ON TREK IN NEPAL:
AN ENCOUNTER
WITH MY SELF
To the uninitiated, a trek through the Himalaya might appear like a backpacking trip through
the Rockies, transported to a more exotic setting. The similarities end with the fact that in both
cases you're walking on foot trails through the mountains. While trekking in Nepal means
meeting some of the most good-natured people in the world, it also usually means coming face-
to-face with someone you thought you've known all along: your self.
I had arrived in the town of Gorkha, halfway between Kathmandu and Pokhara, with three
friends to begin a two-week trek up behind the Himalaya. Our journey would be possibly the
first-ever Manaslu Circuit, a trekking route that would only be officially opened 14 years later.
Like most treks, its treasures were not to be found on the map or itinerary.
The first four days of the trek were ordinary enough. We first ascended along the Daraundi
River for a day, meeting the usual small villages and tea shops that account for some of the
highlights of any trek. At night we would sleep either in people's homes, or, space not
permitting, in a public building such as the local school. For food, we relied primarily on the
kindness of the local people, and their age old custom of taking in strangers.
It is not uncommon for Nepali travelers, most of whom are traders on their way to or from some
market town, to be taken in by someone in the last village reached before dark. While they are
often taken in by relatives or friends, it is not unusual for strangers to be taken in as well. The
host provides dinner, a warm spot to sleep by the fire, and a cup of tea in the morning. The
guest may pay for dinner, with stories of his travels considered an appropriate dessert. Given
the remoteness of the areas on this itinerary, we were uncertain of our ability to find food locally
each night, and hence carried with us enough beaten rice, called "chhyura," to get us through
three or four meals. Chhyura travels well, goes with a variety of foods, and is nutritious,
making it a popular trail food with Nepali travelers.
The upper Buri Gandaki is one of the more remote corners of Nepal. As we left the village of
Jagat on the morning of our fifth day out, we found out just how untraveled it was. The police
checkpost, which monitors trekking and local traffic at strategic points throughout the country,
pulled out a small notebook for us to sign. The names at the top of the page we signed had been
entered seven years earlier, and most of the names were those of mountaineers on their way to
attempt Manaslu. According to our map, we had a ten-hour walk upriver to our next stop, the
Tibetan village of Deng. (The northern border of Nepal with Tibet is marked by the crest of the
Himalaya, and all of the villages on the Nepal side of the border are inhabited by people of
Tibetan origin.) We knew this would be our longest and hardest day.
After passing the small settlement of Setibas, where we ate our morning meal at 9am, we set off
into the wilderness. Nepalis eat two meals a day, one at 9am and the other at dusk. Both meals
consist of a grain, preferably rice, and some vegetable or meat curry when available. As we
ascended the river, it was evident why the space between villages was so great here. The steep
walls on both sides of the river provide life only for some intermittent pine forests and their
animal inhabitants. There was no room for a village, much less the adjoining fields which
would be necessary to support it. None of the villages on the upper Buri Gandaki get adequate
sunlight or have enough land to raise the amount of food they need to be self-sufficient. As a
result, most Tibetan villagers raise yaks, whose meat is a staple in their diets and whose wool,
when woven into blankets, provides just enough income to get them through the year.
As we trekked, the only people we met on the trail were men of Tibetan stock from upriver.
They were carrying yak wool blankets to Kathmandu, in loads weighing as much as 100 pounds.
In Kathmandu they would sell these blankets, using the revenue to purchase grains and other
essentials. Despite the rigors of this two-week journey to the market, these men had that Nepali
knack for turning any hardship into the simple joys of life. They talked and joked, always
smiling, making our own difficult day enjoyable just by observing them and chatting with them.
This was as much an adventure for them as our trek was for us.
As the afternoon grew late we began to worry that we might not reach Deng before dark. At
dusk, exhausted, we arrived in Deng, a village of only four houses. Seeing no signs of life other
than smoke coming from one house, a mild sense of desperation set in. Houses in this part of
Nepal are sturdy, two-story stone structures, with animals sheltered below and living quarters
above. The stone walls are two feet thick; the few windows are wooden, open in the day to let
light in and smoke out, and closed at night to keep out the cold and the rare burglar.
I knocked at the door of the first house, which belonged to a Tibetan couple and their two-year-
old son. On inquiring about the availability of food and/or shelter, the husband asked how
many we were. When I replied "Four," he and his wife consulted with each other in Tibetan
and responded to me in Nepali that if we had been two, they could have accommodated us, but
as we were four they could not. I was moved by their willingness to share with four perfect
strangers the last bit of food in the house. It was more than just a willingness; the idea of not
sharing what they had seemed totally alien to them. Living close to the edge of existence, most
Nepalis have found themselves in situations where they needed a little help to get through, and
accept the reverse side of the coin as the natural price of that help.
While we were chatting, their son accidentally knocked over a freshly distilled vat of homemade
whiskey. Whiskey is drunk in these parts not out of an alcoholic habit, but as the only way to
get to sleep at night. It was mid-January, and at 11,000' the nighttime lows were dipping to just
above 0 F. Lacking the modern sleeping bags such as those we carried, the local people would
take a hot shot of whiskey and put a rock from the fire at the bottom of their bed roll in order to
ward off the cold long enough to fall asleep. Despite losing half of the vat's precious contents,
no anger was shown, either at the child for his clumsiness or at the stranger whose conversation
had distracted them, allowing the loss to occur. Being prone to a quick temper myself, I began
to feel as though a morality play were being staged for my benefit.
The second and third houses of the village were empty, their occupants no doubt part of the
entourage we had met on their way to Kathmandu to sell yak blankets. We knew the fourth
house of the village was occupied, because we had seen smoke escaping through the slate tiles
on the roof and heard children playing nearby. Standing in the doorway of the house, we
greeted the owner with our increasingly dire tale, looking as disconsolate and desperate as we
felt. The farmer replied that while he could not put us up, he raised chickens and would be
willing to sell us eight eggs. We now had some food in hand, but no place to cook it and
nowhere to sleep.
Just as we were feeling our last hope fading, he informed us that there was another house a ten-
minute walk away, across the river, and pointed out the house to us. In the last light of day, we
could just make out the house at a bend in the river, with a wisp of gray smoke curling upward
from it. We thanked him for his eggs, and quickly headed off.
We arrived in the dark, and found the family—father, mother, and two-year-old son—seated
around the hearth inside. In Tibetan homes, the fireplace is usually in the middle of the floor,
sunk slightly below floor level. Cooking is done on an iron ring which sits atop three legs
emanating from its underside. We were immediately offered a place to sleep, and a pot with
water in which we could boil our eggs. We set about cooking the eggs immediately, planning to
eat them with our first ration of chhyura.
As I cooked, it slowly dawned on me that our hosts were not preparing a meal. Nor were there
any dirty dishes about. Given the hour, it was apparent that they had no food with which to
prepare a meal. I experienced a sinking feeling in my stomach. We were going to have to
reciprocate their kindness by sharing our meager meal with them. My exhaustion and hunger
from the day's trek had created a strange sense of detachment from that scene, to the point that
my selfishness didn't even bother me. At least not yet. I asked why they weren't cooking
anything, and the husband replied, "Oh, don't worry about us. We're going to get some corn
tomorrow morning, and have a hearty morning meal." I shared my discovery with my friends,
none of whom seemed to feel as protective of our food supplies as I had felt.
My selfishness gradually began to tug at me. While I was in the midst of these conscience
pangs, another guest appeared in the doorway. A Tibetan Buddhist monk, chanting mantras
under his breath, came in, smiling at the hosts in such a way that it was evident they knew each
other. Before he could reach the fire, the husband placed a mat beside the fire for the monk to
sit on. The monk, appearing to be about fifty, sat down and began warming his hands over the
fire. Given the temperatures outside, and his scanty cotton clothing, it was surprising how little
discomfort he showed.
Once he had warmed himself, he took out a small cloth bag of flour, all the while continuing his
muffled chanting. The chanting seemed to fill the room with an air of peace, eroding even my
stubborn feelings of selfishness. He nodded to the woman of the house for a pot, and one was
quickly provided, with water. He proceeded to cook some gruel with the flour and water, a
common dish in such remote areas. There was obviously enough food for three adults and a
child.
When he had finished his cooking, the monk motioned again with a nod for a plate, never
stopping his chanting. A single plate was provided. Giving him more than one plate would
have been considered extremely impolite in any part of the Himalaya. The monk doled out one
serving on the plate and offered it to the husband. The host responded with a ritual smile,
covering his belly with his hands in a gesture familiar to any Nepali. The gesture said,
"Thanks, but I've just eaten and I'm stuffed." The monk smiled a knowing smile, one of those
wisdom smiles you read about but never think you're going to see. He looked around the room,
his wisdom smile becoming slightly mischievous, as if to say, "Yeah, I can see all the dirty
dishes from dinner." However, he couldn't be too forceful for fear of causing the man to lose
face.
He then offered the plate of food to the wife, who refused it with the same gesture. The monk
repeated his earlier response, never missing a beat in his chanting. Finally, his opening
appeared, just as though it had been scripted. He held the plate in the direction of the two-year
old son, seated in his mother's lap, and gave the man a look I shall never forget. We in the
West are so reliant on words, that we can seem nursery-school level in other modes of
communication. His look said the following, no more, no less: "I know you and your wife have
to be gracious in this situation, it's normal politeness and convention. That's fine. But you
wouldn't deny your small, hungry child a warm meal, now would you? It's okay, just take it."
Once the man had taken a plate for his son, it was now socially correct for he and his wife to
accept the monk's food for themselves. By using common sense and compassion, the monk had
found a way to feed his hosts and honor their dignity. It is a scene as vivid and precious to me
today as it was 17 years ago.
How does one program such experiences into a trek itinerary? Obviously, it's not possible. We
design itineraries to take our travelers into areas where outside influences are minimal. The rest
is up to fate—and the traveler, who must always be open to the experience.
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