The yak and the yeti part II: notes from the Annapurna Circuit

NOTE: Missing a couple photos because of technical issues, but will add soon.

TREK DIARY DAY 4: Sickness (Dharapani to Chame, 6270 ft to 8943 ft)

DHARAPANI - A brutal but beautiful climb gets the day started right, with a virtual staircase spiraling 1500 feet up, clinging precariously to cliff-sides, winding through forests and spitting us out into an alpine mosaic of pine trees and horse-filled pastures.

Sweaty, tired, but in a good rhythm we of course hit one of the annoyingly frequent Nepali government checkpoints, where we are filmed by a documentary crew - look out for some exciting footage of me handing over paperwork and a sleepy bureacrat working slowly.

During the climb we cross an invisible line between the (relatively) lowland villages with their Indian flavor and Hindu symbols to the Buddhist climes where multicolored prayer flags flap over villages of stone and wood guarded on each entrance by a string of prayer wheels.

With the elevation comes the first mountain chill and a sudden violent illness. Connie is down for the count, barely able to eat even soup and in pain.

That sweat-flavored orange electrolyte stuff saved the day.

TREK DIARY DAY 5: A feet of endurance, a step back in time (Chame to Bhratang, 8943 ft to 9405 ft)

CHAME - At 7 a.m. Connie looks peaked but insists on hitting the trail. She's in pain and about a half mile down the trail I make a strong pitch for us to head back to town and have a recovery day. My pitch fails.

Step by agonizing step, Connie pulls herself four miles to the next town, looking like death but gutting it out. I don't know many people who could have made it in her condition.

Mercifully, we finally pull into the Wild West outpost of Bhratang, a two-donkey village with a handful of rough-hewn stone and wood buildings and the ruins of "old Bhratang" on the outskirts.

It's nearly a ghost town and its loneliness is accentuated by the frigid wind ripping through the narrow valley where Bhratang is perched between two glacier-scoured cliff faces that rise several thousand feet up and block the sun for much of the day. It's the hottest time of year and I'm freezing.

I admire the villagers and handful of scrappy pine trees that survive here - it must be a suicidal winter.

We pick the hotel with the crooked doors, leaning outhouse, and no lightbulbs - it was one of two choices we had. This is clearly not a normal stop for trekkers and it becomes my favorite village of the journey.

Two young women cook over an open fire; a three-month old baby coos in a basket, bundled in thick homespun wool. I wonder if he will ever leave Bhratang. The scent of woodsmoke hangs in the air and the streets are still, save for the bells of an occassional mule train. No one tries to sell us anything. I think to myself that this must be what it was like when my parents trekked the Himalaya more than 30 years ago.

After a tea break in Bhratang it was back to the most brutal job in the world.

The lone resident of Bhratang.

TREK DIARY DAY 6: Pizza and yak heads or no mo' momo  (Bhratang to Humde, 9405 ft to 11145 ft)

BHRATANG - The peaks are dusted by a fresh coat of snow and the air is cold with menacing clouds hanging low, but Connie has been restored by the peace of Bhratang and a serious dose of rehydration salts and we hit the trail in good spirits.

Ravens fly past and I spot the trip's first lammergeier, a condor-like vulture, circling hundreds of feet above, waiting for us to take a bad step.

In the eerie quiet of a pine forest, we pass abandoned shacks and an apparent religious site with piles of rocks left haphazardly and mysteriously throughout the woods.

The water station has burned down at our planned refill stop, so we fill up with well water and purification tablets. I do not love the taste of iodine in the morning.

As we pull into Humde, our rest spot for the night, a herd of goats walks with us and a filthy, smiling child salutes. The only action on the sleepy airport runway is a lone cow chewing the overgrown bush crowding out the tarmac. Perched high on a pole next to a stone hovel, is a ratty yak head with two prayer flags jammed into the skull. Very Mad Max.

The highlight of the day is a yak cheese pizza with barbeque sauce and carrots that actually resembled a pizza.

I am an ardent advocate of eating local when traveling, but the food in the Himalaya is one of the few downsides to trekking. Nepal may share a border with India, but gastronomically it's in a different hemisphere. There seems to be a spice embargo at the border, curry becomes watery lentil soup, and the highlight is water buffalo momos - and when your culinary highlight is steamed dough with meat something's amiss.

Each tea house has essentially the same menu - momos , noodle soup, fried rice, apple pie (surprisingly, prety tasty) - all blandly prepared over an open fire. After a week, you start to lose your appetite.

It gets to the point where something approximating pizza is like the best fois gras you ever had, followed by a cheese plate and a hearty bordeaux.

The yak and the yeti part I: notes from the Annapurna Circuit

POKHARA, Nepal - To say the bus had bad suspension would be to imply it had suspension at all; it was the most rickety thing with four wheels I have seen this trip (it’s a high bar). A cockroach greeted us when we arrived in our thinly padded seats. When matched with the 470-mile string of craters masquerading as a highway from the Indian border to Pokhara , the 30-foot jalopy made for a grim 13 hours. In the midst of a snooze I awoke in mid-air – the driver had maintained his speed through a series of Himalaya-sized potholes – just in time to smash my head on the roof.

There couldn’t have been a worse start to one of my favorite journeys. 

The Annapurna Circuit climbs more than 15,000 feet, through jungles, pine forests, and dizzyingly high alpine deserts ringed by glaciers up to the 18,000-foot Thorong La Pass. On the way you pass grizzled old mountain men in flip flops carrying 100 pounds on their backs (and sometimes they pass you), shaggy yaks, ornate Buddhists shrines, and villages of stone clinging to mountainsides.

And, after a few days of delay due to general strikes in the weird, burnout-hippie town of Pokhara, we were on the Annapurna Circuit trail, with no guide and no porter, heading up …

TREK DIARY DAY 1: The spacesuit gets a test flight (Besi Sahar to Bulhebulhe, 2706 to 2772 ft.)

It begins and it's a scorcher.

 Our roommate the first night.

BESI SAHAR – Nepali bus operators are savvy enough to know Westerners like seat assignments and disorganized enough to simply make them up. After some initial confusion, everyone had a seat and we were on our way to the jungle lowlands, a steamy start to a 15,000 foot climb.

Ahead of the trek, Connie and I have augmented our gear with a couple cheap ponchos – I chose bright silver for its spacesuit quality.

We started paying for bad karma early – 30 minutes down the hot, dusty road that provides an inauspicious start to the trek, the skies rumbled and burst. The spacesuit came out, worked admirably, and got us to a crumbling wooden tea house that provided refuge from the rain for both us and the largest spider I have ever seen.

TREK DIARY DAY 2: Walk it till it breaks (Bhulebuhle to Jagat, 2772 ft. – 4290 ft.)

 

One at a time.

Terraced agriculture in the lowlands.

 More agriculture. Actually, it grows wild, and this patch was marked on our map, along with waterfalls and points of historical interest, as 'fields of marijuana.'

BHULEBHULE – Eye-achingly early in the morning (I’ll dispense with that – every morning was early on the trail), we are jolted awake by the scariest bridge I have ever seen over some serious game-over rapids. This comes at about minute five of the hike.

It’s a wooden contraption, in roughly the style you built those toothpick bridges back in grade-school with similar engineering finesse. The ends are fastened to – will I’m not sure, exactly, but they were kind of shoved under some big rocks. Remanants of the former bridge dangled next to it, highlighting the Nepali philosophy on maintenance we would come to know and fear: use it until it breaks, replace, repeat. Don’t be the one to break the bridge.

Frankly, it was a thrilling way to begin and once past the fear I was able to appreciate the gray-blue, glacial waters rushing by in the river (waters that we would follow for many miles to come).

Our first glimpse of the high Himalaya in the form of snowy, triangular Annapurna II (the Annapurnas go up to IV and also include Annapurna South – someone got lazy). By 11 a.m. we crave that distant snow – still in the jungle, we’re sweating through our clothes.

Relief comes in the ancient toll road city of Jagat, where put our packs down for the night and coincidentally stay at the same tea house as two of Connie’s co-workers who she hadn’t seen in four years. Really. It becomes a good excuse to have a few Gorkha beers.

TREK DIARY DAY 3: An ass-kicking (Jagat to Dharapani, 4290 to 6270 ft.)

Day of the donkeys.

'It's so beautiful.'

This man has a long way to go.

The (former) Maoist insurgents - now your friendly government partner (more on them later).

An accurate description of rakshi.

 

Working on a chyang-over.

 JAGAT – Trudging up mountains is hard work, but having to stop is even worse. Today, there were many commercial breaks.

The commerce came in the form of a ceaseless parade of mule trains, carrying goods and trekkers’ gear – an integral part of everyday life in a land with no roads, but frustrating nonetheless. Every time the heavily laden beasts clopped by, we had to move to the side of the narrow trail. The fresh mountain air was cut by dung and stale donkey farts.

As soon as we walked free of the traffic jam, a frantic Nepali soldier to “Must go quick.” Through pantomime and broken phrases he made clear that the rock-face across the valley, towering above the trail was about to be blown to bits. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

Bewildered by exactly what was going on – the Maoist insurgency is long over – and knowing the care-free attitude Nepalis tend to take when it comes to safety, we made serious haste. When we arrived at the “safe zone” after a tortuous and nerve-wracking climb, we found some soldiers with radios that apparently worked. Exhausted and confused, we asked if we could stay and watch them blow shit up. They happily agreed and explained it was part of a road-building project.

And man did they blow shit up. A massive puff of smoke was followed by a thunderous bowel-shaking rumble, and the mountainside disintegrated, sending a cloud of debris into the valley, onto the other side and onto the trail where we thought the friends we had met the night before might be.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ the soldier in charge said. It was something, though ‘beautiful’ seemed an odd adjective.

After a frustrating day we met up again with Connie’s old friends and a couple of strays they had picked up along the way (we ended up hiking on and off with all of them the rest of the way) at that night’s tea house. They had survived the explosion, though no thanks to the soldiers. All the danger and donkeys called for some drinks and it was time to go local, so we ordered some chyangs (silent ‘y’ hard ‘a’) and rakshis.

Chyang is the local millet beer, milky white, and slightly sour, with a mild kerosene aftertaste. Actually, not bad. Rakshi is the local ‘rice wine,’ though it has nothing to do with wine, and is murky clear with floating bits. It smells like sake and tastes like burning. Connie (understandably) couldn’t finish hers, so I made it a double.

The Subcontinental Part III: The Darjeeling Limited

DARJEELING, India – All steep, misty mountains, bright green tea plantations, and ornate Buddhist temples, Darjeeling is best told in photos, so I’ll keep it brief.

Geographically in India, but culturally straddling Nepal and Tibet, Darjeeling is a welcome relief from the heat, filth and hassle of lowland India (though I loved India, despite India). I even had to wear a jacket, a novelty after three weeks of relentless sweat.

Darjeeling is a former British tea colony about 7,000 feet up in the Himalayan ‘foothills.’ Unlike most coffee-growing regions I’ve visited, where Nescafe is invariably the restaurant drink of choice, Darjeelingites drink their product and so did I again and again.

Our search and spiritual journey to seek out the mystical snow leopard, queen of the Himalaya, comes to an end - at the zoo.

Foggy days in Darjeeling.

Picking tea on the road to Darjeeling.

Backroads of Darjeeling.

An elderly Tibetan spools wool at the Tibetan Refugee Center, a safe haven for thousands of refugees for several decades and a thorn in Indo-Chinese relations.

The Darjeeling Limited or, to be accurate, the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, an actual working steam locomotive that plys a steep winding route through the mountains at a (very) lesisurely pace and was part of the inspiration for the movie. It still runs on the same extremely narrow guage track that it did 130 years ago. One of the coolest train rides I've ever experienced, even though there was no sweet lime.

Feeding the fire on the "Toy Train."

The Subcontinental Part II: The universe and Varanasi

A young street sweep sleeps on the ground at the train station.

Washing water buffalo in the Ganges.

Pilgrims wade into the Ganges.

A 'floating soul.'

                               The funeral pyres.

Thousands of Indians gather every night by boat and on the steps of the ghat to watch a religious fire ceremony.

Hindu ceremony on the banks of the Ganges.

And special for Mr. Geoffrey, the fu. Note the Nehru-style Indian shirt, completing the Sub-continental look.

VARANASI, India – In the winding alleys of this holy city, the odors of life, death, dung, and freshly baking bread all compete for nostril space. Cows eat and excrete the trash that chokes the streets, scruffy red-faced monkeys steal food, charred bodies meander down the Ganges, and a man drops his pants to squat on a main walkway.

Varanasi is the filthiest city I have ever loved.

“There is the universe and then there is Varanasi,” was how hotel manager/philosopher Sanjay put it, but more on him later.

Death is never far away, and it is both shocking and refreshing.

Flower draped bodies make their way through the streets to the river, often carried by mourners, alongside traffic, school children on bicycles, and tourists.

Night is illuminated by the funeral pyres tended by men and boys with the unenviable task of pushing, protruding, stiffened limbs back into the fire. The fires burn 24 hours a day and the tenders are kept busy. When the body is sufficiently burned, it is sent into the river where crows, vultures, and fish pick at the remains. The local boatmen call them ‘floating souls.’

A deeply holy place for Hindus, pilgrims come from far away, the well-dressed, the bare-assed, and everyone in between, to pray, swim, and die, and while there are plenty of Western tourists, they are far outnumbered by the pilgrims. In the misty, sultry mornings, Indians walk down the ghats (concrete staircases leading to the river) in various states of undress to swim in and drink holy water deemed unfit for even a shower.

Crow-sized bats flit in and out of the river-side floodlights while thousands of devotees turn out to watch a religious fire ceremony that has been bombed several time by Islamic extremists. Walk 100 meters and you’re sure to run into a Hindu shrine if not a full-blown temple.

I’m still fuzzy on the details of Hinduism, but Sanjay made  a point of sitting down to tea with me to explain it and talk about everything else from Indian politics to Osama bin Laden (if you go to Varanasi, Sanjay’s place, The Eden Halt, is the place to stay – mainly to talk to Sanjay). Apparently there are more than 3 billion gods. So far I’ve memorized three.

Amid the spirituality, there’s a nastiness to Varanasi, deeper than the irritating hash slingers and touts: disfigured beggars, malnourished children, bloody, mange-ridden dogs, and, just away from the main ghat, a small colony of very sick, mostly young men, emaciated and too weak even to beg, awaiting their final float down the Ganges. In the world’s biggest democracy, it’s a reminder of the gap that sometimes exists between voting rights and prosperity and in Varanasi it’s not hidden away (nor does anyone seem to be doing anything about it).

As Sanjay puts it, “Everything is possible (in Varanasi) – both good and bad.”

Train Extra:

NOTE: We criss-crossed almost the length of India from west to east nearly entirely by train, so it seems a shame to ignore the experience. This is just something from my notes in the midst of what turned out to be a 13 hour delay. Unfortunately no one told us that. First they said five hours late, then each hour the staff added another hour to the delay until the sun came up. Our 6 p.m. train eventually left at 7 a.m.

We’re at hour eleven of our train delay and the metal bench gets harder with each passing hour. The station smells of urine and body odor – not unlike many American subways and bus stations but, of course, nothing like them at all.

A boy with a distended belly sleeps on the floor, crusty eyelids swarmed by flys; a stump-footed beggar makes his hobbled rounds; a poor woman beats her child.

As if they were expecting it (which they were) the Indian passengers roll out their blankets on the concrete floors and pass out.

Our spacious luxury sleeping berth. Actually, it wasn't so bad and, despite the vicious stare, our neighbor was very neighborly.

The Sub-continental Part I: The Avenging Mustache

Mumbai beach.

That jumble of abandoned boats and scrap wood is actually a squatter's home.

Note that nearly every car is a taxi. Also note the interpretive art being performed by the traffic cop. It's known as 'The Dance of No Consequence.'

MUMBAI, India – Red lights mean go, stop signs mean very little, and a shake of the head means ‘yes’ – except when it means ‘no.’ Unlearn everything and India will start to make sense.

My first experience in Mumbai was a 4 a.m. ride from the airport in one of the ubiquitous black vintage Pals that ply the streets. Our cabbie actually sped up for the red lights, though I’m not sure where he was in a hurry to get because, as we found out, he had no clue where he was taking us.

After driving around the wrong district of town for a while and asking no less than five people for directions he finally, mostly by accident, ended up at our hotel. He then asked for an extra 100 rupees as a reward for getting lost. Last I heard from him he was still yelling through the doorway at us.

In many ways Mumbai is overwhelming – the streets are gridlocked half-mad scooterrorists, cabbies paid by the honk, and overloaded buses. Despite the traffic, everyone manages to go fast, and directly at you.

The architecture is a riot of styles, from sprawling colonial buildings (you can never have too many gargoyles), to drab socialist-era tenements, and ornate Hindu temples.

Businessmen, laborers, and beggars hurry elbow to elbow down crumbling sidewalks, walking over and around cripples, potholes, and puddles of piss, and the air is thick with humidity and the most wonderful and nauseating smells.

For those without tickets to the big cricket match, you’re guaranteed to find an amateur one around just about every street corner and taking up every garbage-tainted patch of park space. The kids will be happy to let you have a go – prepare to be embarrassed.

Less fun is the shocking poverty, rampant disease, and child labor – yes that 8-year-old child passed out on the train platform sweeps by day and sleeps on the ground and that little girl with the outstretched arms was crippled by her parents to aid her begging.

If you have a question you’ll always get an answer, often wrong but always well-meaning, with that peculiarly Indian head shake.

You’ll have trouble spending more than $3 on a feast and if you’re not eating well, you’re not trying. No one is more fond of and deft with spices than Indians. It’s one of the few places in the world you can go vegetarian and never get bored, but you can find some outstanding meat dishes too (I even tried the brain). You get used to the bad Indian habit of touching with bare hands everything that is to go on your plate and learn to forget the poor hygiene that may lurk behind the touch.

It’s dirty, exhilarating, depressing, and delicious, often at the same time. Once you get swept up in the madness, though, it’s the friendliest, most endearing anarchy you’ll experience.

BOLLYWOOD EXTRA:

                               Crime-fighting 'stache.

A visit to Mumbai demands taking in a Bollywood flick (and it doesn’t hurt that the theaters are air conditioned) and we picked a doozy. ‘Dum Maaro Dum’ roughly translates to ‘The Avenging Mustache’ and the moral is essentially ‘drugs are bad.’

The director worked hard to ape the style of Guy Ritchie, which is a bit like a baseball slugger patterning himself on Mario Mendoza*. Despite or, most likely, because of this, the movie his hilarious, though not billed as a comedy.

Not for the faint of heart, the movie delves into the dark heart of party town Goa, with plenty of bloody violence, a ‘comical’ interrogation where the mustachioed hero repeatedly sticks the business end of a handgun into the business end of a drug dealer, and, of course, songs, the highlight being a ‘rap’ about law enforcement by the hero, in uniform, reminiscent of the Village People.

It was so inspiring, I kept a fu manchu for the rest of the India trip.

*Baseball's 'Mendoza line,' a .200 average, is named after Mario Mendoza, a career .215 hitter, and denotes serious hitting incompetence.