The Journey
It’s the kind of thing I wanted to do before I needed a walking stick 24/7. Climb to Tilicho. Climb up to see the world’s highest lake – the “Great Ice Lake” as 1950s adventurer Maurice Herzog put it. Sure, we didn’t see any ice on the lake during this summer trek. What we did see was a 85-metre deep, 4 km-wide bowl containing 155 million litres of freshwater, propped up at 5000m above sea level.
At the top of Mesokanto-La
Frankly, Tilicho does look like any other lake. In fact, many others are probably more impressive. The Caspian Sea is so huge it was mistaken for a “sea”. And Lake Baikal is so voluminous it contains 20 percent of the Earth’s fresh water.
But Tilicho isn’t just about a lake. Tilicho was a journey, which had started out looking like impossible, on the tourist map we bought from Thamel. It had seemed impossible on those days when our tired feet were forced to carry our weary bodies for another three hours . It had seemed impossible when AMS starting knocking us out at sub-5000m.
But, to the Tilicho we went, and survived.
After reaching Tilicho, we tried to cover the same route that Herzog took – Mesokanto Pass (5099m), then descending 2200m across the great wilderness to Thini and Jomsom. We wouldn’t dare to compare our trek to Herzog’s great adventure, but in its own special way, Tilicho was our own great journey. - Ed
>> Start the journey here.
(Click “Read more” to see route map)
Day Twelve: Jomsom-Beni
We thought our trek had ended after our chicken sizzler in Jomsom. It hadn’t.
Expect to get more than you bargained for if you choose to jeep out of Jomsom instead of paying the $79 to fly out (in 45 min). It’s a little like watching the uncut takes of a movie as the ending credit scrolls. Or as Des said, you might think of it as a bonus stage in a video game to nab more points for your next high score.
Jeeping out of Jomsom during the monsoon season involves countless changes of vehicles, quite a bit of walking and if you’re lucky, bashing through the jungle GI Joe-style.
A bridge had been washed away by the monsoon near Kalopani
We left Jomsom at 7am, and by about 11am, we had changed into our 4th jeep.
The first three hours was mind-splitting agony – a village loudmouth (who accompanied us on the first three jeeps)was trying to make himself heard above the blasting Nepali tune, while the jeep sputtered along the sorry excuse for a road. The Mahindra metal monster pulled up 500m from the village of Ghasa – it could go no further as a landslide had cut off the road.
The 4th change of jeep stopped us near Ghasa
After a delightful dhal bhaat at an unlikely venue (a ramshackle highway restaurant), we continued on foot to the village of Dana.
An hour’s trek past muddy mounds and rockfall zones took us to our 5th jeep. It was already 1pm when we started for Tatopani in the heavy downpour. The Mahindra brought us as far as it could – we were 1km from the next village by the time it died. At Bed Khola, we were told a landslide just occurred 5 minutes ago and the bus (our 6th change) would drop us halfway. From the landslide area we would have to trek to the next village to catch a jeep for Beni.
Desmond pretending to be hit by a landslide, after crossing a rockfall zone
We waited for what seemed like an eternity in the sweltering heat. At 415pm, the bus driver decided to move out, and took us on a one-hour ride to world’s end. The landslide was major – an entire chunk of the road had broken off, like Kit Kat, taking with it a section of the water pipe. Between us and the next section of the road was a good 50m.
A section of the road was swallowed by the landslide
It almost seemed like the other passengers were expecting it, but no one gave a hint of complaint or surprise. All of them simply alighted and made a beeline for a narrow hidden trail, up the slope to make a jungle hook to the other side of the road. The trail was 45 degrees up a slippery mud path.We grabbed whatever we could hold on to for support, including dubious looking vines and somewhat spindly branches. I tried not to press my feet too hard into the ground – the trail was full of deceptively firm-looking footholds which turned out to be loose rocks.
After a gruelling hike up the dense Myagdi jungle, we made it to the other side, where a row of buses waited some 200m from the landslide zone. We would get into our 7th change of vehicle. By 6pm, we reached Beni, where we stayed the night. Tomorrow, we would catch the first micro-bus to Kathmandu.
For now, we were just glad to have survived this bonus stage.
>>About Trek to Tilicho
Day Eleven: Mesokanto Pass – Jomsom
We would cross three passes today – an unnamed pass (which someone called Tourist Pass!), Tilicho Pass (5134m++) and Mesokanto Pass (5099m). Seemed impossible – two passes almost killed us yesterday - but our guide promised it wouldn’t be as difficult. After Mesokanto-La, it would be a 6-hour, 2200m-downhill dash to Jomsom, across a vast track of wilderness.
Tilicho Peak, once again
4am: Hot tea was served in the tent. Too cold to even think of getting out. Breakfast was Rara noodles… again. My lips were beginning to hurt from all the saltiness.
530am: Bid goodbye to High Camp. As the day broke, Tilicho Peak was awash in a purplish morning light, and in the distant, Dhaulagiri was bathed in golden rays.
One last look at Tilicho
645am: We ascended Tilicho Pass (5134m) soon after passing the unnamed pass (4900m). View was spectacular. You could see Mesokanto Peak, like a inverted black blade, piercing the fog. It was not very difficult. Perhaps we had acclimatized much better than expected.
Mesokanto Peak
730am: We peaked Mesokanto Pass. I whooped, ran up to kiss the signboard that marked our final major ascent. I looked around for a view - there wasn’t any. We were walking in the clouds by now. It was like being marooned in a sea of cloud atop an island. There were many chortens (Tibetan prayer altars made by stacking up rocks). Without a photogenic finish, we spent our time basking in the sun. I made a crude crucifix from 2 long stone blocks and added my own touch to the chorten. “Uh, Jesus Christ!” said Khusang. I smiled.
“Next time you come up here and see this cross, remember we were here.”
10am: Passed a bunch of Taiwanese tourists. From far, we thought we stumbled into yet another festival or pilgrimage. The Taiwanese were all covered up, protected head to toe from the sun, and marching slowly in a neat row. They weren’t old, mostly late twenties and thirties, but from far, they looked like a Korean senior citizen group. We learnt that the party of 10 trekkers (and about 4 guides, 6 herders, and 8 mules) were doing our trek in a reverse manner. Sheer suicide. We had plunged 60 degrees down from Mesokanto Pass for 600 metres (almost an hour’s descent). Going up would take triple the time and ten times the effort! Later we saw some ‘deserters’ heading back to camp.
By now, the landscape had changed. We were once again in the sub-4000m region, and grass had begun to cover the slopes once more. Flowers of all colours decorated the otherwise monotone ground. We were still walking above the clouds. On either side of the ridge was a whiten sea of nothingness.
Walking in the clouds to Jomsom
11am: Our last Rara noodle party, by the riverside. I told Danny to go easy on the salt. It was at this last meal that I witnessed him adding generous amounts of salt to Knorr instant soup. No wonder I had blistered lips!
Our last real day of trekking wasn’t the crescendo – it was yesterday. Doing the new Eastern Pass was like playing soccer against an opponent who shifted his goal post back by another football field… Sleeping at the High Camp at 4900m was surprisingly easy, except for the stony floor which once again forced us into contortionist poses.
Mystical Dhaulagiri
240pm: Jomsom and its neighbouring village Thini lay in plain view. Mobile phone coverage was back. I made my first call to Maria on the mobile, since Day Four in Chame. Although I have been in Jomsom last year, this was the first time I’m taking a good look at this airport town. Perched on a ledge was a five-star hotel frequented by rich Japanese retirees, though its facade could use a make-over – it looked like a boarding school from far. Nearer to us was Thini, the original village, and on the left is Syang. On the far side of Jomsom was a large white amphitheatre, used for filming purposes, I was told.
The journey to Jomsom (and civilization) from this point took us around a long detour on the perimeter of Jomsom’s farmland. There wasn’t any shortcut. It was a good hour’s walk along a jeep trail which sends flying sand ever so frequently into your face. Not the most pleasant of walks, but boy, we were so close to our first chicken sizzler dinner for the entire trek.
Jomsom, civilization
4pm: We walked about the cobbled road of Jomsom. It wasn’t the same Jomsom Desmond knew from his last trek – a dusty cowboy town with lots of horses. Horses have been replaced with buses, plying the Muktinath – Jomsom – Marpha route. Kali Gandaki‘s dark-gray waters gushed below the bridge like angry cement mix.
At Himalayan Inn, we had our first shower in 4 days. It was in fact, our first real show in the trek. The water was actually hot, the shower had good pressure and the drain wasn’t clogged. We switched on the TV, and Nat Geo channel was airing this quiz show with lots of brainy kids doing trivia that would stump most of us.
Uh… back to civilization.
>> Day Twelve: Jomsom-Beni
Day Ten: Tilicho Base Camp-High Camp
Signboard at Tilicho
This was the day when a clove of humble garlic would save my life.
530am: Danny woke us up with 2 cups of hot Nescafe. The rain last night didn’t seep through the tent, but the rocky ground gave both of us a hard time trying to catch some quality sleep. Breakfast was no surprise – Rara noodles.
7am: We broke camp. The distant peak of Dhaulagiri (8167m) peered through the clouds. It was a good sign. Today we would finally see Tilicho: the world’s highest lake (4919m). As we headed westwards, Tilicho Peak (7132m) looked so close we could also lick it.
1048pm: We saw this body of water which looked suspiciously like a lake, but it was the size of a large pond. This couldn’t be Tilicho right? Our guide told us this was part of Tilicho, which consists of various smaller bodies of water.
1118am: We finally reached Tilicho! I whooped, jumped into the air and run forward to kiss the signboard. All these days of walking, and finally, the world’s highest lake. Winds roared on the plateau, throwing the Tibetan prayer flags into a frenzy as we clicked away.
Tilicho
1230pm: Circled the lake to our lunch spot. The viewpoint would have made a scenic place for Rara noodles but we needed a water source. Wished we could have stayed up at the viewpoint longer.
147pm: After-meal lethargy hit hard. God decided to give us a wake-up call. The monsoon had dashed all hopes of a dry crossing – we took off our shoes and forded the knee-deep (at some points, waist-deep) icy river. The currents were so strong we had to cross three-men abreast.
215pm: At 4600m, Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) hit me. I was walking like a drunkard, giddy and out of breath. The slightest exertion got me panting for air. I looked up, and saw a zig-zag path up a 40 degree slope. No good at all. At the second bend, Khusang and Desmond were waiting for me. I must have looked like a ghost. Khusang gave me a clove of raw garlic, and told me to chew on it. I took a small bite – the zing shot up my nostril like turbo-boosted wasabe. In an instant, my AMS symptoms subsided. Amazing.
I looked at Desmond, who advised me to take small steps like an ah pek. I didn’t have to try too hard. We were walking a little faster than Neil Armstrong did on the moon. This was a serious preview of what it felt like to be 70. I prayed to God for strength. I swore I had not an ounce of physical strength left in my legs. Repeating Hail Mary over and over under my breath, my legs somehow continued to moved, and step by step, I ascended the indomitable slope.
The rest of my memory of that hour was a blur. All I could recall was that there were many ascents – after climbing to the ‘top’, another slope awaited us. Our guide was trying to explain to us this was not the normal route. Landslides had destroyed that trail. This Eastern Pass we were climbing was a few hundred metres higher – at least 400m. And +400m at this sub-5000m altitude is no joke. This was the hardest climb I had ever done. My body was spent – only prayers sustained me.
349pm: We finally saw the sign pointing to Mesokanto Pass. This meant the worst was over. We were at the top of Eastern Pass, at about 5300m. It was probably much higher, maybe even higher than Thorong Pass. Our porter and guide moved ahead to recce for a suitable ground to set up camp in the High Camp area.
Arduous Ascent
The landscape was barren. We tried to catch up with the duo but they had disappeared over the horizon. As we trekked across the vast emptiness, it felt like we were in a computer game, moving from one map square to the next, the scene unchanging. Khusang and Danny were nowhere in sight for the next half hour, and we just hoped we were moving in the right direction.
445pm: We crashed into our tent totally spent of our last ounce of energy. Our legs felt like jelly. The icy river crossing, innumerable scree slopes, and the indomitable Eastern Pass had taken its toll on us. What was supposed to be a 6-hour “easy” climb turned out to be a 9-hour killer ascent. For the next two hours we fell into deep slumber.
7pm: Dinner was once again, Rara noodles. The High Camp at 4900m, is not short on cold winds. The water from the nearby stream was close to freezing. Piping hot Dan Ngan Lo herbal tea was sweet luxury, in this no-man’s land. Thinking back, I have never said so many Hail Marys in my life. Thank God we made it. Tomorrow, we cross 3 passes, including Mesokanto-La (5099m) – the final pass.
Glacial Melt seen from High Camp
Tilicho is backgrounded by its icy western face
Eastern Pass Suicide
>> Day Eleven: Mesokanto Pass-Jomsom
Day Nine: Khangsar-Tilicho Base Camp
From the balcony of the dining hall, we saw two peaks – Pisang Peak (6091m) and Tilicho Peak (7132m) – in their full glory.
Joo Ho and Jung Ah looked much better this morning. The evening before, they looked pale as ghosts – having lost their way in Old Khangsar looking for the shortcut to Yak Kharka. They had met the German duo before Tare Gompa, and learned that Tilicho Base Camp was indeed closed for business. With their Tilicho dreams dashed, they u-turned and tried to make a beeline for Yak Kharka, the next stop towards Thorong-La. But the trails up in Old Khangsar were confusingly hidden, especially by the summer foliage. And the climb to Old Khangsar wasn’t your stroll in the park to begin with.
At breakfast, the Koreans told us they will head to Yak Kharka via the longer but much more navigable route via Tengi (visible from Manang and Khangsar). It was a small backtrack but anything bits losing one’s way in Old Khangsar again. We said grace – three Catholics and a Protestant – and prayed for safe journey, before parting ways.
Lodge owner Laxmi reminded us of a gypsy woman
Tilicho Peak, from Khangsar
Enroute to Tare Gompa, we met a lone Swiss lady called Parvika. She had just returned from Tilicho, managing a day trip from the last open lodge at Shree Kharka (one hour from Khangsar). She said the lake was beautiful, and she felt lucky because it had been cloudy the day before her visit. Later we would realise that she had done a super-long day trip – it was 4.5 hours from Khangsar to Tilicho Base Camp, and at another 3 hours from base camp to Tilicho Viewpoint. Even from Shree Karka, one way would have taken at least 6 hours.
Between Tare Gompa and Shree Kharka, we came to a contorted T-junction : west towards Tilicho, east, a seasonal trail to Yak Kharka. The skies were clear, Praise the Lord.
We encountered our first scree slopes on the way to the base camp. It was to become a landscape we would be very familiar with – 45-degree slopes of loose gravel with narrow footpaths haphazardly scrawled into its side. There was nothing to hold onto on the higher side, and a 300-metre fall into the river valley awaited the trekker with a single false step. You are constantly reminded on the consequence of carelessness - small stones tumble down the slope with every step you take. We were amazed how our porter manages his 30-kg load, without a trekking pole to steady his gait.
Scree slopes became a very familiar landscape for us
Tare Gompa
Tilicho Base Camp
At 1pm, we reached the scenic Tilicho Base Camp. The white lodge was nestled in a small valley, surrounded by hills on three sides. Danny was already preparing Rara noodles in Knorr chicken soup, with soggy Tibetan bread for dips.
Shortly after, our tents were set up, and we helped ourselves to a wooden bench from the lodge so we could sit back and take in the view. That’s the beauty of camping out in off-season – you camp for free (normally you pay half the room rates), you get the whole place to yourself (open toilet! yay!) and except hunting endangered species and illegal logging, you could do whatever you please.
Camping was sort of like a homecoming experience – back to basics, close to nature. You sleep on the ground, drink from streams, cook your own food with minimal equipment. It got me really interested in campcraft – I started asking about everything A-Z and watched eagerly as Khusang and Danny prepared for us our creature comforts.
As we waited for dinner to be ready, a pack of mules started wandering into our campsite. At first, they were wary of us, but soon, they were getting dangerously close to our tents. Danny threw some stones at them to make it clear we weren’t ready to get too friendly.
Dinner was taking some time, so I wandered off to make friends with the mules. In fact, we got so friendly I got to ride on them – thrice. First two times, I was lucky – no reins, no saddle, no problem. I’ve ridden horses quite a bit, so what’s the big deal about mules? Big mistake.
On my third ride, the mule panicked and I was thrown off. I landed squarely on my back onto a rocky outcrop. Desmond, who was calling me for dinner, witnessed the moment. I was totally stunned. For a moment, I thought was going to be paralysed. When the numbness went away and real pain hit home, I couldn’t use my left foot without feeling the hurt. As a result, I spent the entire night rubbing my sore back and praying very very hard I could wallk the next day.
Mules grazing near our campsite
>> Day Ten: Tilicho Base Camp-High Camp
Day Eight: Manang-Khangsar
Two routes, two rivers. Both routes led westwards to Khangsar (3730m), but the landslide-prone lower trail was best avoided in summer. Below us, Marshyangdi’s delta split into two: the left, fed by Tilicho, the right, fed by Thorong Phedi Khola.
The journey so far has been filled with sheer beauty. I tried desperately to document this God-made landscape, and realized how flawed my endeavour was. The only real way to experience this grandeur is to be here, right here, right now. What we see, hear and feel during the journey is really an experience, and photographs at most showed what I wanted to show you. I was determined to take my wife on the next trek.
As we journeyed westwards, Tilicho Peak peeped out from behind the clouds, as if eyeing us new arrivals with a sentinel curiosity. Somehow the sporadic cloud cover added to the pleasure of peak-spotting – clear skies all the way would have taken the fun out of it all.
The Porter, The Trekker and The Guide
We arrived in Khangsar in two hours flat, since we took only one 10-minute break in between. The rest day at Manang helped relieve some of the muscle fatigue. Our guide put us up in a small creaky guesthouse called Himali Chuli Laxmi - the only one that was open. To our pleasant surprise, Joo Ho and Jung Ah were standing at the balcony of the second floor, waving at us.
We learnt that the Korean duo had planned to do a Tilicho roundtrip before heading down to Thorong-La (high pass at 5416m). At Manang, they had met a man (the father of this lodge’s owner) who told them that Tilicho Base Camp Lodge was open. But our guide and porter were dead sure the lodge was closed. Without a lodge to stay the night at the base camp, the roundtrip was almost impossible – unless you carried your own food and tents. The Koreans had neither. The trek was simply too long to be attempted directly from Khangsar, or even Tare Gompa, an hour west of here.
After contemplating their situation for an hour, the Koreans decided to head towards Tare Gompa enroute Tilicho. They hoped to find news of a German duo who headed to Tilicho yesterday, and find out if indeed, the Tilicho Base Camp Lodge was open. It was a hard gamble, but I guess we all didn’t come that far to be prudes.
After a small meal of boiled aloo (potatoes), Joo Ho and Jung Ah set off for Tare Gompa. We wished them good luck, and said perhaps, we would see them tonight (though I really hoped they could make it to Tilicho).
Way to Tilicho
After seeing the Koreans off, I managed to take a closer look at our last bastion of civilzation. The mud walls of this lodge was scrawled with contact details of this so-and-so guide, who promised to be an expert for Tilicho. Room numbers were painted on with over-diluted emulsion – the paint-drip trails reminded me of a horror movie.
Soon, we would learn that there was to be no water for shower. Laxmi, the lodge owner, told us that the water in the tank had lay stagnant for too long and it wasn’t the kind of water we would like to bathe in. We would also learn that the Koreans had eaten the last potatoes in the restaurant – her foray in her garden yielded nothing. Cai na (don’t have). I told Desmond we were officially in Cai-na Town this off-peak season. Everything cai na.
Old Khangsar ruins
Stone Monsters, Old Khangsar
After lunch, we took another acclimatizing day trip – this time, to Old Khangsar, some 300m above the new village. The mud and stone houses lay empty except for a odd goat or cow. The doors to these once-inhabited abodes lay ajar like gaping black maws of stony monsters, with only darkness and dung inside. Some of the houses had juniper leaves laid out like a carpet, so that cattle can take shelter in foul weather. I saw three people in all – an old lady collecting juniper, a young shepherd in a Maoist t-shirt and his one-year old son peeing inside his house. Perhaps, Old Khangsar is a gaze into the crystal ball for Upper Pisang. People simply no longer lived that high up, especially when the tourists are flocking to a village 300m below.
Tilicho Peak-a-boo
>> Day Nine: Khangsar-Tilicho Base Camp
Day Seven: Manang
It was rest-and-relax today. All in good order since we’ve been walking on the average 12km a day for the past six days and it has taken a toll on our calfs and thighs.
Still, it was important to practise the “climb high, sleep low” mantra, to prevent Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). After breakfast, we took a short day trip to Gangapurna Lake - a tiny body of water very much like our man-made quarry lakes back in Singapore (Pulau Ubin). More spectacular was Gangapurna Glacier – its ghostly visages peering elusively through the cloud cover. The sun was out in its ful glory, giving us a the bluest skies we have seen since we set off a week ago. Hopefully this was the sign of things to come.
Gangapurna glaciers
Manang village
River delta, Manang Valley
By 11am, we had returned to Tilicho Guesthouse. Since it wasn’t a “work day”, I decided to be more adventurous about lunch and ordered kepra kea – a gray buckwheat mash whipped with butter (tastes like tasteless uncooked dough) and eaten with vegetable curry. Bad choice. It gave me indigestion for the entire afternoon. Later, I was told that buckwheat is known to be unkind to the uninitiated – it either gave you indigestion or constipation. I’m glad it wasn’t the latter.
We made for the enigmatic Braga Gompa after lunch, to see what’s really inside. At 3pm, most the of doors were locked – I think they weren’t expecting any visitors during off-peak. But still, it was possible to unravel a way up to the top, where we detected some signs of human life – an inverted umbrella with dried saag (vegetables), a laundry line and also a few pairs of sneakers. Inside a dark room were four red-robed lamas – a very young acolyte, a white haired monk, and two middle-aged ones in sunglasses – studying the scriptures using window light. We seemed to be intruding, but the lamas signaled for us to come in. The room was dark but had a serene feel. An ancient multi-limbed statue of a bodhisattva faced the window. The monks were a little distracted by our clicking shutters, but tried to pay attention to their texts nonetheless. We felt like we were intruding, so we spent 5 minutes in there, made a donation, and bid the friendly lamas farewell.
Prayers wheels in Manang
Monk in Braga Gompa
Ready to race
At about 4pm, we visited the horse race again. We were lucky to have caught it for two days – the fixture was based on Tibetan calendar and even then, deciding on the actual days involved a complicated process of divination and prayers. All that was certain is that it happened sometime in July, during the monsoon period.
This year, the horse race was to be a casual meeting of local horsemen, unlike the pompous affair the previous year. “There were too many people, all over,” said Kalus, a participant. “Cash prizes also.”I was told that people as far as Muktinath and Chame would ride to Manang to take part.
Still this year’s show was not short on machismo. Dashing young men in all kinds of costumes imaginable whipped up a lot of dust galloping down the tracks – to the delight of the bevy of admirers. Some would dangle a cigarette in their mouth, or puff away as they ride hard – a la the Asian version of the Marlboro Man. All in all, it was a showcase of Asian cowboy culture, whip-toting herdsmen on cargo-carrying ponies against a Himalayan backdrop.
At about 6pm, the horse race festival tapered off to a quiet end. No fireworks. Just ended the same way it began – a long procession of horsemen, riding away into the distance.
As we made our way back to Manang, my mind was on tomorrow. We would head to Khangsar, where we would have our last dhaal bhaat, our last shower, and our last night on a bed in a cabin. Then it is off to the wilderness – 3 days, 4 men, 5 passes to civilization (Jomsom).
Procession of Horses
>>Day Eight: Manang-Khangsar
Day Six: Pisang-Manang
We had hoped for clear weather but we woke up to a pudgy morning filled with rain clouds. It made no sense now to take the high route (3700m) to Manang, which would take us up to 3700m to enjoy the medieval villages of Ghyaru and Ngawang. More importantly, the high route was suppose to give us a panorama of the ranges: Annapurna II and III, Lamjung Himal, Gangapurna and also the Chulus. Better luck next time.
At 8am, we set off from Pisang (3200m) for Manang (3540m) using the lower route. We could only look at Ghyaru from 400m below, and imagine what it was like on a clearer day. In many ways the brown bastions of Tibetan architecture looked much like Upper Pisang – weathered blocks of brown and black perched on a high rock. The easy stroll to Humde was peppered with buckwheat fields – splashes of pink across the uniformly green meadows. I could imagine camping out in the glades of Manang Valley. My mind was already drifting off to a near future where my wife and I would do a DIY-trek, carrying our own tents and cooking stuff. I will leave my cumbersome camera gear at home, no guides, no porters, just back to basics.
By now, the morning sun had given us some welcome respite from the gray gloom. We saw our first patch of blue skies in many days. It was a good sign.
Buckwheat fields of Manang Valley
The airport-village of Humde (3330m) was bustling with activities, even during this off-peak season. Tractors rolled along the trail, carrying people and stones. Lodges were renovating. Horses trotted hither thither. Villagers were out and about – it was summer, after all.
We took our lunch break at Hotel Gandaki in Humde. As we sipped chya in the small courtyard, an embalmed yak head peered down at us with its surrogate eyes: red-coloured lightbulbs. Once again, dhaal bhaat was the order of the day – can’t really go wrong with the local staple.
Children in Humde
Braga Gompa
Highly recommended in the guidebook is the next village: Braga (3450m). At 330pm, we strolled into the medieval-looking village. A 500-year-old gompa perched on craggy spires, overlooked horses grazing a grassy meadow below. The scene was simply too photogenic – we drew our cameras and started shooting away.
Initially, we had wanted to stay a night in Braga, before heading to Manang. But all the lodges were empty – there was a horse racing festival going on somewhere between Braga and Manang, and everyone had left to watch the spectacle.
Looking back, our progress was extremely slow today. What was supposed to be a 3.5 hour walk took us almost the whole day. In fact, Pisang to Humde already took 3.5 hours! Then there was the 1.5 hour lunchbreak/ siesta. Humde to Braga took another 2.5 hours. It doesn’t feel like we were walking too slowly, but the relatively flat trek sure took an eon. Must be the fatigue building up in the legs.
Before we could unpack our luggage in the lodge, a musical procession of jingling bells and beating drums jolted us into action. “Its the horse festival!” I shouted to Desmond. We grabbed our camera bags, locked the door and ran after the sound. The winds outside were mercilessly cold, and all I had against it was a thin trekking shirt.
Watching the Horse Race
Horse Race Festival, Braga
Horseman
>> Day Seven: Manang
Day Five: Chame-Pisang
The rain continued to tail us throughout the morning, as we left Chame (2700m) for Pisang (3200m). Perspiration from the exertion made wearing a poncho unbearable – instead of just being wet, I felt hot and sticky as well. At a rest stop, I took off the poncho and converted it into a cloak. It became much more bearable after that.
Ruins of Bhratang
By about 10am, we arrived in the ruins of Bhratang – an abandoned Tibetan refugee village, once the home of exiled resistance fighters of Kham. Empty stone houses, broken ladders, washed out signboards, and a general desolation now dominated the village. A serious young man in denim – looking very much like a time-traveled Kham fighter – served us chya (tea). We had Coco Cakes (local coconut flavoured cookies) - 40 rupees a packet from a nearby shop. Simple luxury – pure heaven.
It was at Bhratang that we met yet another two trekkers – Joo Ho (guy), 32, and Jung Ah (girl), 22, from Korea. The solo travelers met in Lumbini and discovered a common agenda. Joo Ho, an MBA candidate and a former marketeer, was fresh out from India through the southern Indo-Nepal border, and Jung Ah, a foreign language undergraduate, had been left unsatiated by a 5-day quickie trek to Jomsom-Muktinath-Marpha. Both were first-time trekkers, without guides or porters, on a shoestring budget. Truly admirable adventure spirit.
Way to Pisang, between Bhratang and Dhukur Pokhari
Paungda Danda, the impossible cliff
As we neared Dhukur Pokhari (translated: “bird pond”), the drafts became stronger – I felt my body alternating between hot and cold. A slight feverish feeling had seeped in, along with mild headache. By now, my mind had shut down – only my legs were moving. I was a dead man walking. Paungda Danda, a very smooth granite face that seemed to have been cleaved by a giant’s axe, appeared through the fog, glowing in the sunlight.
By noon, we made it to Dhukur Pokhari (3100m), where we met the same Swiss couple again. They appeared sullen/serious as the day before. At the same restaurant, we would meet another trekker – a very kempt middle-aged Korean woman doing a solo (with a porter/guide, I think). It was good to know we aren’t the only dummies doing a monsoon off-peak trek.
Glad to be out of the cold and wet, we placed our order for a fresh, hot feast: dhaal bhaat masu (Nepali rice with lentil soup and meat). But it was off-peak, so no meat. It was substituted by wild mushroom curry – a delightfully tasty dish. The chiao (mushrooms) were plucked fresh from the forests – it had a fresh wild taste, like nothing we tasted before. Using my hands to scoop the piping hot rice was a pleasure in itself. Dhaal bhaat just doesn’t taste the same from a spoon.
Manang Valley, Pisang
After lunch, the trek towards Pisang was a welcome transition. Dense forest gave way to lush valleys, dotted with pine and juniper trees. Horses grazed on the meadows, and an array of wild flowers splashed across the landscape. We arrived in Lower Pisang at about 230pm.
Pisang marked the transition from Gyasumdo (south of Manang) into another cultural zone – Nyeshang. Both have Tibetan roots, but their dialects are different. I guess to the outsider, they looked the same. Upper Pisang (about 100m ascent) loomed above, like a derelict fortress of stone and mud, still watching its charge below. The gray bastion was populated by an equally gray community, along with a handful of monks. A constant stream of devotees trekked up to pray in the gompa. Upper Pisang was a half-hour gentle ascent past pleasant buckwheat and barley fields.
Flowers in Pisang
Upper Pisang
Old woman carrying a dhoko, Upper Pisang
Off-peak is really the time to trek if you’re not looking for luxury in terms of food and accomodation. Most of the items on the menu that looked remotely exotic (read: Western) should be ordered at your own risk (for instance, “special pizza”) and getting really hot showers is like hitting jackpot. If you expect five-star reception at lodges, think again. During off-peak season, many of the lodge owners are away in Pokhara or Kathmandu, leaving only less-than-enthusiastic workers behind to entertain the rare monsoon trekker.
Special pizza at Hotel Maya deserves special mention. Saag (vegetables, in this case, bitter mustard leaves), tuna, yak cheese and tomato sauce just didn’t agree with each other on a pizza crust. The crowning glory of the dish – a fried egg plastered in the middle of the pizza – simply added to the bizzare taste. And a guidebook actually commended this lodge for its “excellent meals”. Later, I was told that most of the chefs were in Kathmandu during off-peak and these “special dishes” were made by their assistants – so don’t order anything too complicated (dhaal bhaat and anything made of potatoes is safe). A good piece of advice, a little too late.
Pisang
>> Day Six: Pisang-Manang
Day Four: Dharapani-Chame
We woke up creaking like old men. My butt was feeling sore – even climbing a few steps was a strain. I dread to think about the 800m-ascent today.
Dharapani from afar
As we left Dharapani (1900m) a village girl rushed past us shouting “Namaste!” She proceeded to spring ahead of us in her old flip-flops, emphasizing our frailty. We probably looked like grand daddies with Komperdell walking sticks. An hour later, by about 830am, the ghostly spectre of Bagarchap (2160m) peered through the fog. A landslide in 1995 had quashed 17 houses and killed a handful of people, including tourists. Now, only three lodges remained – the rest had moved to up west to Danagyu or Chame.
Our guide Khusang stopped by the Tourist Police Checkpost to register our presence. We did a quick check: 7 trekkers came this way in July, 2 headed down to Thorong-La, 3 headed to Tilicho pass, plus 2 more heading down to Tilicho – Desmond and I.
Girl carrying water at Dharapani
After an hour’s trek, we stopped at Potala Guesthouse in Danagyu (2300m). Names of guesthouses and restaurants in this region often point us back to Tibet, the ancestral homeland many Nepali highlanders. Tibet Guesthouse. Tashi Delek Guesthouse. Lhasa Guesthouse. Most of the owners still worship the Dalai Lama, celebrate Lhosar, and wear traditional Tibetan garb. But many of the diaspora have adopted distinct last names: Gurung, Tamang, Lama, and Sherpa, instead of Gyaltsen, Tseten, Choeden or Wangpo. They hold Nepali passports and learn Nepali as their first language.
The owner of this guesthouse said I reminded her of her 20-year-old son studying in Japan. A compliment, since I’m 11 years older! We chatted about Tibet, the longing for phayul (translated directly to “fatherland”, as in “motherland”), the change in their last names, who’s eligible to go to Lhasa, and the Dalai Lama.
“Dalai Lama… he has a bad habit,” said our guide. “Politics.” Its rare to hear a criticism of His Holiness coming from an adherent. But then again, Sherpas have left Tibet for hundreds of years, and the Chinese authorities have given Sherpa trekking guides free access into Lhasa. On the side, I was told that a locket bearing the Dalai Lama’s portrait can fetch 300-500 RMB in Tibet.
Magic Forest
At 1130am, we sighted our first fellow trekkers in the village of Timang (2500m)- a Swiss couple having springrolls for lunch at Hotel Tibetan (see what I mean?). Their chatty guide Janu told us the couple was heading to Thorong-La, the 5416-metre pass which was popular with trekkers doing this side of the Annapurna Circuit. The couple, though, looked sullen or serious, and definitely very reserved.
It was still pouring at 1pm. I had changed into my fleece, and in the meantime, Khusang was drying my Timberland shirt in the kitchen. Desmond was sleeping on the bench, and an eerie Tibetan chanting came from the next room. Rain pelted on the inverted beer bottles delineating a small garden patch – a common use for the Tuborgs and San Miguels post consumption.
Desmond at a cliff near Bagarchap
Half an hour later, we continued our wet journey, to the angry song of the Marshyangdi raging below us. It was to this song that we marched on, to the town of Chame (2670m). Enroute, we met a bunch of locals watching mountain goats with a binoculars. One of them, by the name of Sonam Dorje, 32, wore a “Save Tibet” t-shirt. The cause had spread far and wide indeed.
At 630pm, we arrived in the administrative headquarters of Manang district: Chame. The mobile signals came back on, and a large sign, painted onto a boulder at its entrance, screamed out at us: Broadband Internet, Now in Chame.
Welcome to Chame
