Hullo Friends and family

So here we are; back in Langkawi on Katrine making a slow recovery after our 5 weeks away. Don picked up a cold – probably from the plane aircon, as one does, and its turned nasty. So work on Katrine is still at a standstill. Not that I’m complaining….the usual mould and dirt lies thick on our lady and there are piles of emails to reply to – thank you everyone!. I will get round to that over the next few days and in the meantime a little of our travelogue…..

Perhaps it wasn’t really prudent to leave Katrine plum in the middle of several boat projects on the hardstand as we did, to go traipsing off across the world, but in hindsight the island experienced rain, rain and more rain while we were away which would have hampered our work anyway and sometimes spontaneous plans are the best. They certainly were in this case and although I dragged the boss off kicking and screaming, our few weeks away turned out to be some of the most awesome travelling we have done to date. Having bought our tickets to Nepal in a fit of madness I have to admit I had great misgivings as the departure date neared. What was I thinking of? Don is not a mad keen walker given that he suffers from neuropathy and has very little feeling in his feet. Walking over rough ground usually has him stumbling around (without having had a tipple) and the loss of a knee cap and arthritis isn’t conducive to trekking in mountainous terrain either. Never-the-less I was consoled by the fact that he has his camera and I knew that Nepal was not only a trekking mecca of the world, but would also hold a wealth of material for him to photograph.

Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the adventure that was in store for us - trekking along the Annapurna Circuit in the Himalayas at 4,000 metres, meeting the most amazing people that we did, then being plunged into the vibrance of India from the hot and fettered plains of the Ganges to the beautiful, misty mountains of Darjeeling – but let me begin at the beginning……

I must say, I was a bit disappointed in Kathmandu when we first landed; the heavy clouds misted out the surrounding mountains and we arrived in a city that was dusty, noisy and polluted. We were pulled and pushed and tugged at by insistent touts, touristy Thamel with hundreds of shops and “things” to buy left us cold – it was everything that’s not our scene.

Applying for an Indian visa in Nepal meant that we could kill two birds with one stone: a multiple entry would cover our February trip to the Andaman Islands (which are part of India) on Katrine, and we could use up some of the five weeks that lay ahead to do a quick recci of Northern India. In the meantime, we would spend the few days that we had to wait for our visas walking the Kathmandu Valley, then catch a bus to Pokhara in central Nepal and perhaps do a few day treks from there before crossing the border to India.

The Kathmandu Valley is the historical centre of Nepal and the four days we had to explore had us hooked. Here we learnt about and touched the land of ancient history, and the colourful people and cultures that we had missed in the city. Winding alleys and hidden court-yards, scattered with temples and shrines where traders and holy men conducted their affairs among ancient beauty, captured our imaginations. We walked and we walked and we walked, visiting monuments and shrines that popped up at every corner we turned, away from the tourist throngs, chatting to the friendly Nepalese.

Because of Nepal’s location between India and China there is a combined influence of Hinduism and Buddism with the diversity of ethnic groups that have resulted in a complex blend of customs and beliefs. But at the centre of Nepaly life is the family. The timeless demands of their fields, loyalty to family and the practice of customs associated with their ethnic group remain their fundamental priority.

Burial scenes at a temple with monkeys and priests brightly coloured - all showmen, compared in extreme to the Buddhist Gompas (monastries) with the quiet hum of prayer wheels, prayer flags and the gentle chant of Om Mane Padme Hom. The evocative power of these surroundings turned back the clock for us to an era long past and for the rest of our stay in Nepal, we felt that we had been caught in a time-warp.

By the time we arrived in Pokhara ( a 7 hour hair-raising bus trip through mountain passes) and after our days of walking, Don was feeling a lot stronger. We decided to fly to Jomsom which is more or less half way along the Anapurna Circuit and taking it easy, we would trek down from there back to Pokhara. “Tea Houses” at villages along the way would allow us to take our time and walk for a few hours before putting our feet up for the rest of the day – or even two or three. We could always fly back, we reckoned, if it all became too much.

For starters the 20 person plane that rattled and bumped through the mountains in up-and-down draughts cured me of any thought of a return flight. We were going to walk back, like it or not. Thinking back on it, maybe the flight enhanced the feeling of euphoria, but for whatever reason as we stepped off the plane, the beauty was utterly startling; We stared around at the blue, blue sky above, and then beyond where rose “The Abode of Snows – “ (in Sanskrit - Himalaya)

It was Don’s suggestion, not mine. “Let’s trek to Muktenath” he suggested. There was no hesitation on my part. I had this overwhelming feeling that that was where we had to go. Muktenath is a pilgrimage centre for Buddhist and Hindus –There is a Buddhist gompa and a Vishnu temple and a spring and natural gas jets that provide an eternal flame. It’s the earth, water and fire combination that accounts for Muktenaths great religious significance.

We had also heard of the beauty of Muktenath before we left from others that had been, but it seemed beyond our reach. It was a tough climb – up, not down, and besides we were definitely not equipped for the cold at those heights. All we had with us was a windcheater each, Don had his Teva sandals and I, a pair of running shoes, a pair of cotton longs each and some undies made up the 3 ½ kg backpacks we carried. Still the feeling persisted of needing to walk up and not down. No guides and porters for us – we left that to the spoilt trekkers who passed us decked out to the nines with their fleece-lined jackets and pants, hiking boots, ski-poles and overloaded porters who had to lug huge bags on bent backs fastened around the brow and filled with the “in-case” paraphernalia.

We were off to a good start after touch-down at Jomsom although the slight incline to Eklabethi took us three hours instead of the sign-posted 1 ½ . We had jellied legs too, but the kindly guest house owner took pity and presented us with a walking stick each that was to be our saving grace. Leaving the Hill-Ton (!) the next morning a little Nepalese pip-squeak gleefully pointed at our sticks and imitated our walk up the hill, dancing and laughing ahead as he doubled over mimicking our stance. That was the beginning of the hardest day of our trek. Up, up, up and UP. I had a sense of humour failure half way when Don ahead of me, looked as fresh as a daisy while I huffed and puffed trying desperately to get some air into my lungs. Then I watched him. And got it. Someone had shown him how to walk/rest by taking a step and resting with both feet on the ground before taking the next. Once into the rhythm of it, although slow, we could walk for hours and up any incline as the kilometres were eaten up. No matter that our 4 hour trek took 8, by late afternoon we had reached a little village called Jharkot that clung to the side of an escarpment. The setting sun had caught the red roof of a gompa and it was breath-taking. Looking back into the valley far, far below from where we had come, the sound of the Kali Kandaki River faintly murmured in the silence of the barrenness above the tree line. I caught the faint sound of bells with the movement of a donkey train in the depths below and turning in a circle, as far as the eye could see, were the blue/white snow covered peaks of the Mountains. Both of us just stood transfixed.

Walking through the hamlet there were a few Tea Houses, but when we got to a stupa (a monument which represents the Buddhist philosophy) in the cobbled road, a guest house stood behind and we approached, exhausted. The room we were shown looked so dingy and my heart dropped. But I had a splitting headache and was beginning to feel decidedly “off.” Then the patron showed us another room that was bigger and airier and looking out the window I saw the stupa and a view of the valley below. It seemed right that we should be there.

The next morning, with the dawn came a sudden quietness and drawing the curtain Don gasped. The countryside outside was white and the snowflakes falling clung to the Stupa outside our window in a fairyland of sparkles. It was magical.

During the sleepless night my headache had intensified accompanied by nausea. And then suddenly the penny dropped and I realised that I had altitude sickness.

So now we had two choices. Either I had to descend (and my heart stopped at the thought of turning back when we were only two hours away from Muktenath) or we could stay for a day to see if I would get over it

With the weather turning so bitterly cold we decided to stay in the warm and friendly kitchen of the guest house around the earthen fire….. and therein lies a tale.

...

Travels Through Nepal. Part 2

Well I don’t know if you can take all this sop that I have written. Somehow it was a bit of an outpouring, but if nothing else, all you fogies out there, read the last few lines at the end.

In the last letter, we had reached Jarkhot...sick, tired and cold! So to continue.........

Looking back over our Nepalese interlude, the word that most springs to mind is “Pilgrimage”. Naturally we met many true pilgrims on the way to Maktinath. Saffron robed and barefooted Sadhus (holy men) turbaned and face-painted, sprinted past us, pilgrims from as far away as Southern India – sari-ed women in sandals bent with age, young men and whole families followed the path along the escarpment to pay their homage. It was the time of the year of the holiday called Desai and a visiting priest to one of the temples drew in his flock. A pilgrimage wasn’t at all what we had set out to do. I had simply been intrigued by what I had read in stories when I was young, and more so later, after meeting a couple on a beach in Thailand who worked for the U.N. in Kathmandu, who wove enchanting stories about a fascinating country. That, and the fact that Don and I love the Buddhist philosophy drew us to Nepal. But it seemed that the higher we climbed and the more fellow travellers we met along the way, for all of us, with the physical exertion of the trek and the incredible beauty of the mountain and village surrounds, there seemed to be a searching for a simple meaning to life and a spiritual upliftment

We found the joy of travelling in Nepal and India was in learning and sharing with the local people and their culture, and equally in the interaction with such diverse fellow travellers that added a real sparkle.

One such was Andre Renaldo whom we met standing for hours in a line at the embassy in Nepal. We exchanged pleasantries, initially and as our talking became more serious he opened up. At the age of 6yrs he had left his abusive father and lived by his wits on the streets in Brazil. Stories were hair-raising of gang-living, drugs and stealing which became part of his life at that young age. Until an elderly lady took pity on him, took him in to her home, educated him and showed him a God-loving other way to live. He came to Nepal as a volunteer with his wife and daughter looking after street children and passing on the love that he had been shown.

A piece of paper he passed on to us read……

The more we care for the happiness of others, the greater our own sense of wellbeing becomes. Cultivating a close warm-hearted feeling for others, automatically puts the mind at ease. This helps to remove whatever fears and insecurities we may have and gives us the strength to cope with any obstacles that we may encounter.

It is the ultimate secret of success in life.

Huddled around the warmth of the heavy beamed dining room at the Guest House in Jharkot as the snow fell, travellers came and went. We were waiting for the worst of the weather to pass and for the altitude sickness I was suffering from to dissipate.

In the dining hall there was a pretty young girl who served us a steaming cup of Masala tea (spicy, milky and sweet ) and we chatted. It was her 30^th birthday and we found an affinity with Desre who would also be turning thirty in a few days time. Lhaka Dolma was a Tibetan refugee who had been taken in by the Guest House owner, Angya, and in return for her board and lodging helped them out in the kitchen. She and her family had fled from Lhasa and the Chinese Maoists in the horrific ongoing saga that weighs heavily on the Nepalese and Tibetan people. She spoke of the atrocities of the Maoists who had torn down their places of worship, the Dalai Llamas flight to Darumasala in India and the injustices inflicted on this poor nation. A group of travelling pilgrims, wet, cold and bedraggled, were ushered in to the warmth of the dining room by Angya and huddled around the fire while he handed out mugs of the hot sweet tea. Such is the kindness and hospitality of the Nepalese. And we wonder. Where are the nations that are able to stop these atrocities? What a pity that there is no oil or wealth in Tibet and Nepal.

Later that evening a group of Nepalese women filed in the dining hall. We wondered what was going on, until Angya told us a story about an American woman, Janey, whom we had met earlier on in the day. She had been staying at the Guest House for a few days and we found out why.

A few years previously her young university-going son, Christopher had spent some months in Jharkot doing a thesis on a Gompa (monastery) in the small village. It was a particularly old Gompa with an interesting history and some beautiful murals both on the outside and inside the building. He was also an avid mountaineer and on his return to the States he had gone on an expedition. Tragically there had been a climbing accident and he was killed. Janey had donated money to have the Gompa roof repaired and some restoration work done in memory of Christopher, and she was at Jharkot for the “puja” or dedication ceremony that had taken place that day.

In the village, the council – a group of eleven middle-aged women - were responsible for different projects such as keeping the mountain tracks and trails clean and the village refuse burnt. They had come to say thank you to Janey for what she had done for the village, and we were invited to sit in on the gathering. A bowl was set in front of each of us, with two dabs of butter on the rim – a symbol of peace. Each was filled to the brim with a pure white spirit - Moonshine of note! A plate of curled yak cheese, dried hard and pungent was passed around and the ceremony began. In the way of simple folk, the story of Christopher’s life had to be told through Angya’s interpretation – how he had been killed and how his mother had wanted the restoration of the Gompa made in dedication to his memory. When the talking stopped, the women stood in a line holding hands and began their strange but beautiful yodel-singing. Their foot-moving-body-swaying rhythm from side to side, the warmth of the room with its low wooden beams and the intoxicating witblitz made me feel quite emotional.

And then it was Janey’s turn.

Through Angya she told the old Buddha story of the woman who had lost a child…… She had gone to the Great Buddha for comfort in her grief, and he said, “Go down now to the village you see in the valley, and bring me back one sesame seed from each household who hasn’t felt the loss of a loved one”. And the woman returned empty-handed.

The ladies smiled and nodded and asked Janey if she would sing for them. Her voice was clear and beautiful, and in the hushed room she sang:

‘Tis a gift to be simple,

It’s a gift to be free

It’s a gift to come down where you want to be.

And when you find yourself

In the place that’s right,

It will be in the valley

When true simplicity if found

To bow and to bend we will not be ashamed.

It will be our delight

Until turning and turning

We come round right.

It was a special evening, and one that I will never forget. We were meant to be part of it and its poignancy will be remembered for a long, long time to come.

Jharkot will always have a special place in my heart and suddenly it didn’t matter if we got to Muktenath or not. We both felt that we had arrived at the place we were meant to be. And so we decided: if the morning dawned with more of the un-seasonal snowfalls we had experienced during the day, then we would abandon the walk up and turn back down the mountain and begin our descent to Pokhara as we had initially intended. That night wrapped up in our blankets and dressed for bed in all of the few clothes we had brought in our backpacks, we heard the bells of the mule-trains still journeying onward and in the distance the yelp and howl of a jackal

In the early morning I awoke with the first rooster crow and as I opened one eye a shaft of sunlight streamed through the window. The weather had cleared.

The rubble pathway was scattered with the remains of the previous day’s snowfall as we began our climb in the early dawn. We had to pick our way around muddy puddles with the inadequate foot gear we had, jumping across rivulets that trickled along the track as slowly, slowly we edged up and up, never daring to look too far ahead. We smiled our “Namaste’s” at trekkers descending and their head-swivels at our inadequate gear – sandals and takkies, windcheaters and walking sticks. And when my head started to spin once again and my spirits sagged, Don was there to encourage me with his rendition of “Eskimo Nell”.

At what we judged to be the half-way mark, we stopped for a breather, to munch on the crisp apples we had been given at the lodge and to take in the view. Turning to look back across the valley and down the mountain side to the little hamlet that is Jharkot clinging to the side of the cliff, I felt suspended in that ecstasy that mountaineers experience and that is so difficult to describe. The sun had just topped the peaks in the distance turning them gold, the clouds that had wisped over lower peaks began to dissipate and the village shone with a mystical glow. Turning to the right the terraced hillsides unfolded in early morning colour, and the stillness was intense. Faintly the sound of animal bells reached up from the valley far below. Don and I collected a little mound of stones and made a monument to our little family which I hope one day, we will all make a pilgrimage to see!

By the time we reached the top, peak upon peak began to emerge through cloud cover, further and further, one behind the other, until we were surrounded by the blue/white mountains in every direction. The sky above against the white of the mountains was startling blue. Caught in a vortex I knew that I could reach up and touch heaven. It was right there with all my loved ones. I thought my heart was going to burst and I wanted everyone to be with me in one moment of time to share just a patch of what I was feeling.

Colourful prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, draped from Gompas and temples, and there was a mingling of fowls and goats and mule trains and pilgrims along the narrow alley ways of Muktanath . It was like going back in time through hundreds of years. We watched a crowd of pilgrims and travellers heading for the eternal flame and we suddenly felt it wasn’t for us. We walked back to the quiet of the monastery and sat in meditation looking over the mountains and valleys under the watchful eye of a crimson-robed monk who took pity on the old fogies and offered us plastic chairs to sit on!

From Eklabethi it had taken 8 hours for us to trek up to Jharkot and another three from there to Muktenath. It took 3 ½ to get all the way down!

I didn’t even remember some of the little hamlets that we had passed through on the ascending trip, although they must have been there. Now we had time to take it all in – tea houses and stone walled buildings that housed the animals; rest stops, cosmos and chrysanthemums and plenty of marijuana! The faint Tibetan chants of Om Mane Padme Hom seemed to waft from one village to another in an endless stream of sound as down, down, down we walked.