Advertisement
Published: April 17th 2007
When I had returned from my failed movie adventure with the Israelis in Gangtok I discovered that somehow in the meantime I'd been firmly included in a trekking group that was arranged by my guest house and which was leaving the next morning for a four-day Dzongri trek. I had never really asked details (since it had never really seemed like it was going to happen) so I was a bit confused as I sat down to tense discussions between one of the other trekkers and the manager of the guest house. I sat back and let them work out the details of cost, food, transportation, route, etc. I had, from the beginning, wanted to do as little thinking and arranging as possible and it seemed that, with just twelve hours left before departure time, I had managed to successfully work my way into a $120 trek doing just that.
Our first day (Friday the 6th, I think--though days and dates have become largely irrelevant to me) as a group was spent mostly in transit. In eight hours of jeep and some dawdling time in between I met Fergus, the 27 yr old biology Phd student from Scottland who had done most of the arranging and Sven, the tall German guy who had dreadlocks and a lip piercing, who walked around barefoot and who didn't talk much. For three trekkers there were three staff people: Buddha, our guide, who seemed much more relaxed out of the nasty eye of the hotel manager, Suraj, our cook, and Vikesh, an assistant guide who mostly chopped vegetables and bused plates and who, when he wasn't on the trail, was a waiter at Modern Central. We left Gangtok at 8:30 AM and arrived at Yuksom (the departure point for our trek) at 4:30. In between I resolved (unsuccessfully) to sleep while Suraj resolved to teach me Nepali (which, in the beginning, meant that he would just say things to me in Nepali and expect me to know what they meant) and Buddha resolved to call me "baheni" (a generic term of address that means "sister") since he couldn't pronounce my name.
Yaksom was a wonderful place to arrive, not only because it was beautiful but because it meant I was no longer squished with three other people in the middle seat of a bench and because there was hot water at the guest house. Yaksom is the base camp for treks to Dzongri, Gochala, and several other places that I can't properly pronounce. This means that during season there is a small changing population of a dozen or so foreigners wandering about the small mountain town in various layers of mountain gear and wool. It is a strange sight to arrive in such a place after several hours of winding up empty mountain roads that pass through only the occassional village or small town.
While I was waiting for my water to heat up I met two Brits heading on a nine day trek. One of them mentioned Nepal a few times and--always eager to know more about this country--I asked him how long he had spent there. He paused. "Well, I lived there in my previous life. And I've been back a few times since then." It was one of the stranger conversations I've ever had, not just because I'd never spoken with anyone about their former lives but because the guy himself just seemed really off and uncomfortable (he had a way of staring at me blankly as if to increase the weight of what he was saying, though otherwise he seemed perfectly nice). Luckily I was saved from the awkwardness of a conversation I couldn't handle by Elam and his three friends, who came strolling past the hotel in their own versions of hippie mountain gear. The backpacker world, after all, can be a small one, especially when its packed into the mountains and valleys of a small state like Sikkim.
At eight o'clock the local policeman blew his whistle, the signal that all (five) shops and restaurants had to close up. So I ran off to Gupta Restaurant, where it was still possible to eat behind the cover of locked doors (it's an odd thing to feel imprisoned in a restaurant). I still hadn't adjusted to mountain time so after dinner Elam and I went for a walk, which didn't take us very far because of the dark, the ineptness of our flashlights, and the state of the single road that went through town. In the black, however, we were able to make out the thick layers of mountains that seem to typify the lower Himalays simply by gauging the brightness of the lights that shone off the various hillsides. Even in the dark its an incredibly impressive landscape.
Trekking Day One (Saturday the 7th?)
After breakfast at the same place we had had dinner (choices are limited and loyalties come quickly in a small town--we had shared a jeep up to Yaksom with the son and grandmother who run this family restaurant), we packed up for our trek. Although previously I had been outfitted with nothing but two quick-dry long sleeve shirts (I had intended to hike in khakis and sneakers and just ignore the cold, I guess) I had the incredible luck of having a very generous guide who happened to have the same size foot as me. So we set off from Yuksom: Fergus, Sven, Buddha and me in Buddha's clothes.
I spent most of the first part of day one trying desperately to keep up with the rest of the group and wondering how in the world I was ever going to make it up the mountain with them. I'm not used to being the last person on a trek, and it was unsettling to think that I might spend four days in this position (yes its true, sometimes I can be competitive in the mountains). By lunch time I discovered that while Sven had his long legs and Fergus had his Scottish-determination (to make up for short legs), theirs was simply a case of (as the Eisenbuds would say) gang-busters. Thankfully they tired themselves out and for the rest of the afternoon let me follow Buddha as best I could at my own pace (which they suddenly declared was too fast for them).
We reached Tchoka (the mid-Dzongri trekkers stop) at two in the afternoon to the great astonishment of the other trekkers in the hut who were taking their acclimatization day. They had come the same route from Yuksom the day before and arrived only at five pm. Apparently Buddha had driven us up the mountain a little faster than usual. We looked at him accusingly. "Yah, we moved really fast today" he said, smiling and not sensing that this might be perceived as a problem by any of us.
So we settled in, exhausted, and I had my first budget-trekker experience--meeting travellers from around the world in a cold dark hut busy with singing porters and trekkers playing cards by candle light. It was clear that we were on the most budget of treks. We had neither biscuits with our tea nor hot water bottles at night. We had been warned from the beginning that we would be having just "simple-sa khana." Our dinner, however, turned out to be anything but the simple dhal-bat (lentil-rice) that the organizers had threatened. Suraj stood over us proudly as Vikesh brought in containers filled with momos, rice, dhal, potatoes, spinach (which he had made specially for me after I told him I liked anything that was green), chow mein, salad, fruit and tea. It was all tucked away in our bellies by 6:30 PM so that we could curl up on our jute-cushioned ground space by 7 PM, surrendering to mountain time and mountain cold as all good trekkers must.
Trekking day two
"Right now I am feel like I am experiencing a re-birth--a second wind that I hope will make the next 24 hours possible. Although today's trek was supposed to be easier than the first day's ten mile hustle it was, for me, indescribably more difficult. We started out in forests of fog and rhodedendron trees. I refused to be rushed so I let myself take a cue from a very valuable lesson I've learned from my father--the only way to get to the top of a mountain is to go your own pace. So for awhile it was just me--the sounds of my boots sinking and emerging from mud joined by the rhythm of my pulse in my throat."
When I started writing that (on the afternoon of the second day of trekking) what I had wanted to write was that soon the chorus of sounds was complemented by what felt like the sound of my heart beating in my brain. Because our budget trekking tour did not allow for an acclimatization day at Tchoka I was suddenly feeling the effects of an altitude headache combined with a night of awful sleep (Buddha's sleeping bag was a thousand and one times better than no sleeping bag at all, but I wouldn't describe it as warm). By the time I got to Dzongri (at 13,200 ft) every step I took--up or down hill--felt like a hammer to the brain.
When I finally arrived at the hut Suraj--after asking me what took me so long and why I was so slow--handed me a teaspoon of minced garlic, which I dutifully ate (anything to help the headache). Turns out I wasn't supposed to eat it. So I drowned out the taste with water while Suraj prepared me a second offering of garlic. I was told to put a little bit in each of my ears and smell the rest, which I also dutifully did. It didn't seem to make much of a difference, however, and I retired to my sleeping bag.
But the reason I set out to write this down was not to record my pain, but to report my miraculous recovery under the care of Suraj and Buddha. Two hours after I lay down I was roused my misery bed and force-fed lunch. I had crusty garlic-ears and a raging headache that made even drinking broth painful. So it was with incredible skepticism that I met Buddha's suggestion that I take a walk with Suraj. I put on every piece of clothing I had with me on the mountain (Buddha's jacket, gloves and boots and my own pants and hat) and emerged into the sun-drenched Dzongri saddle, where everyone was looking at me like I was an over-dressed crazy person.
It was a long walk that Suraj and I took, during which he mostly sat and babbled at me in Hindi while I stopped every ten steps to placate my oxygen-starved brain. But sure enough after a 45 minute uphill battle that should have taken 15 minutes I was starting to regain my normal body temperature and my headache was subsiding. By the time we'd climbed two small mountains my headache had lifted simultaneously with the clouds in the valley behind us, revealing a view that made me forget all the pain that had been occupying my thoughts. The sun was shining and the mountains (dripping snow rivulets from their peaks) were showing themselves in their entirety for the first time since I'd arrived in Sikkim (I had started to doubt their existence). And though the clouds had lifted they hadn't vanished--only risen to sit grandly on top of the mountain peaks giving an impression of continuity between the snow and the clouds and suggesting the possibility of limitlessy high mountains.
I returned from my stroll with Suraj feeling like I was an entirely new human being. But, as I have learned, the body is a fickle thing in the mountains and my headache returned just in time to cut my writing short and plunge me back into a state of staring at the wall in the dark. Over dinner I couldn't muster the energy or the hunger to eat anything but the garlic soup that had been specially prepared for my head, and in his anger at my refusal to eat the food he had been working on Suraj stormed out of the hut and refused to talk to me for the rest of the night. There is no need to dwell on it too much, however, because it was only a few hours later that two advil and an extra blanket gave me the restorative sleep that cleared my head permanently.
Today (trekking day three) is a new day and I am feeling energized by the combination of a good leep, a fortuitous viewing, and (I'll be honest) the looming promise of hot water.
My fever broke in the middle of the night, providing me with even more warmth with which to sleep comfortably. By the time Buddha came to wake us up at 4 AM I was feeling capable of anything. I layered up and we set off on the same path that I had taken with Suraj the day before, only this time it took half the time to cover a longer distance. We reached the look-out point at about the same time as thirty other view-seeking trekkers: American college students, Israeli tourists, Indian kids on a field trip. It was a long and terrifically cold wait (my toes, like the prayer flags, were actually frozen), but this is what we had come for: to see the snow covered cap of Kanchenjunga. So we waited, huddled by a holy fire lit by Buddha under icicled prayer flags, and watched the light change from dark blue to light blue. Just as tones of pink were starting to hint at a beautiful sunrise the weather (as fickle as the body in the Himalayas) changed suddenly and covered every mountain range in view in clouds.
Body parts were loosing feeling and people were grumbling about lost sleep; a few even decided to go back. But Buddha told us to stay and sure enough just as the first group of deserters reached the bottom of the first hill the weather cleared just as fast as it had fogged up. First we saw Sleeping Buddha to the left of Kanchenjunga, and then both ranges that are perpindicular to the Kanchenjunga string came into view (imagine that if you are facing the mighty K there is an imaginary box around you--the wall of the box behind you falls into a huge valley but the other three walls (front left and right) are made of perfectly interesecting mountain chains). but Kanchenjunga itself held out, which I suppose you're entitled to do when you are the third highest mountain in the world. An oddly shaped whisp of cloud stretched itself out in front of the mountain, hanging coyly for a few minutes and keeping the crowds waiting just a little bit longer until--finally--Kanchenjunga was finally revealed in all his glory.
Its true. He is an impressive piece of mountain. But on his own he isn't particularly beautiful. He's just a slightly taller mountain in a panorama of dozens of other amazingly graceful and humbling mountains. Yes, I am happy that I came all this way and was able to see Kanchenjunga. But most of all I am grateful that I was able to experience this place in its entirety--to watch clouds rise and fall, to listen to yak bells clang over passes and to look down on valleys filled with fog knowing that I have left them behind (with no small difficulty) in order to be shown all of this. How lucky am I that I am here and physically capable of seeing these things and how (briefly) sad am I that most people in the wrold will never get to see something of such enormous beauty. (But, I must remember, there are many ways to find beauty and a life is no less fulfilling for not having the same opportunities that I have had).
With such an incredible morning all before 7AM it's inevitable that the day would go downhill (and yes, that pun was intended) from there. I've never been a fan of downhill hiking and mud and cold don't make it any more fun. But thankfully I was left to my own este-este (slowly-slowly, one of the few Nepali words that Suraj succesfully taught me) ways in the company of Suraj, who kept me busy with Hindi songs and tales of his ex-girlfriends (we had made up after our fight from the night before after I dutifully ate a gigantic breakfast the next morning).
I was thrilled to finally see Tchoka come into view, but my relief was short-lived. I walked into the hut to find out that Sven (long legs) had gotten progressively worse since he had woken up with a headache that morning (he hadn't even gone up to see the view of Kanchenjunga even though he had earlier said he would stay an extra day if necessary just to catch a glimpse). So Fergus and I had a cup of chai and finished what was thankfully a very short last leg of the day's trek.
Now we are here, in what turned out to be a wonderful and entirely under-used trekker's mansion (Buddha later informed us that most of the guides prefer the more packed and social Tchoka stop to this one because they can't drink with the other guides at night here). Though it's only a forty-five minute walk down from Tchoka its low enough to be released from the muddy, foggy and crowded environs of the upper camp and instead it is a sun-lit, hillside and peaceful haven. From the patio there is a view straight down the valley from which we came, interrupted only by a lone magnolia tree in the foreground of a landscape of muted layers of green and blue. Sven is feeling better and I am loving the quiet (and the absence of Indian teenagers and the smell of trekkers toilets). And even though a thunder storm has rolled in and soaked our sunny view point I am looking forwad to a final evening in the relative peace of the mountains.
Trekking Day Four
Our last day on the mountain was a simple one. We awoke in our mountain palace, where we each had slept in our own rooms (though Buddha, Suraj and Vikesh had chosen to sleep in the hallway outisde my room, which meant that I had fallen asleep to the sound of Vikesh telling jokes in Nepali and woken to the sounds of little Buddha's surprisingly powerful snoring). The sun was strong and for the first time in several days I took my woollen hat with ear flaps off and revelled in my hat-headed glory.
There was no rush to go down, so we dawdled in the sun while Suraj made chapattis and french toast for breakfast in a corner of the massive room with high ceilings and an abandoned fireplace that served as the kitchen. I made myself useful by rolling out parathas for lunch, squirting oil everywhere but turning out a successful finished product (without instruction) much to the surprise of Suraj. Despite our friendship I think he had concluded that I was a more or less a useless baheni who moved like a budhi (an old woman) and probably cooked like a little girl.
We each moved down the mountain at our own pace, passing porters hauling baskets of live chickens up the mountain and trying to mask our stiffness when we passed other trekkers going up. Finally stiff legged and aching for showers we stumbled our way back into the moutain town.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.063s; Tpl: 0.014s; cc: 10; qc: 31; dbt: 0.0264s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
gj
non-member comment
ohmygod, libby
what a treasure you are..............i love you so much !