In the morning we all try to figure out what the best thing to do is. It is obvious we do not want to turn back because we are practically in the middle of the mountains and returning back on foot from which we came would not bring us back any faster than continuing on. I am not even sure we could get a flight out of Kathmandu if we attempted it; perhaps the States are under lock down or in complete panic. We find out that Chame actually has a phone line that can call out of the country and decide that the best thing we can do is contact our families and let them know we are okay as well as find out if they are okay. The phone is sort of primitive in that it is complete with its own operator at a switchboard. You walk up to the window of this little shack and tell the operator you want to call the United States. Give him a few rupees and he starts working the switchboard and speaking in Nepali to another operator. After a few minutes he hands you the phone. I try to call my sister first but her phone is under some kind of blocker that doesn’t allow foreign calls to get through. Next I try my mother, but again the answering machine picks up and I cannot get through to tell her anything. Tony does contact his parents and lets them know we are okay. He tells them not to worry we are very safe in Nepal and will be home as scheduled on the 27th. Hopefully they will pass on the information to my family so they don’t worry, until I can find a way to speak with them.
So, the journey continues I look up at the white mountain which glows almost as bright as the sun against the deep clear blue sky and take that as a sign of hope that everything will be fine. The morning is incredibly beautiful, it is crisp, cool, and silent, but for the sound of a stream on it’s way to the river. We pass a long wall of prayer wheels and drag our hands down the row, perhaps we can spread some compassion on to those that are suffering back home. At that moment I have an idea of getting some prayer flags to hang high on a mountain side to honor the ones that were lost in the attacks. I wonder where we can get prayer flags; hopefully one of the villages we stay in will have them.
We begin the day crossing wide open valleys; some covered with pink flowers which I was told was buckwheat. Cedar trees are abundant and many of the men are cutting the timber and shaping them into boards with hand tools. I watch two men holding one of those long saws, pulling back and forth cutting into a huge trunk, while others trot at a fast pace with long two by fours dragging on the path. They shout, “Namaste!” or even “Namaste, madam!!” and run on by back to their villages. There are apple orchards too, we all stop to admire the trees and in the distance women and children are waving hello to us. It is amazing how hard these people are working but how laid back it all seems compared to home. I could not imagine seeing anything quite like this back home. I find myself humming the Led Zeppelin tune, The Battle of Evermore, the song based off JRR Tolkien’s book, The Hobbit.
"The apples of the valley hold the seeds of happiness, The ground is rich from tender care, which they do not forget, No, No! Dance in the dark night, sing to the morning light!"
Here on my own adventure I will admit that I am feeling very much like a hobbit clutching my walking stick watching the people around me going about their work in almost a merry sort of way. Only the coming days will tell if my own quest will be fulfilled and I am sure that years afterward I will look back on this journey,,, what will I have learned from it?
The sky begins to cloud up as we begin to make the accent up and out of the valley into Pisang. Rain drops start falling steady and then change to a good down pour. I suppose that the sky wanted to remind us of how much we love having wet feet before we climb up and into rain shadow. I have to take off my pack and dig the rain gear out and then worm my way back into the backpack while tediously balancing myself on a steep hillside. The rain makes everything quiet or maybe it really just drowns every other thing out, but I find it very peaceful to walk through the cypress forest as the rain falls. It is a long uphill hike and I slip into my usual pattern of walk a few steps then rest, walk a few steps then rest, and walk a few steps and rest. I pass by porters leaning heavily on thin walking sticks with loads that tower above their heads. I come around a bend and through the rising mist I can see a huge expanse of a rock face that is not quite like any other mountain side that I have seen. It has a smooth flat surface and rises to unknown heights in the mist. It is Paungda Danda the mountain of heaven which rises 1500m from the valley floor. It is said that this is where the dead go to reach the heavens. I am awe struck by this massive wall of granite, and a little disappointed that the mist and clouds are blocking my view of the top. Maybe heaven really is up there.
The top of the climb is like walking into another world. The mist and rain shrink back down the hill and a wonderful blue sky with big puffy clouds over a green tree dotted pasture opens up before us. At last we have climbed high enough in altitude to be in the rain shadow. No more leeches, no more soaking wet shoes, and no more mud! All along the trail we find trekkers shedding their packs and rain gear lounging on the grasses taking in the warm sunshine and incredible surroundings. Ponies walk freely in this vast area munching on grasses without any worry of a fence or a thief. Small ponds dot here and there reflecting the great blue sky with snow capped mountains shrouded in swirling mists. It is difficult for me to remember that people are suffering back home and again my sister fills my thoughts. I hope she is okay.
Pisang
Scanning the mountain sides I can see the tiny fluttering of red, white, yellow, green and blue prayer flags on flat rooftops of buildings that match their gray and brown surroundings so well that I would hardly notice them if not for the flags. AB says that is Upper Pisang where the majority of the villagers live, since Lower Pisang has become more for the tourists with its many hotels lining the broad path. We walk to the last hotel at the edge of town, a large place with only a few other tourists staying there. I am craving a shower not really because I feel dirty but, a good hot shower sounds like the perfect remedy for muscles that have grown tight. We check into our large cedar constructed room with its two twin beds and a huge window looking out towards Upper Pisang. I grab my towel and shower stuff and walk down the hall to the shower and toilet. The bathroom is just about as large as our room except it is completely made of concrete giving it a jail cell type feel. I push the wide wooden door shut like I am closing a bank vault and slide the metal latch into locking position, it echoes with a “CLACK”. The room is cold and dark, but looks remarkably clean, even the squat toilet looks inviting for once. I undress and examine my body which shows all the battle scars I’ve received from this journey. Leech wounds dot my legs, my hips and my shoulders are rubbed raw showing broken sheets of blistered skin, and though I cannot see it I can feel the huge broken blister in the center of my back that Tony accidentally scratched when he was giving me a massage. We both forgot that I had such a monster of a blister until I winced in pain as he scratched over my t-shirt and I felt the wetness of blood and puss ooze down my spine. Perhaps I chose the wrong kind of backpack for my body or my pampered life has kept me from really knowing what it is to be a human in the elements. On the positive side of things my arms and face are sporting an excellent tan. If only I could get this tan on the rest of my body, but the modesty of the people does not stretch that far and I would cause quite uproar if I walked outside in just a bikini. I turn on the water and it sprouts out of the shower head in one thick stream that can only compare with the way water comes out of a garden hose. It is horribly cold and I bow my body outward to keep from feeling the chilled splatters that bounce off my hands. I keep turning the knobs but no matter how much I turn the temperature stays the same and the pressure stays the same. So much for a hot shower to relax the muscles, now I’ve just made everything even tenser. I now dread the shower though I feel I might as well wash up since I’m already standing there naked. I turn the water off and proceed to soap up and rinse one limb at a time. It is so awfully cold that I can’t even put my arm under the water to rinse it. I have to cup my hands with water and spill it over my soapy arms and legs. Washing my hair takes some skills as I bend my head forward and stare at my toes while the cold water wets my hair. I cannot avoid having a few drops roll down my back and I grit my teeth at this. “Oh, fuck its cold!!! I keep saying over and over again like I am chanting a mantra.
Shivering my way back to the room I make for my sleeping bag to try to heat my body back up again, but Tony wants to walk around the town so I am forced to tremble my way back into clothes. We head for Upper Pisang hoping to get some good photos of the mountains and the surrounding village. The path up hill surprisingly takes our breathe away and it seems strange because we are without backpacks. Could this be our first encounter with high altitude? We laugh at our troubles wondering what it will be like when we get to Thorang La which is quite a ways higher than Pisang. At the top villagers are working hard building a monastery and a prayer wall. There is a lama overseeing the work and many people digging a trench for the wall. The lama proudly smiles at us and points up to the monastery and says, “G-O-M-P-A”. Men carrying small L-shaped platforms on their backs which have rocks stacked up on them come from down the hill and continuously dump the stones in a pile for the wall. Tony and I crouch down at the edge of the path to watch them work and a few of the workers join us with their platforms still strapped onto their backs. Their hands and feet are encrusted with gray powder and their knobby knees look worn and bruised, but shiny grins still protrude from their faces. A worker makes a motion to his back expressing at how tiring the work is. All we can do is nod and exchange smiles. He says something in Nepali to his coworkers and they all chuckle and look at us. I wonder what he is saying or if he wants something from us. This is the frustrating part about being a foreigner, not knowing the language and looking different. I do not always want to look like a tourist because I worry that some people might see something negative in a westerner. An annoying attitude, a careless litter bug, or the disrespecting photographer are often the words that describe a tourist from Europe, the US, and Australia. There is nothing that can really be done to erase the scars of those that had come before us. You can only hope that your impact is positive and perhaps will encourage a change of heart. Could you set yourself apart from a tourist and be like them? Can you live without Coca-Cola? Can you eat dhal bhat three times a day for everyday? Can you survive without toilet paper? Can you sleep in a room with a chicken or a water buffalo?
No comments:
Post a Comment