located over a shallow pit in which a brazier of hot coals warms us while we eat. Mahdri squats beside the cooking fire with the didi, his hands held in the smoke, fingers splayed, but a Danish couple in their early 30s who share our table complain about the cold. In a thick Icelandic sweater the woman looks mournful and gives an involuntary shudder. ‘Boy,’ she says in near-perfect English. ‘If this is autumn, how bad is it in winter?’
‘Why don’t you put some more clothes on?’ I ask.
‘I’m wearing everything I have.’
‘Really? No down jacket?’
She shakes her head. ‘We did not know it would be cold like this. We have never been to 3000 metres before.’
I wonder then how far they intend to go, but the boyfriend answers my unspoken question. ‘We want to cross the Thorong La,’ he says. ‘Will it be cold like this?’
Almost 2000 metres higher than Pisang, the Thorong La is the pass which leads to the Kali Gandaki. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’ll be much, much colder than this.’
Seen from our lodge Upper Pisang is like a series of swallows’ nests high above the river. On this crisp November morning a cocoon of blue-grey smoke embraces the village, each house wearing a prayer flag that hangs limply against its pole. Having slogged up the path to it, we pause to catch our breath and appreciate the sight of Annapurna II across the valley, its summit crest blistered by the afterglow of sunrise. The main trail to Manang remains below, but an alternative path heading northwest wins us a view through the valley where organ pipes of rock have been sand-blasted by the dry winds of high Asia. Mahdri is just ahead, a grey turtle with the faded blue shell of Alan’s rucksack concealing all but his legs. Together we wander among juniper and pine trees above a small green tarn, then slope down to another mani wall, cross a stream and come to a fork in the trail.
With a vague twitch of his head Mahdri gives directions. ‘Hongde’ (indicating to the left), ‘Ghyaru, Ngawal’ (uphill). The nasal sounds of ‘Ghyaru’ and ‘Ngawal’ hang in the air like an adjunct to ‘Om mani padme hum’. In this land of other-worldly encounters Alan and I are attracted by these sounds. So uphill it is.
It’s a steep climb, and wheezing with his head-cold Alan suffers, but all the effort is forgotten as Ghyaru gathers us into a long-distant past. This ancient village of flat-roofed houses crowds the hillside with an outlook onto a wall of glacial mountains – Lamjung Himal, Gangapurna and the north face of Annapurnas II and III. Notched tree trunks serve as ladders up which locals climb to their living quarters, while yaks are stabled on the ground floor. Once again, prayer flags adorn every rooftop, and now the air is stirring they gently slap against their poles.
Mahdri suggests a tea stop, takes us into a walled enclosure, then up a ladder, where he removes the rucksack and ducks through a low doorway to be swallowed by the darkness of the room beyond. Following, we’re struck by a cloud of acrid smoke, and it’s clear that whoever is in this room is burning dried yak dung. ‘This should clear your sinuses,’ I murmur to Alan.
As we grow accustomed to the gloom we’re directed by the man of the house to make ourselves comfortable. He appears to be old, his face rutted with high altitude wind and sun, a woollen hat pulled tightly over scalp and ears, his teeth broken where his lips part in a wordless smile of greeting. There are no seats so we use the floor, sitting cross-legged on a rug in front of the fire that burns on a stone-slab grate. A blackened pot of tsampa is being stirred, and moments later the clay-like substance is offered first to Mahdri, then to us. I decline, as does Alan, but Mahdri accepts without visible sign of gratitude, as is often the way in this land where acceptance of a gift adds karma of the giver. He who gives should be grateful. The man of the house laughs at me, aware no doubt that the tan-coloured goo is not to a Westerner’s liking, but nonetheless scrapes a lump from the pot with a stick and holds it across the fire. Our eyes meet. He nods. I accept the offering, take the lump with my fingers and pop it into my mouth. It tastes just as it looks… The old man laughs again, turns to Alan and asks in pantomime fashion if he is father and I the grandfather. Since there’s only six months’ difference in our ages, Alan appreciates the joke more than I do.
One tiny slit-like window allows light to enter and some of the smoke to leave. A faint blue beam angles from window to floor, picking out the gentle swirl of smoke and dancing dust fairies. The bare walls are black and shining with the soot of who knows how many years of yak-dung fires; the only furnishings are the rugs on which we sit and a pair of long, thick cushions against the wall beneath the window.
Rolling the tsampa into a ball with one hand, Mahdri tosses it into his mouth. He does this many times until the bowl is empty, then runs his fingers round the edge to collect any spare food before licking his fingers clean. The old man passes him a metal jug, which he holds above his tilted head and pours water into his mouth. Not a drop is spilled, and none touches his lips. Above the crackling of the fire I hear the gulping sounds as Mahdri swallows.
‘It’s easy to die of altitude sickness. Anyone can do it! Trekkers do it every year. Not the same trekkers, of course – they only do it once. Once each, that is.’ The newly qualified German doctor, with an enviable command of English, is enjoying himself. No doubt it’s the same spiel he uses every day, but it’s effective, and his audience takes note.
We’re sitting in the roofless outdoor lecture room at the health post run by the Himalayan Rescue Association (HRA) in Manang, where every afternoon during the trekking season one of two volunteer doctors based here gives a presentation on how to avoid altitude sickness. While the subject is serious, the lecture is entertaining. It has to be in order to keep the audience’s attention. But more than that, it’s informative and, no doubt, life saving for some of those present, for the Annapurna Circus attracts plenty of visitors with little or no mountain experience – let alone high-altitude experience. These include world travellers who last month were on the beach in Goa, next month will be drifting through Thailand, but this month are ‘doing Nepal’. And that means a week or so in Kathmandu followed by a quick trek round Annapurna. Many are ill equipped and, like the Danish couple in Pisang, have no idea what to expect.
Recognising this the doctor stresses the importance of drinking plenty of liquids, of gaining altitude in slow and easy stages, and of keeping alert for warning signs in yourself and your companions. He’s graphic in his description of death from pulmonary and cerebral oedema, and makes his audience sit up by telling them, ‘It can strike even here in Manang. You don’t have to go all the way to the Thorong La to die.’ Warning of the cold and high winds up at the pass, he gives several instances of trekkers and their porters setting out for the La never to make it. ‘All because they were not prepared, were in too much of a hurry, were too proud to turn back, or – in the case of the porters – they did not know what was happening to them. Remember’, he says, prodding the air with emphasis, ‘you can die through stupidity if you like. That is your choice. But if you have porters with you, you are responsible for their safety. Their lives are as important as yours.’ He pauses for effect, then says, ‘Actually, from where I’m standing, I’d say more important than some of you.’
We all laugh, but wonder who he’s getting at.
Manang is bustling. At just over 3500 metres, it’s sensible for anyone planning to cross the Thorong La to spend at least two nights at this altitude to help the process of acclimatisation. That’s why there are twice as many trekkers congregating here than in any other village along the trail. Not only independent teahouse trekkers, like us, but organised groups too, with their porters, Sherpas and sirdars. Two groups are camped on the edge of the village, but there are even tents pitched on the flat roofs of some of the houses.
There must be at least 200 houses in Manang. A maze of narrow alleys twists between them, opening to a square with
