Читать книгу Abode of the Gods - Kev Reynolds - Страница 10

CHAPTER 2

Annapurna

THE ANNAPURNA CIRCUS (1991)

I trek the Annapurna Circuit with an old friend, but reach the Sanctuary alone, surrounded by 7000 metre peaks.

After trekking to Kangchenjunga I was hooked. That trek of a lifetime could not be filed away in memory as a one-off; I’d have to return to the Himalaya. So before my flight home I spent two hectic days in Kathmandu visiting local agents and quizzing seasoned trek leaders. Plans took shape, but the following year writing projects diverted me to the Alps, to eastern Turkey and the Russian Caucasus. The Himalaya had to wait, but not for long…

For eight hours I’m forced to crouch almost double in the cab of a bus, a metal box above my head, knees embedded in the back of the driver’s seat, so when we arrive at last at the grubby township of Dumre, between Kathmandu and Pokhara, I hobble down the street bent like Quasimodo. One glance at the open-backed truck which provides onward transport to the trail-head convinces my companion, Alan, and me that there must be an alternative. There is. We locate the driver of a jeep, negotiate a price and encourage two other travellers – one Swiss, the other American – to share the costs, and depart for the mountains in a cloud of red dust.

The 40-odd kilometres of dirt road to Besisahar consume three and a half hours, and by the time we arrive a dense film of dust covers everything – the jeep, our rucksacks, the driver, us. Our nostrils are caked, eyes sore, my head is splitting. Next time, I swear, I’ll walk all the way from Kathmandu.

This is Alan Payne’s first visit to Nepal. Raised in Derbyshire, but now living in Devon, where he’s a planning officer, we met in the Atlas Mountains in 1965 and have since trekked and climbed numerous times in the Alps and Pyrenees. He’s fit, good company, easy-going and undemanding, and content to leave me to make decisions as to where to go and when, so when I told him of my plan to trek to Annapurna, he jumped at the opportunity to join me.

Annapurna is an obvious choice – its reputation for dramatic scenery and cultural diversity make it one of the most prized of all trekking regions. Mountains apart, the landscape varies from sub-tropical forest and lush foothill terraces in the south to frosted barren wastes on the northern side of the Himalayan divide, and from a trekkers’ pass at almost 5500 metres to the deepest river valley on Earth. Within this land of extremes live an assortment of ethnic groups – Magar, Newar, Gurung, Chhetri, Brahmin, Thakali and Bhotiya – many of whom have abandoned traditional farming practices to become lodge- or teahouse-owners, converting the family home to accommodate foreign trekkers, thereby making it easy for independent travellers to trek here without the need to backpack heavy camping equipment and food supplies.

No wonder it’s popular.

Beginning our counter-clockwise circuit we follow the Marsyangdi upstream, crossing tributaries on a variety of bridges and, in one case, wading through the water aided by a self-appointed river guide all of 10 years old. We share the trail with porters carrying crates of bottled drinks; others are laden with four metre wooden planks, sheets of corrugated iron, shiny metal trunks or dokos filled with pasta and tins of coffee. Western voices are heard in wayside bhattis, and some of our fellow trekkers on the early, humid stages of the route are dressed as though heading for a Mediterranean beach.

Wandering among terraces of rice and millet, we catch sight of snow peaks balanced upon clouds – Himalchuli, Ngadi Chuli and Manaslu rise from the east bank of the Marsyangdi, while hills west of the river belong to the unseen Annapurnas. So far these are just big hills, nameless hills, and we must trek for several days before we discover the mountains we’ve been dreaming about.

Unlike the Kangchenjunga region, every village has its lodges, and between villages teahouses ply a trade in tea and biscuits, bottles of Coke and Fanta, and bars of Cadbury’s chocolate made in India. Lodges have fanciful names on brightly painted boards – Hotel Himalaya and Lodge, Hotel Mountain View, Hotel Dorchester. Despite the pretentious titles, they’re just simple lodgings with smoky dining areas and bare rooms for sleeping in. Most have dormitories, while some have twin-bedded rooms furnished with wooden sleeping platforms, a thin foam mattress and a greasy pillow; sometimes there’s a small table and a candle and, if we’re lucky, a nail in the wall on which to hang clothes. Toilets are usually found outside in the yard – a narrow cubicle with a hole in the floor – the bathroom is just a standpipe, and when showers are advertised they turn out to be another cubicle next to the chaarpi with a hosepipe dribbling tepid water.

On our first day we trek as far as Bahundanda, a Brahmin village perched on a saddle on a spur of the Ngadi Lekh. Both sides of the hill are stepped with rice terraces, the trail partly shaded by trees and tall poinsettias bright with scarlet bracts. Lined with open-fronted shops, the village square is busy with locals and a few fellow trekkers studying their guidebooks and maps, and as we arrive two unkempt children shriek ‘Namaste’ at us as though we’re deaf. A sign tacked to one of the buildings indicates the way to the police check post, where we show our permits and enter names in a register – a formality to be repeated countless times in the years ahead. The official glances at our permits, then at us. ‘You trek Annapurna Circus?’ he asks, and I can’t decide whether he’s being cynical, making a joke, or if I’ve simply misunderstood his question.

Tonight we share a lodge with Ray, a Canadian railroad engineer with short-cropped hair and pale grey eyes, and his daughter Linda, an attractive young woman in her mid-20s who spends her winters as a ski instructor in Japan. Over pots of tea we chat about mountains and travel and the lure of Nepal, about the day’s journey and prospects for tomorrow, and the onward trail to Manang. Ray has time to kill. ‘More vacation time than I know what to do with,’ he says. ‘Trouble is, I’m not sure I have the energy for this trekking game. Sure found today plenty tough.’

‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll see you make it,’ and his daughter pats him kindly on the knee.

Rising early, Alan and I leave on a trail heading north, twisting downhill through terraces of rice spread in an artistic fan, the early light playing on streams and irrigation ditches, the milky blue Marsyangdi curling round the base of the spur with white-flecked rapids as it cuts through a gorge. Our trail edges a former river bench now crowded with millet. Lemon trees line the pathway. Ahead the valley is restricted by steep hills; on the opposite bank a thin cascade hangs above the river, twitching with a breeze. We pass a solitary lodge, then curve left, descend to a suspension bridge and cross to Syange, a one-street village of shops and lodges. Geordie, Scots and Australian voices drift from a bhatti, but we walk through without stopping and soon find ourselves among cannabis plants. ‘There’ll be some grass smoked tonight,’ says Alan, referring to a couple of trekkers we’d passed earlier.

Ahead the valley narrows. More waterfalls streak the rocks while the trail slants uphill and the gradient increases. The path is well made, in places carved into the rock, and is certainly a great improvement on the route described in 1950 as a series of frail wooden galleries strung across the cliffs. At the top of the rise we stop for a bowl of noodle soup at a small teahouse standing alone with views in both directions, and wonder how serious the Nepalese authorities are in their plan to extend the road from Dumre as far as Manang. The very idea spells disaster.

As we enter Jagat a squall of voices erupts from a field behind one of the houses, where a group of villagers gathers round the carcass of a recently slaughtered buffalo – a bubbling mess of steaming guts and liquid spilling into the harvest stubble. A wall-eyed man with a simple grin and kukri knife in hand has sliced open its belly, while his audience offers advice in the way it’s offered all over the world by those least qualified to give it. The butcher stands bare-legged astride the carcass, his light brown skin spattered with blood. Already he and the onlookers anticipate the taste of fresh meat. It will last them for days.

When the Tibetan salt trade was in full swing, Jagat was a customs post where taxes were levied, but since 1959 cross-border trade between Nepal and Tibet has officially ended, and its reason for existence has changed. Drying racks of sweetcorn cobs now stand above fields where children chase one another in a game of tag. One child trips, sprawling head-first into the stubble. As he explodes with tears a girl I take to be his sister picks him up and swings him onto her back. She can be no more than five years old, but accepts responsibility for his welfare without question.

The valley is little more than a gorge now, the scenery wild, intimidating, and the way ahead apparently blocked by boulders that swallow the river. But when we top another steep rise, before us lies a broad, flat plateau, on the far side of which the toy-like houses of Tal are dwarfed by soaring mountains, as alluring as Shangri-La. This is Buddhist country, and as if to emphasise the fact peace settles over us. A crow barks as it circles overhead, making only a brief intrusion. In the breeze comes the far-off boom of a waterfall, but the breeze is inconsistent, the sound falters, then shuts off completely. Peace settles once more.

Tal’s wide street is lined with shops and lodges, and with ponies tethered to a rail the place has a Wild West appearance – externally, at least – but once we book into a lodge all that changes. We’re back in a medieval world that attempts to ape the 20th century.

A bright-faced woman in a wrap-around chuba entices me across the street to study the bangles, earrings and pocket-sized mani stones on display in her tiny sentry-box of a shop. Her hair is coal black and glossy and hangs halfway down her back. Teasing me for my grey beard she calls me ‘Baje’, so I show her photographs of my wife and daughters and assure her I can wait a while before becoming a grandfather. Calling softly behind her, a beautiful little girl presents herself. She’s gorgeous, like her mother, and smiling sweetly returns my ‘Namaste’.

In Pisang, a spartan village of stone-walled houses at well over 3000 metres, there’s a long mani wall fitted with a row of prayer wheels, each stone in the wall carved with the Buddhist mantra ‘Om mani padme hum’ (‘Hail to the jewel in the lotus’). Cylindrical prayer wheels are likewise etched with manis, and as each wheel is spun it scatters the prayers contained within it, ‘Om mani padme hum’. Strips of cloth bearing the mani imprint hang from long wooden poles, and as we pass through archways, known as kanis, a gallery of Buddhas fades in the shadows of time. The faith lingers on...‘Om mani padme hum’.

Here in the Himalayan rain shadow the Buddha’s timeless prayer is like an electrical charge – unseen, unheard, but felt in every stirring breeze.

Our journey adopts a deeper meaning. It’s more than a walk through an ever-changing landscape – a pilgrimage, perhaps? There’s a cultural intensity as we slip into a very different world that works on our emotions. Alan senses the change too. Having known each other for so long, we have no need to articulate what we feel about the places we explore. Often we’ll wander at our own pace with thoughts undisturbed. Only later will a word or phrase be spoken that conjures a moment in time or a place spirited from memory.

This morning Alan wakes with a streaming cold and a hint of fever. ‘The dry air will be good for it,’ he says. ‘But I’ll see about hiring a porter for a couple of days.’ Within minutes we are joined by a neat-looking Magar with a quiet smile and a name that sounds like ‘Mahdri’. He has no English, and the few Nepali words Alan and I have gathered make for very limited conversation, but smiles count as much as conversation on this winding trail.

It’s cold in our Pisang lodge when evening falls, but the table where we sit eating daal bhaat is located over a shallow pit in which a brazier of hot coals warms us while we eat. Mahdri squats beside the cooking fire with the didi, his hands held in the smoke, fingers splayed, but a Danish couple in their early 30s who share our table complain about the cold. In a thick Icelandic sweater the woman looks mournful and gives an involuntary shudder. ‘Boy,’ she says in near-perfect English. ‘If this is autumn, how bad is it in winter?’

‘Why don’t you put some more clothes on?’ I ask.

‘I’m wearing everything I have.’

‘Really? No down jacket?’

She shakes her head. ‘We did not know it would be cold like this. We have never been to 3000 metres before.’

I wonder then how far they intend to go, but the boyfriend answers my unspoken question. ‘We want to cross the Thorong La,’ he says. ‘Will it be cold like this?’

Almost 2000 metres higher than Pisang, the Thorong La is the pass which leads to the Kali Gandaki. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’ll be much, much colder than this.’

Seen from our lodge Upper Pisang is like a series of swallows’ nests high above the river. On this crisp November morning a cocoon of blue-grey smoke embraces the village, each house wearing a prayer flag that hangs limply against its pole. Having slogged up the path to it, we pause to catch our breath and appreciate the sight of Annapurna II across the valley, its summit crest blistered by the afterglow of sunrise. The main trail to Manang remains below, but an alternative path heading northwest wins us a view through the valley where organ pipes of rock have been sand-blasted by the dry winds of high Asia. Mahdri is just ahead, a grey turtle with the faded blue shell of Alan’s rucksack concealing all but his legs. Together we wander among juniper and pine trees above a small green tarn, then slope down to another mani wall, cross a stream and come to a fork in the trail.

With a vague twitch of his head Mahdri gives directions. ‘Hongde’ (indicating to the left), ‘Ghyaru, Ngawal’ (uphill). The nasal sounds of ‘Ghyaru’ and ‘Ngawal’ hang in the air like an adjunct to ‘Om mani padme hum’. In this land of other-worldly encounters Alan and I are attracted by these sounds. So uphill it is.

It’s a steep climb, and wheezing with his head-cold Alan suffers, but all the effort is forgotten as Ghyaru gathers us into a long-distant past. This ancient village of flat-roofed houses crowds the hillside with an outlook onto a wall of glacial mountains – Lamjung Himal, Gangapurna and the north face of Annapurnas II and III. Notched tree trunks serve as ladders up which locals climb to their living quarters, while yaks are stabled on the ground floor. Once again, prayer flags adorn every rooftop, and now the air is stirring they gently slap against their poles.

Mahdri suggests a tea stop, takes us into a walled enclosure, then up a ladder, where he removes the rucksack and ducks through a low doorway to be swallowed by the darkness of the room beyond. Following, we’re struck by a cloud of acrid smoke, and it’s clear that whoever is in this room is burning dried yak dung. ‘This should clear your sinuses,’ I murmur to Alan.

As we grow accustomed to the gloom we’re directed by the man of the house to make ourselves comfortable. He appears to be old, his face rutted with high altitude wind and sun, a woollen hat pulled tightly over scalp and ears, his teeth broken where his lips part in a wordless smile of greeting. There are no seats so we use the floor, sitting cross-legged on a rug in front of the fire that burns on a stone-slab grate. A blackened pot of tsampa is being stirred, and moments later the clay-like substance is offered first to Mahdri, then to us. I decline, as does Alan, but Mahdri accepts without visible sign of gratitude, as is often the way in this land where acceptance of a gift adds karma of the giver. He who gives should be grateful. The man of the house laughs at me, aware no doubt that the tan-coloured goo is not to a Westerner’s liking, but nonetheless scrapes a lump from the pot with a stick and holds it across the fire. Our eyes meet. He nods. I accept the offering, take the lump with my fingers and pop it into my mouth. It tastes just as it looks… The old man laughs again, turns to Alan and asks in pantomime fashion if he is father and I the grandfather. Since there’s only six months’ difference in our ages, Alan appreciates the joke more than I do.

One tiny slit-like window allows light to enter and some of the smoke to leave. A faint blue beam angles from window to floor, picking out the gentle swirl of smoke and dancing dust fairies. The bare walls are black and shining with the soot of who knows how many years of yak-dung fires; the only furnishings are the rugs on which we sit and a pair of long, thick cushions against the wall beneath the window.

Rolling the tsampa into a ball with one hand, Mahdri tosses it into his mouth. He does this many times until the bowl is empty, then runs his fingers round the edge to collect any spare food before licking his fingers clean. The old man passes him a metal jug, which he holds above his tilted head and pours water into his mouth. Not a drop is spilled, and none touches his lips. Above the crackling of the fire I hear the gulping sounds as Mahdri swallows.

‘It’s easy to die of altitude sickness. Anyone can do it! Trekkers do it every year. Not the same trekkers, of course – they only do it once. Once each, that is.’ The newly qualified German doctor, with an enviable command of English, is enjoying himself. No doubt it’s the same spiel he uses every day, but it’s effective, and his audience takes note.

We’re sitting in the roofless outdoor lecture room at the health post run by the Himalayan Rescue Association (HRA) in Manang, where every afternoon during the trekking season one of two volunteer doctors based here gives a presentation on how to avoid altitude sickness. While the subject is serious, the lecture is entertaining. It has to be in order to keep the audience’s attention. But more than that, it’s informative and, no doubt, life saving for some of those present, for the Annapurna Circus attracts plenty of visitors with little or no mountain experience – let alone high-altitude experience. These include world travellers who last month were on the beach in Goa, next month will be drifting through Thailand, but this month are ‘doing Nepal’. And that means a week or so in Kathmandu followed by a quick trek round Annapurna. Many are ill equipped and, like the Danish couple in Pisang, have no idea what to expect.

Recognising this the doctor stresses the importance of drinking plenty of liquids, of gaining altitude in slow and easy stages, and of keeping alert for warning signs in yourself and your companions. He’s graphic in his description of death from pulmonary and cerebral oedema, and makes his audience sit up by telling them, ‘It can strike even here in Manang. You don’t have to go all the way to the Thorong La to die.’ Warning of the cold and high winds up at the pass, he gives several instances of trekkers and their porters setting out for the La never to make it. ‘All because they were not prepared, were in too much of a hurry, were too proud to turn back, or – in the case of the porters – they did not know what was happening to them. Remember’, he says, prodding the air with emphasis, ‘you can die through stupidity if you like. That is your choice. But if you have porters with you, you are responsible for their safety. Their lives are as important as yours.’ He pauses for effect, then says, ‘Actually, from where I’m standing, I’d say more important than some of you.’

We all laugh, but wonder who he’s getting at.

Manang is bustling. At just over 3500 metres, it’s sensible for anyone planning to cross the Thorong La to spend at least two nights at this altitude to help the process of acclimatisation. That’s why there are twice as many trekkers congregating here than in any other village along the trail. Not only independent teahouse trekkers, like us, but organised groups too, with their porters, Sherpas and sirdars. Two groups are camped on the edge of the village, but there are even tents pitched on the flat roofs of some of the houses.

There must be at least 200 houses in Manang. A maze of narrow alleys twists between them, opening to a square with a row of prayer wheels and a heart-stopping view of the Annapurnas across the valley. The Tibetan influence is strong in the features of the Manangis. Tough and worldly-wise, I doubt anyone ever beat them to a bargain, but we find them friendly and hospitable, and although the food served in our lodge may not always be what we order, it helps keep the cold at bay.

It is cold too. Wandering alone up-valley I visit a neighbouring village where yak crossbreeds plough the frozen fields. Winter is in the air. It comes drifting from Annapurnas II and IV as snow plumes are torn from their ridges. It comes from Gangapurna’s glacier, whose icefall tips to a half-frozen lake. And it comes in blusters of wind tasting of snow, yet the sky remains blue and almost cloudless.

Passing a row of well-worn prayer wheels, a metallic clack-clack accompanies each of the prayers as I spin their release. Above a chorten, prayer flags are stripped into tatters by the wind, and because of that wind I go no further, but crouch in the lee of the chorten and listen to the cracking of the flags, thankful to be in view of the Himalaya once more. Heaven, I tell myself, is a crowd of snow mountains and no demands to climb them.

Back in Manang I find Alan drinking hot chocolate behind steamed windows in the dining room of the Yak Lodge, most of whose tables are occupied by trekkers wearing down jackets. Seated opposite him are the Canadians Ray and Linda, with whom we’d shared a lodge in Bahundanda. They arrived an hour ago, having stayed last night a short way down-valley. Ray is wearing a week’s stubble and an incomplete smile. His eyes speak of concern, and when his daughter leaves to visit the chaarpi, he confides in us. ‘She’s kinda sick. I dunno what it is, but she’s not right. Keeps telling me not to worry, but I know that kid, and she’s just not healthy. There’s no way she’s gonna make it over the La until she’s got herself fit.’

‘Is it the altitude?’

‘Nope. At least, I don’t think so. Got pains; I can see that, but she says nothin’. Spends a lot of time visitin’ the chaarpi – in fact she probably knows more about the chaarpis of Nepal than anyone alive!’

‘Have you been to the health post?’

‘Health post?’ asks Ray. ‘Where’s that?’

‘Just across the way. Two doctors are based there. Why don’t you get Linda to go for a check if you’re that concerned?’

The Canadian’s eyes brighten. ‘Hey now, that’s like good news.’

Half an hour later father and daughter wander across to the HRA post. They’re gone for quite a while, and Alan and I are on our third mugs of hot chocolate by the time they return. Linda’s face is still pasty, heavy bags beneath her eyes, her nose glowing with the cold. She smiles a weak smile and pads off to visit the chaarpi again. Her father scrapes the bench, sits beside me and sighs with relief. ‘We’re going down!’ Alan’s eyes briefly meet mine and an eyebrow goes up. We wait, for it’s not our place to pry, after all we hardly know the man, but he wants to share the news.

‘Kidney infection. The German doctor says there’s no way she should go any higher.’ Ray scratches at his week-old beard, then wipes his nose with the back of his engineer’s hand. ‘Maybe there’s a flight we can take from Hongde that’ll get us back to Kathmandu soonest. She’s supposed to be in Japan for the ski season, so we’ll need to get her right. I guess we’ll head out in the morning.’

In Bahundanda Ray doubted his ability to get over the Thorong La, but Linda was going to look after him. In trekking, nothing is certain.

Tonight the chill invades our cell at the Annapurna Hotel. Awake before midnight, I lie listening to the wind while trying to find the courage to get out of my sleeping bag, pull on boots and go for a pee. When at last I do, it’s to find snow falling – big flakes, the size of goose down. It’s still falling as dawn light filters from unseen mountains, and what we can see of Manang reminds me of Christmas. But instead of reindeer, two hefty yaks lie outside our lodge with fresh snow piling round them. No one is going anywhere in this.

Feeling delicate Alan is off his breakfast, but I’m okay and have a double helping of porridge, an omelette, chapatti and several cups of tea. Alan sips his tea and wonders aloud if Mahdri is home yet. When we’d arrived late in the afternoon the day before yesterday, Alan had paid him off. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘He’ll have been home in no time; downhill with a following wind and no rucksack to slow his pace.’

It had been our plan to go up to Letdar today, move on to Thorong Phedi tomorrow and cross the La the day after, but this snow has put paid to that. Happily we have time to sit and wait, but this morning there’s tension in the dining room. A number of our fellow trekkers have set themselves tight schedules and are frustrated by a day’s forced inactivity; others voice concern that the Thorong La will be impassable for several days, even if the snow stops now, for if it’s snowing like this here, what’s it like 2000 metres up?

We visit the Canadians at the Yak Lodge, where Linda remains in her room, snug in her sleeping bag. Ray is hunched beside the stove, cramped between down-wrapped trekkers. ‘There’s no way we’re going down to Hongde in this,’ he says. ‘We’ll wait a day or two and see what the weather brings.’

Braga is the next village down the trail from Manang. Built in tiers against steep outcrops in a shallow amphitheatre of crags, in the snow it looks like a multi-layered wedding cake in danger of collapse. When we’d passed below it a couple of days ago it had attracted our attention, desert brown against rust-coloured rocks, but we’d been unwilling to stop then as the afternoon was fading and Manang beckoned. Now, with time to explore, we shuffle our way through neglected drifts up to the gompa at the top of the village. The caretaker appears, rattling a bunch of ancient keys, and lets us in.

Innocent of Buddhist culture, I can only feel a reverence I do not understand in this dusty place of nine hundred Himalayan winters, lit as it is by butter lamps with a faltering orange glow. My wandering eyes drift across racks of rectangular manuscripts – scriptures borne down the ages by followers of the Buddha, whose words took shape hundreds of years before Christ began his own ministry. I’m aware of how little I know.

More than a hundred terracotta statues appear as my eyes grow accustomed to the moody light; there are coloured banners hanging from the ceiling, a gong, a drum and smaller instruments used in times of prayer. A large bronze Buddha watches every movement until the caretaker directs us to an upper building where yet more Buddhas gather dust, and in an ante-room we find a collection of archaic knives, swords and rusted muskets, then return to the lower room where silk scarves are placed around our necks with a blessing.

We’ll need that blessing when the snow stops, if we’re to cross the Thorong La.

The stroll back to Manang is through a stark monochrome landscape. The wind has dropped, but heavy clouds fill the valley and empty their contents of damp white flakes. When we call at the Yak to see how Linda is, the room is crowded with more than 50 trekkers as today’s acclimatisation lecture has been transferred here from the HRA building, so we return to the Annapurna to find some French trekkers who’d left yesterday, bound for Letdar. They tell us conditions are very bad up there, which is why they’ve returned, and we speculate that it must be much worse above that. Since it could be days before there’s sufficient improvement to allow a crossing of the pass, the atmosphere is charged with what-ifs and if-onlys.

But next morning all that has changed, the snowfall has ended and remnant clouds scatter to reveal a canopy of deepest blue. Stepping out of the lodge I’m almost blinded by the intensity of light. Flashing crystals of ice prance in the air, the valley is bewitched and I’m excited by its rebirth.

Alan, on the other hand, is still feeling rough. During the night he’d been outside vomiting and now huddles in his sleeping bag as waves of nausea sweep over him. It looks as though Manang will have the pleasure of our company a little longer, so I take him a mug of black tea, which he glances at and gags. ‘I’ve decided to go over the road for a consultation,’ he mumbles. ‘I feel like death.’ I help him to his feet and watch as he shuffles through the snow. He looks old and doddery, yet trekking is supposed to be a healthy pursuit.

Seated outside the lodge with another pot of tea, I watch as Sherpas collapse a snow-coated tent on the roof of a neighbouring building. As they shake the snow from it, one of their group emerges from the dining room below and receives the full bounty on his head and shoulders. One of the Sherpas sees this and dodges back out of sight. He and I burst into laughter. The snowbound trekker is not amused.

Alan returns, head low, shoulders hunched. ‘A virus,’ he says. ‘It could be with me for days.’ He slumps on the bench beside me, holding his head as though it weighs more than his shoulders can manage on their own. ‘It’s no good; I’ll have to go down.’

I say nothing, but think much. We’re not yet halfway round the Circuit, but if he’s really sick there’s no way he can contemplate crossing a pass at almost 5500 metres, so I understand his decision. But what do I do? Do I leave him to his own devices and continue on my own – or go down with him to make sure he’s okay? He knows what I’m thinking and appreciates my dilemma. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘But I can’t see any alternative.’

Then a compromise comes to mind. ‘If I could get down to Hongde,’ he says, ‘it might be possible to fly out from there. But not today. I’ve got no energy.’ So I offer to go down-valley for him to enquire if any flights are scheduled in the next few days. If so I’ll get him a ticket. As I understand it, Hongde is supposed to have a flight on Thursdays – weather permitting, that is. Today is Tuesday.

It’s a glorious walk without a rucksack. The deep snow squeaks beneath my boots, and wherever I turn a world of pristine beauty greets me. On my right the Annapurnas form an enormous bank of snow and ice; ahead and on the left Pisang Peak sends out spurs that cast blue shadows against dazzling white, and throughout the valley multi-layered cushions of snow are piled upon chortens and half-concealed mani walls. It’s heaped upon drystone walls and flat-roofed houses, and on the posts either side of a cantilever bridge spanning the Marsyangdi. Rafts of snow drift downstream, shrinking in size as they go. When I come to pine trees, each branch wears a basket.

‘No flight Thursday,’ says the RNAC official at Hongde. ‘If no more snow, next flight maybe one week. If more snow, next flight could be three, four weeks. Maybe not till spring.’

I find a bhatti and sit inside with two handsome Bhotiya women. Sisters, they are, chatting as one washes dishes and the other makes noodle soup for me. There’s so much garlic in the soup it almost blisters my lips. The cook-sister sees my eyes water and laughs. ‘Good for cold,’ she tells me.

I give Alan the news as soon as I get back to Manang in the early afternoon. ‘No flights, thanks to the snow. As I see it you have three choices. One, you die here. Two, you walk down to Besisahar and have your body shaken to bits on the truck to Dumre. Or three, you get better and cross the Thorong La with me.’

He still looks decidedly unhealthy and weak, but half an hour after my return, while I’m enjoying a tin of pineapple chunks bought at a local shop, he staggers to the back of the lodge and spends several minutes being violently sick into the snow. When at last he reappears he wears a smile. ‘That’s cleared the system,’ he says. ‘I’m going for some tea.’

With that I assume the trek is on once more.

In Letdar we manage to locate a two-bedded stone cell for our accommodation in an unfinished building. It’s cold as death inside the room at over 4000 metres, so we sit at a table outside with a tremendous view down-valley to mountains of the Annapurna Himal that have grown even higher in the aftermath of the snowstorm. Just a few extra-steep bands of rock remain exposed. All else is caked with snow – high ridges corniced with layers of unimagined depth above a soundless avalanche that pours down the face of Gangapurna.

While our socks dry in the sunshine, our faces burn with reflected heat and snow-glare. Alan is happy now but, weak from his days of sickness, he’s arranged for a local man to carry his rucksack to Muktinath. Our man from Manang looks tough as a yak. Clad in winter-proof clothing and size 12 expedition boots, he has few words, and as yet we’ve not managed to discover his name, for in response to our attempts to converse, we’re offered a few grunts only and dark eyes that refuse to meet ours.

The dining area of our so-called lodge has no roof. As night falls we sit in what appears to be an inner courtyard with a starry sky in place of a ceiling, ankle-deep in snow – adding new meaning to ‘alfresco’ as we fight a way into plates of daal bhaat. The primus stove which serves as the cooking range is only a couple of paces behind us, and the food is hot and steaming when scooped onto plates, but by the time it reaches our table – seconds only – it’s just luke warm. Luke-warm rice quickly solidifies and is difficult to swallow.

It takes only a couple of hours to reach Thorong Phedi, at the foot of the pass, where soaring cliffs form an amphitheatre round a bed of snow-carpeted meadowland. Alan and I sit with our backs against the lodge and gaze up at the steep slope that leads to the Thorong La. It looks as formidable as the North Face of the Eiger, and a very unhappy Dutch woman confirms that it feels like it. She’d set off for the pass early this morning, but halfway there was affected by the altitude and had to be brought down by her friend. Now she clutches her head in misery and wonders whether she’ll make it tomorrow. I tell her she should descend further, but she and her friend refuse to listen.

Since the Thorong La is the high point of the Annapurna Circuit, tension among our fellow trekkers vibrates like the build-up to an electrical storm. Almost everyone feels the altitude, and none can be certain how they’ll be affected by tomorrow’s climb of almost 1000 metres. Some have grown irritable, others have gone to lie down, while yet more sit in the sunshine and grow fearful of tomorrow. No doubt the words of the HRA doctor at Manang ring in their ears.

As soon as the sun dips behind the mountains the temperature drops like a stone. Shadows bring frost, and in moments the scene is transformed as everyone rushes indoors, where orders for hot drinks are shouted across the room. Appetites are diminished by the altitude, yet mine remains as strong as ever, so I tuck into a large plate of boiled potatoes almost explosive with chilli sauce, then retire to bed. It’s only 6 o’clock, but I’m one of the last to go.

Alan and I share a dormitory with two Germans, three Americans, a group of airmen serving with the RAF, and a young married couple from Sheffield with whom we’d spent several hours at Dhaka airport on the way to Kathmandu. As for the airmen, one of them tackled the Circuit two years ago and was so impressed that he couldn’t wait to repeat the experience. ‘The Thorong La? A tough day, but wow – what a crossing!’

At 4.30 we breakfast on porridge and three cups of tea each, fill our bottles, then step out into the pre-dawn grey at 5.15. The thermometer reads minus 16 and my feet soon lose feeling – how do the porters cope, I wonder? Dawn will flood the hills in another 30 minutes or so, but for now the route is picked out by the head-torches of trekkers who’ve beaten us to it. But we’re in no hurry; this is not a race; so Alan and I settle to our own steady rhythm with the porter from Manang kicking in behind. Ahead of us a string of heavily laden men zigzags slowly under loads belonging to a group; we leapfrog a shape losing his breakfast in the snow; and a little later, just before the sky brightens, we pass a couple standing face to face, one sobbing and clutching her head, the other no doubt battling with indecision. I’m thankful just to feel old, and am aware of the privilege of tackling the route on this day of all days.

Night makes way for the briefest transition to a morning of sparkling brilliance. Around us moraine ribs hang on to their snows, while ice gleams and flashes minute diamonds from cliffs that capture the first sunlight.

Hour succeeds hour, and figures in the landscape are no longer bunched – some have fallen by the wayside, heading back to Phedi in misery and disappointment. Some are just slower than others and trudge their own journeys through their own secret worlds. Each of us deals with the effort, the cold and the altitude in our own very personal way, shrinking within to find a barrier of comfort to deaden the reality.

But I’m relieved to find I’m enjoying myself. My toes have come back to life, my head is not even muzzy. Okay, I’m short of energy and puffing like a steam engine, but I haven’t come here to run, and even in the snowdrifts, where the trail is a series of holes instead of a well-trodden groove, I pick the way cheerfully enough. Whatever the route may be under snow-free conditions, today it meanders from one false col to another as steep slopes converge, bringing us not to new valleys but into hollows and snowdrifts between mountains. Behind us the Annapurnas are slipping away, soon to be vanquished by minor ridges and mountain folds. Then the slope ahead eases, and mountains to right and left give way to create an impression of space as the pass beckons.

At a little after 9 o’clock Alan and I stand misty-eyed by the 5415 metre summit cairn among the wind-disturbed prayers of high places. ‘Om mani padme hum’ swirls silently around us. Even our man from Manang is smiling as he stands between Alan and me while a trekker with a German group takes our photograph before starting her descent. I’m jubilant, and on this day of gifts I wander away for a few minutes and, finding myself alone, turn slowly in a full circle to embrace the scene and whisper words of gratitude.

There are no Annapurnas to gaze upon, but in the northwest an arid, dun-coloured landscape tells of the Kingdom of Mustang. There’s romance in that vision – a vertical desert dusted with snow, Tibet beyond its borders and the hidden land of Dolpo forming a buffer on the far side of mountains without names. The Thorong La not only rewards our presence, it taunts with forbidden horizons.

The descent to Muktinath proves more tiring than the climb to the pass. On this west-facing slope there’s less snow than on the route from Phedi. Two days of sunshine have melted open patches, but the melt has frozen again and a treacherous sheen of ice makes every step a challenge. Half an hour below the pass we come upon the German woman who’d taken our photograph on the Thorong La. Just 15 minutes ago she fell and broke her right leg, which now juts misshapen with an ugly bulge midway between knee and foot. Friends fuss around her offering comfort, while the group leader and his sirdar make a rudimentary stretcher from trekking poles and items of clothing. They’re competent and unflustered, and when we offer assistance they assure us that everything is in hand, so we continue down the slope, moraine ribs spilling towards the valley, ice reflecting the sun, stones projecting through retreating snowfields. Alan and I both fall several times. Not so our man from Manang. He remains on his feet, big boots digging grooves in the slope behind us.

Now with a clear view into the Kali Gandaki, the harvest fields of Kagbeni can be seen, as can the graceful cone of Dhaulagiri. Pausing for a moment, I collect its simple beauty and commit the scene to memory.

At the foot of the moraines we reach grass and stop for a cup of tea at a bhatti that looks less like a building than a ruin. Apart from the cairn on the pass, it’s the first man-made structure we’ve seen since leaving Thorong Phedi. A Sherpa from the German group is here arranging for the bhatti-owner’s pony to carry the woman with the broken leg down to Jomsom. From there she should be able to get a flight out to Pokhara in the next two or three days.

Our porter suddenly comes alive, for the bhatti-owner and his wife have with them a short Bhotiya woman who’s clearly a friend of old. She and our man from Manang huddle together in animated conversation. She giggles like a teenager on her first date, and I worry that we might have difficulty encouraging him to leave with us. None of it. When we’re ready to go, he rises too, but now there’s a spring in his step. I suspect I know where he’ll be spending the night. And with whom.

An hour later we reach Muktinath. Set in a grove of poplars and a walled enclosure, sacred temples and 108 water spouts mark the culmination of a famous pilgrimage followed by generations of Hindus – for after Pashupatinath this is the most revered Hindu site in Nepal. Buddhists are drawn here too, for the footprints of the eighth-century saint Guru Rimpoche are said to be embedded in stone nearby. Yet in our weary state the site attracts little interest. Our knees ache, toes are sore, and the prospect of unlimited drinks, a plate of food and a bed spurs us on. Thankfully we have no need to go far, so Alan hands a clutch of notes to his porter for his three-day journey with us, and moments later our man from Manang is striding back the way we’ve come. He has a date.

Standing naked on the flat roof of the lodge at a little under 4000 metres, I feel somewhat bemused. Having spent an hour celebrating our safe passage of the Thorong La with bottles of Star beer that proved potent on empty stomachs, I’d asked the lodge-keeper for some hot water. ‘You want shower?’ he asked.

‘You have a shower?’

‘Velry good shower!’ he assured me.

Anticipation is a marvellous thing. A single word transports me into a fantasy of steam and soap, clean hair, pink glowing flesh, and an end to the accumulated dirt of mountain Nepal. As I’m led upstairs and out to the rooftop overlooking the village, Dhaulagiri hangs over the valley to the southwest, a symmetrical mountain of purest white against the azure of an unclouded sky.

‘Mister, you wait here. I fetch shower.’

Waiting in the late afternoon sunshine with only a small towel round my waist, a frantic sweep of small grey birds brushes past – a rush of feathers come from nowhere and are gone in an instant.

Seen from the Milke Danda, a cloud-sea fills the valleys of northeast Nepal as far as the Singalila Ridge, beyond which lies Sikkim (Chapter 1)

Far beyond the Tamur’s valley, the Kangchenjunga massif forms a backdrop to life in the foothills (Chapter 1)

A typical wayside bhatti, or teahouse, hundreds of which serve travellers right across Nepal (Chapter 1)

At last! After 30 years of mountain activity I’ve finally made it to the Himalaya – the world’s third highest mountain towers behind me (Chapter 1)

The stately cone of Ratong is part of a long crest of peaks extending from Kangchenjunga that carries the Nepal–Sikkim border (Chapter 1)

The Southwest Face of Kangchenjunga, by which it was first climbed in 1955 (Chapter 1)

Setting up camp on the yak pasture of Tseram (Chapter 1)

(Opposite) After crossing the Thorong La, Alan Payne overlooks the timeless village of Jharkot (Chapter 2)

With Annapurna South as a backdrop, weary trekkers capture the magic of the Sanctuary (Chapter 2)

After a dump of snow, the way from Manang to Letdar on the Annapurna Circuit is transformed (Chapter 2)

Though still recognisable from Annapurna Base Camp, Machhapuchhare (far right) has lost its solitary status as guardian of the Sanctuary (Chapter 2)

Our first camp on the Manaslu trek (Chapter 3) looks north across a pastoral land to the arctic wall of the Himalaya

In the rain shadow of the Himalaya, the valley of the Jhong Khola below Muktinath is like a highaltitude desert (Chapter 2)

Sharing a book of photographs with a young friend from Samagaon (Chapter 3)

From their home above the Buri Gandaki, village children watch the world go by (Chapter 3)

The juggernauts of Nepal make their way along the lower valley of the Buri Gandaki (Chapter 3)

The lodge-keeper returns with a red plastic bucket of water, a jug and an enamel bowl. ‘Shower!’ he says with pride.

Having been psyched up to enjoy my first overall wash since Kathmandu, I’m not prepared for disappointment, so drop the towel anyway and, standing in the bowl one foot at a time, pour jugs of water over my head. What had seemed tepid in the bucket is now close to freezing, and I shiver uncontrollably. But although it may not be the most luxurious shower of my life, I’ve never had one with a better outlook, with an unrestricted view of massed snow peaks sharp against the Himalayan sky gathering the first colours of evening. It’s also the highest and most exposed bathroom of my life, so I dry myself as best I can and dress quickly before ice forms on my extremities.

The valley below Muktinath is one of which dreams are made. Totally different from anything we’d seen along the Marsyangdi, a seemingly barren land is contorted into a series of folds, gullies and terraces. This northern side of the Himalayan divide could not seem more remote if it were on the far side of the moon, and as we approach the ancient village of Jharkot, I’m enchanted by everything I see – a line of peach trees, a half-frozen stream, a small pond, the snowy west wall of the Kali Gandaki, and Jharkot itself. As I glance through a kani, the Himalayan time-machine cranks me back at least 500 years. I can taste the dust and clay of Asia upon my tongue, smell warm dust and clay in my nostrils, and trail my fingers against the wall of one of the houses, scraping the wind-baked dust and clay of a world marooned from the late 20th century. A small child with dirt-spiked hair and a tan-coloured tunic pads along the alleyway. ‘N’maste,’ he grins. ‘Gimme one pen!’

Below Jharkot our path sidles among a few bare poplars and fruit trees, and through crusts of ice where a stream crosses and recrosses the trail. Snow patches spatter the hillside, while the hanging valley becomes yet more arid in appearance. Dhaulagiri rises as though on an elevator behind a spur of Tukuche Peak, a vast yacht whose sails are stretched to capture winds we cannot feel down here. To our right, across the Jhong Khola’s gorge, caves are pitted among strangely eroded crags sculpted by frost, wind and water over countless millennia.

Kagbeni is an oasis. We see a hint of the village with its patchwork fields and row of willows gathered at the confluence of the Jhong Khola and Kali Gandaki. It’s as far north as foreigners are allowed to travel, although last night we heard rumours that restrictions would soon be lifted and, for payment of a large fee in Kathmandu, a special permit would allow trekkers to enter long-forbidden Mustang. If this is true, we’re too late and without sufficient funds to take advantage. Ah, Mustang… Another dream for another day.

Sidling through its valley, the Kali Gandaki is a series of streams that reunite here and there. At a little under 3000 metres, in a land-locked country in the heart of Asia, 800 kilometres from the nearest sea, we walk on the bed of a one-time ocean. Among the stones and glacial silt we discover ammonites – coiled, fossilised creatures that once inhabited that sea until its bed was raised to become India. And the Himalaya was born. As the Himalaya continues to grow, the Kali Gandaki leaks away from the Tibetan plateau, undeterred from its southbound course by the highest mountains on earth. Nibbling at the growing land mass, the river carves a passage until, a day’s walk downstream from here, it breaches the wall between Annapurna and Dhaulagiri to create the world’s deepest river valley – more than 5500 metres below the summits.

No wonder the wind sweeps up-valley with enough force to carry small stones in its teeth!

The sound of ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ is an incongruous intrusion. Decades ago I twice saw the Beatles in concert and still enjoy their records. But not here. Western music in a Nepalese lodge at the foot of the Annapurnas is not one of the reasons I came to the Himalaya. Trekking among these mountains is not simply a multi-day walk in the hills, it’s a way of experiencing other cultures, of testing one’s own values, of learning how other people live, listening to their beliefs, and sharing for a moment in time an existence unknown in our technological society. At best, trekking is a multi-layered experience that leads to an enrichment of the soul. I’m an eager sponge, anxious to miss nothing. ‘Sergeant Pepper’ does not belong here. Or does it?

It’s the best lodge we’ve been in by far. Although still simple, the rooms are reasonably clean, and the couple in charge are efficient; a framed certificate at the entrance announces that the owner attended a course in lodge management. Some of the walls bear a wash of mottled paint, and threadbare curtains hang at the windows, but this is five-star luxury compared with many lodges we stayed at on the other side of the pass. There’s even an indoor shower in a cubicle with a door! On the far side of the Thorong La Nepali fare was still more or less par for the course. Here, the menu boasts a range of Western-style meals. We’ve entered a land of pizza and apple pie.

The Thakalis are famed hotel-keepers, but then they’ve had lots of practice, for the Kali Gandaki is a valley of both trade and pilgrimage. For hundreds of years Hindu pilgrims from as far away as southern India have made the arduous journey to worship at the shrines of Muktinath, and traders to and from Tibet were passing through the valley with their pack animals centuries before the West had even heard of Nepal. So our circuit of the mountains has entered yet another phase. Not only is accommodation of a higher standard and the food less ethnic this side of the La, but the trail itself has more traffic and is not so demanding. For well over a week we were gaining altitude day after day towards the Thorong La. Now we’re heading downhill away from the raw cold of the high country, down towards a more equable climate. The challenge of the Thorong La no longer hangs over us.

Leaving Jomsom we cross to the right bank of the river and once again have our permits checked at the police post. It’s a busy little town, with government buildings, a hospital, a military base and an airstrip, but I’m glad to be on the way out. Not that I’m anxious to end the trek, for we still have much to see and to do, but Jomsom reminds me of the outside world with its bureaucracy and sagging power lines reminiscent of a Third World shanty. Besides, this is a day to be out and moving.

There is no wind, and the sun spreads fingers of warmth over the eastern mountains, marking individual features on our side of the valley as stepping stones on the journey. Willows without leaves wear orange haloes in their entwined topmost branches where birds twitter at the November sky; neatly walled fields are turned by the plough, and the barking cries of a farmer come to us as we pad the trail. Passing a small watermill built across a tributary stream, we wander through a kani to find ourselves in Marpha – and regret not having stayed here last night. White-painted buildings, paved street, attractive lodges and shops, and a view of mountains across the valley make this the finest village we’ve yet visited. So choosing a lodge at random we enter, order drinks and treat ourselves to chocolate brownies. (So much for my scorn for Western influence in the high Himalaya!)

Beyond Marpha rows of apple, apricot, peach and walnut trees give rise to a burst of admiration for the folk who live here, for in this land of extremes, this ever-rising land of avalanche and earthquake, human existence itself is a triumph. That fruit can grow in this semi-desert is a miracle. The valley seduces us with wonder.

Further on, the once-prosperous village of Tukuche is set in an open meadow where, before the Chinese invasion of Tibet, traders would gather to exchange Tibetan rock salt for Nepalese grain. What scenes would have been enacted here in centuries past! Yak trains with wild-looking Tibetans meeting strings of pack-ponies and mules from the lush south – two very different cultures coming together in this meadow in the mountains, overlooked by Dhaulagiri in the west and outliers of the Annapurnas in the east. I imagine the rise and fall of haggling voices, the occasional bellow of a yak, the jangle of bell-laden harnesses. But today there’s only a pair of crows bouncing across the grass and the shadow of a lammergeyer circling overhead.

Our day is unplanned. We drift as each whim demands and find ourselves crossing numerous streams flowing from a small side valley at the foot of Tukuche Peak, with the notorious Kali Gandaki wind now gusting in our faces. Khobang is protected from that wind, its houses built close together for mutual protection, while the main street serves as a tunnel with doorways opening from it. One shows an inner courtyard smelling of livestock.

South of the village the valley is distinctly alpine, the trail a switchback among stands of chir pine, with huge mountains crowding nearby as we enter the deepest gorge on Earth and descend into an amphitheatre dominated by Dhaulagiri, whose face is plastered with hanging glaciers. There is no bridge across the torrent, but as it’s been divided and sub-divided by gravel beds into a series of braidings, we scout up and down for the easiest crossings, pole-vaulting the deepest streams. Once across we locate the continuing path that leads to a suspension bridge high above the Kali Gandaki. It sways with each step we take.

In the late afternoon we enter another geographical, climatic and cultural zone. A new world lies before us, and for a brief moment I feel a sense of loss. I love the wild aridity of that northern side of the Himalaya, with its Buddhist values and sometimes sterile wastelands, and wonder how long it will be before I can tread such places again. Then almost as soon as the moment comes, it leaves, and I’m excited by prospects of warm nights and abundant vegetation.

We settle to a lodge in Kalopani after gaining a surprise view of Annapurna pink-tinged with the alpenglow. It’s comfortable and busy with a cosmopolitan crowd of trekkers, most of whom are making their way up-valley. Two dark-haired, dark-eyed Israeli sisters whose white, close-fitting teeshirts leave little to the imagination concentrate their attention on a pair of climbers from the US, who return that concentration without difficulty. After Alan and I turn in, we discover that in the room next to ours, and separated only by a plank-thick dividing wall, a passionate night is being enjoyed by all four. Almost deafened by their gasps and groans, by the time morning dawns I’m exhausted. How they’ll continue up-valley after all that exercise, I’ve no idea.