A Trek in Nepal

It was a glorious spring afternoon when the sun shone down with a great deal of almost personal warmth from a blue dome without a wisp of a cloud in sight. The air was so clean I could make out a line of transmission pylons snaking up a mountain on the western edge of Kathmandu Valley, more than four miles away.

My friends and I were ready for our regular pilgrimage to Manakamna. Our motorbike tanks were topped up and our bags were packed. We said our goodbyes and set off. There were six of us on four bikes.

Manokamna, meaning "heart's wishes" in Nepali, is a mountaintop shrine to a goddess of that name. The goddess is so named because she is believed to grant the wishes of true worshippers.

Getting to the temple involves a rugged trek of about an hour and a half for local folks and over five hours for novices not used to mountain terrain. The starting point for the trek is the village of Ambu Khaireni, about 70 miles from Kathmandu. The drive to Ambu Khareini from Kathmandu takes about two hours if the road is in good condition.

The condition of mountain roads in Nepal runs through cycles. Traffic volumes are far higher than originally planned, while maintenance is poor. Landslides pound the roads every monsoon, often blocking them for weeks. In a few years, the once smooth roads are reduced to mud tracks, deeply rutted by countless heavy vehicles. When matters get to extremes the roads are repaired, usually with aid from foreign donors. The ride becomes smooth again for a few more years.

We reached Ambu Khaireni in a little less than two hours on a road that had recently been relaid. We parked our bikes at a pay-and-park lot, shouldered our bags, and set off.

The trek starts with a mildly scary crossing over the Marsyangdi River on a jholunge pool, a steel suspension bridge not quite broad enough for two people to comfortably walk abreast. The bridge is about 200 yards long, and swings and shakes terrifyingly in strong winds. The sight of the river eddying and rushing over rocks immediately below the bridge is enough to make the faint-hearted gulp and avert their eyes.

After crossing the bridge, the trekker crunches over relatively level ground for a while, before coming to a precipitous climb, followed by a stretch of gentler slope and then another harrowing climb. The last laps are once again a milder slope and a third very steep climb - this last is the steepest and longest, and ends at a lane leading to the temple. The trekking route zigzags up the sheerer mountain faces like Zorro on a high, and at many such points, stone blocks have been laid to form stairs.

At several points along the path, there are little clearings in the midst of a variety of huts and brick structures. There are usually a few trees offering shade over wooden or stone platforms on which weary travelers can take a breather. Little shops sell tea, aerated drinks, bottled water, beer and harder forms of alcohol, boiled eggs and other snacks.

As we started on our trek, we came across some small kids selling wooden poles and wide-brimmed straw hats. Many trekkers often stop and lean on their poles as their throbbing legs cool down. The hats protect you from the sun, which at altitudes can make you feel like bread in a toaster. We bought a pole and a hat each.

After about half an hour, before we reached the first steep slope, we passed by some villagers selling kodo ko rakshi at a small stone alcove at the side of the path. The alcove had a natural spring of water running through it. Kodo ko rakshi is hooch made from millet, and is distilled right there.

From the look of it, the still was enjoying brisk sales. We bought a couple of plastic jars of the firewater.

Just a few steps away from this still sat an old man on a dirty blanket, with some coins and currency notes in a bowl in front of him. The old man endlessly repeated one note of a plaintive tune on a strange wind instrument that resembled a flute. The instrument emitted a sound that was slightly raucous, yet haunting. The old man seemed to be blind. He also appeared to be doing brisk business. We give him some money.

"What do you do with the money you collect every day?" one of my friends asked the old man.

"I buy a jar of the kodo ko rakshi and give the rest of the money to my wife at home," he replied.

"Doesn't your wife object to your buying the hooch?" asked my friend.

"No," said the old man, "she actually drinks some of it herself."

As we started up the first sharp climb, a sprightly old lady carrying a loaded doko briskly passed us, going up the mountain.

"You folks coming from Kathmandu, I guess," she said in passing.

"Yeah," I replied, "and you?"

"I live in Manokamna," she said. "I am taking supplies for my shop there."

A doko is a large bamboo basket with a wide mouth tapering down to a narrow bottom. It is carried on the back, slung from the carrier's head by a hemp strap that is attached to ropes passing around the basket. From the look of it, that old lady must have been carrying at least 60 pounds.

There was a constant flow of people traveling in both directions on that path. Several people sped past us, and we in turn passed many others.

By the time we were halfway up the first steep climb, our jackets had come off. We had started to sweat. By the time we reached the little clearing at the top of this climb, we had taken off our shirts and were down to our vests.

The view was beginning to get gorgeous. We could see down to a tire manufacturing plant in the valley at the base of the mountain we were on. The Marsyangdi River and the highways to Pokhara and to Gorkha stretched out before us, coiling around before finally disappearing behind some hills. As the eyes traveled further up over rolling valleys and green mountains, they came to rest on the Annapurna range of Himalayan peaks brooding on the horizon.

On our way up, we had been passing small houses with terraced farms and orange and gooseberry orchards. This part of Nepal was famous for its oranges and gooseberries. Goats and some cattle mused in content trances in the sunshine on the mountainsides, and grazed when they remembered to. Rhododendrons grew profusely all around, making splashes of dense red on the green of the mountains and alternating with the oranges. A variety of birds were engaged in what seemed to be serious competitive warbling.

We stopped at the crest of the first steep climb to buy small gooseberries and oranges and to drink some water. We ate some oranges and chewed on the gooseberries all the way up to the end of our trek, to keep our mouths from drying up.

The slighter slope that followed was easier, and we made good time. All too soon, it seemed, we were on the second steep slope, which mostly consisted of stone steps zigzagging up the mountain till it almost made you disoriented. You could look up and see the steps snaking up the mountain.

My steps were dragging by the time we reached the top of that climb. Once we crested and reached the clearing at the top, I staggered over to a wooden bench and lay down. After a few minutes of gasping I sat up and took a few slow sips of water from my bottle. More than 20 people were sitting around that little clearing on the mountain, including an obese Marwadi woman and a fat Marwadi man, probably her husband. The couple was sitting on a stone platform. Marwadis are a race of businessmen with origins in Rajasthan in India.

As I watched, the woman slowly struggled to her feet and stepped clumsily into a large doko held by a sturdy mountain porter. She seated herself in the basket, and the porter arranged small cushions around her. He then adjusted his ropes around the basket, knelt down and fitted the strap around his head. The Marwadi man helped tilt the basket with the woman onto the struggling porter's back. The porter groped around the basket and the ropes to make sure they were secure, slowly straightened his legs, gripping the ropes, and shrugged gently till he had the basket sitting securely on his back. He set off up the mountain carrying the woman, bent low with the weight.

I looked around that little clearing and saw my own stunned feelings reflected on all the faces there.

As we got to our feet, the old woman who had passed us at the beginning of our climb entered the clearing on her way down. She was still energetic and her doko was empty.

"You people are still here." she cackled, "I have already been to the top and am going back for another load." I stared after her retreating back with bemusement.

I recovered my breath and the aches in my limbs eased as we trudged over the gentler slope that followed for a while before we came to the third and longest climb. Though we started that climb at a brisk pace, we slowed down gradually. Soon enough, my breathing was ragged again and my limbs were aching once more. Manokamna temple soon came into view, a tiny structure high up on top of the next mountain. After a while, I went into autopilot mode. In this mode, you walk along like a robot, ignoring the urge to stop and rest. You just put one foot in front of the other and keep trucking. In the meantime, you try to draw inspiration from the greenery and the scenery, from the terraced farms tumbling down the mountains, from the rivers that you see flowing in the valleys way down, from the vividly white snow on the Himalayas that almost seem to have been painted on the sky.

You also get some consolation from seeing other poor souls who seem to be having a tougher time with the climb than you are.

Every so often, I would look up hopefully at the temple. It just did not seem to get any nearer.

This last climb took up a major portion of the total of three and a half hours we took to complete the trek. Progress was agonizingly slow and the sweat was pouring off us. The jeans I wore seemed to be super heated, and I cursed my choice of apparel.

Finally, we were on the mountain atop which was the clearing with the temple. The
temple was visible in patches, mostly blocked out by intervening trees. Just a bit more, I told myself, just a wee bit more and I will be there. I took a swig of water, which tasted sweet because of the gooseberries I had been chewing, hitched up my jeans and kept on with something resembling renewed energy.

I plodded on in a near trance, refusing to look up or around. Parts of this climb were as near vertical as zigzagging stone steps can be, and I just looked down and a little ahead at the stones in front of me.

I had lost count of time when a ragged cheer from my friends brought me out of my reverie. We were on the last stretch - an inclined mud lane that climbed straight to the temple, with a few steps here and there. This lane was on the ridge of the mountain, which was narrow at this end. Gradually, the ridge broadened and shops, lodges and restaurants appeared on both sides. Nearer the temple, we crossed shops selling offerings for the goddess, with rhododendron, coconuts and vermilion dominating. Roadside vendors were selling ducks, goats and chickens for sacrifice at the temple. Animal sacrifice was a big part of worship at this temple, like at most temples to goddesses in Nepal.

We trudged over to a restaurant near the temple, and collapsed on some chairs set at tables outside. We had made it and could relax until early the next morning, when we would go to the temple to worship.

There was a cold breeze blowing through and it was like I had climbed to something like heaven, sitting there and letting my limbs cool off. I closed my eyes and listened in a tired but triumphant stupor to the white noise of people going about their business, of goats bleating, of chickens clucking, of a radio somewhere playing a Nepali song and of the temple's bells pealing out every now and then.

After nearly an hour, we were hailed by the old woman who had passed us on her way up at the start of our trek and on her way down later. She had just completed another trek up. She was still jaunty. Once again, she was carrying a heavily loaded doko.

"You city folks made it, eh?" she crowed.

"How many trips have you made today?" asked one of my friends.

"This is the third time I've gone down and returned," she said, "and it's enough for the day. I've got to attend to my family." With a final cackle, she was gone.

I stared at her retreating figure and hung my head. She might have been twice my age and half as young.