Annapurna Journals (3)
Days 14 & 15 The Kiwis dog us, The Son racing ahead of his father to hit his pipeful of charas. In Kalopani the rain lays the smack down and blasts us as we sprint into town. We eat with an Israeli couple and a couple of Nepalis who do shots of raxi. The Israelis eat what seems like six meals and then explain that since he has hemorrhoids rice is out of the question.
In the morning massive Dhaulagiri stretches its fiery arms out northwards into the shadows of the sleeping valley. We stop for breakfast above the start of the long hill that leads to Ghorepani and jack our nervous systems up on FAKE GODDAMN COFFEE. The descent is another knee-bender but Team Butch and Macke makes short work of it, passing yet another load of tourists gasping under the massive horrible weight of one water bottle and two trekking poles each.
The Maoist rebellion is in full swing in Nepal. There is corruption, low incomes ($300/year!) and limited development outside Kathmandu. So the Maoists want to solvce all these problems by having a one-party People's State. They dont' kill tourists-- they just ask for "donations" and they give receipts. I'm almost willing to pay the $2/day (more for Yanks and Limeys-- I wonder why...) to meet a real live revolutionary (and maybe have Macke take my photo with him.)
In Tatopani ("hot water") we soak in the hotsprings and then the French show up. NOTE TO EUROS: IF YOU ARE GOING TO WEAR A SPEEDO, YOU NEED A CERTAIN BODY TYPE. Ask Dan Savage; he'll back me up on this one. Banana pouches and beer bellies don't mix. After dinner a bunch of us sit around and compare ACL scars. The Blonde it turns out is an ex-professional tennis player who will soon have three business and computer science degrees under her belt. The Kiwi Son on the other hand has the opposite qualifications: he has received three (*3) D.U.I.s in the past year and so is going to be spending some time...at hoem with his "Missus" he bong and his X-Box, which suit shim fine. He sits silently, hitting his pipe, and suddenly collapses onto the floor. Weeks later we STILL havn't figured out what exactly made him temporarily collapse.
DAY SEVENTEEN. After a rest day, we climb 1700m (5000 feet) up to Ghorepani ("horse water") through acres of corn and Maoist graffiti. Thomal and I bet Macke that it will rain. Macke, who I am starting to realise tends to get what he wants, wins-- it has to rain for 20 minutes and after dumping for 14 minutes Macke insists that the liught drizzle coming down doesn't qualify as rain. He wins two apple pies and two coffees but the entertainment value of the bet is well worth the price.
No Maoists. In Ghoirepani there is a massive inspirational poster on the wall. It is apicture of pre 9/11 New York, with the words "GOD MADE THE COUNTRY AND MAN MADE THE TOWN" on it. Outside, Maoist slogans like "Long Live the People's Revolution" are sprayed onto walls.
DAY 18 19 20. We got up at 4:30 a.m. to walk up to Poon Hill and see the sunrise and all we got was this lousy mist. No mountains. For three days we walk Nepali Flat: "little bit up little bit down." In Kadapani we have magnificent dal bhat with local wild mushrooms and greens. In Chomrong we gorge on the Nepali version of "German" pastry. There we meet a girl who Macke calls Mustang Keti, a Tibetan refugee (now second generation) who sells handicrafts. The Mustang is the northern part of Nepal and its women are real independent traders. She's obviously very flirtable with.
"Keti, timi dere ramro tsa!" I tell her and she doesn't even blush.
"That girl is FIRE" says Thomel.
After finding out she's from Mustang I tell her I would eventualy like to visit that part of Nepal.
"You married?" she asks.
"No."
"We marry."
Wow, that was easy. Nepali style: marriage then love. Western style: love then marriage.
"OK," I say, "that will work...you can visit Canada and I get to see the Mustang region."
"Very good" she says and we laugh.
Below CHomrong, on the day's second 2000 foot descent, Thomel curses as it rains.
"Why are we going down?"
"Come on," I tell him, "it's obvious."
"?"
"We go down so we can go back up."
"AHHHH! IT's all becoming clear!" he says, "And let me guess! We go down--"
"--so we can go UP!"
This makes life easier.
Also easy is dealing with accomodations when Thomel is around. Macke and I make him our Business Agent. If there is negotiating to be done, we send in the Hebe. In Bamboo we get the woRld's hottest solar shower. Then we meet...the German who had altitude sickness in Manang. he hired a horse to carry him over Thorung La. He' s still spaced out and dreamy, headed for Annapurna Base Camp.
The next day we fire up through sun mist and wind to Annapurna Base Camp. Trees are wrapped with moss that glows in weak sun. Bamboo rattles in the wind. Pink flowers poke out of frozen mud and rock. We buy peanut cookies from a deaf girl and her father whose left eye droops. Rhododendrons glow red.
At ABC we again see the Kiwis, minus the Blonde. The Son wants more charas from Macke. Dad looks exhausted. The Blonde is sick down in the valley. We eat dinner with a towering amiable Dutchman, Bram, and his hyperactive guide, Raju, who can curse a blue streak and seems to vibrate where he sits. Bram has Met the Maoists. He shows us his "receipt" from the People's Republic. ALogn with the receipt is a Maoist political treatise. It is totally full of historical inaccuracies (e.g. there was no "Aryan invasion of India" because there were no Aryans). For a political movement which worships at the altar of History, the Maoists have a lot of history wrong. Rain and mist envelope the camp. We get ten minutes of sun and then the evening descends.
DAY 21. Morning is mist...but then for forty magnificent minutes the mist lifts and we are dumbstruck at the walls of orange rock and ice that surround us and rise to 8000 meters. Prayer flags flap. The wind whispers. The sky is still and empty.
The day is a joint-demolishing 3000 meter (10,000 foot) descent to Jhinu Danda. We pass the Kiwis again. The Son begs the use of the pipe from Macke. We pass the Blonde who is terribly sick and having trouble walking. We give her all her antibiotics and wish her well. At Jhinu Danda, after eleven hours of walking, in the dark we find the hotsrpings to be...a lukewarm trickle. But enduro days have their own rewards and it's cool to sit in the warm windy rustling forest darkness and stare up at the thick clusters of stars squeezed between the dark shapes of the mountains.
That evening we are klept awake by two Israelis who yabber at top volume until midnight. WHat ARE they discussing?
DAY 22. We are awoken by the Israelis. Thomel translates from the Hebrew for us. Bear in mind this is at like 7:00 a.m.:
"Hey man how long is your dick?"
"See for yourself!"
"..."
"..."
"That's nothing. Look at MINE!"
"..."
"So, bitch, get me some coffee."
"Fuck you. YOU get the coffee."
"My dick is bigger than yours. YOU get the coffee!"
Etc etc.
I thank the Israelis for the Hebrew lesson and we hit the road. This will be our final day. Macke's calculations have an easy four hour riverside stroll.
Four hours later...we are clambering up and down the "Nepali flat" trail. It's pissing rain. The Blonde is still quite sick and cannot eat. Her "guide" refuses to carry her pack for her, so I shoulder it. This will be a sight for the Nepalis: a tourist carrying two packs and a guide waltzing along merrily behind. The Blonde now has to think of what to tip him, contemplates not tipping much (cos her guide is lazy) and then immediately feels female guilt at calling it like it is.
I cajole curse plead with support and otherwise verbally attempt to keep The Blonde moving. We need to get her to a hospital, and if we miss the last bus she is going to be a whole lot sicker.
"Come on, girl," I tell her, "there's a clean bed with white sheets, a hot shower with a clean bathmat, five hot Italian men who are totally funny, clean underwear AND a doctor awaiting you."
The Blonde nods shakily, grins, and stumbles forward. We pass a parter carrying a woman on his back. I gesture at him. The Blonde makes a face, grins, and explains that this would be cheating. She WILL finish under her own power.
We make it. We get to Nayapul. For the first tiem in three weeks we hear diesel engines and bus horns. We climb into the largely empty bus and collapse. 300 km, 19 walking days, 9200m (32,000 feet) of total vertical gain and loss. We're tired. We've made it.
The only problem is the bus. It is the oldest bus I have ever seen. A set of seats is totally broken and detached from their moorings. Every edge that protrudes is sharp and busted. The windows either don't shut, don't open, or don't exist. The seats are loose. There is no clutch. We could die at any time. And The Blonde has the worst farts you could imagine. Somehow we get to Pokhara, showers, steak, beer, clean sheets, pavement, flat ground, warmth, pastry, Internet, news and nothing at all to do.
END OF STORY:
-- The Blonde got better and came rafting with us.
-- We didn't meet any Maoists.
-- Macke hasn't yet heard from the Polish Chick.
-- The Hebe got us a great deal at his hotel in Pokhara.
-- Nobody scored with The Blonde
-- the Polish Chick made it (although it took her 5 days longer than us to do 50 less kilometers)
In the morning massive Dhaulagiri stretches its fiery arms out northwards into the shadows of the sleeping valley. We stop for breakfast above the start of the long hill that leads to Ghorepani and jack our nervous systems up on FAKE GODDAMN COFFEE. The descent is another knee-bender but Team Butch and Macke makes short work of it, passing yet another load of tourists gasping under the massive horrible weight of one water bottle and two trekking poles each.
The Maoist rebellion is in full swing in Nepal. There is corruption, low incomes ($300/year!) and limited development outside Kathmandu. So the Maoists want to solvce all these problems by having a one-party People's State. They dont' kill tourists-- they just ask for "donations" and they give receipts. I'm almost willing to pay the $2/day (more for Yanks and Limeys-- I wonder why...) to meet a real live revolutionary (and maybe have Macke take my photo with him.)
In Tatopani ("hot water") we soak in the hotsprings and then the French show up. NOTE TO EUROS: IF YOU ARE GOING TO WEAR A SPEEDO, YOU NEED A CERTAIN BODY TYPE. Ask Dan Savage; he'll back me up on this one. Banana pouches and beer bellies don't mix. After dinner a bunch of us sit around and compare ACL scars. The Blonde it turns out is an ex-professional tennis player who will soon have three business and computer science degrees under her belt. The Kiwi Son on the other hand has the opposite qualifications: he has received three (*3) D.U.I.s in the past year and so is going to be spending some time...at hoem with his "Missus" he bong and his X-Box, which suit shim fine. He sits silently, hitting his pipe, and suddenly collapses onto the floor. Weeks later we STILL havn't figured out what exactly made him temporarily collapse.
DAY SEVENTEEN. After a rest day, we climb 1700m (5000 feet) up to Ghorepani ("horse water") through acres of corn and Maoist graffiti. Thomal and I bet Macke that it will rain. Macke, who I am starting to realise tends to get what he wants, wins-- it has to rain for 20 minutes and after dumping for 14 minutes Macke insists that the liught drizzle coming down doesn't qualify as rain. He wins two apple pies and two coffees but the entertainment value of the bet is well worth the price.
No Maoists. In Ghoirepani there is a massive inspirational poster on the wall. It is apicture of pre 9/11 New York, with the words "GOD MADE THE COUNTRY AND MAN MADE THE TOWN" on it. Outside, Maoist slogans like "Long Live the People's Revolution" are sprayed onto walls.
DAY 18 19 20. We got up at 4:30 a.m. to walk up to Poon Hill and see the sunrise and all we got was this lousy mist. No mountains. For three days we walk Nepali Flat: "little bit up little bit down." In Kadapani we have magnificent dal bhat with local wild mushrooms and greens. In Chomrong we gorge on the Nepali version of "German" pastry. There we meet a girl who Macke calls Mustang Keti, a Tibetan refugee (now second generation) who sells handicrafts. The Mustang is the northern part of Nepal and its women are real independent traders. She's obviously very flirtable with.
"Keti, timi dere ramro tsa!" I tell her and she doesn't even blush.
"That girl is FIRE" says Thomel.
After finding out she's from Mustang I tell her I would eventualy like to visit that part of Nepal.
"You married?" she asks.
"No."
"We marry."
Wow, that was easy. Nepali style: marriage then love. Western style: love then marriage.
"OK," I say, "that will work...you can visit Canada and I get to see the Mustang region."
"Very good" she says and we laugh.
Below CHomrong, on the day's second 2000 foot descent, Thomel curses as it rains.
"Why are we going down?"
"Come on," I tell him, "it's obvious."
"?"
"We go down so we can go back up."
"AHHHH! IT's all becoming clear!" he says, "And let me guess! We go down--"
"--so we can go UP!"
This makes life easier.
Also easy is dealing with accomodations when Thomel is around. Macke and I make him our Business Agent. If there is negotiating to be done, we send in the Hebe. In Bamboo we get the woRld's hottest solar shower. Then we meet...the German who had altitude sickness in Manang. he hired a horse to carry him over Thorung La. He' s still spaced out and dreamy, headed for Annapurna Base Camp.
The next day we fire up through sun mist and wind to Annapurna Base Camp. Trees are wrapped with moss that glows in weak sun. Bamboo rattles in the wind. Pink flowers poke out of frozen mud and rock. We buy peanut cookies from a deaf girl and her father whose left eye droops. Rhododendrons glow red.
At ABC we again see the Kiwis, minus the Blonde. The Son wants more charas from Macke. Dad looks exhausted. The Blonde is sick down in the valley. We eat dinner with a towering amiable Dutchman, Bram, and his hyperactive guide, Raju, who can curse a blue streak and seems to vibrate where he sits. Bram has Met the Maoists. He shows us his "receipt" from the People's Republic. ALogn with the receipt is a Maoist political treatise. It is totally full of historical inaccuracies (e.g. there was no "Aryan invasion of India" because there were no Aryans). For a political movement which worships at the altar of History, the Maoists have a lot of history wrong. Rain and mist envelope the camp. We get ten minutes of sun and then the evening descends.
DAY 21. Morning is mist...but then for forty magnificent minutes the mist lifts and we are dumbstruck at the walls of orange rock and ice that surround us and rise to 8000 meters. Prayer flags flap. The wind whispers. The sky is still and empty.
The day is a joint-demolishing 3000 meter (10,000 foot) descent to Jhinu Danda. We pass the Kiwis again. The Son begs the use of the pipe from Macke. We pass the Blonde who is terribly sick and having trouble walking. We give her all her antibiotics and wish her well. At Jhinu Danda, after eleven hours of walking, in the dark we find the hotsrpings to be...a lukewarm trickle. But enduro days have their own rewards and it's cool to sit in the warm windy rustling forest darkness and stare up at the thick clusters of stars squeezed between the dark shapes of the mountains.
That evening we are klept awake by two Israelis who yabber at top volume until midnight. WHat ARE they discussing?
DAY 22. We are awoken by the Israelis. Thomel translates from the Hebrew for us. Bear in mind this is at like 7:00 a.m.:
"Hey man how long is your dick?"
"See for yourself!"
"..."
"..."
"That's nothing. Look at MINE!"
"..."
"So, bitch, get me some coffee."
"Fuck you. YOU get the coffee."
"My dick is bigger than yours. YOU get the coffee!"
Etc etc.
I thank the Israelis for the Hebrew lesson and we hit the road. This will be our final day. Macke's calculations have an easy four hour riverside stroll.
Four hours later...we are clambering up and down the "Nepali flat" trail. It's pissing rain. The Blonde is still quite sick and cannot eat. Her "guide" refuses to carry her pack for her, so I shoulder it. This will be a sight for the Nepalis: a tourist carrying two packs and a guide waltzing along merrily behind. The Blonde now has to think of what to tip him, contemplates not tipping much (cos her guide is lazy) and then immediately feels female guilt at calling it like it is.
I cajole curse plead with support and otherwise verbally attempt to keep The Blonde moving. We need to get her to a hospital, and if we miss the last bus she is going to be a whole lot sicker.
"Come on, girl," I tell her, "there's a clean bed with white sheets, a hot shower with a clean bathmat, five hot Italian men who are totally funny, clean underwear AND a doctor awaiting you."
The Blonde nods shakily, grins, and stumbles forward. We pass a parter carrying a woman on his back. I gesture at him. The Blonde makes a face, grins, and explains that this would be cheating. She WILL finish under her own power.
We make it. We get to Nayapul. For the first tiem in three weeks we hear diesel engines and bus horns. We climb into the largely empty bus and collapse. 300 km, 19 walking days, 9200m (32,000 feet) of total vertical gain and loss. We're tired. We've made it.
The only problem is the bus. It is the oldest bus I have ever seen. A set of seats is totally broken and detached from their moorings. Every edge that protrudes is sharp and busted. The windows either don't shut, don't open, or don't exist. The seats are loose. There is no clutch. We could die at any time. And The Blonde has the worst farts you could imagine. Somehow we get to Pokhara, showers, steak, beer, clean sheets, pavement, flat ground, warmth, pastry, Internet, news and nothing at all to do.
END OF STORY:
-- The Blonde got better and came rafting with us.
-- We didn't meet any Maoists.
-- Macke hasn't yet heard from the Polish Chick.
-- The Hebe got us a great deal at his hotel in Pokhara.
-- Nobody scored with The Blonde
-- the Polish Chick made it (although it took her 5 days longer than us to do 50 less kilometers)
posted by Butch at 4:17 PM
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