chuntering streams feed irrigation ditches. Dragonflies hover over them. The sun dances in flooded paddies to flash diamonds as we pass.
The path levels for 20 rare paces. Alongside it a chautaara has been built, some of its stones having been rubbed and polished black by generations of porters who’ve rested here; the upright blocks wear lichens, but the sun-baked path is littered with cigarette butts and orange peel. At the end of the chautaara two young girls and a boy with a dreamy look stand sentry. Silhouetted as they are against castles among clouds, I carry that vision with me.
Further down the slope we pass orange trees and green-skinned grapefruit the size of footballs. Bananas grow beside many of the houses; flame-coloured bougainvillaea and straggly poinsettias hang over the trail; I catch the scent of frangipani.
Here the rice is being harvested by women in scarlet or vivid green saris. Bent double over the waist-high crop, their fingers deftly gather clumps of stalks as a blade flashes the light. The cut rice is then laid over to dry, for water has drained from the terrace and the warm sun will soon draw out any excess moisture. Lower down the slope a bare-footed farmer is ploughing with a pair of water buffalo, turning the soil in pocket-sized terraces, yelping a command each time he reaches the terrace end, where he then hops down to the next tiny field, manhandles the plough and virtually steers the stumbling buffalo to face the opposite direction. He pauses in his work to watch me pass. I raise a hand in acknowledgement. He lets go the plough, and his hands come together. ‘Namaste,’ he calls.
I continue down the trail enriched by his greeting.
There are no certainties in trekking among mountains. Here in the Himalaya I accept that any one of a number of circumstances could affect our plans – sudden snowfall or landslip, ill-health or an inability to acclimatise, the mood of our porters, availability of campsites with water, problems with route-finding… All these things (and others) make it essential to retain a flexible attitude of mind. Although we’ve been given an itinerary, it’s merely a framework within which the trek will manoeuvre a course. We have a date by which we ought to be in Tumlingtar on the River Arun, where a charter flight is due to fly us back to Kathmandu. The rest is open to speculation, and rather than create tensions, it should provide a sense of freedom. That is certainly how I feel, and relaxing by the side of the icy Tamur below Dobhan’s houses while the valley gathers darkness I’m aware of the joy of now and the essence of being. Tomorrow is of no concern until tomorrow arrives.
The river crunches and grinds rocks and boulders that lie in its path. It has its own agenda, its own history. Neither rocks nor boulders will deter its journey to the sea, for with time its ally, and with patience counted in millions of years, the river’s relentless pounding will reduce those blocks of stone into grey powder. Nepal’s greatest export is its mountains, for even as they grow, they’re being worn down and transported via its rivers to the Bay of Bengal, along with countless tons of soil from terraces washed away by the annual monsoon rains.
Our journey has a more limited time scale. It is estimated that we will need 12 days to trek from the road-head to the south side of Kangchenjunga and another two to cross a series of passes into the valley of the Ghunsa Khola, where we will take a day’s rest. Then there will be four or five days to descend back to Dobhan, followed by another four or five trekking up and along the western flank of the Milke Danda to Tumlingtar. But, as I say, this is little more than speculation, a plan written down in a London office. Reality could be very different. Reality is this moment in time, the darkness that has now filled the valley, the rush and crunch of the river, the cool silty sand between my toes, the crackle of the porters’ fires and the rise and fall of laughter. I am aware of the insect chorus among unseen trees – a different sound from that of daylight hours. I see faint lights moving in the village above me, and imagine candles flickering from room to room in medieval homes. I momentarily shiver with the cool air that washes through the valley, riding the snowmelt from high, wild places, and am glad.
The 1600 metre climb from the banks of the Tamur to the Tibetan settlement of Suketar on the ridge of the Surke Danda is a steep and demanding one for porters. It’s a long enough route for us trekkers carrying only daypacks, but for heavily laden men and women it is a gruelling ascent. Bright sunshine, little shade, barely a breeze and the belief that we’d be stopping earlier than we do add nothing but misery to their day, and when they finally arrive at the village long after night has fallen, their mood is sullen. I sense a poisonous blister of resentment held in check only by utter weariness. In the morning that blister must be lanced or it will burst of its own accord.
It bursts.
Breakfast is over, our gear packed and tents collapsed, yet the porters have so far not even begun to sort their loads. Nor do they give any impression of doing so. Bart is deep in discussion with Dawa by the side of the white-painted Buddhist gompa which overlooks our dismantled camp. Strings of brightly coloured prayer flags dance in the morning breeze to match the incongruous sight of a windsock nearby. Just behind the bhatti, where we’d sat for hours last night awaiting the arrival of our tents, a barbed-wire fence deters animals from straying onto a flattish meadow that serves as the airstrip for Taplejung, the township halfway down the slope towards Dobhan. By that fence groups of disgruntled porters sit hunched in circles. At a distance of a hundred paces it is clear that serious negotiations must begin soon or tempers will erupt.
Dawa walks nervously to them. Other Sherpas watch from a discreet distance, as do we. Max voices general concern: ‘The next few minutes will determine whether our trek continues or not. If Dawa buggers this up, we’re doomed to spend the next three weeks sitting here!’
Bart explains that last night there’d been an angry dispute between some of the porters and Dawa. They, the porters, claimed they’d been led to believe we were camping at Taplejung, not here at Suketar. (We’d taken an early lunch at Taplejung, but no porters had arrived by the time we’d set off again; and that should have been a warning.) Now Dawa is going to assert his authority and pay off four of the most troublesome men – and that will not be easy. Neither will it be easy to calm the mood of fizzing discontent.
Dawa Sherpa treads eggshells.
An eruption of angry voices breaks out. Thin men leap to their feet, all shouting, arms waving. Dawa steps back a pace or two, but is quickly surrounded. ‘I’d better go,’ says Bart, who hurries to the fray, followed by Pemba and Dendi.
The noise continues for several minutes, but although there’s a certain amount of pushing and shoving, there is no meaningful physical violence, yet it takes the joint diplomacy of Bart and Dawa to calm the situation. Eventually loud voices subside and spaces appear where moments before there’d been a tight mass of volcanic tension. Dawa’s face appears above the crowd and beckons to Mingma, who hurries to his sirdar’s side. A few words are exchanged, and Mingma goes off to find Dawa’s rucksack in which he keeps a fat wallet of rupee notes.
A few minutes later the blister has been doctored and the tension evaporates.
‘What you English would call a true compromise,’ explains Bart in obvious relief. ‘The porters demanded double pay for yesterday’s climb. It was a bit tough for them, I’ll admit, but Dawa’s got them to agree to one and a half day’s wages. That’s pretty fair, I’d say. Mind you, if we have any more days like that, it could prove to be a costly trek.’
Porters gather their loads. Some are even laughing, while those who were paid off count their wages and set off down the hillside without a backward glance. ‘The trek resumes,’ cries Max, like a wagon-master eager to be on his way. ‘Let’s go!’
Our route across the Surke Danda is more complex than the one had been along the Milke Danda, as we descend to cross streams and rivers and climb through one village after another. For hours at a stretch we are denied mountain views, but this is of no concern, for these Middle Hills, whose summits approach 4000 metres, are rich in visual contrasts, rewarding in vegetation, and lively with wildlife. White-faced monkeys bounce among the forest trees, highly coloured birds swoop across the trail, and I see my first butterflies of the Himalaya – as big as sparrows, they seem to my wide-eyed gaze.
Day after day the trail works its route through