of ‘Om mani padme hums’ is released to the mountain deities. Kangchenjunga, abode of the gods, absorbs them all.
Pemba and Dendi move to the other side of the chorten, where they deposit grains of rice and a few small-denomination rupee notes on a flat stone shelf. In unison they begin to chant their prayers, deep mumbling sounds like the hum of the universe, while broken thumbnails flick prayer beads. I stand to one side, deeply moved.
When they finish, Pemba turns to me and commands: ‘Now you must pray.’
‘Okay,’ I respond. ‘What should I pray?’
‘You pray like we do. That you come back again.’
So I do.
CHAPTER 2
Annapurna
THE ANNAPURNA CIRCUS (1991)
I trek the Annapurna Circuit with an old friend, but reach the Sanctuary alone, surrounded by 7000 metre peaks.
After trekking to Kangchenjunga I was hooked. That trek of a lifetime could not be filed away in memory as a one-off; I’d have to return to the Himalaya. So before my flight home I spent two hectic days in Kathmandu visiting local agents and quizzing seasoned trek leaders. Plans took shape, but the following year writing projects diverted me to the Alps, to eastern Turkey and the Russian Caucasus. The Himalaya had to wait, but not for long…
For eight hours I’m forced to crouch almost double in the cab of a bus, a metal box above my head, knees embedded in the back of the driver’s seat, so when we arrive at last at the grubby township of Dumre, between Kathmandu and Pokhara, I hobble down the street bent like Quasimodo. One glance at the open-backed truck which provides onward transport to the trail-head convinces my companion, Alan, and me that there must be an alternative. There is. We locate the driver of a jeep, negotiate a price and encourage two other travellers – one Swiss, the other American – to share the costs, and depart for the mountains in a cloud of red dust.
The 40-odd kilometres of dirt road to Besisahar consume three and a half hours, and by the time we arrive a dense film of dust covers everything – the jeep, our rucksacks, the driver, us. Our nostrils are caked, eyes sore, my head is splitting. Next time, I swear, I’ll walk all the way from Kathmandu.
This is Alan Payne’s first visit to Nepal. Raised in Derbyshire, but now living in Devon, where he’s a planning officer, we met in the Atlas Mountains in 1965 and have since trekked and climbed numerous times in the Alps and Pyrenees. He’s fit, good company, easy-going and undemanding, and content to leave me to make decisions as to where to go and when, so when I told him of my plan to trek to Annapurna, he jumped at the opportunity to join me.
Annapurna is an obvious choice – its reputation for dramatic scenery and cultural diversity make it one of the most prized of all trekking regions. Mountains apart, the landscape varies from sub-tropical forest and lush foothill terraces in the south to frosted barren wastes on the northern side of the Himalayan divide, and from a trekkers’ pass at almost 5500 metres to the deepest river valley on Earth. Within this land of extremes live an assortment of ethnic groups – Magar, Newar, Gurung, Chhetri, Brahmin, Thakali and Bhotiya – many of whom have abandoned traditional farming practices to become lodge- or teahouse-owners, converting the family home to accommodate foreign trekkers, thereby making it easy for independent travellers to trek here without the need to backpack heavy camping equipment and food supplies.
No wonder it’s popular.
Beginning our counter-clockwise circuit we follow the Marsyangdi upstream, crossing tributaries on a variety of bridges and, in one case, wading through the water aided by a self-appointed river guide all of 10 years old. We share the trail with porters carrying crates of bottled drinks; others are laden with four metre wooden planks, sheets of corrugated iron, shiny metal trunks or dokos filled with pasta and tins of coffee. Western voices are heard in wayside bhattis, and some of our fellow trekkers on the early, humid stages of the route are dressed as though heading for a Mediterranean beach.
Wandering among terraces of rice and millet, we catch sight of snow peaks balanced upon clouds – Himalchuli, Ngadi Chuli and Manaslu rise from the east bank of the Marsyangdi, while hills west of the river belong to the unseen Annapurnas. So far these are just big hills, nameless hills, and we must trek for several days before we discover the mountains we’ve been dreaming about.
Unlike the Kangchenjunga region, every village has its lodges, and between villages teahouses ply a trade in tea and biscuits, bottles of Coke and Fanta, and bars of Cadbury’s chocolate made in India. Lodges have fanciful names on brightly painted boards – Hotel Himalaya and Lodge, Hotel Mountain View, Hotel Dorchester. Despite the pretentious titles, they’re just simple lodgings with smoky dining areas and bare rooms for sleeping in. Most have dormitories, while some have twin-bedded rooms furnished with wooden sleeping platforms, a thin foam mattress and a greasy pillow; sometimes there’s a small table and a candle and, if we’re lucky, a nail in the wall on which to hang clothes. Toilets are usually found outside in the yard – a narrow cubicle with a hole in the floor – the bathroom is just a standpipe, and when showers are advertised they turn out to be another cubicle next to the chaarpi with a hosepipe dribbling tepid water.
On our first day we trek as far as Bahundanda, a Brahmin village perched on a saddle on a spur of the Ngadi Lekh. Both sides of the hill are stepped with rice terraces, the trail partly shaded by trees and tall poinsettias bright with scarlet bracts. Lined with open-fronted shops, the village square is busy with locals and a few fellow trekkers studying their guidebooks and maps, and as we arrive two unkempt children shriek ‘Namaste’ at us as though we’re deaf. A sign tacked to one of the buildings indicates the way to the police check post, where we show our permits and enter names in a register – a formality to be repeated countless times in the years ahead. The official glances at our permits, then at us. ‘You trek Annapurna Circus?’ he asks, and I can’t decide whether he’s being cynical, making a joke, or if I’ve simply misunderstood his question.
Tonight we share a lodge with Ray, a Canadian railroad engineer with short-cropped hair and pale grey eyes, and his daughter Linda, an attractive young woman in her mid-20s who spends her winters as a ski instructor in Japan. Over pots of tea we chat about mountains and travel and the lure of Nepal, about the day’s journey and prospects for tomorrow, and the onward trail to Manang. Ray has time to kill. ‘More vacation time than I know what to do with,’ he says. ‘Trouble is, I’m not sure I have the energy for this trekking game. Sure found today plenty tough.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll see you make it,’ and his daughter pats him kindly on the knee.
Rising early, Alan and I leave on a trail heading north, twisting downhill through terraces of rice spread in an artistic fan, the early light playing on streams and irrigation ditches, the milky blue Marsyangdi curling round the base of the spur with white-flecked rapids as it cuts through a gorge. Our trail edges a former river bench now crowded with millet. Lemon trees line the pathway. Ahead the valley is restricted by steep hills; on the opposite bank a thin cascade hangs above the river, twitching with a breeze. We pass a solitary lodge, then curve left, descend to a suspension bridge and cross to Syange, a one-street village of shops and lodges. Geordie, Scots and Australian voices drift from a bhatti, but we walk through without stopping and soon find ourselves among cannabis plants. ‘There’ll be some grass smoked tonight,’ says Alan, referring to a couple of trekkers we’d passed earlier.
Ahead the valley narrows. More waterfalls streak the rocks while the trail slants uphill and the gradient increases. The path is well made, in places carved into the rock, and is certainly a great improvement on the route described in 1950 as a series of frail wooden galleries strung across the cliffs. At the top of the rise we stop for a bowl of noodle soup at a small teahouse standing alone with views in both directions, and wonder how serious the Nepalese authorities are in their plan to extend the road from Dumre