ANNAPURNA
January 18-26, 2001
Peace & Heaven Travel
The alarm clock went off at 6.30 a.m. Our next little adventure was about to begin: the five-hour bus ride from Kathmandu to Pokhara in the Annapurna region. The bus company was called Peace & Heaven Travel and we looked forward to a nice and peaceful trip in their tourist coach. In our dreams. The seats were tiny, the loose windows provided unwanted natural air-conditioning, and the suspension system was omitted in the construction. The noise level made both relaxing and sleeping impossible.
Three men worked on the bus - as women would never be allowed to operate any machinery except for the spinning wheel - the driver, the ticket manager, and the door opener. Although there were plenty of empty seats in the bus, the ticket manager insisted on Marcus and me sitting next to one another because those were the seat numbers written on the ticket. The fact that it was not physically possible for us to shrink to the size of two Nepalese bus seats didn't change anything. As soon as the bus had taken off, a passenger list was sent around in which the bus company asked for name, nationality, and passport number. Like a black box, this would probably be retrieved in case the bus ended up in a river or rolled off some cliff. Or maybe it had no purpose at all?
Nepalese Countryside Driving
In Nepal, there is one brand of large vehicles, TATA. All of them date from a distant past and catalysts don't exist. The result is severe pollution and health problems. Even on the country-side high way, the air quality is very poor. This might explain why most professional drivers in the country are young. Another explanation might be the danger of the traffic itself. As described earlier, it is chaotic. Not because of speed, since the vehicles are too old to go fast. Instead they overtake whenever the probability of success exceeds 50%, giving renewed meaning to the adage about the undertaker who always takes the overtaker.
On several occasions, our bus driver began to overtake the vehicle in front of us while going uphill along curvy roads with a visibility less than 100 meters. With a full throttle, a roaring engine, and constant honking, the bus slowly advanced past the other vehicle that was slightly slower. The honking, we understood, was for our safety as any vehicle around the corner would hear us coming and thus stop. The problem was that the one coming downhill from the other direction did the same thing. Twice, we were very close to a frontal collision. Very close. A European bus driver would be likely to suffer a mild heart attack from such a head-on confrontation, yet the Nepalese didn't show any anxiety whatsoever. The western catch-phrase "you only live once" has not yet reached this part of the world. Life doesn't seem to be as valuable to these people. As long as your karma isn't too bad, you will advance in the spiritual hierarchy anyway when you're born again. Ultimately, if you are lucky, you might even become a cow.
Poon Hill
In Pokhara we got hold of a taxi that would take us to the trailhead. The car was old and looked like it could fall apart any second. To substitute the non-existant seatbelt I put my backpack in my lap as a primitive airbag. The driver immediately removed it, "For your comfort, Sir!".
The trailhead was at 1070 meters and our goal for the day was at 2750 meters. This, we were told by a checkpoint official, would only take four hours. Easy. We felt in great shape and took off right before noon at a good pace, determined to arrive before dusk. We should have consulted the guide books first. The four hours the official had recommended was not only optimistic, it was a lie. The guide books recommended eight to ten hours, preferably over two days of walking. Anyway, after six hours of strenuous walking we arrived at our goal Ghorepani, the "base camp" for Poon Hill excursions. The sunrise at Poon Hill is a have-to if you are in the region, we had been told, so up we went - at 5.30 the next morning. To our chagrin, we had walked far too fast. Sweaty and cold, we had to wait for the crack of dawn for half an hour. It was worth it.
Rhododendron Forests
The hiking areas in Annapurna were green and lush, very unlike the Everest region where most of the trails are at a higher altitude. In Annpurna, banana plants grow up to about 2000 meters and the rhododendron grows tall as medium-size oak trees. Unfortunately, January is not the flowery season. It must be a marvelous scenery in the spring when entire hillsides are blooming in red as far as the eye can see. I wonder if the flowers smell good as well?
Near the village Tadapani, we felt the first really nice smell in three weeks. It came as a wonderful ointment for our noses, almost like a perfume of which we couldn't get enough. The source was a small bush that looked like a miniature citrus tree with white flowers. Nepal has a very large flora of flowers and exotic plants, e.g. over 300 kinds of orchids. The drawback is that most of them flower during the monsoon period in the summer. Thus to get to see the flowers one has to put up with leeches, endless rainfalls and obscured views of the mountains.
The Return of Indiana Jones
"What's that?" I thought, staring on the strange individual who strode up the trail. He was dressed in green and grey linen and a leather hat and looked like he was teleported there from another century. This living anachronism looked exactly like Indiana Jones. Even his equipment was obsolete: a fox-skin rucksack with a sheet of jute cloth attached on top and a well-used tin water flask dangling on one side. His stories were astounding. He had worked on a remote cattle farm in Argentina, crossed Mongolia on a horse back, walked the Annapurna circuit in seven days (21 is recommended), and drunk the water from streams and rivers all over the world, Nepal included, without ever treating it or getting sick. For a while we suspected that he was a mythomaniac, but somehow his personality was convincing. I will regret for a long time that I didn't take a picture of him.
Red-Nosed Himalayan Clowns
Arriving in one of the villages called Deurali (there were at least two), we had spent the last few sugar molecules in our bodies. Exhausted, we put up at the nearest hotel. The owner of the hotel nextdoors looked disappointed and angry, as is typical. We settled in the dining room and quickly ordered pizzas and Kathmandu-made Coke (which is actually quite similar to Coca Cola). The atmosphere was low-spirited, people were tired and cold. At one end of the huge table were two solemn guys playing chess and saying nothing. They looked both bored and boring and when they said something in German, this confirmed the hypothesis. But shame on me, they turned out to be two of the funniest guys on the trip!
Tobias and Carsten, as they were called, had quit their jobs as a dentist and a management consultant, respectively, sold their apartments and cars, and left Germany and the "hamster wheel" (Germlish for treadmill) to go wherever their noses pointed. Their red noses, I should say, because before leaving Germany they had founded the Red Nose World Vision society of laughter, whose main purpose is to put on a red clown nose whenever the need for a laugh arises. A splendid idea indeed, because it always works! We got a nose each as a souvenir and, who knows, we might start using it as well?
The next morning, Annapurna Base Camp at 4130 meters was our goal. The altitude gain was only 800 meters and we could leave our back-packs in the lodge since we were going back the same day. Relieved of the burdens on our backs, the trail was a piece of cake. On the way was Macchapuchare, the holy fishtail mountain. A cloud hovered just above the rim, displaying a remarkable light show. If any mountain deserves to be holy, this should be the one. Though, the spectacle ended abruptly. The clouds rolled in early that day and we caught only a brief glimpse of Annapurna I (8091 meters) from the Base Camp.
When going down, a steady snowfall started. Carsten, one of the Germans, declared this to be a real emergency situation and brought up a cognac flask from his back-pack. It tasted more like calvados than cognac, but who cares at 4000 meters? This little snifter secured our high morals, which in their case was very much needed. For some reason, they seemed to believe that we were all in a real danger. (See their diary (Jan 23): "Es war wohl wieder einer dieser Zufälle, der uns zur rechten Zeit die Schweden (vom Himmel) sandte.") Once back safely in the lodge, they repeatedly thanked us for bringing them down the mountain and bought us tasty pizzas. Their philosophy, they explained, was to "feel and taste" the quintessence of every place they visited and to live through every day "by trial and error". Slightly shaken, but not stirred, they now had a first-hand experience of the capricious nature of the mountains. While the Germans contemplated this, the lodge manager and his friends sat down by the dinner table and puffed some hashish butts. This was their coping strategy for enduring miserable weather and maybe life in general.
Americanization in the Hills
"How is it hanging?" I looked up from my monotonous walk and saw a Nepalese guide going in the opposite direction on the trail. Had he just asked "How is it hanging"? Oh no, I thought, some American must have taught him that that's the modern way to say "How do you do, Sir?" to people. Among American cool, pot-smoking dudes in high school, sure, but in the Himalayas? Sure enough, there she was. A young and overly energetic American south-state girl with braids and a big smile greeted us with "Hiii, how is it hanging?". After a short and polite exchange of words without content, she continued with "Holy cow, this is soooo nice!". I don't know, but I suspect that "holy cow" is not the brightest thing to say just for fun when you're surrounded by Hindus. Hoping that her guide wouldn't catch up more of her baloney, we decided it was time to continue.
Base Camp to the Summit of Everest in 15 Hours
In a small village called Himalaya, we met the guide Ang Dawa Sherpa. He was rather tall and slender, happily drank beers at the cost of his clients, and behaved normally in general. Yet something was peculiar about him. Despite his young looks, he looked confident and calm, drinking his beer with pride. He was special. When Marcus said that I am a climber, he immediately shook my hands and looked as if he had met an old friend that he hadn't met in a long time. It turned out that this man was one of Nepal's foremost mountain climbers. His uncle has the world record in climbing the Everest in 16 hours from Base Camp - which Ang Dawa was determined to beat next year - and his family is good friends with Sir Edmund Hillary, the second most esteemed figure in the Everest Region after Buddha.
In Nepal, a climber is someone who climbs high mountains in down suits with ice axes, crampons, ice screws, et cetera, so he thought that I did the same thing. I humbly explained that I am still a beginner who haven't climbed any serious mountains yet. Had I told the whole truth, that I sometimes hang on an artificial wall indoors five meters above the ground, his interest in me would probably have been smaller. Perhaps he was just happy to talk about his "field" for a while, as his clients were a chain-smoking and not so sporty-looking Dutch couple - in fact a very stereotypic Dutch couple - who surely wouldn't be able to give him any such feedback.
Englishmen
An English guy who sat next to Ang Dawa and had talked a lot about nothing all evening, got confused about the substantial discussion and ironically accused us for carrying on a serious conversation. He got what he wanted and the subject changed into something nobody will ever remember. Speaking of Englishmen, there was another one around the table. This one had his hands perfectly placed in his lap and spoke softly with the most consummate Brittish accent. Without a single straw on his chin, this glib, young fellow was utterly self-absorbed and looked as if he had entered a state of bliss every time he had spoken about one of his [many] accomplishments. Around him shone an aura of unfounded contentment. We concluded that he was either a member of Jehovah's witnesses or the unprobable offspring of Prince Charles and Mr Bean.
Soaking in the Hot Springs
After three weeks of trekking, both of us had had enough of the mountains and we longed for some real comfort. This day, the second last of the trek, we had planned to reach the Jhuni hot springs. The trail went up and down, up and down, seemingly for no use. I repeated "Coke, hot springs, Coke, hot springs ..." like a mantra just to keep on going and not collapse of boredom. Eventually there was only one hill left, but it was a big one. Instead of building a trail along the river, which every single tourist would have appreciated, the locals had built it up and down this steep hill. Their village was on top, of course. More than two thousand nicely built steps in one continuous stone staircase! It felt as if we were trodding a red carpet into their spending haven, because they knew that going uphill makes tourists very thirsty and hungry. They sure succeded with their goal: We drank Coke and Fanta like American baseball goers and ate like such as well. This way we indirectly polished a few more steps of their already exclusive staircase.
Finally we arrived at the hot springs. The water was perfectly tempered just above body temperature. Since we didn't want to bathe in our own filth, we considered it a good idea to clean ourselves in the river before jumping into the hot water. I picked a big rock that looked safe enough to stand on next to the roaring river. It was covered with a slimy layer of algae so I slipped and almost fell into the wild, freezing cold water. Ugh! We soaked in the hot springs for an hour until our skins looked like Sun-Maid raisins.
Dining with a Lunatic
Totally relaxed we returned to the lodge for dinner. In accordance with the law of Murphy - "If something can go wrong, it does" - our otherwise peaceful dinner was disturbed by a shamanic, Israelian doctor from Namibia. He was an enthusiastic dreamer, obsessed with naturopathic remedies, auras, reincarnation, and healing. He had a magic cure for everything. Except for his own bad cold, apparently. "Doctor, heal thyself!" I wanted to say. He tried to convince us of the effectiveness of his treatments but soon realized he had met the wrong people. Instead he tried to make us believe in more down-to-earth insights, for example that milk and cheese are toxic. The funny thing was that he was chain smoking cigarettes all the time. "How healthy is that compared to milk and cheese?" we asked. "Well, you see, the aura of smoke protects me from other people, you for example. You think it's funny, but it's true." So it continued. After this evening, he followed us like an evil spirit. "By chance", we met him several times in Pokhara and then in the streets of Kathmandu. Strangely enough, we had also checked in at the same hotel. Maybe there was something to his supernatural abilities after all?
Taxi, taxi!
Extremely tired of trekking and with dry throats because of swearing too much while going up and down, we arrived at the village where the road was leading back to Pokhara. Twenty or so taxis were waiting for returning trekkers. We were the only potential clients at the moment, so we figured bargaining would be easy. It was not. This part of Nepal seems to be ruled by mafia-like cartels. All taxis charged the same high price. Once comitted to one, its driver had to pay an unknown amount of money to the taxi "coordinator" before we could leave. Bastards.
The road going to Pokhara didn't look like the highway it's supposed to be. Where the road was not destroyed, it had only one lane of asphalt in the middle and large gravel shoulders on the sides. As it is not very comfortable to drive on gravel, two meeting vehicles try to stay on the paved part for as long as possible. In the very last moment, right before a head-on collision, both make way for one another and pass by at a scaringly small distance. This chicken-race procedure repeats itself every time something is ahead on the road - trucks, cows, donkeys, porters, and bicycles. It was amazing to see how desensitized animals and people were to the stimulus of rapidly approaching, honking cars and buses. Their instinct of self-preservation seems to be removed completely. One wonders what happens the day when the honking actually has a serious meaning, or when the driver has smoked too many joints for breakfast?
Going to the Barber
I looked wild. After three weeks of beard-growing, it was time to go to the barber. In Pokhara and everywhere else where there are tourists to rip off, barber shops abound. I picked the first one available. He wanted 30 Rupees for a shave (40 cents), a bargain. The shave was an experience. The razor blade was amazingly sharp, making my skin soft as that of a 10-year-old boy and bringing disgrace upon Gilette forever. When this was done, the barber started massaging my head. He was really good at it, so I let him continue with my shoulders, back and arms. At first I thought it was included in the price, as a head massage is in France for example. When he wanted to give me a leg massage and started squeezing my thighs and smiling oddly, I suspected that he was either a gay who used the opportunity to paw a sweet, blond boy from Sweden, or that he was a crook who wanted to rip me off big time. The thought of a combination of the two never struck me at the moment.
I said a few times that I had had enough and wanted to pay. He didn't want to stop, but I stood up from my chair and asked how much I owed him. "830 Rupees, please. 30 Rupees for the shave and 800 for the massage." Ouch! The shave had taken about 20 minutes and the massage only slightly longer, so I asked him how on earth this could be possible and if he was stupid enough to believe that I would pay him such an astronomical amount (11 USD). Instantly, three of his friends who sat all day idling outside the shop came in and looked angrily at me, giving him moral support. After a minute or two of fierce discussion, I complied to pay 350 Rupees. Still cheap by western standards, but nevertheless a rip-off. [Note to Swedish readers: Rip-off doesn't mean that the barber rips the beard off by hand, as my Mom thought. Luckily, it only means that they cheat on you and overcharge their services.]
The day after, Marcus also wanted a shave. For obvious reasons, he chose another barber shop. Knowing what had happened to me, he was careful and suspicious. As soon as the obligatory massage started, he asked for the price. "Don't worry!", the barber replied. He had to ask three times before the barber brought up a price list. "Ok, I want this, this, and this. Nothing more!", Marcus said while pointing in the price list. Disregarding this totally, the barber went on with his dirty business and tried to do things he wasn't told to do. To Marcus' further dismay, this barber also acted as a queer. Who knows, here it might be inherent in the profession? A few days later, when back in Kathmandu and the stubble had returned on our chins, we both wanted to punish the barber guild collectively. This we did by having a shave and nothing more. The barber looked a bit disappointed and probably realized that one of his colleagues had succeded before him.
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