Since we only had a short day planned, we woke up at a leisurely 6:00 and left by 7:00, making us the last to depart. We took a slightly different way than we came, which was a bit steeper, but not too tough. WE arrived at the Tilicho View Hotel, near upper-Khangsar in the early morning.
The dustiness of the alpine trails had permeated all the clothing I wore. Taking my socks off produced a cloud that lingered in the air for a whole minute. Today was a perfect laundry day; the sun shone bright and there was a slight breeze in the air, great conditions for drying clothes. I filled bucket with lukewarm water and ran my bar of soap under the tap. Conjuring the timer dial from the washing machine, I imitated the process down the line. I even used a spin cycle to shake off the rest of the water after wringing. The clothes dried quickly. They came out mountain fresh ;-)
That evening, I met the group of travelers from the previous night's dining room. We all shared stories and experiences over a meal of dal bhat. Himalay stumbled in from the local bar, reeking of raksi. He sat down, listening to a young minded 33 year old tell of her naive opinions on things in the world for a while, then stormed out for a cigarette. He beckoned to Mike, the Brit and I through the window and complied.
Two seconds after standing next to him, he started his rant. "That cute Spanish girl, she make me crazy! I can't stand people like her and their Lonely Planet. They think they have a book and they know about the world. She don't know anything..." He rambled on for five minutes, bemoaning solo trekkers like myself and their choice of not hiring hard working guides and porter. He ripped on Lonely Planet for good while and how it seemed to replace the jobs of hard working people like himself. He especially hated the little Spanish girl who was cradling Mark, the Canadian in her lap, stroking his hair while he barred his soul. It was a weird night.
"Himalay, how much raksi did you have?" I asked.
"That one guide can't handle the raksi, he only had two glasses and he's drunk."
"Himalaya, you're drunk too."
"Yes, but I drank seven glasses of raksi."
We went to bed shortly after this. Himalaya, sitting awake for a long time, chain smoking in bed, ranting away. Finally, after a long time of talking. He looked around and said, "I think I have too much raksi. Raksi is not so good in the high." He had hardly finished the sentence before the light was out and him with it.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Day 8: Khangsar to Tilicho Lake to Tilicho Base Camp 22km (117km total)
We awoke at 5:30 for our hike to Tilicho Tal. The early rise was pointless as we did not leave until after seven. Our first section was the four hour kike to the Tilicho Base Camp, where we would spend the night. I felt fresh from the lax day and it was an easy 10km climb up 400m.
The trail was fun and energetic, crossing little rivers, climbing up steeply only to drop down suddenly. About halfway through, the trail went along a 3km stretch of landslides. We had to walk delicately along the scree, as losing balance meant sliding to the river 300m below. Some parts of the trail were a mere set of footprints through the gravel. Great rocks stood as fingers out of the sediment. The trail then wrapped around the hill and descended to the tiny hotel below.
We booked a room, dropped our packs and filled up with some noodle soup for our 800m ascent to the lake. Since the sky was clear in the distance, we knew it would be best to head up that day.
Nothing before had prepared me for the tough hike that lay ahead. The trail headed straight up the hill behind the hotel and skirted the edge, always stretching higher and higher. The last of the green faded fast, being replaced by pink nettles and rust-colored shrubs. Much like the earlier part of the day, most of the trail was across loose scree, just hard enough to support walking. It climbed up until it passed beneath a cluster of curiously shaped rocks. They stood as a fortress, looking down to the trail below, defending the lake from the eyes of the unworthy. For those who were, they were but curiously shaped rocks. The test was just after the fortress, a stretch of steep switchbacks winding out of sight, climbing to the top of the towering crag above. This was not even the end, the trail then veered left, still rising. Himalay nonchalantly walked up, one small step at a time, arms crossed in front of him, showing no signs of fatigue. Finally after three hours of climbing we had rounded the top. There before us stood not a lake, but more hills.
They were pretty mild and along the way we passed two teasing ponds. After ten more minutes, the trail made what to be its last ascent, beyond was only mountains. My judgement proved true; I was finally staring at the Tilicho Tal, standing at 4900m, the highest lake in the world.
Lake Titicaca, which most seem to think is the highest is 1000m lower, than this glacial filled wonder, surrounded on all but the south side by six and seven thousand meter high peaks. No mountain in Colorado stands higher. It is a fantastic sight and stands as one of the most incredible things I have seen in my life. Knowing I walked eight days to get he probably added to the wonder.
Himalay rolled a joint at the improbable restaurant and the workers, him and I retreated to the pantry to smoke. I took a polite hit and declined the next pass.
"You are at Tilicho my friend!" Himalay pointed out the tiny window to the view that I thought only existed in postcards. "This is nature. This is the best of nature in the world. You need to smoke nature to truly see the nature."
I gave into the argument and finished the joint with them, not considering the two hour drop to base camp. Admittedly, there are few more unique experiences than sharing a joint with a group of Nepalis, standing in front of the world's highest and possibly most beautiful lake.
"We walk slow and careful down," said Himalaya, this time walking with his hands behind his back, each foot taking one careful step at a time.
It was scary at first, walking along the ridge, knowing one false step could twist an ankle or force a 500m slide. Walking slowly and carefully did the trick. I made sure to stop whenever I felt like admiring the snowy wall of the Tilicho ridge, perfectly lit by the evening sun. Anon, I passed the switchbacks and the fortress. I thanked the guards for safe passage and floated the rest of the way down to the base camp.
The place had filled in our absence. I ordered my mediocre dal bhat, actually the worst I'd had yet--so bad in fact, I even had to throw in some more masala, which I wisely purchased a few villages earlier--and sat down at the last available seat in the crowded dining room. The hotel had rooms for 20, but at least that many could not get beds and were forced to sleep on the dining room floor. Himalay spent a chilly night in a friend's tent; there was no room inside for all the guides and porters. There were also no blankets. A few in the dining room also had no sleeping bag. I only had my Australian summer sack, so I wore my full winter gear to bed. I eventually fell asleep, despite the cold and awoke warm, curled into a ball, my gloved hands tucked between my legs. It was thankfully only a little cold that night.
The trail was fun and energetic, crossing little rivers, climbing up steeply only to drop down suddenly. About halfway through, the trail went along a 3km stretch of landslides. We had to walk delicately along the scree, as losing balance meant sliding to the river 300m below. Some parts of the trail were a mere set of footprints through the gravel. Great rocks stood as fingers out of the sediment. The trail then wrapped around the hill and descended to the tiny hotel below.
We booked a room, dropped our packs and filled up with some noodle soup for our 800m ascent to the lake. Since the sky was clear in the distance, we knew it would be best to head up that day.
Nothing before had prepared me for the tough hike that lay ahead. The trail headed straight up the hill behind the hotel and skirted the edge, always stretching higher and higher. The last of the green faded fast, being replaced by pink nettles and rust-colored shrubs. Much like the earlier part of the day, most of the trail was across loose scree, just hard enough to support walking. It climbed up until it passed beneath a cluster of curiously shaped rocks. They stood as a fortress, looking down to the trail below, defending the lake from the eyes of the unworthy. For those who were, they were but curiously shaped rocks. The test was just after the fortress, a stretch of steep switchbacks winding out of sight, climbing to the top of the towering crag above. This was not even the end, the trail then veered left, still rising. Himalay nonchalantly walked up, one small step at a time, arms crossed in front of him, showing no signs of fatigue. Finally after three hours of climbing we had rounded the top. There before us stood not a lake, but more hills.
They were pretty mild and along the way we passed two teasing ponds. After ten more minutes, the trail made what to be its last ascent, beyond was only mountains. My judgement proved true; I was finally staring at the Tilicho Tal, standing at 4900m, the highest lake in the world.
Lake Titicaca, which most seem to think is the highest is 1000m lower, than this glacial filled wonder, surrounded on all but the south side by six and seven thousand meter high peaks. No mountain in Colorado stands higher. It is a fantastic sight and stands as one of the most incredible things I have seen in my life. Knowing I walked eight days to get he probably added to the wonder.
Himalay rolled a joint at the improbable restaurant and the workers, him and I retreated to the pantry to smoke. I took a polite hit and declined the next pass.
"You are at Tilicho my friend!" Himalay pointed out the tiny window to the view that I thought only existed in postcards. "This is nature. This is the best of nature in the world. You need to smoke nature to truly see the nature."
I gave into the argument and finished the joint with them, not considering the two hour drop to base camp. Admittedly, there are few more unique experiences than sharing a joint with a group of Nepalis, standing in front of the world's highest and possibly most beautiful lake.
"We walk slow and careful down," said Himalaya, this time walking with his hands behind his back, each foot taking one careful step at a time.
It was scary at first, walking along the ridge, knowing one false step could twist an ankle or force a 500m slide. Walking slowly and carefully did the trick. I made sure to stop whenever I felt like admiring the snowy wall of the Tilicho ridge, perfectly lit by the evening sun. Anon, I passed the switchbacks and the fortress. I thanked the guards for safe passage and floated the rest of the way down to the base camp.
The place had filled in our absence. I ordered my mediocre dal bhat, actually the worst I'd had yet--so bad in fact, I even had to throw in some more masala, which I wisely purchased a few villages earlier--and sat down at the last available seat in the crowded dining room. The hotel had rooms for 20, but at least that many could not get beds and were forced to sleep on the dining room floor. Himalay spent a chilly night in a friend's tent; there was no room inside for all the guides and porters. There were also no blankets. A few in the dining room also had no sleeping bag. I only had my Australian summer sack, so I wore my full winter gear to bed. I eventually fell asleep, despite the cold and awoke warm, curled into a ball, my gloved hands tucked between my legs. It was thankfully only a little cold that night.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Day 7: Manang to Khangsar 5km (95km total)
Instead of acclimatizing in the expensive and crowded Manang, we hiked for an hour and a half, 200m higher to Khangsar. The higher elevation would help us better cope with the altitude and we'd be closer to Tilicho Tal.
We left at 7:30 after a bowl of porridge and started our leisurely stroll up to Khangsar. After a short climb, we stopped.
"We can stop now, today we walk slow; we only go there." He pointed to a village at the same height, just in the distance. Today will be a flat walk.
I was wrong. We then climbed up the hill, around the river, then dipped down to a bridge. The whole rest of the way was up.
"I thought today would be a flat day."
"Oh no my friend, everyday in high will be a climb. We walk slow."
Even our slow walking was closed to my typical fast pace. We arrived by 9:45.
Khangsar was as quiet as advertised and even more beautiful than Manang. Since I had some company, the place was perfect. I had a whole day to sit on the guest house's sunny, wind-sheltered terrace and write.
The woman running the tiny guest house was warm and inviting. Shew as the nicest host I'd had yet.
"The woman running the guest house is very kind." I remarked, starting at the 7000m peak before me.
"This is why I stay here." Himalaya said, also admiring the view. "The hotel is not so nice, but didi is a great woman. And it is quiet, and good view huh?"
"Do you think she would mind if I help her cook tonight?"
"She work by herself everyday. She would love help."
So, I spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, which was warm and hung out with the Nepali guides and porters. The host did allow me to help a little, merely chopping some vegetables and peeling potatoes. She obviously had a system and though she was compliant to the help, as well as appreciative, she was the woman of that kitchen.
Himalaya brought some homemade millet wine, called raksi, from a bar in the village. It was his magic elixir; he drank a couple of glasses each night. I tried a glass, served warm and it was quite good. It went down smooth, like a slightly bitter water, but it warmed my insides on the cold night upon the mountain.
We left at 7:30 after a bowl of porridge and started our leisurely stroll up to Khangsar. After a short climb, we stopped.
"We can stop now, today we walk slow; we only go there." He pointed to a village at the same height, just in the distance. Today will be a flat walk.
I was wrong. We then climbed up the hill, around the river, then dipped down to a bridge. The whole rest of the way was up.
"I thought today would be a flat day."
"Oh no my friend, everyday in high will be a climb. We walk slow."
Even our slow walking was closed to my typical fast pace. We arrived by 9:45.
Khangsar was as quiet as advertised and even more beautiful than Manang. Since I had some company, the place was perfect. I had a whole day to sit on the guest house's sunny, wind-sheltered terrace and write.
The woman running the tiny guest house was warm and inviting. Shew as the nicest host I'd had yet.
"The woman running the guest house is very kind." I remarked, starting at the 7000m peak before me.
"This is why I stay here." Himalaya said, also admiring the view. "The hotel is not so nice, but didi is a great woman. And it is quiet, and good view huh?"
"Do you think she would mind if I help her cook tonight?"
"She work by herself everyday. She would love help."
So, I spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, which was warm and hung out with the Nepali guides and porters. The host did allow me to help a little, merely chopping some vegetables and peeling potatoes. She obviously had a system and though she was compliant to the help, as well as appreciative, she was the woman of that kitchen.
Himalaya brought some homemade millet wine, called raksi, from a bar in the village. It was his magic elixir; he drank a couple of glasses each night. I tried a glass, served warm and it was quite good. It went down smooth, like a slightly bitter water, but it warmed my insides on the cold night upon the mountain.
Day 6 - Pisang to Manang 16km (90km total)
I woke up at six after some terrible sleep. My breakfast was at seven so I began my stretches. In these first, lower altitude days, I never set an alarm, just waiting instead for my body to awake on its own. Some mornings, I just turned over and read a bit. My breakfast was typically around seven or seven-thirty. By eight, my teeth were brushed and I began my 20 minutes of stretching. By eight-thirty, I was on the road, always the last to leave, yet among the first to arrive at the destination. Rarely did I stop for longer than a couple of minutes, except for my midday tea and granola bar, which rarely exceeded 30 minutes. This is typically enough to make up for my late start times. I just like to relax before I start my day, a habit adopted from working as a nighttime waiter for a year.
This day proved no different. I was the last to depart that morning. The previous two day's weather had finally cleared, exposing the mighty peak of Annapurna II. The first four days were rich in beauty, to top such would be a tall order, but somehow, this day managed to succeed. My camera was active for the whole day, trying to capture the last of the storm clouds, clinging to the rocky cliffs o Langyodanda, wrapping its face in a haphazard scarf.
A 500m climb greeted me immediately and it took me two hours to only go 3km, the longest and steepest climb thus far. I hardly noticed, climbing at a slow, steady pace and entranced by the sights surrounding me. The two hour climb flew by; my body was getting used to being battered everyday. The trail continued along a ridge, high above the river, which was just a string laying across the narrow valley. The rest of the day was downhill, passing through tiny Tibetan villages and being looked down upon by cliff-side monasteries and giant stupas. Across the river was Humde and its short runway at the end of a narrow gorge, surrounded on all sides by 5000m peaks. I wasn't planning on taking any flights involving such an airport.
After going around another ridge, the trail split in two, one the main path heading to Humde and another staying high. The map showed that the high trail went straight to Manang. It was an easy and wise choice. Not only was it shorter, but few trekkers chose this route. I only passed five people the whole section. As a bonus, I beat the crowds to a nice hotel in the overpacked Manang. An hour after checking in, I saw people who were already desperately searching for a bed.
I went for a short walk around the pleasant village, hiking to a nearby lake under the Gangapurna Glacier. The town sold everything a hiker would need. Many were stocking up on the gear they only realized after starting they wanted. This is the great bottleneck of the circuit. Many stay for two nights to acclimatize before the pass, as Lonely Planet suggests. Some people who were already having trouble at its relatively low 3540m, stay more nights or descend. The next three days weeds out the wannabes from the real hikers. The pass is 2000m higher, few people even get the chance to climb peaks so high. The last section rises 1000m in less than 3km, about a 40 degree incline on an exposed hill, well into the alpine region.
This was all days in my future though. I decided to add a two day side trip to Tilicho Tal, highest lake in the world, yes, even higher that Titicaca. To plan a hiking trip that will take nearly a month and not add only two day to see such a special secluded place would be folly. A surprising number people do pass it up though. Their loss.
It was essential that I find a friend a friend to join me for the more dangerous alpine sections, but not many seemed to be heading the lake. Then, walking down the street came Himalaya. Apparently, Javi was a wannabe. Unwisely, he did not drop much weight from his pack, in fact he dropped no weight from his pack and chose to bring everything from his one year, round-the-world trip, even his laptop. In total he was hauling 25kg up the mountains, nearly 60lb. My bag was even heavy by many's standards and I had half as much. Himalaya even offered him a porter for the higher section, dropping his rate so it would cost no additional money to him, but one look at the airport in Humde and he decided to stop. I've experienced this very feeling in Tasmania. A small problem balloons into many perceived problems, then crack, you get defeated mentally.
This was a bit inconvenient for the young guide, who was being ditched right in the middle of the trail and only a third finished with the job for which he was hired. Javier paid him a couple extra days of pay, but it left him in the middle of nowhere, so he offered me a deal.
"I am in the middle my friend. I go back, it is ok, but no problem. If you want to walk with me to Tilicho, Thorung, then I go back Pokhara on other side. No problem. Do you want to walk with me?"
I considered what he was saying. He came to me like a friend, but i knew he wanted to be paid. Even though he loves the mountains, he came here for work; he was hoping I could help him make up the difference. The man was cool, yet crazy. I may have been able to find a walking partner, but none would be as colorful as this long-haired Nepali.
"Himalaya, I think it would be very fun to walk with you, but let's be straight here, how much would you want?"
"When I walk with Whitebodies, it is easier for me, I sleep for free, I eat for free. By myself, not so good. I need to pay, so it is better for me to have Whitebody. I will work for donation."
"Donation?"
"Yes, donation."
"Ok?" I said. I then had to figure how much a donation would have to be.
"You walk with me, you will drop right?
"Well of course. It is more convenient for you to turn around, less time."
"Exactly, my friend. So I can only walk with you if you drop."
"Of course I'll drop."
"Good my friend."
"Ok, so how much minimum would it be to make it worth it for you to walk on."
"Ok, oiu lala, time for business, yeah."
"Yep."
He pulled two cigarettes out of his pocket and handed one to me.
"Sorry, I don't smoke."
"We do business now, we have cigarette." He handed me the cigarette and lighted it with his lighter, then did the same with his own.
"Well, Spanish, he pay me 15 euro per day. I would not expect so much. We are in the mountains. 15 euro, 20 euro, 30 euro. This my city price. Everything, my friend, is different in the mountain."
I needed to hire this man. "So, what is a good price for you, 500 rupees per day?"
"Spanish was giving me 1,500 rupees, so 1000 is lower, but more if you are rich."
"At 1000, I would just meet a friend on the way. I'm not rich, Himalaya and I am already going to be longer in Nepal than I planned. I get by myself with only a little per day."
"How much you make my friend, per hours. $20?"
"Oh no, I make 10 an hour, maybe more on a good night." I quoted of course the terrible wage I made during the day shifts.
"Ok, you make $10 per hour, I make $10 per day and tomorrow is rest day, no charge. So our trip 5 days."
"Well, it would be much safer with a guide and 5 days is only a small portion of this hike. $10, 700 rupees per day." It was an ok price.
"Ah, we have a deal, my friend." We shook hands. "Ok, we finish our business." He said, stubbing out his cigarette into the ashtray, "Now we party!"
This day proved no different. I was the last to depart that morning. The previous two day's weather had finally cleared, exposing the mighty peak of Annapurna II. The first four days were rich in beauty, to top such would be a tall order, but somehow, this day managed to succeed. My camera was active for the whole day, trying to capture the last of the storm clouds, clinging to the rocky cliffs o Langyodanda, wrapping its face in a haphazard scarf.
A 500m climb greeted me immediately and it took me two hours to only go 3km, the longest and steepest climb thus far. I hardly noticed, climbing at a slow, steady pace and entranced by the sights surrounding me. The two hour climb flew by; my body was getting used to being battered everyday. The trail continued along a ridge, high above the river, which was just a string laying across the narrow valley. The rest of the day was downhill, passing through tiny Tibetan villages and being looked down upon by cliff-side monasteries and giant stupas. Across the river was Humde and its short runway at the end of a narrow gorge, surrounded on all sides by 5000m peaks. I wasn't planning on taking any flights involving such an airport.
After going around another ridge, the trail split in two, one the main path heading to Humde and another staying high. The map showed that the high trail went straight to Manang. It was an easy and wise choice. Not only was it shorter, but few trekkers chose this route. I only passed five people the whole section. As a bonus, I beat the crowds to a nice hotel in the overpacked Manang. An hour after checking in, I saw people who were already desperately searching for a bed.
I went for a short walk around the pleasant village, hiking to a nearby lake under the Gangapurna Glacier. The town sold everything a hiker would need. Many were stocking up on the gear they only realized after starting they wanted. This is the great bottleneck of the circuit. Many stay for two nights to acclimatize before the pass, as Lonely Planet suggests. Some people who were already having trouble at its relatively low 3540m, stay more nights or descend. The next three days weeds out the wannabes from the real hikers. The pass is 2000m higher, few people even get the chance to climb peaks so high. The last section rises 1000m in less than 3km, about a 40 degree incline on an exposed hill, well into the alpine region.
This was all days in my future though. I decided to add a two day side trip to Tilicho Tal, highest lake in the world, yes, even higher that Titicaca. To plan a hiking trip that will take nearly a month and not add only two day to see such a special secluded place would be folly. A surprising number people do pass it up though. Their loss.
It was essential that I find a friend a friend to join me for the more dangerous alpine sections, but not many seemed to be heading the lake. Then, walking down the street came Himalaya. Apparently, Javi was a wannabe. Unwisely, he did not drop much weight from his pack, in fact he dropped no weight from his pack and chose to bring everything from his one year, round-the-world trip, even his laptop. In total he was hauling 25kg up the mountains, nearly 60lb. My bag was even heavy by many's standards and I had half as much. Himalaya even offered him a porter for the higher section, dropping his rate so it would cost no additional money to him, but one look at the airport in Humde and he decided to stop. I've experienced this very feeling in Tasmania. A small problem balloons into many perceived problems, then crack, you get defeated mentally.
This was a bit inconvenient for the young guide, who was being ditched right in the middle of the trail and only a third finished with the job for which he was hired. Javier paid him a couple extra days of pay, but it left him in the middle of nowhere, so he offered me a deal.
"I am in the middle my friend. I go back, it is ok, but no problem. If you want to walk with me to Tilicho, Thorung, then I go back Pokhara on other side. No problem. Do you want to walk with me?"
I considered what he was saying. He came to me like a friend, but i knew he wanted to be paid. Even though he loves the mountains, he came here for work; he was hoping I could help him make up the difference. The man was cool, yet crazy. I may have been able to find a walking partner, but none would be as colorful as this long-haired Nepali.
"Himalaya, I think it would be very fun to walk with you, but let's be straight here, how much would you want?"
"When I walk with Whitebodies, it is easier for me, I sleep for free, I eat for free. By myself, not so good. I need to pay, so it is better for me to have Whitebody. I will work for donation."
"Donation?"
"Yes, donation."
"Ok?" I said. I then had to figure how much a donation would have to be.
"You walk with me, you will drop right?
"Well of course. It is more convenient for you to turn around, less time."
"Exactly, my friend. So I can only walk with you if you drop."
"Of course I'll drop."
"Good my friend."
"Ok, so how much minimum would it be to make it worth it for you to walk on."
"Ok, oiu lala, time for business, yeah."
"Yep."
He pulled two cigarettes out of his pocket and handed one to me.
"Sorry, I don't smoke."
"We do business now, we have cigarette." He handed me the cigarette and lighted it with his lighter, then did the same with his own.
"Well, Spanish, he pay me 15 euro per day. I would not expect so much. We are in the mountains. 15 euro, 20 euro, 30 euro. This my city price. Everything, my friend, is different in the mountain."
I needed to hire this man. "So, what is a good price for you, 500 rupees per day?"
"Spanish was giving me 1,500 rupees, so 1000 is lower, but more if you are rich."
"At 1000, I would just meet a friend on the way. I'm not rich, Himalaya and I am already going to be longer in Nepal than I planned. I get by myself with only a little per day."
"How much you make my friend, per hours. $20?"
"Oh no, I make 10 an hour, maybe more on a good night." I quoted of course the terrible wage I made during the day shifts.
"Ok, you make $10 per hour, I make $10 per day and tomorrow is rest day, no charge. So our trip 5 days."
"Well, it would be much safer with a guide and 5 days is only a small portion of this hike. $10, 700 rupees per day." It was an ok price.
"Ah, we have a deal, my friend." We shook hands. "Ok, we finish our business." He said, stubbing out his cigarette into the ashtray, "Now we party!"
Day 5: Chame to Pisang 18km (74 km total)
The morning had borne a desire for something hearty and the menu had just the dish: tsampa. Even only a week removed from Tibet, I was already craving some of my favorite Tibetan dishes. This day was a holiday in Nepal, the 10th day of Deshain, the most important day. This is they adorn special tikkas after the sacrifice goats to the gods. I thusly treated myself to tsampa and potato momos; there was no yak meat here. The tsampa was more of a liquidy porridge, but it was still delicious and filling. The momos were taking a while and I almost hoped they'd forgotten the order. Just as I was standing up to pack, they came. They were also tasty, almost like a peroggi. It didn't take much effort to finish the whole plate.
Chame is the district headquarters of the Manang district, so it was quite populated and had more going on than the typical tourism. The streets were filled with people celebrating their day off. Many were gambling with cards or betting on special game of dice. Five dice are shaken then placed, covered on the ground, everyone lays down some money upon the symbol of their choice. The bets are collected and the dice revealed. Whichever symbol showed on the most dice, was the winners. This was popular, as it was being played many places and it was quite difficult to proceed down the streets. Even child were placing bets. I passed, but I regret not gambling even 50 cents, just for the experience.
The day was a relaxing one. It was mostly flat gaining 600m in about 10km. Plus, there was only five hours of walking time. A holiday deserves a short day.
My back was feeling better, but I wanted to find out why my middle back was hurting, when the backpack is most supported by the shoulders and lower back. A quick inspection of my backpack revealed the problem. After a couple of years with no adjustments, my pack had become set for a man who is 6' 2". I set it for my height and tried the pack. It made a drastic difference. The weight was spread out throughout my whole back, the straps went around my waist and over my shoulders comfortably. When walking, I was finally standing upright instead of hunched over slightly. I know not how I'd not noticed after using my backpack for so long. Good thing I fixed that early; I may have had some great pain later on.
With my weight properly distributed and my body finally used to the abuse, I was feeling good. Even the hills proved to be no trouble. The trail was clear with only a few rocks and pine needles scattered the ground. The titans of the East were hidden behind clouds, leaving only the minor peaks in view. If it wasn't for the porters carrying the 100lb loads with their heads, one could imagine being in Colorado. The trail veered west with the river, sandwiched between two 4700m walls on either side.
I also saw the first of the regrowth forests, evidence of clear-cutting. Nepal does need the lumber, but I hate the sight of regrowth. Forests get their beauty from the symmetry of the asymmetry. Regrowth is straight and ugly, a painful bastardization from its resemblance to real woods.
I met a Spaniard and his guide occasionally through the day and we found ourselves arriving at Pisang at nearly the same time. Just before the village, Himalaya, the guide, veered off the road and started picking some plants. Upon close inspection, I saw he was plucking the buds of marijuana which were growing in a large patch right off the trail.
I grabbed a bud and saw many sparkling crystals over the whole thing. If I could ship it to the US, I'd be able to make a decent bit of money.
"I didn't know marijuana grew so high."
"It is everywhere my friend; you just have to open your eyes!" Himalaya exclaimed.
"I've never seen it growing before; our government destroys all it finds."
"Wow!" said Javi, the Spaniard. "You must be the only person in the world who doesn't know what it looks like."
We walked five more minutes to town, right before a downpour, as Himalaya explained the Nepali process of making hashish. I was fascinated, though I'm sure it would have been more interesting if I knew anything about the hash making processes at home to make a cultural comparison. I shared a room that night with Javi and discussed Himalayas plan to create a new trek in the Nepal since the Annapurna is dying. He corroborated my theory of the hike's death. The further the road moved into the mountains, the less trekkers who will come. The guides are now scrambling to be among the first to bring tourists to an unpopularized route not mentioned by Lonely Planet. The market for trekking guides in the big three areas is so overpopulated and since many, like myself are now easy to do the treks without guides with all the infrastructure, so some are forced to corner a different niche.
It was an educational night for sure. Later in the evening, I met two Americans, one had been living here for the last ten years, during the height of the civil war. The brief history of Nepal in my Lonely Planet ended after the Maoist party overthrew the monarchy. The Maoist apparently, only won the war with the help of other groups and parties. After the monarchy was finished, all the groups wanted to assume control. There was an "election" which the Maoist won, but with so many different groups trying to make decisions, nothing was getting done. Maybe ineffective decision making is a universal downside to democracy. One dispute pushed the Maoists to quick operating, and since they controlled the majority of the government and have their own army, this has dammed up the governments efficiency to nearly zero. Nepal has its own national army, but having lost in its backing of the monarchy, they've abandoned all political affiliations until the dust clears and there is a stable government to support. For now, they just do public works projects to keep busy.
My dal bhat I ate while hearing this story was not so great, though the pickles were; they gladly gave me seconds. I considered a dessert for the holiday, but passed. I'd spent enough money already that day.
Chame is the district headquarters of the Manang district, so it was quite populated and had more going on than the typical tourism. The streets were filled with people celebrating their day off. Many were gambling with cards or betting on special game of dice. Five dice are shaken then placed, covered on the ground, everyone lays down some money upon the symbol of their choice. The bets are collected and the dice revealed. Whichever symbol showed on the most dice, was the winners. This was popular, as it was being played many places and it was quite difficult to proceed down the streets. Even child were placing bets. I passed, but I regret not gambling even 50 cents, just for the experience.
The day was a relaxing one. It was mostly flat gaining 600m in about 10km. Plus, there was only five hours of walking time. A holiday deserves a short day.
My back was feeling better, but I wanted to find out why my middle back was hurting, when the backpack is most supported by the shoulders and lower back. A quick inspection of my backpack revealed the problem. After a couple of years with no adjustments, my pack had become set for a man who is 6' 2". I set it for my height and tried the pack. It made a drastic difference. The weight was spread out throughout my whole back, the straps went around my waist and over my shoulders comfortably. When walking, I was finally standing upright instead of hunched over slightly. I know not how I'd not noticed after using my backpack for so long. Good thing I fixed that early; I may have had some great pain later on.
With my weight properly distributed and my body finally used to the abuse, I was feeling good. Even the hills proved to be no trouble. The trail was clear with only a few rocks and pine needles scattered the ground. The titans of the East were hidden behind clouds, leaving only the minor peaks in view. If it wasn't for the porters carrying the 100lb loads with their heads, one could imagine being in Colorado. The trail veered west with the river, sandwiched between two 4700m walls on either side.
I also saw the first of the regrowth forests, evidence of clear-cutting. Nepal does need the lumber, but I hate the sight of regrowth. Forests get their beauty from the symmetry of the asymmetry. Regrowth is straight and ugly, a painful bastardization from its resemblance to real woods.
I met a Spaniard and his guide occasionally through the day and we found ourselves arriving at Pisang at nearly the same time. Just before the village, Himalaya, the guide, veered off the road and started picking some plants. Upon close inspection, I saw he was plucking the buds of marijuana which were growing in a large patch right off the trail.
I grabbed a bud and saw many sparkling crystals over the whole thing. If I could ship it to the US, I'd be able to make a decent bit of money.
"I didn't know marijuana grew so high."
"It is everywhere my friend; you just have to open your eyes!" Himalaya exclaimed.
"I've never seen it growing before; our government destroys all it finds."
"Wow!" said Javi, the Spaniard. "You must be the only person in the world who doesn't know what it looks like."
We walked five more minutes to town, right before a downpour, as Himalaya explained the Nepali process of making hashish. I was fascinated, though I'm sure it would have been more interesting if I knew anything about the hash making processes at home to make a cultural comparison. I shared a room that night with Javi and discussed Himalayas plan to create a new trek in the Nepal since the Annapurna is dying. He corroborated my theory of the hike's death. The further the road moved into the mountains, the less trekkers who will come. The guides are now scrambling to be among the first to bring tourists to an unpopularized route not mentioned by Lonely Planet. The market for trekking guides in the big three areas is so overpopulated and since many, like myself are now easy to do the treks without guides with all the infrastructure, so some are forced to corner a different niche.
It was an educational night for sure. Later in the evening, I met two Americans, one had been living here for the last ten years, during the height of the civil war. The brief history of Nepal in my Lonely Planet ended after the Maoist party overthrew the monarchy. The Maoist apparently, only won the war with the help of other groups and parties. After the monarchy was finished, all the groups wanted to assume control. There was an "election" which the Maoist won, but with so many different groups trying to make decisions, nothing was getting done. Maybe ineffective decision making is a universal downside to democracy. One dispute pushed the Maoists to quick operating, and since they controlled the majority of the government and have their own army, this has dammed up the governments efficiency to nearly zero. Nepal has its own national army, but having lost in its backing of the monarchy, they've abandoned all political affiliations until the dust clears and there is a stable government to support. For now, they just do public works projects to keep busy.
My dal bhat I ate while hearing this story was not so great, though the pickles were; they gladly gave me seconds. I considered a dessert for the holiday, but passed. I'd spent enough money already that day.
Day 4: Karte to Chame 18km (56km total)
As is bound to happen, some mornings will be more difficult than others. It is shocking how restorative eight hours of sleep can be though. Both days I arrived beaten at the village, dragging myself step by step, pack weighing 50lb more than at the start. Surprisingly, I awoke with only minor aches. In Karte, however, my mid-back hurt, not excessively, but enough to be annoying. After a big plate of vegetable fried rice, a cup of coffee, and some stretches, I was good to go.
A sign in Dharapani recommended a stop at the village of Odar, only a slight detour from the original trail. It advertised great views of Mansalu up the valley to the East. It was a hard hot, steep climb up stone steps to the top of the hill. On my way, something flew passed me, jumping from a wall through a field and up a tree. The only animal I could conceive doing such was a monkey, but I doubted they lived so high in the mountains. Either way, it moved too fast for me to get a good look. In Odar, the villagers did not seem so welcoming as the towns along the main trail. The main villages were definitely rural, but Odar made them seem metropolitan. The people went on with their business, bathing in the town's main water tap, feed the livestock, and husking corn. Some said hello, but most seemed confused by my presence. I climbed up to the lookout, another 45 minutes higher, but was greeted with only clouds.
Most of the day was a hard climb up, without the downs of the previous sections. My back was killing me and i was making a very slow pace. The Odar detour was a bad add-on for such a strenuous day. The trail split in two, one a high road, the other low. I decided the low road would be a better choice if I planned to get to Chame that day. It was a choice I was not allowed; the low road was closed. By Thanchowk, I had to stop for tea and rest. I considered spending the night, but since the next village was only one hour downhill, I pressed myself further.
This was a wise choice. It must have been magic tea, for I found the stamina and lack of pain enough that the going was fine. Just downhill from Thanchowk, I heard a crack from the forest and quickly turned to the forest to see four large black and white monkeys, chilling out. They were langurs, a type of monkey that lives in the higher altitudes of Nepal; 'twas my first wild simian experience. I reached Koto ahead of schedule, so I continued on to Chame as originally planned. Even though I walked downhill the whole time, I still managed to gain 200m in altitude. I don't think I understand the physics of that one.
That night, I had some unremarkable dal bhat, with the best Nepali pickles I'd ever had. They were radish in a fantastic, spicy mustard brine. I hoped they'd offer me more, but none came.
The weather was getting chillier. Each successive night, I added a new layer for my evening lounging. Since the start, I'd gained 2500m in altitude. In two more days, I would be in the alpine region. Plus, a cold front had moved in overnight. It would only get colder.
A sign in Dharapani recommended a stop at the village of Odar, only a slight detour from the original trail. It advertised great views of Mansalu up the valley to the East. It was a hard hot, steep climb up stone steps to the top of the hill. On my way, something flew passed me, jumping from a wall through a field and up a tree. The only animal I could conceive doing such was a monkey, but I doubted they lived so high in the mountains. Either way, it moved too fast for me to get a good look. In Odar, the villagers did not seem so welcoming as the towns along the main trail. The main villages were definitely rural, but Odar made them seem metropolitan. The people went on with their business, bathing in the town's main water tap, feed the livestock, and husking corn. Some said hello, but most seemed confused by my presence. I climbed up to the lookout, another 45 minutes higher, but was greeted with only clouds.
Most of the day was a hard climb up, without the downs of the previous sections. My back was killing me and i was making a very slow pace. The Odar detour was a bad add-on for such a strenuous day. The trail split in two, one a high road, the other low. I decided the low road would be a better choice if I planned to get to Chame that day. It was a choice I was not allowed; the low road was closed. By Thanchowk, I had to stop for tea and rest. I considered spending the night, but since the next village was only one hour downhill, I pressed myself further.
This was a wise choice. It must have been magic tea, for I found the stamina and lack of pain enough that the going was fine. Just downhill from Thanchowk, I heard a crack from the forest and quickly turned to the forest to see four large black and white monkeys, chilling out. They were langurs, a type of monkey that lives in the higher altitudes of Nepal; 'twas my first wild simian experience. I reached Koto ahead of schedule, so I continued on to Chame as originally planned. Even though I walked downhill the whole time, I still managed to gain 200m in altitude. I don't think I understand the physics of that one.
That night, I had some unremarkable dal bhat, with the best Nepali pickles I'd ever had. They were radish in a fantastic, spicy mustard brine. I hoped they'd offer me more, but none came.
The weather was getting chillier. Each successive night, I added a new layer for my evening lounging. Since the start, I'd gained 2500m in altitude. In two more days, I would be in the alpine region. Plus, a cold front had moved in overnight. It would only get colder.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Day 3 - Ghermu to Karte 16km (38km total)
In only one day of hiking, the scenery was already changing. The jungle was nearly finished and the rice farms were replaced by towering cliffs. Flat land seemed rare. Every hour, a waterfall would drop down from the walls, white like spilled milk running off a table.
The elevation rose only 600m, but the total climbing for the day was nearly double that. Every hill of the day dwarfed the prior day's. Once at the top, hoping I'd reached the maximum elevation for the day, thus ending the climbing, the hills would then drop back down to the river below. Every time this happened, I was almost heartbroken, then I'd look up at the mountains and see the mosaic of the gray rocks, the red moss, the yellow autumn leaves, the coniferous green, a living Monet painting before me, and I'd cease caring.
I hiked with the Slovaks for half of the day, but they stopped too much, took too many photos and talked the whole time. It may sound funny to hear me of all people accusing others of a lack of silence, but hiking for me is a quiet solitary experience. I love the sound of the wind in the trees, the river rushing beside me, the horses in the field neighing, even the crow waiting for a dropped chunk of granola. When the boys stopped for a long lunch of soup and bread, I moved on after a soda and a granola bar, promising to meet them in Karte. Word from passing hikers said they'd only made it as far as Tal, the prior village. The spaces between villages do set most trekkers at similar paces. Everyone stops in Manang to acclimatize and rest for the epic three day climb of Thorung La. Karte was a peaceful stopping point; I was the only tourist in town. The family running the guest house were cold, but the bed was soft, the shower was hot and the dal bhat was delicious, made with vegetables picked that evening from the garden. I don't think they were too happy for my stop; my suspicion is that they expected a night off.
The elevation rose only 600m, but the total climbing for the day was nearly double that. Every hill of the day dwarfed the prior day's. Once at the top, hoping I'd reached the maximum elevation for the day, thus ending the climbing, the hills would then drop back down to the river below. Every time this happened, I was almost heartbroken, then I'd look up at the mountains and see the mosaic of the gray rocks, the red moss, the yellow autumn leaves, the coniferous green, a living Monet painting before me, and I'd cease caring.
I hiked with the Slovaks for half of the day, but they stopped too much, took too many photos and talked the whole time. It may sound funny to hear me of all people accusing others of a lack of silence, but hiking for me is a quiet solitary experience. I love the sound of the wind in the trees, the river rushing beside me, the horses in the field neighing, even the crow waiting for a dropped chunk of granola. When the boys stopped for a long lunch of soup and bread, I moved on after a soda and a granola bar, promising to meet them in Karte. Word from passing hikers said they'd only made it as far as Tal, the prior village. The spaces between villages do set most trekkers at similar paces. Everyone stops in Manang to acclimatize and rest for the epic three day climb of Thorung La. Karte was a peaceful stopping point; I was the only tourist in town. The family running the guest house were cold, but the bed was soft, the shower was hot and the dal bhat was delicious, made with vegetables picked that evening from the garden. I don't think they were too happy for my stop; my suspicion is that they expected a night off.
Day 2: From Besi Shahar to Ghermu 22km
I awoke my first morning in Besi Shahar with the snow peaks far in the horizon, this was where I was headed. After some good stretches and a filling breakfast, I donned my pack to begin my 200 mile walk.
My first 10km were flat, easy and all along a road. The jungle scenery was nice, but jumping to the side every 2 minutes from a roaring horn was unpleasant. The trail was much nicer when it became a foot path.
It climbed steadily up rice terraces, passed goats standing in the path eating weeds, and porters carrying goods with a strap around their foreheads. It was a hot, humid day, but sweaty wet is much nicer than rainy wet. The views were clear except a small amount of hazy mist that enhanced the scenery.
This flat honeymoon was not to last though, after Ngadi, the trail headed straight up a big hill to Bahundanda, rising 420m in only a few kilometers. By the top, the heat and climb had floored me. I considered stopping for the day; the view from on top of the hill was breathtaking, though it might have been the intense hiking. Ghermu was only 5km away, mostly downhill, so I continued on.
Right before the village, I joined three Slovakian men who seemed nice enough to join. We all got dorms together at the hotel, directly across from a gorge with a 350ft waterfall. I was tired from my eight hours of walking and my shoulders hurt. My legs, surprisingly, were fine.
I enjoyed a hearty meal of dal bhat, then sat outside with my eyes closed, listening to the only sound I could hear, water falling over the edge of cliff. This was going to be a great month.
My first 10km were flat, easy and all along a road. The jungle scenery was nice, but jumping to the side every 2 minutes from a roaring horn was unpleasant. The trail was much nicer when it became a foot path.
It climbed steadily up rice terraces, passed goats standing in the path eating weeds, and porters carrying goods with a strap around their foreheads. It was a hot, humid day, but sweaty wet is much nicer than rainy wet. The views were clear except a small amount of hazy mist that enhanced the scenery.
This flat honeymoon was not to last though, after Ngadi, the trail headed straight up a big hill to Bahundanda, rising 420m in only a few kilometers. By the top, the heat and climb had floored me. I considered stopping for the day; the view from on top of the hill was breathtaking, though it might have been the intense hiking. Ghermu was only 5km away, mostly downhill, so I continued on.
Right before the village, I joined three Slovakian men who seemed nice enough to join. We all got dorms together at the hotel, directly across from a gorge with a 350ft waterfall. I was tired from my eight hours of walking and my shoulders hurt. My legs, surprisingly, were fine.
I enjoyed a hearty meal of dal bhat, then sat outside with my eyes closed, listening to the only sound I could hear, water falling over the edge of cliff. This was going to be a great month.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Annapurna Chronicles Day 1-To Besi Shahar
The traditional start of the Annapurna Circuit, my Nepal trek of choice is Besi Shahar, headquarters of the Lamjung district. At one time, this was the end of the road, or at the least the road for cars. The famous Annapurna Circuit continues for 210km along a foot highway, but only a main river for many tributary trails that branch out, linking some of the most remote villages to the main part of Nepal, thousands of meters below.
All roads lead up, into the heart of the Himalayas, crossing the Thorong La, largest pass in the world. Somehow, the pass finds a way through the seven and eight thousand meter peaks with only an altitude of 5,416m, taller than any mountain in the continental United States. The highway then splits in two, one way heads up to the Upper Mustang region a Tibetan border area, and the other goes back down to Pokhara. The south road is the second portion of the circuit.
Things have changed since the first hippies came to confuse the foreigners, prompting locals to wonder why so many long haired white folk, smoking bhang (hashish) and walking through are walking through the villages. The tourist dollar has turned many of those small villages into larger small villages. Nearly every village along the trail has hotels and restaurants geared for tired hikers, thus giving much of the trekking in Nepal the name "teahouse trekking". Suddenly, these subsistence farming communities found ways to make money. With the money and newfound traffic and demands, electricity, heated water, and internet came to these once destitute communities. And then the demand for more food and supplies made the mule trains insufficient to transport all the goods, so next came roads and jeeps.
It is the same story as what happens everywhere. Annapurna is slowly becoming comodified. Now anybody's grandmother if reasonably fit can hike in the area. The road on the Lamjung side now goes 27km to Ghermu and from the Mustang side of the pass, it stretches to Muktintath, just below the pass. Now, this is great for the villages, but not for the hikers. Now hiking along a road for 40% of the trail, many hikers are abandoning the trek, not just because of sharing the road with vehicles, but with the road also comes toys and modernization. Trekkers coming to see the quaint rural life of Himalayan Nepal, now see teenagers on cell phones, people walking around with iPods, amongst the goat herders and rice farmers. The people all desire more; and they should have more, but with the modernization, the crowds may leave, choosing a more rustic hike and leaving these villages without income. Though, it could become like another Chitwan National park, only in the mountains, where people can visit fake traditional villages showing life in the Himalayas as it never was. If the circuit dies, then the hikers will go elsewhere for their "real Nepali" cultural experience and the cycle will begin anew.
Even though buses run to Buhlbuhle, one of the greatest town names ever, I chose to start in Besi Shahar like in the past. To get there, I had to ride a bus for four hours from Pokhara.
All of my Nepal transportation experiences were, thus far, only in tourist vehicles. Since the ride was short, I decided to venture out into the world of Nepali public transportation. I wanted to ride with chickens and goats; I especially wanted to ride on top.
The bus was quite empty in Pokhara and I thought I'd seem like a tourist if I rode on top despite ample seating. Getting a seat was surprisingly easy. I just went to the bust station which was merely a long line of buses along a street and asked every driver down the line if he was going to Besi Shahar. Every bus seemed headed to Kathmandu. One bus tried to load me on, but i quickly jumped off when I realized they were roping me into going to Kathmandu. I then just looked for the ticket stand, which was easy to find with some honest help. The ticket was only 150 rupees, which was half of what the tourist bus was charging.
The driver was a long-haired young man with a persistent smile and a Dubai tourism t-shirt. once he found out where I was from, he gave me a big hug. "I love America!" He gave me three more hugs in the 45 minutes I waited until departure. I suspected he was a bhang head, like most young Nepalis. I admit, I was quite happy when he left the bus and another smileless fat driver stepped behind the wheel.
Before departing, an older man rode up with his bicycle and giant plastic sack, with a big mickey mouse printed upon it; from my observations, this seems to be the national bag of Nepal. I also have always wanted to load the top of a bus, so I spidermanned my way to the top and helped lift the bike and bag. The man seemed appreciative. "You are a very good person to help me!" I didn't know how to tell him that my seeming act of altruism was merely a selfish whim to tack more random experiences to my ever growing "list". He looked like an older John Tuturro, but thankfully was unlike any of his many characters. We talked most of the way despite the language barrier. He pointed out his lovely rice farm in the hill on the way, before he took his bicycle and left. He gave me his address, so now I have a Nepali penpal named Buddha Ras!
I stayed my first night at a cute guest house ran by an affluent family. They seemed to do good business as back room was filled with people having a meeting and drinking tea. Their son seemed fascinated by me for some reason and followed me around everywhere, even offering me a tour of the town in the dark. I declined his offer, choosing instead to stay at the hotel and eat dal bhat and writing in my journal. He sat down next to me and watched attentively as I wrote. Finally, I could no longer take the staring.
"So, what is your name?"
And thus we began a nice conversation. Despite being only nine years old, they boy spoke fluent English and was quite smart.
"Do you like Nepal?" he asked.
"I love Nepal. It is very beautiful and the people, they seem so happy and friendly."
"The people are very poor."
"But they seem to recognize the richness of friendships and family."
He agreed and told me a bit about the people and their attitudes. Next, he told me all about some Nepali festivals, including the current one Desain. He particularly liked Dessain; there was no school and his father always built a nice swing for him to play. In fact, his description of every festival involved a swing. We looked through his geography text book and he taught me many things about Nepal, even grasping the very important problems facing south Nepal. Since it has the most fertile land in the country, people flock there to live, but the more people that live there, the less fertile the land becomes and the more houses that get placed upon land that should be used for farming. Most amazing of all, the child told me all of these things in nearly perfect English. He wanted to become a doctor some day, and with his smarts, he should have no trouble achieving his dream and since his family had a nice guest house and restaurant in a tourist area, he would also have the money for his dreams. The child was one of the lucky ones in Nepal, for as he said, many people in Nepal are very poor.
All roads lead up, into the heart of the Himalayas, crossing the Thorong La, largest pass in the world. Somehow, the pass finds a way through the seven and eight thousand meter peaks with only an altitude of 5,416m, taller than any mountain in the continental United States. The highway then splits in two, one way heads up to the Upper Mustang region a Tibetan border area, and the other goes back down to Pokhara. The south road is the second portion of the circuit.
Things have changed since the first hippies came to confuse the foreigners, prompting locals to wonder why so many long haired white folk, smoking bhang (hashish) and walking through are walking through the villages. The tourist dollar has turned many of those small villages into larger small villages. Nearly every village along the trail has hotels and restaurants geared for tired hikers, thus giving much of the trekking in Nepal the name "teahouse trekking". Suddenly, these subsistence farming communities found ways to make money. With the money and newfound traffic and demands, electricity, heated water, and internet came to these once destitute communities. And then the demand for more food and supplies made the mule trains insufficient to transport all the goods, so next came roads and jeeps.
It is the same story as what happens everywhere. Annapurna is slowly becoming comodified. Now anybody's grandmother if reasonably fit can hike in the area. The road on the Lamjung side now goes 27km to Ghermu and from the Mustang side of the pass, it stretches to Muktintath, just below the pass. Now, this is great for the villages, but not for the hikers. Now hiking along a road for 40% of the trail, many hikers are abandoning the trek, not just because of sharing the road with vehicles, but with the road also comes toys and modernization. Trekkers coming to see the quaint rural life of Himalayan Nepal, now see teenagers on cell phones, people walking around with iPods, amongst the goat herders and rice farmers. The people all desire more; and they should have more, but with the modernization, the crowds may leave, choosing a more rustic hike and leaving these villages without income. Though, it could become like another Chitwan National park, only in the mountains, where people can visit fake traditional villages showing life in the Himalayas as it never was. If the circuit dies, then the hikers will go elsewhere for their "real Nepali" cultural experience and the cycle will begin anew.
Even though buses run to Buhlbuhle, one of the greatest town names ever, I chose to start in Besi Shahar like in the past. To get there, I had to ride a bus for four hours from Pokhara.
All of my Nepal transportation experiences were, thus far, only in tourist vehicles. Since the ride was short, I decided to venture out into the world of Nepali public transportation. I wanted to ride with chickens and goats; I especially wanted to ride on top.
The bus was quite empty in Pokhara and I thought I'd seem like a tourist if I rode on top despite ample seating. Getting a seat was surprisingly easy. I just went to the bust station which was merely a long line of buses along a street and asked every driver down the line if he was going to Besi Shahar. Every bus seemed headed to Kathmandu. One bus tried to load me on, but i quickly jumped off when I realized they were roping me into going to Kathmandu. I then just looked for the ticket stand, which was easy to find with some honest help. The ticket was only 150 rupees, which was half of what the tourist bus was charging.
The driver was a long-haired young man with a persistent smile and a Dubai tourism t-shirt. once he found out where I was from, he gave me a big hug. "I love America!" He gave me three more hugs in the 45 minutes I waited until departure. I suspected he was a bhang head, like most young Nepalis. I admit, I was quite happy when he left the bus and another smileless fat driver stepped behind the wheel.
Before departing, an older man rode up with his bicycle and giant plastic sack, with a big mickey mouse printed upon it; from my observations, this seems to be the national bag of Nepal. I also have always wanted to load the top of a bus, so I spidermanned my way to the top and helped lift the bike and bag. The man seemed appreciative. "You are a very good person to help me!" I didn't know how to tell him that my seeming act of altruism was merely a selfish whim to tack more random experiences to my ever growing "list". He looked like an older John Tuturro, but thankfully was unlike any of his many characters. We talked most of the way despite the language barrier. He pointed out his lovely rice farm in the hill on the way, before he took his bicycle and left. He gave me his address, so now I have a Nepali penpal named Buddha Ras!
I stayed my first night at a cute guest house ran by an affluent family. They seemed to do good business as back room was filled with people having a meeting and drinking tea. Their son seemed fascinated by me for some reason and followed me around everywhere, even offering me a tour of the town in the dark. I declined his offer, choosing instead to stay at the hotel and eat dal bhat and writing in my journal. He sat down next to me and watched attentively as I wrote. Finally, I could no longer take the staring.
"So, what is your name?"
And thus we began a nice conversation. Despite being only nine years old, they boy spoke fluent English and was quite smart.
"Do you like Nepal?" he asked.
"I love Nepal. It is very beautiful and the people, they seem so happy and friendly."
"The people are very poor."
"But they seem to recognize the richness of friendships and family."
He agreed and told me a bit about the people and their attitudes. Next, he told me all about some Nepali festivals, including the current one Desain. He particularly liked Dessain; there was no school and his father always built a nice swing for him to play. In fact, his description of every festival involved a swing. We looked through his geography text book and he taught me many things about Nepal, even grasping the very important problems facing south Nepal. Since it has the most fertile land in the country, people flock there to live, but the more people that live there, the less fertile the land becomes and the more houses that get placed upon land that should be used for farming. Most amazing of all, the child told me all of these things in nearly perfect English. He wanted to become a doctor some day, and with his smarts, he should have no trouble achieving his dream and since his family had a nice guest house and restaurant in a tourist area, he would also have the money for his dreams. The child was one of the lucky ones in Nepal, for as he said, many people in Nepal are very poor.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Pokhara
The second main center for tourism in Nepal is Pokhara, which manages to combine all the draws of New Zealand into a single city, minus the ocean. It is the hub for many treks in the Himalayas, including upper Mustang, The Annapurna Sactuary trek, the Mansalu trek, Lake Tilicho, the Nar-Phu trek, Dhulgari, and the Annapurna Circut, arguably the best hike in the world. Not to mention the many day hikes. There is also river rafting and kayaking, canyoning, and hang-gliding/paragliding. Situated on the Seti River and Phewa Lake, the town is surrounded by jungle covered hills, with the great Himalayan Peaks of the Annapurna Range towering above. The star mountain attraction is the Fishtail shaped triangle (it looks like a triangle from Pokhara anyway) or Machhapuchhre, one of the prettiest mountains in the world.
I spent two night there, though I arrived quite late the first day. The bus trip was estimated at six hours, but it took closer to nine. Despite leaving Kathmandu at 7AM, we didn't arrive until evening.
Pokhara managed to eat money in much the same way as Thamel, but it was less intense, at least by Nepal standards. Much like Thamel, the area beside the lake was a concentrated tourist playground, especially for hikers. Every third store was an outfitter. It did not take me long to finish equipping myself for my upcoming month in the mountains.
The food in town was great. Most places served either Nepalese or Indian food, which can be quite similar, though Indian is a bit more flavorful. Nepali food is more comfort food. There were lots of Italian, Chinese, Korean, and many more place to choose from though. I ignored these overpriced non-local cuisines. Wen and I had dinner with a rockin' Kiwi woman on our last night at a little unassuming Nepali place ran by an Indian chef. It was called the Kebab King and the food was much better than the sign or name implied. We ate a flaming cheese rum steak, which would have only been better if it was rare; one should be careful with bloody meat in third world countries though it is probably the freshest meat a person could buy. We ordered also Dal Makhani and what could be the greatest curry ever, Paneer Butter Masala. It was rich, creamy, and the cheese gave it a fantastic umami kick. This all came with naan we watched him cook right in front out of his tandoori. Each piece took less than a minute. It was great fuel after our crazy hike.
Forgive me for traveling backwards through time; this is more topic oriented than chronological. One of the best day hikes in Pokhara is the climb to the World Peace Pagoda overlooking the city and lake below. On clear days, the great peaks can be seen from there as well. We passed Devi's Falls, which is a typo for Davis, the name of a man who perished with his girlfriend, after being swept into the depths by a sudden surge in water level. The falls were quite neat; a leg of the lake just drops into an underground cave.
Past the falls is the trail leading up to the pagoda. The climb was steep, but we had a rest halfway when we played on a giant 20ft high bamboo swing with some local children. It was a hoot. All the kids were off of school for the two week long Desain, largest festival in country.
The pagoda had great view and was itself quite beautiful. It was too cloudy to see the Himalayas and after two days, I was questioning their existence in Nepal. The real highlight of the hike though was our walk down. I hate taking the same way twice when hiking. If I drive, I get religious about the quickest way, but walking is a different story. Lonely Planet mentioned a way back through the jungle which sounded lovely. So, we veered onto the first trail heading the right direction through the woods. Just a few meters in, we were magically far away from any city. Cows were grazing on the underbrush and all was quiet except for the sound of our feet and grass chewing. As we moved on through the trail, the foliage became thicker, the trail harder to follow. Then the trail split in two. A larger more walked path stretched uphill, but a smaller one went down a little, going around the hill. I myself have always been a fan of Robert Frost, and that made all the difference.
The tiny trail was hard to follow at first, or was just hard to follow in general. A machete or maybe Danny Trijo would have been nice. The trail would appear and disappear like a sleight of hand expert's quarter. It did however keep heading towards town, even when skirting the side of a hill with a twenty food drop to the left.
Then inevitably, the trail stopped. The sun was quickly going to bed and the mosquitos were waking up. We bushwhacked our way further until we reached the narrow south arm of the lake. There was no bridge in sight. I wasn't planning on swimming with a pack and my camera, so we had to find a way across. Earlier, we had remembered passing some lights, so we plowed our way through the jungle again, now in the light, to the lights in the distance. Wen had touched some strange plant and her hand was burning painfully. Finally, we were at the wall of some house.
The wall was only waist high, but it had barbed wire on top. There was a big sign saying "No Trespassing". Being lost in the jungle at night can breed a disregard for authority. On the other side of the fence was a dingy workshop and piles of pipes and wood. I climbed over first, balancing on the delicate piles of junk, waiting for the man with a wifebeater, sawed-off, can of cheap beer, and a Nepalese hat that was surely waiting around the corner, chewing tobacco. Wen climbed after me and we wandered slowly beyond the workshop. We hoped to go through the yard unnoticed, find the road that was surely nearby and follow it to the closest bridge, hoping this wasn't the home of some survivalist recluse who lived in the jungle. Suddenly, we were spotted!
A well-dressed Nepali man in a casual suit walked around the corner. "Namyste, can I help you?" He asked politely.
"Namyste." I said, restraining a quiver. "We were walking back from the Peace Pagoda and got lost in the woods."
"It's dark. We want to go back to lakeside." Wen added.
"Is there a bridge to town?"
"There is no bridge here. The bridge is two hours walk that way." He pointed up the hill through the jungle.
"It's too dark to walk back through the jungle" Said Wen. "Is there another way back to town?"
"Yes, go over there and the boatman will take you back."
We walked around the corner and saw the lagoon shaped swimming pool. Fancy huts were everywhere with large glass doors facing towards the mountains. Newly weds lounged in lawn chairs, sipping drinks and holding hands while watching the sky. Somehow, we wandered all the way to Tahiti!
Not Tahiti, the Fishtail Resort, most secluded and expensive lodging in all of Pokhara. The New York times voted it one of the 1000 places a person should see before they die. We considered renting a room; the place was inviting, but were sure we couldn't afford it. A short stroll brought us to the dock, where a friendly man greeted us with a smile.
"Hello Sir, Madam, heading to town for the night?"
"Why yes sir, thank you." I replied. For a moment, I tasted the wealth.
We hopped in the row boat and headed across the lake with the stars looking down upon us.
"Can I paddle?" Wen asked.
"Of course you may, Madam."
She grabbed the oar, doubling our speed and we were back in town within minutes. It was the greatest short hike ever!
I spent two night there, though I arrived quite late the first day. The bus trip was estimated at six hours, but it took closer to nine. Despite leaving Kathmandu at 7AM, we didn't arrive until evening.
Pokhara managed to eat money in much the same way as Thamel, but it was less intense, at least by Nepal standards. Much like Thamel, the area beside the lake was a concentrated tourist playground, especially for hikers. Every third store was an outfitter. It did not take me long to finish equipping myself for my upcoming month in the mountains.
The food in town was great. Most places served either Nepalese or Indian food, which can be quite similar, though Indian is a bit more flavorful. Nepali food is more comfort food. There were lots of Italian, Chinese, Korean, and many more place to choose from though. I ignored these overpriced non-local cuisines. Wen and I had dinner with a rockin' Kiwi woman on our last night at a little unassuming Nepali place ran by an Indian chef. It was called the Kebab King and the food was much better than the sign or name implied. We ate a flaming cheese rum steak, which would have only been better if it was rare; one should be careful with bloody meat in third world countries though it is probably the freshest meat a person could buy. We ordered also Dal Makhani and what could be the greatest curry ever, Paneer Butter Masala. It was rich, creamy, and the cheese gave it a fantastic umami kick. This all came with naan we watched him cook right in front out of his tandoori. Each piece took less than a minute. It was great fuel after our crazy hike.
Forgive me for traveling backwards through time; this is more topic oriented than chronological. One of the best day hikes in Pokhara is the climb to the World Peace Pagoda overlooking the city and lake below. On clear days, the great peaks can be seen from there as well. We passed Devi's Falls, which is a typo for Davis, the name of a man who perished with his girlfriend, after being swept into the depths by a sudden surge in water level. The falls were quite neat; a leg of the lake just drops into an underground cave.
Past the falls is the trail leading up to the pagoda. The climb was steep, but we had a rest halfway when we played on a giant 20ft high bamboo swing with some local children. It was a hoot. All the kids were off of school for the two week long Desain, largest festival in country.
The pagoda had great view and was itself quite beautiful. It was too cloudy to see the Himalayas and after two days, I was questioning their existence in Nepal. The real highlight of the hike though was our walk down. I hate taking the same way twice when hiking. If I drive, I get religious about the quickest way, but walking is a different story. Lonely Planet mentioned a way back through the jungle which sounded lovely. So, we veered onto the first trail heading the right direction through the woods. Just a few meters in, we were magically far away from any city. Cows were grazing on the underbrush and all was quiet except for the sound of our feet and grass chewing. As we moved on through the trail, the foliage became thicker, the trail harder to follow. Then the trail split in two. A larger more walked path stretched uphill, but a smaller one went down a little, going around the hill. I myself have always been a fan of Robert Frost, and that made all the difference.
The tiny trail was hard to follow at first, or was just hard to follow in general. A machete or maybe Danny Trijo would have been nice. The trail would appear and disappear like a sleight of hand expert's quarter. It did however keep heading towards town, even when skirting the side of a hill with a twenty food drop to the left.
Then inevitably, the trail stopped. The sun was quickly going to bed and the mosquitos were waking up. We bushwhacked our way further until we reached the narrow south arm of the lake. There was no bridge in sight. I wasn't planning on swimming with a pack and my camera, so we had to find a way across. Earlier, we had remembered passing some lights, so we plowed our way through the jungle again, now in the light, to the lights in the distance. Wen had touched some strange plant and her hand was burning painfully. Finally, we were at the wall of some house.
The wall was only waist high, but it had barbed wire on top. There was a big sign saying "No Trespassing". Being lost in the jungle at night can breed a disregard for authority. On the other side of the fence was a dingy workshop and piles of pipes and wood. I climbed over first, balancing on the delicate piles of junk, waiting for the man with a wifebeater, sawed-off, can of cheap beer, and a Nepalese hat that was surely waiting around the corner, chewing tobacco. Wen climbed after me and we wandered slowly beyond the workshop. We hoped to go through the yard unnoticed, find the road that was surely nearby and follow it to the closest bridge, hoping this wasn't the home of some survivalist recluse who lived in the jungle. Suddenly, we were spotted!
A well-dressed Nepali man in a casual suit walked around the corner. "Namyste, can I help you?" He asked politely.
"Namyste." I said, restraining a quiver. "We were walking back from the Peace Pagoda and got lost in the woods."
"It's dark. We want to go back to lakeside." Wen added.
"Is there a bridge to town?"
"There is no bridge here. The bridge is two hours walk that way." He pointed up the hill through the jungle.
"It's too dark to walk back through the jungle" Said Wen. "Is there another way back to town?"
"Yes, go over there and the boatman will take you back."
We walked around the corner and saw the lagoon shaped swimming pool. Fancy huts were everywhere with large glass doors facing towards the mountains. Newly weds lounged in lawn chairs, sipping drinks and holding hands while watching the sky. Somehow, we wandered all the way to Tahiti!
Not Tahiti, the Fishtail Resort, most secluded and expensive lodging in all of Pokhara. The New York times voted it one of the 1000 places a person should see before they die. We considered renting a room; the place was inviting, but were sure we couldn't afford it. A short stroll brought us to the dock, where a friendly man greeted us with a smile.
"Hello Sir, Madam, heading to town for the night?"
"Why yes sir, thank you." I replied. For a moment, I tasted the wealth.
We hopped in the row boat and headed across the lake with the stars looking down upon us.
"Can I paddle?" Wen asked.
"Of course you may, Madam."
She grabbed the oar, doubling our speed and we were back in town within minutes. It was the greatest short hike ever!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
First day in Nepal
Nepal and China are separated by the Bhote Kosi river. To reach the other side, immigrants must pass the 15 meter Friendship bridge, which must be the longest 50ft in the world. Nepal and China are so different, it is shocking they even share a border. Chinese customs involved x-rays and passport scans and more men armed with AK-47's. Nepal had a man in a Nike hat, the fat, Nepali, Tiger Woods, handing us out our visa forms. The people in Nepal smiled and laughed. People waiting in queues and everyone spoke English. For a less civilized looking group, they definitely acted more civilized than the Chinese.
We hired a jeep after immigration for the four hour drive to Kathmandu; it took eight hours. The road was in terrible shape; some sections were still washed out fro mthe prior four month's wet monsoon. Large chunks of highway were squeezed to one lane, resulting in 45 minute stoppages. A flat tire in the wrong place could close traffic for a long time.
On the way, we continued along the Bhote Kosi, watched a man take a plunge into the canyon below in the world's second largest bungy jump. The countryside was incredible. Rice fields, rain forests, and mountains surrounded us on all sides. Motorbikes seemed the most popular way of transport. Men zoomed passed the constant traffic jams with their wives riding sidesaddle behind. A bus in front of us pulled over, then a man emptied two live goats from the luggage compartment.
The colors were more vivid, loudly painted semis from India lined the road, each with little sayings on the bumper like "Drive slow, Live Long", "Please Honk", and "stop the hate." 50 ft tall statues of Shiva overlooked the valley. The music was bubbly and frantic, for sure not like the slow and boring love ballads of China. everything was just more intense sensorily in all ways.
Kathmandu was even more crazy than the drive, particularly in Thamel where I was staying for the night. Thamel is a six by four block area dedicated to tourism. It was the everclear of tourist areas. Hotels were atop of bars, which were on top of stores. No inch was spared to suck a foreigner's rupee. The streets were narrow, yet everyone, cars, pedestrians, motorbikes, buses, men selling food from off of their heads, and random cows all found a way to share. Merely standing around required vigilance. Strangely, I loved it. there was so much energy, I couldn't help but absorb it.
We calmed down with a relaxing and delicious meal. Jackie was leaving for India that night, so Wen treated us to a great Nepali meal. We had chicken curry, some grilled chicken dripping in lemon juice with large pieces of garlic and cilantro. for the vitamins, we had paneer and pea curry which was merely ok, but the bubbly naan made up for this.
Jackie took off, so Wen and I wandered the streets to see the city at night. Every corner bar had a live band playing covers of Jimi Hendrix or the Kings of Leon. Seemed like a hip town. In a few short hours, i had already spent $50, a true show of the magic abilities of Thamel. Even though I enjoyed it and will return, I was happy to leave.
We hired a jeep after immigration for the four hour drive to Kathmandu; it took eight hours. The road was in terrible shape; some sections were still washed out fro mthe prior four month's wet monsoon. Large chunks of highway were squeezed to one lane, resulting in 45 minute stoppages. A flat tire in the wrong place could close traffic for a long time.
On the way, we continued along the Bhote Kosi, watched a man take a plunge into the canyon below in the world's second largest bungy jump. The countryside was incredible. Rice fields, rain forests, and mountains surrounded us on all sides. Motorbikes seemed the most popular way of transport. Men zoomed passed the constant traffic jams with their wives riding sidesaddle behind. A bus in front of us pulled over, then a man emptied two live goats from the luggage compartment.
The colors were more vivid, loudly painted semis from India lined the road, each with little sayings on the bumper like "Drive slow, Live Long", "Please Honk", and "stop the hate." 50 ft tall statues of Shiva overlooked the valley. The music was bubbly and frantic, for sure not like the slow and boring love ballads of China. everything was just more intense sensorily in all ways.
Kathmandu was even more crazy than the drive, particularly in Thamel where I was staying for the night. Thamel is a six by four block area dedicated to tourism. It was the everclear of tourist areas. Hotels were atop of bars, which were on top of stores. No inch was spared to suck a foreigner's rupee. The streets were narrow, yet everyone, cars, pedestrians, motorbikes, buses, men selling food from off of their heads, and random cows all found a way to share. Merely standing around required vigilance. Strangely, I loved it. there was so much energy, I couldn't help but absorb it.
We calmed down with a relaxing and delicious meal. Jackie was leaving for India that night, so Wen treated us to a great Nepali meal. We had chicken curry, some grilled chicken dripping in lemon juice with large pieces of garlic and cilantro. for the vitamins, we had paneer and pea curry which was merely ok, but the bubbly naan made up for this.
Jackie took off, so Wen and I wandered the streets to see the city at night. Every corner bar had a live band playing covers of Jimi Hendrix or the Kings of Leon. Seemed like a hip town. In a few short hours, i had already spent $50, a true show of the magic abilities of Thamel. Even though I enjoyed it and will return, I was happy to leave.
Next stop, Nepal
We had to drive back the same way we came, climbing the giant pass again. This time however, the view of the Himalayan Range was crystal clear. I watched it from the car, but I was itching to descend.
We continued on, driving through sandy dunes with the Himalayas to our left. After hours, the sand dunes ended and the rocks started to grow orange moss. This was joined later by green mosses, then shrubs. We were soon swiftly descending down a mountain pass along a gorge. There was no going over a hill, we were already at the top. The landscape changed drastically in a few short kilometers. We were dropping altitude so quickly, it was like a textbook cross section of the types of plants that grow at each elevation.
It took only two hours to go from the Alpine desert to jungle. We stopped at the border town for the night at the worst hotel I've ever seen. I'm sure I'll see worse. We begged the guide to let us try another place, but he claimed it was booked out, which was a lie. It was merely more expensive than the tour budget would allow. Jackie and I shared a dorm room for no additional cost, while Wen, Evan, and Caroline paid extra for a room. The second hotel was much better, lacking the suffocating mold and dirty toilets.
The five of us enjoyed our last Tibetan meal together and talked about what we'd seen in the last week. Like all last suppers, we all opened to each other and shared many personal details of our life. We then shared some beers on the veranda of our hotel, overlooking the darkened Bhote Kosi river below. We savored our last night in China.
We continued on, driving through sandy dunes with the Himalayas to our left. After hours, the sand dunes ended and the rocks started to grow orange moss. This was joined later by green mosses, then shrubs. We were soon swiftly descending down a mountain pass along a gorge. There was no going over a hill, we were already at the top. The landscape changed drastically in a few short kilometers. We were dropping altitude so quickly, it was like a textbook cross section of the types of plants that grow at each elevation.
It took only two hours to go from the Alpine desert to jungle. We stopped at the border town for the night at the worst hotel I've ever seen. I'm sure I'll see worse. We begged the guide to let us try another place, but he claimed it was booked out, which was a lie. It was merely more expensive than the tour budget would allow. Jackie and I shared a dorm room for no additional cost, while Wen, Evan, and Caroline paid extra for a room. The second hotel was much better, lacking the suffocating mold and dirty toilets.
The five of us enjoyed our last Tibetan meal together and talked about what we'd seen in the last week. Like all last suppers, we all opened to each other and shared many personal details of our life. We then shared some beers on the veranda of our hotel, overlooking the darkened Bhote Kosi river below. We savored our last night in China.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Everest Base Camp
Our day began with a five hour drive through the never ending alpine desert. We climbed a pass that made the previous ones seem like a bunny hill. At the top, we had a much closer view of the Great Himalayan Range.
"Which one is Everest?" I asked.
"Right there!" the guide pointed.
"I don't see any mountain there."
"Everest is that dark cloud."
Standing at the foot of Everest was supposed to be the climax of the pricey tour. I hoped that it would clear up while we were here. The other side of the pass descended the same distance down into the nearby valley. Tibet has some strange ideas of "passes" but I suppose it is the highest place in the world, so you have to do what you can.
On the way to the camp, we passed quite a few quaint villages and some old abandoned clay settlements and one built into a cave. We also passed the small Rongphuk Monastery, highest in the world. Finally, we arrived at the city of sturdy yak tents, the Everest Base Camp.
Every tent was a hotel/restaurant, with names such as Potala Hotel, HIllary Hotel, and my personal favorite, the Gardan of Eden Hotel. How a garden of eden, or any garden for that matter could grow above the timberline is a mystery to me. The insides were full of many couches, with brightly colored embroidered cushions. We had a lunch of plain fried rice with an egg. Yummy.
While we ate, an American and his Chinese girlfriend had a chat with us.
"You spending the night up here?" He asked.
We all nodded.
"Cause my guide doesn't want us to stay because of the elevation. He says it all starts with a headache, then at one AM, boom, that's it."
"What's 'that's it'?" I asked.
"That's just it, he didn't tell me. He just said 'that's it' "
"Sounds ominous."
"I might descend."
We decided to climb even higher.
The would be view of Everest was obscured by clouds, it looked like a Pink Floyd album cover (not really). We had planned on walking to the start point of the Everest climb, but the wind pummeling and the elevation killed our desire. We instead payed for the bus to take us closer to the great mountain we couldn't see. At the base was a prayer flag covered hill. We started for the top when an army man stopped us.
"You speak English" the soldier asked. The started without waiting for our reply, "Your permit has a name that is not your guide's name. You cannot enter."
"What? How is it not our guide?" Wen asked.
"What's going on?" I asked the guide.
"It is not my name on the permit."
"Then whose name is it?" Wen demanded.
"Another guide from agency."
"Why isn't it your name? We paid a lot of money to come here and now we can't go in? I want my money back! This camp was the whole reason for the tour!"
"Can't you reason with them?" I asked.
"No, they don't like me here. I already had problem before."
"I'm writing an angry email to the company. This is BS!" Wen yelled.
Our guide cowered from her wrath.
"Dude." I explained. "We aren't angry with you, don't worry. I am mad at your boss for putting the wrong name on your permit."
"It isn't that great on the other side of the gate. You can't see it anyway."
"I don't care if it is great of not. I paid for it!" Said Wen.
"It wasn't my boss fault. It was my fault."
"What?" Now I started to feel my temper flare.
"My friend picked up permit. The old rule say you need no guide name. Now they change rule."
We stood there, ready to destroy this man. He was a cool guy, but a terrible guide. If he wasn't going to teach us about Tibet, he could at least get the permits settled. Caroline and Evan had walked away to get some space. Jackie just stood there, taking more photos, unfazed by anything. Wen let out her fury and I'd calmed down quickly myself. We couldn't even see Everest, so being 100ft closer didn't really matter.
We started walking back, admiring the towering walls of rock on either side of us. It was a like a stroll through Mordor.
"I will take you to a very nice monastery. You can tie your flags there." Our guide was only a few inches tall at this point.
"I'm not mad anymore Calden; my anger goes away quickly. It's just a stupid hill anyway right?"
We walked an hour back down the road until we saw a small decrepit monastery built into a mass of rocks on the side of the road. At 5300m, the two stories of stairs towered hundreds of feet above as far as perceived distance. Hardest stairs ever. Our guide tried the door at the top.
"It's locked. Too bad, it is very nice." He just couldn't win.
"How many people live here?"
"Only one. He must be in town."
He directed us to a pole with prayer flags stretching in all directions, a rainbow spiderweb, sitting in the mountains. We all tied our rolls together, tied them between two nodes and let the wind take them into the air, adding another layer of color to the dense weaving. This done, I walked out of the grounds a bit. Then i saw it.
"You guys, come here!"
Poking out higher than the clouds, there stood the peak of Everest!
Wen was ecstatic. "Looks like our prayer flags worked!"
We all flashed photos, filling the peaceful place with the sound of incessant clicking. Just when we thought the view could not be any more clear, the clouds would open up a little more, showing Qomolangma even more. There are probably 10 photos of me in front of Everest with varying levels of visibility. We eventually went back to our tent to find the American and his girlfriend gone.
"We, that's it!" I joked.
Everest made its disappearing/reappearing act until the sunset made it glow bright gold. I tried to watch the whole sunset, but the weather had turned cold and the pummeling 50mph wind was getting hard to handle. I looked to the exposed peak and wondered how cold it was at the top and how much faster the wind would be without the hindrance of anything. I abandoned the already lost dreams of reaching the summit. Just basking at the golden glow at the base camp made life seem a little too wonderful to abandon just for another check off my list.
Once in the shelter of the tent, I had a bowl of noodle soup, topped with a fried egg. EBC was a gourmand paradise for sure. It is amazing how tired one gets after hiking for five hours at 5300m and hiding in the shelter of a yak hair tent from the winds off the world's highest peak, warmed by burning yak dung.
"You should sleep early, we leave early. Tomorrow is a long drive."
"Can we watch the sunrise?" Wen asked.
"No time."
"What time is sunrise?"
"Seven."
"And when do we leave?"
"Seven thirty."
"So we can watch the sunrise then."
"No time."
Wen opened her mouth to argue, but I stopped her. I think the guide just liked to tell us "no time."
The couches were also a quite comfortable bed, the back cushions became pillows. The owner tucked us all in with about four blankets each, which seemed unnecessary since the yak dung had warmed the tent to about 30C. He took special care to tuck me in, returning three times to make sure my yak blanket was in the right place. We turned out the lights and drifted off quickly, soothed by the sound of the wind outside, not entering our tent.
I awoke in darkness, needing to pee and my head was in blinding pain. I felt my way clumsily through the tent. Wen offered me her headlamp. My jaunt outside had me gasping for breath. I took two ibuprofen to kill the headache. One hour later, still awake, I popped two more; the first two did nothing.
Jackie, hearing the sound of the pill bottle, asked. "Is that headache medicine?"
"Yes Jackie."
"Can I have some," his voice quivering in pain.
I heard Caroline and Evan stir. I dared not look at my watch, but I knew it was 1AM: That's it! Turning over was exhausting and I could not stop turning because I couldn't decide which side had more air. I was gasping so much, I feared I would never sleep or maybe sleep forever. With the headache still booming, I laid on my back and did meditative breathing, while I waited for the ibuprofen to kick in. Yoga breathing was actually too slow to get enough air. After staring at the dark ceiling, praying for the sun to light it up, the headache finally dulled to a minor throb and I was able to sleep poorly.
We all awoke groggily and had tsampa and yak butter tea for breakfast. My morning urination was greeted with a perfectly clear view of Qomolangma. It looked quite small in all it grandeur, without the clouds to give it perspective. I was really too cold and tired to stare continuously at the sunrise. It was still a highlight of my life.
"Which one is Everest?" I asked.
"Right there!" the guide pointed.
"I don't see any mountain there."
"Everest is that dark cloud."
Standing at the foot of Everest was supposed to be the climax of the pricey tour. I hoped that it would clear up while we were here. The other side of the pass descended the same distance down into the nearby valley. Tibet has some strange ideas of "passes" but I suppose it is the highest place in the world, so you have to do what you can.
On the way to the camp, we passed quite a few quaint villages and some old abandoned clay settlements and one built into a cave. We also passed the small Rongphuk Monastery, highest in the world. Finally, we arrived at the city of sturdy yak tents, the Everest Base Camp.
Every tent was a hotel/restaurant, with names such as Potala Hotel, HIllary Hotel, and my personal favorite, the Gardan of Eden Hotel. How a garden of eden, or any garden for that matter could grow above the timberline is a mystery to me. The insides were full of many couches, with brightly colored embroidered cushions. We had a lunch of plain fried rice with an egg. Yummy.
While we ate, an American and his Chinese girlfriend had a chat with us.
"You spending the night up here?" He asked.
We all nodded.
"Cause my guide doesn't want us to stay because of the elevation. He says it all starts with a headache, then at one AM, boom, that's it."
"What's 'that's it'?" I asked.
"That's just it, he didn't tell me. He just said 'that's it' "
"Sounds ominous."
"I might descend."
We decided to climb even higher.
The would be view of Everest was obscured by clouds, it looked like a Pink Floyd album cover (not really). We had planned on walking to the start point of the Everest climb, but the wind pummeling and the elevation killed our desire. We instead payed for the bus to take us closer to the great mountain we couldn't see. At the base was a prayer flag covered hill. We started for the top when an army man stopped us.
"You speak English" the soldier asked. The started without waiting for our reply, "Your permit has a name that is not your guide's name. You cannot enter."
"What? How is it not our guide?" Wen asked.
"What's going on?" I asked the guide.
"It is not my name on the permit."
"Then whose name is it?" Wen demanded.
"Another guide from agency."
"Why isn't it your name? We paid a lot of money to come here and now we can't go in? I want my money back! This camp was the whole reason for the tour!"
"Can't you reason with them?" I asked.
"No, they don't like me here. I already had problem before."
"I'm writing an angry email to the company. This is BS!" Wen yelled.
Our guide cowered from her wrath.
"Dude." I explained. "We aren't angry with you, don't worry. I am mad at your boss for putting the wrong name on your permit."
"It isn't that great on the other side of the gate. You can't see it anyway."
"I don't care if it is great of not. I paid for it!" Said Wen.
"It wasn't my boss fault. It was my fault."
"What?" Now I started to feel my temper flare.
"My friend picked up permit. The old rule say you need no guide name. Now they change rule."
We stood there, ready to destroy this man. He was a cool guy, but a terrible guide. If he wasn't going to teach us about Tibet, he could at least get the permits settled. Caroline and Evan had walked away to get some space. Jackie just stood there, taking more photos, unfazed by anything. Wen let out her fury and I'd calmed down quickly myself. We couldn't even see Everest, so being 100ft closer didn't really matter.
We started walking back, admiring the towering walls of rock on either side of us. It was a like a stroll through Mordor.
"I will take you to a very nice monastery. You can tie your flags there." Our guide was only a few inches tall at this point.
"I'm not mad anymore Calden; my anger goes away quickly. It's just a stupid hill anyway right?"
We walked an hour back down the road until we saw a small decrepit monastery built into a mass of rocks on the side of the road. At 5300m, the two stories of stairs towered hundreds of feet above as far as perceived distance. Hardest stairs ever. Our guide tried the door at the top.
"It's locked. Too bad, it is very nice." He just couldn't win.
"How many people live here?"
"Only one. He must be in town."
He directed us to a pole with prayer flags stretching in all directions, a rainbow spiderweb, sitting in the mountains. We all tied our rolls together, tied them between two nodes and let the wind take them into the air, adding another layer of color to the dense weaving. This done, I walked out of the grounds a bit. Then i saw it.
"You guys, come here!"
Poking out higher than the clouds, there stood the peak of Everest!
Wen was ecstatic. "Looks like our prayer flags worked!"
We all flashed photos, filling the peaceful place with the sound of incessant clicking. Just when we thought the view could not be any more clear, the clouds would open up a little more, showing Qomolangma even more. There are probably 10 photos of me in front of Everest with varying levels of visibility. We eventually went back to our tent to find the American and his girlfriend gone.
"We, that's it!" I joked.
Everest made its disappearing/reappearing act until the sunset made it glow bright gold. I tried to watch the whole sunset, but the weather had turned cold and the pummeling 50mph wind was getting hard to handle. I looked to the exposed peak and wondered how cold it was at the top and how much faster the wind would be without the hindrance of anything. I abandoned the already lost dreams of reaching the summit. Just basking at the golden glow at the base camp made life seem a little too wonderful to abandon just for another check off my list.
Once in the shelter of the tent, I had a bowl of noodle soup, topped with a fried egg. EBC was a gourmand paradise for sure. It is amazing how tired one gets after hiking for five hours at 5300m and hiding in the shelter of a yak hair tent from the winds off the world's highest peak, warmed by burning yak dung.
"You should sleep early, we leave early. Tomorrow is a long drive."
"Can we watch the sunrise?" Wen asked.
"No time."
"What time is sunrise?"
"Seven."
"And when do we leave?"
"Seven thirty."
"So we can watch the sunrise then."
"No time."
Wen opened her mouth to argue, but I stopped her. I think the guide just liked to tell us "no time."
The couches were also a quite comfortable bed, the back cushions became pillows. The owner tucked us all in with about four blankets each, which seemed unnecessary since the yak dung had warmed the tent to about 30C. He took special care to tuck me in, returning three times to make sure my yak blanket was in the right place. We turned out the lights and drifted off quickly, soothed by the sound of the wind outside, not entering our tent.
I awoke in darkness, needing to pee and my head was in blinding pain. I felt my way clumsily through the tent. Wen offered me her headlamp. My jaunt outside had me gasping for breath. I took two ibuprofen to kill the headache. One hour later, still awake, I popped two more; the first two did nothing.
Jackie, hearing the sound of the pill bottle, asked. "Is that headache medicine?"
"Yes Jackie."
"Can I have some," his voice quivering in pain.
I heard Caroline and Evan stir. I dared not look at my watch, but I knew it was 1AM: That's it! Turning over was exhausting and I could not stop turning because I couldn't decide which side had more air. I was gasping so much, I feared I would never sleep or maybe sleep forever. With the headache still booming, I laid on my back and did meditative breathing, while I waited for the ibuprofen to kick in. Yoga breathing was actually too slow to get enough air. After staring at the dark ceiling, praying for the sun to light it up, the headache finally dulled to a minor throb and I was able to sleep poorly.
We all awoke groggily and had tsampa and yak butter tea for breakfast. My morning urination was greeted with a perfectly clear view of Qomolangma. It looked quite small in all it grandeur, without the clouds to give it perspective. I was really too cold and tired to stare continuously at the sunrise. It was still a highlight of my life.
Manners in China
If bad manners is very bothersome to you, do not come to China. The Chinese have their own rules regarding manners, they just differ from ours.
One of the biggest changes for those of the West is smoking etiquette. It is perfectly fine to smoke anywhere, as long as you offer those around you a cigarette. It seems as if every male smokes and some of the females. People smoke freely at the office, in a restaurant and especially on a bus. There were a handful who ask, mostly in the presence of Westerners or women, if they are bothered by the smoke. These same people light up when the bus has pulled over. Cigarette smoke is such a constant lingering entity, one does not even need to smoke to have a couple of cigarettes.
Many bodily functions are as shared as openly as smokes. The morning in China is a symphony of hacking. No day can start without a big, fat luggie. Elderly women spit in the street, even stranger is seeing a lovely woman, sitting in a park, watching people stroll by on a warm afternoon, conjure up a chunk of lung to catapult onto the path. At home, when amongst the boys in the outdoors, spitting is common, but to see men in suits, children, their mothers, their grandmothers all expel their throat candy anyplace they please, gets a little old. If there is a clogged nose, a public snot rocket is acceptable. Men fart without discretion, though this not so different than home.
It is as if the lesson of kindergarten were forgotten. Lines in China are optional. Some wait in line, but a person who budges to the front is helped indiscriminately. I met a German guy who adopted such a philosophy. "I won't be the sucker who waits in a queue, while everyone else is pushing ahead." For the Beijing Olympics, the city enacted a plan to teach Chinese to wait in lines and not spit in the street, which worked, but after the games, things went back to normal.
There are some traditional Chinese etiquette, but these are starting to slack as well. One should never leave chopsticks in a bowl, since they resemble a type of incense that is burned for the dead. One should fill everyone's tea before they pour their own. It is impolite to drink a sip of alcohol alone. Instead, one toasts by raising their glass with both hands and stating an amount to drink, typically either a half glass or to the bottom. For this reason, even beer is consumed from tiny glasses. There is no colliding of glasses, though if they do, one must always clink the glass at a lower point than the host or the person who offers the toast. It shows respect. Sometimes, there is a war over who taps lowest, who gets the privilege of offering respect. The mutual lowering of glasses looks odd. Someone typically concedes under the table somewhere.
One of the biggest changes for those of the West is smoking etiquette. It is perfectly fine to smoke anywhere, as long as you offer those around you a cigarette. It seems as if every male smokes and some of the females. People smoke freely at the office, in a restaurant and especially on a bus. There were a handful who ask, mostly in the presence of Westerners or women, if they are bothered by the smoke. These same people light up when the bus has pulled over. Cigarette smoke is such a constant lingering entity, one does not even need to smoke to have a couple of cigarettes.
Many bodily functions are as shared as openly as smokes. The morning in China is a symphony of hacking. No day can start without a big, fat luggie. Elderly women spit in the street, even stranger is seeing a lovely woman, sitting in a park, watching people stroll by on a warm afternoon, conjure up a chunk of lung to catapult onto the path. At home, when amongst the boys in the outdoors, spitting is common, but to see men in suits, children, their mothers, their grandmothers all expel their throat candy anyplace they please, gets a little old. If there is a clogged nose, a public snot rocket is acceptable. Men fart without discretion, though this not so different than home.
It is as if the lesson of kindergarten were forgotten. Lines in China are optional. Some wait in line, but a person who budges to the front is helped indiscriminately. I met a German guy who adopted such a philosophy. "I won't be the sucker who waits in a queue, while everyone else is pushing ahead." For the Beijing Olympics, the city enacted a plan to teach Chinese to wait in lines and not spit in the street, which worked, but after the games, things went back to normal.
There are some traditional Chinese etiquette, but these are starting to slack as well. One should never leave chopsticks in a bowl, since they resemble a type of incense that is burned for the dead. One should fill everyone's tea before they pour their own. It is impolite to drink a sip of alcohol alone. Instead, one toasts by raising their glass with both hands and stating an amount to drink, typically either a half glass or to the bottom. For this reason, even beer is consumed from tiny glasses. There is no colliding of glasses, though if they do, one must always clink the glass at a lower point than the host or the person who offers the toast. It shows respect. Sometimes, there is a war over who taps lowest, who gets the privilege of offering respect. The mutual lowering of glasses looks odd. Someone typically concedes under the table somewhere.
Onward to the EBC
We began the next day with a tour of the Tashilimbo Monastery in Shigatse, home of the Panchen Lama, who is in Beijing. The many temples and stupas occupied me for an hour or so. Our guide, who up to this point had done no guiding, merely identifying mountains, telling elevations and pushing us along, claiming there is no time, had agreed to help a fellow guide by taking an abandoned French girl to the monastery. He was telling her stories, explaining and pointing out idols, and giving history lessons. I wondered why he didn't do this for us.
The highlight was a towering statue of the Buddha, looking as if it could come alive and squash a tourist at any time, if the Buddha would actually do such a thing. The monastery regulated photography by charging up to $30 to take a picture! I was content with the memories. The rest of the day was dedicated to driving. The scenery was beautiful, yet repetitive, kind of like Wyoming. At some point, the driver pulled us over and the guide pointed to the horizon. A long line of snow white peaks stood before us, my first glimpse of the great Himalayas. The guide then directed our eyes to one of the many triangles in front of me.
"Mt. Everest!" he said.
"It doesn't looks so big," I responded.
We stayed in New Tingri/Shegar. Evan, Wen, Jackie and I climbed up a nearby peak to see if we could see Everest from a closer point. We couldn't, but the views were still great. I felt good despite being at 4300m. I had a wicked headache earlier that afternoon, but I was fine after the hike. The next day was the true test, Everest Base Camp.
The highlight was a towering statue of the Buddha, looking as if it could come alive and squash a tourist at any time, if the Buddha would actually do such a thing. The monastery regulated photography by charging up to $30 to take a picture! I was content with the memories. The rest of the day was dedicated to driving. The scenery was beautiful, yet repetitive, kind of like Wyoming. At some point, the driver pulled us over and the guide pointed to the horizon. A long line of snow white peaks stood before us, my first glimpse of the great Himalayas. The guide then directed our eyes to one of the many triangles in front of me.
"Mt. Everest!" he said.
"It doesn't looks so big," I responded.
We stayed in New Tingri/Shegar. Evan, Wen, Jackie and I climbed up a nearby peak to see if we could see Everest from a closer point. We couldn't, but the views were still great. I felt good despite being at 4300m. I had a wicked headache earlier that afternoon, but I was fine after the hike. The next day was the true test, Everest Base Camp.
Drive to Shigatse
The area immediately outside of Lhasa was incredible. The road followed a rocky river beside the snowy mountains. It did truly give the sense that we were on the roof of the Earth. Then we climbed higher.
The pass never ended. To me a pass should find the lowest opening of the mountains, but the pass seemed to climb the highest peak in sight. Just when I imagined it could not go higher, we'd round a bend to see more switchbacks climbing to the heavens. The top was at 4700m, the highest point I've ever been.
At the top, we had to pay 30yuan to see views of the amazing Yamdruk Tso, one of the highest lakes in the world. The shimmering turquoise water stretched forever in both directions. We climbed a massive hill for a better view. The air was thin, so the mellow climb was strenuous. The higher view of the lake made it worth the headache.
The highway continued along the lake for at least another hour. Every turn revealed more yak herds, grazing on the sparse shrubbery that struggled to grow above the timberline.
We drove through Gyanse, which seemed like a boring little town, but we wee not there long enough to form much of an impression. It did have two popular tourist sites. There was an old fort sitting atop a hill in the middle of town; it looked like a mini-potala. The other was the town's monastery which we decided to skip, but looked neat. It had a large kumbun, which was cool looking and some walls that were smaller, but similar to the style of the great wall. We didn't have time for the fort; I'd used it up with my climb up the hill near Yamdruk Tso. We stopped for the night in Shigatse.
Our first restaurant was out of all forms of vegetables, so we left to another place. The second, a Cantonese place, was out of rice. It finally connected that we were in the middle of nowhere. The food they had was quite good though. It was my first "Chinese" meal in days.
The pass never ended. To me a pass should find the lowest opening of the mountains, but the pass seemed to climb the highest peak in sight. Just when I imagined it could not go higher, we'd round a bend to see more switchbacks climbing to the heavens. The top was at 4700m, the highest point I've ever been.
At the top, we had to pay 30yuan to see views of the amazing Yamdruk Tso, one of the highest lakes in the world. The shimmering turquoise water stretched forever in both directions. We climbed a massive hill for a better view. The air was thin, so the mellow climb was strenuous. The higher view of the lake made it worth the headache.
The highway continued along the lake for at least another hour. Every turn revealed more yak herds, grazing on the sparse shrubbery that struggled to grow above the timberline.
We drove through Gyanse, which seemed like a boring little town, but we wee not there long enough to form much of an impression. It did have two popular tourist sites. There was an old fort sitting atop a hill in the middle of town; it looked like a mini-potala. The other was the town's monastery which we decided to skip, but looked neat. It had a large kumbun, which was cool looking and some walls that were smaller, but similar to the style of the great wall. We didn't have time for the fort; I'd used it up with my climb up the hill near Yamdruk Tso. We stopped for the night in Shigatse.
Our first restaurant was out of all forms of vegetables, so we left to another place. The second, a Cantonese place, was out of rice. It finally connected that we were in the middle of nowhere. The food they had was quite good though. It was my first "Chinese" meal in days.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Lhasa
Lhasa, at one time must have been one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. It is still beautiful now, but it has obviously been raped by China. Despite being the capital of Tibet, the city feels Chinese. Every sign has three languages, giant Mandarin symbols, slightly smaller English, and tiny Tibetan. China has its mark on everything. The architecture is primarily Chinese. Worst of all are the platoons of Chinese soldiers armed with AK-47's everywhere, even in tiny alleys.
This said, Lhasa does have its charm. The Tibetan people are kind and always smiling. 360 degrees of mountains surround the city. Praying pilgrims and monks walk the streets like everyone else, doing the koras and spinning prayer wheels.
Dominating the town is the Potala palace, sitting atop the highest of the city center's hills. The inside is just as impressive, housing mazes of temples, stupas, and elaborately decorated rooms. Sadly, it feels like an empty shell, with the Dalai Lama gone. It doesn't seem like a giant museum like the Forbidden City; Potala still feels alive and holy, just empty, waiting for the Dalai Lama to return. you can tell the lamas had quite the power given the splendor of the compound. It is hard to escape the looming of the palace anywhere in the city.
Another of the highlights was the Sera Monestary, North of town. It is the second biggest monastery in Tibet and is set amongst towering hills. Every afternoon, the monks gather together to debate scripture. One monks sits, asking questions, while the other stands answering point by point. Every time the standing monk makes a point, he winds up his body, then throw its all into a big animated clap. The whole courtyard was symphony of yelling and clapping. This was the highlight of the city for me. Despite not being able to understand a single word, the debates were so engaging, I spent nearly an hour watching.
We wanted to do some hiking around the city, but our permits only allowed us to walk so far out o Lhasa. We broke the rules once and hiked slightly our of our permitted bounds. The views of Lhasa were great! Well worth the risk of whatever might have happened if we were caught.
After maybe two days there, I was ready to leave. Although the city was beautiful and generally peaceful, with the streets lined with people getting closer to nirvana, there was little more it could offer me. The excessive Chinese presence seemed so out of place, it was almost like a Chinese city in a foreign country. I was ready to see the landscape and the Himalayas.
This said, Lhasa does have its charm. The Tibetan people are kind and always smiling. 360 degrees of mountains surround the city. Praying pilgrims and monks walk the streets like everyone else, doing the koras and spinning prayer wheels.
Dominating the town is the Potala palace, sitting atop the highest of the city center's hills. The inside is just as impressive, housing mazes of temples, stupas, and elaborately decorated rooms. Sadly, it feels like an empty shell, with the Dalai Lama gone. It doesn't seem like a giant museum like the Forbidden City; Potala still feels alive and holy, just empty, waiting for the Dalai Lama to return. you can tell the lamas had quite the power given the splendor of the compound. It is hard to escape the looming of the palace anywhere in the city.
Another of the highlights was the Sera Monestary, North of town. It is the second biggest monastery in Tibet and is set amongst towering hills. Every afternoon, the monks gather together to debate scripture. One monks sits, asking questions, while the other stands answering point by point. Every time the standing monk makes a point, he winds up his body, then throw its all into a big animated clap. The whole courtyard was symphony of yelling and clapping. This was the highlight of the city for me. Despite not being able to understand a single word, the debates were so engaging, I spent nearly an hour watching.
We wanted to do some hiking around the city, but our permits only allowed us to walk so far out o Lhasa. We broke the rules once and hiked slightly our of our permitted bounds. The views of Lhasa were great! Well worth the risk of whatever might have happened if we were caught.
After maybe two days there, I was ready to leave. Although the city was beautiful and generally peaceful, with the streets lined with people getting closer to nirvana, there was little more it could offer me. The excessive Chinese presence seemed so out of place, it was almost like a Chinese city in a foreign country. I was ready to see the landscape and the Himalayas.
Qinghai to Tibet Railway
In 2006, the amazing Qinghai to Tibet railway opened, linking mainland China to Lhasa. Though controversial, the railway stands as one of the greatest engineering marvels of all time.
Most of its 2000km from Xining to Lhasa are over 4000m elevation, even topping 5000m at points, making it the highest railroad in the world. It goes so high, oxygen is pumped into the cabins to prevent altitude sickness for the passengers. Most of the railway is built upon permafrost and swamp. Some of the bridges have supports going up to a mile underground! To keep the ground frozen enough in the summer to support the weight of the trains, cooling pipes are laid along the tracks.
Despite the bragging rights China gets for building such a project, it has not been met with universal acclaim. The railroad is a stake into the heart of those hoping for Tibetan independence. Though the railroad will boost economic growth and tourism in Tibet and lower costs for many goods, it also boosts Han immigration to the already China-fying plateau. The train is also an eyesore against some of the most amazing scenery in the world.
This makes it a great train ride however! I attempted to get some good reading and writing time, but I found myself glued to the window. When I woke up that first morning after my sleep on the train, we were passing over a giant wetland, surrounded by the Kundun Mountains. The sunrise illuminated the water, making the ground glow. At times, we passed snow capped mountains with sand dunes at the base. Most of the trip was desolate tundra with elk, wild donkeys, and yaks grazing. Sadly, the view was marred by the parallel highway and power lines. it was still an incredible ride, one of those train rides where the journey is the destination.
Most of its 2000km from Xining to Lhasa are over 4000m elevation, even topping 5000m at points, making it the highest railroad in the world. It goes so high, oxygen is pumped into the cabins to prevent altitude sickness for the passengers. Most of the railway is built upon permafrost and swamp. Some of the bridges have supports going up to a mile underground! To keep the ground frozen enough in the summer to support the weight of the trains, cooling pipes are laid along the tracks.
Despite the bragging rights China gets for building such a project, it has not been met with universal acclaim. The railroad is a stake into the heart of those hoping for Tibetan independence. Though the railroad will boost economic growth and tourism in Tibet and lower costs for many goods, it also boosts Han immigration to the already China-fying plateau. The train is also an eyesore against some of the most amazing scenery in the world.
This makes it a great train ride however! I attempted to get some good reading and writing time, but I found myself glued to the window. When I woke up that first morning after my sleep on the train, we were passing over a giant wetland, surrounded by the Kundun Mountains. The sunrise illuminated the water, making the ground glow. At times, we passed snow capped mountains with sand dunes at the base. Most of the trip was desolate tundra with elk, wild donkeys, and yaks grazing. Sadly, the view was marred by the parallel highway and power lines. it was still an incredible ride, one of those train rides where the journey is the destination.
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