Abode of the Gods. Kev Reynolds

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      The juggernauts of Nepal make their way along the lower valley of the Buri Gandaki (Chapter 3)

      The lodge-keeper returns with a red plastic bucket of water, a jug and an enamel bowl. ‘Shower!’ he says with pride.

      Having been psyched up to enjoy my first overall wash since Kathmandu, I’m not prepared for disappointment, so drop the towel anyway and, standing in the bowl one foot at a time, pour jugs of water over my head. What had seemed tepid in the bucket is now close to freezing, and I shiver uncontrollably. But although it may not be the most luxurious shower of my life, I’ve never had one with a better outlook, with an unrestricted view of massed snow peaks sharp against the Himalayan sky gathering the first colours of evening. It’s also the highest and most exposed bathroom of my life, so I dry myself as best I can and dress quickly before ice forms on my extremities.

      The valley below Muktinath is one of which dreams are made. Totally different from anything we’d seen along the Marsyangdi, a seemingly barren land is contorted into a series of folds, gullies and terraces. This northern side of the Himalayan divide could not seem more remote if it were on the far side of the moon, and as we approach the ancient village of Jharkot, I’m enchanted by everything I see – a line of peach trees, a half-frozen stream, a small pond, the snowy west wall of the Kali Gandaki, and Jharkot itself. As I glance through a kani, the Himalayan time-machine cranks me back at least 500 years. I can taste the dust and clay of Asia upon my tongue, smell warm dust and clay in my nostrils, and trail my fingers against the wall of one of the houses, scraping the wind-baked dust and clay of a world marooned from the late 20th century. A small child with dirt-spiked hair and a tan-coloured tunic pads along the alleyway. ‘N’maste,’ he grins. ‘Gimme one pen!’

      Below Jharkot our path sidles among a few bare poplars and fruit trees, and through crusts of ice where a stream crosses and recrosses the trail. Snow patches spatter the hillside, while the hanging valley becomes yet more arid in appearance. Dhaulagiri rises as though on an elevator behind a spur of Tukuche Peak, a vast yacht whose sails are stretched to capture winds we cannot feel down here. To our right, across the Jhong Khola’s gorge, caves are pitted among strangely eroded crags sculpted by frost, wind and water over countless millennia.

      Kagbeni is an oasis. We see a hint of the village with its patchwork fields and row of willows gathered at the confluence of the Jhong Khola and Kali Gandaki. It’s as far north as foreigners are allowed to travel, although last night we heard rumours that restrictions would soon be lifted and, for payment of a large fee in Kathmandu, a special permit would allow trekkers to enter long-forbidden Mustang. If this is true, we’re too late and without sufficient funds to take advantage. Ah, Mustang… Another dream for another day.

      Sidling through its valley, the Kali Gandaki is a series of streams that reunite here and there. At a little under 3000 metres, in a land-locked country in the heart of Asia, 800 kilometres from the nearest sea, we walk on the bed of a one-time ocean. Among the stones and glacial silt we discover ammonites – coiled, fossilised creatures that once inhabited that sea until its bed was raised to become India. And the Himalaya was born. As the Himalaya continues to grow, the Kali Gandaki leaks away from the Tibetan plateau, undeterred from its southbound course by the highest mountains on earth. Nibbling at the growing land mass, the river carves a passage until, a day’s walk downstream from here, it breaches the wall between Annapurna and Dhaulagiri to create the world’s deepest river valley – more than 5500 metres below the summits.

      No wonder the wind sweeps up-valley with enough force to carry small stones in its teeth!

      The sound of ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ is an incongruous intrusion. Decades ago I twice saw the Beatles in concert and still enjoy their records. But not here. Western music in a Nepalese lodge at the foot of the Annapurnas is not one of the reasons I came to the Himalaya. Trekking among these mountains is not simply a multi-day walk in the hills, it’s a way of experiencing other cultures, of testing one’s own values, of learning how other people live, listening to their beliefs, and sharing for a moment in time an existence unknown in our technological society. At best, trekking is a multi-layered experience that leads to an enrichment of the soul. I’m an eager sponge, anxious to miss nothing. ‘Sergeant Pepper’ does not belong here. Or does it?

      It’s the best lodge we’ve been in by far. Although still simple, the rooms are reasonably clean, and the couple in charge are efficient; a framed certificate at the entrance announces that the owner attended a course in lodge management. Some of the walls bear a wash of mottled paint, and threadbare curtains hang at the windows, but this is five-star luxury compared with many lodges we stayed at on the other side of the pass. There’s even an indoor shower in a cubicle with a door! On the far side of the Thorong La Nepali fare was still more or less par for the course. Here, the menu boasts a range of Western-style meals. We’ve entered a land of pizza and apple pie.

      The Thakalis are famed hotel-keepers, but then they’ve had lots of practice, for the Kali Gandaki is a valley of both trade and pilgrimage. For hundreds of years Hindu pilgrims from as far away as southern India have made the arduous journey to worship at the shrines of Muktinath, and traders to and from Tibet were passing through the valley with their pack animals centuries before the West had even heard of Nepal. So our circuit of the mountains has entered yet another phase. Not only is accommodation of a higher standard and the food less ethnic this side of the La, but the trail itself has more traffic and is not so demanding. For well over a week we were gaining altitude day after day towards the Thorong La. Now we’re heading downhill away from the raw cold of the high country, down towards a more equable climate. The challenge of the Thorong La no longer hangs over us.

      Leaving Jomsom we cross to the right bank of the river and once again have our permits checked at the police post. It’s a busy little town, with government buildings, a hospital, a military base and an airstrip, but I’m glad to be on the way out. Not that I’m anxious to end the trek, for we still have much to see and to do, but Jomsom reminds me of the outside world with its bureaucracy and sagging power lines reminiscent of a Third World shanty. Besides, this is a day to be out and moving.

      There is no wind, and the sun spreads fingers of warmth over the СКАЧАТЬ