Maiden Voyage of the Nemo

Photos - Kathmandu

Photos - Shivrastri

Photos - Annapurna

A trip of any length needs to be planned. Perhaps not planned to the military precision of a wedding (ie down to the the 5 minute interval), perhaps not even with the latest theories of SCRUM, but planned. Of course there is the whole question of putting your life on hold for 12 months and packing all of your worldly belongings into a 3 cubic metre storage box. Thankfully I have a wife who is not only adept at organising events to the quantum interval but also has the attention to detail that will triple check that all of our financial affairs will be in safe hands while we are beyond the reach of even the simplest of mod-cons. This, however, left little time for the actual planning for why we need our finances to be organised, the reason for it all - our holiday. There was just one detail that DID get attention, the issue of keeping Roselin warm while separated from those mod-cons. Having spent some time in the cooler areas of the planet, namely Antarctica (a name that Roselin likes to drop now and then around the dinner table of lodges to elicit the expected gushes of envy), cold is one thing that Roselin is not about to endure if at all possible. So, there is "The Nemo"; a sleeping bag rated to -25 C. To put this into perspective, we couldn't find anything warmer, and when we tried to find add-ons because 'I get cold' the confused shop assistants would decry "but aren't you getting The Nemo"! The Nemo was not available in the delicate shade of pink as advertised but takes a good 5 minutes of huffing and cursing to stuff back into its compression sack and is possibly powered by a small thermo-nuclear device somewhere in the goose down. And the conclusion was ... [insert drum roll] ... that Roselin was not once cold, in fact at times she was so hot that she had to actually unzip The Nemo completely. Mission accomplished, at least for the Himalayas.

Bangkok was steamy, crawling with tourists, horns, bikes, and the odd hawker trying to sell you neat little grooming kit; but by the look of the tourists being particularly unsuccessful. Most places seem run by dour Thais run down by running up against hard-nosed tourists who are willing to haggle over a few cents to convince themselves that they have scored the "deal of their lives" or at least not been "ripped off". 

Our escape from Bangkok meant a midnight ride to The Airport of Smiles that contained the eccentric collection of road 'rules' that always manages to amuse: flash your headlights at cars you are about to overtake, indicate right if you are in the right lane, left if you are in the lane left of those you approach. Then the security and the double checking of our carry-on luggage; screened as we pass immigration, again (with pat down) before boarding, after landing in Delhi and a final check before boarding our transfer to Kathmandu. I am not saying there is some paranoia about duty free but it appears they don't want it on the planes. My big thing was, although Roselin does not agree, is that Punter and all the Australian team pass through Indian security in Delhi just as we did, but somehow they got to go through the 'Women Only' line?

We had a few days in Kathmandu. More than enough time so squeeze some sight seeing to Swayambhunath, Boudnath and our only little pilgrimage to Pashupatinath for Shiva's birthday celebrations. Sadhus had gathered from across the country and from India with immigration at the borders being relaxed. All types had come: the ashen coated, looking ghostly voodoo; the safron robed and dreadlocked; those on motorcycles; and even the ascetics strung in a swing so that only one foot ever touches the ground; many smoking chiloms. All in front of the temple and the holy Bagmati river. On one bank a swami worked the segregated faithful into such a rapture that one woman needed to be carried off in some trance of religious fervour. On the opposite bank, a little further down stream, cremations proceed with clockwork efficiency. Bodies are washed and laid out on the pyre, the male relatives bid their last respects and the whole thing set alight. It is only a couple of hours before the ash and whatever remains is sloshed into the river to be scavenged for anything valuable, even the remaining wood is carried off still smoking. Tourists watch from the opposite bank, more in morbid curiosity than any metaphysical contemplation of their own inevitable journey across the river Styx.

Bus rides are bus rides, no matter the destination, ours was Pokhara to get amongst the mountains and to get trekking. We walked to the bus stop at 5:30 in the morning, past the taxi stands and cycle rickshaw drivers curled foetal on the seat of their vehicles. Those that were awake would ask weakly for a fare as we passed, the dogs curled in gutter would merely raise an eyebrow, but generally it was quiet, oddly quiet as if the entire city had taken a collective breath in anticipation of another mad rush at the approaching day that always seems to climax on dusk. All 6 buses left from the same place at more or less the same time before meeting again at the fuel station to fill up and hustle another passenger or two. As passengers milled around outside a door exploded open and as if shot from a a canon a little Korean girl flew out with a face that bore the expression of the unspeakable affront of having endured not only a truck stop toilet but of one in the third world. The bus would out of Kathmandu and out of the valley. The landscape opened up to more farmland and terraces, brickworks and smaller villages. The whole way we had unnofficial checkposts manned by gangs of children that would hold ropes across the road or more effectively just stand in front of the buses to demand money from all vehicles. The wad of 5 rupee notes on the dashboard was quickle exhausted before our lunch stop and had to be replenished. 

Things inevitably change in 14 years, yet the view, these giants in white, the Himalaya, it remains the same. This is why we have come. From the very first step, the anticipation has us searching for  a glimpse of a chimera, a mirage. The clouds crouch in the nooks of the horizon, building up in banks to form walls atop as if endeavouring to obscure what must surely be there, our quarry. But occasionally a dark edge in the cloud, impossible geometric shapes and patterns and then as if a veil were lifted from our own eyes and we could finally see what had been there all along, those white giants. Although Roselin expects me to remember ever corner of the trek there is little I can offer to what is around the next one. Villages are bigger and many have electricity due to micro-hydro power; mobile phones are everywhere and there are fixed priced menus; but the roadworks are obviously the biggest change. High above it all, perched like eyries, tiny villages cling to the mountains seeming disconnected from our going ons in the valley, until a truck shatters that illusion. Brakes scream a protest to the torturous descent, but progress doesn't stop and the pained squeals continue marking time to the stomp of the driver's foot. No matter how you try to ignore it, forget it, or just wish it weren't there, the road is here to stay. It was meant to end a Syange [Ref "Trekking in the Nepal Himalayas" - Lonely Planet 2009] but has pushed on past several more villages. The blast of dynamite, hum of machinery and ceaseless ping of men breaking rock with steel from their near vertical foot holds high above the Marsyangdi atests to the unstoppable if interrupted continuation of the road for now as far as Timang. Some locals say in 10 years, but I would think in much less, it will reach Manang and mirror the road on the other side of the Thorong La pass that has had some trekkers declare that walk as over. The road building efforts can be seen all over the mountains and there is even talk of a road from Jomsom to Tibet through the restricted region of Mustang. Although some lodge owners are trying to push through their own walking trails to keep the through trekkers coming there are few that walk the whole circuit now. I lament for the independent trekker. We may be only a rung higher on the social ladder than the good-for-nothing university students but our habitat is shrinking fast.  

The real trekking began from Pisang to Manang and affords some of the best views of the trek. This time I managed to get to Tilicho although I feel I must have missed the lake itself by only a few hundred metres. It was good acclimatisation for the pass. This time Thorong La remained clear of cloud although the wind was fierce; Roselin was blown over at least once and I had to struggle myself at times and just stand and dig in until it died down a little. It would pick up the snow and hurl it at you and if there wasn't much snow then dirt would do. Still we made decent time and reached Muktinath on the other side with time to kill. From here down the road dominates to walking - fewer walkers, higher prices and lodge owners try and gouge tourists or close completely. There was now just one goal - the Sanctuary or Annapurna Base Camp.

There was cloud forests of Rhododendrons flowering, lots of mist and plenty of rain, but no snow until Machhapuchhare. The cloud inevitable built up in the evening until visibility was about 20 metres but in the morning it was perfectly clear and the Annapurna peaks were lit golden by the first rays of the sun. The crowd of onlookers dwindled in the cold then the our patience was rewarded as the sun breached the Fishtail. This natural cathedral of 7000+ metre peaks as walls, the snow, glaciers and a clear blue sky completely enclosed us - completed by the sun rose and warmed our backs. Roselin now understands how special this place is and Daniel D. will be so jealous. We were continually be shamed on our way up here. Granny groups of Koreans, others with a little to much weight (and I don't mean in their packs). So trekking in Nepal is anyone willing to walk for up to 8 hours on a bad day and forgo the mod-cons of a hot shower every day. The only decision is how much you're willing to carry (or alternatively pay).