14th November: Marpha (2,665m) – Lete (2,470m)
This morning we learnt that three people have been killed in riots in Kathmandu. The elections, scheduled for tomorrow, were provoking unrest and apparently, if the communists did not get in, there was going to be a blood bath. The British Foreign Office were advising tourists not to go to Nepal unless it was imperative.
The bearers of these bad tidings were, naturally, that disaster prone duo Clare and Rob who appeared through the doorway just when I was busy leering at the display of chocolate cakes in the window of their guest house. It turned out that it was posh enough to have a satellite TV within from which Clare and Rob had heard the news.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I suppose that you have come to expect not to be able to visit a country without some epidemic or disaster occurring.’
Clare and Rob were worried that the news might be in the British press and worry their already concerned parents. I certainly hoped it wasn’t, especially since we were all five standing in the main street of an idyllic Himalayan village stuffing our collective faces with chocolate cake, far from Kathmandu and any riots. It was blissful walking along a good path above the river with mountains all around. I had to keep stopping, not due to lack of breath now, but to search for the best possible angle from which to photograph the imposing bulk of Dhalagiri. Just before 10.00am we came to a biggish village called Tukche where we stopped for tea and biscuits. We sat at a gorgeous tea house with tables outside on a broad ledge in the sun framed by an apple tree whose branches dripped with fruit. Fresh apple juice was now a welcome addition to our diet. John, the Steves and the Exodus mob soon joined us with more tales of misdemeanour in Marpha. Apparently, there had been a big fist fight last night at the guest house where they were all staying. The mayor of Marpha had either picked a fight or been picked on by another local over differences of opinion about who should win the election. The mayor had been wearing nothing but his pyjama pants at the time and the scene had provided a great free spectacle for all, who had been celebrating John’s birthday with a few beers in the restaurant.
It was warm and sunny until the dreaded gale sprang up right on schedule at 11.00am. We had to cross yet another long stretch of dry, dusty river bed. I had come prepared this time and wound my bandana right over my head and face like a Muslim woman. I marched along, just able to see the rocks beneath my feet through the thin black fabric. This wasn’t much fun. I felt cheated at not being able to see very much of anything and wondered when we would leave this windy territory.
Lonely Planet promised us that Larjung was an interesting village which, like Marpha, tackled its windy location by having a system of alleyways and tunnels between the houses. We had planned to stop here for lunch but, on arrival, found the only tea house already full of the Exodus Mob. Anticipating a long wait, we decided to move on to the next village. In addition, there was another dreaded river bed section ahead and Beth and I preferred to get this over with before our lunch stop. So instead of Larjung, we ended up in Koketai, in a tea house with a small, sunny garden. I thought my wild mushroom pizza tasted fine but the others moaned that their scrambled eggs were lousy. I must admit that they did look pretty repulsive – greyish and congealed. I laughed at them for choosing ‘baby food’ and they quite rightly reprimanded me. It wasn’t fair that I appeared to have cast iron insides and they envied my ability to shovel down all the interesting local gook while they struggled with their mashed potatoes, no oil or chilli.
Canadian John passed by as we were settling the bill. We hadn’t seen him since crossing the Thorong pass and we all greeted each other with pleasure. His companions ordered lunch but John just had tea.
‘Are you suffering from stomach problems too?’ Eugene asked him.
‘No. I’ve just got to watch my money.’
Eugene and I had found that through our system of paying for everything on alternate days, with Beth chipping in a bit for her share of the room, we had spent incredibly little while trekking and had cash to spare.
‘I think I have more than enough cash to get me to Pokhara. I could lend you 500 rupees to keep you in lunches for a few days and you could pay be back there,’ I offered, for the thought of going hungry has never been pleasant to me.
‘No, it’s OK,’ John insisted. ‘But if you ever see me sitting outside some hostelry eating grass, then you could reinstate your offer.’
We reached Kalopani (black water in Nepali), LP’s scheduled stop for the night at about 4.00pm and had our trekking permits inspected at the police checkpoint. The policeman stared at the photo on my permit, murmured ‘Very nice,’ then gazed in disbelief at the ragged individual standing covered in dust in front of him. Was this the same person?
‘Oh dear. What happened?’
He perused the Nepali stamps daubed all over our permits.
‘Hmmm. You go Thorong pass? How it was?’
We assured him it had been very good and teased each other and Narayan by giving each other mock beatings with our walking sticks.
‘He’s very tired. I have to keep hitting him to keep him moving,’ said Beth for the policeman’s benefit as she chased Narayan.
In the midst of all this horseplay, Chris and Claire arrived, walking in the opposite direction. (We had had lunch with this couple long ago in Bhulbhule and then met them again briefly in Manang.) They were already ensconced in a guest house at the far end of the village. We told them that we intended to try and get as far as Lete, or even Ghasa, that evening in an effort to give us a short day before the big climb from Tatopani to Ghorapani the day after tomorrow. We had also come to conclusion, based on experience, that we were treated better at smaller remote places than at the larger more commercialised guest houses at the official overnight stops. We passed another large plush looking guest house and I spotted Peter, Paul and Patrick stuffing their faces in the garden. I called down to them.
‘We’re staying here,’ they asserted when we told them our plans. ‘It’s big and touristy like the place we stayed in Jomsom last night. We’ve had enough of dhal baht in the back of beyond.’
They went back to their menus and we went on to the Namaste Lodge, nestled in a valley about half an hour’s up and down walk from Kalopani. To tell you the truth, it was a bit of a let-down after the decadent comforts of the Dhalagiri Guest House in Marpha. Our room was a simple boarded structure with a dirty floor and hard beds again. The loo was the usual stinky outside effort accessed via the usual array of night-time obstacles (a steep staircase, muddy paths, sleeping yaks), and heaven knows where the shower was. Never mind. We had managed to get fairly clean last night and those long-awaited hot springs would greet us in Tatopani tomorrow.
Beth Eugene and I lay on our hard beds and giggled as I read out snippets from the printed menu which also advertised the other amenities of the Namaste Lodge.
‘”Nice view”. Well you can’t dispute that. “We have six foot beds. Feets not stick out”. At least that’s not a problem I ever have.’
The three of us lay there for a long time resting aching muscles and indulging in a BIG chocolate fantasising session. We recalled every chocolate bar of our childhood and all 33 flavours of Baskin and Robbins ice-cream. I moved on to the joys of Tiramisu.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a dessert made from white cheese and chocolate,’ I explained.
‘Ugh!’ chorused my culinary primate companions. What plebs.
We must have all been laughing very loudly, when there came a bang on the door.
‘Hello… hello. We thought we recognised those laughs and thought, Oh good. Those nutters who provided all that entertainment last night are here.’
It was Sonia and Paul from the Dhalagiri Lodge in Marpha. Beth and Eugene remained lying comatose in the room and I went down to join Paul and Sonia at the communal meal table and ordered dinner. Thoughtfully, I went up to ask the others what they wanted, but they turned up their snotty noses at practically everything on the menu and asked me to just order them some mashed potatoes, before they went back to their snoozes. I must have a more Asian orientated stomach than they do as everything I like they seem to consider disgusting. Narayan came along and we shared a San Miguel, then ordered a second. The charcoal burner had been lit under the table creating a little haven of warmth. A rather obnoxious Dutch guy sitting next to me kept complaining about drafts and insisting vociferously that the door to the bedroom stairway be shut, even though this meant that Narayan had to go and fetch a rope to tie it up. I protested that Eugene and Beth were now locked out and that with sod’s law, their mashed potatoes were bound to arrive before everyone else’s dinner. They did. I grappled with the knotted rope and made my way upstairs by torchlight to call them. Down in the warmth and lamp light, they cheered up a bit and even had some beer. Sonia, Paul and I tucked into huge bowls of chowmein, a tasty mess of noodles with sweet and sour veg and a fried egg on top, followed by apple pie made over an open fire.
