Journal Entry 6

September 13 Thursday

Grey and drizzly skies are once again upon us as we set out for our next day enroute for the village of Dharapani. Chandra is waiting patiently for us outside his home and urges us to wait a few moments and runs into his home and brings out a bamboo walking stick. He looks at the stick then looks at Tony and then taking out a knife he shortens the stick to a height more suited for Tony. His wife takes a good look at the stick as well and makes Chandra sand off the jagged edges before he gives it to us. He makes a motion to his waist and says, “Water, here.” His announcement worries me as I look down the path trying to figure out what exactly we are heading to. I stray down the path while Tony exchanges addresses and says his good-byes. Chandra’s daughter follows me and asks for a pen and I give her three trying to tell her to keep them for herself so I don’t get mobbed by other children. Unfortunately like most children in the world she probably ran back into the village excitedly holding the pens in the air in front of all the other children saying, “Look what I got!” It didn’t take long for at least five or six other kids to catch up with me begging for pens which I didn’t have for all of them. Tony eventually reaches me proudly sporting his brand new walking stick and tells me that Chandra and his family were very happy to have met us and will be praying for us as we continue on our journey. I hope that we will be able to keep in touch when we return home and if not I hope that if we are ever to return to Jagat he will remember us.
We continue to follow the Marsyangdi northward and signs of our accent are beginning to show as the valley gets steeper on both sides so much so that the grey muddy trail is like walking along the edge of a cliff. Small huts cling to the steep hills and I wonder how they ever managed to get up there because below them are jagged cliffs and steep walls of mud that continue to erode and fall into the river below. Behind me I can hear the faint sound of bells ringing which could only signal that a herd of mules will pass me shortly. Our path turns sharply up a steep and forested trail that zigzags several times to a location that I can not predict through the green dampness. As usual I take my time on the accent stopping every few minutes to catch my breath. The mules have finally arrived forcing me aside bobbing their heads up and down in a synchronized rhythm with bells resonating a tribal beat. There must be at least thirty or forty of them in the group because I can just barely hear the mule driver whistling and yelling in the distance behind me. I am forced to stop completely because the mules have also decided to stop and the trail is not wide enough to pass them. Looking up the incline I see mules zigzagging back and forth up the trail all of which have now resorted into eating vegetation along the trail. I cannot even see Tony and AB they were some ways ahead of me and have since vanished in the green. All I can do is lean on my walking stick and stare at the ass of a mule and hope he does not decide to kick me. Standing still in the humid climate is not the best thing either because it will make it easier for the leeches to crawl on me. Paranoid I continue to check my legs and my clothes only finding one little leech inching his way up the side of my boot. The walking stick becomes a handy tool in getting the leeches off which I use to scrape them off and dump them at a distance that comforts me. Two men come up from behind me whistling and hooting as they take bamboo sticks and jab them hastily into the back sides of the mules. They acknowledge me briefly with a smile and hurry on up the zigzagging trail against stumbling mules.
After what seemed like hours the mules begin to clamor up the hill and I try to move quickly but the incline wears me out and I find myself continuously stepping aside letting mules walk past me. By the time I make it to Tony and AB all the mules have long since disappeared and I finally get to meet what was holding up the mule traffic. A waterfall cuts steeply down the hill and separates the trail by about fifteen feet across. There is no bridge and the water is not exactly running as a gentle spring. Various logs and branches have been laid along the waterfall in an attempt to make a safe crossing, but the current is pushing them hard against the few trees and shrubs that cling before the next decent and I do not care to balance on them. I look uncomfortably at Tony and AB. “Well, only one way across.” AB says as he steps into the level part of the fall. I grasp the walking stick and step in behind them. The water goes just above our knees but because it is falling so strongly we are all completely soaked in a few seconds. I am clinging to a rock face because I feel the water falling hard against my backpack almost forcing me into the current and down the rest of the falls. We all take careful steps testing with one foot for stable ground, AB almost loses it taking a step that is deeper than he suspected. He investigates the last five feet of the stream where the current is the strongest and deepest. There is a narrow log braced between some rocks in the steam and connecting to the mud soaked trail, however there is nothing to hold onto and there is a steep drop down to the river. AB and Tony do what could be compared to tight rope walking with arms spread from side to side and hurry across the log before they loose their balance. I am still clinging to the rock face and when I turn to approach the log bridge I am nearly tossed into the river by the strong current. The water is adding so much weight on my back that I can not find my balance enough to step onto the log. I look at Tony and AB in panic and say, “I cannot do this!” They both cry back over the noise of the falls, “Yes you can you have to, there is no where else to go!” I put one foot on the log wobbling horribly from side to side grabbing onto tree branches that are much too small to support me. I want to crawl across it because I cannot see myself being able to balance my backpack, but the log is just too narrow. “I’m scared, and the rushing water is making me dizzy!” I cry again. AB slips off is backpack and steps out onto the log and reaches his hand out to me. I lean with all my might scared to death that I will fall and grab him. He takes my other hand and walking backwards he guides me across the bridge. My feet slide onto the other side of the muddy trail and I thank AB a thousand times, there is no way I could have made it without his help.
The waterfall ordeal was enough to deal with, however as we recollect ourselves and continue our mission to Dharapani we find that our soaking clothes and shoes cause the most uncomfortable sensation. My shoes are as wet as they could get and all day of the rest of the hike I am slopping in my boots. I make an attempt to change socks, but the new ones become just as wet after a few minutes of walking. We reach Dharapani just before sunset and we are all chaffed and chilled to the bone. I peel my clothes off like I’m peeling a banana and do my usual leech check. All I can think about is warmth, warm clothes, a hot pot of tea, and a warm dinner, that is all that matters to me.

Dharapani

We sit in the dinning room of our hostel and get to know some of the other people who have been hiking the same trail. Jack and Trisha are a couple from Los Angeles who are traveling around the world, before Nepal they were in Bali. They have one porter and one guide with them both of whom are very friendly and spend most of their time talking with the innkeepers. Jack tells us they are going to climb Pisang Peak which is a mountain just off of the Annupurna trek before completing the entire route. We also meet a quiet Austrian woman and her guide who is also extremely quiet and shy. We try a new dish called mo-mo’s which is sort of like what we think as spring rolls stuffed with spicy veggies and sometimes meat. Tony falls in love with the dish, saying he is going to try to make them when we get back home. I have a coke with dinner, but am still craving a hot pot of tea. I look over the menu and see Tibetan tea which sounds delicious. A little girl serves me the pot proudly saying, “Your Tibetan tea” and sets it before me. I pour the tea seeing a delicious creamy tea steam into Tony’s and my cup and I take sip. My taste buds are immediately filled with a very harsh salty taste, like I just took in a mouthful of ocean. “Oh my god, that’s disgusting” I say with teeth nashed together. Tony looks equally displeased by the taste and we both stare into our full cups and the full pot still on the table. I try to keep sipping hoping I might get used to it, but every swallow burns down my throat and into my stomach. I have to chase each sip with a shot of AB’s water to get any of it down. The little girl passes through smiling saying, “You like Tibetan tea?” Of course I shake my head up and down, “Yes, it is very good” thinking to myself how am I going to get rid of it without insulting her and her family. AB once again comes to my rescue sampling the tea and not exactly liking it, but continues to drink it so that it at least looks like we all enjoyed it. We pass the pot around to the other trekkers each having a taste. Their only comments are “Mmm, interesting” with a frown.

Tibetan tea: A tea brewed from salt and yak butter.
Yak: a cow that grows a long shaggy coat and can live in very cold climates at high altitudes.

In the morning we rise early and it is the first time I notice painted above the window in our room in bright yellow letters, “Free Tibet”. At breakfast our innkeeper sits in the room with us holding his one year old son who tries to grab anything on the table that he can. The innkeeper talks about Nepal, the Maoist, and about King Mahendra who was murdered three months before we arrived in Nepal by his own son. “These are bad times for Nepalese,” he explains. “When the king was still alive he would come out to the villages pretending to be a porter so that he could see his people as they really lived and that is because he loved his people and his country.” The innkeeper looks uneasily at the floor, “Now, everyone is afraid because of the Maoist and the new king comes to the village in disguise and they trick us asking us which side we are on.” “We don’t know what to answer, “If we say Maoist and it is really the government asking us we could be arrested, but if we say we are for the king and they are Maoist then they could kill us for not supporting them.” We shake are heads sadly by the news he is giving us. “The Nepalese do not like the new king because he is not a descendent of the god-line, like King Mahendra who was the incarnation of Lord Vishnu.” “And the Maoist, all they want is money; they come to the village and force us to give them money.” “Neither cares about us, what we need now is a new government, parliament based.” He nods. “This is our only hope, with the god-line destroyed and the violence of the Maoist it is time for Nepal to change, it is the only way to make the people happy.”