Nick Hardcastle

My friends will tell yo that when I get hungry I become irritable. It’s true, so last night I ordered food early, aware that the service in our lodge was unlikely to be fast. An hour and a half later and there was still no sign of activity in the kitchen. My crew and the lodge staff were all sitting transfixed in front of the television watching a Nepali action movie of such awfulness that it is hard to imagine the director finding employment ever again. The television itself was relatively new, perhaps a year old, judging from the colour of the polystyrene packing case in which it still sat, looking quite out of place amongst the traditional copper pots and rough hewn furniture of the Tibetan guest house. Ready to explode I excused myself and returned to my room to read.

I was far more cheerful in the morning when the young cook served me excellent chapattis and an omelette. They even made Tibetan salt tea in an electric blender. Containing a startling amount of yak’s butter, it is not the healthiest drink. Out of courtesy I reluctantly accepted a second cup. Hydroelectricity must have transformed life in the villages here. Ten years ago there were no electric lights, telephones, televisions or food processors. Somehow I would still prefer it that way, selfishly enjoying an escape from modernity.

The telephone must have brought one of the biggest changes to the people of this valley. From the way they bellow into the receiver or their mobiles, I suspect that they were used to shouting from village to village. In the confined space of a house I found myself cringing each time someone removed the dust cover and unlocks the satellite telephone. The serenity of the himalayas is gone for good, or Nepalese learn appropriate telephone etiquette.

I didn’t like Chame, the district town and capital of Manang District from the moment I rounded the corner and caught sight of its forlorn main (and only) street. A crippled boy was waddling uphill towards the centre of town, his oversized wellington boots adding a humorous, vaudeville touch to his already comical gait. As I tried to retrieve some semblance of political correctness, I thought of the difficulties of life in such a remote place, three or four days walk from the nearest town of any significance. Even there, I am not sure that you would find anybody other than the most depressed, underachieving general practitioner. Notwithstanding my best efforts I remained uncharitable in my attitude to this town. Its one redeeming feature was that I could buy a Twix, something that had been praying on my mind for some time.

I waited for my crew outside the town bank, an establishment that reminded me of an old John Wayne movie, with its wooden grills and rustic nineteenth century air. The bright, backlit plastic money transfer sign looked quite out of place. The district police headquarters was across the street,k although path would be a more accurate description of the town’s shit splattered highway. A young policeman, his ancient rifle well polished but hardly used, stood to attention in the middle of the courtyard. Quite what he was guarding I couldn’t imagine, but it struck me that a child with a catapult could have easily taken him out.

When Dambar arrived he chose a lodge undergoing renovation. It was lunchtime and he was planning that we stay there for the rest of the day. On our first walk through the lodge we couldn’t find the dining room or kitchen, nor anybody to serve us. Blood sugar levels must have been low for I refused point blank to stay, not only there, but in Chame itself. I couldn’t explain my reasons, but the feel of the place just wasn’t right.

As I passed dismissively through Chame I met two other trekkers, white people. I wasn’t pleased to see them, resenting their presence on my trail. I greeted them politely and walked on.

I don’t think that the chaps (a new word that I have taught Dambar) were particularly pleased with me when I said that I wanted to continue on to Bhratang, another two hours uphill. the fleshpots of Chame, if they exist, might appeal to the Nepalese, but as it was only 12:30 I couldn’t contemplate spending the rest of the day in the town. As we left, passing a small gold-less goldsmith sitting on the wooden floor of his shack, Dambar was obviously trying to humor me. Then it started to rain.

Bhratang is a two family hamlet, a stopping point between the larger settlements of Pisang and Chame. Old abandoned houses rot in the apple orchards at the foot of a monstrous dripping cliff. To capitalise on the passing trekkers, the families have constructed new, large lodges which in their turn are gradually succumbing to the elements. This may be a cheerful place in the dry season.

The redeeming feature of Bhratang is the lack of electricity, so as it got dark we all crowded into the kitchen and sat talking around the wood stoves. The cook was preparing dido, a thick paste of buckwheat flower resembling brown cement. You pinch off lumps of this sticky substance and eat it with curry. It sounds revolting but, thanks to the delicious curry they had made with wild mushrooms, it was most enjoyable. As we were eating the owner of the house said that he hoped the mushrooms were alright … or we could end up having a very long sleep. He didn’t eat for several hours after we had finished.

Looking very pleased with himself a middle aged man, probably fifteen years younger than me, carefully unfolded a cloth on the boards in front of the kitchen. He was keen to show off his find, a dozen yarchagomba, small brown shoots hardly worth a second glance. I couldn’t work out what Dambar was telling me at the time, but he kept repeating that they were half plant and half animal and that they crawled around the high pastures above 4000m. He told me that they are such a valuable commodity that in the yarchagomba season thousands of people go looking for them. Schools in some districts close whilst their students go out searching. In Bhratang each shoot will fetch Rp200. By the time they reach Kathmandu they are worth Rp500. Dambar explained that they have many uses, but the only on he is certain about is as a cure for importance. “A drug to feed your boss or a power hungry politician?” I asked. Confused, Dambar resorted to highly graphical gestures to show what he really meant – not a cure for arrogance but a powerful natural viagra.

I later learned that the shoots are actually caterpillars that have a black fungal parasite growing from them.

One hundred and fifteen meters! How deceptive the figures are. We spent the day climbing and descending as we followed the river upstream. The valley became more precipitous and we had to climb over each spur as the river was in spate. As a result of 10 km hike took us over six hours.

Apart from a little drizzle, today was fine, although sufficiently humid to leave us drenched with sweat. My boots have dried out to the extent that they have stopped squelching and now stink like a rotting corpse.

There are so many butterflies now on the trail. Dambar doesn’t know what they are called, but today we counted at least ten species. They are colourful, and in the case of little blue ones that fly around your legs in the dozens, mesmerizingly beautiful. One black and white butterfly, about an inch and a half across, almost disappears when it lands, flattening its wings against the ground and looking like a dead leaf.

I’ve been having some trouble with my left knee, which has become intermittently painful. This is ironic as we haven’t done much yet. In March, in the Everest Base Camp trek, I didn’t have any trouble at all. I have taken two paracetamol washed down with a couple of bottles of luke warm Gorkha beer, and am hoping that it is better by morning.

We passed a group of horses on the trail, not one of which was without a sore on its tail or back. Some of these open wounds were several inches across. i find it difficult to understand how people can let animals get into this state, particularly when they depend on them for a living. The saddles they use here seem woefully inadequate. it wouldn’t take much to improve on them – a project for one of the animal charities perhaps.

How easily infections are transferred. The little girl at the lodge finds my writing fascinating and has been holding the end of my pen whilst I write, carefully feeling the movements that produce the words on the paper. Like her whole family she is suffering from a cold and a horrid cough. Pausing for thought I just chewed the end of my pen. Maybe another bottle of beer will kill the germs.

Did I mention that I am traveling with a crew of 3? It makes live very easy as I only have to carry my camera and an umbrella. This is definitely the way to trek.