrhea, fever, extreme lethargy, enormous quantities of gas, and tinnitus. Apparently these symptoms can be caused either by a sudden change in diet or a gain in elevation. I’d, of course, experienced both; and, best I can reckon, it was some combination of the two that put me down for the count.

Along about nightfall, I heard the bossman’s voice erupt in a tirade of (one can only presume) profanity and invective. Though I’d no understanding of the nature of his ire, I was more than duly entertained nonetheless. Kieran later shed some light on the subject, saying that he’d gone into the kitchen to order his dinner, and the Kahuna was already chewing out one of his employees. Just then, the pressure-cooker preparing a batch of rice exploded, splattering hot, sticky rice everywhere. And that’s when he want ballistic.

Also that night, we were warned to lock the door to the inner Dining Room – ours was the only room connected to it – because two of the boss’s friends had gotten very drunk, and if they had access to the Dining Room, their rowdiness might keep us awake at night. Turned out, it did anyway – at least it did me, who could hear their carryings on clear as a ding-dong bell.

Day 6 – Upper Pisang

By morning, the fever had subsided, but I was still not up to the task of giving it a go for the day. What I figured I’d do, I’d take the low route to Manang, while Kieran was planning to take the high route, and spend two nights there – the second to acclimatise in advance of the pass. Manang is big enough even to have a cinema, so we were sure it’d have Internet; so that he could e-mail me informing me of his whereabouts.

So he took his leave, and, what had begun as a party of four had now at last devolved into four solo trekkers, each at a different location along the trail.

I spent the day resting, gawking the insane views (even right outside the room’s window)…

…and drinking in the incredible ambiance of the Yak & Yeti. This included not only the big man’s badgerings from his window seat and his attempts at answering his cellphone (“Hello!? Oi! Hello!? Oi! Hello!? Oi! Hello!? Oi! …”), but also his ninety-three-year-old father’s beautiful and enchanting morning prayers.

I wouldn’t even have gone outside at all that day, excepting that at one point they’d locked the door between the two Dining Rooms, preventing me from exiting the heated one; and so in order to use the shitter, I had to climb outside the bedroom window, and back around to the front door. This was somewhat of a precarious operation as, being built into the side of the hill as the establishment is, there’s a pretty big drop from the window down to the ground, with only a fairly narrow ledge along which to creep to get to the road. The staffers, initially confused at seeing me come around the corner and up to the front door, got a huge kick out of it when I explained to them what was the deal.

In the evening, I had a plate of rice – my first food since having eaten the same for breakfast back in Dikhur Pokhari. I felt well enough to think that I should be able to at least make it to Manang, and — if I could get some fruit there – perhaps press on toward Thorung La, the World’s highest pass.

But by morning, I was again experiencing incredible intestinal distress. So, I said my goodbyes to the staff, spent a few moments’ time being inside the Yak & Yeti, and lit out for Chame – back the way we’d come — instead.

If one were to ponder — What might be the most enjoyable adventure to undertake before I die? – I daresay there may be none better than coming to Nepal, hiking one’s dimpled ass up to Pisang, and spending a night or three or four at the Yak & Yeti. That’s some hellaciously righteous vibes right there, mang.

Ah, circumstances. In the wake of the tragedy on Everest, the Sherpas have gone on strike, and all those planning to summit are now leaving Nepal instead — sending airline prices into the stratosphere. While my having waited ‘til now to book a flight out will end up costing me well north of $100, the climbers who ponied up sixty-five large, in advance, will apparently not be seeing their money back (not to mention, of course, that thirteen Sherpas lost their lives). So, I’m keeping it in perspective…

Meanwhile, I’m so totally out of the rock/roll musics loop it’s not even funny. But I did manage to notice that Cloud Cult have added Seattle and Portland dates to their current tour.  DO NOT MISS (is my own personal advice).

Day 3 – Tal to Danakyu

Another fine morning, hiking amongst the gorgeous gorges and the galloping goats.

And, oh yeah, one of the best-decorated outhouses ever will you see.

We’d seen only but a few other trekkers the first two days’ travel (though Tal had seemed pretty full upon our arrival the previous eve). After a while we re-joined the road, and steamed into Dharepani and another Checkpost – the first at which we’d be required to show two different permits rather than only one. Here at the Checkpost, there were simply oodles of fellow trekkers. But these soon enough spread back out, and we had the trail to ourselves again. As we approached Danakyu, the scenery began to get truly outrageous.

We arrived to Danakyu – our planned stopping point for the day – before Noon. Kieran desired to stop, even despite the early hour, as his feet were bothering him with blisters he’d previously obtained trekking in Sikkim. I was fine to stop as well; but Alex preferred to keep trekking. So, after a goodbye photo…

…we, sadly, parted ways.

The Russians’ guide had said that after Tal, we wouldn’t see any rain during the days. True to form, this day was right sunny and warm! After hanging our laundries to dry, having some lunch, and watching some lodgemates perform their post-trek stretching routines…

…Kieran and I separately set out to explore the village and its environs. Now, you wanna talk about fucking beautiful; here’s the scene from the entrance to our lodge. Danakyu’s residents are some serious luckia.

And here are just a few shots from in and around the village.

I would say to make sure check out the pics from my Flickr page – which will not only be more numerous, but also viewable in larger size (the latter makes a pretty big difference for these scenes). However, have yet been unable to get any pics uploaded. I will notify you when that happens.

The couple running the lodge here are super-nice (though they weren’t going to light the dining-room fireplace in the evening, until a porter instructed them to do so so that he could dry out his laundered jeans); have been in business for eighteen years.

Their grandson, on the other hand, is a holy terror.

While we were waiting for dinner, Kieran was telling of a mate back home who’d gone and made an eedjit of himself pulling some or other prank (or what). I noted my love of the word “eedjit”, and that I keep forgetting to include it in my lexicon. He agreed that it’s a good word, pointed at the grandson – who at the time had taken all the seats’ cushions and lain them out in a line on the patio; and if anybody grabbed one to sit on, he began to scream bloody fucking murder ‘til they gave it back — and stated, “He is the very definition of an eedjit.” Couldn’t have agreed more.

Day 4 – Danakyu to Dikhur Pokhari

The hike from Danakyu to Timang was pretty epic – both in the climbing to which we were subjected, and the views to which we were rewarded.

You can see, though, that while these vistas are truly magisterial, clouds were already beginning to set in by 8:20 in the AM. We spent most of the day, it turned out, socked in by the same.

Shortly after passing through Timang, we were joined by an Australienne name of “Nicole”. Her trekking partner, a Brit name of “Eion” (the Irish spelling of “Owen”) – they’d stayed at the same lodge as us in Danakyu – had set a brisk pace, passing us before Timang. A dedicated trekker on many continents, Nicole shared with us some good interesting stories of her travels – including having turned back, due to Altitude Sickness, one hundred metres from summiting the highest peak in South America. She said that people had always since been incredulous at her having turned back so close to her goal; but that, in fact, she ought to have turned back much sooner than she had.

We had been seeing these signs along the way, and wondered if they truly meant what they were seeming to imply. Nicole informed us that, in fact, the “Yak Attack” had been a mountain bike rice that had taken place some months before. Mystery solved.

The copper manning the Checkpost shortly before Chame was a real character. He was totally in love with my shoes. I offered to let him try them on, but they were, alas, too small for him.

I think he was also a bit in love with Nicole; wanted to take many pictures with her. He kept covering his chest during photos ops, so that there wouldn’t be any images of him bearing his police insignia. This time, he was a little slow on the draw, so I’ve blurred it out for him.

By the way (just FYI):

We stopped at a joint in Chame. Alex to have some tea; and Nicole to wait for Eion – whom, we’d informed her, had stopped in Timang to wait for her, not knowing that she’d taken a shortcut, and ended up missing the village entirely. According our map, there weren’t any lodges between Chame and Pisang, we’d intended to stop for the day at Chame. But Nicole, using a different source, assured us that there would be lodging in Bhratang. So we lit out for the latter, Nicole and the freshly arrived Eion staying on to have lunch.

Walking through Chame, I couldn’t believe my eyes: a little shop selling fresh produce, including grapes.  “Holy shit!” I screamed to Kieran’s amusement, looking around for the shopkeep. Eventually she spotted us standing there — she’d been down the path a piece, yakking it up with friends — and came running up to help us. The grapes were pretty expensive, but I sure couldn’t help at least purchasing a kilo (or “KG”, as Nepali vendors — unlike anywhere else in Asia, in my experience — prefer to say) of them. So delicious!

The Ravens here are – as everywhere – entirely bad-assed.

Between Chame and Bhratang, we reached the snow line. Kieran excitedly hopped down the hill to go have a look, while I sat down and enjoying my grapes and the scenery.

Though it was socked in, the views along this stretch were still pretty damned nice.

We arrived in Bhratang to find only one building left standing. The others were all smashed-in burnt-out hulks of stone and wood. The one lodge – itself no great shakes – remained intact perhaps owing to its reputation as the purveyor of the finest Apple Pie on the entire Circuit. Or so said not only its own sign, but also the guidebook of a German name of “Julian” who was sitting on the patio waiting to order some up.

The hostess had explained to him that he’d have to wait for her brother, who was then out and about, to return. This he was patiently doing. (I guess those Germans must really love their Apple Pie!) His guidebook also stated that we’d be able to find plenty of lodging in Dikhur Pokhari. It was still quite early, so we figured we’d keep moving on.

No sooner had we settled down, first, for a bit of a rest, than we had a brief reunion with Alex, hiking up the road in his trademark orange jacket, waving merrily. He’d stayed in Timang the night before, raving that it, like Danakyu, had been exceedingly beautiful. He said that the only other people in his lodge had been an American couple who’d spent the whole night long pestering him with questions about Putin and his designs, much to Alex’s dismay. Surely, though, Julian pressed, he must have an opinion? He stated it thusly: Russian teevee is lying; Ukrainian teevee is lying, CNN is lying. So, what else is new?

Eion, and then Nicole, had passed by; and Kieran and myself set out soon after. Alex had ordered lunch, and Julian was still waiting for the wandering brother to turn up and get him some Apple Pie.

After Bhratang, we passed a few characters. These ones, picking many wild mushrooms back in the woods a piece, were great fun to talk to for a while…

…and this grizzled old guy, repeatedly pointing us in the direction of Pisang. Presumably, his destination was the same.

Along the way was this massive rock wall. Picture doesn’t really begin to tell the story; but, believe me, that thing was huge.

Speaking of huge, not long after passing this monstrosity, we heard a ginormous rockslide about half an hour behind us. Incredibly intense experience; and made us wonder whether it had struck the road (we were later informed by some trekkers who’d passed the site after the slide that it had not).

Kieran was near-to dying from starvation, and so sat down to eat some energy bars. We were joined by Nicole, whom we’d passed not too far outside of Bhratang, and hiked on into Dikhur Pokhari. Nicole was deuce tired, but determined to hike the remaining couple of hours to Pisang. (I had been surprised when she and Eion had said, the night before, that that was their goal for the day – though in the end we’d made it almost that far ourselves.)

It turned out we would be our lodge’s only guests that evening – the village is not even a village really; but rather a stretch of road overbuilt with many spanking-new lodges. We checked in and relaxed for a bit. And then, out of nowhere, it happened: intestinal disaster.

Matters had been proceeding so smoothly in this regard, that I’d not only become confident that I’d be able to make it all the way around without taking sick, but had even begun openly making plans for a return post-monsoon trip ‘round the Circuit when the rivers would be at their raging, roaring peak.

But now, the daily diet of plain Rice, boiled Potatoes, and whatever few Apples I’d been able to find in the villages, had suddenly begun to take its toll. When you think about it, it’s kind of insane: you can get a fucking can of Pringles at every podunk shop, in the teeniest tiniest of villages, all the way up the god damned mountain. But it’s pulling teeth, apparently, to get some fruit – and the fruit in Pokhara is very delicious – hauled up the road, which now stretches all the way to Manang.

Anyways, I had a pretty rough night.

I had thought that I should spend the day resting in Pokhari, then try to take the low route to Manang, and re-connect with Kieran from there. But I felt pretty decent come morning, and thought I’d set out and give the high route a try. If the day’s first sights were any indication, it would be a fine day for hiking.

Pre-Script:

I would like to blame my negligence in getting reports uploaded all upon the horrific Internet situation here. But while that certainly plays its role, it’s not the only factor. Alobar has become my second-favourite Asian hostel — with a bullet. A writhing, pulsating vortex of awesomeness which threatens to pull unsuspecting travelers into its orbit, to be neither seen nor heard from again.

The ever-changing cast of characters here includes a Palestinian philosopher whose thesis was to do with South Park, and who trekked the entire circuit, save for one day, barefoot; a ZZ-Top-looking festival-organiser with a truly dynamite singing-voice; a Canadian youngster who saved up a pile of money to put him through school with — and then  used it to go traveling for the best part of a year instead; a manic Lithuanian with the most infectious laugh you’ve ever heard, whose predilection for the “F”-word rivals even mine own; an Israeli who survived the Philippine typhoon, and ended up with a nightly gig in a local bar’s house band; and so, so, so many more.

Easy enough to acquire an inferiority complex living here: so many people half my age who’ve already in their short lives done 20,000 times more cool shit than I’ll ever dream of doing, even if I live to one hundred and three. It’s great to bathe in their collective aura, at any rate!

They’re much more interested here than in Southeast Asia in the ins and outs, the whys and wherefores, of my diet. They’ve even become protective of me, to my great amusement: a hostel-newcomer offered me a piece of beef jerky, and before I could politely decline, a San Diegan name of “Ryan” disgustedly spat out: “No, man! He’s a raw-foodist.” Too funny.

Pre-Trek

We set off, early on the morning of March 31st — myself and an Irishman name of “Kieran” with whom I’d shared a dorm – from Alobar and made the short walk to the Tourist Bus Park. Shewn to my seat, and lo and behold, I was seated next to another Alobar dorm-mate, a Chinaman name of “Eric”. Kieran and Eric’s guide were seated in front of us.

The eight-hour ride to Pokhara was rather reminiscent of Laos: The windy mountain roads clinging perilously to the sides of cliffs — seemingly too narrow for one vehicle to negotiate, let alone one in either direction; the gorgeous mountain scenery; the large hooved mammals roaming freely about the road; the rural village lifestyle, the interminably slow speeds. It was missing, however, the drivers climbing around like monkeys on the rooftops (we’d stored our crap underneath the coach); the locals seated down the aisle of the bus, livestock in hand; and the bathroom breaks by the side of the road.

Did stop at a fast food joint, however.

Pokhara too reminded of Laos. This time Vang Vieng. A small village mushroomed into a tourist mecca, with guest houses, restaurants, and shops packed densely together – along with the concomitant dust, construction noise, sidewalks jack-hammered into oblivion, and cetera. But, also like Vang Vieng, it’s a five-minute walk down to the side of the lake, where peace, quiet, and impossibly beautiful views reign.

Kieran had to sort out a visa extension, so I had a day to spend in Pokhara. Decided to time the walk down to the Tourist Bus Park from my guest house, as it would have to be taken early in the morning. Even in the tourist enclave of Lakeside, scenes from yesteryear abound.

Shortly after leaving the Bus Park, I was approached by an Israeli name of “Tomel”, who announced, “I was just attacked by a cow.”

He didn’t look any the worse for the wear, so I offered, “Congratulations?”

He explained that he’d been feeding Banana peels to the one cow, and the other cow had stuck its horns underneath his shirt, and pushed him away. He said he’d also fed them Papaya rinds the day before, and then asked me what I was doing. “Well, actually, I’m going to get some fruit!”

He said he’d walk with me, and shortly revealed, “I’m a fruitarian.”

“You’re shitting me?!” I cried, and he in turn opened his arms wide for a fruit-lovers’ embrace.

He wanted to, like, re-enact his adventure with the cows, but when we’d got to the scene of the crime, there were nary a bovine in evidence. I knew the ones he was talking about, though, as I’d passed them there, lazing it in the street. So I can vouch for him on that count. Yes, there are plenty of cows and cousins in Pokhara.

We shared a Watermelon, which was so delicious that we immediately scarfed down another. I got a bunch of Oranges (also spectacularly good, though it was the very end of the season) for dinner, and wanted to go drop them off in my room. Tomel didn’t feel like walking all the way back up that far, and opted instead to go hiking down near the lake. We figured we’d run into each other, as I’d be headed that way as well; but I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of his since.

Later, the lake offered another great sunset scene.

Day 1 – Pokhara to Bahundanda

Kieran and I arrived at the Bus Park at almost exactly the same time (we’d been staying in different Guest Houses), and while waiting to put our shit on top of the bus, made the acquaintance of a Manx name of “Mark”.

Despite it was a Tourist bus, there were plenty of locals aboard — including seated down the aisle this time. The ride, having started early enough in the morning to avoid the heat, seemed okay. Arriving in Besi Sahar, we went into a café for some lunch, and from out of nowhere materialised a Russian name of “Alex”, who shook our hands and sat down to eat with us. So, we were now a foursome.

After eating and showing our permits at the Checkpost across the street, we put it on the trail. It hadn’t been hot on the bus ride, but it was now. And pretty dusty on the road – we’d somehow missed a supposed-to-be-obvious turn which would have let us avoid the road for a while. Indeed, we found, almost immediately, that the supposed-to-be-up-to-date map was glaringly inaccurate. More reliable to just follow the signs.

Mark set a blistering pace; and though we kept up with him for a while, we were soon left eating his dust. So just like that, the foursome was down to a threesome. Pretty hiking down here at the lower elevations, hard by the Marsyangdi river and all…

…but this day was marred by a massive Chinese dam construction project just outside of Ngadi Bazaar. Boy, the day I hear that somebody has blown that thing sky fucking high is the day I will out with innumerable yelps of unbridled elation.

Soon after getting through that nightmare, the trail splits off from the road, headed toward Bahundanda. We got rained on, not too badly, during this stretch. But after making the brisk climb into the village, we checked in to the very first Lodge, and not five minutes later it was pouring down cats and dogs. Nice timing!

The lodge was very small – only five beds – but the family were quite nice. The father, Ming, was a retired soldier from the Gurkha Regiment of the Indian Army. The ten-year-old son, handled the serving duties. I liked that kid very much – mild-mannered, but seemed to have a kind of glow about him. Wish I’d gotten a picture of him. Instead, here are some neighbourhood kids who showed up to tour their guide services, insisting that if we attempted the trek without a guide, we’d be fucked ten ways from Sunday.

Day 2 – Bahundanda to Tal

It started raining almost from the get-go this morning. But we were mostly under the cover of trees, so it wasn’t so bad. The day’s hiking featured lots of climbing high up to the tops of ridges, then immediately descending all the way back down to take a suspension bridge ‘cross the river, and then right back up again.

Being so early in the trek, the backpack still felt light as a feather, and the climbing relatively easy – this would change. The views were, again, quite nice…

…but shortly after re-joining the road, the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the quite-nice views were suddenly become quite-spectacular instead.

Much like in Laos, even the most basic of structures in the most remote of locations is – one can bet one’s bottom dollar – going to be equipped for teevee reception.

Hell, one can even get one’s shopping fix on. Who needs the Bangkok mega-malls when you’ve got…

We stopped in a small village for a short rest, and were able to see both goats and ferns. What…I ask you…what more do you need?

Trekkers have been bitching that the advent of the road has killed the Circuit. But while nobody prefers bitching about motorised vehicles harshing pedestrians’ mellows more than I, it seems to me these complaints are pretty overblown. Sure, it’s not fun to have to stand aside and let a jeep or truck pass. But the traffic is really quite low-volume. Besides, ofttimes the vehicles impart an uplifting message.

No matter where you go, it seems safe to postulate, kids love to get their ham on in front of the lens. Nepal is surely no different. Here’re a few youngsters we passed along the way.

Approaching Chamche, the trail split off from the road again for a brief but great-fun little side-trip. At the beginning of which, the trail crosses right over a waterfall about half-way down its cascade.

It’s much more fun in person, just so you know.

We managed to resist the temptations of the Super Restaurant…

…and opted instead for the Rainbow Super View (subtle distinction).

Two hundred metres, and very loud. Plus which, we were kindly treated to a most excellent lunchtime thunderstorm. Here, Kieran and Alex enjoy the view.

The storm passed, and it was again hot and sunny, with not a cloud to be seen. Another two or three hours to Tal – shouldn’t be an issue. No sooner, though, had we got safely into no-man’s-land, that it done began raining again. Well, what’re you gonna do? The bigger pain in the ass was having to keep taking out and putting back from the pack one’s rain gear. (Although it was also the case that by this time we’d gained enough elevation that it was a bit chilly in the rain.)

For our perseverance, we were treated to more nice scenes from village life…

…along with more tremendous views of river, hill, and cliff.

The climb up to the hill overlooking Tal was a real killer – the first time I’d actually struggled making the top of a climb.  We passed under the entrance gate, but weren’t quite yet to the village.

When we finally spied our first glimpse of the village, I allowed to Alex that I was quite happy indeed to be seeing that sight – a sentiment with which he readily agreed. We still had a little ways to go before reaching the village, but it was all down hill or flat, so after having made the climb, it was a piece of cake. The view from Tal was (what else?) phenomenal.

While waiting for dinner, Kieran and Alex took time out to receive the wisdom being offered by this timeless aphorism (if only I could now recall said aphorism…).

Also staying at our lodge was a group of fifteen Russians, along with their guides and porters. They took the time, while waiting for dinner, to belt out a rather beautiful little tune. I asked Alex if this was some form of Grace? He scoffed that Russians don’t have any religion; but soon thereafter, they actually did begin to say Grace, much to Alex’s dumbfoundment. They must be some kind of crazy sect, he determined.

Three of them broke away from the group for a while, and came to hang out with us instead. They had some “special” home-brewed Vodka that they brought with them and shared out with Alex and Kieran. One of the three was called “Edward” as well – though the Russian short-form is “Edick” rather than “Eddie”.

Next morning, we could hear the Russians singing their pre-breakfast song even from our room. I was delighted – Alex, not so much.