A white 4x4, Cashmiri guide and driver, an Australian pictures hunter who wanders about the world for 30 years, a young Swedish girl who has courageously chosen India as her first country, a Canadian lumberjack, untiring traveler, and a little French guy that decided to go round the world 3 months ago. An eclectic team and a 10-day communal life in the close future.
We leave Shimla for a long journey by jeep. The discussion starts in the close space of the vehicle. We learn from each other.
The cultures diversity enriches.
The winding road raises into a nascent valley. The misty veil glides onto the hills and wraps the silent nature up. We stop for a stroll in the forest marked out by a Hindu temple at the top. No breathtaking view, nasty clouds weaves a thick fence. Only just a bench to get our breath back and share a chocolate bar.
We start again. The chats carries on. Laughs. Travel experiences. Pieces of advice on next destinations. The frustrating feeling of an unknown chunk in the world. We bring it to mind, we use a few superlatives, we make dream the audience, and this place, utterly absent in my mind, adds up to the list of things to see. More we travel, more places to visit. An endless wheel, traveling makes and unmakes you. On the bumpy Indian roads, we deal with the bears and the salmon fishing into the rivers of Alaska. The visit of the Hanuman temple drags us out of the jeep. A Disneyland-like statue of the monkey-god invites vehicles to stop and spend some moments in silence.
We arrive in Sarahan. The darkness-blackened roofs of the temple announce a great visit for tomorrow morning. We sit down at a small restaurant. The cracked paint, canteen tables, bashed-in saucepan. A Nepali family runs the restaurant and in this only 10-m² room, the comfort of a familial meal, we feel at home.
Hectic awakening. No time to linger, we start tracking the large spiders which invaded the room, a bucket and a bowl as weapons. Then, we take a savoury breakfast and we relate our morning feats.
We leave to visit the temple. Exquisite wood-carved pediments, a hindu ceremony and a carmine tikka on the forehead.
We keep on visiting around the village and it's time to go. On the flank of the road, a cow struggles with a plastic box clung to its head.
The valley subsides. The breathtaking road, carved into the cliff at several hundreds meters high from the ground livens up when multicoloured trucks meet. Wing mirrors bang together. Driving back is sometimes the only solution and the jeep waits close to the void. It goes again on the close turns, pushing down the horn to warn the other vehicles. A dangerously high road that gives thrills to the passengers sitting along the precipice.
A valley with Himalayan dimensions.
The roads bleed the hill white that landslides wreck. Months of works to rebuild the missing parts. An unsuspected activity livens our aerial road when a herd of sheep makes a traffic jam or when a baba sadhu gives candies to the tired drivers and passengers.
We spend 2 nights in Sangla. A wooden temple overlooks the village. We must take off the shoes, don a hat and fasten a belt to get in the old monument.
Clumsy alleyways, purple, azure orchards and flower beds.
The apple trees are weighed down with the red fruits. In the depths of the village, houses with bare or whitewashed harbour a few Tibetan Buddhist souls in exile.
The visit of Sangla is interrupted by an excursion to the village of Chitkul, last village before the Tibetan border. At the wintertime, snowfalls may cut the access to the village. Then, this one lives in autarky, forgotten by the faraway civilization. Biting cold, far from the blazing sun of the Delhi basin.
Tomato omlette, toats with tasteless jam and black tea. En route to Kalpa. Rucksacks piled up in the back of the car, some handlings to get out of the narrow path of the guesthouse, we leave again. The asphalted strip starts again its twirling danse into the wounded cliff while the river below seems to be a mere stream. A dizzy spell strikes me as I size up the turquoise-blue ribbon down the valley. The ballet of the adorned trucks terrifies us, each turn is a trial. We chat to forget the void. A few stops to take photos.
The "Kalpa" sign announces the end of the stage. Here, the marijuana grows like the weed. And the apple trees bend with the weight of their loads. In the distance, the headland of the Kinnaur Kailash makes some bashful appearances through the clouds. In good weather, it lights up with 7 seven different colors throughout the day. Kalpa, another village clung to the slopes of a hill which lives difficult moments when the wind sweeps over the area.
A new day, the road keeps on raising. Dry nature, inhospitable nature. Bushes gush out here and there. The human paw inlaid some ramshackle and insignificant buildings in the earthy titan. The road zigzags on the steep slopes and vanishes at the entrance of Nako. Below the hills, a tiny lake soaks up a few souls who gathered to struggle better. The Himalayan scenery as the only comfort of this hard life. For us, we gorge ourselves on these impressions, these smiles, these wind-stroked stones, these fringes-worn flags fluttering at the top of a mound, these cubic and uneven houses. Where is the madness of the Indian cities ? The horns of the rickshaws and the crawling poverty on the pavements ? Hard to believe we'll still in India. However, that's this diversity which attracts flocks of tourists, far from the hackneyed routes. A simple journey by train and the ecstasy of a bit of greenery clears away the nervous breakdown and the unease of a seething town. We feel well here.
Keyword - himalayan immensity -
Sunday 23 September 2007
Perched on the Kinnaur valley
By dorian on Sunday 23 September 2007, 17:25 - RTW-India
Wednesday 12 September 2007
Panorama on the Annapurnas
By dorian on Wednesday 12 September 2007, 18:47 - RTW-Nepal
A short stop in Kathmandu to get the Indian visa before leaving to Pokhara and the protected area of the Annapurnas. The most mythical treks are called the Annapurnas circuit in 17 days or the Annapurnas sanctuary in 12 days. But I don't have enough time to step on of these trips and a travel agency in Kathmandu offers me a 6-day trek, "the Annapurnas panorama". I make Gyan Gurung's acquaintance who comes with me for these 6 days. A about-50-year smiling small Nepali.
The next day in the morning, departure to Pokhara, a 7-hour bus journey. En route, we drop a few tourists off at Dumre ; from there, they'll go to Besi Sahar and start the Annapurnas circuit. At Pokhara, the hostels string along the lake. Relaxing atmosphere far from the hubbub of Kathmandu. A panoramic photo hanging at the wall of the guesthouse reception leaves me wondering. With a clear weather, the lake reflects the 7000 and 8000-metre giants of the area but I must satisfy myself with the wall picture.
I wander around in the tourist street of Pokhara before getting my permit for the protected area of the Annapurnas. A simple pass to get in the park. I devour a dish of spaghetti before falling asleep, the soul sprinkled with eternal snow. Tomorrow, it's the D-day.
Day 1 : Naya Pul => Hile
A local minivan drops us off at Naya Pul, 1h30 from Pokhara. We put our bags onto our shoulders and we disappear into the alleyways maze of the village. First monkey bridge to cross the river and record to the park authorities. You must register your journey, your name and the numbers of the days inside the park.
A path fades into the distance. I'm happy to rub my shoes ontot the muddy trails of this gorgeous Nepali nature. We walk along the river. The monsoon rains wreak havoc. The path is sometimes impassible and we must cross the turbulent waters of the river to carry on pacing on the other bank. This first stage is short and we arrive at the village of Hile. A pile of corrugated sheet metal on multicoloured wooden frame with various signs : restaurant, guesthouse, delicious food, hot shower. The monsoon is synonymous with low season, and I'm the only one in this gathering of guesthouses. And for 1 euro a night, it would be a pity to cart the tent around. The laid-back atmosphere lets me realize the pleasure to be here. To look at the terraced fields of the opposite hill disappearing while the twilight goes down.
Day 2 : Hile => Ghorapani
Steps and steps again. An exhausting ascent which pulls me out liters of sweat. Difference of height : 1200m. More or less high, wood or stone, stairs became a leitmotiv. The head raises to peer what happens next but it's often with a low and shifty look it draws on its energy to order the legs to lift and go forward. Big drops stream down on my face and crash on the stone steps. The eyes forget the surrounding scenery and all the energy runs into the quadriceps. The suffering reads on the other madmen's face who came to the hard nature of the Annapurnas searching a bit of relaxation and cool air. Ghorapani. An incomparable satisfaction overwhelms me when I take off my shoes and hang my socks that keep the fruits of the effort among its stitches. In front of me, the mountains are not there. Where are the Annapurnas and the Dhaulagiri ? Behind the thick curtain of clouds. The comfort of a chair and a meal of pasta fully satisfy me.
Day 3 : Ghorapani => Tadapani
The alarm-clock rings. The dial displays 5h. I bend my head through the window and nothing sparkles in the sky. We cancel the morning ascent to Poon Hill, promontory to contemplate the sunrise over the snow-capped massif. At a more decent time to get up, azure-hued windows break through the greyish wall. The majestic Dhaulagiri and Annapurna I loom. I give a withering look at the ridges and spurs of the Annapurna I and start thinking of Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal who 50 years ago became the first alpinists succeeding in the ascent of a 8000-meter-plus peak. The desire of reading the story of this adventure devours me. A small library in Ghorapani luckily has a copy relating the saga of the French expedition : "Annapurna, first 8000m". The precious book at the bottom of my rucksack, we venture on a new section of stairs.
3000m high, a disused refreshment stand mingles with the sadness of the weather. Our wait will change no way. We get in a forest of rhododendrons. Twisting bodies which vivid-shaded flowers extend when the spring comes. River and waterfalls, majestic trees among a coulis of downy clouds, corniche stroll. The menu is mouth-watering. And for this trek I thought walking into the snow, onto a sterilized ground, onto uneven stones. Nothing of these, a green and twirling nature. A crystal-clear water that fills the ears when the eyes are busy to check where the feet land. Overdose of colours. The path plays with the water. Timber logs straddle the river and we leap from a bank to another.
Arrival at Tadapani, my eyes finally rest coming and going on the first lines of the adventure of Maurice Herzog. The sacred moutain of the Machhapuchhare breaks through the horizon. Silence... A band of admirers have just stood up. The snows of the Annapurna south twinkle. Still silence... The orangeay shade get thicker up to fade into the darkness of the nascent night. The pages of the book come and go endlessly.
Day 4 : Tadapani => Landruk
The trunks of the rhododendrons start again their waltz. A young Nepali takes off the numerous leeches hanged at his bloodstained feet. Luckier, I would only have 2. A little bit further, a buffalo shows us the ability of these horrible beings to drink blood. The diameter of these awful beasties has swollen from one millimeter to more than one centimeter. As for the eyes, they don't make a mistale. The spectacle is more aerial. Jungle and mountains. Lovely oxymore.
Day 5 : Landruk => Pothana
Short day. A simple stroll. The jungle fades into the distance and the rice fields loom. I finish the Himalayan saga of Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal who a certain 3rd of june 1950 opened the run to the conquest of the 8000-meter-plus peaks.
Day 6 : Pothana => Phedi => Pokhara
We reach the village of Dhampus and embark on a long walk down toward Phedi. The spectacle of the Annapurnas close. I live my last moments with my guide Gyan Gurung I'm attached to. But on the way back to Pokhara, sitting in this tottering coach, I fall asleep. And I am firmly convinced these mythical paths on the spurs of the Himalaya will see again my Vibram soles and Gyan Gurung will join in...
End of the Nepali adventures...
