On the Trail

Non- Fiction: Excerpt from The World Peace Journals

Chapter 5

Hana

Spring of 1997 had found Karma and me sitting at an outside table in front of the Kathmandu Guest House, waiting for the formidable Hana Hoo to arrive. It was early afternoon and we were both apprehensive as to whether the person who was shortly to appear would be able to manage the hard, adventurous trek we had loosely pieced together. If she turned out to be frail we had a contingency plan to trek Jugal Himal and then across to Lapchi Kang.

Hana had been just another e-mail enquiry; someone looking for a company in Nepal to fix up a peak climbing trip. There had been nothing out of ordinary in her request to be taken mountaineering except the fact that she lacked any real experience outside a few basic climbing courses in British Columbia. We ran an agency that supplied logistics to experienced mountaineers, not a climbing school, and therefore had turned her down. I had admired her naive daring and especially so when she informed us that she was untraveled and really knew nothing of mountains. Usually that would have been the end of the communiqué but somehow, maybe by some sneaky invitation on my part, we entered into dialogue that stressed and stretched such seductive words as wilderness, off the beaten track and no tourists. Suddenly, with absolutely no regard for Hana, I was inventing an outrageous budget trek. I had already hijacked her trip well before she ever set foot on Himalayn soil; the terrorist in me unleashed by her unwitting invitation.

I had read ‘The Snow Leopard’, a journal of one man’s Himalayan quest. I had enjoyed its splendid wander into Dolpo but did not want to follow the same path in spirit or geography. Karma and I had had a similar trek in mind starting at Beni Baglung near Pokhara but with a different finish over the Chaka la to Jomson where we would fly back to Kathmandu. What happened in the middle would be anyone’s guess; a thousand different trails could be followed, each one offering a different undertaking. Hana had taken the bait; the lure of exciting adventure, perhaps measured with sobriety at the crafty mention of ‘The Snow Leopard’ was all it seemed to take. We now waited for her and the cash to appear in the heat of Kathmandu.

Hana had described herself as Korean with glasses and soon enough a Korean looking girl with glasses introduced herself. She was definitely not frail, not that I would have recognised it for I now had a trekking mission to complete. She stood before us, seemingly robust, defiant and very, very cool.

To write this part of my story I have no journal to refer to and no companions to confer with; Hana does not reply to my numerous requests for dates, place names or other information that may make this passage smooth. When you read what happened next you may empathise with her silence, gang up on me and read the rest of this text with a different bent for I became a rat, joined forces with these ravagers I had so unwittingly unleashed.

I remember her sitting opposite: black rimmed glasses, tied-back long straight black hair, trekking shoes, black pants, long sleeved white tee-shirt and a Canadian accent. The meeting was brief, a few details were fixed and she soon disappeared the same way she had arrived. Karma smiled, looked at me and said, “What do you think?” I did not know what to think, she had seemed aloof, in control and had kept a healthy gulf between herself and us, but she had something I liked, maybe mettle and I nodded “She’ll do.” The scene had now been written and none of us would be safe from the volatile cocktail we had inadvertently mixed.

I cannot speak for Hana Hoo, a person who requested, paid for and undertook a World Peace Trek; do not know what she went through, feels or thinks, but I can relay events as they unfolded, tell you my side of the story, as we were swept far out and ransacked by a savage storm. And here I must confess: Hana Hoo is a fictitious name; the woman in this story insists I keep her name out of this text. When I begged her to reconsider she sent me a formidable glance; the silent undercurrents of North American culture oozed a heavy ambience, the tacit threat of court action, the ravages of law and language, perhaps to extract cash or a pound of flesh. I backed down. Please forgive this act of total cowardice.

Karma and I rarely went on World Peace Treks and never together. This trip was an exception that neither of us could resist.

On a misty spring dawn Hana, Karma, his cousin Dharma, Jilge, Jog, Kancha and I left Kathmandu by bus for Pokhara. Jilge, Karma, Dharma and Kancha were all residents of the tiny village of Pokwal and Jog from the neighbouring village of Tulo Parsel. They each had an immense amount of trekking and mountaineering experience and I could not imagine there could possibly be a hitch.

The bus rolled along the morning highway and all was still and tranquil. Hana had left Canada with no idea of what she was getting into and was now sitting on a bus with six strange men, only one of whom could speak full English, heading out to the very edge of sanity. I may have had an arrogant swagger as I strutted around Nepal but Hana, she had something else; her daring was a very rare bird indeed.

Hana sat peering out at her new landscape. Some people look immaculately turned out no matter what the circumstance, they just have a gait, an ambience that keeps them well presented. Hana is one of those lucky people. Her crew, including me, was, in comparison, a ragged bunch. As she soaked up her surroundings, the new world that she sought, I tried to make conversation; but we spoke in different tongues, came from different parts of the world and widely missed the mark. Yes we both spoke English, understood the words, but the meanings we extracted were different and, looking back, I was probably already half insane.

The bus slowed up and gently ground to a halt. Ahead the twisting road was chocablock with buses and lorries hooting and honking at something I could not see. For several hours the bus stopped and started until we passed the cause of the jam; a burnt out oil tanker stood like a charred skeleton on our side of the carriageway.

Many hours later we rolled in to Pokhara bus depot. I was hoping to spend the night in its tourist luxury and the following morning take Hana sightseeing but, no sooner had we left the bus Karma hurried us to another. We were approached by a group of dark, strong-looking Terai men who, maybe after having seen our heavy baskets, offered their services as coolies. We would need help but on learning our prospective Himalayan routes they burst out laughing saying that they didn’t want to die just yet. Before long the second bus was swiftly following the setting sun towards Beni-Baglung. There was a loud crack and a window shattered, showering an elderly man with glass shards as a stone hit his head and rolled into his lap. Miraculously he was unhurt but changed his seat to recover his composure.

We all piled off the bus to scour the hillside for a thug or two but soon gave up and the bus continued on its way. I should have read the sign, the shape of things to come; should have taken notice of the feeling of foreboding, which I quickly cast aside.

Baglung was almost dark as we piled off the bus and sat by the roadside with our chattel. Karma went to find a lodge and when he returned some twenty minutes later it transpired that Hana and I were to share a room together in a lodge and the crew would sleep in a tea shack opposite. I ran this past Hana. Sharing a room with a complete stranger may not have been on her agenda but nonchalantly she seemed to accept it. Hana and I sat in the tea shack. I tried to make conversation, inroads into this person I would be spending time with, but soon learned that she was an extremely private person albeit socially adept. She produced a small pad, a journal that was always kept to hand, and started writing. I don’t know how many pads or books she filled on this fateful journey, she was regularly seen marking empty pages and etching them with words; but Hana’s journal, whose secrets I have never read, is of no help to me here, I am on my own and will do my best to stick to facts as we follow this fantastic trek to Dolpo.

Cousin Dharma was in poor shape and as Hana put her thoughts to ink the rest of us were concerned about his health; headaches and painful vision plagued his being as Karma and I led him to the hospital. Of course the hospital was shut, silent, dark and locked. Today was not the day for cure; what had we been thinking of? Wake up, wake up! My friend is sick, please point me to a pharmacist. No answer from the numerous doors we knocked on, no sign of the living, the ailing, the getting better or of the magicians who wave their hollow magic wands. At last we found two nurses. “Doctor? Sorry it’s his night off, try again tomorrow.” By which time cousin Dharma may very well be dead.

Karma and I were really worried that Dharma may be suffering from meningitis. He could hardly walk, clutched his hazy head and shied away from light. A man appeared, the nurses smiled, “Good evening doctor.” Yes we know it’s your night off but there are two trekking guides and their tourist friend, we know it’s boring but they insist on making use of all your hard earned education. Oh, very well, let’s make this brief, you two wait outside.

Karma and I peered in through the window as the doctor, who may well have been a vet, checked for foot and mouth disease, asked Dharma if he was Tamang and on hearing yes told him to take some pills, wrote out a bill and sent us to the pharmacist. Dharma had been dismissed, found guilty of hatching sinusitis, all that dust in Kathmandu. We bought the pills that would not cure and wandered off to bed.

Hana was wrapped up, mummified in her sleeping bag, as I crawled into mine on the opposite bunk.

Spring 1997: Day 1

Cousin Dharma was worse. All night the crew had stayed up, worried he was not going to make the dawn. I knew Dharma and his family, had slept in his cowshed many times and I wanted to help in any way I could. There was only one course of action and that was to send him back to Kathmandu to see a specialist. But he was broke and our own cash supplies so limited that we held a conference to decide on a course of action. I had split the trek money up into three; a hefty portion for Karma to buy supplies and pay for essentials on the way; a wad for Hana in case she should find herself alone; and a reserve wedge with me just in case the cash flow ran dry. We were on a tight budget and consulted Hana about giving one hundred dollars over to Dharma plus some living expenses to see him home. She agreed, although no mention of repayment was ever mentioned, and Dharma left on an early morning bus. Karma smelt of drink as cousin Dharma’s bus disappeared in a cloud of dust. I asked him to take care for we could now not afford to waste a single rupee on this trek.

I do not know what cousin Dharma spent his one hundred dollars on but no one in Kathmandu seemed to be able to find a cure. He spent the next few months drifting from one medicine maker to the next; scans, neurologists, blood tests, acupuncture and Jhunkries, nothing seemed to work. Finally he went back to Pokwal and slowly recovered, maybe helped by the close attention of his wife.

We were now one member short and needed to hire some local help. The load was spread between us and we trudged across to the other side of town. The day was bright, full of promise, as the crew stopped to buy new Chinese canvas shoes for their long haul into Dolpo. In a small tea shack a porter was found and Kancha made him up a heavily laden basket. His name was Raj, an Indian from Bengal who spoke a fair amount of English, was young and cheerful, and seemingly indifferent to the harsh tones thrown at him by Kancha, Jilge and Karma. Raj wanted to practise English but Hana shied away from him as he tried to engage her in conversation on the way. I learned he had been a taxi driver in Chittagong and had moved to Nepal with his mother after his father’s death.

Mynah birds sang and chattered as we left Baglung behind and followed a badly eroded path along a wooded khola out into the lush green wheat fields. We were still in the lowlands, the sun welcomingly hot and I full of healthy optimism and eager anticipation for the way ahead.

We made camp in a beautiful spot on the edge of the Kali Kandaki, whose loose, swift, cold water was in complete contrast to the sleepy giant of the Terai. There was plenty of daylight left and, as Hana retired to her bright blue tent, Karma and I went to a nearby teahouse to relax. It was attended by a stunningly beautiful young woman at whom I could not help but gape. As I sipped my sweet tea and Karma drained his glass of irak, the woman asked me if I had a son. I said I did not and she gestured towards her two young girls and said that as she did not either we could perhaps make one together. I turned to check with Karma to be sure I had heard correctly but the woman quickly continued; she would leave with me in the morning, go back to my country, and be a wife. Sex, outside prostitution, seems to carry this high price in rural Nepal. I did not want a son, a wife, a marriage; but as I sat, almost drooling at this beauty, I wanted her. Karma scoffed that she was Hindu, therefore not to be considered; at that moment I didn’t care if she was Ban Manche and found myself being terribly English, making polite excuses and an exit back to camp. Dazed, I found myself staring at Hana who had changed her clothes and looked immaculate as she sat outside her tent writing her journal. She smiled; I couldn’t take any more smiles from beautiful girls and turned to face the river, whose rushing current swept away my overwhelming feelings.

That evening, as Karma and Jilge got outrageously drunk at the teahouse; their screams and shouts echoing down the valley, Hana and I gazed at the clear night sky. Halle-Boppe could be seen in its full glory, the whole night sky glittering as the river sang its rushing song. Sounds of drunken laughter occasionally exploded and I asked Kancha why he had not joined his friends. Kancha liked a drink but not too much. One night in the jungle, irak had gripped his senses. Unable to walk back home he lay down and slept. In his dreams wild cats came and growled and he awoke to find a cat prowling around his spot. Between dreams and waking, between real cats and spirit cats, he lay in still terror until the sun chased away the night. (Kancha later died of a blood poisoned leg).

Hana retired to the roomy blue tent and the six men lay side-by-side in the large black mess tent. I was on the edge, half out of the tent to keep away from the smoking fags and retching coughs. I woke up cold and damp.

Day 2

Raj looked worse for wear and I wondered how long he would last under his heavy load.

Looking very much like a wire sheep pen Beni-Baglung’s makeshift prison came into view on the opposite side of the valley. Its skinny inmates, who lounged in the morning sunshine, stared out at us with blank expressions. I dared not take a closer look, feared I would find a monster, an incarnation perhaps of ancient China’s Robber Zhi who had stood eight foot two, had eyes that shone like stars and a penchant for dining on the minced livers of men.

We crossed the Myagdi Khola by a rickety suspension bridge and entered Beni where it joins the fast flowing Kali Kandaki. Hana and I took tea as the others went to buy fresh vegetables for the trek. Jog soon came back alone, asked me to accompany him to the market (with my wallet) for the other three Tamangs were now filling themselves with drink. We passed the three as they sat outside a shack guzzling down their brews, looking like a group of shifty bandits. Karma insulted Raj who stood in the street trying to rearrange his heavy load to make its burden more comfortable. Jog shook his head, explained to me that he never drank when working and there may be big trouble looming ahead. I left Raj to his own devices, he could always leave if Karma and the load became unbearable, but the drinking I found difficult to accept. First there was the money, and second it would slow our pace, a pace that should roll along with the carefully planned budget that left very little room for manoeuvre. On reproach the three bandits claimed all innocence. Why, it was their salary advance which had bought the drinks. Perhaps that day they spoke the truth but I knew the more they drank the hungrier we would be further up the track. I was loath to tell them what to do (what kind of boss tells others what to do?) and as Jog and I shopped for vegetables I felt that we should have bought an extra cabbage to replace my very useless brain.

Hana, Jog and I trekked out of Beni followed by the three high Tamangs; Raj trailed far behind, his happy expression now a frown, as the load ground him down. Tensions were building; Karma’s drinking had a powerful displacement which rubbed off on Jilge and Kancha. This pair were reluctant to take the initiative, always waiting for some sign from Karma before attending their trekking chores. This put me in a position I detested; I had to prise the role of guide and ‘leader’ out of Karma’s hands, grip the reins myself and steer the wild horses as they galloped into Dolpo. The real issue was the completion of the trek, a trek I had invented and was going to finish come rain, shine or three metres of freezing snow. We followed the trail along the sandy banks of the Myagdi Khola. Across the river, on the southeast side, the hills were steep and wooded with patches of sheer rock and gullies full of dense undergrowth. It looked impressive and we stopped for tea on a flat section above the riverbank which held a few shacks, to admire the view. Hail started to fall and we ran to the huts for shelter. By the time Raj had arrived he was soaked through. As the others sat around in one of the huts making a fire for tea and food I stood under the front awning brooding over the gloomy weather. Before we left Kathmandu Santos had thoroughly checked the forecast; all had looked clear, the high passes open, even the Himalayan Rescue Association had given the thumbs up; but this was the Himalayas, unpredictable, unknowable and often savage. As I walked back into the hut the smell of irak took me back. It was time to check the drinking forecast, for this was Karma, wild and unruly, often drunk and always spending money. I told him to take it easy, he told me not to worry for he could climb any mountain with irak’s help. The trouble was I knew it to be true, no matter how drunk he got, unless he was legless, he would be able to keep up with us. The real problem I was struggling with was Hana; this was her trip, her money, and the decadent decline of World Peace she was witnessing was not her affair; the empire was collapsing with every glass of drink, eroding with every single step.

Progress was slow and we entered the village of Tatopani in the late afternoon. Tatopani translates as ‘hot water’ and is used as a village name when hot springs are found nearby. This Tatopani was filthy, excrement and rubbish littered the path, making us urgently hurry through the main drag. In the hot spring below the path a score or more of naked women chattered and splashed in their ablutions. I wondered if the water was as filthy as the path. The steep terrain of the river valley made finding a campsite difficult. The terraced fields were full of healthy crops and we had to keep on walking for another hour, crossing the river twice until a suitable place came into sight. The flat, dry mud yard of a schoolhouse was our stopping point and we set up camp at dusk.

I can’t remember how it happened but that night I ended up in Hana’s tent. Of course it was a practical decision, after all she had so much space in her roomy bright blue tent. As we lay in our sleeping bags making conversation and feeling slightly awkward all hell broke loose outside; Karma, Kancha and Jilge were arguing with Jog, something about cooking was screamed as a pot went hurtling across the yard. Drunkenness, drunkenness; you come from Parsel and we from Pokwal. Somehow Raj was dragged into the fracas, told he was useless, an Indian no less. I went outside to find Jilge and Karma in the full throes of quarrel; shut up shut up you drunken louts; but again I was loath to tell them how to behave, loath to interfere, frightened of getting angry, frightened of my own demonic madness. There was no solution, nothing to solve, only demons flying around the dark schoolyard. Call a priest but no priest would come; call a Jhunkrie but no Jhunkrie came. I went back to bed and blanked it from my mind.

Day 3

Everyone was still alive; tense and quiet the group slowly moved along the trail. Hana wanted to spend more time stopping, enjoying views, talking and playing with children; I tried to explain the length of our journey, the need to cover a minimum distance each day and our budget that would not last more than forty days.

Raj was struggling, trailing a snail’s pace; Karma and Jilge stopped for drinks at every chang house on the way; Hana, aloof and in a world I could not reach; Kancha always near his Pokwal friends and Jog, despondent from the night before, avoided the others and trekked close to me. Upset with the harsh treatment the Pokwal boys dished out, he wanted to go back home. They did not like him, his cooking or his village, they wanted him to have no say in culinary matters and hoped he would throw away his bag and disappear off home. I could rely on Jog, he was a trusty friend and had vast experience of the Himalayas. The trek could not afford to lose time and as we picked and ate Pulong – a red Nepalese berry – I tried to reassure him, told him I was on his side.

We all strolled into Barbichar, except for Raj who was now lagging far behind, and stopped at a friendly teahouse. A dog squealed and across the path in a wooden barn I could make out the silhouette of a man wielding a wooden staff. Crack; the staff came down on the hidden dog; squeals and cracks until silence; and a silence between Hana and me for we had listened, witnessed this killing without protest, gesture or a word.

The group seemed happy and together as though the tensions of the past few days had never existed. I was glad to be relieved of the strain of holding the fragmented group together and ignored any feelings of misgiving I may have felt. Karma and I discussed Raj; Karma did not give two hoots about him, so long as the bag arrived Raj could go to hell. I knew Raj could leave at any point for we were not yet in the mountains.

The trail was busy with porters from two Italian mountaineering teams carrying very heavy loads. Both teams were going to attempt separate ascents on the awesome faces of Dhaulagiri. Karma and I had both smirked, and later laughed in private, as these fit, determined men spoke of their planned routes with unabashed assurance. The mountain was in cloud and as rain fell on the path Karma and I were certain that its snowy slopes would repel all who dared to challenge it, in fact, we later learned that both teams had failed. Dangerous mountaineering is food for hungry demons, but our own demons thirsted after the chaos we had started.

Day 4

We had stayed the night in Darbang, a village of houses packed tightly between the steep slopes of the river valley where the fast flowing Khare Khola joins the Myagdi. Hana and I had shared a very clean, majestic room embellished with decorative rugs and fancy cushions. There was the usual drinking and mini fracas but, in the big scheme of things, it was a fairly uneventful night.

A mule train crossed the suspension bridge of Darbang with a clatter and a din; we soon followed, turning right and heading north. The Myagdi, which drains the south face of Dhaulagiri, cuts a sharp, narrow gorge at this juncture which we traced high up on its left side.

We passed Phedi and crossed the Dang Khola where an impressive vista opened up; sweeping and dropping away before us was a huge higgledy-piggledy valley basin; green terraces, fields, hillocks and settlements all dropped down to where the Myagdi, now far below us, and the Dhara Khola join at Muri. In the distance the sharp rise of the Dhaulagiri peaks gave the first real swatch of being in the mountains. It gave a magnificent feeling of space. Adventure and exciting possibilities electrified my being, fired my imagination; I felt alive, loose and free; unstoppable and insatiable in my Himalayan quest. This enthusiasm, mixed with a demonic drive, was about to drag everyone backwards through the proverbial hedge, trying and test each of us to the very limit, but I was not alone; the mix of characters blended well, made a potion, a Ragi Boot that burned and spun through the Himalayan sky. There was me and I, a little of whom you know; Hana and her request for adventure; Karma, drunk and wildly unruly; Jilge and Kancha who refused to be outgunned by a foreigner like me; Jog whose loyalty would continue to the very end; Raj, alas, would fall by the wayside, but there would be others joining us, others whose resolve and nerve would astound me.

We trekked through the village of Takum, stopping briefly to examine an overgrown pit where the Jhunkries of antiquity had worshipped the earth.

The day had been long and Hana asked to stop for the day; she had been trailing behind and was probably exhausted. It was late afternoon, cold and rainy but the ground was rocky, terribly uneven and we could not find a piece of flat, sheltered ground to set up camp. Just before the Kharu Khola bridge at Muri we came across a group of dwellings which I will simply refer to as ‘Boot Village’. Boot Village consisted of a large water mill and about half a dozen houses; an unkempt, scrawny place whose inhabitants seemed friendly enough. There was one dirty lodge which we invaded, took over, soon settling into the warmth of its grime. There is not much to report on the evening’s events; the usual drinking and slanging matches between the crew, by now a normal occurrence, and Hana and I again sharing a room. She complained of fleas, but I’d rather have fleas than DDT. Our group had so much luggage that the lodge owner insisted we leave it on the porch; Jog said he would sleep with it to discourage light-fingered rogues who might pass in the night. Somewhere amongst the large jumble pile of baskets, rucksacks, pots, pans, tents and general trekking chattel were my boots, my tough mountain boots, boots that would stop my feet from freezing, boots that would protect my urban feet from the assail of the high Himalayas. In the morning they would be gone.

Day 5

Packing baskets is a careful, measured affair, each item has to be placed to maximise the use of space, with regard to its fragility and need for easy access. It was during this packing ritual that the boots were missed. We searched high and low, but to no avail and all agreed that they must have been thieved by a passer-by. I had been trekking in a pair of my favourite Dutch army pumps and now made the decision to risk my toes for the completion of the trek. Demons may kill a mountaineer or freeze the toes of a reckless high altitude trekker; I accepted my blue toe fate without another thought, but as we were leaving a nagging sensation made me turn around. The lodge had some help in a teenage boy who now stood on the track waiting for our imminent departure. Karma and I exchanged glances, threw down our bags and, as I searched every nook and cranny of the mill and outhouses Karma interrogated him, whipped up a frenzy until everyone else was searching for the missing boots. No luck, no boots, but somehow we felt the mill boy was responsible.

We soon arrived in Muri and stopped to pick up more supplies and another porter. Hana entertained some children, an activity that seemed to come naturally to her, whilst I chatted to a shop owner. He had been in the Indian army and proudly pointed to a picture on the wall which showed him in full mountaineering garb on top of an icy 7000-metre peak. Karma, in the meantime, had gone on a boot finding mission and returned with a whole array of boots and their ‘rightful’ owners. Expensive boots were laid out before me, boots that I could not afford to buy in Europe. My mind whirred, maybe boots were stolen in one village and others then offered to the bootless trekker in the next; a brilliant scam, for how could any tourist going into Dhorpatan or Dolpo refuse or turn away this booty. The boot merchants’ prices were totally outrageous and I told them all to piss off. I felt stitched up, ripped off and frightened of losing my cool. Karma lost his and went to find the village headman.

A Hindu Chettri porter was found and Jilge and Kancha approached me to give approval. His name was Indra; strength, confidence, beautiful eyes and dashing good looks stood on the path before me. I instantly liked him, felt he was a godsend and welcomed him aboard.

Karma returned after venting his disapproval of the boot scam to half the village. He told them he was going to write an article in a Kathmandu newspaper exposing the village as preying on unsuspecting tourists. Indra, who had disappeared to eat a last lunch with his wife and son, got wind of this missing boot saga and, at the time unbeknown to us, put a gear into motion.

We trekked west out of Muri along the north bank of the Dharu Khola. The day was hot and Indra’s red sweatshirt dazzled on the path in front. He knew of a good spot for lunch and led us to a waterfall that cascaded down from the small peak of Dadar. There was an inviting, beautiful dark pool, whose shimmering waters were deep but too cold to swim.

On the track we met an Englishman heading back to Pokhara. He was full of enthusiasm, elated by Nepal, told us stories of bears and wildcats not far up ahead, but alas his permit stopped at Jalja la and he had anyhow to get back home to start a job. Jalja La is 3500 metres high, small fry in Himalayan terms. The Englishman told us it was jammed up with snow making it difficult to pass; we had at least five 5000 metre+ passes to cross, numerous 4000 metre paths and passes and would need a miracle, a freak sun burst to achieve our ambitious goal.

His mention of permits reminded me of ours: In Central Immigration, Kathmandu there is a man, an official of languid constitution who is simply known as ‘The Man with the Red Pen’. His red signature endorses permits, opens paths, makes dreams come true; as one hand stains red the expectant other is held wide open. “Dolpo across Chaka la, Sanga la to Jomson?” “Sorry we don’t do that here, too unusual, how about Jomson to Dolpo – we can do that.” “We don’t want that, we want the other way.” “Well sir, the police at Kagbeni may think you’ve illegally sneaked in and out of Mustang.” “We’re not going to Kagbeni, we’ll be coming into Jomson from the other side of the river.” “All the same sir, I’ll have to write it in your passport, the route that is, and put my signature to authorise the way.” “Yes of course Mr Red Pen, and in your other hand how much will you need, after all the words Dolpo to Jomson may give you writer’s cramp.” Hana and I had had to pay one hundred American dollars for this privilege, on top of the regular permit fees.

Soft rain began to fall as we trekked the path and its patchy snow into the last village before Jalja la. The roomy blue tent was set up outside a lodge. Unless one treks in the wilderness or in the high snowy ridges tents are an unnecessary burden in Nepal; a house, kharka or cave can usually be found to give shelter. Nevertheless the private cocoon of tent, its inner world, provide an environment most trekkers appreciate. The trek had not been going smoothly; even without the problems of World Peace (Karma and my madness) the budget and distance to be covered meant we had to keep a steady pace. Hana had complained we were travelling too fast, while I was urging everyone to sustain the pace; the weather had turned against us and the passes may well have already closed. I asked Hana what she wanted to do; she wanted to complete the trek, carry on of course, after all she had travelled halfway across the world for this; I don’t know what she meant by ‘for this’; Hana and I had great communication problems, we both tried hard but somehow were always at cross-purposes.

The private world of the roomy blue tent found Hana and me laying next to each other, not head to toe but head to head. Hana had said ‘Are you making a move on me?” We both made the move, a communiqué, communion that at last spoke a language both could understand. And anyway how could I resist such a stunning treat.

I really liked Hana but between communions found it hard to communicate; we had been forced together by odd circumstance, both struggled to survive this ordeal we called a trek; both struggled with very different issues.

Day 6

In the early morning a thin young man appeared at the lodge. He was soaked, wet through from the persistent drizzle, toes protruding from split plimsolls and in his hands were my boots. He was a friend of Indra’s who had gone to Boot Village on a boot finding mission. My boots had been carefully hidden under a chicken hutch by the teenage boy but were easily found by this soaked young man now standing before me wearing a broad smile. We fed the boot detective, paid him for his trouble and he happily left to attend to his fields high up above the village of Zapani. Apparently the teenage boy was beaten, kicked and punched for his disgraceful deed, or maybe just because the locals were embarrassed, caught out, exposed and needy for a whipping post to disguise and divert the blame.

Jog was on an egg finding mission which gave the rest of us a little time to relax. Karma had found a small drinking house and took me to meet the owners. A mother and daughter greeted Karma knowingly, apparently he had spent most of the night drinking there, and invited us inside. As we drank irak and ate dried dzo meat the mother asked me to take her daughter with me back to Kathmandu. The daughter and I exchanged glances and both burst out laughing; she was my age, tall and stocky, warm and friendly, and jovially told her mother to go with me herself instead. Her mother laughed, explained she was finished with all that love stuff and wished her daughter would find a man. The daughter said she was fine alone and didn’t need a man to fix her life.

The dark, damp forest enclosed us as we trudged up towards the Jalja la. It was our first real climb and progress was fairly slow. Not far from the top, at a spot where the snow was not yet thick, we made lunch on a small, rocky outcrop. A Lama and an Englishman appeared, joined us for tea and we were soon engaged in conversation. The Englishman was from Edinburgh University, researching an anthropological PhD at the Tibetan Herb School in Dhorpatan. The Herb School was sponsored by a French charity that gave a condition that half the students should be women (there were twelve students in total). We discussed Yartsa Gumbu and an array of wild medicines which Santos had introduced to me but this man’s interest lay in the folklore, the social structure of herbalism rather than the cures themselves. Of course the conversation moved to tales of the fantastic and he told me he had witnessed Nagpas in Himachal Pradesh languidly plucking eggs from boiling water with bare hands. (I too had seen a marvel, the tale of which may later join this text.) We shared a joke about surreal bureaucratic red tape sagas we had both endured in Kathmandu, and as he left the Englishman invited us to the Dhorpatan Gompa to see the school. The Lama told me he would write a letter for me, an introduction to the Bon Po monasteries of Dolpo. This was a great privilege and I thanked the Lama profusely. Naturally I had forgotten this was Hana’s trek and after the pair had gone noticed her, lost in thought, sitting on a rock and jotting notes in her journal. For me there was no longer her trek or mine, just a journey into something I tried not to think about: probable disaster.

The snow lay thick on the path, knee deep as we reached the top; a glorious view of Gurja Himal with its crisp white ridge and breathtaking steep south face shining against the opulent blue sky. It had started snowing and we smartly headed towards Dhorpatan, down an icy path and across white fields. We came upon an abandoned building and Kancha put down his basket and insisted we stop for the day but Karma, maybe dreaming of Dhorpatan irak, led the way through snowy fields and into the dank rhododendron forest. Snow turned to sleet, ice underfoot turned to slush, we were soaked, cold and tired and the path was very slippery. Hana asked if we could stop, she was exhausted, but Karma said “soon, very soon”. We reached a hut and sheltered from a tremendous hailstorm, huge ice pebbles hammered down, lighting flashed, thunder cracked, and as Hana and I looked up into the forest from the relative safety of the doorway a huge bolt of lightning hit a tree. We watched it smoulder and heard an explosive crack as the tree split in half tumbling down the hillside taking several others with it; an electrifying experience that transfixed my senses.

With the passing of the storm we collected our wet selves and effects, walked across the flat meadows of Dhorpatan and into the village itself. Dhorpatan had been a Tibetan refugee camp that had now evolved into a proper village (although the Tibetan population has now shrunk to less than one hundred as they head off to America). We saw the Gompa high up on a hill, prayer flags blowing, and I asked Hana if she would like to visit in the morning. A lodge was found with a large courtyard and we settled in for the night. We shared this lodge with two American female students who were studying something Tibetan in Dhorpatan. As Karma and Jilge were in the courtyard drinking an orange coloured kerosene, or at least that’s what it looked and smelt like, demons gripped their senses and unleashed their destructive nature. Despondent Raj was jeered and insulted, ridiculed with sardonic jibes as he sat silent in the courtyard. Jog was intimidated, showered with piercing slander and shouted at for being the wrong kind of Tamang. Kancha joined sides with his Pokwal buddies as Raj and Jog were pushed and shoved around the yard. Indra tried to be the diplomat, looked to me for help. Hana wanted to know what was going on. The lodge family stood and stared in silence and the two American girls quickly disappeared. Jog was crying; I remembered how he had told me his mother had been so poor that when he was fourteen she sent him out to be a trekking porter; with 30 kilos on his breaking back he had cried all the way around Annapurna. I grabbed Karma by the collar; all went silent in an instant. Karma spouted nonsense about Jog and Raj and I released my grip and told him to go on back to Kathmandu. The Pokwal boys threw in their cards; they would all go back, to hell with this trek. Jog was already packing his own belongings and Raj was leaving in the morning. Karma threw the trek money belt at me. I checked its contents to find a few worthless washers and a handful of small rupee notes; he had already spent the money. Now we were truly stuffed. With hindsight I should have gone it alone with Hana and Indra but the trek was owed money and with this I had a bargaining point. Jilge and Kancha were owed some salary which I now refused to pay unless they completed the trip. Once completed they could collect the cash from Karma. This way I could have two strong porters and not pay them a penny. They looked angrily at Karma who, although almost paralytic knew he had to agree in principle even if he never paid them back. I told Karma he was now a porter and had to come with us with no salary or I’d go to the police check post and complain he had stolen the kitty. Jog was brought back on board as cook and everyone agreed to eat and not complain about anything he made. I felt confused but did not show it, tried to keep a grip but was disintegrating; Hana, Karma, World Peace and those damned slippery demons were pulling me apart. I was beginning to lose it big time and no one would be safe.

Day 7

Raj went back home with a stiff neck, aching shoulders and his salary paid in full; I had given him a little extra for having been subjected to such harsh treatment. Things had changed since the events the night before, everyone now looked to me (except Hana who may not have been aware of exactly what had gone on) for the programme of the day. First a new porter had to be found and Karma and Kancha left in search of one. Jog was feeling delicate and I left him to pack up as Jilge and I went to buy supplies. Jilge was adept at buying food, carefully checking the grains for stones and weevils and insisting on good prices. (He was very aware of the need to save money and also very angry at Karma for wasting so much.)

I apologised to the two American girls for our scandalous behaviour, asked them to apologise on my behalf to the Englishman and Lama for not coming to the Gompa but things had now changed somewhat. In fact I felt I was needed to hold the group together and had to forget any side trips that may make me lose my grip. Hana was totally indifferent to the Gompa which made things more simple.

A new porter appeared, a strong, cheeky, handsome Hindu man who, for reasons that will become obvious, was nicknamed Monkey. Monkey was from the blacksmith caste but had chosen to earn a living growing potatoes to sustain his wife and four children. The Tamangs looked down on his caste; Karma told me that traditionally in the Mahabharat hills Tamangs do not even allow them in the house. Like Indra he was a godsend, strong, tough and very uncomplicated.

There was a sense of unity, of cohesion as we trekked above the large flat plain of Dhorpatan. The scenery was beautifully alpine, meadows giving way to thick pine slopes whose upper reaches were sprinkled white. We followed the Phagune Khola north and left the settlements behind. Thick snow lay on every ridge and peak telling me the way was shut and Dolpo effectively cut off.

We stopped at a large broken wooden kharka, the roof and walls of which had half collapsed. It was occupied by perhaps thirty people who were sheltering from the snow. They were divided up into family groups, each sitting around their own makeshift fire. We learned they had been waiting two days for the weather to improve before attempting the Phagune La; it was choked up with ice and at over 4000 metres in those conditions a fairly serious undertaking as there were no villages on the other side. The men had been killing small birds with slings and catapults to help sustain them during their long, cold wait. We found space, made a fire and joined them in the kharka. The occupants of the kharka wanted us to cut a path so that in the morning they could follow us across the pass with relative ease. It was agreed and Hana and I disappeared into the roomy blue tent whilst the crew chose to sleep in the damp, windy kharka rather than their own tent.

Day 8

Dawn found us following the khola up a steep narrow valley whose sides were heavy with fresh snow. It was a slow plod on difficult terrain and we were all happy to let a Belgian duo and their entourage pass us on the track; if they cut through the thick ice and snow all the better for us. We soon caught them up below the top, under the last near vertical icy stretch, their strong Brahmin guide struggling to etch a zigzag path. All the occupants of the kharka formed a chatty queue behind us, waiting to see if the way ahead was clear. It was, and soon the top was a mass of shivering Nepalis. Thick snowfields surrounded us and this time we took the lead and hurriedly made our way down towards what seemed to me more endless white. Sinking up to our waists, soaked, cold but happy we ploughed on down as fresh snow began to fall. The way became dangerous, narrow and steep with exposed icy rocks too lethal to step on and the forest still a long way off. Eventually the skeletons of two old kharkas came into view but Kancha said it was best to carry on, leave them to the freezing Nepalis struggling behind. As we entered the pines the Brahmin guide ran past me, hacking down the now visible track. I thought he was having fun, cavorting after the hard, miserable crossing of the Phagune La and although I had a heavy pack and felt rather tired, chased him for the sheer hell of it. I followed him as fast as I could run, leaping down drops, jumping boulders taking risky short cuts where the path twisted and turned. I got in front and hammered down out of the forest into a huge flat white meadow surrounded by steep wooded slopes. I stopped, turned and waited for him for perhaps thirty seconds, hoping to share a joke, make friends, have a laugh or whatever. He appeared, looked glum and ran straight past me on into the white meadow. As I stood gasping for breath, bewildered at his behaviour, I noticed two kharkas in the snowy fields; one was solid and in one piece, the other tumbled down. The Brahmin guide ran to the solid one, staked his claim, shelter for the night, and disappeared inside. Karma appeared laughing, knew what had occurred and said at least our kharka had air conditioning.

The kharka was not as bad as it had first seemed and Monkey soon got to work reconstructing it; in no time at all the roof was fixed, walls patched up and a huge roaring fire lit, to dry our soaking clothes. Every single piece of clothing I had on was wet through, even my boots, which had been protected by gaiters, were soaked. The spot was beautiful and quiet, the dusk air crisp. Here the snow was only about eight inches deep allowing easy access to water from the rushing khola.

Day 9

We awoke to find leopard prints dotted around the tent and kharka suggesting we had been scrutinised during the night by a silent visitor.

The upmarket-kharka-Belgians were convinced that the 4500 metre Jang La ahead was impassable and had decided to head into Dolpo via Sisne. We knew the Dwari La after Sisne to be even higher at 4600 metres and decided to ask for local help at Pelma, the next village, to show us the dreaded short cut.

I don’t remember exactly when I had really pissed Hana off with some misplaced joke, but she was barely talking to me. She was furious, seething; how dare I, didn’t I know what it was like to be Korean in the western world, let alone a woman. A raw nerve exposed; Wow! I’m sorry Hana. At the time I laughed; words, oh those words to which we give a meaning, give power. If I had said it in Tamang they would have floated by and disappeared but in English they launched a thousand piercing daggers. I did say sorry, really meant it, but what use is sorry when the utterance has been heard, translated and endowed with potent meaning.

Hana Hoo barely spoke to the others or me; I did not really know what she was going through as communication went from bad to worse.

Out of the white meadow and into the magic frosted forest we slowly trekked. Huge silver green lichens hung from rhododendron branches like surreal creepers. We followed the Ghustang Khola, its blue waters furiously twisting through the rocky forest floor having drained the west faces of Putha and Churen Himal. Every now and then Monkey let out a piercing whistle to frighten off the bears and pigs. He had a strange whistling technique which involved curling his little finger across his tongue and I tried to get him to teach it to me; I was useless but soon all the men were showing me their various whistling techniques and the forest was alive with competing shrills and laughter. Hana stayed silent, lost in her own thoughts and seemingly impenetrable.

We ate lunch on the track; Hana’s silence had a sobering effect and soon I felt the tensions rise again. Karma and I had totally forgotten about the Dhorpatan incident, such was the nature of our relationship, and he asked me what was wrong with Hana. I didn’t know: was it me, the inner world of the roomy blue tent, the Dhorpatan incident, the bad joke, the drinking, the conflict between the fantasy and reality of trekking or other things she kept firmly to herself. Hana didn’t say and we trekked on. The path left the khola far below as we followed a sharp ridge north. The moody weather had given way to a bright blue sky and sunshine; the view was dazzling. Everywhere we looked were steep, wooded hills and narrow valleys, uninhabited and abundant with wildlife. All day the beautiful blue pheasants of Nepal took off from the path and undergrowth in front of us and glided down the valley. Eagles soared high above and on the snowy track were the crap and footprints of many animals including deer, cats, bears, pigs and weasels.

By the time Pelma came into view it had been another long, tiring day. The vista was splendid; far below, where the fierce Ghustang and Pelma Kholas joined, the valley was awash with flowering rhododendrons; red, white, pink and mauve speckled the riverbanks, dazzled and saturated our senses. Pelma itself was a small, spread out settlement, its houses dark and eerie against such a colourful backdrop. There was one lodge, which we soon took over to start the evening eating and drinking ritual. Jog bought two chickens for supper but refused to kill them (it is forbidden in Tamang culture). Monkey did the deed, happy that he would be eating meat. I hit the irak with the others as Hana disappeared inside the roomy tent. Everyone was cheerful, joining in with the cooking, drinking and telling tales of Himalayan wonder. No one mentioned the way ahead, the route or the snow; I knew it was for me to decide and for Karma to find a way.

I checked on Hana and found she had been crying; we both shifted from hard to soft and started to communicate once more. Looking back I have only respect for her as she was dragged across the icy Himalayas by a bunch of wild men. Karma and I were used to gruelling treks, sleeping rough, treading a dangerous tightrope between trekking and mountaineering, pushing our luck at every chance. So far this had been a mild trek in comparison to others, yet for Hana it may well have been overwhelming.

That night I slept in the lodge; both Hana and I needed space to make this trek work.

Day 10

Jang La was shut. The locals said it was impossible to pass. I looked at the map: between Jang La and the Dwari La after Sisne, was no man’s land, poorly mapped, no villages but also no peaks above 5000 metres. That’s what the map said, but what the map also said was adventure; come and find me. That was our route, a short cut as the crow flies, the decision had been made. No local knew the way, said we were mad to try but pointed in the direction of Maikot, a village one Nepalese hour away; it would actually take us from dawn until dusk.

Across the Pelma Khola and up the steep hill on the opposite bank we trekked; up and up, steeper and steeper until a strange village appeared, literally cut into the hillside. This village had been built on terraces, each house joining the next on the same level and joining those on the terrace above and below. People sat around on the flat rooftops, which also doubled as walkways, attending to their chores or whiling away the day. They were very friendly, wanted to know where we were going, and hearing Maikot, told us it was just over the hill. A noisy, low flying helicopter hovered overhead taking the entire attention of the village before it slowly disappeared over the ridge. The locals said it was an American hunting team looking for game on the high hilltops as they flew into the Seng Khola valley. (These hunting trips have now been stopped as Maobaddy hijack and strip them of expensive guns).

The hard steep track to the top was worth the effort; a spectacular tableau of the two river valleys welcomed and we lolled in the sunshine, soaking up the glorious view. We could see the enormous forest above Pelma tracing the way from the Phagune La but what we could not see was Maikot or any route that might lead us there. Monkey and I walked to a high spot where the ground fell sharply on the other side allowing us to examine the landscape. We knew that Maikot lay high above the Pelma Khola but, as the river twisted and turned around the many hills before us, were not sure which way to trek. Karma suggested down and we were soon following a steep precarious dusty path down into a hot parched basin. The day was dry and hot in complete contrast to the recent days before, and the whole group had to stop and remove layers of clothing. We were in the bottom of a bowl, a strange lost world whose sharp slopes I hoped we would not have to climb. Jilge found a man who pointed upwards at the mention of Maikot and we slowly dragged ourselves around the edge of the bowl and up a hot tortuous path to the top. Everybody was feeling the heat and progress was slow and silent but Jog had found new spirit and sang and whistled from the bottom to the top.

The roofs of Maikot beckoned. They were still a long way off and we realised we had made a mistake by dropping into the hot basin. The trees on the valley slopes before us had been stripped bare by generations of locals needing wood, and huge eroded chunks of earth gaped out at us like open wounds. We trekked this looted landscape, until the rhododendron forest swallowed us once more. Karma stopped, picked a red rhododendron flower and sucked the bittersweet liquid out from the flower’s stem. We all followed suit, except for Hana, and soon Monkey and I were both on all fours leaping around like playful dogs, biting off flower heads and munching up their vibrant colours. Stir crazy laughter, release and relief, echoed across this ravaged land, generating cohesion and gluing back together our fractured group. Hana remained outside this ritual and only asked why Monkey had lost his marbles as he devoured the magic flowers in a screaming frenzy. I could not answer that question. Fifteen minutes later we elatedly strolled into Maikot. The rhododendron flowers had given me a stomach ache mixed with mild euphoria and I was glad we would be stopping for the day.

Maikot was a strange village. Full of Hindu shrines and a superstitious population. I found it eerie, exaggerated by poles and tridents silhouetted against the bright blue sky. It had a large police presence, who eyed us suspiciously and, although I did not know at the time, were nervously feeling local dissent as the seeds of Maobaddy had begun to germinate.

The roomy blue tent was fixed to the flat roof of a two-storey house that was joined to the path at the second floor by a narrow bridge, giving the appearance of a drawbridge. The drop around the house served as a dry moat, full of debris, chickens, goats, pigs, cows and the source of a foul smell. Jilge pointed from the roof towards a group of snowy peaks set amongst the endless hills rolling north. Jang La was hidden, smothered under all that snow and indeed totally impassable. I pointed towards an endless sprawl of hills fading in the dusk light and said tomorrow we would head into them, find our own route into Dolpo. Jilge laughed, his boyish face alight with delight as he told me I could now be a guide as we would all soon be lost in the maze that lay ahead.

Jog and Karma had great difficulty in finding food supplies as, other than what was grown locally, it all had to be carried in from the Dhorpatan airstrip, making it a precious commodity. Karma had made inquiries about the route and although no one could give us clear directions we thought we would need five days of supplies and he scraped together the bare essentials to add to our dwindling stocks. The police stopped by and demanded to know what we were doing in Maikot; apparently tourists never visited. We explained our snowy predicament and pointed into no man’s land, the police nodded, checked our passports, read them upside down, told us to sign into the police station, changed their minds and then wished us a safe and pleasant journey.

Hana and I stood chatting on the roof, looking out into the black starry night. I felt a strange sensation on my left hand and shook it, moments late I felt it on my neck and pulled off a large spider, throwing it to the floor. With my head torch I traced its movements until it disappeared over the roof’s edge. Hana did not like the idea of spiders and returned to the tent to clear it out, check for creepy crawlies, before giving the thumbs up and zipping it tightly shut.

That night drums beat a monotonous rhythm keeping the village safe from marauding spirits and certainly keeping my sleep at bay.

Day 11

We dropped down through vibrant green fields leaving Maikot and its strange aura behind. Our destination was the village of Roona, somewhere hidden in the sea of hills before us. A cow was being butchered in a field nearby; Hana and Karma went to investigate and shortly returned with a good supply of bloody fresh meat. The killing of cows in Nepal is forbidden and carries a long jail sentence, but a cow that dies of ‘natural causes’ can be eaten. Karma told me that in his village cows are sometimes fed a lethal dehydrating dry grass, kept locked in a shed with no water whatsoever until it ‘mysteriously’ dies. The chief dead-cow-proclaimer is then called and when ‘natural cause’ has been proclaimed the beast is butchered and swiftly devoured.

We crossed the small khola that drove the water mill on the valley floor and followed a good track around the hillside. The hills were bare, stripped of their magnificence and covered in scanty shrubs that now provided the only firewood. Twisting and turning around hillocks, up and down steep loose paths, trekking until we came to a beautiful meadow on the banks of the brook-like Saure Khola where we stopped for lunch. It was a good spot, allowing us to sort out our chattel and wash in the bubbly water. Food supplies were tight and Indra picked an abundance of stinging nettles to put in the soup; Hana was not keen and did not relish the idea of eating the bright green broth. Indra found a reed growing on the riverbank which he called rocktamuhl, he said to chew it slowly after meals to aid digestion and clean my teeth. Its strong metallic taste soon became a familiar after meal ritual for Indra and me.

We crossed the khola and walked up the steep slope towards the still invisible Roona. We stopped at a rocky outcrop to rest. Jog and I had fun, dueling with the long tough stems of stinging nettles. Unlike their weedy European cousins, these plants are vicious, their stinging hairs are long, sharp and hard, full of itching potion that lingers for days. In Nepalese they are known as Sisnu and in Tamang Pollo, but whatever language names them their sting is just as vicious. I lost the duel and suffered burning hands but to my delight Jog sat down on a sharp rock, shot back up and grabbed a waiting nettle for balance, the hairs imbedding themselves deep in his palm. (Once, while trekking in the Everest region, my friends and I had ordered food from a Sherpa tea house; it was to be a long wait and, as we lounged about outside, we saw the tea house owner take a small boy around the side of the house. He cut a few lengths of these savage nettles, pulled the boy’s pants down and, much to our horror, proceeded to thrash him. We got up and left to continue trekking, shocked and bewildered by this act of vicious cruelty).

The dark village of Roona eventually loomed before us, but it did not welcome. Its busy mud-packed paths ignored our presence, wanted us gone. There was nowhere to stay, no food to buy, no directions to follow, no help, nothing. Only the locals, frightened of the Maikot police and their demands for food, drink and, according to Karma, drunken requests for girls. Karma thought it best to leave and as we trekked away from the houses, were approached by the village headman. He was huge for a Nepali, over six feet, a strange looking Magar, thin and gangly in stature and wearing a troubled gaze. He confirmed the lack of food and accommodation but offered to lead us to a flat spot where we could pitch our tents.

Above Roona was a thickly forested ridge which petered out just above the village; there was a small grassy plateau which commanded a spectacular view of the Pelma Khola as it rushed down towards the Bheri river. Large eagles, soaring and gliding across the vista, came so close I could clearly see their dark shiny eyes. There was a water tank nearby which was fed by a spring high up on the ridge. Gangly Magar produced a valve key and turned on the supply. The pipes and tank had been donated by an American hunting group so that they had a convenient water supply when they occasionally set up camp there. I asked what they shot and was told everything, although they are not supposed to. The locals received no other benefit from these expensive hunting trips and were forbidden to hunt themselves; Gangly Magar said he hoped one day they would get a health post built nearby. (Villages like Roona and Maikot became willing recruiting centers for the coming Maoist war).

The route was on everybody’s mind and we quizzed him about tracing a path to Juphal or Dunai in Dolpo. He said there was a way, difficult to find and probably full of snow. Would he guide us? Gangly Magar pondered, said it would take up to three days to reach the high pass, would be cold and difficult and maybe impassable; in summer it would be a simple affair but now he wasn’t so sure since no-one ever used the path in these wintry conditions. Karma and Jilge tantalised him with the promise of money, warm clothes and good food until he eventually succumbed, agreed to lead us to a pass, a gap in the icy rocks he called Chepka.

Although we had kerosene for our stoves and lantern we were wary of using too much in case trouble loomed ahead. We approached Gangly Magar, in his capacity as village headman, on the use of firewood. Roona had a strict firewood quota and had been successful in preserving the forest; they even physically fought other villages who tried to sneakily steal from their abundant patch. He happily accepted our offer to pay for wood and allocated the small rhododendron bushes nearby before heading back to Roona, on Jilge’s request, to fetch a flagon of irak. Hana did not like the idea of cutting live wood and gave the order to collect dead wood only, but there was no dead wood as the forest floor above Roona was regularly cleared of its valuable debris. Karma shouted some orders and Indra and Monkey disappeared to hack the rhododendrons far from Hana’s eyes and conscience.

Hana’s spirits seemed to have lifted and she happily relaxed in the roomy blue tent, tending her journal and eating dinner. The rest of us sat around the fire drinking tea and irak, joking and fooling about; the lout in all of us strutting out its stuff. Gangly Magar, whose name I learnt was Larky, told us when he was a child nearly every inch of the land was densely forested, full of bears, wild cats and evil spirits. Karma’s father had told me his grandfather remembered the Mahabharat hills being completely covered in forest; now it is a wretched site, ravaged by the brutal axe. Larky complained of huge leopards taking cattle at night and small jungle cats constantly killing chickens.

Day 12

The dawn gave way to a glorious day, full of sunshine and dazzling puffs of wispy, white cloud inching their way across a cerulean sky. This optimistic message helped carry us up the sharp rocky ridge to a snowy pass. As we stood absorbing the view, Himalayan black bees kept landing on our bright clothing. Larky said their huge, hanging combs were once a common sight but now their impressive nests were few and far between. Before us lay the steep and densely wooded Chep Khola valley and behind that a white 4000 metre ridge with snowy peaks beyond. Larky explained the snowy peaks hid a holy lake, Sun Pokhari, which was the site of an important local Hindu festival held in August.

The snow was wet and deep and we struggled for a while until the trees thinned out and the snow disappeared. We met three men from Roona who had been picking medicinal mushrooms, chowka jardu, to sell in Kathmandu. They would fetch 3000 rupees a kilo and then be sold on to India and Europe. This activity of plant collection is illegal and the men were taking a big risk since further down rangers were always on the lookout. I requested a peek but the young man refused until Larky uttered a few words in Mager; the man opened his bag to show me a mass of tiny, long stalked, brown mushrooms and selected three for me to keep.

We followed a narrow sharp ridge until the path dropped onto the side of the hill. The way was steep and covered in wet snow, sheltered from the sun’s rays by a canopy of thick pines and sprawling rhododendrons. The trees vanished as we entered a rocky outcrop and followed Larky through a maze of stone; the whole area was littered with leopard crap and strange looking succulents making the scene surreal. On the other side of this rocky labyrinth we carefully edged down a steep scree slope which soon gave way to a tiny path that quickly dropped towards the khola. Both Hana and I were tired and reluctantly walked back up another steep forested slope into which Larky had disappeared.

It was almost dusk when an old kharka beckoned and we finally stopped. A roaring fire was soon ablaze and we started the typical Himalayan ritual of drying out our wet boots. Jog smiling, insisted the roomy blue tent be erected some way from the kharka, out of sight and earshot, and probably out of mind. The kharka was set in a snowy clearing in the dark, old forest. Indra and I went to fetch water from the snowmelt amongst the dank, lichen covered trees. The forest was silent, eerie and undisturbed, belonging to its own shrinking world. The power, the feel of this ancient nature was awesome and Indra and I spoke only in low muffles; my Nepalese was as hopeless as his English but between the two we communicated pretty well. Back at the kharka Monkey was concerned about what we would be leading him into over the next few days. Being from Dhorpatan he was very aware of mountain weather and what might be waiting for us on Chepka. None of us could have imagined, projected this snare silently waiting under the guise of high Himalayan beauty.

That night a leopard growled breaking the awesome silence that had started to make me feel vulnerable. I don’t know what Hana felt as the hushed night exaggerated the chasm between us; never have I been so close and yet so far from another human being.

Day 13

Dawn; wisps of mist, heavy wet air and the sense of a long tortuous day greeted me outside the tent. Larky wanted to get moving, make the most of daylight; perhaps he knew things we did not. We followed a track full of leopard crap, huge dumps full of undigested monkey fur which Kancha and Jilge thought belonged to a snow leopard. Larky confirmed that these cats roamed the hills in relative safety as hunting groups never penetrated this far, but the terrifying noise of the gunfire had driven many animals out of Dhorpatan and into Dolpo where all hunting is forbidden (and in Dolpa they say all the animals have gone to Dhorpatan). The terrain was stunningly beautiful; above us, thick forest disappeared into snowy fields and before us lay a small craggy gorge. We crossed a gushing khola and Larky pointed up a steep rocky wall whose top ridge had a neat natural cutting, a doorway into another part of the narrowing Chep Khola valley. A trace of a path zigzagged before us as we trudged up with our heavy loads to this gateway and took in the vast sprawling way ahead.

The skies were open, blessed with sunshine, but the air was cool, showing we were fairly high. There was no snow on this part of the forest floor and I trekked down into luxuriant green, breathing the light, crisp air. We soon stopped to rest by a precipice and Hana watched as all the men threw stones down this steep sharp drop. Who could hit the boulder or throw the furthest were the games we played; Jog won each and every time. The forest had been broken by some bygone storm and dead and fractured trunks lay strewn before us. This interruption in the sea of pines allowed small meadows dotted with colourful flowers to flourish. Snow returned underfoot and a dilapidated kharka came into view. On the snow lay a pile of bird feathers and a monkey’s tale; small child-like footprints led away from this strange sight, into the forest and down towards the khola. There were no other prints and Larky said this was Roona’s land and no villagers roamed this wilderness until summer. The small, bare human footprints, the monkey’s tale and the plucked bird feathers meant only one thing – Ban Manche. No snow had fallen for many days and the only prints were this single track, each no more than five inches long; the bird feathers were fresh but I could not tell the age of the monkey’s tail. All the Nepalese were conferring; yes, definitely a Ban Manche, maybe there was danger, best not hang around. Hana had been in an aloof, distant mood all morning, not speaking and appeared to show no interest in this extraordinary find. Monkey, who up until this point had been disrespectfully referred to as Garmi (meaning blacksmith caste) by the Tamangs, must have decided to change his name; he picked up the long grey tail and, squatting down, put the end down the back of his pants, hung his arms limp with his knuckles on the ground and let out a monkey cry. He hopped around screeching, banging the ground, demanding our attention and, in my eyes, changing his name forever. Larky said he had heard the Ban Manche on two occasions crying all night long like a new-born baby; for him it was real, and for me, something I did not understand was real, the evidence clearly laid before me. (Snow leopards can cry all night during mating season).

We moved on passing bear, pig, deer and small cat prints on our journey up to Chepka. Soon there was no path and Larky cut a way through the dense bamboo that lined the banks of the khola. We were now in a very steep narrow valley following the fast river to its source. A small tributary ferociously tore down our side of the valley and we stopped for lunch near its frothy entry into the Chep Khola.

The afternoon route was a fairly tricky trace of the khola, over boulders, through dense bamboo and up wet, slippery soil that formed the steepening sides of the valley. We came to a near vertical rock face, maybe 40 feet high, which had a few indented features we could use as hand holds. Larky and the crew went before Hana and me, passing their loads like a chain gang over the difficult last section. It was a slow affair and by the time Hana had reached the last holdless, earthy gully before the top the others were lying on their bellies, arms outstretched waiting to pull her up. But Hana didn’t need any help, seemed put out at this over protective display and struggled over the earthy top lip on her own.

The valley was so steep we had to walk along the boulders that edged the khola, sometimes crossing the water when the way demanded. Thick snow blanketed the upper sides of valley and I could clearly see the mass of animal prints that criss-crossed the sloping forest floor. We followed the shrinking khola higher and higher until the steep valley gave way to white rolling hills surrounded by icy rocky peaks. The river split in two and we took the left khola and headed west. The khola was covered in a thin sheet of ice, its blue waters occasionally breaking free as it violently crashed over rocks. Several times we crossed the freezing torrent and most of us got drenched. The trees and shrubs thinned out and slowly disappeared, giving way to a sea of icy white. Everywhere we looked was white, sparsely dotted with the pitch black of rock. We trekked through deep snow on the north bank only to be thwarted by a chasm that sent us back across the khola to plod through the snowy fields high above on the opposite side. Jog and I led the way, the glare was painful and I put on a pair of very dark sunglasses and trekked through a brown tint. The snow was waist deep, progress slow and tiring, forcing us to stop frequently and catch our breath. Back down to the khola, across its drenching torrent, up through steep snowfields, back to the khola; and so it continued until dusk. We stopped by the tiny khola on the only flat piece of ground we could find. Looming over us, across the khola was a huge over-hanging, icy rock pinnacle whose loose boulders had crashed down and littered the opposite bank. We discussed the possibility of avalanche or rock fall and decided we were just out of reach. Larky had got us to collect wood before the trees vanished and a fire was lit in a miserable attempt to dry out our wet, freezing boots. A few stalks and old reeds lined the khola and Monkey collected as many as possible to add to our small supply of firewood.

Silence, broken only by the mesmerising sound of the khola. Darkness, illuminated by a big moon; sparkling snow crystals reflecting its dazzling light. Tonight was the night for a moon tan in this shimmering world of frosty brilliance. Shooting stars showered the Himalayan sky with a magic that electrified and charged my being.

We had a meeting; what to do tomorrow? The route could only get worse, higher and more treacherous; we had no rope, no crampons, no mountaineering equipment whatsoever, only Santos’ old-fashioned ice axe that we had been using to dig holes for our campfires. We were not yet in trouble, tired and cold perhaps, but still had the time and reserves to turn back. Nobody knew what lay ahead, even Larky had been getting confused in the white world where the khola was the only recognisable feature. Hana left the decision to Karma and me; we were cold, wet, had very limited food supplies and no information on what may be awaiting us: how could we refuse such seduction? We made the decision to continue.

Day 14

Hana was in better spirits; the day was bright, not a cloud in sight and we started early, I full of verve and sanguine spirit. Leaving the khola, which had by now become a tiny trickle lost under drifts of snow, we headed north, sinking to our knees with every step. Only white lay ahead, and over each bank or ridge, more endless white surrounded by icy peaks. Up we trekked and trudged over and around steep craggy rocks until the way became sheer and dangerous. The deep snow was very loose in places making a slip and tumble down the sharp slopes a likely possibility. We had no idea what lay under the soft snow; gullies, rocks, streams and chasms could all be waiting, jaws open, for our misfooted mistakes. Jilge and I took it in turns to lead, cutting steps with the ancient ice axe as the others followed slowly. The deep wet snow, altitude and our heavy packs made the journey up to Chepka exhausting. Hana complained of a headache and requested a rest; Kancha quickly gathered snow and boiled a kettle for tea; time was not on our side and Larky insisted we make haste to the top.

We stood on Chepka, a small snowy ridge that separated Dolpo from Dhorpatan. Just above us on either side, were white peaks indicating that we were very high. Behind us, Dhorpatan sprawled to the horizon; the white blanket we had ascended, the forest and crags we had trekked looked tiny from this exhaled and glorious position. Before us lay Dolpo, an immense barren landscape of rolling hills and peaks. Over Chepka our route was a desperately steep snow bank, opening up into a white bowl hundreds of metres below. On either side of this bowl, two imposing gorges with vertical rock faces cut their way forward and appeared to join some distance after the bowl. There seemed no way down or across these chasms and the snow may have been hiding all sorts of perils. To our right the peak was so snow bound we knew it to be impassable and to our left, over the other peak, Larky said there were vertical drops; we had to go forward or back and he said there was a way forward: keep left after the bowl and all would be revealed. I wasn’t convinced, asked him if he would accompany us into these savage jaws but he refused, would go no further, needed to hurry back the other way to reach the tree line before dusk brought its freezing temperatures. Beyond the gorges a small khola traced its way down through snowy forests and crags and we could just make out some green terraces. That was all the hope we needed; a village, food and warmth.

It had started snowing as I paid Larky. He had wanted my fleece salopettes but I refused to part with them; we did give him plenty of dried meat and some matches to light a fire and he speedily followed our prints back down the mountainside. I asked Karma if Larky would make it back to shelter before dark but he dismissed Larky with a wave, said he was from these hills and anyway he had left us in the lurch. Karma said the only reason Larky did not accompany us any further was that he feared a lake he had vaguely mentioned buried beneath the bowl’s deep snowdrifts. I could only see white, under which was apparently was a lake, its freezing waters waiting to swallow these foolish travelers. Larky had given us no hint to where it lay but Jilge and Indra thought if we traced the edge of the right hand gorge we should be safe.

We half walked, half tumbled down the steep slope, sometimes sinking to our waists, sometimes rolling when the snow collapsed. We were shouting, elated with joy for having arrived in lower Dolpo or perhaps because the reality about to unfold was too horrendous to contemplate. At the bottom of the long, steep slope, where the bowl leveled out slightly we stopped to assess a lake-avoidance route. Our plan to follow the edge of the right gorge was abandoned due the presence of a white, vertical wall with no trace of a gorge which we realised must have been hidden under a huge snowdrift. To our left was another near vertical icy rock crag, under which was the most likely place to hold a lake. No one had yet told Hana about the hidden lake and she asked what we were discussing. She didn’t get a proper reply and we trekked forward, Indra soon disappearing into a huge hole. We pulled him out and he said his feet had touched water but also rock. We now felt we had somehow avoided the lake and moved on, each step taking us at least to our waist in wet snow. Several times people disappeared and had to struggle back out of the holes but, no sooner was a leg or hand out, it was sinking once again in the deep wet snow. Progress was painfully slow but when we left the bowl the snow became hard and icy, making the going much easier. Drenched and exhausted we stopped to rest. Kancha, Indra and Monkey had only canvas shoes into which they had ineffectively inserted plastic bags as socks, my leather boots turned out to be just as wet through and equally useless. To our right the gorge had opened up but the steep slopes to its edge were too dangerous to walk. We decided to make camp and try to find a way down in the morning.

The night was beautiful, the snow frozen solid. I stood admiring the big moon, the shooting stars and the silent wonder of the frosted Himalayas. Jog came and stood next to me, pointed to the roomy blue tent, shook his head, made a sexual gesture and said “No good in high place”. It was so cold I soon went in and joined Hana in the not so cold roomy blue tent. That night the wind blew hard, the mess tent furiously flapping and Hana, having just returned to the tent after peeing told me the moon was huge and low and she felt frightened.

Day 15

I woke before dawn to find the crew cursing the wind which was now blowing away valuable pieces of chattel and depositing them in inaccessible and dangerous places. My sleeping bag was frozen to the tent floor, my tee shirt stiff as a board and boots wet and frozen. We left early to be able to walk on the frozen snow before the sun’s rays melted the hard crust. The wind had eased but it had started snowing again as we slowly made our way over to the left side across a huge steep slanting snow field. It was 5 am, vertical drops greeted us and we crossed back to the other side a little lower down. This time the icy crust gave way and we sank down at each step making it another long, hard, tortuous plod. Once it had stopped snowing the sun came out in full strength. We were very aware of the possibilities of an avalanche on this slope and wanted to be off it as soon as possible. We zigzagged our way down until the snow gave way to a rocky patch that ended in more huge drops. We were standing at the apex where the two gorges became one. The left gorge was full of icefall, deep avalanche snow and, even where the snow slopes swept into the gorge, an attempt would have been lethal. The right hand gorge was so horrendous we didn’t even contemplate its possibilities and we went back up the way we had come down to once again examine the options, it was useless, we were stuck. Jog was panicking slightly and he and Jilge decided to walk high on the west side to look for a way over the gorge. I knew it was hopeless, Larky had explained the terrain and I realised the left gorge must have run a long way back. They disappeared and soon Kancha and Karma were leading the group after them. This was the only time I really felt frightened; to go up there filled me with dread and terror and I protested. I knew I could climb down into the gorge on the icy rocks that edged the icefall. But that was me, what about Hana? Although we were hardly talking, I felt that my first responsibility was to her, not to the others.

I heard an unearthly cry high up on the icy ridges, and scoured the distinct lines that bordered the sky. Nothing, not a trace of what had produced the sound. Again I heard a cry, but this time it shrieked, momentarily wailed like a monkey before it abruptly stopped. None of the others had seemed to have heard it but when I mentioned it to Karma and Kancha they halted their ascent and knowingly exchanged a glance. I described the sound and its high source; “Ban Manche, Ban Manche, danger, warning, we must go down” was their unhesitant response. We saw the other two, small figures silhouetted against the glaring snow. Karma whistled, the two stopped and we thought they would turn round and come back but they carried on, heading higher into white oblivion. We went back down, all the way to the edge of our icy prison and discharged our packs. Monkey was suffering from the beginnings of snow blindness; painful, bloodshot eyes, bombarded by the sun’s intense reflection from the compact snow. I had cut two small peepholes in his scarf and wrapped it around his face to minimise the glare, but he had complained it restricted his vision and removed his only protection. Karma was supposed to have brought along a collection of sunglasses but the money had been spent elsewhere. Jog too was without sunglasses and I knew that blind agony must have been slowly creeping up on him.

The spot where we sat and pondered our fate was the point of a triangle, on two sides steep drops and behind the sweeping snowfields that met the bowl and its hidden lake before the awesomely steep slope to Chepka. Could we go back, back up that route and into Dhorpatan? We were tired, wet and hungry, with only one meal left and we needed to get down. There were maybe five hours of daylight left and none of us wanted to camp on Chepka. We didn’t know if we could even make it back up that slippery slope. The sun’s reflection scorched our skin, burning our contorted faces, weathering us into wrinkly leather hides. Jog and Jilge returned to confirm the reality of Larky’s advice. Jog was in real trouble with snow blindness and on hearing that the Ban Manche had let out its awesome cry decided to head down the steep rocks. We stopped him and made a decision to attempt a descent in a steep snow filled gully. A basket and its contents was hurled down the gully to see if an avalanche would start; it didn’t but the basket was dashed against the rocks and broke up before it came to rest on the gorge floor far below. One slip could be fatal. Karma zigzagged from one side of the gully to the other, carefully testing the ground before him with the ancient ice axe. The snow gave way under foot and he fell about twenty feet before coming to rest in the deep snow. I traced his prints down and took over; the snow was very soft and sometimes waist deep. Before long I was sliding down the steep gully on my belly; in a desperate attempt to stop myself I plunged the axe into the snow, nothing happened and I lifted my feet in the hope it would reduce my chances of a free fall tumble. In a few seconds I was hurtling down the slope but in a sheer twist of fate the axe, upon which I still had a firm grip and was pushing into the snow beneath me, hit a rock, the force of which spun me over pushing my legs deep into the snow bringing me to a halt. The axe, having been wrenched from my grip, continued its downward journey. I clearly remember hearing Hana’s voice shouting my name and I looked up to acknowledge her concern, but she had disappeared from view, perhaps unable to watch what may have been a ghastly sight. I began the slow, difficult trace of my steps back to the top. Jilge said I had been very lucky; luck or no luck we were not going to try that again and now I had lost the ice axe, our one and only prop. Hana was beginning to freak out and something had to be done to get the group down as quickly as possible for it would only be a question of time before the group fragmented, split up in the desperate struggle to survive.

Jog removed his boots and was about to disappear over the edge of the steep rocks; the rocks were icy and safer to negotiate in bare feet than slippery rubber. We could not see what lay over the edge and before he disappeared I handed him my dark glasses. We waited in silence.

After what seemed an age he returned and said it was quite possible to get down if we took great care. We wasted no time and hurled all our bags down the gully to collect later, if there should be anything left after their dashing descent. With our boots off we climbed down the edge of the gully, knowing we could not afford to make one mistake. Hana had gone silent, had refused to remove her boots even after I had explained the superior grip of skin in these conditions. It was not such a difficult descent, a bit tricky in places, but maybe just the idea of getting down was enough to veil any danger. We recovered the ice axe at the bottom of the gully where it joined the ice fall, put our boots back on and made our way through the deep drifts to the bottom.

Looking back up the gully and rock face I had no idea how we managed to get down without a serious accident; it was steep, icy and repelling. I stayed with Hana as the others ploughed through snow and ice to recover the bags. She refused to talk to me; I couldn’t blame her, after all it had been Karma’s and my recklessness that had nearly finished us all off. I tried to lighten the situation and asked if she thought we were cowboys; she responded, looked at me and drily said that that word was far too good for us. Too good? What could be worse except the marauding hordes of Robber Zhi perhaps?

We had lost the kerosene, various pots, the lantern and stove, the main tent was wrecked and various baskets smashed to pieces. There were about three hours of daylight left but I knew we were now safe and felt that all we had to do was consolidate our chattel and trek to the nearest fire wood. The group was in bad shape; Hana refused to tell how she was, Jog and Monkey were now suffering acute snow blindness, Indra had probably fractured a rib in one of his many falls through the snow, Karma was suffering from some kind of fever and Jilge had terrible sun burn as well as damaged toes from his over tight boots. Only Kancha and I seemed to have been relatively unscathed. We were all wet through and proceeded to change into dry clothes, except for Hana who just sat, ignoring our pleas to change her clothes. Now that we were out of the snow, the most important thing was to get out of our wet boots and replace them with the dry plimsolls that we all carried. As dusk fell our wet boots would freeze our toes and since the west side of the gorge was a snow free scree slope we could be sure of dry feet. Soon we were trekking along the narrow west bank of the gorge. The opposite side was a sheer vertical face and in the middle a tiny khola trickled under ice. Jog had lost his marbles and insisted he could reach the village by dark; we didn’t know the way and I was sure we couldn’t even cover a tenth of the distance before the sun disappeared. Blinkered, he raced ahead, followed by a stumbling Monkey. Behind me Karma and Indra painfully ambled. I decided to keep up with the two snow-blind maniacs in an attempt to stop the group dispersing. It was a difficult journey along the scree slopes but we soon left them and found a small path that entered a rhododendron thicket. Jog didn’t stop, he pressed on with Monkey and I waited for the others. Hana wanted to rest, she seemed slightly delirious, but the group plodded on and I went in search of the two madmen. The scenery was magnificent, a craggy gorge surrounded by empty rolling hills; I felt pleased to have survived such a journey and end up in this wonderland. I doubted if the others felt the same but I savoured those moments before arriving at a broken kharka. Jog and Monkey had not stopped and I now feared they would trek on into the night. I followed their footprints embedded in the soggy earth through a small pine spinney. A vast sprawling snowy meadow swept down to the khola far below and on a pine ridge in front I could just make out Jog and Monkey in the fading light. I caught them up and insisted they stop. We lit a fire and I made Jog promise not to move.

It was almost dark when I found the others slowly walking through the pine spinney. Hana was being supported by Indra and the whole group, except for Kancha (although his calf was aching), seemed on the verge of collapse. Jilge seemed in good spirits, only his damaged feet made his progress slow. We made camp on the top edge of the steep snowy field where I had left the snow-blind maniacs. We set the roomy blue tent up on the ridge and over the other side, where the pines began, made our main encampment in a hollow. It was dark and we all lolled around a large dead tree trunk we had set alight. No one spoke much; Jog and Monkey were in considerable pain and Monkey was very worried his condition was permanent; Karma was in the grips of fever, Indra explained that years before he had been kicked by a cow in Muri and a rib had been pushed dangerously close to his heart; it was this rib which was now troubling him again. Jilge displayed black and peeling toes but laughed it off; Hana was nowhere to be seen. I looked up at the tent and saw her lying flat out in the snow, illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. It had started snowing and I called out to her; no response, nothing. I went up and shook her but she didn’t stir; I checked her pulse, it seemed normal. Indra carried her to the fire where he and I proceeded to take off her wet clothes, dry her and put back on as many dry warm layers as we could find. She seemed half aware of what was going on but didn’t speak. Her hands and feet were stone cold and Karma, Jog, Indra and I went to work rubbing the circulation back in. It wasn’t working and Indra carried her back to the tent and out of the snow. It took nearly two hours of massage to get her warm, Jog was so worried that he even resorted to sucking her toes to stop frostbite. Jilge had made a garlic/ginger tea for Hana and we managed to get her to drink a little; she must have been extremely dehydrated and any liquid she drank was a relief to us. At last she spoke, asked if we had arrived at camp and complained of cold. We put Hana in her sleeping bag and put mine around that for extra warmth. Indra kept massaging and talking to her, he showed great compassion and resolve and, long after Jog and Karma left the tent, driven by the cold to the warmth of the fire, he stayed with me to keep a vigil on Hana. Kancha had cooked the last of the food and I wolfed my helping down.

The night was long and cold; Jog and I shivered in the blue tent, neither of us had sleeping bags or blankets and for my own piece of mind I occasionally nudged Hana until she gave a response. When the cold got too much I left the blue tent and warmed myself by the fire. The large black mess tent had been totally wrecked in its jaunt down the gully and the others just kept close to the blazing fire all night. Karma was worried about Hana, felt as guide it was his entire fault and wanted to know what to do if she died. I never felt she was going to die, she had more mettle than any of us could imagine. I jokingly told Karma he would have to go to prison in Canada but he could only manage a painful smile.

Day 16

Hana was very quiet but seemed well enough to travel; we had no more food and no other choice but to get moving. We had saved her a meal from the previous night’s cooking which she slowly ate. I asked if she remembered what had happened but she just shook her head. Karma was still asleep, wrapped up in a sleeping bag, his head in one basket and his feet in another; the sight made me laugh, want to take a photograph but I was too exhausted to bother. We started off and before long were standing on the edge of another precipice wondering which way to go. Kancha wanted to go west, around a new gorge we had found, but I felt we needed to stick close to the khola since a source of water would give more chance of us finding a village. We travelled through a wood on top of a rocky plateau. The scenery was stunning, an exquisite rugged beauty that I really enjoyed. We came across wolf dung and I scoured the empty rolling hills to our west for a sighting, to no avail. The day was warm and bright but the forest floor thick with snow and once again our feet got wet. Both Monkey and Jog wore Hana’s and my dark glasses to ease the hellish pain the harsh light inflicted on their eyes. The rocky-forested plateau came to an abrupt halt and a steep path led down to the gushing khola where a huge vertical boulder shaded some laughing children. As we descended their high spirits turned to silence, a silence that quickly turned to worried comments and they soon fled, disappearing into the dark forest; the devils had arrived.

We knew the village must be fairly close, crossed the small wooden bridge spanning the khola, and walked through a small-enchanted alpine meadow. We were now on the gorge floor where delicate grass and flowers were overlooked by the close, imposing forest and high rocky crags. The huge overhanging boulder offsetting the idyllic scene with its dark, somber face. Although exhausted, this captivating dell fired my spirits and I was soon trekking with the others up the opposite slope with renewed vigour. But the forest was dense, the way difficult and soon we all slowed to a snail’s pace, reflecting the true nature of our condition. As we walked the forest gradually gave way to a barren landscape, the trees raped, butchered by hands that swung the dreaded axe; a tragic sight after our magic sojourn through a truly wild country. We followed an empty path that left the savage beauty of Chepka far behind and, in this ravaged land that we now trod, I was already missing it.

Pink cherry blossoms appeared and we stopped to rest. The splendid vista of Chepka and its surrounding peaks, crags, forests, and icy wastes was soaked up by us all. It looked vast, steep and impossible, yet the impact of our exhausting experience had not yet fully registered for we joked as if it had all been so easy.

The village of Thali loomed above us; a group of tightly packed houses built on steep terraces. Thali was the most unfriendly, mean spirited village I have ever had the misfortune to stumble across on my many travels in Nepal. We were tired, dehydrated and extremely hungry, some of us in really poor shape and in need of some respite. I can’t remember what caste of people inhabit Thali except that they were Hindu. Karma had already expressed concern before we had even encountered anyone, but we had had no choice and before long entered this niggards’ lair. Somehow we ended up on a rooftop with a large inquisitive crowd examining us and our chattel. We must have looked a sorry sight: Jog and Monkey still with painful bloodshot eyes, Jilge’s face burnt and scabby, Hana’s face was also losing a layer and I had sunburnt nostrils where the glare had reflected off the snow and into my nose making huge, bloody scabs. We were all weak and filthy. “Where had we come from?” “Chepka of course.” “What are you? Gods or Ghosts? Nobody comes over Chepka in the snow, you must have come via Sisne and then lost the path.” Jilge and Indra explained in detail the route we had taken to arrive in Thali. The locals were astonished that we had not perished in our attempt to get down the slopes of Chepka. We learned that, in living memory, nineteen locals had died trying to cross Chepka, nine of whom had perished in the last few years. Deep snowdrifts choke up hidden chasms which swallow the unsuspecting traveller; and if the chasms don’t get you then there is the lake, rock falls, avalanches, loose ground, vertical drops and freezing weather. Having survived these ravagers the dilapidated traveller has then to face the wrath of Thali which now showed us its true colours. They knew we had no food, needed rest and shelter, knew we were dependant on their good will and started to turn the screw, extracting as much cash as possible from our dwindling supply. They laid their cards out for us to see, there could be no mistake, pay the price of clear off. They smiled and were seemingly friendly but demanded exorbitant rent for staying, six hundred rupees for a few bundles of firewood and the food was five times more expensive than a Kathmandu supermarket. All around were fields of abundant crops and one day’s walk away was the airstrip of Juhpal where the government dropped large amounts of subsidised grain for the local population. When we were on the verge of leaving in disgust they lied to us saying there were no settlements between Thali and Juhpal, just to keep us for a night. We could have left, suffered for one more day and night, but reluctantly stayed put and parted with obscene amounts of cash.

Day 17

We left Thali lighter in pocket but its trying experience had sobered and tightened the group bringing it back together. Hana and I had shared the roomy blue tent, we needed to stick together during this dislocating time. The day was blisteringly hot as we followed the path high up the valley side with the khola far below. Hana soon separated from the group and trekked alone in her own impenetrable world.

A small settlement appeared and we stopped to make lunch with the priceless supplies we had left over from Thali. A crowd soon gathered and to avoid being charged ground rent or some wayfarer’s toll we strolled out of the village and cooked on the path. We had one stove intact and a few litres of kerosene saved from the main jerry tank that had smashed up in the gully descent. The crowd followed and stood staring as we carried on with our chores. Some had never seen tourists and certainly not blue eyes, but their curiosity was not friendly and Karma asked this rough, ragged bunch if tourists had ever walked this path. Never, was the reply but something else was bothering this horde and I stood on the stonewall that edged the path to scour the land for an answer. A large, bloated dead cow was being checked out by magnificent white vultures that, once landed, were chased off by savage dogs. It was a fascinating scene but soon the dogs got bored and disappeared; the vultures then fought amongst themselves for first pickings and made such a racket that the dogs returned to chase the scavengers away again. Then I saw it. I hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees but now everywhere I looked I clearly saw fields of wheat and maize equally dotted with the unmistakable leaves of the marijuana plant. Of course my sudden awareness had been noticed and now the locals eyed me in silence. This lucrative cash crop, a poor, remote community and its unknown relationship with the authorities was not my business and I sat down to wolf down some hot food. The crowd dispersed, perhaps my indifference had placated any fears they may have had of our presence. The glistening slopes of Chepka looked formidable as I turned every now and then to etch its features on my mind. The afternoon was hot, the path narrow and cut into the steep valley side, as we endlessly toiled towards Juhpal. Hana had turned completely silent, walked a long way ahead of the group and if we caught her up she ignored each and every one of us. Everyone was worried; was she sick, angry, furious, miserable, depressed, wanting to go home, or all or none of these? Hana wouldn’t say and the tension became unbearable.

Kancha stopped by a rock which had three scoop-like indentations, similar to a bear’s claw marks, and proclaimed a Ban Manche had been this way; the others all agreed and then continued on the path. We crossed a densely forested pass and on the other side Juhpal came into view. I felt so relieved, as did the whole crew, and we started whistling and shouting; Hana stayed silent.

Juhpal is a small village with a tiny grass airstrip which is Dolpo’s only direct link to the outside world. During bad weather it can be closed for months. At a hill spring above the airfield Jilge, Jog and Indra tried to communicate with Hana but she completely blanked them and was now openly hostile to us all. As we trekked into the ramshackle stone village Karma said we had to work out our crucial next move. Money was low, the group exhausted and Hana totally withdrawn. We stopped at a lodge run by a Tamang man and gathered our wits. The lodge owner told Karma all the passes in Dolpo were shut and an American and his guide had been killed a few days earlier by an avalanche on the main path near Do-Tarup. It was hopeless, there was no way we could get to Jomson, no way back and, even if the high passes had been open, we were far too low on supplies to risk it. I spoke with Hana, explained our predicament, lack of funds and suggested she fly back to Kathmandu; that way she could be rid of us, or perhaps me, and this tension, nightmare of a trek could end. The rest of us would walk out via the upper Bheri river gorge to the very south of Nepal and catch a bus to Kathmandu. After paying for Hana’s flight we would be left with so little money I did not know if we could make it without begging or stealing food. I kept this information to myself and waited for Hana’s response. She didn’t know what to do, asked if she could come with us and then said she would give her answer in the morning. I didn’t want her to come with us, was tired, fed up, wanted to amble the hills without responsibility. I had blown it, wrecked the trek by pushing it too far and, although I had enjoyed the adventure, had obviously made Hana’s visit to Nepal a complete disaster. I accepted this quandary as my doing and really believed Hana’s return was for the best.

Juphal was a turning point in spirit and geography; at last we were able to rest without haste, and the impact of what we had been through slowly dawned on me. Hana’s silence stung me like those savage nettles, whose imbedded spines cry out for days. But I was blasted, didn’t want to bother with very much at all and joined the others who now sought solace at the bottom of an irak glass. The lodge owner could hardly believe we had crossed Chepka but said it was reflected in our faces. He looked at me and sympathetically said “Don’t worry, your face will improve.” What the hell did he mean! I searched for a mirror, found a broken piece Jilge had used for shaving and absorbed the reflection of myself. What I saw was bloodshot, burning eyes, unruly hair, a mass of beard, craggy wrinkles, peeling skin and bloody crusts in and around my nostrils; I scared myself and dread to think what others may have seen; like dying parasites, demons were crawling out of my every pore. I washed and shaved, disguised myself once more and returned to the inanities of the irak table. Karma was engaged in conversation with an ex trekking guide who said Chepka was the most deceptive and dangerous pass he had ever crossed. Its relatively low altitude made it seem a simple task but, like us, he had experienced the closing of its savage jaws and had struggled to survive.

Hana slept in the tent which had been fixed to the lodge roof. I found an empty room, shut the door to keep the world out, but heard the drunken shouts and quarrels of Karma, the crew and others still at the bar.

Day 18

The blue and white waters of the upper Bheri river, which lay hundreds of metres below Juphal, was to be our guide and route to the Terai. What could be easier or more simple than following a river gorge? This false sense of security led us on; Kancha and Jilge had even pretended to know the way, a guise that was soon blown by them asking directions from every passer by. Hana had decided to come with us, had wanted to come with us and I had accepted her wish; after all this was her trek, her money and anyway, who was I to tell her what to do. At my request she promised to make an effort with communication but, in retrospect, that was as absurd as asking me not to seek and chase danger and adventure.

Our first new mistake was not to carry much food; we were tired, did not want to be donkeys and decided to buy food on the way. We had left a fair amount of chattel with the lodge owner as payment for our stay and were now without a stove or the heavy burden of carrying kerosene. The steep path cut down the valley and disappeared behind the hills where the river swept around a bend. The panorama was magnificent; the vista of hills, river and villages on the high slopes of the north bank dazzled as we dropped down to the riverside. The low, pre-monsoon waters of the upper Bheri were still swift and intimidating and I wondered if white water enthusiasts ever dared its challenge. We crossed by suspension bridge and were soon in the village of Tibrikot. Events had changed the direction of the trek; snow had forced us to give up our journey into the wild mountains of Dolpo and, shocked, exhausted and lacking in funds, we headed to wherever the river flowed. I had been forced to give up my Himalayan quest but, under the circumstances, was now happy to follow the Bheri. Whatever had happened between Dhorpatan and Juphal, an experience I simply refer to as Chepka, left me quiet, empty and clearly able to see my madness. Chepka had been a battle with the elements, but also a tremendous battle between me and I, the person I was born and the demons it had acquired. The more I tried to shake them, the more they gripped and tricked; it was only drastic measures that seemed to surprise, shock and unhook the talons of these disgusting parasites that drained my being. I tried to talk with Hana, somehow make it up to her but it was useless; perhaps now she could only see me as the demented person that I had become.

We trekked a long way that day, following a path that traced the mighty Bheri river gorge. The group seemed content; danger had passed and what could possibly go wrong on our lengthy meander home? Across a small bridge, at a beautiful spot on the riverside, we stopped for lunch and just about finished our food supply. Kancha was convinced we could pick up more at any small settlement we should encounter but we didn’t encounter any, only the occasional shack whose owner refused to part with the scarce commodity. For some bizarre reason chang and irak were always available for a modest sum and the whole group, bar Hana, indulged in its unearthly pleasures. Just before dusk, where a wide, fast flowing tributary joined the Bheri, we came across a tiny settlement of maybe six houses. They were jammed in a narrow gap between the river and the steep sides of the gorge and took the full brunt of a gusty wind that swept down from Dolpo, making it almost impossible to set up the tent or empty our bags, for with this harsh wind came a dust that forced its way into everything. With dust caked faces we sat in a chang house drinking and asking the few locals who were there where we could buy some food. “Food? Were we mad? It’s hard enough to grow potatoes in this dry barren land let alone sell any. We have to painstakingly carry our food in from Juphal. Sorry, eat dust or go hungry.” I don’t know how he did it but Karma, who was still unwell, managed to find some grain and persuaded a woman to let us use her fireplace, for a fee of course.

That night gusts of wind blew hard on the tent; this eerie sound mixed with the incessant gurgling of the river became my only solace. I can’t remember Hana

This particular trip ends on Day 28, one of many Chapter of The World Peace Journals…