to us as we pad the trail. Passing a small watermill built across a tributary stream, we wander through a kani to find ourselves in Marpha – and regret not having stayed here last night. White-painted buildings, paved street, attractive lodges and shops, and a view of mountains across the valley make this the finest village we’ve yet visited. So choosing a lodge at random we enter, order drinks and treat ourselves to chocolate brownies. (So much for my scorn for Western influence in the high Himalaya!)
Beyond Marpha rows of apple, apricot, peach and walnut trees give rise to a burst of admiration for the folk who live here, for in this land of extremes, this ever-rising land of avalanche and earthquake, human existence itself is a triumph. That fruit can grow in this semi-desert is a miracle. The valley seduces us with wonder.
Further on, the once-prosperous village of Tukuche is set in an open meadow where, before the Chinese invasion of Tibet, traders would gather to exchange Tibetan rock salt for Nepalese grain. What scenes would have been enacted here in centuries past! Yak trains with wild-looking Tibetans meeting strings of pack-ponies and mules from the lush south – two very different cultures coming together in this meadow in the mountains, overlooked by Dhaulagiri in the west and outliers of the Annapurnas in the east. I imagine the rise and fall of haggling voices, the occasional bellow of a yak, the jangle of bell-laden harnesses. But today there’s only a pair of crows bouncing across the grass and the shadow of a lammergeyer circling overhead.
Our day is unplanned. We drift as each whim demands and find ourselves crossing numerous streams flowing from a small side valley at the foot of Tukuche Peak, with the notorious Kali Gandaki wind now gusting in our faces. Khobang is protected from that wind, its houses built close together for mutual protection, while the main street serves as a tunnel with doorways opening from it. One shows an inner courtyard smelling of livestock.
South of the village the valley is distinctly alpine, the trail a switchback among stands of chir pine, with huge mountains crowding nearby as we enter the deepest gorge on Earth and descend into an amphitheatre dominated by Dhaulagiri, whose face is plastered with hanging glaciers. There is no bridge across the torrent, but as it’s been divided and sub-divided by gravel beds into a series of braidings, we scout up and down for the easiest crossings, pole-vaulting the deepest streams. Once across we locate the continuing path that leads to a suspension bridge high above the Kali Gandaki. It sways with each step we take.
In the late afternoon we enter another geographical, climatic and cultural zone. A new world lies before us, and for a brief moment I feel a sense of loss. I love the wild aridity of that northern side of the Himalaya, with its Buddhist values and sometimes sterile wastelands, and wonder how long it will be before I can tread such places again. Then almost as soon as the moment comes, it leaves, and I’m excited by prospects of warm nights and abundant vegetation.
We settle to a lodge in Kalopani after gaining a surprise view of Annapurna pink-tinged with the alpenglow. It’s comfortable and busy with a cosmopolitan crowd of trekkers, most of whom are making their way up-valley. Two dark-haired, dark-eyed Israeli sisters whose white, close-fitting teeshirts leave little to the imagination concentrate their attention on a pair of climbers from the US, who return that concentration without difficulty. After Alan and I turn in, we discover that in the room next to ours, and separated only by a plank-thick dividing wall, a passionate night is being enjoyed by all four. Almost deafened by their gasps and groans, by the time morning dawns I’m exhausted. How they’ll continue up-valley after all that exercise, I’ve no idea.
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