Journey's End

In my hometown of Ballito there is a pedestrian staircase that climbs from the village bowl (the town’s lowest point) to Townsend Park, a suburb nearly 150 metres higher up.  It intersects 2 streets and consists of 3 separate flights numbering nearly 350 stairs.  The stairway was a prominent feature of my pre-trek training program and I christened them the “Potemkin Steps” after the famous staircase in Odessa, (though they bear no resemblance).  In the weeks before my departure, I built up to doing about 7 sets three times a week.

But my Potemkin Steps were no contest for the staircase we were about to encounter.  “I think the Circuit has reserved its best sting till last” I said as we studied the map over breakfast in Ghorepani.  On the map, somewhere between Banthanti and Tikhedhunga, were the words “3800 stone steps”.  The descent to our next hotel would be 1500 metres, much of which would take place on those steps.

One cannot help but marvel at the generations of blood, sweat, tears and ingenuity that have gone into constructing and maintaining the staircase to Tikhedhunga.  The undertaking to quarry, size and place stones – to survey routes through the treacherous topography – to maintain this seemingly endless walkway in the face of uncompromising Monsoon rain – must surely rank as one of Nepal’s wonders, understated though it is.

Perhaps even more amazing were the porters ferrying head loads of merchandise from Nyapul to Ghorepani.  During his 5-month journey through the Himalaya as part of a BBC documentary, Michael Palin was similarly impressed, referring to such loads as “Sisyphean” meaning “endless and unavailing”.  I cannot think of a better word myself.  I once saw a porter trying to resume his journey after a break, his basket filled to the brim with apples, pomegranates as well as a set of cooking pans.  As he got to his feet, the basket listed to one side taking the poor man with it.  As he fell awkwardly, we jumped quickly to his aid.  Getting him to his feet, correctly balanced and on his way called for the strength of two men.  My heart went out to these wraith-like fellows, very few of who have the appropriate footwear for the terrain, (most wearing sandals or flip-flops).  And while the government has passed regulations on how much tourist porters may carry (no more than 30 kg), the carriers of general merchandise seem exempt from the restrictions.  They are relatively cheerful nonetheless, congregating for breaks in places where the hillsides offer a ledge on which to rest their loads.  These places are immediately recognized by the litter of chewing tobacco and snuff packets, the contents of which are no doubt consumed to deaden the aches, pains and drudgery which come with the occupation.  I was particularly taken with the chicken porters, hardy souls lugging cages containing 30 or more live birds and who complete the seemingly endless climb from Birethanti to Ghorepani in a single day.

Our own porters continued to amaze me.  Though their burdens had lightened considerably since Colin and Sandra’s departure, each was carrying a load in excess of 20 Kg.  By the time we stopped for lunch in Banthanti, they had already secured rooms for us in Tikhedhunga.  When I finally crossed the bridge of the Bhurungdi River and entered the town’s high street, my legs had a mind of their own and my knees were like jelly.  I found the three porters comfortably reclining in the afternoon sun on the pavement outside the lodge, cracking jokes and smiling contentedly.  When I asked them how they’d done, Ram and Rissam laughed as though I’d broached some sort of inside joke.  Physically the two had coped just fine.  The challenge, instead, had been a mental one.  For some days, Ram and Rissam’s desperate lot was simply to stay three steps ahead of Kisna who had not showered for nearly 15 days.  “He doesn’t like water,” concluded Rissam with a giggle.  It was pretty amusing and at last I had an explanation for the curious fug that had recently attached itself to my bag.

From Left: Kisna, Ram, Raj and Rissam

*

The walk to Birethanti, our final night’s stopover, was a joy.  Mostly on the flat, it followed a beautiful river that meandered through quaint villages and verdant farmland.  The water, just warm enough for swimming, was sweet relief from the humidity. I got in twice - once en route and once in a small gorge above the village.  But besides this bucolic serenity, I felt sad.  The town of Syange where we had embarked on this incredible adventure felt light years behind us.  The trepidation I had felt in those dark pre-dawn hours before our first day’s trekking now felt misplaced.  None of my fears had materialized – yet the Circuit had given unstintingly of itself.

Crystal clear mountain streams - ruined by carelessly discarded Sunsilk sachets (see foreground)

Before supper I examined my boots.  They’d done a yeoman service but I noticed that the sole of one had come loose.  Using two tubes of super glue, I carried out a quick repair job even though I didn’t envisage wearing them again.  My bag had only just made it too.  When Prem gave it to me 15 days before it was black.  Now, caked with chalky dust and sediment, it had turned a dull grey.  Though still in good working order, it was badly scuffed and the logos had all but worn off.  Prem’s guarantee of a new one had not been misplaced.

Walking Machines

That night, a retinue of Spanish trekkers and their Nepali support team held a boisterous fiesta in the dining room to celebrate the end of their trek and the successful ascent of Thorung Peak.  Not only had they negotiated the pass, they had climbed fixed ropes to the summit (6200 metres).  I was impressed:  the team’s average age was significantly higher than our own and one woman over the age of 60 had made it to the top.  There was much to celebrate and the tables were pushed to one side to make space for dancing.  I sat up late reading, amused by the increasingly drunken cries of “Ole” and laughter as each culture taught the other its native dance.

Suddenly there was an earsplitting clap of thunder.  Strobes of lightning rent the night sky asunder giving fleeting glimpses of Fishtail Peak, the last real mountain we would see.  I nudged the curtains aside and for a while admired the spectacle.  But the storm ended as quickly as it had begun, the hissing of the rain quickly supplanted by the din of two mighty rivers roaring into the confluence just below the village.

Though the Circuit was over, I could not have asked for a better finale.

Sad Goodbyes