blue ribbon twists with no sound of its glacial fury reaching us, while on the far side of the Tamur’s valley, halfway up the opposite slope, the little township of Taplejung can just be detected – once we know where to look, that is. High above it there’s a small airstrip, beside which, according to Pemba, we’ll make camp tomorrow night. He’s happy to direct our gaze. He’s been this way before with a Japanese expedition to climb Kanch’s Southwest Face and is eager to be back.
But what catches and holds my attention is the sight once again of that ragged Himalayan skyline – Jannu, Kangchenjunga, Talung, Kabru and all the other 6000, 7000 and 8000 metre peaks that stretch as far as the eye can see; fairyland castles in the sky, they are, supported by clouds. What was it Joe Tasker had written? ‘In the sky hovering white and unobtrusive in the distance so I thought it was a cloud…’.
I settle beside the trail letting others pass by, and am aware that this bewitching land embraces me in its warmth. Fragrances drawn from the vegetation by the morning sun are intense, yet they are so kaleidoscopic in complexity that I fail to separate them into individual scents. Instead I have to content myself with their overall effect. Sounds, too, are beyond my frail ability to recognise and define them. Exotic birds with fanciful plumage swoop from tree to bush and back up to tree again, there to warble their morning anthems while the piercing electric cadence of a million unseen cicadas builds to a deafening pitch.
Before coming to Nepal I had imagined the drama of the great peaks. To me, trekking would mean a visual feast of glacier and rock face, of marching breathless through avenues of soaring mountains, of plodding through crisp snow en route to a lofty pass, there to gaze on scenes of untamed grandeur. I’d given little consideration to the foothill country. Yet this too, I’ve discovered, is a wonderland, and although the snowbound horizon has its seductive allure, I’m in no hurry to reach it. Each step of the approach is full of its own unique brand of magic.
As if to emphasise that fact, all the way down to Dobhan on the banks of the Tamur Khola is a dream. Thatched houses with white and ochre walls stand beside the trail, sweetcorn cobs hang to dry beneath their eaves, garlands of marigolds over doors and glassless windows, pumpkins against a wall…children laughing…voices calling from fields of ripening millet…cocks crowing, goats bleating.
Every terrace has been put to use. On the upper hillside the rice is not yet ready for harvesting, and chuntering streams feed irrigation ditches. Dragonflies hover over them. The sun dances in flooded paddies to flash diamonds as we pass.
The path levels for 20 rare paces. Alongside it a chautaara has been built, some of its stones having been rubbed and polished black by generations of porters who’ve rested here; the upright blocks wear lichens, but the sun-baked path is littered with cigarette butts and orange peel. At the end of the chautaara two young girls and a boy with a dreamy look stand sentry. Silhouetted as they are against castles among clouds, I carry that vision with me.
Further down the slope we pass orange trees and green-skinned grapefruit the size of footballs. Bananas grow beside many of the houses; flame-coloured bougainvillaea and straggly poinsettias hang over the trail; I catch the scent of frangipani.
Here the rice is being harvested by women in scarlet or vivid green saris. Bent double over the waist-high crop, their fingers deftly gather clumps of stalks as a blade flashes the light. The cut rice is then laid over to dry, for water has drained from the terrace and the warm sun will soon draw out any excess moisture. Lower down the slope a bare-footed farmer is ploughing with a pair of water buffalo, turning the soil in pocket-sized terraces, yelping a command each time he reaches the terrace end, where he then hops down to the next tiny field, manhandles the plough and virtually steers the stumbling buffalo to face the opposite direction. He pauses in his work to watch me pass. I raise a hand in acknowledgement. He lets go the plough, and his hands come together. ‘Namaste,’ he calls.
I continue down the trail enriched by his greeting.
There are no certainties in trekking among mountains. Here in the Himalaya I accept that any one of a number of circumstances could affect our plans – sudden snowfall or landslip, ill-health or an inability to acclimatise, the mood of our porters, availability of campsites with water, problems with route-finding… All these things (and others) make it essential to retain a flexible attitude of mind. Although we’ve been given an itinerary, it’s merely a framework within which the trek will manoeuvre a course. We have a date by which we ought to be in Tumlingtar on the River Arun, where a charter flight is due to fly us back to Kathmandu. The rest is open to speculation, and rather than create tensions, it should provide a sense of freedom. That is certainly how I feel, and relaxing by the side of the icy Tamur below Dobhan’s houses while the valley gathers darkness I’m aware of the joy of now and the essence of being. Tomorrow is of no concern until tomorrow arrives.
The river crunches and grinds rocks and boulders that lie in its path. It has its own agenda, its own history. Neither rocks nor boulders will deter its journey to the sea, for with time its ally, and with patience counted in millions of years, the river’s relentless pounding will reduce those blocks of stone into grey powder. Nepal’s greatest export is its mountains, for even as they grow, they’re being worn down and transported via its rivers to the Bay of Bengal, along with countless tons of soil from terraces washed away by the annual monsoon rains.
Our journey has a more limited time scale. It is estimated that we will need 12 days to trek from the road-head to the south side of Kangchenjunga and another two to cross a series of passes into the valley of the Ghunsa Khola, where we will take a day’s rest. Then there will be four or five days to descend back to Dobhan, followed by another four or five trekking up and along the western flank of the Milke Danda to Tumlingtar. But, as I say, this is little more than speculation, a plan written down in a London office. Reality could be very different. Reality is this moment in time, the darkness that has now filled the valley, the rush and crunch of the river, the cool silty sand between my toes, the crackle of the porters’ fires and the rise and fall of laughter. I am aware of the insect chorus among unseen trees – a different sound from that of daylight hours. I see faint lights moving in the village above me, and imagine candles flickering from room to room in medieval homes. I momentarily shiver with the cool air that washes through the valley, riding the snowmelt from high, wild places, and am glad.
The 1600 metre climb from the banks of the Tamur to the Tibetan settlement of Suketar on the ridge of the Surke Danda is a steep and demanding one for porters. It’s a long enough route for us trekkers carrying only daypacks, but for heavily laden men and women it is a gruelling ascent. Bright sunshine, little shade, barely a breeze and the belief that we’d be stopping earlier than we do add nothing but misery to their day, and when they finally arrive at the village long after night has fallen, their mood is sullen. I sense a poisonous blister of resentment held in check only by utter weariness. In the morning that blister must be lanced or it will burst of its own accord.
It bursts.
Breakfast is over, our gear packed and tents collapsed, yet the porters have so far not even begun to sort their loads. Nor do they give any impression of doing so. Bart is deep in discussion with Dawa by the side of the white-painted Buddhist gompa which overlooks our dismantled camp. Strings of brightly coloured prayer flags dance in the morning breeze to match the incongruous sight of a windsock nearby. Just behind the bhatti, where we’d sat for hours last night awaiting the arrival of our tents, a barbed-wire fence deters animals from straying onto a flattish meadow that serves as the airstrip for Taplejung, the township halfway down the slope towards Dobhan. By that fence groups of disgruntled porters sit hunched in circles. At a distance of a hundred paces it is clear that serious negotiations must begin soon or tempers will erupt.
Dawa walks nervously to them. Other Sherpas watch from a discreet distance, as do we. Max voices general concern: ‘The next few minutes will determine whether our trek continues or not. If Dawa buggers this
