Trekking in Nepal 2018

The team. Bijay, Gavan, Peter, Prithi, David, Prakesh.

Preliminary notes: This is not a story about climbing mountains; only about walking on them. And this trek was not a particularly arduous one. I’ve done those in past years. Although I’ve trekked to 5,400m (18,000 ft) on four occasions, this time I went only to just under 4,000m. That’s still 1000 m higher than Kosciuszko; that’s what age does. If you want to see what it’s like, then come with me on this easy walk.

When I wrote this in “Word”, the references were at the bottom of each page. Easy to see. WordPress moved them to the end of the document and there was nothing I could do about it.

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I’ve been to Nepal ten times already. Why on earth would I want to go again?

I honestly don’t know. Perhaps it’s something to do with mountains. It could be the people. It could be the fact that I’m running out of options. A couple of years ago I realised my days of cross country skiing while carrying a backpack full of camping gear were over. So last winter I went to a lodge in Charlottes Pass and realised that even without a backpack my co-ordination was shot.  The attraction of Nepal could be due to some factor I’ve never thought of. But as far as I’m aware, it’s the mountains.

There’s something about mountains; you can’t see people in the mountains and not be struck by their insignificance. You can’t stand on a mountainside or mountain top and not feel the immensity of everything except yourself. I suppose, like astronomy, it’s a humbling experience. And for humans, humility rather than hubris is badly needed.

Also, Nepal is cheaper than Bali and you can do things other than sit around a swimming pool drinking beer.

Right! Having got the philosophy, rant and waffle out of the way, let’s look at this most recent hike in the Himalayas.

The genesis of this walk was a phone call from Peter Campbell (PC). He had just bought a Singapore Airlines ticket to Kathmandu for $950. The usual price is $1,300 to $1,400. (You can get to London for that!) Anyway, PC asked if I would like to go to Nepal for that price.  This was to be a photographic trek, he told me.  PC and I had trekked and cross country skied together before. We both tended to lag behind because we stopped to take so many photos. PC was also a more enthusiastic and creative photographer than me – he still develops and prints his own film.

Well, of course I would like to go, although I was still worried about the cost. So I googled other airlines and found I could get to Kathmandu and back on China Southern for $680. It seemed too good to be true although it was true. PC and I were joined by David May. We had all trekked in Nepal in the past. PC and I and David’s wife Anabelle had worked together in PMH Microbiology.

Ha gave me permission. This was necessary as she would be a ‘single Mum’ for over three weeks.

And so it was, I found myself sitting in an Airbus bound for Guangzhou and then Kathmandu where I arrived about 10.30 PM on March 1.

The plan was to bus from Kathmandu to Birethanti and stay there overnight. We would then walk up through Ulleri and Ghorepani, down to Swanta, up again to Chistoban and further up to Khopra at 3,660m on the Khopra Ridge where we would stay for two nights. We would then walk across to Dobato, down to Tadapani and then Gandruk. Continuing down the valley of the turbulent Modhi Kola, we would cross that stream and then walk up to Jhinu Danda where there are hot springs. From there we would walk to Newbridge, Himalpani, Forest Camp up to Low Camp and then High Camp to the Mardi Himal Base camp at 4,500m if we could manage it. On the way back we would stop at High Camp, Sidhing, Lumle and then a jeep to Hemla Milanchowk. and a taxi to Pokhara.

It didn’t work out that way but, what’s a plan without hiccups?

At the airport I changed AUD$10 to 800 Rupees (NPR). This got me a taxi fare from the airport to Thamel, the backpacker hotel suburb. Here, I shouldered my large backpack and carrying my daypack, started up the dusty and ill-lit street towards the Shree Tibet hotel where I was expected.

In Nepal, and in many Asian countries, people bring their motor bikes inside their homes or shops for the night. To facilitate this, a small ramp in the gutter leads from the street into the shop. In this dark and dusty street a motorbike was coming towards me with its lights on high beam[1]. I was dazzled and stepped aside to let it pass and in doing so, tripped on a warped steel ramp. As I fell, my forehead scraped down the corrugations in the roller door.

Three or four people helped me up. I knew my forehead was bleeding liberally (I’m on Warfarin) and I tried to hold it with the only handkerchief I had, a large silk one with almost no capacity to absorb anything. Long streaks of blood ran down my jacket, shirt and pants and a puddle of blood was growing on the ground. The helpers urged me to get to a hospital quickly. Reasonable advice but I wasn’t sure where the hospital was and in any case, I wanted to drop my bags at the hotel first.

So, clutching the ineffective handkerchief to my head, I walked to the hotel. I didn’t want to leave a puddle of blood at the hotel desk so I called Gopal to the door where I asked him to take my bags inside, to give me a wet towel to hold against my forehead and to take my blood soaked handkerchief and leave it in the washbasin of my room where I could wash it later.

Gopal told me there was a small, private hospital only a few hundred metres up the road. I didn’t have single rupee on me. Gopal pushed NPR2000 into my pocket and helped me on to a rickshaw/cyclo, telling the driver to take me to the hospital.

And then I experienced medicine as practised in the Third World.

I’d had some experience of this in the past. I’d worked in a Vietnamese hospital in 1969 and had been surprised at the authoritarian and apparently uncaring attitude of the doctors. (And the rapacity of many nurses. In Viet Nam you have to “unofficially” pay them to look after you.) I’d also taken Daniel to a Vietnamese GP when he was aged about 5 and I had watched Ha as she consulted an orthopaedic specialist in Saigon about her sore back.

When Daniel visited the GP, I was surprised to see that that the doctor took little interest in his history. Daniel was coughing and that’s all. The doctor didn’t ask for how long or if he was on any medication already. He had a quick and wordless listen to his chest, wrote a prescription and handed it to us to give to his wife who was the pharmacist in the next room. By then the doctor was examining the next patient who had been waiting on an adjoining chair.

The orthopod in Saigon who examined Ha was sitting beside a table in a large room with all the prospective patients lined up beside the table. He remained seated while the patients walked, one at a time, stood in front of him and turned their backs. Remaining seated, he palpated up and down their backs, wrote a prescription and then called for the next patient.

[2]Back to Kathmandu. The cyclo driver delivered me to the small, local hospital up the road from the hotel. It was pretty obvious what the problem was, so a lengthy history wasn’t really called for. Nevertheless, I thought it was important I was on Warfarin and told the doctor. He showed no response, so I asked him if he knew what Warfarin is. He didn’t but that’s no big deal. Medications have different names in different countries.  “It’s a medication that makes me bleed a lot and for a long time”, I told him. No response.

He laid me on the examination table and looked at my head wound. I have no complaints about his surgical skills. What was noteworthy however was his lack of communication. I doubt he answered a single question from me. He wouldn’t even tell me how many stitches he was using. It wasn’t until I took off the dressing some days later that PC was able to count the four he’d used. This is in contrast to a Western trained doctor who would normally keep up a patter, mostly explaining what he or she was doing and suggesting alternatives[3] and perhaps even commenting on the weather

I also had a substantial graze on the inner aspect of my left wrist and a few small grazes on my left knee and shin. The doctor and nurse dressed and bandaged my wrist.

They were very concerned about how I was going to pay for all this. I remembered the NPR2,000 that Gopal had put in my pocket. They took that but were still uneasy about the possibility of my absconding. I remembered I had some AUD$100 notes and I left one of them as a surety.

The nurse approached my grazed knee with a tube.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s medicine”, said the nurse.

“Yes, but what sort of medicine?”

“It’s ointment”.

“I can see that. What sort of ointment?” It’s not that I’m a sticky beak; it’s just that I like to know what’s happening to my body. It’s the only one I have.

She showed me the label. It was a combination of Neomycin and Bacitracin. I happily submitted.

Using a syringe and needle, the nurse had drawn some fluid out of a multi use vial. I didn’t worry until, without explanation, she pushed up my sleeve to expose my deltoid muscle.

“What’s that?” I asked.

”It’s medicine.”

“Are you going to give me an injection?”

“Yes” she replied. Note: She had neither told or asked me this.

“With what medicine?” I asked.

I couldn’t follow her accent very well, but the word started with ‘tet…’.

“Is this for tetanus?” I asked. She confirmed it was.

“Don’t bother” I told her. “I’m immune already”.

I was as polite and grateful, but it was clear they were not used to having their practices queried. I don’t mind if a doctor is unsure. I find a reasonably expressed doubt is usually closer to the truth than a dogmatic certainty. (see ref 3)

One unusual aspect of this whole episode was that every time the hospital needed something like a dressing, sutures or ointment, they sent the cyclo driver up the road to a nearby pharmacy to buy it – using my rupees.

I was worried the overnight pain would keep me awake but I slept well. I awoke in the morning with the bandage on my head unwound, blood on the sheets from my leg grazes and, by the miracle of modern writing, to text in the present tense.

Total hospital costs are about $50; pretty cheap considering. The stitches are due out in 7 or 8 days. I’m sure I’ll meet a trekking nurse somewhere in the mountains.

For the benefit of the travel insurance company I want to photograph the metal ramp I tripped on, hoping to identify it by the puddle of dried blood. Trouble is, yesterday was the Hindu festival of Holi, a festival when people throw coloured powders over each other. The area around where I fell is more multicoloured than Joseph’s Amazing Technicolour Dream Coat.

David arrives. We do some last minute shopping[4], then David and I dine at the Yak. It’s a friendly sort of place that is smoke free and where the waiters are obliging without being obsequious. And they warm our plates when we ask. One of the problems with restaurants is that the only English the waiters know is what is on the menu. A few years ago I wanted to ask the Yak waiter for directions to a place he’d helped me with the day before. To establish what he’d done, I needed to know if he understood tense.

“Do you know the meaning of the word, yesterday?” I asked. He smiled obligingly. “Yes sir. And would you like rice with that?”

PC arrives later that night.

We’d emailed our photographs and passport details ahead to our old friend, Bijay[5]. He has already bought our trekking permits, National Park entry permits and the bus tickets to Nyapul. Bijay’s uncle, Prithi and his cousin, Prakesh will be our porters. Bijay will be our guide. I used to carry my own gear in past years but now my back isn’t up to much at all, so Prithi is carrying most of my gear. Prakesh is carrying half each of PC’s and David’s while they each carry the other half.

Bijay started as my porter many years ago. Now he is establishing his own trekking company and I can recommend it. The web address is http://www.populartreks.com

My experience in falling had an unexpected consequence.

ON BEING A RAGPICKER: Ragpickers are the people who go through the street rubbish each night, sorting out what they can sell – which usually isn’t much. A couple of days after my fall in Kathmandu I asked Gopal what had happened to my silk handkerchief.. He told me he’d thrown it out. Next day I saw it on a pile of rubbish in the street. I got to it before the other ragpickers. I rinsed it and sent it to the laundry. I still have it.

We can reach Nyapul using a taxi (Expensive), a local bus or mini-bus (Unbelievably crowded and with a cowboy as driver), or a tourist bus (One person per seat). The latter is only marginally more expensive than the local bus and is much more comfortable. However we five are the only passengers and in spite of the relative comfort, it’s a day-long and a tiring trip on a rough road. From Nyapul to today’s destination in Birethanti is only a 20 minute walk to the the bridge over the Modhi Kola River and a climb of the steps to our hotel.

A hydro-electric power generator is being built here. The tunnel through which the water will exit is being drilled just below the bridge and an enormous amount of noisy construction work is going on. Most of this is coming from a gigantic, tracked jackhammer.

It’s 30 years since I was first here. I passed through Birethanti again 11 years ago when Daniel was 5.  Ha, Daniel and I had started a trek back along the main road before Nyapul. We’d hiked up to Pothana and then Landruk. Our next stop was Gandruk, only a stone’s throw away. Trouble was, to reach Gandruk we had to walk down what seemed an interminable track to the river and then climb all the way up again to Gandruk. On the way Ha had leaned on a stone wall to take a photo and been stung by stinging nettles. By the time we reached Gandruk she’d had enough and just wanted to go home. So we’d walked out to Birethanti paid our fee at the Marxist blockade[6] and caught a bus to Pokhara.

For today’s bus trip from Kathmandu to Birethanti the air has been too hazy to allow a view of the big mountains out on our right. This haze is a combination of  truck exhausts, humidity and wood smoke from the numerous brick kilns. (There are 60 kilns in the Kathmandu Valley) Never mind; we’ll be “up close and personal” with the mountains soon enough, possibly tomorrow.

The hotels at Birethanti are at the jumping off point for several popular treks although at this time of year, things are pretty slack. The two peak trekking times are March/April and October/November. The hotel owner tells us business will pick up in late March.  This hotel has a Western style, flush toilet and a hot shower. While there are many Asian practices I can adapt to, I have some difficulty in using a squat toilet and an even greater difficulty in placing my used toilet paper in the cardboard box beside the toilet.

Potato Rosti for dinner.

And oat porridge for breakfast. The owners allow me into the kitchen where I thicken the porridge with my own oats. (As my Irish ancestors would say, “Porridge you can trot a goat over”). I also add butter in lieu of cream and make my own milk using the full cream milk powder I’ve brought from home.

Our trek starts here: There are two roads leading up into the mountains from Birethanti. One goes to Gandruk and the other to Ghorepani. We take the Ghorepani road but won’t reach the eponymous village until tomorrow. Walking along the dirt road above the small but noisy river and escorted out of town by one of the millions of Nepali dogs, we reach the village of Tikhdedungga in time for lunch.

The next section of track is steeply uphill. Many people find it daunting because it includes the 530 metre climb on the famous 4,000 steps between here and Ulleri. Four thousand steps equal 20 laps of Jacobs Ladder in Perth. For training I’ve been doing 10 laps there, three or four times a week. I thought this would put me in good stead but even walking slowly here, I still struggle. PC and David are well ahead of me but are patient in waiting, so we arrive in Ulleri together. Mind you, I’d rather be walking up these steps than a knee-trembling down.

For people who haven’t been to the Himalayas I should point out that we are NOT yet in the snow-clad and bare mountain tops you see in climbing books. These are the foothills. The lower slopes are covered in a jungle greenery that gradually thins as we climb. It is still well timbered in Ulleri and even up beyond Ghorepani where large rhododendron trees dominate the landscape. It raises the question of just what is a mountain?

Later, when we are walking from Khopra (3,660m) to Dobato, PC asks Bijay for the name of a prominent mountain above the track. Bijay is puzzled. “It doesn’t have a name”, he says. “It’s not big enough”. It would have been almost 1,000 metres higher than Mt. Kosciuszko. Nepal might not be a big country, but even the small mountains are BIG COUNTRY indeed.

Thirteen hundred metres above Birethanti we stop for the night in the Greenhill Guest House in Banthanti. Our little group of six is the only one here. When we stop, we always have tea of some sort; lemon, black, masala or milk. While sitting sipping tea I’m intrigued by what appear to be tiny particles of dandruff snow – except it’s not cold enough for snow. After a careful look I realise they are microscopic, white butterflies, each about 2 mm across. The aerodynamics of normal butterfly wings are complex enough. What on earth is the pattern around these minuscule flakes?

I’m wearing my money belt around my waist and inside my pants. It holds all the NPR I have and also my passport, my AUD$100 notes and my two credit cards. I take it off only when I go to bed at night. Now, putting on my jacket, I cannot feel its bulk against my tummy. I feel my tummy and feel again. It’s not there! I feel again again. I pat all around my waist. Nothing. How could it possibly fall off without my noticing? Even if it came undone and fell through the leg of my trousers; how could it do this without me feeling it? Or someone seeing it?

Panic!

This means the end of the trek. And it means I’ll have to borrow money to get back to Kathmandu. Even if I reach there, how will I pay for a hotel with no credit cards or money? Still in a state of stunned disbelief, I feel around my waist again. My trousers are baggy. I pat the legs. Nothing! Did I put it in my day pack (which has a hole in it)? I hastily empty the day pack. Nothing. I stand back, perspiring with fear. What practical step can I take?

I step towards the door; I’ll have to tell the others. During that step I feel a tickle behind my knee. I grab at my last ray of hope. It’s the money belt, full. My trekking trousers are so baggy, the money belt had been hanging behind my knee without touching my skin.

I feel the sort of relief I would feel if I’d escaped the firing squad – or a management seminar.

In another miracle of modern life, I phone Ha using Viber on David’s phone. When I first came here, communication with the outside world while trekking was non-existent. You waited until you returned to Kathmandu or Pokhara, and then sent a postcard – although you would usually arrive home before the postcard. Later, came internet cafes. Now they in turn have gone the way of corsets, feather boas and postage stamps.

Perhaps because of today’s climb, I sleep soundly. A distant dog barks most of the night. I think one of these ‘all night’ dogs is on duty in every village. This one is a long way off and is more of interest than annoyance. I recall one in Langtang[7] village when I was there with Aaron. It was on barking duty directly below our window and took its vocation seriously. It wasn’t until an hour before dawn that its full-bodied and continuous bark became a hoarse and rasping, “hwhaaa, hwhaaa.”

Next day’s dawn is relatively clear. Much of the haze has gone and we can see the glistening white tip of double-pointed Machhapuchhre  and the main peaks of the Annapurnas over the distant mountain ridge and through the Ghorepani pass. Speaking of this pass; every morning, if visibility is good, the Pokhara to Jomson plane flies through this gap, returning about an hour later. Taking off from Pokhara is apparently easy. Not necessarily so from Jomson where the valley is steep-sided and narrow. A few years ago a plane didn’t turn in time and crashed into the near-vertical valley wall.

This hotel is also small and informal enough for the lady in charge to happily allow me into the kitchen and make my own porridge. Not all hotels are as accommodating. A few hosts are friendly but formal. After all, the kitchen has some spiritual significance for the host family. We experience the extreme at Khopra. We never see the kitchen or cook. A small, curtained window divides us from both. I’ve never seen this before – or since.

It’s a warm and windless day as we resume our walk – or climb, really. The well-made stone path up to Ghorepani is no challenge to PC and David but I find myself struggling again, particularly for the last 50 or so steps that are very high.[8] I console myself with the thought that – in round figures – PC is 10 years younger than me and David, 20 years. But the struggle is worth it, both for the increasing number of rhododendrons and for the last step that brings us on to the apron in front of the Pun Hill hotel. From here most of the snow-clad Annapurna massif stretches along the horizon to our north, seemingly within touching distance.

Looking down to farms and new road from near Ghorepani.

More importantly, for many Chinese and Japanese people, there is enough of a pause in their walk for each of them to take several hundred selfies.

We lunch here, lured as much by the splendid view as by the menu and the opportunity to rest for a while.

I look down the valley in front of and below us. The aim of our walk is to climb the Khopra Ridge and then along another ridge leading to the Mardi Himal. However, in the river valley below us, the one that intersects this one from Ghorepani, are the hot springs at Tatopani. I’ve luxuriated in these many times. Their lure is overwhelming – for me. However, PC and David will have none of it. Although they’ve both soaked in these springs, they are more mentally disciplined than I am and insist we stick to our original plan.

Tatopani[9] sits at the lower end of the Kali Gandaki Valley, usually credited with being the deepest valley in the world. On one side is Annapurna at 8,091m and on the other, Dhauligiri at 8,167m. The valley floor between them is at 2,500m. This drops to 2,000m at Tatopani.

Roads are pushing further and further into the mountains but there is still work for porters and mule trains. Mule trains are limited in what they can carry; generally, compact loads such as cement bags, gas cylinders and bags of potatoes or rice. Porters carry everything else. On this track, the most common porter’s load is of steel reinforcing rods. Although bent in half, making them about 10 metres long, when carried by a porter the load is both awkward and heavy. The porters carry three or four rods at a time.

We take a wide track down from Ghorepani towards Tatopani, mostly through farms and small settlements. Occasional herds of goats or a few buffalo ignore us as we pass; they’ve seen it all before.

At the spread-out village of Chitre we turn right on to another well made track between two stone walls. Up until now I hadn’t really seen a need for a guide as the way was pretty obvious. Here, it’s not. Bijay stops beside a sliprail and stile in the stone wall and asks us to climb over. Puzzled, we do so and find ourselves beside the back door of a farmhouse and in the farm yard. Chooks scatter as I walk through their yard and out onto the edge of a terraced field.  A man is ploughing, using two small bovines. The paddock is about the size of the verge in front of our house in Wembley. Beyond this field we are still walking in farms albeit ones that are less intensively worked.

I would love my farming relatives to see this country. I recall looking at farms in the Helambu valley many years ago. The average size of terraced fields was about an eighth of an acre. The smallest was the size of my dining room table. A woman was harvesting the wheat crop – with a pair of scissors; large scissors to be sure, but scissors none the less.

There is a track leading down towards a creek crossing. The grassy surface has been worn into a narrow trench and we follow this as it meanders towards the creek, first through farms and then through a charming forest. Just before the forest we rest for a few minutes beside a broken down house. Earthquake? We’ll never know. Across the creek a sign on a tree tells us it’s only 10 minutes to Swanta. It’s the longest 10 minutes I’ve ever known. But PC and David are there well before me. Perhaps it was 10 minutes for them.

Swanta is a low, stone building with a blue roof of corrugated iron. In front is an area trying hard to be a lawn. Obscuring the lovely view is the clothes line. This is a common feature of urban design (or lack of it) in Nepal. The toilet is often situated here, with the door opening directly on to the outdoor table and chairs. Hand basins and mirrors are not in the bathroom; they are on the outside of toilet blocks.

There are three women here already. Louisa is from Sweden and Debbie, from Albuquerque, New  Mexico. With them is Laxmi, their Nepali guide. Debbie and Louisa have been living in a Buddhist monastery in Pokhara, teaching English to the monks. Debbie resigned from her nursing job the moment Donald Trump was elected president of the USA. She didn’t want one cent of her taxes going to his government.

By this time I’ve taken the dressing off my head, leaving only the stitches that tend to draw occasional comment. I’m not sure what the clinical recommendation would be but it seems to me the more the wound dries out, the less chance of infection[10]. Debbie is a nurse but it’s too early to take out the stitches.

There is limited hot water for a shower. PC and David barely manage a quick one each and then it ran out. If I had a shower I would have to somehow keep my head dry.

In the small hotels I’ve stayed in, lighting is a problem. I can’t recall one hotel in which I didn’t need my head torch for reading. Switches, often hang loose and in Jhinu Danda the switch is in the middle of the window frame, behind the curtain. Light globes give enough light to allow you to find the light globe and that’s all. In the rooms of this hotel there are no light globes, switches or wiring. But we have an enjoyable evening chatting to the three women who are intelligent and good company.

In the morning I discover my camera has packed it in. I don’t know enough about cameras to work out what is wrong, other than it being a software problem. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. What with PC, David and Bijay all taking photos, I should be able to fill in the hiatus in my photography.

Chistibang, our destination today is a blue roof I can see a little above the tree line, far above. With me sans camera, we set out, cutting across the undulating slope through a delightful forest of tall trees with very little understory. Gradually losing height, we intersect a creek.

Here a small hydro turbine is being installed. I say ‘small’, but it’s too heavy to have been carried up by porter and the hollow where it now sits is too confined for a helicopter to fit. I can’t even see how a helicopter could have lowered it on a string.[11]PC and David walk up the gully above the generator to look at a waterfall. They walk beside a long, concrete ramp down which the water pipe will deliver water to the turbine. They learn that the helicopter lowered the machine to the top of the ramp where access is possible, then it was manhandled down the ramp. Wonderful people, engineers.

Walking up from the creek we come to a small teahouse. A slab of slate-like sedimentary rock with sparkling, mica inclusion has been carefully sculpted to make a table top measuring about 2 by 1.5 metres. The legs are of the same stone.

From here the path of stones and loose dirt is unrelentingly up. David and PC draw ahead. Bijay stays with me as I plod slowly on each stone step. I’m wearing my hiking boots and it seems to me they are excessively heavy. My sneakers are in my backpack with Prithi, up ahead somewhere. I’m sure they would be more appropriate. I need boots only when the ground is wet or when walking through snow. Countering this yearning for change is the knowledge that by tomorrow I will be walking through snow.

I arrive, totally stuffed and I lie down for half an hour to recover.

Recovering somewhat, I sink a masala tea and have a look around. The main, central room (Usually known as the dining room although sometimes as the “dinning” room.) has a cylindrical wood stove in its centre. This has a wooden frame around it on which we can hang any wet clothes. Stepping outside I see the inevitable clothes line and washing, partially blocking the view down the valley.

In the morning we have a shorter climb although it will be to our highest point, 3,660m high Khopra. Yesterday Bijay kept close but walked behind me. Probably unconsciously, I tried too hard to keep moving, knowing he was on my tail. Today he walks ahead and walks very slowly. This has the effect of slowing me down. All to the good.

We climb above the tree line a little below Chistibang. Now there are still scattered, small trees but the vegetation around us is mostly thorny scrub about head height. One of the thorny plants produces a small yellow or red berry. A few years ago these were being sold in so-called “health food” shops as a cure for just about everything.

The thorny scrub gives way to what is officially alpine meadow. Lest this convey an image of green and level paddocks dotted with cud-chewing cattle and exuding bucolic charm, let me point out, this is a rocky slope of about 45° with tufts of dry, wiry grass between irregular stone outcrops. This is no English meadow. Ahead of us I can see a human figure standing on a prominent flat rock on a buttress and I assume this is beside the hotel. Then eight descending hikers pass and reassure us that “The end is nigh”. Well, it’s not actually that “nigh” but, like life itself, we are closer to the end than the beginning.   Four Lammergiers have been circling above us. Now we’re level with them. I’m sure they’re harmless to large, moving animals like us. Still, I remember my mother’s caution, “Keep moving, just fast enough so the crows know you’re alive.” Then there’s the line from The Goon Show about circling vultures. “Keep your eyes on the ones with knives and forks”.

We pause for a rest on a flat rock, beside a small rhododendron tree. In the still air it is dripping with stalactites of tattered  and long decayed prayer flags. Hope tinged with exhaustion tells me to expect the Khopra hotel on the next crest. It isn’t, although there is a small chorten to encourage us. Nor is the hotel on the next crest. But as the path levels out on the next crest, there it is only a couple of hundred metres ahead of us. The Lammergiers[12] circling slowly below us now will have to go to bed hungry.

We could see the upper parts of the Annapurna massif from Ghorepani. Now as we top that last rise the full depth of the view rises before us. The Khopra hotel (and its associated outbuildings) sits on the nose of the ridge, much as the cockpit of a modern jet liner sits at the front of the aircraft. We are in the cockpit, looking straight at the mountains, dead ahead. The air is clear …

… but cloudy later. By late afternoon a thunderstorm rattles and bangs the cloud above, and increasingly around us. The thunder has a peculiar quality, perhaps due to the altitude. Instead of the deep-throated, rolling growl I’m used to, this thunder has a “tinny” quality; not so much a rumble as a rattle. Snow begins to fall as the temperature plummets. There is already some old snow on the ground. This new snow comes in the form of small, dry, spherical balls, like polystyrene beads. Is this sago snow?

It’s too cold to stay outside. Inside is a small stove in a large room. The stove, however ineffective, does at least have a drying frame around it. We are now above the tree line and wood is scarce and expensive. The fuel for the stove is dried bovine manure[13]. I don’t know who collects it. As far as I can tell from the kitchen voices, all staff are male.[14] The fuel gives very little heat, so there is no hot water for showers.

Clustered around the fire and along the tables are four Belgians, two Russians, four French (and another two later) and nine Nepalis. We three are the Australian mob. The Himalayas are a meeting area for the world’s people. In the past I’ve met people from every Western European country and from Russia and the Ukraine, The USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, China, South Africa and Egypt. Perhaps the most unusual were two Basque men. One claimed to speak only a few words of English and even fewer words of Spanish. The other apparently spoke only Basque. In effect they had no one to talk to except themselves. On this trip I’ve already encountered a man from the Republic of Georgia and will later meet four from Uruguay, two from Indonesia and about ten from Viet Nam.

Two of the most important and under-appreciated inventions by humans are heating and lighting. Neither invention has made much of an inroad to the high Himalayas. I’ve already mentioned lighting and the need for a head torch. Stoves are inevitably inadequate. The locals do the best they can, but come 8 or 9 o’clock, the stove dies and there’s no alternative to bed. Tonight I sleep inside my down sleeping bag and polartech liner wearing two ‘thermal’ tops, socks, gloves and balaclava.

In the morning I try for a sleep-in but there’s too much noise. PC and David are going to walk along the track leading further back along the ridge towards Himchuli and Annapurna 3. This is listed in the guide book as an eight hour walk although someone they met yesterday told them it took thirteen hours. Bijay and Prakesh will go with them.

By the time I wriggle out of my warm cocoon they’ve gone. I have to use a squat toilet, something my joints increasingly object to. However, I have no choice. There is no warm water for hand washing. In fact, there is no cold water either. I have to use the soap mixed with snow and then to rinse the snow off, I use partially melted ice from the top of the plastic water tank.

Far below me I watch the Pokhara to Jomson plane flying through the Ghorepani pass. Then, glancing down and to the left, the lammergieres, still slowly circling.

The hotel, like the cockpit of a jet airliner, heading straight for Dhauligiri (GOC)

My camera is working again! I stroll around outside, clicking off photos left right and centre. In retrospect, I should have taken more. Having been raised on film where I had to severely ration my picture-taking, it’s counterintuitive to now take hundreds. The memory card in my camera can hold more than 1,500 photos. By the time I return home I’ve used less than 300.

I start up the ridge behind the hotel. This is the path taken by PC and David. Within 150 metres, Prithi appears beside me. Bijay has decided I need a baby sitter and has charged Prithi to watch over me. Just before he catches up I try for a photo of myself[15] against the backdrop of the Annapurnas. Another Nepali man is loitering nearby and I frame and focus the camera. It’s difficult enough explaining to an English speaker the framing of a photo; they always place head or heads in the centre of the frame. This man does what 99% of people normally do. He puts my head in the middle, and chops off my feet and the mountain tops.

With rocks, old snow and dry grass underfoot, I walk slowly up along the brown and grey, snow-speckled ridge towards the higher mountains. PC and David are up ahead somewhere although I can’t see them from here. I pass two broken-down kharka[16]and watch as wispy clouds start to gather around the mountain tops. The air here is cool and it’s still sunny enough to make walking a pleasure. Another 30 minutes of walking and I can see, far ahead, the four dots that are David, PC, Prakesh and Bijay, returning from their walk.

We meet soon afterwards. They didn’t reach the small tarn at the end of the walk, they tell me. “When we heard it could take 13 hours to get there and back, we didn’t really expect to” said Peter. “But it was a great walk, anyway.” We all sit for a while and then take ‘heroic’ pictures of each other with Annapurna 3 above and behind us. Just in time, because it disappears in cloud a few minutes later.

Annapurna South from the Khopra Ridge.

The weather has been cool but pleasant. Suddenly, (And I mean over a period of about 10 minutes) the temperature drops at least 15°. By the time we reach the hotel, I’m freezing. There is nothing for it but to climb into my sleeping bag and shiver. I must have dozed eventually because the next thing I remember is being woken for dinner by David who delivers the welcome news that the stove is alight

The dining room is marginally warmer than my own unheated room. Thunder and lightning are attacking the mountains outside and the strange hail/snow is falling. New people have moved in. This includes a young couple from Alice Springs with their two daughters; one is five and the other, two and a half. The younger one was carried here, the older one walked some of the way herself.

I’m reading my book; “I am Malala”. At home I go to bed about 11.30. No matter how hard I try to stay out of bed here, by 9PM the inadequate fire is out and even reading in bed is difficult. Try turning pages with gloved hands.

Next day we take the high route to Dobato. There are two tracks linking Khopra with Dobato. One descends to well below the snow and then climbs to our destination, back above the snow line. The other doesn’t descend much but climbs “gradually” to Dobato. I put ‘gradually’ in inverted commas because it seems anything but gradual to me. Still, it’s probably more so than the lower route. This high route turns out to be a route I would not take again while snow was lying on the ground. Fortunately, there is no ice (Although I have mini-crampons for this). However, the track is mostly across a slope of 45° to 60° and in many places is wide enough for only my two feet. The drop-off is not vertical; if you slipped you’d bounce every 10 metres or so and it would be a long way before you stopped falling altogether.

The upper path from Khopra to Dobato.

The soil beneath the tufts of grass seems rich and fertile. It is dark and seems to be bound by a generous dose of organic matter. Primulas abound in this, their home ground. It’s a pity the soil is about 50% stones and is on a slope of 60°. I wish I had it at home instead of near-sterile and slightly discoloured beach sand of the Perth coastal plain.

Wild primulas.

There are two places where we have to cross a small creek in a steep gully. Here the path is in shade and the rocks in the creek are capped with ice. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO STAND ON AN ICE-CAPPED ROCK WITHOUT SLIPPING. Don’t even try. There is a simple solution; dig up or grab with your hands some sand or soil and place it on the rocks. You can now step on them. However, it’s worth holding on to something – another trekker, some shrubbery, a walking pole or overhanging branches.

It has been quite sunny. About 2 PM cloud starts to drift across above us and a light snow begins to fall. Once again it’s mixture of normal flakes and the “polystyrene” snow we’ve been seeing lately. Thunder rattles the sky and again. It still has an odd, tinny sound, like someone rattling sheets of corrugated iron. The snowfall intensifies just as we arrive at Dobato at 5.15 PM. We need to dust the snow off before we can enter the crowded dining room.

The room is warm, partly because of the excellent stove and partly because of all the many warm bodies crowded inside. It’s the most people I’ve ever seen at a trekking hotel. The stitches above my eyebrow are due out sometime soon and given the numbers here, it’s not surprising I find Daisy, a Welsh nurse who works in the surgical ward of a London hospital. After reinforcing myself with two mugs of lemon tea, I submit to Daisy’s care. She is carrying a first aid kit and appears quite chuffed at having the opportunity to use it. While her boyfriend, Carlos holds the torch, she expertly removes the stitches and my beauty is restored.

Daisy the stitch remover and Carlos the light holder.

The room dividers – I could hardly call them walls – are of plywood or some other thin timber. At one earlier hotel PC was in a bed up against such a wall. I was in the next room, up against the same wall. When PC turned over it felt as if he was on the other half of a double bed. At Dobato I’m kept awake by the snoring of the German man in the next room, his face only inches from mine. This is not to complain, only to warn would-be trekkers. Be adaptable and tolerant.

Next day we start down in earnest; our destination, Tadapani. Early in the walk PC spies a pheasant ahead of him. The national bird of Nepal is the brilliantly coloured Impeyan pheasant. This may have been an Impeyan or any one of a half dozen other pheasants. It didn’t wait around.

We’re walking on a path sprinkled lightly with snow which diminishes as we descend. Then we’re walking through a moss-covered forest of tall rhododendron trees. The sunlight is slanting down to backlight the moss on trees, stumps and rocks in a brilliant chrome green halo.

Moss covered forest above Tadapani.

The path is now dry. Just before our morning tea stop at Meshar Danda I switch to sneakers instead of boots.  A large French group on its way up is also having a break. A little later we meet a French couple and their 7 year old daughter. Good to see kids out and about, up here.

When I fell in Kathmandu, I lost a patch of skin on the inner part of my wrist. The doctor pushed the skin back in place and dressed it. I took the dressing off a few days ago and it was recovering nicely. Now I fall against a tree root[17]. The sleeves of my ‘thermal’ top and my jacket insulate the wound from the dirt but the abrasive nature of the thermal pushes the skin away from where it was re-growing. There’s nothing I can do about it here. The sleeve of the ‘thermal’ will absorb the blood. I’ll look at it when we reach Tadapani.

Which I do about 2 PM. We’ve decided that I’ll bail out of the ascent to the Mardi Himal trek, the second phase of our adventure. I really doubt I could make it and if I try, I’m only going to slow the others down. There is also the new problem with my arm. PC is adamant I should take it to the medical post in Gandruk. I say OK but I trust my own care more than I trust that at Gandruk. Still, it probably is a good idea to wait there for a day in case it becomes infected, in which case I would accept medical intervention. For the moment though, we’re in Tadapani. Gandruk is only a couple of hours below us and I’ll need Peter’s help to re-dress the arm.

First I have a shower of sorts. It’s a telephone shower which is OK for an APC wash. There are small hooks where I can hang a towel and dry clothes. This is as unusual as it is welcome. The hot water comes from an instant gas heater but the hotel man has to turn it on for me. He unhooks the burner from the wall, presses a button underneath and then tips it over about 45° until it lights. Then he hangs it back on the wall and Bob’s your uncle.

Before the shower I iodised half a litre of water and PC prepared a basin of water as hot as I could stand it. Now, using the warm water, he washes the wound as best he can and then dabs it dry with a sterile gauze square. I then pour the iodised water over it and let it dry. PC applies an iodine soaked dressing and we bandage it up. It never becomes infected.

Three years ago, when hiking with PC I fell on rocks and took some skin off my arm; maybe the same part of my arm. It bled quite a bit. The only water I could find in any quantity was issuing from a black plastic pipe jammed into a small creek. I let this run over my arm until it stopped bleeding and all the dirt was washed off. I was carrying iodised water, so I then washed the wound with this before bandaging it. My arm made an uneventful recovery.

You can see why I’m a great fan of iodised water.

PC and David are about to leave for Gandruk when a few large drops of rain fall. Within a minute this became a deluge of rain and conventional, icy hail. They stay.

The dining room of the Panorama hotel is warm, dry and friendly. We look out on large rhododendron trees, the flowering tops level with the dining room windows. Besides us, the porters and guides, there are two English, two Danes, two Germans and four from Uruquay.

No matter how warm the dining room, by 8 PM the fire has died and we have nowhere else to go but to our beds.

In the morning we have a good view of Machhapuchhre while the first rays of the sun have already gilded Annapurna South. The stove in the dining room is alight and the weather is fine. Last night I had potato rosti for dinner. It was so good I’ll have one for breakfast.

A short distance above Gandruk we stop at a small, trackside teahouse for morning tea. As we’re about to leave, it begins to rain and hail. We drag out all our rain gear and put it on. I raise my umbrella – and the rain immediately stops.

It’s fifteen years since I was last in Gandruk and then only for one overnight. It’s the place where, after three days, Ha bailed out from her only trek in Nepal. And now it’s near enough to the place where I will bail out. We’ve decided that PC and David will cross the Modhi Kola below Gandruk and walk up to the Mardi Himal ridge. I will spend an extra day in Gandruk before also crossing the river but walking only up to Jhinu Danda. During my stay in Gandruk I will take my arm to the medical centre, but only if I’m desperate.

Gandruk seems much larger than I remembered. However, my memory is very old and no matter what, places grow. I check in to the Milano hotel and seem to be the only one here. The dining room looks hauntingly familiar and I wonder if this is the same hotel Ha, Daniel and I stayed in in ’96. As well as hotels, there is also a plethora of Home Stays. These have fewer beds than hotels and a trekker’s porter and guide are expected to do the cooking.

We coordinate watches (or calendars), and phone numbers[18]. PC and David leave for Jhinu Danda while I snatch a post prandial snooze before coming down to the unheated dining room for dinner.

The TV is on. In any public area such as a waiting room, I normally sit with my back to any TV screen. This time it’s convenient to sit facing this ubiquitous and apparently compulsory instrument of torture. Unlike the news at home, normally taken up with football, cricket and the vagaries of “celebs”, this news is of a plane crash at Kathmandu airport. I can’t follow the voice-overs but it’s clear the crash of a Bangladeshi plane is a disaster of considerable magnitude. I learn later it made news around the world. I also learn later that it was probably due to misunderstanding between ground staff and air crew.

It’s too early to apportion blame. It was likely the “Swiss Cheese” phenomenon. On the internet there is a transcript  of the conversation between ground and air crew. If Air Traffic Control staff are drawn from the Civil Aviation Authority , then that could explain it. On an earlier trek I remember reading in the Kathmandu Post that of the last eleven appointments to the Civil Aviation Authority, ten were of people who had some familial or social connection with existing staff. It seemed relatedness was more important than competence.

(My departure from Kathmandu was delayed in 2015 because a Turkish airliner had crash-landed on the runway.)

I’m  close to finishing “I am Malala” and ask the hotel staff (a young couple) if there is a bookstore in town. They have a word with Prithi and he takes me down the steps[19] to a shop described on its sign as a “Stationer”. The lady doesn’t have any books on site. Using wire mesh shutters, she closes the shop and leads me to a nearby house. Here she digs inside some boxes and comes up with two books. It’s all she has. Although I can’t judge them on the basis of a look at the cover and a quick read of the blurbs on the back, they seem more suited to someone on the mystic trail. It’s a shame because there is little to do in Gandruk. PC has promised to leave his book (“Remains of the Day”) here. He forgot but I pick it up later in Jhinu Danda.

We have no control over our dreams. The subjects appear to be completely random, disconnected, unrelated to reality, often downright weird – and easily forgotten. A few weeks before leaving Oz, I dreamed I was driving around the Perth CBD, looking for a parking spot. How boring is that?  Last night’s dream was like a 90 minute, black and white film with a beginning, middle and an end. My dream included a picnic with friends on a Canadian island. Sarah was there.( I was engaged to Sarah before I met Dolly. A few weeks before our proposed marriage and completely out of the blue, she left me. No matter how hard I try to forget, here I am 56 years later, dreaming of her!) I’ve heard it said that dreams are especially vivid at altitude because of the lower oxygen level. I doubt it. Gandruk is at only 1940 metres. I think it has more to do with the long nights when you sleep fitfully and spend much of the night hovering between sleep and wakefulness.

Two young English women have come in during the day. In the evening we have a long discussion about books and travels. They are a little bit mystic, especially in relation to India and I suggest they read Gita Mehta’s book, “Karma Cola”. One of them has driven and hitched pretty well all the way around Australia and now works on a cannabis plantation in Oregon.

The discussion got me thinking about the power of the word, “the”. Not all languages have definite or indefinite articles. (Vietnamese for example)  The word gives a cachet and verisimilitude to concepts that might not deserve them. “The” Celestine prophecy sounds more convincing than “A” Celestine prophecy, or “A possible“ or “A Theoretical” or “A totally Outrageous” Celestine Prophecy.

Morning. The sunlit peak of Annapurna South glows warmly above us. Machhapuchhre is visible through the haze but withdraws soon after.

The two English women are still here. They told me they were leaving early for Ghorepani and points beyond. One of them has just finished an American crime thriller and bequeaths it to me.  I have no choice. I’ll start it later. First I want to take a look at my arm.

Removing the dressing brings some of the dead skin away with it. I’ve already poured boiling water over the small scissors, so I use these to cut off the pieces of hanging skin. These fall into the garden and I can now legitimately claim that a part of me will always be in Nepal.  I leave the wound open for the time being because I haven’t seen any flies. Then I start the modern American novel. It’s written by James Patterson. The book has large printing with the words well spaced for easy reading. The longest word is ‘architectural’. There is lots of sex, violence, gunfights, carnography, beer and whiskey – all presented as normal. Oddly enough, there are no car chases. Perhaps this is best left to films. No wonder Americans go around shooting each other. Books like this present it as a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence.

Prithi takes me on a walk through Gandruk. Our first stop is at a Gurung Museum. The entry fee is NPR75 (about 80 cents). In establishing a museum the locals don’t have much to work with. This museum is one room beneath a house. An eclectic mix of old artefacts is displayed on shelves around the dusty room. Although there is an electric globe, we need the light in Prithi’s mobile phone to read the labels and even to see the displays. It’s interesting enough but I would have preferred more information. It may be a way to draw tourist into the shop. It isn’t long before the lady is putting the hard word on me to buy a Gurung apron.

Another unusual sight is a type of fig tree. They are leafless at the moment, with the knobbly fruit growing along the trunk and branches. Prithi tells me the fruits are used as animal feed. I’m not sure, but I think they are called Khanyu.

We call at the “German Bakery” for pumpernickel. The lady has never heard of it, so Prithi has a cinnamon bun and I, a cup of milk tea. Milk tea is not the white tea we have in Oz. It’s a tea bag in a cup of hot, reconstituted milk. Not quite the same but refreshing nonetheless.

I feel sorry for Prithi. He really has no one to talk to except me. My Nepalese is negligible and his English, minimal. When walking with Bijay and Prakesh he talks like a DJ on commercial radio. Now he’s plunged into uncharacteristic silence. I wish I knew more Nepalese.

Back at the hotel I resume my painful ploughing through the mind of James Patterson, the writer of the crime thriller. I’m a long way from being an intellectual. Still, I like a book that provides some sort of mental challenge. This book has the intellectual depth of a mid-ocean oil slick. Fortunately the air eventually becomes too cool for sleevelessness and I have an excuse to put the book down for a while.

Again I wash my forearm with iodised water, wait for it to dry and then apply some neomycin ointment, a new dressing and bandage. Then I put on my thermal top and  jacket.

I’m up at 7 AM. Prithi is already up. He’s always up before me and looks like he’s ready to go. I breakfast on potato rosti. Actually, on a double potato rosti. The one last night was so good.

The cost for two for two nights, including food, is NPR 2960. (Near enough to AUD$30)

Today we will walk to Jhinu Danda, only 4 to 5 hours away. Luring me on is the promise of hot springs when we arrive.

Stacked firewood, Gandruk.

Most of the walk is on the road below the town. This cuts across the slope so is not very steep. In fact, it rises slightly although the last part of the morning’s walk is down to the river. We pass a circular stack of firewood about the size of a small house, then a water-powered corn mill, a small waterfall and a house where a buffalo has got into the house garden and is being chased out.

Farm gate near Jhinu Danda.

Across the valley we can see Jhinu Danda village and even some of the steps leading up to it from the river. We turn off the road on to the walking track. We are still cutting across the slope with the river down on our right. We pass a farm gate. I can’t recall ever seeing one of these.  It’s much fancier than the ones around Mullewa or even Margaret River.  A dog with a bell around its neck falls in with us as a sort of herald. We’ve passed six or seven trekkers when two German girls stop us. They’ve lost their friend, an Australian girl who was ahead of them. Their description, “She was wearing a white T shirt” isn’t the sort of thing we took note of. I hope they find her. The path descends to a teahouse beside the river where we stop for a cup of tea. As we leave, I meet and briefly chat with a 68 year old Minnesota man who teaches English in Vung Tau (Viet Nam). Pity we didn’t have more time to exchange experiences. But trekking is like that, a line of ants, touching antennae as we pass, and then moving on.

Prithi about to cross the Modhi Kola.

We cross the boiling, roiling river on a short, log bridge and then climb a hundred or so steps to the Namaste hotel, arriving at noon. It seems a pleasant place to spend two nights and PC’s book is here. Up yours, James Patterson.

The Namaste is probably the grandest hotel I’ve stayed in on this trek and I plan on staying two nights. The hot springs are below the hotel on the river bank. Mind you, they are far below; not like the hot springs at Tatopani that are immediately outside the back gate of the Dhauligiri Hotel. Later, having paid my NPR100 I walk down the wooded slope to the spring. Only the keeper of the spring is here, a Nepali man in bathers. I haven’t bought bathers but strip to my undies. I soap and wash myself under a spout of hot water and then lower my aching bones (and a few muscles) into the warm water. I have to keep my left arm above water level because of the bandage. It’s an uncomfortable position to hold.

A few minutes later a German girl arrives. She wants to go to the toilet but there isn’t one. The keeper tells her to go into the bush behind the building and then takes an inordinate interest in that patch of bush until the girl returns. A few more minutes and a French Canadian man arrives for about an hour of soaking before resuming his trek. As I climb out, two more German families arrive.

The climb back to the hotel is relatively long and by the time I arrive I’m sweating and feel like another soak in the spring.

Many people are arriving, some going up and some down. This route is on the trail to the Annapurna Base Camp and the overwhelming majority of the people here are on that trek.

Being starved of reading matter, I start immediately on PC’s book (“The Remains of the Day” by Ishiguro). If I had to summarise in a word the Patterson book and this book I would say Ishiguro’s is all introspection and Patterson’ s has no introspection at all. Just as well I’m not a book reviewer. My reviews would be too short. Reminds me of my mother’s story about the review in the NY Times of the play,” Mourning Becomes Electra”. Apparently the play was long and boring; the reviewer simply wrote,” Bum Becomes Numb.”

The dog on barking duty isn’t taking its job seriously. It’s close to the hotel but barks only intermittently and not very loudly during the night. When I open my door in the morning it’s lying asleep on my doormat. Even a nudge with my foot won’t induce movement. I have to step over it. This dog is in good nick. Many are not. The dogs that roam the streets of Kathmandu at night are the most miserable, godforsaken, diseased, forlorn looking animals I’ve seen anywhere. It’s not so obvious in the country because the dog density is lower. Most dogs are old and limping on at least one leg. Near Gandruk I saw one dog limping on all four legs.

Two large tour groups are already up and waiting to move off. One is the German family of seven. The other is a mixed group of nine. All are going to the Annapurna base camp.

The lower hotels on the trekking routes often have their own veggie gardens and the Namaste is no exception. If you ask for veggie noodle soup as I often do, the bok choy or cabbage will have been picked only hours and sometimes minutes before it is served.

Other than my visit to the hot springs today, it will be a bit boring. So that PC, David and I arrive in Pokhara on the same day, I have to spend another night here. I could spend it at Syuli Bazar or Birethanti.  Of the three however, this place is preferable; it has the hot springs.

I sit for some time in the sunshine, reading. Late morning I walk down to the hot spring. It’s not as warm as yesterday and is more crowded. In it are two middle aged Chinese men, four Chinese women and three Nepalis who are probably their porters/guides. There is much raucous merriment going on. The Chinese shout, “Chinese mo mo bigger” and they all fall about, screaming with laughter. Then the Nepalis shout, “Nepali mo mo bigger” and they again scream with laughter. The cycle goes on for about 20 minutes. Perhaps my sense of humour, honed on “The Goon Show” was too dated to get the joke.

In the evening, a young couple from Indonesia and I watch a Japanese family at their meal. We’re all sitting together in the dining room, so we’re not actually sticky-beaking. It’s impossible not to notice that they’ve brought their entire meal – and a complex menu at that – precooked and pre-wrapped from Japan. They even have their own chopsticks and tissues.

I pay our AUD$30 for two nights “fooding and lodging” for two. There was thunder and lightning and heavy rain last evening. In the morning light we can see fresh snow on the trees far above us although the ground around the hotel is dry as we begin a slow walk to Syuli Bazar.[20] There’s no rush. Today’s walk is of only 3 hours or so, mostly downhill.

We re-cross the Modhi Kola River and take the path that has the river on our left and increasingly further below us. This is a popular trekking route. It’s known as the ABC trek for Annapurna Base Camp. There are many people coming up the valley, trekkers and porters. One group I encounter is that of eight or nine Vietnamese people. I’ve never before met anyone here from Viet Nam. They have stopped for lunch and are very surprised to see someone (who is obviously not Vietnamese) greet them in their own language and even hold a brief conversation with them.

Another noteworthy group of about 20 is from Russia. Noteworthy because, except for two or three in their twenties, all are much older than other trekkers. Very much older. It looks as if a nursing home has sent its clients out to get some fresh air. Some of them are struggling and I wonder if they’ll make it to 3,700m. As I pause to write in my diary of how exhausted and old they look and that the oldest woman is 71, it occurs to me that I’m seven years older than her! So much for referring to people as “old”.

The sound of the boulder-strewn river has been growing fainter as we steadily climb the side of the valley. Just as it fades completely, a growl and rumble from above tells me we have reached the Birethanti to Gandruk road where a 4WD is slowly crawling.

We follow the road for some considerable distance and then drop down again to the riverside path. This walk is taking longer than I expected. The “Bright” guest house offers morning tea and I’m happy to take it. There are no lemons for lemon tea but I’m happy with milk tea. After placing it in front of me the lady fishes something out of it with her fingers. Not to worry; I’m too thirsty to care.

Passing the bridge leading from Landruk to Gandruk, I pause to photograph it. This is for Ha’s benefit. It’s a river crossing she will never forget.

Just short of Syuli Bazar I’m descending a particularly steep section of steps when a Chinese woman extends her hand to help me off the bottom step. I must be looking especially wobbly. I don’t need the hand but thank her anyway. She is between 40 and 50 years old. In trying to strike up conversation I learn that she has no more than a dozen words of English. She’s never heard of Australia (Or perhaps never heard of my pronunciation of Australia). Her backpack is smaller than my daypack and she doesn’t have a porter or guide. She can tell me she’s going to the Annapurna Base Camp. I wonder how she got on.

The Riverside hotel at Syuli Bazar marks the end of today’s walk around 2PM. Just as well. Other than the twenty minute break for tea, we’ve been walking without a break since about 8AM. I notice I’m becoming slower and more uncoordinated as we walk. Looking at the notes in my diary, I can barely read the spidery scrawl. I can usually last all day without a drink.  This must be dehydration. I cure it with several cups of lemon tea.

The only other guests are a young French couple who speak little English.

I’m still suffering from book deprivation. This hotel has eight books, mostly in German. The one in English is called “Bluebottle”. It’s another American, crime fiction. It appears to be more “literary” than the Patterson one, mostly because of the sprinkling of references to poetry and classical music. They are not germane to the plot and appear to be there to give the book gravitas and perhaps to earn the word “Superb” extracted from the NY Times review. I wonder what the rest of the review said?

The kitchen is informal enough for me to make my own porridge for breakfast.

We’re now out of the mountains although in Australia we would consider ourselves well in amongst them. Ever larger terraced fields have replaced scrubby bush. Bright red flowers of kapok trees litter the road. A coffee plantation appears on right and a fish farm on the left. There are orange and banana trees. In front of some of the houses, millet seeds are spread on tarpaulins to dry. A mill grinding corn is diesel powered.

Prostate cancer led me to a prostatectomy about 12 years ago. I’ve had no problems but I feel a Damoclean threat is hanging over me ever since. So when the inside of my trouser leg suddenly became wet, I thought, “Oh no. This is it”, the beginning of incontinence. I felt the same as when I thought I’d lost my money belt. Prithi assures me it was a splash from a puddle on the road as a bus passed. To me it looks like an inside job. “At least I got one last trek done”, I thought.

But it was the splash from a bus. I’m saved for one more trek.

And that’s a good a place as any to end the trek. I stayed overnight in Birethanti, caught a taxi to Pokhara and arrived at the Garuda hotel about 20 minutes before PC and David. As far as I’m concerned, any hotel that provides toilet paper and doesn’t have a cardboard box to throw used toilet paper in – is a luxury hotel.

Lake Phewa in Pokhara

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Books

We spent a couple of days in Pokhara and three days in Kathmandu before flying home. I should mention a book on the shelf of the dining room in Birethanti. It is “Ancient Futures” by Helena Norbert-Hodge. I’ve read it already and I have it at home anyway, but if you want to learn about Ladakh, this is where to start.

The other book I bought, for about the sixth time was “The Golden Gate” by Vikram Seth.

I keep lending and losing it. This time I won’t allow it out of the house. I generally avoid novels, preferring non-fiction. This book is an exception. It is one of my ten ‘desert island’ books. I’ll tell you why.

Many years ago, having finished a trek down the Kali Gandaki valley and finding myself at a loose end in Tatopani, I wandered into a small shop that had about two dozen books for sale. Looking along the spines I saw the name Vikram Seth. Some years earlier I’d read his “A Suitable Boy” and enjoyed it immensely. On this basis I took “The Golden Gate” down from the shelf and flicked it open. My heart fell. It was poetry. I’m not really into poetry, so this was not promising. Even worse, it was a novel told in 168, fourteen line sonnets. Sonnets! Bloody hell! The only sonnets I’d tried to read were by Shakespeare and they’d left me cold. Still, I had to have something to read and English language ones were scarce.

I took it back to the garden of the Dhauligiri hotel, sat under a mandarin tree and began to read. Two and a half hours later I lowered it to my lap, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe a tear from my eye, turned back to page one and read it again – and have read it several times since.

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