Moved

Okay so I think I have got enough done now to be able to officially move to my new domain.

Thanks Yoda for the link and tips and Gillo grazie mille ;)

I now reside HERE


I may not stay there - depends how easy it proves to run all this stuff yourself. One of the things that I love about Blogger is the ease of it all (which appeals to my lazy nature).

So I may come back here one day (probably the day I forget to renew my domain name and hosting fees - he! he!)

Anyway let's just see what happens.

Moving

So - Happy New Year to everyone!

I've decided to move this year, so I downloaded Wordpress and some free web editing software from Evrsoft and am now in the process of moving content over to my new home.

It seemed like an excellent idea when I started on this wee venture, but now it has become a little tedious.

Still, I am almost there which is great news as I'd much rather write posts than do all this grunt work .....(lazy me)

One thing that is bumming me out though. My CSS doesn't render so well when I view the site in Mozilla/Firefox (Opera and IE are fine) Any technical geniuses among you know how to resolve this? Pointers to any pages with web tips are ,most wecolme. At the moment I am simply checking the site in Mozilla all the time, on the basis that if it looks ok in Mozilla then it looks ok in all the other browsers too .....but there must be some other way round this, no?

Anyway, that's what I'm up to and expect to "go live" at the weekend (yeah right!)

Ghasa to Tukuche

Forest.

The first hour or so of the trip are on a wide undulating road through forest that also seems to be the main thoroughfare for pilgrims returning from their pilgrimage to Muktinath.

I walk rather blindly, calls of " Yannis!" still ringing in my head, paying little heed to my surroundings.

Pilgrims, forest, mules, road. That is all there is.

In fact it is a pretty monotonous stretch of trail as we pull out of Ghasa and head away from the lushness of the gorge and onwards towards the drier, more arid plains of Mustang.

In Ghumaune we stop for a cup of tea, but on perusing the menu and recalling the dinner of the previous evening we decide on a bit of " brunch" .

We've only been going a couple of hours but what the hey! Some more Tibetan bread will hit the spot quite nicely.

In fact, the food is so good we decide to stock up on some sandwiches for the trail which we can eat later without having to stop again.

What planning! What foresight!

In the sun, in the garden it's actually quite exotic and it's hard to get up and go again once brunch is done. But go we must.

Through Lete (where the smells from an apple brandy distillery are almost unbearable) and upwards ever upwards, slowly and gently.

Sometimes this just happens. A trail becomes invisible. All there is, is a series of footsteps and the sense that you need to go on.

Jeanna notices it too.

" We always seem to be going, but never arriving"

True. True. There's always another day's walking ahead. Onwards ever onwards.

I'm not sure when or where exactly the scenery started to change, but at some point, my brain kicks in and I notice that the landscape is changing subtly. Its starting to turn more turning beige as the greenery is subsides and gives way to a rocky, gravely and more forbidding landscape. A taste of what is to come later as we leave Tukuche and head to Kagbeni.

We' re in the small town of Kalopani. Off in the distance, Dhaulagiri looms down on us.

We stop a while to eat our provisions and I take in the scene. The little houses, freshly whitewashed for Dessain, the large, orange pumpkins growing on the roofs, the only source of colour it seems, the millet fields all around us. The silence.

It truly is one of the quietest villages I have ever been in.

Laxman explains that the architecture is different here. The houses are built around little internal courtyards, which serve as the centre of family life. All the activity, it seems, is taking place in these little family centres while out here on the street, peace and quiet reigns.

Well, for a while at least. Every small town has curious kids and Kalopani is no exception. So after ten minutes sitting on our bench a stream of kids come to watch us eat and to giggle shyly at us as we share some chocolate with them.

When we leave they watch us go, in silence, to shy to call out their goodbyes.

A wide stone trail carries us onwards ever onwards through the village of Larjung. At this point it's possible to take a day trip up to the Dhaulagiri Icefall, provided you have camping equipment with you. If like us though, this seems a little daunting and sounds a little cold, then walk on through and head to Tukuche.

The trail takes you through the village of Khobang and it's worth stopping here for a while to wander through the narrow alleys and take in the Tibetan temple a first taste of the style of village layout that awaits us further up.

Out of Khobang we hit a trail following the dried up river, willow trees lining the banks. It is a desolate sight, the ashen grey of the river bed lending the scene a lunar quality.

Trucks are crashing through carrying gravel from the river off to the road builders who are busy laying a road which will eventually link Pokhara to Jomsom.

It's hard to know what to think of this.

On the one hand, the road will bring with it much needed supplies and a consequent improvement to people's lives. On the other hand it will also take with it the sense that the Jomsom area is still a largely inaccessible place. I watch the lorry drivers shuttle their loads and cannot decide if it is good or bad.

A pause on the other side of the river bed however, seems to offer me some answer. At first I think we have stopped alongside some small wooden fisherman's huts on the river, so I pay little attention to the activity around me. Then I realise that the river is dry so there is no fishing. I spot the kids and their mother sitting in a wooden shack and see that the small wooden huts around us are not temporary lodgings for fishermen out for the day, but the permanent homes for these families.

Their poverty, even by Nepali standards, is evident, and their isolation, here on this desolate river bank, can only serve to exacerbate their problems. Whatever the road may bring with it, it will, I suppose, supply some degree of opportunity, some alternative to breaking rocks and surviving at a subsistence level.


We head up the hill directly above their riverbed home, the sound of the trucks thundering below us as we scramble up the steep, loose shale before heading into the village of Tukuche.


Tukuche as it turns out is a fascinating little town renowned, in the region as a trading place. The colourful little Tukuche Guesthouse is extremely comfortable with a great roof terrace that offers stupendous views. It also does the best bowl of pumpkin soup I have ever tasted, so if you ever find yourself here, then head to the Tukuche Guesthouse and eat. It's delicious.

As well as being a regional trading post, we discover that Tukuche also has a fantastic distillery where that killer apple brandy is made.

We visited that evening and bought a few bottles of orange brandy. After all, how can you play cards without a steady supply of heady nectar eh?

Okay, so heady nectar is perhaps overstating things and I'd definitely suggest that a quarter of a bottle shared among six persons is more than enough. It's potent stuff, even if it does give you a shock of goosebumps as you down it.

An evening in "The National" guesthouse

Now, Jeanna had told us of the decidedly unique approach that Nepalis seem to have when it comes to advertising.

Her favourite example is of a bar in Kathmandu that she frequents. The said establishment cheerfully announces that its "Happy Hour" lasts from 2 p.m. - 6 p.m. and that during these rip-roaring times all drinks come on a buy one get one free basis.

Not a bad deal when you look at it. Or that would be the case, if it were true. The first time Jeanna took advantage of this liberal arrangement she was rather surprised, when it came time to settle the bill, to discover that the barman seemed to have forgotten the buy one get one free offer.

On confronting him with his error however, the barman simply shook his head and, with a knowing smile, informed her that the sign outside meant nothing.

"We don't have a Happy Hour"

"But the sign outside. It says 2 -6 buy one get one free!"

"Oh that! No, that's just advertising....."

Aha!

Now the sign outside The National was of a similar nature.


"The best hotel in Ghasa! 24 hour hot water! Extensive menu!"

Oh boy! What a place .....

Well ......


To be fair if the sun had been shining then indeed we would have had solar powered hot water for our showers. As it was, the day was grey and damp and overcast, so heating, and the promised hot water would have to come via the wood burning stove. The guesthouse owner however, is an energy conservationist so the stove is not lit - which means no hot showers for us then.

I try to remind myself that in some ways this was a good thing. If all the guesthouses burned wood after all, then the splendid forests around us would be a lot less extensive.

The selfish, sulky westerner in me though, cannot be placated by such rational thoughts. I am cold and wet and exhausted and it was only the thought of that hot shower that had powered me on through the last kilometres.

As I sulk though, I become aware of the frenetic activity of the guesthouse owner. He is busy ordering around the guests, in a slightly effete, camp fashion.

I perk up a little as I watch him.

Dressed in an oversized brown woollen coat, with enormous Michael Caine glasses, he is handing out buckets to some bemused Israelis and informing them that there is some lukewarm water in a water container on the roof and that, if they take a bucket of this with them to the shower, and use it carefully, then they can have a reasonably warm wash.

Dazed they take their buckets and head to the showers.

One by one we are all ordered through the bucket shower process and the ridiculousness of it all seems to lift our spirits. Sure we're all still freezing, true, the rain is still pouring down, granted, the rooms are cold, but we're having fun!

And, you know, that bucket shower was not too bad. One 5 litre bucket was ample water to soap yourself down and rinse yourself off with.

I have no idea how much water I would use taking a shower back home , but I seriously doubt I would ever use as little as 5 litres. Just goes to show.

So, suitably washed and refreshed we head to the main room of the guesthouse for the rest of the evening, mainly because this is the only room that is heated.

A few guests are already there, huddled over hot drinks and snug at the table.

We join them and the relief is immediate, thanks in part to the ingenious under table heating system.

It's a common method of heating here, we are informed.

A charcoal brazier, or a pit dug into the floor, sits under the table, and the table, covered in thick blankets, provides plenty of insulation. So, as you sit there you actually get pretty damn warm, and I'd even suggest that the incidence of chilblains, as a result of this system, must be pretty high.

Still, it sure is moasty toasty :)

I look around the table at the other guests. A young couple canoodling in one corner, a young guy quietly reading the Da Vinci Code in Hebrew, in the other.

All is quiet and content.

Not much is said really, save for the mumbling of food orders. Everyone seems tired and overcome by the warmth.

Eventually though, as the beer flows and the apple brandy arrives, things start to liven up. Even the disappointment of the food cannot weaken us (much). Turns out that the extensive menu runs to daal bhat, fried chicken scraps with chips or a meat or vegetable rice/noodle stir fry.

I stick with my vegetable rice. Jeanna orders some meat variation of the same and as she is tucking in realises that her meal comes with added protein in the form of a few stray insects that appear to have met their end in the frying pan. Yum!

The young couple it turns out are on the trail because her parents had been in Nepal in the 1970s and fell in love with it. In fact, they loved it so much that they decided to call their daughter Ulleri after a village on the Jomsom trail. And now, 30 years later, here she is coming to visit the town and the region that gave her her name.

We listen to this tale and raise a glass to celebrate her journey of discovery.

The apple brandy keeps on flowing.

The quiet Israeli has now been joined by his travel companions and things are starting to liven up.

Do we want to join then in a game of cards?

Sure!

So it is that we spend the night playing a rather frenetic Israeli version of Gin Rummy called "Yannis" .

It's quite a game (even without the brandy).

I think it may be an Israeli secret, because I tried to look up the rules on the web as a reminder, but to no avail.

So, the basic rules, as far as I can recall them, are as follows:


Each player gets 7 cards

The aim is to get rid of your cards and get as low as score as possible.

You can do this by making pairs, threes, suits of four (four queens , jacks, aces etc) or a run of the same suit 2,3,4, 5 of hearts etc.

However before picking up a card from the pile, you FIRST need to throw out a card before picking one up!

Once you have a total in your hand of 7 or less, you can then decide whether or not you want to call out "Yannis".

All the players must then show their cards and their totals must be counted.

If your total is less than the other players you win. If, however, someone has less points in their hand than you when you call Yannis , then they win and you get a 35 point penalty.

So it's important to pay attention to the cards people are throwing out as they try to make their pairs etc.

Score more than 200 and you're out completely

Score exactly 100 and you get 50 points taken off and exactly 200 and you get 100 points taken off.

The last player remaining is, of course, the winner.

It's a great game. In fact, we enjoyed it so much that it replaced Rummy as our game of choice for the rest of the tour. Give it a try it's a lot of fun.

At some point in the evening Tania and I realised that everyone had gone to bed and that it was just the two of us plus two Israeli's battling it out, whilst the exasperated guesthouse owner looked on imploring us to go to bed.

In the end, I'm not even sure who won, because the brandy was past around with more frequency than the cards.

All I know is that I fell into bed feeling warm and happy, all thoughts of rain and bucket showers banished in a haze of apple brandy.

Nice.

Tatopani to Ghasa

I must say that the Trekkers Lodge guesthouse in Tatopani really was beautiful. Set in a small tropical garden, with a path that leads down to the hot springs and the river, the setting is very tranquil and luxurious.

Tatopani is quite a lively little village and has plenty of stores selling all kinds of tourist wares (including stripy trousers!) but in the gardens of the lodge, a tranquillity reigns that is quite something.

They have a great little restaurant/bar and after a days trekking it really is bliss to sit under a scented tree and drink a cold beer.

The rooms themselves are rather plush, with their bare stone walls and wooden beamed ceilings. They also have private bathrooms with all the hot running water you could desire - all in all then, a great little place to stay, and certainly one of the more luxurious places on the trail.

As I snuggled down in my bed that night I listed to the rain thunder down relentlessly on the tin roof, beating a rather ominous rhythm. If it continued like this then we were going to be in for another cold, wet tramp the next day.

And sure enough, come the next morning, the sky was heavy and grey, the clouds plump and oppressive.

Laxman scoured the local shops to get pack covers for our rucksacks, something we had all rather optimistically forgotten to pack. So, note to self, always, always take your pack cover. Rain is an inevitability no matter how much you want to pretend it won't come down.

So it is we set out, our blue plastic rain sheets rustling and crackling and flapping around us.

This is a stage of the trip I have been looking forward to, as it takes us through the Kali Gandaki valley and through the world's deepest gorge (2200m) and into the province of Mustang.

Mustang. It seems so fantastical, so intriguing. This secret part of the globe that few tourists are granted access to. The hidden kingdom of Upper Mustang. And we are walking towards it.

Before we get there though there's a few more days walking to get through. And for the next few stages we will be joined by hordes of pilgrims who have joined the trail in Tatopani. They are making a pilgrimage to the temple in Muktinath to celebrate the festival of Dessain.

It's a colourful sight to behold actually. The women are attired much the same as they would be, if they were in town. Lipstick, gold jewellery and bright saris abound. Many carry simple holdalls. Trainers and sandals are the preferred footwear.

I feel decidedly over prepared with my Gortex rain jacket, platypus water container, sturdy hiking boots, and other high-tech trekking paraphernalia. I look like I'm kitted out for a major expedition. They look like they're off for a gentle stroll in the park.

Gee.

I console myself by thinking back to all the times that my boots have saved me from injury as I tripped, stumbled or stubbed my toe. No, sandals are not for me ...

Which is perhaps just as well. As the gravel path wends its way along a cliff-side trail, through tunnels carved into the rock, I am glad of my boots.

This stretch of the trail is also a high traffic area for mule trains and we all develop a Pavolvian response when we hear the distinctive tinkling of their bells - move to the inside of the path and wait as they pass.

On the descent to Dana a long agile procession meets us and we all marvel at the agility of these amazing and sturdy little beasts. They trot so gracefully down the narrow, hazardous path, despite the weight (and unwieldy dimensions) of the crates strapped to their backs. Most carry fruit from the orchards destined for the markets. Either that or beer, it seems, for the thirsty tourists.

They are truly wonderful. But they are not to be messed with. Don't even think of trying to walk on as they pass you. Doing so will simply result in getting bumped and bashed and bruised by the boxes they carry. They make no allowances for your space on the path, and if you find yourself on the outer edge as they pass you could be in serious trouble. One bump and you'd be off the edge.

So it is that the day is spent stepping aside to allow them to pass. Which isn't so bad really. Because any danger they pose is far outweighed by the simple fact that, with their feathered plumes, and nimble feet, they are a beautiful sight to behold.


Eventually we arrive at Rupse Chhahara, out stop for lunch. And Laxman has a surprise for us.

Rupse Chhahara means "beautiful waterfall" and as we settle down in the garden of the guesthouse for lunch we gaze down the deep lush gorge and over at the waterfall itself.

Paradise found.

I could have sat there for years I reckon, just gazing out at that scene. There was something so serene about it all. the kind of scenery that brings with it an immediate stillness and sense of peace. The only sounds as we sit there are comfortable sighs, the tinkling of the ever present mule trains and the gentle sploosh of the waterfall.

It leaves me in a trance of contentment. So much so that I walk the remaining stretch to Ghasa with an almost beatific smile on my face and this despite the rain.

The path winds its way up to Ghasa through solid rock, the gorge falling away steeply to our left. It feels as though we are cocooned within the rock itself as we walk on.

The rain though is beginning to seep into our bones and the chill is setting in.

At the army checkpost we have to wait in line while our documents are checked and the necessary entries in the registers are made, and standing there in the cold I suddenly realise that I am chattering, that my skin resembles a chicken.

The fact that the armed guards carry some serious looking machine guns also does nothing to ease me. If you're not used to seeing guns, then it never feels comfortable to be confronted with them.

It's funny though. The guards themselves are so young and so friendly that their guns seem incongruous. I can't actually imagine them firing them. I look at the gun, imagine the violence and horror such a thing is capable of unleashing, then look at their faces, smiling and relaxed and the two things simply don't match.

And the guards themselves seem more interested in hearing where we are all from, where we are headed, where we've been and what we think of Nepal, than they are in actually guarding the entrance to the town. All in all, it seems rather strange.

I think back to the calm waterfall as I stare at the gun. Can this be the same day, I wonder.

Past the checkpost and we are greeted at last by a sign that says we have entered Ghasa. At last!

All any of us want now is a hot shower, some dry clothes and a decent meal. In a few minutes we'll be there.

However, Ghasa turns out to be a very long town. There's Lower Ghasa, Middle Ghasa and Upper Ghasa. Twenty minutes after entering the town, we're still walking. Every guesthouse we pass seems so tantalising. So warm and snug and comfortable.

We resort to childish questions:

"Are we there yet?"

"Is this our guesthouse"

"Almost" and "No" seem to be the constant reply.

And then at last the National Guest House comes into view advertising it's solar powered hot showers and extensive menu and Laxman informs us we've arrived.
Cold and damp and exhausted the relief at having arrived is written on all our faces, and the prospect of basic creature comforts has cheered us up no end.