Don't Go Back to Jomosom

Dancing with the kids down at the Rock Pokhara Festival the ghurkas befriend me, proudly speaking of their brothers fighting for HM British Army. They share whisky and sachets of white powder. Having wondered at the little metallic wrappers Nepali men discard onto the ground of their beautiful land I am happy to sample but soon disgusted - foul washing powder swill. It seems to be an aid for loud spits of phlegm (perhaps a mating call) that disturb the most serene Nepali moments.

The kids of this country enjoy a good pilgrimage whether joining school mates to celebrate graduation by dressing smartly and journeying 3 days into the Himalaya to bathe in holy springs and embrace the unique Nepali blend of Buddhist and Hindu faiths or by journeying on a 13 hour motorbike trip across half the country to see Miss Nepal present Rock Pokhara in a lakeside field.

Most guys I meet turn out to be wannabe tourist guides, even on the local bus, and can sort out anything I need, just call, so sweet, cute and amicable but not necessary. So, happy to meet the gurkhas I enjoy their stories of the pop bands. The boys bounce me up and down in excitement as a new band starts, fronted by a man in his 60s or 70s, topless with a wiry, sweaty body, large head and distinctive powerful face. He shouts to the crowd and the throngs of kids go wild at his inspirational political chat. The inordinate number of police at the festival may feel nervous – the state is paranoid of riots and has introduced an effective curfew and banned fireworks for this week's Divali - festival of lights. It is only 3 years since the end of a ten year civil war, only 20 years since the end of the King's absolute rule and only 60 years since Nepal opened its borders to the world.

The kids want hope and a better life and I am struck by the thoughtfulness and insight of those I speak to. Some boys tell me of their work in rural development and the struggle to support Nepal in providing access to drinking water, basic education and roads. The current Maoist president is popular and things are improving but chronic corruption persists.

I meet Muslims, Brahmins, Gurungs, Tahrus, Newaris.... Nepal comprises a complex mixture of ethnic groups and castes and I am heartened by a common Nepali welcoming and good nature. The flexible tongued Nepalis can learn any language, I try to learn their language and a minibus howls with laughter then I spend two weeks mistakenly saying “I have got a message for you” instead of “how are you?”

One of the gurkhas is drunk and excited, he insists that I join them in a van to Jomosom. After spending two full days risking my life escaping from Jomosom this cannot happen so I depart the festival. Back along the tourist funland of barefoot dreaded girls, hunky French paragliders, Israeli trekkers and restaurants which all insist in trying to serve food from every country in the world.

Back to my hotel to hide from the revolting overgrown orange haired hippy preaching aloud his rejection of society and The Testament According to Him, an ongoing dialogue since the 1970s regardless of the changing face of his audience. In a place where the locals are desperately trying to increase their material gains there is a convergence of westerners eager to apparently renounce worldly ties.

Escaped from the return to Jomosom I will go rafting and camp under the stars with a motley crew.

Lessons Learned

Don't hire sleeping bags nor puffa jackets

Don't sleep in rooms with no windows

Always take an emergency blanket

Beat the mule train

Sit at back of jeep – this is better for jumping

Sit at left side of bus roof in crouched position – this is better for jumping

don't leave your posh flip flops next to the hot springs in the dark

bring a pipe and laxatives

sitting behind bus driver = face of phlegm

don't rub tiger balm on sunburnt nose

don't moisturise the locals, give them itch cream

Don't let Rachael near your stuff

Concentrate on game rules

Apple crumble on the mountain = apples in milky soup

don't cut off your circulation with your hair band/ cause + effect = elephantitis

Don't chase German lesbians after dark

Collect 26 people for bus journey

If you reach your destination alive you are lucky

Mind the goats/ snow leopard – prepare and make yourself big!

Hire Yann to redesign your Nepalese room and move your bed

Don't drive cranes over cliffs

Ensure your bus driver has started puberty before he drives your jeep down the treacherous mountain track

don't ask police silly questions

Always be yourself and keep quiet in large groups

Don't buy cheap gangrene rings

Don't squirt ketchup on the Chinese

Never tell Thai women your real name and address

Always pick up random foreign porters to sing in the wind down the lunar valley

Don't steal apples from old ladies

When the villagers come around dancing lock yourself in your room.

Don't encourage bad tourism by paying people on demand for things you didn't ask for (feet washing, spontaneous dancing, tikka on the forehead, guided tours, random information).

Always question peoples' motives.

Annapurna Adventure

Bus ride to the mountains, depart Pokhara, reclining behind the driver dodging his morning phlegm ritual. As the caged machine overfills we clamber onto the roof joining Davy Gravy and Andrew the Great. New found sunspot ruined when 2 men sit on me, bottom moulded to the bars. Rachael and Dana carelessly discard their belongings from the bus in avoidance of wire beheading. We leap into action, off the bus and sprint down the road to retrieve the valuables.

A trekking group is formed (Andrew the Great of Poland, Davy the Gravy of Amsterdam, Yann the Dealer of Brazil, Doctor Dana of Colorado, Gypo Rachael of Southampton and King Philip) joining forces to harangue indifferent semi-bus-mafia-officialdom barking dodgy foreigner price hikes for forthcoming death cheating bus ride. Limboing under trees and wires as the bumpy bus rumbles along, leaden arms squeezing onto any seemingly static bags, rope and bars.

The mountain side appears to crumble like Cheshire cheese into the canyon below with a faint dint smudged roughly along its side as if some greater force had created an evil joke land with toy buses rattling through rocky roller coasters.

The bus edges along the dubious track and with each tilt of the bus one way we lean inwards, hopeful our weight and wishes will keep the bus from rocking and rolling over the edge. The full horror of our predicament becoming apparent I close my eyes and cling onto a rusty tyre shuddering until the bus slows to a stop. A group of monkeys jumping and plotting excitedly to jump on us, we howl....

Surprised to be alive, giddy with trauma to the disdain of dismayed foreigners caged inside, we arrive high with adrenaline. The trek begins...

Jagat and our hotelier friend confirms our fears about the deadly bus route then offers to be our guide (as does every third Nepali man) to prevent us from getting mountain sickness. We are sea level people and so more susceptible, particularly in the absence of a Nepali mountain man, we fear for Davy who is minus sea level (Netherlands).

Up the mountain we are soon amidst swarms of foreign trekkers sweating in the hot sun across scary Indiana Jones bridges. Stop for lunch to review the same generic and impossibly extensive menu despatched to all mountain restaurants. Aware that restaurant people are prone to run up and down the hill to fetch missing ingredients rather than decline customer requests we are keen not to cause any work and all order the same. Day Two Drama at lunch with Rachael's bed bug affliction revealed from the hired Puffa jacket, she resorts to gypsy kagool and crinkly gold blanket.

Day Three: Chame, quaint grey stone village, Tibetan and a man with a big gun guarding the remote bank. On arrival we drink delicious masala tea in a cosy wooden teahouse. A whole family works together to make samosas, children peeling potatos and Dad frying the samosas to a crisp in a large iron pan over a wood fire. Yann the Dealer undertakes his daily duty of hunting down rooms at special price, succeeding in securing space in the hotel of a moody rotund Tibetan lady who scolds us for being late for dinner. Delayed by our dusk visit to the hot spring. We join the local lads' evening gathering in the oblong stone bath to bathe in the murky hot spring water. The boys welcome us demonstrating their ritual of dipping in the water and leaping up into the cold air and sharing their home made whisky. The boys are unfazed by the girls joining in the communal bath. Next to us the Marsyangdi Khola roars past and the surreal spectre of a snow covered peak is etched.

  Day four - soldiering on past impossible German hikers in perverse lycra and mule trains. Onto Upper Pisang – a magical mountain village with wild marijuana growing along its steep windy lanes. We jump inside a marijuana field on arrival, aghast at the amount of weed around us. The village resembles a Tuscan farming village with patchwork brown and yellow fields and low brown stone houses. Elderly crooked folk wander the lanes carrying bales of hay and bags of apples on their backs grunting in gruff Gurung, lives unchanged for centuries. A white gompa overlooks the village and the valley at the top of the hill with ornate gold statues of the buddha inside. At the end of the day we climb the hill as a monk announces the daily ritual with an ominous clashing of the cymbal, long subliminal sounds echo deep inside. As the monks begin chanting, a spectacle for chattering tourists, we stretch our stoned bodies on the temple steps, breathing the Himalaya deep inside us, and looking up from our own yoga ritual a kind faced monk presents us with hot tea in metal cups. At one with the moment we sit in the cool air watching the light change, as the sun sets behind the mighty peak of Annapurna II. A patch of rose coloured light glows on its high peak slowly turning auburn, close enough to touch. A monk lights a fire of fir branches in a stone fireplace at the edge of the gompa complex, adding a comforting smell to the occasion and wafting misty smoke over the valley as villagers settle down to watch Goldfinger on satellite TV.

  

The boys chased out of town with a stoning by an old crone for pinching her apples. The beautiful secret valley opens up into rocky patches, fields of barley and herds of shaggy black yaks. White stupas are scattered around the valley and colourful prayer flags flutter in unlikely locations. Increasingly fascinated at the isolation of the communities we pass where everything is incredibly transported by donkey or man. Televisions, we learn, are brought on the backs of men because donkeys would smash them.

Onto Manang, a dormitory town for masses of tourists acclimatising in grey institution hotels before venturing up the great pass, an industry syphoning money money for electricity, honey and hot water. Respite in Hotel Moonlight, play cards, eat yak burgers and moisturise the locals. Looking out onto the dusty main street of this Wild West town where a random black bull patiently awaits his daily feed.

Then onwards to Banja and Somin's remote stone hut. Banja proudly welcomes us to his humble home with converted stables into bedrooms, padded with straw and newspaper. Thick mud walls insulate the hut and a sturdy iron range keeps us warm in the cosy kitchen watched over by shocking red eyes of a trophy dead baby deer and Yak head.

We pass the afternoon performing yoga for an audience of Nepali porters and sitting on a stone wall laughing and smoking. Banja and Somin lie together close by in the sunshine, close, in love, gazing curiously at the afternoon light entertainment. Somin, shy and reticent cannot hide her interest in our gathering who cackles and plots snow leopard avoidance techniques. A beautiful train of white donkeys trots by and in the distance a herd of hazel musk deer blend into the mountain. When a snow leopard kills a musk deer, Banja retrieves the beast for Somin to curry. The light changes in the valley below where three distinct mountains in our viewpoint criss crossing perfectly. A cold white mighty peak provides the backdrop for a dark brown diagonal intersected by a complimentary autumnal patchwork diagonal of greens, reds and browns shining gently in the autumnal sun. As the cold creeps in we retire into the warmth of the kitchen to select a meal from the ubiquitous and impossibly extensive menu.

Day 8 and onto Phede Base Camp, a hostile holding pen for foreign hikers and porters in the grip of mountain sickness paranoia, exhausted and nervous before attempting the great Thorung La Pass. The inhabitants of the refugee camp appear dirty, worn and slightly harrowed. In the face of adversity Yann re-designs the bedroom. Today sees The Return of Andrew The Great; the determined Pole storms into camp, hood up, dressed in black. We celebrate with garlic soup to stave off the mountain sickness.

The fearful day to cross the pass arrives. awake at 4.20am and the bizarre morning trek begins. Beneath the starlight an unlikely trail of head lit zombies trudges up a steep rocky climb and collapses breathless, frostbite setting in at Thorung High Camp. Replenished with milky tea we persevere on, the sun rising to warm the crisp air and the final push punctuated by five minute breaks. Time lengthens and the top of the pass falls further into the distance at every climb. Hillsides of sheer grey crumbling shingle surround the way. The mountain does not welcome us easily.

 As I round the final corner a random group of tourists applaud my arrival and I stumble happily to the pass, embraced by the cute Taiwanese girl. We spend some time celebrating and admiring dramatic views in the sharp bracing air before beginning the steep knee knocking descent into a new dimension. Down to Muktinath, otherworldly with its temples, orchards and dramatic canyon. A meeting of Hindu and Buddhist faith where pilgrims fling themselves into freezing holy water. I try to save my soul by filling my water bottle from the 108 holy spring water taps and giving a saddhu 15 rupees, let's hope it works, to save my soul returning down the mountain.

 With Subie, our newfound Indian porter in need, we continue down the mountain and into outer space. Stopping for lunch the hotelier regales us with stories of the neighbouring legendary King of Mustang who rules the neighbouring ancient kingdom of Upper Mustang. We peer in its direction, it looks like America's Grand Canyon.

Determined we continue through the moonscape, undeterred by rushing winds onto the ugly settlement of Jomosom then beyond in the dusk Soubie sings happy Punjabi songs Philip shields the troops from deadly dangers and Andrew The Great soldiering in front, heading the troop.

  Relieved to discover the lovely village of Marpha we locate our friends at Hotel Paradise where we merrily proceed to drink, smoke and laugh. Happy to be alive, feet warmed by coals we fill Paradise with laughter and love, reminding the hotel lady of her youth and pleasing her with our eager purchase of whisky. Party time is over when the teenagers are reprimanded by the Australian gays to halt the party forthwith.

A rest day passed with Rachael the Gypo telling our fortunes then day Twelve and to the horror of the lovely hotel lady the group begins to separate so she packs us off with fresh bread and cheese. All disperse on respective life threatening vehicle rides only to meet up again at another miserable mafiose bus station full of buses, no drivers and angry Israelis. After a four hour delay we eventually board a bus, left to sit in a cramped aisle, once again fearing for my life as the bus swerves round hairpin bends rocking unsteadily from side to side, shielding my face from the wafts of dust and from the truth of the cliff drop. It gets dark and the bus is still rocking on through the middle of waterfalls. Stuck another night on the mountain we take shelter then a second day of trauma we take a lift with a teenage boy driving a jeep manically down the treacherous road topped with gas cannisters.

Dirty, weary and desperate we reached Pokhara and proceed to battle with hoteliers for a cheap room.

Tashi Palkhel

Wrinkled round faced ladies wrapped in beige

approach the stupa,

eyes closed.

Straighten, fold and flatten

like caterpillars

rise, repeat and circle.

Sublime chanting

punctuated by deep trumpet

echoes in the courtyard.

 

Peaceful purple and simple

monks welcome and provide

stability for a depressed community.

Humanity shines through solemnity

of the daily ritual

with yawns and baby giggles.

Buddha is honoured,

foreign money constructs another grand monastery

and rain leaks into tin shack homes. 

 Water buffalo roam ramshackle lanes

the colours of Tibet flutter in the wind

an imaginary flag house on the hill.

Fifty years of exile

uncertain acceptance in an alien land

a nation cannot be erased.

t

Talshi Palkhel - Tibetan refugee settlement near Pokhara, Nepal

Happy Dasain

My introduction to Dasain came on the plane from London to Delhi. My fellow passenger, a Gujarati lady, on a pilgrimage from Hounslow to the Indian Himalaya to celebrate Dasain with 130 members of her family and free the soul of her recently deceased sister. Already I felt intrigued as she educated me in Hindu spiritualism.

Day 2 of Dasain marked our arrival in Nepal = Nepali Christmas, ten days of festivities, fun and bloodshed. The mood in the streets becomes more excited as the days pass, spirits run high and festival fever takes hold.

Dasain Day 5

We cycled 30 kilometres through the humid Kathmandu Valley. Moving away from the city the choking black clouds billowing out of buses subsided and gave way to smells of fresh cumin in village stores then after the rain onto tracks past the paddy fields with whiffs of wild marijuana plants, freedom. Along the way we saw the many goats tethered outside houses bleating happily, innocent of their barbaric fate awaiting them, or strapped to car roofs or led along lanes by old men and boys.

To our horror the last stretch of the journey was on the frightening Arniko Highway, more facefuls of poison and offensive unnecessary irritating horns , I concentrated to keep my nerve. We passed a grim junction town where hundreds of people were piling onto trucks and buses to return home to the thousands of far flung isolated villages of Nepal. Boys hanging of bus roofs clutching onto each other smoking; it all looks quite fun but hundreds of people die on this road each year.

Destination Dhulikel we slept in a simple hotel down a dirt track with magnificent views into the valley. Awoken at 4 by eerie bells echoing through the valley, we then rose at 5. Stumbling down a steep track through a misty forest sweet incense drifted through the trees. I was dreaming, sleepwalking through the mystical twilight, a clearing came into view. Flickering candles and a young boy, poised straight, hands together obediently, preying at a shrine to Ganesh, his mother ringing the bells. Humbly we passed by.

We joined villagers ambling along, arms linked loosely, and made the thousand step ascent, past the giant Golden Buddha to the hilltop Kali Temple. A dawn group of locals in the temple yard gathered to perform their morning puja, this could include bizarre, erratic exercises, gossiping, waking up and awaiting sunrise. For some this routine happens everyday. Wonderful to be greeted by this scene and accepted easily I felt happy and relaxed.

This Day 6 of Dasain the crowd is larger than normal, awaiting a ceremony. Girls arrive, bringing silver trays of colour; magical and exotic flowers, paint and rice. A troop of soldiers arrives and hang around playing with their guns and each other. A mini parade - two beautiful boys, serene in orange robes carrying a pole holding swathes of crimson and flowers. Following them; the goat.

Meanwhile, the sun begins to rise over the distant mist obscured high Himalaya, my spirits rise.

A young athletic lad in shorts and trainers strides into the fold with a rusty knife. Then the young purple robed priest and the aged army colonel with his peaked hat appear and kneel together praying at the altar of the shrine of the Goddess Pagote.

A flurry of activity and the soldiers assemble with a simple but proud formality, we await the shoot, they dissemble and everyone wanders around haphazardly. An apparent disorganised ceremony this morning.

But the time comes, a drum roll, the priest preys again, the goat is splashed with water, cleansed in view of Pagote then taken to the young athletic lad who readies the goat then with one foul swoop wallops the head off; surprisingly smooth and efficient. The goat's body twitches, one final tail wag and he's gone. The body is whisked once around the shrine leaving a thick bright smudged trail. The ceremony flows and the women and children excitedly run to the shrine with their offerings to Pagote, the Goddess who will appease the devil.

The mighty Himalaya, rear their heads, towering above the cloud. The divine gods abiding there observe the ceremony from afar.

Manakamana

As the festivities began to reach a crescendo and the buses leaving Kathmandu are literally overflowing with bodies, people clinging onto every section of the bus inside and out. We decide to miss the ritualistic slaughtering of 108 sheep, goat and water buffalo in Kathmandu's Durbar Square and join the pilgrimage to the ancient Manakamana Temple

Seeking mountain air after the horrific pollution of the valley we ventured to Nepal's only cable car (Austrian built), installed to ease the pilgrims' arduous holy mountain trek. Now the masses can merrily whizz up the hill to show their devotion for a fiver and for £1.35 bring along their goat in the special goat cabin on a one way ticket . 

So, we joined pilgrims journeying from afar to worship to the Goddess Bhagwati who can grant a wish or two. Ascending the mountain I am curious about the holy destination and the different groups of pilgrims we see: smart and polite middle class Indian families, Nepali newly weds seeking sons and colourful giddy ladies and children.

The jolly devotees pile through the village past market stalls in this Hindu Blackpool bursting with garish bracelets, bright tinsel and tacky souvenirs. After the final purchase of bling, shoes are removed and orderly queues are formed with their bleating goats and clutching silver plates with offerings to the gods then make a circuit of the square stupa, phlittering, adorned with bright orange garlands scattering golden petals and smudging thick paint onto the shrines, ringing the bells the taking blessings from the sadhus and holy men; the space permeated by the sweet aroma of incense creating for me a mystical atmosphere. People are relaxed and welcoming as I mingle amongst them, slightly bemused by my presence, I feel slightly apart, then brought into the occasion with a saddhu's blessing and touch on my head.

Men lead the goats and the odd chicken around the temple then up the steps to the gory stone shed on the sacrifice conveyor belt to meet their fate. An old blood splattered man performs the deed, the aim always to behead the goat with one sure swipe of the knife; otherwise the sacrifice doesn't count apparently. The sacrifice is made to appease the all powerful Durga, Goddess of Power, and maintain her victory over evil. At this time babies who are susceptible to evil spirits have their eyes painted with thick black eye liner and foreheads pocked with black smudges. This is to spooky effect but the freakily painted dolls are quite endearing.

The severed heads are lopped into piles and men wander the windy village lanes swishing buckets of goat heads and carrier bags of corpses. Gloopy bright red liquid forms in thick pools reminiscent of spilled poster paint in school playgrounds, as we move further down the steps the gruesome droplets of blood stains become thinner and more sporadic.

To quell the revulsion we feel, we walk further into the hills and watch children playing on their Dasain swing - beautifully constructed from bamboo all over Nepal for the festival.

Day 8 – we fail to make the permit office in Pokhara time and learn it will close for 2 days, plans foiled I quell my irritation that we have all the time in the world. We stay around in Pokhara for the end of the celebrations.

Tika – day 9 and the family are all together. We are invited to a family's home to join them for food and the ritual of tika. Rice and natural red paints are smudged onto our foreheads firstly by the old man of the house and then randomly by the children playing. I feel the poverty of Nepal and the distance from my life visiting this home, a small house where 38 people live – and 3 water buffalo.

Backstreet Bhangra Barber

Day 2 in Kathmandu and I'm a right mess. Time for a visit to “Best Barber”. A welcome escape from the mayhem messing with my jet-lagged mind. Horrific traffic assaults the senses, incessant and unnecessary horn blowing, vehicles move senselessly yet slowly in all directions. When I later join the madness on my bike I realise that it somehow work, perversely it keeps moving.

I wandered dirty, messy and bearded through the medieval streets of the old town marvelling at the hutch like shops and workshops where men crafted with basic tools from iron, wood and cloth. Just after the “Opera Eye Wear” shop and the pathologists you can find “Best Barber”. I dive in for a new look.

A pastel green open room, Best Barber Shop is adorned with tinsel and stickers of Hindu deities. Bhangra music blasts. My Best Barber is plump and wears a fine moustache and tries to give me one too, he expertly shaves me but disturbed by a text message he loses concentration and carelessly slashes my face. To make up for it he douses me several times in various creams and oils, massages my head with tiger balm and slaps my forehead with rough, calloused hands. Taking up the offer of a back massage best barber slumps my face into a mucky sink and gets stuck in kneeding my spine and hitting me haphazardly.

All finished off (to Yann's horror) with best barber cleaning my face roughly with a filthy towel.