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Published: October 21st 2010
I have been looking forward to visiting Chitwan National Park from about the time the moment this trip was conceived. I have been excited about the prospect of walking there for about two months; ever since I discovered it was possible. The reason that this walk appealed so much was that it seemed, on paper, to meet all of our trekking requirements. Because we are travelling as a couple we have to compromise occasionally on our activities, so instead of a twenty day marathon over high passes, we opted instead for a shorter trek through the Mahabharat range that, in a country possessing several of the worlds highest mountains, constitute mere hills. It was not just the trek's lack of difficulty and altitude that appealed, but also the fact that it would lead us well away from the gore-tex clad masses into a little visited region of Nepal populated by the slightly maligned Chepang tribe, with whom apparently it would be possible to stay. So, with nothing much more in our tiny day packs than a change of t-shirt and couple of socks, we boarded a bus bound for Hugdi, the place from where we were to begin our short walk
to the Park.
Day 1 We had barely left Kathmandu's ramshackle suburbs before our coach had ground to a halt to become the most recent addition to a considerable line of stationary vehicles. In two hours we had only managed to travel about the same number of kilometres; far enough to have left the Kathmandu valley and to have begun our descent to meet the Trisuli river, but not nearly far enough to convince ourselves that we would complete the journey that day. From the opposite direction came a slow procession of trucks, minivans, overloaded buses and overheating cars. All of which were being left behind by the two wheelers who were taking the piss by slipping through the gridlock whilst waving.
Almost all the vehicles had at least one goat tied to their roofs. The size of the vehicle had no influence on the number of goats that it was carrying. Plenty of cars had three, many buses only one, but all of the goats had no more than four days to live as they had all been purchased, or transported from their farms, in order to be sacrificed to the warrior God Durga on the
15th Oct as part of the Dashain festival. For a long while we were crawling along behind a truck of buffalo. These creatures could not keep their feet and were falling about, scared and angry. There was only a net to keep them from falling out the back of the truck, a net that was bulging dangerously from the force applied by the tumble of buffalo kicking and writhing in the truck. Although the animals had it bad, it was the single brave Nepali in the truck which I felt the most sorry for. His job was to stand amongst the terrified cattle and try and keep them from going mental. I severely doubted it, but I desperately hoped he was being well paid. I wondered if he could afford the insurance?
Buffalo must really hate the cows in India and Nepal; I would if I were one. They are just as docile, just as daft looking, equally milky and mostly as meaty. Yet they are sacrificed, they are eaten and they are worked. Cows, with the exception of the working Oxen, are not. They are instead venerated and allowed to do just as they please, which, if you
are a cow, seems to be standing with your mates at road junctions and chewing on old newspapers.
Despite traffic jams and obtuse cows, we still made it to Hugdi a few hours before sunset. Our trail began behind a confused scattering of wood and tin and vegetables, that were apparently shops, and ascended steeply into the forest which quickly enveloped us in its leafy embrace. All sounds from the road below were lost to the chattering of birds, and the grime of the city to our quickly running sweat. Because we started our walk rather late we were forced to precede at a faster pace than the first day demanded and did not stop climbing until we had left the Trisuli river far below and had reached the first load rest. These old stone seats, invariably under a spreading banyan tree, are placed at intervals along these ancient trails to provide a weary traveller a place to shuck his load on the conveniently sized step, and to take a well earned rest in the shade. Although outside of the protective shade of the banyan the fierce alpine sun beat steadily on the ground, the higher mountains of the
Himalayas that must surely form a dramatic backdrop to these mere hills were hidden by mass of cloud; the results of a very late monsoon and exacerbated by the recent inclement weather.
Though still very hot, the sun was now flirting with the hills to the west, and already beginning to blush. Continuing the climb we passed small wooden abodes that were tucked into the hillside, surrounded by flowers, vegetables and a few small fields of rice, cucumber, millet, tomatoes or chilli. Cows and buffalo were either grazing the hillside or lowing in their pens, and all manner of smaller farmyard creatures were scratching, snuffling, or pawing their way about the homestead. Small impromptu markets were set up under the larger trees on the trail where traditionally dressed locals were gathered to sell or barter the produce of their fields. We climbed steadily and stickily for an hour before we again paused to rest. To the west the sun was now blushing fiercely, the lower part of his face obscured from view as he kissed the shoulder of the farthest ridge. We had still not reached a suitable village, so after taking a few sips of water we shouldered
our packs and pressed on.
The gloaming found us in a small village squatting at the top of the ridge. Our enquiries proved fruitless as all the spare beds in their homes were taken up by family members returning for the festival. We were advised to push on another couple of kilometres to the next village where we were assured there would be a bed. The last of the days sweat was added to our already drenched shirts in reaching the village of Kot, but once there we found a friendly welcome and a bed was easily found. It was colder than we had been (un)prepared for and our soaking shirts soon had us shivering for perhaps only the second time on this trip. Only once removed and replaced by our single spare shirt did we find a semblance of warmth. A fullness of warmth was found after we were invited into the families house to eat with them. We sat around the fire with the parents and their two children; having our belies warmed by Dhal Bhat, our skin by the fire and our hearts by the warmth of their hospitality. We slept exceptionally well that night.
Day 2 Early to bed saw us early to rise and I was up and enjoying a cup of Nepali black tea before the sunrise. The sun, like me, must have been feeling a little lethargic that morning, as it took a while to burn through the haze, but once it did it gave a soft pastel illumination to the ocean of cloud that filled the valley floor. This sea of cloud some several hundred meters below us in the many fingered valley began to glow a soft and delicate pink, whilst the surrounding silhouetted mountains faded from black to grey as they receded into the misty distance with only the trees atop their ridges catching any light at all. The humped ridges which rose from out of the swirling mist looked like a pod of cresting whales; the sharp profiles of their curved spines held still and silent against the vaporous, barely there peach glow of the dawn. Above was a bank of high cloud that caught the new rays of the sun to glow like drifting candyfloss. This was not all: in the opposite direction the sky was clear, though a little hazy, and in the far
distance I caught my first (in Nepal) indistinct sight of the Himalayas; a few brush strokes of pure white upon the Cerulean wash of the dawn.
Only the very tops of the Himalayas could be seen; a sharks tooth line of disembodied peaks that floated all jagged and pearly white in the thin blue light of the heavens. I'm not sure what atmospheric anomaly caused this illusion, or whether it was just the lingering haze that obscured the darker lower slopes, but the effect was truly spellbinding. Looking at this long line of disembodied mountains that truly looked like a Heaven suspended some miles above the Earth, it was easy to see why all Hindus and Buddhists hold the Himalayas in such reverence; they truly looked the home of the Gods. Indeed, it was easy to imagine a contented Shiva with a beatific charras smile on his face, sitting cross legged in meditation on one of the floating peaks.
Although still climbing the path had widened and rather than taking a direct route straight up a ridge, it instead wound its way round the hills at a more manageable incline. A change which we were well thankful for
as the morning sun had rapidly gained quickly both height and intensity. As we were eating Nepali style we were only able to have a cup of tea for breakfast. Most Nepalis have their first meal at eleven, a snack at three and then an evening meal in, well, the evening. So when, after a good few hours climbing, eleven O'clock was reached, we were well happy to find ourselves in the village of Hattibang. We made some enquiries and found a homestay which was happy to make us some Dhal Bhat; the rice, dhal and sometimes vegetable national dish of Nepal that the locals eat twice a day, every day, with relish (pleasure, not pickle).
The terrain in the Mahabharat hills is vastly different from that found when waking the higher treks in Nepal. Whereas the higher treks reward one with views that can best be described as powerful, dramatic, stark and rugged; the lower Chepang hills are beautiful, graceful, lush and romantic. They are the YlING to the Himalayas Ylang, the Yoni to their Lingham, a woman's grace to a mans raw power. The Himalayas are sharply creased, the Mahabharats softly folded. Hattibang epitomised these qualities and
was easily the prettiest place on the trek so far and a perfect place to rest for a couple of hours. The home we ate in was built from timber and mud. The walls were painted a burnished red and the roof covered in dark tiles. The house was surrounded by a quintessential cottage garden, replete with a bewildering array of vegetables, flowers and farmyard creatures. The Chepang who live here do not, and to an extent cannot, visit a market to either buy produce or sell there own. Absolutely everything that they need to survive is grown, raised or made on their delightfully quaint smallholding.
The Chepang clearly live an extremely labour intensive life that requires massive amounts of work for limited rewards, but despite this it was hard not to find in their life and their home some kind of formula as to how best create and sustain the perfect romantic idyl. The chickens and roosters clucking and scratching in the yard, the softly bleating baby goats (your turn next year buddy), the ducks, the cows and the farmyard dog, all painted a compelling picture that spoke of simplicity, honesty, reward and harmony. The romantic idealist in
me hoped that given the chance, the Chepang who lived here would not for the world swap the true riches they posses for the meagre reward of more money. But I come from a soft world where all is provided and nothing is tenuous and in wishing to live in such a way I am both being exceptionally naieve, and spectacularly disrespectful to the luck of my birth which landed me with good parents in a fair country. If this were not the case I would not have the simple luxury of being able to travel great distances so as to be able to dream romantic, city boy dreams, in the backyard of an incredibly poor family.
After a delicious lunch we trekked out the back of Hattibang and followed a narrowing valley up through some pretty thick jungle. It was strange to be in the jungle surrounded by a mass of large-leafed foliage, listening to the shrill susurration of cicadas, and to see the snow clad Himalayas floating in the distance. The final part of the day involved climbing Siraichuli, at 1946 metres the highest peak in the Mahabharat range. The panoramic views from the top were
well worth the effort of the climb, and though this small hill is tiny when compared to the soaring peaks that surrounded us, it none the less felt like a small but happy achievement. We timed our ascent well, as after a half hour on the summit cloud began to rise from the valley and the clear views of the Himalayas were starting to become obscured as the vaporous tendrils of cloud that had been trailing from the peaks all day began to coalesce into something more substantial. We descended Siraichuli at a good pace and were soon in the extremely basic village of Jyamdala, where we were to spend our second night.
We were greeted by a pair of wild haired old women who came proffering gifts of strange green fruit and tea. They jabbered at us in Nepali whilst repeating two or three very strange gestures. Soon an old man lumbered up to the house and immediately began berating one of the women. He had wild, bloodshot eyes, was unstable on his feet, kept both hands clenched in fists that he looked increasingly likely to use, and spent a good ten minutes spitting invective at the two
woman whilst trying to forcibly drag them away. It was apparent that all three were exceptionally drunk. In fact, as we later ascertained, due to the Dashain festival the whole village was absolutely smashed on Raksi, the local firewater. After the drunks moved off lower down the village to continue their fight we ate a dinner of Dhal Bhat and put our heads down for another very early night.
Day 3 A glorious sunrise greeted our sleepy eyes as we stepped from out of our shed and quickly dispelled the desire for more sleep, with the promise of a fine days weather ahead. We drank another cup of Nepali tea, slipped on our packs and began the climb out of the village. The morning's walk was to be a long one. After an hour of walking we came to the vertiginous head of a spectacular valley from where we could see all the way down to the flat land of the Terai, the location Of Chitwan National Park and our eventual destination. From that point we had to climb through some more thick jungle before descending one of the ridges that radiated outwards from this small plateaux like
the fingers of a spread hand. The jungle was hard going and extremely hot causing my single walking shirt (I had one for the day and one for the evening) to start to look and small pretty grim indeed. The descent down the spine of the ridge was endless and slippery but after three hours we finally made it to Uppardang, where we were able to find a kind family to cook us some lunch.
The inhabitants of this charming village were also, like Jyamandala, all completely smashed, but much more hospitable. While they cooked us our lunch we were able to explore this tiny hilltop village and to watch rice being harvested, fields being ploughed by unruly oxen, Raksi being brewed and children chasing ducks. All of this with the majestic, snow capped Himalayas as the backdrop. The Dhal Bhat we ate here was the best yet, made so by the delicious spinach curry and the large glass of Raksi that accompanied it. Suitably fortified, and just a little drunk, we said our goodbyes to the family and began the long, slow descent to the flat plains below.
Shortly after leaving Uppardang the weather closed right in
and we lost the lovely views that were such a highlight of most of this walk. None the less the lush forest through which we trekked was continually fascinating and, once we had finally reached the valley floor, the walk along the river was very pretty and gloriously flat. We had to cross the river about six times; five times I achieved this by leaping from slippery boulder, to mossy rock. Unfortunately on the sixth there were no suitable rocks so I had to get my legs wet. All along this path we passed groups of locals gathered around an impromptu mat of leaves upon which they were divvying up the remains of a recently sacrificed animal. They were all extremely drunk.
The river was flanked on either side by wide fields of burnished yellow rice and dotted with small wooden Nepali farmhouses. Women could be seen by the path separating the rice from the chaff by wafting it with large, circular bamboo fans; the men could be seen sitting about drinking Raksi and watching them. The final crossing of the river bought us to the village of Shaktitsor, a much larger village than any we had past up
to that point and a sure indication that we were nearing the end of our walk. The village was in the process of making final preparations for the next days festivities which was to be the most important day in the two week festival. As in all other villages, the villagers had erected a bamboo swing, though this one was by far the largest we had seen. Four huge bamboo poles had their ends buried in the ground in the shape of a cross and were joined at the top by a strut, from which was hung the rope for the swing. It must have been almost twenty meters high and when visiting the next day we could see from the faces of the kids who fought each other for the next ride that it looked a lot of fun.
Our accommodation in Shaktitsor was in an actual guest house, not a randomly requisitioned family home. It was pretty basic but the shared bucked shower was a much appreciated luxury for us; being able to eat something other than Dhal Bhat was also a special pleasure. To celebrate what was essentially the end of the trek we purchased some
"Royal Stag" whiskey and proceeded to join everyone else in the village by getting a little tipsy. In the morning we enjoyed another small pleasure, that of being able to eat a breakfast. It was very tasty but spoiled a little by having to eat it while the family with whom we were staying dismembered a recently sacrificed goat on the lawn next to us. They were not the only ones. After breakfast I took a walk through the village and at every house there was either a butchered animal in the yard, a goat or buffalo tied to a stake calmly awaiting its fate, or a not so calm animal being dragged into the road to meet with the huge sword of the sacrificer.
I watched the beheading of a few goats and found it less troubling than I imagined. The animal was lead into the road by two or three people, its neck was stretched out whilst it hindquarters were held still (a process that was hard to achieve with an obviously distressed animal) and then, with a single sweep of his blade, the sacrificer cleanly removed the head. The violently twitching torso was then held aloft
by the men in an effort to drain the blood into a waiting pail. To an outsider this ritualistic slaughter may appear barbaric and pointless, especially given the religious reasons behind the animals death. The truth is, these villagers get to eat meat very rarely and Dashain is one of the few times they do, none of the animal is waisted and, until this one day, they lead an exceptionally decent life. This quick death by beheading is, I am sure, far preferable to the mass slaughter we practice in the west, and here, during the festival, the meat is shared out amongst all, even those who cannot afford to keep or buy an animal of their own.
Day 4 There was not much walking to be done on the final day. From Shaktitsor we caught a local bus (a very old and very beat up old Land Rover) to the town of Tadi, passing many more animals approaching the final moments of their life with a calm equanimity possessed only by the omniscient or the totally stupid. But I dwell too much on the sacrifices, as there was so much else of interest to watch from the
Landies windows. I mentioned the swings before, here almost every house had one; some just string from the rafters, others sizeable bamboo constructions. The children played on these and the adults shared food, gifts and sweets in animated groups, by the road, or in small front yards with chickens running about their legs. Everyone was wearing their Sunday best; the women looked gorgeous in colourful saris and the men very smart in either shirt and trousers or the more colourful local dress. All wore the woven Nepali hat and all, the women included, had their foreheads adorned with huge red Tika spots. We ourselves did not escape as an old woman had boarded our bus and adorned our foreheads as well!
From Tadi it was seven kilometres to Sauraha from where it was possible to either walk or catch a horse drawn cart. Due to the slaughter we had recently witnessed I was already feeling a great deal of sympathy towards animals, and after seeing the condition of the poor ponies who were there to lug cartloads of tourists into town, I decided on the walk; that and the extortionate prices that they were trying to charge! The final
seven kilometres along a flat country road that was flanked by paddy fields and awash with livestock was very pleasant and relaxing, made so I suppose by the fact that we knew that the journey was almost complete. The last couple of Kilometres saw the countryside changing; gone was the cultivation and order of the farmland, in its place were grasslands and a river bordered by pampas and, in the near distance, the looming dark wall of the jungle.
I really enjoyed the Chepang heritage trek (as I think it's called) and would recommend it to anyone who, like us, requires something a little different from their walk. If the crowds of the Annapurna treks or Everest base camp don't appeal; if your legs beg you not to give them too hard a time; if you prefer the tease of a summer's breeze, to the forceful assault of a gale; if engaging with people from a moderately undiluted culture is your thing, then pack two t-shirts, three socks, your camera and a little money and take a short walk to the park.
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A walk in the park
This does make for such a fine advertisement for travelling in this land and have a close encounter with nature. You could have more information for getting there in http://www.primetravels.com/. Do take time out to get close to yourself in getting close to Nature.