| Submitted by: Kaye Stott , Australia |
| Submission Date: 04 February 2005 |
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The snow was still falling when we got up, and lay heavy on the ground - enough to build snowmen when it eased off. To Geoff and I from West Aust, where it never really snows, the sight was overwhelming, and we made many forays out and up onto the ridge, enjoying the novelty. The sky lightened, but Dorjee was reluctant to set off down the mountain. We were not looking forward to another frozen night, and after much debate again voted with our feet and said that we would descend to Tsokha. In the event we were right. Although we left in light snow, it eased off rapidly, and before we were half way to Tsokha I was once again walking in a t-shirt, rather than in the multi-layered clothes I wore at Dzongri. The walk down was wonderful, with snow laying on the stunted rhododendrons that grow at these altitudes, softening the forest still further.
From Tsokha we were to walk to Yuksam, not stopping at Bakkhim. Geoff and I were out in front as we headed down the hill, but we could hear Anke and Harm not far behind us. This wasn't unusual - we tended to walk in changing pairs or groups, different people taking the lead as suited them, and normally without sight of the trekking company people at all; the policeman usually walked somewhere near us, but not always. After a short time, we sat and waited for Anke and Harm to catch us up, but no-one appeared. After ten minutes we began to worry, then Geoff climbed back up the hill to investigate. eventually I joined him, and we walked back to Tsokha, now deserted by all the crew. About this stage we concluded that we had taken the wrong route in the first place, and headed down again, this time seeing a side track just as the main track took a bend. When we had first walked down here we had passed people on horse-back at this corner, and hadn't even seen the track going off. We headed off down this new route, looking for signs that we were on the correct path. Harm's boots had a distinctive sole pattern, but we couldn't see it in the mud. We sped down the trail, but never saw soul, The climb that had taken 3 hours on the way up reduced to about 20 minutes to get down, and we arrive at Bakkhim, expecting to see the group - there was no-one and no evidence that they had passed though. There was no alternative but to press on, down the steep drop to the river, where we left a pile of rocks with a note, in case we were wrong, and the rest of the party were behind us.
Just after the bridge we finally saw the boot print we were looking for, and knew that all we had to do was walk into Yuksam. After another 30 minutes we caught up to the policeman and Dorjee's assistant sitting, waiting for us - they had finally worked out that we must be behind them, although we had set out first. Apparently Anke and Harm had set off at full speed thinking that we were ahead, and everyone had hurtled down the hill to keep up! We weren't sure why, since the four of us had always walked 'together' up until then, and we would never have raced off and away from them. We all slowed down and had a leisurely walk into the town, finding Anke and Harm long since settled back at the trekker's hut, amazed to see us arriving so late.
We spent the night at Yuksam, throwing a party for the 'boys', who really did a great job. We went off to bed exhausted at 10pm, but the party carried on half-way through the night in the room below us. The last day was spent getting back to Gantok, but we called into Tashiding monastery, one of the most sacred in Sikkim, and the most impressive for us. We were able to visit the classrooms, where small boys chanted from Tibetan texts, and the workrooms where restoration work was being carried out on statues and temple fittings. We stopped for lunch at Namchi, a small village, where a request for the loo had me led by the hand down the slimy dark depths of the building to **** in a gutter while the lady chatted away companionably. A final stopoff gave us time to wander around Saramsa gardens, then it was back to Gantok for a final meal together.
Geoff and I stayed one extra day, calling in to say goodbye to Dorjee, then caught the early morning bus back to Darjeeling.
Part 3 - Trekking in Darjeeling
We arrived back in Darjeeling, booked in at the Shamrock, and started to immediately plan the trek to Sandakphu, and book out train trip back to Calcutta, since you must always get your reservations done early in India. A quick run through the days we had left showed we could have 6 days trekking, a couple of days in Darjeeling to recover, then it would be time to leave. With the train tickets booked, we bought tickets for the bus to Maneybhanjyang the next morning, and packed up our gear for trekking, leaving a box of heavy unwanted gear at the hotel.
Maneybhanjyang (2134m) nestles at the foot of a hill that goes on and on, so after one-and-a-half hours we were still above the town, looking down from an increasing height. Eventually the path took off at an angle, and we climbed up to Meghma (2900m), where we stopped for a cup of tea that turned into lunch, since we got talking to an Israeli boy who was doing the same trek and to the owner of the lodge. The weather closed in while we were talking, but the Israeli decided to press on to Jubari. By the time Geoff and I had finished eating it was hailing outside, working itself up to a tremendous electrical storm, with huge hail stones, and a blast of lightning that almost blew the front door in. We decided to stay.
Meghma is on the Indian/Nepalese border, so technically we spent the night in Nepal. The lodge has a private monastery attached; the lady's husband had died only 3 months before, and one of the sons was now taking on the responsibility of looking after the buildings. They were making butter candles for the temple, and when we showed interest we were shown over the monastery and chorten - it was astounding. The downstairs section of the main building had a huge prayer wheel, from floor to ceiling, but the real treasure was upstairs, where they had the only collection of Bhutanese Buddhist statues (108 of them) outside of Bhutan. They also had a large collection of manuscripts, smuggled out of Tibet. We felt very privileged to be shown over the monastery - the son told us that they rarely mention it to trekkers; it was only our obvious interest in Buddhism that decided in our favour.
Ice still lay on the ground in the morning, 16 hours after the storm, but we set out along the Nepalese side of the border to Jubari, stopping for tea, then walked on, planning to stop in Garibas. For almost of the walk the clouds had closed in, enveloping us in thick mist that only momentarily swirled away to give tantalizing glimpses of the hills, valley, and lush forests around us. We arrived at Garibas quite early, and not finding anyone at the trekker's hut decided to press on, heading for Kalpokhari. The mist, if anything, got even thicker, and just as rain began to fall we spotted the welcome sign of an approaching village, and walked along side the chorten that marks the start of Kalpokhari (3108m).
We stopped at the first building, which turned out to be both lodge and monastery, and we were welcomed in and given beds in a corridor just off the main temple. We had arrived on the last day of a special three-day puja, and the tiny village was crowded, with most of the crowd in our corridor, sitting on the ends of the bed, and generally making us central to the entertainment. Shortly after we settled in, the Israeli boy turned up, wet, cold and disgruntled. He had been caught in the hail storm on the first day and wasn't really enjoying his trek. His main interest was in architecture (European), he had Buddhism and Hinduism totally confused (perhaps not his fault - people in Nepal do tend to adapt!) and thought everything was very primitive, superstition-bound, and couldn't see any merit anywhere. We had a bit of trouble being sympathetic; this was a lovely place to trek, the people were interesting and friendly, and we had the good fortune be in the village during a festival.
Geoff and I asked if we could join the puja in the temple. Our request was met with a courteous 'Of course', and were given a place near the man organizing the ceremony. Although atheists, we are very interested in religious practices and happily joined in, guided by the organizer when the ceremony require that all participants take holy water, or perform some action.
The next day started out bleak, with the entire world wrapped in swirling clouds, and visibility down to a few metres. Undaunted, we decided to go early, hoping to avoid the afternoon rain we were predicting. It was only 8km to Sandakphu, but the last part would be up a very steep path, slowing us down greatly, so we figured on taking about three hours. The first hour or so was fine, but then it started to rain, lightly at first, but getting rapidly heavier. We were near some huts, so looked around to find shelter. The hamlet was muslim, and the women we met were reluctant to take us in, but eventually one girl invited us inside, and we huddled together in the low-roofed room, ignored by the owners, who seemed more hostile than friendly. As soon as the rain slackened off a little, we decided to head on, since our presence seemed to make the village people uncomfortable.
Just as we started up the steep part of the track the rain came down stronger, and, as we climbed slowly up, the rain turned to sleet, then hail, and, finally, snow. It took us three hours to climb up the hill, hampered by the force of the storm, our frozen extremities, and my increasing altitude sickness. Geoff found his hands freezing, whereas mine glowed rosy red, so we would stop to let me try to warm him up; my feet and legs were beyond feeling at all, and I just trudged up slower and slower, stopping to be ill every now and again. Had I been alone I could have just curled up and died.
When we finally reached the trekker's hut at Sandakphu (3636m) we were welcomed in by the chowkider, who hastened to take Geoff's pack off for him (Geoff couldn't move his fingers to work the buckle), and provided us with a charcoal fire in the dormitory, where we could thaw ourselves out and attempt to get some of our sodden clothes and shoes dry. It took about an hour for us to get sorted out, and, as the storm cleared away, people from the nearby village wandered over to meet us, joke about our predicament, share our biscuits, and just enjoy each other's company. We were a large group at lunch, and, despite the language barrier, we managed to exchange information about where we were from, what we did, and life in general. We exchanged photos, addresses, and had a great afternoon. Towards dusk the local people left the treekker's hut, just as the Israeli boy arrived. He had waited out the storm and walked up in the relative calm of the afternoon.
We spent the evening huddled around the kitchen fire with the chowkider and his off-sider, while they cooked our meal and we stayed there to eat, since it was much too cold to move to any of the other rooms in the spacious hut. The local people were full of information about the area, and we only reluctantly went off to our cold dormitory as they packed up to go home for the night.
The morning dawned cold and clear, with Kanchenjunga visible from our bedroom window. We had a quick breakfast, and set out, leaving the Israeli boy in bed, beset by stomach problems and weighed down by misery. As we climbed up to the path above the village we agreed that THIS is what trekking is all about. The problems of yesterday's storm disappeared as the mountain views spread out all around us, and we enjoyed the best day's walk of the entire trek. Off to the west we could see the Himalayan range stretching off into Nepal, with Everest and Lhotse quite visible; ahead of us was Kanchenjunga, its five peaks gleaming in the sun; and all along the way were more immediate visual pleasures - rhododendrons, their petals strewn across our path in carpets of red and pink; streams rushing and tumbling down the hillsides; lush valleys, with soaks and streams reflecting silver in the sunlight, layed out below us in ever-changing patterns as we walked along the ridge. |
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| Copyright © - "Kaye Stott" |
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