Kevin and I in India

by Frank Kusy

  This section of the trail was very attractive – full of red rhododendron and white orchid trees, with much greenery. Reaching the Pass some three hours later, I waited for the others to catch up and sat down to take a leisurely look at the rich red blooms of the rhododendron forest surrounding me. The sun was now high in the sky, sending sharp shafts of light through the dark shroud of arboreal gloom and illuminating the tranquil, sleeping woodland. Apart from the distant tinkle of mule-train bells, all was quite silent.

  Reaching the Riverside Lodge at the back of Gorephani Pass, Joseph, Peter and Thomas became transfixed by its roaring hearth fire, and could not be persuaded any further onwards. Consequently, I climbed the final leg to Poon Hill (10,500ft) alone, and took lodgings at the Hilltop Lodge near the summit. This guaranteed me a good early view of the mountains the following morning.

  I was the Hilltop’s last guest of the day. Moments after my arrival, a dense blanket of mountain mist swept over it, rendering it quite invisible to any further prospective customers. I was glad I had made the effort to reach this place – it also had a lovely, roaring log fire and I made friends with a young Canadian couple, Nick and Lorraine, who were ‘collecting’ memorable Indian signs. One of these, seen at Jodhpur rail stations, had a picture of man carrying a suitcase, followed by three small children blacked out by larger crosses. TRAVEL LIGHT! cautioned the sign. PLAN YOUR FAMILY! Elsewhere, Nick had come across a sign outside a Hindu temple instructing women having their periods to clear off. DO NOT ENTER WOMEN DURING MENSTRUATION! it cautioned.

  As we all huddled over the warming fire, another fierce storm blew up. This one also raged through the night. Hailstones the size of eggs rained down on the thin tin roof of the lodge, making an incredible din. There was, however, one compensation. The storm, we knew, would certainly clear the mist for a perfect view in the morning.

  March 28th

  Everybody in the lodge was up early this morning, and trudging up the final twenty-minute ascent to Poon Hill’s observation platform. Minutes after arriving here, came the dawn. The first rays of the rising sun pierced the horizon, striking the summits of Mt Dhaulagiri, then Annapurna I, then each of the lesser peaks in turn, illuminating their shaded peaks with an intense blaze of white light. Then the sun itself rose, a stately orange-red fireball, and the dark mask of shade over the landscape’s visage was pulled aside, revealing thick forests of cherry-red rhododendron blossoms for as far as the eye could see below.

  The whole range of western Himalayan peaks were now exposed, each of them shining forth with crystal clarity. As the eye travelled from right to left, Mt Macchapuchhre, then Annapurna I, then Nilgiri, and finally Dhaulagiri glistened ice-white against the dawn sky, with a whole vista of less prominent peaks interposed between them. All of us up on the observation point – our cares and worries and aching limbs forgotten – knew we were seeing one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

  I returned to the lodge in excellent spirits, and took a good breakfast of porridge and honeyed Tibetan bread. Then I set off back towards Suikhet, on a return route that would take me an estimated three days. My estimate, however, began to suffer as soon as I ascended the black hills overlooking Gorephani Pass, and entered the notorious rhododendron forest blocking the route to Ghandrung. If you lose the trail here, say many travellers, you may never find it again. And I could well believe it. A short way into the thick forest, the trekking trail simply peters out and dies. More accurately, it splits off at regular intervals into a wide fork of false trails, most of which lead precisely nowhere.

  My natural sense of direction being very poor, I was soon lost to the silent, smothering grip of the forest. A chill went through my heart, for I could see no way of getting out the other side. Then, at the point of total despair, I heard the sound of an axe in the distance, and traced it over to a lone woodsman who gave me a good set of directions. Without them, I might have been wandering that forest for hours, even days, making no progress whatsoever.

  A single hour later, I broke out of the dense woodland and into open ground again. Now my only problem was the trail itself, reduced by the recent rain downfalls to a muddy, slippery death-trap. One false step on these quaggy slopes, and a broken leg or two was the very best I could hope for! But then, further up the track, I met Robert and Ismo. Robert was a swarthy, spade-bearded Italian giant, and Ismo, a small, pale elf from Finland. All three of us were having problems with the treacherous trails, so we decided to travel on together.

  Descending greasy, hazardous slopes (with the constant risk of sliding down bottomless chasms), we were finally spat out by the black forest as the Purna Lodge, some four hours out of Gorephani Pass. A short rest here, and it was on through persistent rain drizzle via Bithanti towards Tadapani. I don’t know how Ismo got round to tracking down Yetis at this point, but he did. As we ploughed through yet another boggy swamp of mud, dead leaves and dead rhododendron blossoms, he hopped forward – nose to the ground – following a series of curious three-toed footprints. It was only when we booked in for the night at the Mountain View Lodge in Tadapani, that he finally located his ‘Yeti’. It was a Nepali porter, also staying at our lodge, who had been running on ahead of us all day. His left foot only had three toes.

  As I hung my grimy, sweat-soaked clothes over the roaring lodge fire, I learnt from other travellers that I had been wise to take up with companions for this section of the trail, for it was apparently notorious for attacks by local bandits on people trekking alone.

  The evening came to a lively end, with the lodge owner dragging in a big black goat from out of the rain, and then chasing all his chickens (hiding under our tables and chairs, near the warm fire) back into the cold again. The quiet lodge suddenly erupted into a squawking, flapping bedlam of flying feathers. None of the chickens wanted to go. One of them indeed was so against the idea that it flew into the flames and set fire to itself.

  March 29th

  I climbed off my bare-plank bed this morning cold and stiff. But I was beginning to enjoy the outdoor life up here in the mountains, and had decided to extend my trek. My seven-day permit expired today, yet there were so few check-points on the trails that I felt confident of not being challenged on the return to Suikhet.

  By the time I arose, Robert and Ismo had set off ahead towards Ghandrung. After taking in marvellous views of Macchapuchhre and Annapurna South peaks from the lodge forecourt, I followed on. Today, the path had dried out and was good deal less muddy. It also ran relatively straight and even, allowing me to pay more attention to the surrounding fauna. Again, the dark forest, full of dangling creepers and red blossoms, claimed me, though now I was able to appreciate its tranquillity instead of being preoccupied with survival.

  The thick woods suddenly parted midway between Tadapani and Ghandrung, and presented me with a scene of rare splendour. Far below lay the massive bowl of a dry riverbed valley, enclosed on one side by jutting hill-forests of pine trees and on the other by a raised cliff-plateau where Ghandrung village glittered bright in the sun. Behind was a backdrop of stout rust-brown mountains, over which the monstrous ice-streaked behemoth of Mt Macchapuchhre loomed, silent and grim.

  The final walk down into Ghandrung was also a great pleasure. With the sun’s warm, gentle rays playing on my neck and shoulders, I passed into the quiet rural hamlet alongside swaying fields of yellow corn and wheat. The air was musty and sweet with the odour of fresh manure and hay, and I came past the small thatched farmhouses waving back lazily to the local people and their children, filled with a sense of well-being.

  I shared a bottle of Chang (beer) with a young Swiss couple at the popular Himalaya Lodge, and then plunged shakily some three thousand feet down into a deep gully via a very treacherous trail. At the bottom, I found Robert and Ismo waiting. They didn’t seem very pleased to see me. My arrival meant they no longer had any excuse for not tackling the long, sheer climb up to Landrung. It was during this particularly arduous ascent that Robert
fell and damaged his knee, and Ismo began to get heart tremors. We came into Landrung completely wiped out.

  As he recovered, Robert saw an old local woman spinning wool on an antique Tibetan spinning wheel. He wanted that wheel. He wanted to take it home to Italy. I told him he’d be lucky to get it back to Suikhet – it weighed a ton. And the condition Robert was in, lugging a bulky spinning wheel twenty miles back across the trail would surely have been the end of him.

  March 30th

  Heading on towards Dhumle this morning, the level trail suddenly swept up into a steep hill-forest, forcing us to scramble up the sharp inclines on our hands and knees. Shortly before Bhichuk, at the summit of this precipitous woodland, the silence of the forest was broken at last – by an army of giant crickets in the foliage, all chirping away in hypnotic harmony. Then it was up once more, a real grind, until we came to Pothana. Worn out, Robert grunted that this village name reminded him of a word – putana – by which Italians often swore, and that now he knew why.

  We came into Dhumle (5900ft) after three hard hours climb, knowing that the worst was over, that now it was all the way downwards into the valley of Suikhet again. We rested on a lodge’s green lawn, and peeled off our grimy, sweaty clothes to dry in the warm sun. Robert and Ismo promptly shifted upwind of me. They had just become aware of my socks. They were my very last pair, now set solid with grime and leaking an odious smell. I rinsed them out, and my companions cautiously rejoined me.

  Returning down to Suikhet was not as easy as anticipated. On trek, one soon learns to look up and down and all around at the same time, but this descent was unprecedently steep and required our full concentration. Back on the dry riverbed valley, walking into Suikhet, we decided however to extend the trek one further day. All of us wished to head on up to the nearby point of Sarangot (5500ft) for a last look at the Himalayas before returning to Pokhara.

  Consequently, at Suikhet we found a young Nepali guide who agreed to put us on the ‘short cut’ road to Sarangot, and to do it in just one hour (the usual route took three), since it was now already mid-afternoon. As we set off with him, I received a handsome offer of cash from a Japanese tourist who wished to buy my sleeping bag. I sold it happily. Not only was my pack now lighter, but the bag had not been washed in three months and badly needed fumigating.

  The ‘short cut’ was a slog from start to finish. It involved a two thousand foot sheer ascent up a heavily-wooded mountainside, fighting the whole way through dense brambles, thickets and undergrowth. But we made it in one hour, as promised. Our loquacious guide reached the top scarcely winded. He had spent the whole climb talking Robert into parting with his sleeping bag. And he didn’t rest until he had purchased it.

  He left us at the crest of the hill, having put us on the right trail for Sarangot, and we walked along to the small village of Deorali Kaski. This was another occasion for great consumption of lemon tea, though we dared not dally long. We were slowly but surely being surrounded by a circle of local bandits, all of whom looked a good deal too interested in our bags for our liking. Again, I was glad I was not travelling alone.

  Having left this danger-spot however, the rest of the walk into Sarangot was a real pleasure. Following in the footsteps of a local man – who paused from time to time to add to his armload of cow dung gathered from off the track – we came to a series of delightfully unspoilt farming villages. Here we passed many smiling, brightly-dressed women carrying large firewood loads, and were greeted with friendly waves from farm labourers returning from the fields. Children ran up to beg sweets and to hold our hands, and toothless old men – cackling merrily over musty old bottles of Raxi and Chang – beckoned us over to join them for a drink. Above, the sky echoed with the lazy caw of black crows and the sharp cries of fleet eaglets, and a light breeze sprang up, sweeping over the golden fields of corn and tugging stray wisps of straw from roadside haywains. Robert, something of a romantic, said it all made him think of a Van Gogh painting. He wished he’d brought his own easel and brushes.

  We took simple lodgings at a small family house near the base of Sarangot Hill. The place was basic, but the occupants had real character. The landlord had a voluptuous young sister, who instantly took a shine to Robert. Watched by her expressionless kid brother (who resembled a diminutive bald Churchill), she sat Robert down and began stroking his stomach with a coquettish smirk on her face. It soon became apparent, however, that her interest was not so much in Robert but in his expensive cigarette lighter. The moment it slid back into his pocket, she slid out of Robert’s lap and returned to the kitchen. Which was just as well, since otherwise we would have had no supper.

  As the hearth-fire roared into life this evening, the lodge family joined us at our table, and bottles of beer and raw Raxi began to pass round. Not long after, the family discovered my cassette-recorder and began singing traditional Nepali folk songs into it. All of these songs were lively, lengthy and sounded exactly the same. I asked the landlord what they were about. ‘Marriage song,’ he replied. ‘Which one?’ I questioned him. ‘All are marriage song!’ came the response. Then he led into another one. Soon everybody, including Ismo (temporarily forgetting his amoebic dysentery), was loudly clapping and banging kitchen utensils on the table in rhythm with the music. Following which, the whole Nepali family trooped out into the dark night and began dancing traditional jigs in the middle of the road. This went on till very late.

  March 31st

  This last morning on trek, we rose at 5.30am to catch the dawn. A short stroll took us up to Sarangot’s observation point, a small bricked enclave flying a tattered Buddhist flag. From here, we had a perfect view in all directions.

  As the fiery phoenix of the rising sun appeared over the orange-haze horizon, the entire eastern range of Himalayan peaks came into sight. And once more, as at Poon Hill (where we had viewed the western range), it was the summits of the highest mounts that first lit up with the dawn. Thus we saw Dhaulagiri first, followed by Annapurna and Macchapuchhre, and then the lesser peaks of Annapurnas III, IV and II. Down to our right, meanwhile, the wide, glittering expanse of Lake Phewa had become visible, the tiny veins of its many tributaries running into it from out of the distant mountain valleys. Directly below and forward of us lay the large, scattered complex of Pokhara Town, and down to our left plunged a deep ravine, leading down to a river valley of great beauty. It was a long hour before we left this magnificent viewpoint for breakfast.

  The walk down to Pokhara lakeside was surprisingly intricate. We were all grateful that we had taken Sarangot from Suikhet, rather than (as is common) from Pokhara. The trail was difficult and poorly defined even coming down, so that many travellers seeking to reach Sarangot for its marvellous dawn views coming up were unlikely to reach it before noon. We passed at least a dozen ascending trekkers who didn’t know where they were at all.

  Back at the lakeside, we took cheap rooms at the Mahendra Lodge and stumbled off to the Hungry Eye Restaurant to celebrate our safe return with a rapid succession of cold drinks. The waiter simply couldn’t serve them quick enough.

  Over a delicious fruit muesli (chopped apples, bananas, oranges and papayas, packed onto a huge plate), I reflected on how much weight I had lost over the past week, and also on how much more healthy I now felt. Lots of good exercise, fresh air and simple food had done wonders for me.

  My sense of fulfilment, however, was short-lived. Sitting still and doing nothing after a whole week of activity in the mountains came very difficult – to all three of us. By evening-time we were already fretting to be back on the trekking trail again. The rich, stodgy food, warm, muggy air, and lazy, laidback atmosphere of Pokhara did not agree with us at all. We felt smothered.

  April 1st

  Over breakfast, I met Megan – one of four young Scottish girls who had spent the past six months working on a geological project (collecting fish specimens) in Nepal. We agreed to meet up again in Delhi, and perhaps do some travelling together.

>   As the day got under way, it became increasingly hot and sticky. After a regular diet of fresh, cool mountain air, we were floundering for breath until late in the evening. Only two activities helped us keep busy and distract our minds from the heat. Firstly, we took small canoes (kayaks) out onto the lake, the strong undercurrents forcing us to expend great energy to reach the small cove-beaches on the opposite shore. Second, we hired a bicycle between us, and took turns to explore our surroundings. I ended up snowballing down an incredibly steep hill, hurtling through a series of winding, cobbled backstreets, and sending a startled array of old men, children and cows flying, before jolting to a halt at the bottom. Robert had neglected to tell me that the bike had no brakes.

  We should have liked to go swimming also, but Lake Phewa isn’t nicknamed ‘hepatitis lake’ for nothing. A bubbling scum of filth and disease covers the water in many sections, and few people take the risk of bathing in it. Most folk we observed were taking their minds off the oppressive heat by spending lots of money instead – either on rich food, or on Tibetan knick-knacks and curios, or on cool cotton clothing.

  Travellers I spoke to today complained that the Pokhara Lakeside area was rapidly becoming over-commercialised, that every restaurant here now had taped music, home-cooked greasy apple pie, and a resident sadhu selling blessings outside. But, despite the heat and the mosquitoes, I began to notice one very good thing about it: namely, that it was the best place (apart from the trekking trail itself) for making new friends – or for hooking up again with old ones. Everywhere we went, travellers were flinging their arms around buddies they had met back up in the mountains, or somewhere in India, with the enthusiasm of long-lost relatives. No matter that both parties had often met just once before, over a dim, flickering log-fire perhaps. Here, as in India, acquaintances tend to be brief, yet really deep.