The Peace Correspondent (39 page)

Thamel district in Kathmandu, the capital, is a bustling bazaar for adventure travelers, with hole-in-the-wall outfitters selling trekking trips, whitewater rafting and jungle tours. Tents, sleeping bags, camping equipment and brilliantly colored modern outdoor wear spill out from stores squeezed between incense-scented temples and souvenir shops overflowing with Buddha
carvings, prayer wheels and Tibetan paintings. For brilliant color displays, ash-covered sadhus (holy men) in saffron and vermilion robes compete with trekkers in crayon-bright, neon-hued Gore-Tex jackets along Thamel streets.

Budget travelers and backpackers can arrange their Nepal adventures in Kathmandu, while others book trips through international tour operators.

The adventure begins with an eye-popping 225-mile flight from Kathmandu west to Pokhara, the twin-engined Twin Otter flying parallel to the awesome Himalayas. On board Lumbini Airways' 18-seat aircraft, the stewardess hands out wads cotton batten to stuff in our ears (for the noise), candy and cartons of juice. The mountains to our right are a fearsome, jagged wall of white. Below, terraced fields form patterns on the high, dry hills like the whorls of a fingerprint.

In Pokhara's small airport, we get our first experience of the advantage of traveling with an organized company. As other passengers struggle with their luggage and bargain with cab drivers, a crew of Ker & Downey staff in red T-shirts and green sweatpants gathers our bags and ushers the group onto a bus. “That is our army,” jokes Umesh, our guide from Kathmandu. The operation is seamless throughout the week.

At the company's office nearby, a dozen eager Western travelers are assigned porters, briefed on the upcoming trek into the Himalayan foothills, and handed ponchos, hats, walking sticks and day packs. After lunch in the Hungry Eye restaurant, we pile back on the bus for the ride up the long and winding road, climbing higher and higher into the Himalayan foothills.

The bus disgorges its passengers at a tiny hamlet with a few shops, where we leave the mechanized world behind for several days of hoofing it. With porters and guides we set off along a path following the contour of the mountain with a stunning view down to the road and river far below. The path is made of wide slate slabs, so walking is easy here. In this rural area of fields and farmhouses, we meet locals carrying huge bundles of fodder,
firewood and produce. When it starts to drizzle, the porter hands me an umbrella, and I feel quite silly carrying a brolly in the Himalayan foothills. It works, however, and soon the rain stops.

Despite the heavy trekker traffic, the locals are friendly, greeting everyone with “Namaste,” which sounds like “Have a nice day.” All along, brazen, bright-eyed children ask for sweets, money, but mostly for “Pen, pen? Sakool (school) pen?” Having been forewarned to discourage begging, the trekkers instead give extra pens to the guide, who will pass them on directly to the local school.

We soon leave humanity behind, following steep stone steps down into the forest where the path gives way to rocky ground and tricky walking. The path crosses a basic bridge of four logs thrown across a stream, traverses an old rock slide, passes a few rough stone farmhouses and finally reaches a swaying suspension bridge crossing the Modi River.

After two hours of brisk walking, we reach Sanctuary Lodge, where staff meet us with welcoming glasses of chilled lemon juice. The pleasant, peaceful lodge, with its clipped lawn set above the rushing jungle river is among the most comfortable in the whole Annapurna range.

While most trekkers stay in old, and not always clean, teahouses, Ker & Downey's three lodges were built especially for foreigners. For Sanctuary Lodge, 800,000 stones cut from the river and surrounding hills were carried to the site to form the walls. Porters hauled logs to make the rafters from jungle three days away, as well as carrying in all of the kitchen equipment and a dozen or more solar panels to heat water. When we flop onto our beds at the end of a day's hard trekking, we appreciate the amenities: Western toilets that flush, clean sheets and hot showers.

The next few trekking days follow a pattern. The morning begins pleasantly, if a bit early, with “bed tea,” tea or coffee brought to the room. The custom was introduced, no doubt, by the British
Army, which recruited local men as mercenary troops, the legendary Gurkhas. Breakfast at 7:30 am includes muesli with boiled milk, fried or boiled eggs, hard toast with local jam or Indian peanut butter, fried potatoes with thin slices of onion and slices of orange, banana or other fruit.

Then it is onto the well-marked stone trails or mud paths, through the forests of conifers, rhododendrons and bamboo, and up mountainsides on the edge of the Annapurna Massif. In Swahili, they say “pacey, pacey,” (slowly, slowly), while hiking. In Nepali they say “bistaari, bistaari.” There seem to be no directions in the Nepalese hills, just up and down, and no distances, just estimated walking time. Plenty of time is left for the treks, and anyone reasonably fit can do the hikes. The age span of this group ranges from 30s to 70s, and Umesh recalls leading an 81-year-old-American woman up these trails.

In the forest, we hear cuckoos and barking deer. Scarlet rhododendrons just starting to bloom add brilliant patches of red to the somber green. Along the lower slopes, we pass clusters of basic stone farmhouses, fields of corn and potatoes and grazing milk cows. The air is brisk and fresh here, smelling of jasmine, the forest and fresh cow dung, while the scent of freshly popped popcorn comes from darkened houses in the tiny villages. Bees buzz around hives like small beer kegs hanging from the rafters of every home. Across the valleys, the terraced mountainsides look as though a giant comb had been run through them, gouging out parallel grooves to make fields.

“Happy Hour” in the lodges has the happiest prices of all - drinks are free. Tired, but elated trekkers sit around a blazing fireplace (or kerosene heater) recounting the day over Tuborg beer, Challenger whiskey or vodka and orange juice. Fireside snacks include crispy pappadums topped with onion and chopped tomato, delicious Nepalese-style deep-fried mashed potato balls or local popcorn.

Guests are well-traveled, their conversations sprinkled with tales of Marrakesh's open market, giant turtles in the Galapagos,
sunrise on Mount Kilimanjaro, polar bears in Churchill, Manitoba, and temples in Thailand.

“They dropped a snake around my wife's neck to take a picture and wanted me to pay for it,” one man chortles. “She almost had a heart attack.”

And there is lively chatter about the day's events. “This was the hardest thing I ever did in my life,” says a lady from Dallas, Texas. “The trekking was really tough, but I've wanted to do it all my life, and I feel so good about myself. “When I was out there, I forgot about the kids' lunches, the car pool, everything.”

“The last time I came last in anything was in a Nice Guy Contest,” groans a graying Californian with the bulky shape of a former athlete who straggles in after the rest.

Meals are hearty and plain, using local produce. Tonight it is tasty mashed potatoes, cheese omelet and some curry vegetables. While a few guests linger over coffee, most, weary from the exercise and bracing mountain air, slip away, and the lodge falls silent.

On the last full day of trekking, along a rare flat stretch, we approach what seems like a mountaintop mirage, the tiny village of Pothana framed by the immense, snow-covered Annapurna Range. About a dozen small stone buildings straddle the trail: the See You Lodge and Restaurant, Hotel Fishtail, the Shangri La and the Heaven's Gate guest houses, many advertising “solar hot shower.” They are typical of the inns where those on “Teahouse Treks” stay.

Souvenir sellers have set up shop here, spreading their wares on the road. One inn has a roadside al fresco snack shop with white plastic garden tables and chairs and large sun umbrellas. An elderly woman with a row of a dozen golden rings adorning her pierced outer ear, like a Nepali peasant punk rocker, sits in the sun serving tea, coffee and cold drinks to passing trekkers in their designer hiking gear.

On the last stretch of the day, a mule train passes, the pack animals bustling up from Pokhara like they own the road. Recalling
the advice from the briefing on donkey etiquette, I take the high side or risk getting knocked down the cliff.

Our last night on the mountain is in Basanta Lodge, a 200-year-old house that is more basic than Sanctuary, but in a breathtaking setting. A 6:30 a.m. knock on the door next morning brings us outside to a view of the sun rising over the magnificent Himalayas, stark, white, awesome and somehow intimidating. Over “bed tea” we sit outside watching the sun slowly wash over the jagged peaks of Annapurna South, Hiunchuli and 22,890-foot-high Macchupucchare, Fishtail Mountain, which has never been climbed because it is sacred to the local people.

From here, it is an easy walk along straight flat, smooth, stone or dirt paths, through an area of meadows, cultivated fields and stone farmhouses. After an hour-and-a-half, the path suddenly drops down, down, down, zigzagging thousands of feet to the valley. And there, waiting by the roadside, is our bus, and the 20th century.

The aptly named Shangri-La, Pokhara's only luxury hotel, provides a welcome break between the rigors of the mountains and the river, a chance to do laundry, rest and catch the news on satellite TV. The small town was once a stopover on the ancient trade route running from India over the high Himalayan passes to Tibet. Today, the long stretch of outdoor equipment stores and trekking outfits lining Pokhara's Lake Plewa is like Thamel, without the temples.

In restaurants such as the Hungry Eye, the Amsterdam or the Enlightened Yak, with its rooftop terrace, trekkers gather for bargain-priced meals of pasta, pizza, grilled chicken or buffalo steak.

Back at the Shangri La, a Japanese tourist passing the swimming pool sees the perfect pyramid of Fishtail Mountain reflected in the swimming pool. “Paramount Pictures, Paramount Pictures,” he exclaims excitedly, rushing off for his camera. Indeed, it does resemble Paramount's perfect peak symbol. “All it needs is a circle of stars,” agrees an Indian lady sipping tea under an
umbrella.

The two-hour bus trip south to the rafting site, offers roadside cameos of traditional Nepali life. The highway is chaotic with three-wheel tractors, swaying buses top heavy with passengers squatting on the roof, and farmers packing huge rice bags, firewood and cattle fodder, like walking haystacks with only their bare legs showing below. Village men are more formally attired in baggy-bottomed, pipe-stem jodhpurs, thigh-long, high-collared, slim cut jacket and flat-topped topi hat, like a soft fez. Women in butterfly bright saris flutter around village wells, and dogs, ducks, chickens and children scurry across the road before us.

Wheat, corn and yellow mustard fields follow the contours of the steep terraced hills in parallel patterns. Lowland Nepal is a blaze of floral color this spring morning. Further down the valley, buffalo with wooden yokes work shimmering, emerald green rice paddies where snowy-white egrets settle like flecks of white ash. Vibrant orange marigolds, purple and white chrysanthemums, red khannas and yellow asters form a brilliant foreground to sawtooth mountain peaks piercing puffy clouds behind us.

Down on the rocky riverbank for our next adventure, we don helmets, grab paddles stow our cameras in a waterproof drum and board an inflatable blue raft. The raftsman sitting on the back with oars gives us a cursory lesson in raftsmanship: “Forward paddle please, back paddle please,” then we push off, drifting lazily downstream to the milky Seti River.

Aside from monsoon time (June to September), the river is placid, so this is mainly a float trip. It is peaceful away from town, with just a few farmers walking along a path running above the river or brazen boys playing on the banks.

Brilliantly colored birds with long pointed red beaks, turquoise backs and yellow breasts flit through the jungle, kingfishers, swallows and suncatchers swoop and dip along the banks. Keen birders identify the obscure species - brown-headed, stork-billed kingfishers, large pied wagtails, river chats.

“Someone should publish bird books with rubber pages for whitewater rafting,” mutters a frustrated watcher, unable to identify a particularly colorful species.

A few fields give way to a jungle of palms, poinsettias, bottle brush trees, papayas and bougainvillea. Along the stony banks, country folk wash clothes, cook meals in sooty pots over open wood fires and fish with nets on wood frames. The only riverine traffic we see all day is the wreck of a dugout canoe stuck in the mud on the bank, and another ferrying women with huge bundles of fresh, green fodder across the river.

When the rapids come, they hit with a shock. Squeals of mock terror erupt as waves of water wash over us, and we bounce down river like a rubber duck in a Jacuzzi. But the water is not cold this time of the year, and the churning rapids are just rough enough to get our hearts beating and keep us alert. At noon we stop at the pebbly riverside for lunch, prepared by the Hungry Eye in Pokhara. Boiled egg deep-fried chicken cutlet, cheese sandwiches, juice drink, oranges and banana.

On slow stretches, we paddle occasionally, without overly exerting ourselves, but on the rapids we work frantically to the polite raftsman's commands of: “Forward please, backward please, stop please,” as the inflatable thuds over the foaming water like a pickup truck over a rutted dirt road. Soon, we are so wet, we feel like extras in the movie Titanic.

Sunny Seti River tent camp, set back from a rocky beach, is a haven of peace with a thatched roof dining hall, clean communal bathrooms and showers, and lots of hot water. Changing out of our wet clothes, we sit outside our tents sipping coffee, munching chocolate biscuits and trying to identify the day's sightings from a “Birds of Nepal” book.

Next morning, after another few hours of drifting interspersed with a few moments of action, the Seti runs into the Tirusali, and soon after we pull over to another beach where transportation to the Royal Chitwan National Park jungle awaits.