Muktinath, at the foot of the Thorung La pass - slightly 'Wild West' image and cold enough to turn water into icicles in the shrine.
Upper Mustang: Kagbeni - a strange name for paradise. It was an easy day after the horrors of the Thorung La Pass. We visited the famous srhine of Muktinath, where an eternal flame burns. It was icy cold and, although I knelt down in front of the flame, it was too small to help with my personal central heating.
We had almost strolled - downhill - for about 3 hours to reach the town, our 'jumping off' point for the delights of the Forbidden Kingdom, Upper Mustang. We munched small, delicious apples and admired walled villages, beautiful horses and the vibrant oranges, yellows and reds of autumn. And at twelve, on the dot, the wind started. We had been warned about the wind, a fierce, dust-whirling frenzy that turned eyes red and pushed against us. It would make walking hard in Upper Mustang and even here it turned our stroll into a fight.
But that was now outside. I was in the Asia Hotel. My room was clean, comfortable - AND IT HAD ITS OWN BATHROOM. For two weeks I had suffered pain and agony when my stomach had rebelled, always with the horrible fear that I would have to wait in buttock-clenching torment outside the loo because one of the 20 other people sharing it had a similar problem. But now, for one glorious day and night, I could use the loo as and when I wanted.
I lay in bed, resting in the afternoon sunlight, listening to the buffetting, gusting wind outside. Should I walk around Kagbeni? Maybe, maybe not. Not. I lay, sacrificing myself to indolence, not even reading - and feeling smug. I had done it, conquered the Pass. The trek into Upper Mustang would be a piece of cake - it didn't even go above 4,000 metres, for heaven's sake...
It was exciting the next morning to walk through Kagbeni, turning north when others went south. We had a short brush with officialdom, who scrutinised my papers and looked forbidding - then we were off.
"Hey, what's happening?" I asked Ram as we scrambled up a dusty, rocky slope. Beneath us, the river-bed stretcherd out, wide, inviting - and FLAT. A few streamlets meandered across it. they would turn into raging torrents in the wet season but it hadn't rained for months.
"We cannot use the riverbed," Ram said. "There are places where we would be swept away if we tried to cross. We have instead to go up."He gestured. I groaned. We spent the next 6 hours walking up - then down - up, then down. In places the pathway was wide enough to be used by a 4wd. At other times the path became stony and difficult. In one place, it narrowed so fast that I was sudeenly quite terrified; parts had dropped away and I was uncomfortably aware of stones falling around me. I tiptoed through, holding my breath and clutching tufts of grass. But the scenery was magnificent - the adjective keeps appearing in my diary. Wind-eroded, colossal mountains, stretching away into the distance,sometimes with small caves, always arid and - well, magnificent. Luckily, the precarious section didn't last long. We arrived in Chele after about 6 hours of strenuous walking and a final long plod up from the river. My first night in The Forbidden Kingdom.
Early views of Upper Mustang. Strange, the way that prayer flags fly sideways...
A small 'chorten' - a place to stop, picnic and pray. Note the heavy stones, used to weigh the roof down in fierce afternoon winds.
And so the days continued. It took 5 days to reach Lo Mantang, the ancient walled capital of the area. As on Annapurna, each day began early, with a quick breakfast, then off.
We had almost strolled - downhill - for about 3 hours to reach the town, our 'jumping off' point for the delights of the Forbidden Kingdom, Upper Mustang. We munched small, delicious apples and admired walled villages, beautiful horses and the vibrant oranges, yellows and reds of autumn. And at twelve, on the dot, the wind started. We had been warned about the wind, a fierce, dust-whirling frenzy that turned eyes red and pushed against us. It would make walking hard in Upper Mustang and even here it turned our stroll into a fight.
But that was now outside. I was in the Asia Hotel. My room was clean, comfortable - AND IT HAD ITS OWN BATHROOM. For two weeks I had suffered pain and agony when my stomach had rebelled, always with the horrible fear that I would have to wait in buttock-clenching torment outside the loo because one of the 20 other people sharing it had a similar problem. But now, for one glorious day and night, I could use the loo as and when I wanted.
I lay in bed, resting in the afternoon sunlight, listening to the buffetting, gusting wind outside. Should I walk around Kagbeni? Maybe, maybe not. Not. I lay, sacrificing myself to indolence, not even reading - and feeling smug. I had done it, conquered the Pass. The trek into Upper Mustang would be a piece of cake - it didn't even go above 4,000 metres, for heaven's sake...
It was exciting the next morning to walk through Kagbeni, turning north when others went south. We had a short brush with officialdom, who scrutinised my papers and looked forbidding - then we were off.
"Hey, what's happening?" I asked Ram as we scrambled up a dusty, rocky slope. Beneath us, the river-bed stretcherd out, wide, inviting - and FLAT. A few streamlets meandered across it. they would turn into raging torrents in the wet season but it hadn't rained for months.
"We cannot use the riverbed," Ram said. "There are places where we would be swept away if we tried to cross. We have instead to go up."He gestured. I groaned. We spent the next 6 hours walking up - then down - up, then down. In places the pathway was wide enough to be used by a 4wd. At other times the path became stony and difficult. In one place, it narrowed so fast that I was sudeenly quite terrified; parts had dropped away and I was uncomfortably aware of stones falling around me. I tiptoed through, holding my breath and clutching tufts of grass. But the scenery was magnificent - the adjective keeps appearing in my diary. Wind-eroded, colossal mountains, stretching away into the distance,sometimes with small caves, always arid and - well, magnificent. Luckily, the precarious section didn't last long. We arrived in Chele after about 6 hours of strenuous walking and a final long plod up from the river. My first night in The Forbidden Kingdom.
Early views of Upper Mustang. Strange, the way that prayer flags fly sideways...
A small 'chorten' - a place to stop, picnic and pray. Note the heavy stones, used to weigh the roof down in fierce afternoon winds.
And so the days continued. It took 5 days to reach Lo Mantang, the ancient walled capital of the area. As on Annapurna, each day began early, with a quick breakfast, then off.
The days were longer here, though - and the climbing just as steep, largely because there were few bridges; we had to go down to stream level, then plod upwards again to get anywhere. One day we did this five times. Ironically, it was my favourite day becasue the scenery was so beautiful. We didn't have the mind-bogglingly beautiful snow-capped visions of Annaoruna - instead those beautiful, now far-away, mountains provided the scenic backdrop, a white icing-sugar confection to offset the austere beauty of the colossal, wind-eroded, arid mountains of Mustang.We met people, large family groups carrying cloth-wrapped bundles, the lucky ones on small ponies. They were leaving Upper Mustang for the winter, going to Pokhara or even Kathmandu to enjoy the relative 'warmth' further south. Most families were happy groups, their children running ahead with the enthusiasm of young people for an adventure, any adventure. One small boy, though, aged only about 4, ran down a slope on his own, crying bitterly. I grabbed hun and cuddled him; he was carrying all the woes of the world on his tiny shoulders. He was so upset that he didn't even realise that a 'farang' was holding him. He eventually pulled away, sobbing, and carried on with his lonely walk. Ram was also upset - he asked other members of the group - his father was a drunkard and his mother was dead. Poor child. I have often wished him well since then.
The hostels where we stayed were Tibetan. They were decorated with bright motifs with the ground floor reserved for animals. THERE WAS NO HEATING. The cold was becoming intense as we went north; each night was noticeably colder and we depended more and more on the sun for warmth as, without it, the air was biting and cold. Each evening we huddled around the dung-burning stove in the mud-floored kitchen; this was often the only source of warmth and we sat with down coats and scarves on, wrapping cold hands around mugs of hot chai (tea). It looked very romatic as we sat in Tibetan kitchens, firelight reflecting off metal pots and pans, listening to conversations we couldn't understand and watching the shadows highlight faces and gestures of people chatting and laughing. People were friendly and we learnt some basic expressions - but it was best to just sit and listen, aware that things had happened this way for generations and we were privileged to watch and be accepted.
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