Spirituality and smelly socks

Before I went on my 'long strange trip' to the Himalayas, I thought that deeply spiritual, life-changing thoughts would descend on me like snowflakes from the heavens. Surrounded by snow-capped peaks, serene and untroubled, I would have challenging thoughts and revelations even as I ate my morning cornflakes for breakfast. Was I a latent Buddhist, perhaps? Or a born-again vegetarian, about to discover my true self by meditating in an ice-bound cave.

There were no revelations - and the cornflakes were a bit sparse, too. Nothing. So, what DID I think about?

1. Survival ruled. Ie, getting up or down the next impossibly steep slope without disaster. My legs were getting strronger daily - breathing was the problem. And as the air thinned down I had to stop more and more often, just to get air in my lungs. It was dispiriting to see the next impossibly steep incline and know that I would have to plod, gasp, plod, gasp, plod, gasp, stop. Several times as we came to yet another steep incline I just looked upwards and said words to myself that would have deeply shocked Ram and Nurbu.

But going down wasn't much better. Although easier on the lungs, slippering and slithering on uneasy, desperately steep downhills was downright frightening at times, not helped by the nonchalance with which Ram - and Nurbu with my heavy backpack - sometimes almost danced down them. So I had to concentrate. I had no brainpower left for a good ponder about the meaning of life.

So what did I do with what was left of my brain? I stated to learn Nepali: I chanted numbers 'ek, doi, tin, char, panch', timing them with my footsteps as I went slower and slower up the hills. Two tunes jumped into my mind and I used them as some sort of mantra: 'Another one bites the Dust' (what a rhythm for determined plodding - and the words are pretty good, too) and 'Adiemus' when the views were glorious.

2. Life became very simple. I often looked at Norbu, moving like a top-heavy tortoise with my backpack. He carried his own in front - nothing more than a daypack, yet it held everything he'd need for 25 days. Ram carried the same. So - did I really need all the stuff in my medical kit - well, yes - something might go wrong. Did I need spare shampoo AND soap? (Well, maybe - perhaps I'd run out of one of them). Two cameras? (One might break). The list went on. I coud have managed with half the stuff. On the Annapurna Circuit, literally everything has to be carried to the villages - on ponies or people. What did I really need? I could have managed without most 'essentials' but I couldn't have managed without Ram's encouragement and Nurbu's quiet humour.

3. People matter. On our second day we had to cross a colossal, crumbly and chronically unstable landslide. Nurbu, (burdened with my rucsac) pushed me up the last part of a steep and crumbling slope. Not daring to look down, aware of stones and rocks falling around me, I swung across a gap, hanging onto tree roots, and Ram pulled me up. Teamwork! And when we'd reached the other side (3-4 shaky minutes later) Nurbu took off my rucsac and went back across, helping a mother with a young hild who, incidentally, was making the crossing in flipflops.

4. Sleep matters. Each night I was in bed by 7.30 and woke just before 6am. One day I 'rested' in the afternoon, waking up 2 hours later, went to bed at 7 and slept dreamlessly until the usual time. I tried to be awake then as toilets (squatty, of course) were shared with at least 10 other people and so I 'went' before the morning rush. It was also a lot cleaner; using a 'squat' toilet demands a range of skills that I would prefer to leave vague.

5. Boots. Walking started out hot and got hotter; I removed layers until decency prevailed. But I could not remove my boots. I wore my tried and trusted well-worn-in boots and they never gave a moment's trouble. Thank you, Berghaus. But I met several limping people who had bought NEW BOOTS just before setting off amd had been plagued with blisters. Moral - never buy new boots before doing anything major - use the tried and trusted even if theylook horribly worn and old. Is that a moral for life? And socks. I had bought quality walking socks and they did me proud. But as I walked my feet became hotter asnd hotter,and socks felt more and more damp until they seemed like solid masses of sweat. Which they were. And they ponged. But then, so did everyone's, so perhaps that's another lesson for life.

So, all my hopes of having magnificently spiritual thoughts and discovering the meaning of life were reduced to:

1) We don't need as much as we think we do.

2) People are far more important than possessions.

3) 'Another One Bites the Dust' can get you up mountains.

and, finally,

4) Sweaty feet and smelly socks are the great levellers.

Photo gallery: Annapurna

If a horse can manage it, then so can I!

Just one of many landslides we had to walk / slip / slide over.

No kidding - I think they were lambs...?

And I wasn't kidding about plywood city.

Monarch of the glen???

I don't have much time to write these days, so here are some photos of 'the Great Trek' & I'll add more later. Right now, packing my stuff in Lucknow (great place), preparing for another overnight train journey to some small place somewhere further west, to go tiger hunting. if I see one, I'll shoot it - and post the photos on my blog...

Annapurna Agonies: day 1

A few bridges & things...

and, of course, Nurbu, who danced along the footpaths and skipped down impossible shortcuts.

* * *

I was scared. No, I was terrified. It was all very well to prepare for the trek with a ‘killer programme’ at the gym – but that had finished weeks ago. Muscles were going flabby again and my peak of fitness was sadly going off-peak. Why had I ever decided to walk for 25 solid days? AND try to cross the world’s highest pass, 5,400 metres above sea-level?
We started from a place called Beshishasar, a 5 hour Hell’s Angel-type ride from Kathmandu. We had driven there the night before. Everyone, especially lorry drivers, played ‘chicken’ around hairpin bends and darkness added a new dimension as a) only the weak used headlights before it was pitch-black and b)everyone wanted to get home and away from these very dangerous roads so they drove very fast indeed.
But the first day was reassuringly easy to start with – we actually went downhill for a bit! AND, with Nurbu, my sherpa porter, to shoulder my heavy bag, I was light-hearted AND light-footed. No heavy lugging for me...

We trod steadily through alpine-type meadows (Julie Andrews, where were you?) alongside a sparkling mountain river, crossing a few shaky wooden bridges, most with interesting gaps to jump over. This meant that life was never too straightforward. Wayside cafes and small hotels lured trekkers with blandishments like: ‘Fresh Apple pee: solar showers and good tolets’. Ram (my guide) bought small oranges and we ate them as we walked. The sun shone from a blue, cloudless sky. All far away from the nightmare vision of what might have been.
Easy!
Then the uphill kicked in. A semi-vertical rocky trail leapt upwards from the riverside. Ahead of me, trekkers had adopted ‘plod’ mode; I followed, at my own particular pace which varied from very-very-slow to ‘stop’. Within 5 minutes I was also in ‘pant ‘n gasp’ mode. I had to stop. Again and again. My left leg cramped up. I kept going, then the right one followed suit. Stop. Admire view. Rub cramped leg. 10 more paces. Stop. Admire view. Take photo (excuse for a longer stop).
Near top of hill. Only 30 minutes to village with hotel. Perfect time for migraine. Flashing lights, weird patterns. And no room at the inn. Instead, had to take room in shanty-town – plywood walls, no lock on door, every word said by everyone clearly audible, the toilet a dark recess where the door kept opening as you squatted. But there was a bed! And I lay there, a secret listener as other people moved in next door and someone played the guitar, until I felt better. I decided that I had to drink more (water, of course) as I walked and vowed to stop every half hour for a top-up. OK, so I’d have to pee more often, but Nepal is full of bushes and I’d just have to find a few when I needed them. I’d also be more careful about wearing a sunhat & sunglasses, so that the bright sun didn’t give me another migraine.

So, that was my first day in this brave new world of the trekker. No point in giving a day-by-day account… I’ll summarise and show photos. Watch this space. Keep watching this space as
I'm off to India in about an hour so can't write any more for a while. sorry!

Bandipur - a piece of heaven

The Lonely Planet guide says the village is ‘draped like a silk scarf along the high ridge above Dumre’. Such an image! Had to be done, esp. as had nearly a week before Great Trek. Booked room with Newari family (?) in village, plus tourist bus ticket to Dumre. Agent explained in detail, wrote it down then explained again, so I think I got it though not really sure about the staying with Newari family bit.
Journey started bang on 7, comfy seats in ‘air-con’ bus… on wrong side of bus, though, & missed some stupendous views of mountains, winding roads & precipitous drops into ravines. By 12, arrived in Dumre. Typical roadside town, lots of noisy traffic, esp wildly decorated lorries (lurid painted flowers, tinsel) with horns which trilled or blared at anything which didn’t leap out of their way, including motorbikes, other vehicles, people and cows.
Jeep-ride up to Bandipur. 3 mins before jeep due to leave, about 12 people on board, plus luggage, bags of produce etc. Not bad for a 10-seater. When we left there were 20 – at least 3 on roof, 4 on tailgate. Stopped en route to pick up 4 more. 30 minute journey up steeply winding roads, views opening out.
Village filled with old Newari houses, quiet, paved streets and people noises. Reason? No motor traffic; bollards stopped all vehicles neatly outside village, meant that it immediately became a human place, with children playing, people chatting and even pavement cafes along the main strand. I had some lunch & met my host who ran a small shop just down the way. Yes, I WAS booked in to stay with a family.
I took over his daughter’s room. She was lovely, aged 28, very pretty and called Radica. She didn’t speak much English but we managed. Disconcertingly, when I looked at the bed I found some hair-grips (complete with strands of hair) under the pillow, so I suspected that the linen wasn’t exactly fresh. I asked for a towel & she returned with a tiny hand-towel – ah well, better than nothing. I asked for a cover sheet & she gave me a fleecy, rather smelly, blanket. Toilet was full-on traditional, with squat toilet (fine), basins & jugs (OK) and no loo-paper (help). Glad I bought my own. When we ate, they sat me at a table with a plate & spoon. But – hey – I was in a Newari house, so I sat down on the floor with them & ate with my hands. I was messy but generally accurate & the family seemed to enjoy the experience as much as me.
Sunset – what a bonus. The air cleared and I saw floating, snowy mountains in the distance. A long line of them. Beautiful, serene, always there but normally invisible (some sort of metaphor here???) IN LESS THAN A WEEK I WOULD BE TREKKING THERE.
Later on there was a power-cut & we sat on the outside step chatting – well, sort of. I videoed some of them & showed them the results, to great delight, then tried to learn some Nepali, which caused mild hysteria. Much more fun than sitting in a restaurant wondering what to do next. In bed by 9; bed rock-hard; I used one of the thick blankets under the mattress & took over the sheet from the neighbouring bed to use as a top sheet. Glad I did as the fleecy blanket ponged.
Next morning, awake at 5am, with first cockerel crowing. Sense that the village was slowly coming to life – people stirring, talking, spitting (yich). I remind myself that Nepali people find our habit of blowing our noses into a piece of paper strange and offensive – how on earth can we stick it back into our pockets, for heaven’s sake! – and try to ignore the concerto of harsh honking, hawking and guttural spitting coming from all areas.
Today Radica took me to the Siddhu cave, the biggest in Nepal. She & friend set off in jeans & flipflops; I wore serious walking boots and slipped & slithered down the mountainside. People had gone to immense trouble to create paved steps but they were slippery in the shade so I was cautious and slow. Radica just chattered and skipped merrily down. Ah well. The cave was impressive. We had to climb over boulders and scramble up a muddy slope to reach the main areas. High roofs – some with prayer shawls stuck near the top – and large chambers stretched out into the distance. The ‘girls’ scrambled on for a while, but I decided on caution & waited for them.
I decided not to ascend the semi-vertical slopes, so we carried on back to Dumre & caught the jeep back up. Much easier!
Afternoon – went to the parade ground – it’s very big; they used to have archery contests there. But latest parade was of 16-17 year old students having a big celebration which involved loud music, loads of shouting and chasing around and dropping litter with abandon. I took refuge in a nearby hotel with panoramic views of the valley and fleecy clouds. Behind the clouds, snow-capped mountains waited for sunset, but I couldn’t wait that long, so continued exploring. Met man called Robin Sparrow (what were his parents thinking?...), v earnest, with bottle-glasses, who talked for c 10 mins incessantly about himself… this continued later on when I saw him on the ‘main drag’. He told me in cheerful detail about his stomach problems when travelling in India.
Next morning as I left I was given a garland, a puja and small present by Radica & her mother; her father presented me with an apple. How lovely. And the mountains were out! The full range!! I took photos, the jeep left & I waited for about 90 mins in the village for the tourist bus. Lovely to sit on my rucsac and just watch early-morning Dumre. People stopped to chat (perhaps because I was wearing my garland & red spot) & time passed v easily.
Had window seat on the better side of the bus, so could see the precipices & wrecked vehicles. Journey passed uneventfully apart from a 2 hour traffic jam going uphill to enter the Khatmandu Valley. About 6 lorries had overheated or had punctured tyres & traffic had to edge round them with v little help from police. And of course, no-one would give way to anyone else. So it all took ages. But the driver was v patient and avoided too many semi-suicidal overtaking attempts.
Safe journey, what an experience. Glad I did it.
Next adventure – Annapurna…

beautiful Bhutan (2)

Boys posing!

DAY 3: Sunday
We were glad to sit in the car and do very little today. The journey to Thingpu was delightful; the road ran alongside a turbulent river and we stopped a few times to take photos.
Everything seemed prosperous; houses were whitewashed and cared for; rice was waiting for harvest.
Bhutan has no traffic lights! Not one set in the entire country. In Thingpu, occasional junctions were controlled by policeman who stood in ornate white pagodas. Traffic moved easily, with little if any horn-blowing. I had the impression that drivers were saying: “After you!” “No, after YOU!”

It was (literally) awe-some to watch weavers at work, painstakingly threading different shades of delicate colours into the fine fabric.

Surely their eyes couldn’t last for long; as it was, several women were peering far too closely at the slowly growing patterns. “How much do you weave in a day?” I asked. “Two, maybe three inches, depending on the pattern.” Prices were very high – but these weavers were paying a far higher price.

The Memorial Chorten was a huge Buddhist stupa, built recently, but to the age-old style. People were celebrating the night of the full moon and the place was crowded with pilgrims walking clockwise, some rotating small prayer-wheels s they walked, or softly chanting. A hut to one side contained larger prayer wheels and several of the faithful were pushing them around. I asked Kunle the reason for prayer wheels. “They are to counteract your sins.”
“What sort of sins?”
“All through the day we sin, hopefully only in small matters. We might think a bad thought about someone, or we might kill an insect. The prayers help us to be more mindful of what we are doing that is wrong.”
Oh dear.
The wheels were big and red, covered with Buddhist mantras. Each time they revolved a small bell would ring – the sign of a prayer given to heaven.
Another beautiful place was the butter-lamp house; hundreds of tiny flames glittered and flickered in the semi-darkness – more prayers against mindlessness. Nearby monks chanted quietly as people walked or whispered. A toothless man with lined, grimy face came and grinned, asking for a photo. He had been limping painfully around the stupa; his left leg had a huge, weeping ulcer. I took two photos of him and he looked delighted to see his image on my camera.
We spent a long time there, watching and admiring the devotion of so many people. Then came a high point of the day - archery! William Tell, eat your heart out. Robin Hood – where were you? We went to the huge open-air stadium, just in time to see a victory dance in full swing. Arms around each other, the archers circled, shouting and chanting enthusiastically. One of their archers had scored a hit.
The next man took his position, held the bow (a fine steel one which looked very modern), aimed carefully and fired. Far, far away, a tiny pillar marked the target; it was almost too far to see, especially as it was getting dark. He missed. Men at the other end did a similar, if less enthusiastic, dance. The contest continued; when it was almost over, in semi-darkness, there was a slight commotion, Kunle told us that the winning team had asked to have another round, so that the losing team could catch up! How Bhutanese.
In contrast, the Ambient Coffee Bar showed modern Bhutan. It was stylish and friendly, with a weekly haiku competition. One of the customer was a Welsh Lama, from Swansea, who was involved in a drug rehabilitation programme.

Day 4: Monday
BHUTANESE BOOTS ARE BEAUTIFUL! We wandered around an open-air craft-market and one stall had these glorious white-leather, embroidered boots. Your social class is shown by the background colour of the embroidery. Personally I’d have been happy with any social class at all as the colours were rich and vibrant; deep green was the colour of ordinary people. The King’s mother was due to open the exhibition and a traditional red carpet had been laid for her. I smoothed out a fold in it – it would have been very bad luck if the lady had tripped!
My favourite place was the Arts & Crafts Centre – training young people in the skills of woodcarving, statue making, embroidery, painting & mask-making, Every room was filled with teenagers painstakingly creating works of art. Each year-group had various set pieces to create; there was no room for improvisation as they were training to make temple art and furnishings, all created in unshakeable and unchangeable styles. Each room had its own atmosphere, particularly the mask-making which was dark and shadowy, reeking of animal glues.
We posted our cards in the Post Office. All the public buildings look like temples or works of art; built in traditional style, they have the ornamental windows, doors & porches. So the young people from the Arts & Crafts Centre know that their talents will be appreciated and used, whether they are restoring a monastery or building offices.
Our afternoon journey was along increasingly winding, precipitous roads to Punakhar. Clouds swirled in as we stopped at a mountain pass, embellished with 108 chortens and thousands of prayer flags. The chorten were built to commemorate the people who had been killed when the Butanese army kicked out insurgents from Assam – one for each of the insurgents. How Bhutanese.

And the rest…
The week continued as a series of delights. Bhutan was beautiful, calm and peaceful. We visited many monasteries, each with their own character although many were quiet as the monks were either preparing to migrate southwards for the winter, or had already gone. A definite highlight was when Kunle said we should go and listen to the morning dedication ceremony in one of the monasteries. We sat silent against wall-hangings, in the dimly lit room. In front of us, monks sat cross-legged on cushions, the senior lama on a large cushioned chair. He led the chanting, which was accompanied by rhythmic banging on a large vertical drum and blowing on long Tibetan-style trumpets. Time disappeared as we listened. Then the holy water was blessed, the chanting ended and the monks became human again, rushing off to get breakfast.
Kunle quite casually asked us, “You would like to visit my uncle?”
“Yes, why not?”
“My uncle is one of the senior lamas here. You can visit his cell if you wish.”
His cell was bright and cheerful, decorated with religious pictures from various calendars. It had a fridge, a kettle and cooking equipment, as well as bundles of quilts to sleep on. Kunle’s uncle appeared briefly. I asked him how far he was on the road to enlightenment. He laughed and said, “It isn’t like that. I have no idea,” then left.

We couldn’t follow the whole programme as rain set in, causing landslides and blocking roads. Although this was inconvenient, it was only a minor problem to us – but the people of Bhutan needed to harvest their rice. Damp rice would go mouldy and they needed sun to dry it all out. The blocked roads also caused them severe problems. We were stopped once in a long queue while people waited patiently for a bulldozer to force its way through a landslide; when the way was opened, Tsehering drove through a gap with possibly a foot to spare overall. Not quite sure how the buses managed! But delays like this are commonplace - even in a country like Bhutan, weather is an enemy that has to be placated.

People criticise Bhutan for its rigid tourism policy and its laws which insist that its people wear Bhutanese costume for all formal occasions. BUT – I think they’ve got it right. Compare Bhutan with frenzied Kathmandu, its noise, pollution and crazy driving, the changes brought about by tourism… I know which I prefer.

Annapurna beckons

Off to do a little walking... will blog again when I return, around 20th November.
xx
Pat

Bhutan is beautiful

Beautiful BHUTAN




Quick Read: arrived in Bhutan, met guide Kunle and driver Tsehering, went to Paro, eventually had food, went to bed.
‘Bootiful Bootan’ – ‘Bhutan, a week of your life, a lifetime in a week’ – I tried to invent a few slogans to help attract more tourists to Bhutan. But why? Wisely, successive kings (who are honoured and respected throughout the country) have limited the impact of the tourist invasion by: a) making Bhutan a very expensive place to visit – roughly $200 per day, more if in a small group, and b) insisting that tourists are only allowed to take out a package deal, which involves a guide, a car, a driver and pre-booked hotel accommodation and meals.
And, quite brilliantly, $65 per day from tourist fees is paid straight to the government and used to restore old religious buildings. This means that hundreds of people are employed in woodcarving, painting or embroidering intricate and colourful religious pictures, or weaving beautiful fabrics. It also means that the ancient arts are respected and in no danger of dying out. And decaying buildings become beautiful once again.

Paro, Bhutan’s airport, has one of the hardest approaches in the world. The plane has to almost dance around the narrow Himalayan valleys, turning left here, right there, at one point seeming to pivot on a wing. As we approached, we could see roads and houses higher than the plane. But all was well; the plane managed to stop (ten metres) before the end of the runway and we were in Bhutan. Our guide, Kunle, was waiting for us. He had been waiting since morning as our itinerary was wrong, but he didn’t seem to mind. The driver was Tsehering (pronounced ‘Sring’). Small and cheerful, he looked about 16 but assured us that he was 23.

The car journey was a revelation to eyes and ears jaded with noise, overcrowding, litter and the hooting horns that were everywhere in Kathmandu. It was SO peaceful. We caught up with a car – it pulled over to let us pass. A dog lay in the road; Tsehering tutted softly and drove around it. Each house, white with carved wooden balconies, windows and doors, was in its own plot of cultivated land. Walls were decorated with dragons, religious figures or, disconcertingly, rather large penises, painted in lurid detail. These were to protect against evil and ensure fertility. The air was clear; we passed rice fields (red rice is a delicious part of Bhutan’s cuisine), trees and people walking with a purpose. And wherever we looked, there were the mountains – not distant and remote, but rising directly from the valley in multi-vision, like a 3-d drawing.

Soon we were in Paro, a thriving metropolis with only two main streets. Shop windows were small and beautifully carved, making the interiors look like treasure caves, or something magical from a Harry Potter book. Some shops had no doors. So how did you get in ?– by climbing the small ladders in the street, of course. The moon shone bright and clear – it was almost full moon and it illuminated the large dzong which dominated the hill-scape in serene beauty. Part of ‘Little Buddha’ was filmed there.

Back to reality. Our guide, Kunle, was having problems. Despite being an experienced guide, he did not seem to know Paro very well; in fact, he couldn’t find any of the restaurants where we were allowed to eat. We toured the streets, looking at souvenir shops and having a great time, but Kunle asked directions in each shop we visited. I suspected it was a new type of chat-up line as most of the shop assistants were quite beautiful, but he became increasingly worried. Eventually we found somewhere but soon after we were seated, a Japanese invasion happened; the dining room was filled with noisy people who settled in rapidly, drank a lot and had a thoroughly good time, without a clicking camera in sight!

Early to bed because of…
(Quick Read: climbed sheer cliffs to monastery, visited another monastery with saint's footprint, saw penises and dzong, saw another monastery and King’s grandmother. Had food, went to bed.)
Day 2: Taktsang Hermitage, more romantically called Tiger’s Nest monastery. This truly awe-inspiring place clings to a sheer cliff. It all started when Guru Padmakara flew there on the back of a tiger to subdue a troublesome demon. Tapestries in the temple (when we eventually, after much suffering, reached there) showed a severe and slightly tubby personage serenely surfing on his tiger. He spent months meditating in a cave, developing the spiritual strength to subdue the demon, whilst the tiger waited patiently in its nest slightly higher up the cliff. Eventually the demon was subdued, fixed under stone and the monastery / hermitage was built above it to keep it under control.
Many famous Buddhist figures meditated there and the monastery itself was built in the 13th century (?). Vast amounts of stones, wood and images had to be transported along narrow, winding paths, across a waterfall and up a steep climb of over 600 metres; hundreds of artisans carved, wove and painted the artefacts and, above all, the temples were secured against the sheer cliffs; they had to be indestructible,.
And they were, until 1998 when fire broke out and destroyed two of the three temples. Tinder-dry hangings were set alight by careless use of butter lamps, which constantly burn in the temples to honour the manifestations of Buddha. Careless? Or criminal? The jury is still out on that one. The people of Bhutan were mortified. The King himself came to visit and vowed that the temple should be restored to exactly what it was before. A massive community effort took place, replacement materials were hauled up the cliffs, hundreds of people were employed to re-instate the buildings and nowadays it is impossible to tell old from new. But there is one modern touch – fire- extinguishers at every corner.
I think I’ll gloss over the amount of suffering we endured as we slogged up the cliff. Some parts were horrendously steep, others just tough. “It’s the altitude….” Or “What a beautiful view….” Or “Must take a photo…” You name an excuse – we used it. A young monk skipped down the path and stopped to chat to Kunle. He had been meditating in one of the temples for three months and was returning to his monastery.
Long strands of lichen, hanging from the trees, moved in the gentle breeze. The forest was untouched and beautiful. Gaps in the trees revealed the long-distant valley or occasional glimpses of the even-more-long-distant monastery. Then we rounded a corner and saw the white buildings, framed with carved wooden supports and doorways and magnificent golden roofs. And we were at the same height! We had made it! Prayer flags fluttered in celebration. Then we looked down and realised that the worst was yet to come. A narrow, winding set of steps led down the vertical cliff-face, across a tumbling waterfall, then back up again to our goal. We did not look down again; one false step and we would join the waterfall. We edged onwards, close to the cliff-face until the path opened out again and there was just one long final slog up to the monastery.
Because we had taken so long, most of the other tourists had passed us on their way back. This meant that it was almost empty. We saw dark corners, winding steps and magnificent views. I climbed into the small cave where the tiger had waited patiently whilst the guru meditated. We gazed at huge, ornamented statues and tiny ones, we smelt incense and butter-lamps and waited while Kunle prostrated himself in front of his deities as if time had never changed. We took holy water in the accepted way – in the palm of the hand; any water not sipped has to be rubbed into the hair. Each temple had its own atmosphere. My favourite was the original cave where the guru had meditated. Its rough walls were covered with ornate silk hangings of the guru and the small entrance looked out over the valley. What a peaceful place.

Just when you think it can’t get any better… on the way back, we passed a sign written in Bhutanese. Kunle translated it – it pointed the way to a smaller temple, higher than Tiger’s Nest, “It is where the guru’s consort lived,” he said. “And there is her footprint in stone.”
Was there a choice? We set off, leaving Julie and Tsehering to take the ‘direct’ route back. The path led upwards; it was smaller than before and obviously not used a great deal. “Tourists do not come here,” Kunle said and admitted that he, also had never visited before. The climb was seriously steep, quite close to the waterfall. We passed over two streams then realised that we were above the waterfall and also above the monastery, which looked quite small in the distance. Round a bend in the cliff stood the temple, small, almost hidden by trees and slightly shabby. A family group was seated around a small trough of holy water, filling their bottles and drinking. As I reached the actual temple, I realised that they had gone further along the path and were climbing an almost sheer rock-face, followed by a tree-trunk ‘ladder’. They helped each other up, pulling and pushing the stouter members – and a small boy who could not have been more than five.
“They are pilgrims and will spend the night on the mountain,” Kune told me. “They have visited this temple and will visit two others, one at the top of the cliff.” He gestured and I could just see the roof of a small building, hundreds of metres above.
We continued to the temple. The monk caretaker was old and moved with cautious care up the worn steps. He and Kunle spoke animatedly; Kunle showed me the footstep in the rock which was indeed, very like a footstep with indentations where the toes and heel should be. We looked at the consort’s meditation cave and the place where she had subdued the demon and enclosed it behind a wall of rock. We also saw a small rock ‘statue’ which she had turned herself into when her task on earth had been completed. It was all very simple and timeless; there was a small shrine with her image and some hangings, but all on a far smaller scale than Tiger’s Nest. The monk was clearly delighted to have company and talked with Kunle for a while. On the way down, Kunle said that he felt ashamed for never having visited the temple before and said he would like to spend a while visiting all the temples on that mountainside.
Good for him!
The descent was far, far swifter. I was very glad of my stick; even with it, I almost fell a few times. But:
What a day! What an achievement! We continued to see a dzong (castle) which had been placed to stop invading Tibetans – but closer inspection would have required an uphill walk. We had walked enough! Instead we observed it from outside a house which was decorated with disconcertingly accurate penises. We then visited a temple but there was a problem as the King’s grandmother was worshipping there. We waited and, when she came out, she said that we could go inside. Kunle said that it was very unusual for tourists to see members of the royal family. So, it was the perfect end to a perfect day. AND Kunle found our restaurant after less than ten minutes of searching!

The rest of the week

Well, we did rest! And also went out, to Patan Durbar Square. Julie lives in Patan; once it was a separate kingdom to Kathmandu, just over the river. Now connected by urban sprawl, it is still distinct from the main city - in fact, it's a city in its own right - and, of course, it had its own king and therefore its own Durbar Square.

Julie reassured me. "It's very different from the other place. And it's a lot quieter."

It was only a short walk away. Scooters zipped perilously close to us and the hooters rarely stopped. But the overcrowded, noisy streets dropped away as we turned into Durbar Square, Patan. Some enlightened official had refused to open the square to traffic and the result was a pleasant centre where people could sit, chat, sell things and generally enjoy living. AND they could look at the amazing variety of temples , statues and small stupas which clustered in the area - an amazing juxtaposition of gilded and plain, large and small, rounded and square. Carved windows, posts and doorways were de rigeur, showing scenes from Buddha's life, cavortings from the Maharbarata (?) or deities in various positions. It was beautiful! We watched Newari people washing or drinking from a fierce wild boar's mouth (luckily it had been turned into bronze), old men sitting on benches in the sunlight, parents playing with their children and, of course, the kites. Flown mostly by small boys, they were part of the festival, a reminder to the goddess of rain that in fact, the monsoon was actually over now, so please would she make sure that it didn't rain hard until the next monsoon season. (Not working too well right now but at least it hasn't rained for too long.)Boys with kites weaved and ducked through the crowds, following the winds and trying their best not to get kites stuck behind buildings or on rooftops. Less fortunate boys watched, eagle-eyed, gesturing to each other as certain kites flew perilously close to buildings. As soon as one seemed in trouble they would be off, darting through alleyways, climbing walls, to try and claim the grounded kite before the owner could reach it.

Great stuff.

It's pointless to describe the buildings - one day when I've worked out how to download photos from my state-of-the-art-make-you-a-cup-of-coffee-while-you're-waiting camcorder I'll stun you with visual art and beauty. Until then, imagine!

*

We returned there today (Thursday) to look around the museum which is one of the best in the Indian sub-continent. Amazing images of Buddha, Shiva, Parvati, Ganesh (I'm showing off here!) were beautifully shown, along with relevant and interesting comments which explained the different poses of the gods and why they had, for example, not two but six hands. We could also puzzle out why the goddess Tara had no less than 7 eyes - and find out where they were. Great stuff!

And tomorrow we go to Bhutan - hopefully. Maybe. Perhaps. Well, the travel agent (who by now has provided us with ticket voucher - but not the real thing - and itinerary - the wrong one) explained with another helpful shrug of the shoulders that flights to Bhutan can be overbooked and, although our flights have been confirmed....

Tales from Thamel

It took almost two hours of queuing to get a visa. I thought it would be far easier at the airport - sadly, everyone else on the flight thought exactly the same. I passed the time pretending I understood French to a strange lady who spoke fast and looked intently at me. Luckily, all she wanted in turn was an occasional sympathetic murmur, which was good as I had no idea what she was talking about. Time passed slowly, we shuffled forward, but the process itself was rapid and very friendly. Luckily, Julie was still waiting, sandwiched between the front of the crowd and a large pane of glass. She had hoped that the colourful looking person she'd glimpsed on a telescreen was me.
It was great to see her, her flat was lovely and sleep even better.
The rest of the week passed slowly and quickly; we lazed around, went sightseeing and started the whiskey. On the first day, of course, we had to visit Thamel, hippie-home of the 60s. The small streets were jammed with scooters, walkers, trishaws (cycle-rickshaws) and cars. The cars had a unique quality, like the night-bus in Harry Potter - the ability to squeeze into the tiniest space at high speed. And with huge noise. Every vehicle worthy of the name had a demi-decibel horn; people blew their horns to warn others, to accelerate, to complain if people accelerated, to slow down, to complain if others slowed down, when they reached junctions, when they went round a bend, when others went round a bend - and for the sheer joy of making a very loud noise!
Shops were packed with 'big-name ' goods, jewels, necklaces, books, clothes, carpets - and, of course, Buddhas of every name and type. Julie hurried me through all of this - we had to reach our travel agent to get our tickets and our itineraries for Bhutan. Not yet ready. It was Dasain, the most important festival of the year when people took up to 10 days off work - and it was the same in Bhutan, so he could get no response from his colleague there. He shrugged helpfully and promised us his utmost effort. Still, we had a week.
And it was time for my new image. I had travelled light (16.5 kg in my main bag, 6 in the other) and not brought many so-called essentials, knowing I could buy them easily in Nepal. I had the clothes I had travelled in, a long skirt - and that was it. It would be easy to clothe myself. Sadly, I had forgotten that essential aspect of fashion - clothes sizes. I chose a smart pair of trousers. Size? Medium or large. OK, tried on the large - well, I tried to try on the large. Fitten snugly around my legs, then stuck. Embarrassing. Shop assistant tactful, but unhelpful. "Sorry, madam, we do not have anything bigger." Next shop - lovely top. XL. No use. "What do you have in XXL?" I asked humbly. "Sorry, madam..."
Hopeless. I looked for something, anything. And then I found it- the perfect image. Loose-fitting beige cotton shirt with a round neck, plus these really baggy trousers that you can crouch down in. They had a soft reddish shimmer to them. I changed immediately and sauntered the lanes of Thamel feeling at home. I had arrived.
We set off for Durbar (Palace) Square, the amazing town centre of Kathmandu, filled with temples, shrines and ancient buildings. including, of course, the palace, then it started to rain - no, deluge! We had to nip smartly into a doorway and watch the alleyway turn into a stream. The rain almost stopped, we set off and three minutes later it all happened again. But this time, soaked, we were rescued by a tri-shaw driver. His vehicle was protected from the rain by an artistic display of blue plastic and we rode in state, trying to assure ourselves that -yes- we had both lost weight recently and -no- of course we weren't too heavy. He pedalled us rapidly through twisty, sodden streets and, there we were. Durbar Square.
We were pounced upon by two smiling young priests. "Welcome to Durbar Square. Please have a lovely time here!" they enthused as they dabbed our foreheads with a smudge of bright red colour. We had been blessed. And we would have to pay for it. "And now you will make a donation to our temple of 200 rupees (about £1.75)."
"No we won't. We live here.." We gave them about 50 rupees and left them to attack the next unlucky tourists. But the square itself was quite horrible. The beautiful buildings and shrines were insignificant against the mass of people, noisy traffic and general litter and mess from the market. Vehicles shoved through the crowds, sellers squatted in front of vegetables displayed on the ground and the only way to get around was to push through, feet squelching in muddy disgusting footways. I vowed not to return there; this was a different place to the lovely, haunting square that I had visited only 8 years ago.
We knew that on Sunday the Square - and many others - would be used to sacrifice animals. Accounts tell of the square running with blood; many animals are killed and their blood used to decorate vehicles, shop-fronts, even tools of the trade - to ensure protection and prosperity. Jlie and I thought we might stay in on that day.

Phew, phew - Kathmandu!

Amazing place, Kathmandu - a surprise around every corner. Noise, chaos, strange smells - reminds me of home, somehow...
During the few days before I left, I felt as if I was on one of those passenger conveyor belts - but it just kept going faster and faster. Final visits to the gym? No chance. Christmassy letters to people? No chance - though I felt very pleased to have sent out Christmas cards to various friends / family who will probably be very surprised to receive a card in early October - give or take a year or two with the posties' strike.
I decided it was far more sensible, ecological and practical to travel to Heathrow by train, forgetting that 5.30pm was probably not the best time to hit Victoria. Loaded up with my huge rucsac behind and large rucsac in front, I waddled with determination and valour into the underground. Crowds parted before me (luckily, or I might have fallen over) and I boarded an overcrowded train with the unstoppable qualities of a steamroller. People were very patient and tolerant, especially as there was no way to remove my huge rucsac from my back. Some lucky people must have spent an entire journey with their faces rammed into the bag. But they did not complain - they were probably too busy trying to breathe.
Heathrow was its usual unforgiving self with too many people in too much of a hurry. I tried to check-in online but was stymied by the machine, so asked a nearby Virgin for help. After all, I was travelling on her airline. Apparently I was using the machine which staff used to upgrade people (drat! - if only I'd worked that one out for myself...). Another Virgin checked my passport and said, very brightly, "Where's your visa for India then?"
"India? But I'm going to Nepal!"
"I think you need a transit visa if you're changing flights in India. If you haven't got one, you'll not be allowed to travel today."
What! Adventure over before even begun. Panic? Moi? She called over the security officer (not a Virgin this time) who looked serious for a moment, asked about which terminals I would be using in India then nodded and said "You're fine."
Anything after that would be an anti-climax. I spent some time choosing the perfect whisky (Scots, of course; Julie would be unforgiving of anything else), ate some food (fascinating - I know you wanted to read that) then boarded the plane.

Party!

Thank you so much for coming along last night - it was truly magnificent, especially when people walked in dressed up to the nines (or the 60's!). I now feel well and truly launched into the sixties, into retirement, and onto my Odyssey, which starts on Wednesday.
I hope that you'll enjoy my blog - and I hope even more strongly that you will admire my technological expertise. Nothing to do with Ant, of course.
I might well post a few photos of the party, once I work out how to do it (what I really mean is - once I can get Ant to show me!) Ah, the joys of motherhood...