The Toy Train of Darjeeling (Carolann's Story)

(This and other stories by Carolann can be found at Maturetraveler)

I've had two goals in coming to Darjeeling. The first was to visit Lloyd's Botanical Garden, and the other was to take a toy train ride. And during our three days here, we also hoped to have a good cup of tea, something that's eluded us to date in India.

Regarding Lloyd's Botanical Garden, I can skip over that chapter quickly. We had been warned that the garden has seen better days, as it had been raided many times, and an unhealthy smell of sewage clung to one of the lower terraces. As I stroll, I reflect on what the garden once was, and what it could still be with proper investment.

The placement of the garden is perhaps the most interesting thing as it spills down the steep hillside. There are very large trees between which tall shafts of light, like milky spears fall to earth. It's peaceful, save the distant whistle of the toy train. Dan makes note of the varied orchid species and is pleased to find the botanical name of an autumn flowering cherry tree he's been tracking for weeks. I ponder a cactus garden that is enclosed by barb wire.

Darjeeling. The very name conjures comfort and goodness. There's romance in most any former British hill station, pictures of cool summer retreats, the architectural look and feel of Europe for India-weary career diplomats or officers. But Darjeeling overlays that picture with the Himalaya. On one side of the ridge, the town and its hotels cling to the hillside and then the plantations carpet the rest in an undulating descent. On the other side of the ridge, the mountains line the horizon and reach upwards into the sky. Mt. Khangchendzonga is surprisingly close, the third largest mountain on earth after Everest and K2.

But this is 2011, not 1911. The modern world has not been kind to Darjeeling (nor to Kathmandu for that matter). Photos of Darjeeling from a distance are misleading. The place looks lovely, strings of low, wooden buildings draped in layers down the side of green hills like strands of a necklace.

That's the view from a few kilometres away. It's different up close.

Like other crumbling urban spaces in Asia, Darjeeling aches under the crush of honking cars, jeeps, trucks and motorcycles bleeding through wounded, pocked streets more suited to donkeys and rickshaws than to motor vehicles. The town is cut into the mountain so that a home's foundation rests on one terrace and its street level entrance is off a higher terrace. To move between levels of roadways, the switchbacks are so steep and severe that the average small car must stop, shift, and execute a three-point turn to round the corner.

We have confirmed seats on the train for the next day.

Or do we?

The next morning, we enter the train station which smells of burnt coal and garbage and every kind of solvent imaginable. I'm recognizing that the congestion in my lungs and the bubbly, underwater feeling in my head is to be a new norm. It began in Nepal, and I expect it to get worse in India before it gets better. Dan suggests that I steam up the bathroom and breathe it in. but I know what I really need -  a week in Singapore. Only fleeing to my favourite high-humidity city in southeast Asia will correct my sinuses and restore my hearing. But that will have to wait for a while.

I'm curious because our tickets do not have assigned seats. I'm told that we need to check in at the wicket.

The attendant looks at our tickets. "You are on the waiting list."

I'm instantly furious.

"We booked our tickets forty-eight hours in advance as we were instructed. An agent through our hotel arranged it."

"What's the name of your agent, madam?" The attendant's head is wobbling in that characteristic Indian manner. It's a bad sign. It's a gesture of apology and agreeability at the same time, but ironically, given the side to side motion, also prepares me for some inflexibility. He won't be budged.

"I have no idea the name of the agent! The hotel arranged it and it was confirmed and we have this ticket and it's paid for and we've paid a fifty percent commission for the ticket so we didn't have to come to the station ourselves and stand in line."

"Madam, I always tell people to come to the station and do these things themselves. Hotels should know that."

I'm beside myself. Dan moves in.

"This is unacceptable. Look at this ticket. It says CONFIRMED."

The attendants looks at his list, puts on his glasses and looks again at our ticket. The head wobble abruptly changes direction. It's now up and down and his face explodes into a big fat toothy smile.

"Very sorry sir. Cooper is confirmed. Leuper is on the waiting list. I did not have my glasses on."

We board the Joy Train, which is a two-hour sight-seeing train that runs between Darjeeling and Ghum,. During the half hour stop at Ghum, this pint-sized 19th century refurbished coal-fired, steam locomotive is detached from one end of the two-car train and reattached to the other end so it can return us back to Darjeeling.

We're actually taking this tour as a compromise. We originally planned to take our departure from Darjeeling on the famous Toy Train which over ten hours takes you further down West Bengal to a real train station and the airport. But this route had been cancelled since the earthquake in late September. A landslide continues to block the tracks. 

Dan and I have seats 9 and 10. The seat numbering is interesting. I'm on one side half-way up the car and Dan's across the aisle towards the rear. The upholstery is worn thin, the windows unyielding.

The car bounces and sways on the uneven, narrow gauge rails, the whistle screams and the locomotive's chimney belches black smoke. Our little museum piece slowly groans and shakes along the ridge. Being on the mountain side, my view is all about the backsides of tenements, colour-faded laundry draped over grey cement railings. Dan has the best picture taking opportunities from his side and a morning departure throws strong light on the Himalaya.

However, Dan's pictures will not likely be good. There are few places along the route where the view is clear of a dense spider web of legal and illegal electrical wires.

On the way back, the ceiling draws my attention when a fast jerk wakes me up (this is not the most exciting tour I've ever taken). The car's ceiling is elaborately decorated with slices of flattened bamboo arranged in an artful design. It looks like gold if you don't look too closely.

Then again, that's how I feel about Darjeeling itself.

Slowly easing into India from Nepal

Darjeeling, West Bengal, India

I’ve never wanted to go to India. But somehow Carolann has convinced me to overcome my fears and find out if it’s love or hate. Her strategy is to ease me into it by dipping our toes into the northeast part of India called West Bengal. Her hope is that this gradual immersion will prepare me for the full shocking plunge into the real India our friends have warned us about.

We left Kathmandu on a grey, drizzly day and drove through the mountains towards the southeastern part of Nepal. This was the shortest route to West Bengal – by distance only – as the mountain road was twisty, in very bad condition, full of switchbacks, and would take several hours longer. But we chose it anyway because it was said to be more scenic, if more dangerous.

As it turned out, we didn’t see anything scenic because of the fog and rain. After a couple of hours, our driver Birinda stopped at the highest point of the mountain range to have his breakfast and show us where Mt. Everest would be if it weren’t completely hidden by fog and clouds. It was cold and the chilling mist that cloaked the mountains was swirling around us as well. In spite of the fog, I took a photo anyway because it reminded me of an entirely black postcard I had seen in France depicting Mt. Blanc at night.

Birinda and his fiancée Suriyana, who had come along for the ride because she had never been to the far eastern part of Nepal, ordered their late breakfast from a small shack that looked like it was ready to fall down into the ravine. It was so cold we could see our breath and we hesitatingly went into the tiny shack just to keep warm. I had to stoop under the doorframe to enter the darkened, dirt-floor room the size of a small “shed” where several Nepalese men were sipping tea.

Birinda ordered a bowl of greenish lentil soup and a cup of Nepalese Chai-like tea from boiling, dirty pots on an open fire at the entrance, the only place that had any light. He finished breakfast with a hard-boiled egg that was sitting on the counter. Thank God we had eaten breakfast at our hotel before leaving that morning.

Our trek to the India border was going to take us four days and nights with a stop at a wildlife sanctuary to break up the journey. It was three days of boring, mind-numbing sameness every day, with only two exceptions, some birdwatching in the Kosi Tappu Park and the sighting of a pod of fresh water dolphins feeding at a huge dam. It was quite strange to see these large, black dolphins so far from the ocean and close to the Himalaya Mountains.

After we left the mountains we drove for three more days through dull flat plains broken regularly by rockslides, washouts, and wide dry riverbeds that the locals were mining for gravel. These frequent dry beds were the only signs of the rivers that come down from the Himalayas and feed into India and eventually the Bay of Bengal. During the Monsoon season they would turn into raging torrents that tear up the roads, but now tractors and trucks were parked right out in the middle being filled with gravel and river rocks for sale in other parts of Nepal.

Our route was not on the tourist circuit; few people drive to India from Nepal. And for good reason, because each town we drove through was an exact duplicate of the previous one with dull, grey buildings covered in the grime of truck exhaust and open cooking fires. They had little or no sidewalks and those they did have were covered with stalls selling fruits and vegetables, chickens, and car parts. Then there were the sleeping dogs and cows. It was all depressingly dirty with only the bright fruit and colourful saris of the Indian migrant workers providing any cheer for the people in these dreary towns.

Western-style tourist facilities were nowhere to be found. The hotels we had to stay in were the same as the towns: dull, grimy and depressing, catering only to Nepalese travellers. They never saw “tourists” and had only basic amenities, but no bed sheets, no heat, sometimes no hot water, and no decent restaurants. In these situations, we have learned to survive on bananas and egg fried rice. Of course, our silk sleeping bag liners come in handy too.

Kosi Tappu Wildlife Sanctuary Tents

Thankfully Carolann had planned a two-day layover at the Kosi Tappu Wildlife Sanctuary. We slept in tents and had to use an outdoor washroom (which was actually better than most of the washrooms we saw in the hotels on the way), but, after days of rain, the sun had come out and we were able to do two wildlife “safaris” where we saw wild water buffalo (their horns are bigger than on the domesticated ones) and over 50 species of birds. Sadly we didn’t spot any of the wild elephants that were raiding the local rice fields. Fortunately, they were also absent from our campsite, which was protected by an electric fence.

We noticed that this southern part of Nepal was more Indian than Nepalese. Our driver explained that it has been settled by Indians from across the border with the encouragement of the Indian government and with the inability of the Nepalese government to prevent it. The government doesn’t even collect any taxes here.

Southeastern Nepal on Road to India

India and China are both aggressively competing for control of Nepal’s resources, mainly hydro electricity, to feed their insatiable appetites for growth at any cost. Some fear that the two will split up Nepal into fiefdoms the way it was centuries ago and pillage its resources. India has already gained its foothold here; China is talking about building roads either through Burma or West Bengal to get to the ocean.

After four days we reached the border crossing into India. Although it looked like chaos, with cars and trucks lined up everywhere, it actually went quite smoothly. It seemed like we were the only ones who actually stopped in at the Nepalese immigration office – everyone else either just walked or drove across. Consequently there was no delay on that side.

From the maze of hundreds of jeeps parked on the Nepalese side, I scouted out one that looked to be in good shape and had seatbelts, while Carolann guarded our luggage. Negotiating a price for the three-hour ride from the border to Kalimpong, our first stop in India, was quite comical.

First, I had Birinda inquire about a price in Nepalese, then I walked around and talked to the drivers while inspecting their vehicles. As I went along, the other drivers followed me in a pack waiting to see the outcome. When I finally settled on a car and driver, there were smiles all around. I’m not sure if that meant I got a good price or not, but it seemed quite reasonable and the jeep had seatbelts (rare in this area) and was in good shape.

Once on board our jeep, we had to stop at the Indian border where a lone immigration official sat in a darkened hut at the side of the road. Again we were the only tourists; nobody else stopped. I guess we could just as easily have driven right on through and nobody would have cared. At least not until we tried to leave India and they discovered we didn’t have our entry stamp on our passports.

The ensuing drive up into the mountains on the India side was uneventful. It seems that we have become blasé about twisty, winding, dangerous mountain roads now. We just kept climbing up and up from Siliguri on the Bengal plains into the Himalayas until we reached Kalimpong town at about 1,500 metres.

One unusual feature was a 360-degree loop in the mountain road, where it actually passed back under itself. It was so narrow only one car could squeeze through at a time and our driver honked continuously to warn any truck or bus that we were coming.

Kalimpong, West Bengal, India

At the top, we discovered the small town of Kalimpong, which was built as a summer hill station by the British so they could escape the stifling heat of Calcutta. The town was stapled into the west facing side of the mountain to catch the sun’s rays in winter. It’s pastel coloured buildings of pale blues, pinks and yellows ran down the hillside and looked quite beautiful in the sunlight. But the reality was revealed on the dark street side where we found just another dirty, grimy steetscene of broken sidewalks, decrepit buildings, and a jumble of honking cars and trucks. It’s like a painted movie backdrop, pretty on one side, wires and dirty supports on the other.

Luckily our guesthouse, Holumba Haven, was on the edge of town and we rarely had to venture into Kalimpong town itself except for banking.

Kalimpong is located at the southernmost point of the Himalayas in West Bengal, India, at the base of a triangle, with Nepal and Bhutan on the two sides. Because of its location south of the Himalayas and north of the warm Bay of Bengal, this mountainous region is quite temperate. Temperatures range from a low of 3 Celsius in winter to 35 C in summer in Kalimpong, but they never get frost. We arrived in late November and it was quite warm during the day, with the temperature dropping to around 8 Celsius at night. This wouldn’t have been too bad, but our cottage had no heat and neither did the dining room. Very few places do in this part of the world. So we were quite chilled the first few nights.

Fall-blooming Cherry

The gorgeous gardens and views of the snow-capped mountains in the distance, however, made up for this inconvenience. And the cottages at our homestay were beautifully decorated with pots of azaleas, colourful bromeliads in shades of pink, red and purple, and lovely two-toned yellow orchids. In bloom when we arrived were orchids, a lovely fall-blooming cherry tree, roses, camellias, and several types of azaleas.

View from Top of Holumba Haven Guesthouse

It was difficult, in fact, to remember that this was part of India, because the area is actually more Nepalese than the southern part of Nepal was. It was originally part of the Kingdom of Bhutan until the Bhutanese lost a battle against the British who eventually turned it over to India at the time of independence. But most of the people here are descendants of Nepalese or Bhutanese immigrants or refugees and have the same “Tibetan” look, culture and lifestyle.

Until recently, a rebel Maoist group was fighting for an independent state they want to call Ghorkaland, after the original inhabitants of this area. The group had resorted to killings and intimidation in the past, but was now using political means like strikes to shut everything down. For the last two years, they have “encouraged” locals to withhold payment for utilities. This latter practice just ended a month before our arrival and seemed to have some effect because the West Bengal government in Calcutta was apparently offering some concessions.

Everywhere we saw signs on storefronts that read “Ghorkaland.” And their green and white flag was prominently displayed on cars, buildings, and on banners spanning the roadway. Our guidebook reassuringly cautions that strikes may shut things down, but adds that there has been “little violence” recently. (Update: just after our departure we read that one of the leaders of the rebel movement had been killed in a shoot out and there was a bomb attack elsewhere.)

We were told that the major complaint is that the Calcutta government (which is way to the south) takes hydro electricity, other resources, and tourism dollars from this popular area but gives nothing in the way of services in return, hence the protest.

And, in fact, while this part of India may look like Bhutan, it’s really Bhutan run by the Moldavians. There are constant power failures, crumbling infrastructure, packs of barking dogs that keep you awake at night, and little order on the streets. Snaking lines of exposed one-inch water pipes run alongside the road supplying spring water to stores and homes, but tripping up unwary walkers. I don’t even want to think what happens to the wastewater. Landslides regularly cut off the main highway and train tracks. And every morning at 9 and every night at 5, the power would shut off at our homestay.

It seems we may have ruined the romantic illusions of Kathmandu and Darjeeling for some of our friends. These are places of history, traditional customs, and iconic landscapes. And truth be told, the visions of snowcapped peaks and fields of lush tea trees cloaking the verdant mountainsides are still lovely – when you can see them.

Supposedly we’ve come at the best time for viewing. November is the time for clear-blue skies and no rain. But we’ve had rain and grey skies on and off for a month. Maybe this year was an exception – trekkers were stranded by bad weather at Lukkla and Jomosom in the Himalayas in Nepal. Maybe global climate change is affecting this part of the world too – the snow on Mt. Everest is melting away. Or just maybe if you stay at the one or two high-end hotels in these towns, riding around in an insulated air-conditioned bubble, protected from the noise, smells and dirty streets, and never going downtown, you might still find these places romantic. I don’t know, we just report it as we see it.

But the lovely gardens, mountain views and temperate climate (ideal for gardening) still made this town worth visiting. Cherry trees covered in exquisite pink blossoms, six-foot hedges of blooming azaleas, and orchids dripping off the trees in November can soften a lot of hardships and make you forget about the dirty streets.

Native Coelogyne corymbosa

The people here are friendly, so very helpful and generous in that Buddhist way that we have discovered from Bhutan to Nepal. And, luckily for us, at every stage in our journey the sun has appeared at just the right moment to allow for trekking or viewing the mountains or enjoying the blooming cherry trees.

Would we go back? Good question. There is a region just north of here, closer to the Himalayas, called Sikkim, where wild elephants and one-horned rhinos still roam in uncut forests. It’s like Bhutan without the huge entry fees.  Maybe we’ll visit the next time we’re in the area.

But this wasn’t really India; it was like a poor man’s Bhutan. Nevertheless, now that we’ve dipped our toes into “India,” it’s time to dive in all the way. We’re off to see the real India, starting with Delhi.

Driving to India (Carolann's Story)

(Carolann's thoughts about our last few days in Nepal. This and other stories by Carolann can be found at Maturetraveler)

Our visas are expiring. It's time to leave Nepal. So we we're driving to India.

Drive? Why?

Because for one thing, we never like back-tracking. If we flew from Kathmandu to Calcutta, in order to be reasonably close to where we want to go in India's northeast, we would end up going south just to connect domestically to fly back north. Secondly, I've read some nasty things about the Calcutta airport and I want to spend time there as much as I want to sunbathe in the tar sands.

Most of all, however, my strategy has always been to ease Dan into India by avoiding the big cities, at least at first. Dan's been reluctant for many years to go to India. Too much distressed humanity. Too much chaos. Too much heat. But in the end, he's been getting too much encouragement from our friends to ignore India any longer. Our friends are coaching us on how to do India well. But the selling point, admittedly, is that it's inexpensive.

My thinking is that we'll first spend some time in West Bengal's leafy Darjeeling tea estates and from there into Assam's rhino-rich jungles. It's a good idea to seek out green spaces, elephants, birds, and try out a safari, Indian style. We'll deal with the grit and urban chaos later.

So I'm standing at the wall map in our Kathmandu guest house with Ganga, the owner, former guide, and our advisor.

"How long to get to here?"

"Five to seven hours."

"And after that, to here?"

"Five to seven hours."

"Perhaps, we can stop at this protected area. I hear there is good birding there."

"Five to seven hours to get there."

These are not large distances. Our first 200 km will take us a day because the road is so bad through the mountains. After the mountains, we're in the flat, arid part of the country, very much like India, which runs parallel at that point. Those further 200 km will take another five to seven hours because the road is so bad and busy. Whole chunks of road are regularly washed away in the monsoons. In the rainy season, there will be flash floods careening through the river bed, up and over the banks, water belching out of the Himalaya and surging into India.

But it's dry now, so driving over several sandy, rocky basins is possible, but slow going. We cross what in a different month is the life blood of India, feeders of the Ganges River.

Although driving to India is not most people's first choice, it's a gift that we can even move around the country like this. Until three years ago, Nepal was in the grip of civil strife. The Royal Family had been massacred in 2001 by a deranged Crown Prince, weakening an already tenuous future for Nepal's monarchy. The country disintegrated into factions, armed conflicts ensued. Maoists, notoriously anti-monarchists, disrupted tourism and violent crime increased. Atrocities were committed on all sides. While a peace was struck in 2008, the newly elected Maoist leadership still must bring in a new constitution by the end of November. The Canadian government posts a travel warning on Nepal suggesting that strikes and protests may precede the constitution.

Curiously, we're not seeing any volatility, but perhaps we're just insulated. Instead, weather is on everyone's mind these days. When these mountains get socked in by clouds and haze, tourism stalls. People lose money. Flights are being cancelled around the country because of the weather, not politics.

But back to the exit plan.

I see logic and value in driving out of Nepal. It will take three nights and four days. We'll see something of Nepal that's not about mountains. It will cost us each about $350 including our private jeep transportation, our hotels, meals; by comparison, if we flew to Calcutta and connected to another domestic flight, we might pay almost as must after incidental fees.

Over and above those costs, we're paying $300 for birding at Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve. This co-operative tent camp is installed within an important sanctuary where ornithological research is done. We will be provided with an expert guide for a three-hour jeep run through the jungle and guided walk at dawn. This is the kind of enterprise we've known in Costa Rica. It's important that Nepal be part of the international work being done in tracking bird DNA and banding. And a group of Italian birders have logged nearly one hundred sightings over two days here.

Yawn.

 An enthusiastic birder for 50 years, Dan's in his element. I couldn't care less but I'll tag along. I enjoy walking in nature. And in fact, I'll even source opportunities for Dan.

We have an understanding that for any uncomfortable jungle tripping to see birds, I get one opera. And as it happens, I've just found out from a vacationing sound engineer from Abu Dabi that Dubai has just opened an opera house. And since this visit to Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve has us sleeping in tents, and walking up a lane to outdoor toilets during the night, and that there's cobra in this area, and our camp is surrounded by electrical fence to keep out the wild elephants.... I expect dress circle seats at the opera.

(Note to self: figure out how to include Dubai on our flight plan in 2012).

 For two days we do not see one western tourist...nor one western toilet for that matter. But squatting is good for me, especially since I threw out my back the morning we departed from Kathmandu.

Two extra-strength Robaxicet tablets later, and a well-placed lumbar cushion, I sleep a good part of the way though the mountains. At each stop, I stretch and do exercises that I've been taught by my trainer. I know Lynn is shaking her head at this moment and probably thinking that I've not been doing my core-strengthening exercises as much as I should have. She's probably right. But it was bound to happen given the demands of trekking in this country.

While it's fascinating to walk around a Nepalese town that sees few tourists, it's challenging to find dinner in a Nepalese town that sees few tourists. Locals generally don't eat out. The two hotels of Hetauda are noisy, one less filthy than the other, and both have restaurants we cannot stomach. And that's the end of the restaurant options. There are a few stalls selling a kind of deep fried donut. There are some chicken skewers over coal - but meat handling and storage techniques here are fast making me into a vegetarian.

Still there's hope.

The first delightful thing we discover about Hetauda is that it's not just another crumbling, dusty, gritty mess of commerce with grey buildings, and grey air that you can chew and wear at the same time. It's main street is lined end to end with hundreds of large, leafy trees. The sun shines on a town that's green. The road becomes an avenue.

And the sun shines on us when Vider approaches. A young man in jeans and a nicely pressed shirt introduces himself and offers assistance to help us find a restaurant.

My senses are alert to touts. Likely, his uncle owns a restaurant.

"My uncle owns a restaurant, just down the road there. I will show you."

Dan and I exchange knowing glances but start enjoying Viber's company nevertheless as we follow him to his uncle's restaurant. The restaurant is decent enough and we order our safe egg-fried rice.

Viber is a journalism student and minors in English.

"Do you know that the ABC of journalism is: Accuracy, Balance, and Credibility."

Now I'm feeling uncomfortable. I've already flunked out of trekking in Nepal (another story). I expect I'd also fail the ABCs of journalism. I have always lacked credibility in Dan's eyes since we see the same world so differently. And Balance, well it depends on the day. Accuracy is linked to credibility. Maybe journalism is a matter of Faith. Do you believe the world through another person's eyes? But I don't want to confuse our young idealist by introducing the "F" acronym.

Our beer is served. Viber continues, looking for that spark of conversation that will turn strangers into friends.

"Do you know the meaning of life?

Dan quickly responds. "Forty-two."

Viber is puzzled but he's not the only one. Who would guess we'd run into a philosopher in Hetauda.

Dan tries to summarize the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (a novel in which it's revealed that the meaning of life is a meaningless "forty-two").

Viber grows thoughtful. "Maybe you're right and no one knows the meaning of life and never will."

Dan sees a potential convert to his godless belief system (I regularly remind him he's going to hell after he dies) and continues:

"You see that guy pushing the cart stacked with bags of rice? Does he ask himself the meaning of life? He's probably just focused on making enough money to feed his family."

Viber nods his head. Dan continues.

"And since he doesn't ask questions about the meaning of life, do you think he's a happy man or an unhappy man." Dan is trying hard for dialectic discourse.

"He is a happy man."

"How do you know?"

"He's my father's cousin. He smiles a lot."

Viber adds: "I know what you mean. I think that most of these people here are in the cave. Plato says they will never see the light. But I want to change that. I know that Nepal can be a beautiful place."

"I think so too, Viber. Just look at the trees in Hetauda and how they give beauty to the town. They stand out, like the pink and red saris that women wear. There are flashes of colour in the dust. And look at your future. You're young and educated and going to make a difference."

"Yes, I will do that. I'm a Maoist."

Trekking in the Himalayas – It’s not Soft and Easy Anymore!

Annapurna South and "Fishtail" Mountains

On the morning of our trek into the Himalayas, we woke to a lovely sunny, blue sky and had breakfast on the patio outside our room. The majestic white peaks of the Annapurna Range were calling to us in the distance.

We were excited after five days of rain, haze and low-lying clouds to see the sun and the mountains for the first time.

A Belgian couple had just returned from a four-day trek up to Ghandruk and was extremely disappointed that they had never seen the mountains at all. Imagine coming all the way to Nepal and not seeing the majestic Himalayan Mountains. We felt very fortunate that the weather had finally cleared and were impatient to finally start our trekking.

Our young guide/porter was called Tilak. He was quiet and shy and spoke only  broken English, but was recommended by our hotel. He said he was 30, but looked about 19. He slept most of the way to Nayapul.

We were supposed to leave at 8:15, but got a late start because Tilak had forgotten our trail hiking permits for which we had paid 200 rupees each and had to surrender another of our precious passport photos. So we had to drive back to the hotel and start over.

We didn’t know it at the time, but this small delay would become a big factor later on.

Trail to Ghandruk

Our goal on the first day was the village of Ghandruk, leaving from Nayapul. Nayapul is the main starting point for the famous 23-day trek of the Annapurna Circuit. Our meager attempt at trekking was to be 3 days – Nayapul to Ghandruk, Ghandruk to Tokla, Tokla to Damphus.

To reach the start of the trail, you drive one and a half hours from Pokhara to Nayapul, weaving around the mountains through the valleys that follow the river. Along the way we stopped by the river where we had a fabulous view of the Annapurna Range – a full frontal of Annapurna South and “Fishtail” mountain or Machhapuchhre. It’s called “Fishtail” because of its split, two-pronged tail-like peak, but this feature can only be viewed from the side during the hike.

The sun had now risen further in the blue sky highlighting the mountains and promising a great day for our trek.

After a two-hour drive over incredibly bad roads (a half hour longer than estimated), we stepped out of the car surrounded by a swarm of tour buses and taxis, and a mob serious trekkers with tons of equipment, hiking poles, camping gear, and heavy-duty winter clothing.

Nayapul (New Bridge)

Nayapul was a rickety, wooden façade of a town – like in a Western movie. We had wanted rustic and we were about to get it. It was like we had taken a trip in a time machine and had stepped into another world. On either side of a dirt lane were decrepit wooden shacks filled with vendors selling water, supplies, chips, pop and wooden hiking sticks. Running about were yapping dogs, chickens, and bare-bottomed babies, all enjoying the warm morning sunshine.

Waiting for their next load, a team of pack mules was tethered to a wood railing in front of a supply store. The mules were gingerly picking up golden kernels of spilled corn from the ground with their lips. They wore odd-looking coloured headgear and ropes, and had large bells around their necks. Later we saw them laden with all manner of heavy packs – large bags of rice, wood, and propane tanks. These pack animals were the only means of transporting the heavy goods that porters couldn’t carry up into the villages in the high Himalayas.

After a 20-minute walk through this maze of a mediaeval village we came to a steep mud slope strewn with large uneven boulder steps. This broken path led to an old swaying suspension bridge and I started to get a feeling this hike wasn’t going to be easy. We thought hiking in Bhutan had prepared us for trekking, but we were about to be surprised.

Naypul means “New Bridge” in Nepalese and, in fact, there was a new bridge made of concrete and steel a little further on. Trekkers and mules had their own older narrow bridges on either side. But the new two-lane bridge in the middle led straight into a stone face and a jumble of boulders and dirt over which we had to scramble. It went nowhere and even four-wheelers couldn’t use it.

At this point the trail split into two – left to the 23-day circuit and right for the shorter trek to Ghandruk and beyond. We went right.

The beginning of the trail is along the raging Modi Khola river, a steely blue torrent of glacial runoff smashing into huge boulders the size of houses and inexorably grinding them into smaller stones.

"Fishtail" Mtn. from the Side

We followed the trail for a half hour or so to the tiny bazaar village of Birethanti where we caught our first fleeting glimpse of ‘Fishtail’ Mountain through the trees. It looked close but was still far, far away.

We started out wearing our Gore-Tex jackets, but quickly removed them and hiked only in our t-shirts as the temperature climbed to 25C in the sun. After an hour we were sweating as we started climbing in earnest.

The trail opened up as we entered a pastoral area with golden rice fields ready for harvesting.

A young boy sat by the side of the trail selling oranges. He kept pointing to his swollen toe imploring us with his eyes to buy an orange, so we did.

Other kids ran up to us saying “Namaste” (the ubiquitous greeting in Nepal meaning both “Hello” and “How are you?”) and putting their hands together in greeting then asking in Nepalese for “chocolate” or money. Not something we want to encourage! In fact, in Bhutan, guides caution tourists not to start this bad practice. Bhutan seems so unspoiled in comparison.

Rice Ready for Harvesting

Other than the western trekkers, most of whom had split off for the longer, much more serious, 23-day Annapurna Circuit, the only people we saw on the trail were school children in their sparkling clean uniforms, old men and women, porters, and people working the rice fields.

The porters were carrying heavy packs, camping gear, backpacks and traditional dokos (wicker baskets) filled with food or firewood. The packs seemed larger than the porters, some only 17 years old. They carried them with a strap wrapped around their forehead, bent over almost in two.

Our other companions on the trail included goats, massive water buffalo with menacing sharp horns, and the aforementioned mules.

Occasionally we would heard the sound of jangling bells and quickly learned that this meant get out of the way – quickly. A mule train was coming around the corner with their funny ribbons, coloured headgear, and heavy packs twice as wide as they were.

Our guide didn’t have to warn us about the dangers of the mule trains, but he cautioned us anyway to stand on the uphill side. Apparently, trekkers have been knocked off the hill more than once by the bulky packs on the mules’ backs. I was nailed once on the arm by a solid wooden frame and from then on held out my camera monopod/walking stick to ward off the beasts.

Get out of the Way!

The worst was when they broke into a gallop if the herder at the back slapped one of the laggards. It didn’t matter then where you were standing, you had to climb up out of the way as Carolann did several times, hoisting herself up onto a stone wall.

Even worse, however, was the pervasive stench of donkey piss and shit. It wasn’t so bad on the rare flat stretch, but the pungent odour was suffocating on the steep stairs when you’re straining to suck enough oxygen in your lungs.

But unlike Bhutan, it wasn’t the altitude or even the steep uphill climb that took its toll on us. In fact, the vertical climb was the same at roughly 900 metres. No, it was the length of the trek that was the problem. We were told it would take about 5 hours on the first day, which we thought was fine. Little did we know that the distance we had to climb was 15 kms UPHILL. At least, that is what Tilak told us in his broken English. It may have been less, but it felt longer. To be honest, we’re casual walkers, not “trekkers,” and by no means would we call ourselves experienced trekkers. Even on flat ground, at sea level, 15 kms would be a lot for me. Up a steep incline at altitude it was a killer. Maybe you should just call us naïve.

I was carrying my camera backpack and my walking stick/camera tripod, the guide carried our small pack with clothes, sleeping bags, toothbrushes, and Carolann carried a light day pack with her small camera, some snacks, and a water bottle.

My camera pack holds my camera, extra battery, filters, extra flash cards, binoculars, Carolann’s Polaroid camera for taking gift photos, and my water bottle. Empty it weighs 5 lbs. 4 oz. (2390g); full it comes in at over 15 lbs. (7kg). As the day wore on, I was thinking maybe we should have hired a second porter!

After two hours of trekking, we were already tired. At bends in the trail, the mountains would appear and then disappear again, winking at us, taunting us, daring us to come closer. It was like they knew we were hurting and they were teasing us. But at least they gave us the motivation we needed to carry on as we panted and sucked air one steep hill after another.

Thankfully there are numerous teahouses and small open-air eateries along the trail where you can stop for lunch, take an “outhouse” break, or buy water. With the thundering Modi Khola river and tall mountains as a backdrop, it was quite pleasant to rest up in these places. They had wooden tables and benches with basic fare, like sandwiches, beer, stirred fried noodles, eggs and rice, and "dal baht" the Nepalese national dish of rice and lentils, all served outdoors in the fresh clean air.

"Carrom Board" Game for Porters

Some of the porters would stop to rest themselves and play a board game called “Carim board.” It was similar to our Crokinole, but without pegs in the centre.

We passed through Syauli Bazaar, a small settlement of Gurungs and Magars with its shanty houses and small inns. Here the trail winds through steep terraced rice fields that flank you on either side right down to the river. Harvesting had begun and it was interesting to stop and watch the women cutting the rice stalks with their scythes then stack them to dry in the sun.

Others were knocking the rice from the stalks by beating them against cloth sheets. Still others were tossing the rice into the air or fanning the piles of grain to separate the chaff from the kernels.

As a final stage, the stalks were piled on the ground, and water buffalo, lashed to a centre pole, were led around in a circle to soften up the stalks so they could be used as winter feed for the animals.

On other steep terraces, red millet was growing. After harvesting, these red seeds were laid out to dry in the sun on mats in front of the stone houses. Harvested beans stalks, leaves and all, were placed on top of the slate roofs of the houses to dry and to keep them away from rodents.

Red Millet

Soon the trail became even steeper and the stone steps more uneven and difficult to navigate. The trails and steps were made by the Gurung people and are paved with large, sometimes flat, sometimes rounded-top stones that make climbing difficult because of their large size and slippery, polished round surfaces.

After the rain of the previous five days we were afraid the entire trail might be slippery, but the sun had dried most of it. In some places, however, the smooth stones were wet with stream water or donkey droppings and we had to watch our step to avoid slipping or stepping into a smelly mess.

All the while, the entrancing view of the mountains was distracting. But I was reminded of a sign we saw on Hua Shan, the holy mountain we climbed in China, that read in English “Look, don’t walk! Walk, don’t look!” And so we watched each step, carefully picking our way around the messy piles and choosing the most secure stone to step on; the one that looked the steadiest, the one that didn’t have any loose stones or sand on it.

Several of the bridges that crossed over the steams that cut across the trail were made from single slabs of stone, 10 to 12 feet long. Others were made of logs and covered with packed earth or crossing wood planks. We treated all of them with caution because of their age and condition. The wooden ones, in particular, had taken quite a beating from the constant pounding of the mule trains.

A little later on we encountered a jumble of rocks and boulders, the aftermath of a huge landslide in 1995 and another last September caused by an earthquake, according to our guide. These were fairly easy to traverse, and the trail was much wider than the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru. But Carolann kept looking up at the hillside, wary of another slide that would push us off into the river below.

As if to reassure us, our guide said that he was always listening for the telltale rumblings that would warn us of a landslide. That actually had the opposite effect on Carolann.

Initially we moved along at a good pace – at least for us – and stopped regularly for photos or to buy water. As the afternoon wore on, however, our pace slowed dramatically, our legs hurt and our lungs were burning. The frequent sightings of the snow-capped mountains kept us motivated in spite of the guide’s warning that we still had three hours to go.

And then, despair hit us. At a point roughly two-thirds of the way to Ghandruk, someone had painted the following sign on a rock: “Nayapul 8,848 steps/Ghandruk 4252 steps.” This was truly a killer. We had been trekking for four hours and were only two-thirds of the way.

We still had 4252 steps more – over two hours to go, according to our guide. And by my calculation this meant we would arrive after sunset around 6:30, in the dark! Our late start and slow pace were coming back to haunt us.

At some point, as we climbed another set of hundreds of stone steps – I don’t remember where because I was concentrating so hard on the placement of my feet that I couldn’t look at the stunning scenery – I started counting the steps by 10s and then stopping to catch my breath. When we were still an hour from the top and facing still more hundreds of steep steps, I was so tired that I started taking only five steps at a time and then I had to stop and rest. My heart was pounding, my lungs ached and I wanted to sit down, but by then the sun was starting to set.

Annapurna South at Sunset

I have to say, however, that the view of Annapurna South at 7,219 metres (23,684 ft) and “Fishtail” at 6,993m (22,943ft) is spectacular. In spite of our exhaustion and fear of having to hike the trail in the dark, we just had to steal looks at the peaks as the sun set and lit up the snow-covered mountains in flames of gold and orange. “Spectacular!” Deep breath. “Stunning!” Deep breath. “Tell me again why we’re doing this!” Deep breath.

But night was quickly falling and the trail, which up until then had been quite warm, was getting chilly. We had been dressed only in t-shirts, but, as the sun set, the wind picked up and carried a cold winter chill down upon us from the glaciers. We stopped and put on our Gore-Tex jackets again.

Our guide had gone on ahead and we were now getting concerned about finding the trail and our footing in the dark. Luckily it was a full moon and moonlight guided the way. If we hadn’t been so exhausted, it would have been quite romantic with the moon glinting off the snowy peaks and Venus shining just below it. But then we had to go back to carefully putting one foot in front of the other. We climbed the last 200 metres in the dark.

Finally at the top, we discovered that the guesthouse we had thought our tour agent had booked in advance was all full, and we had to move to one even higher on the mountain.

After a thankful 10-minute delay, while our guide found the key and then pounded on the door to get someone to open, we were led to our Spartan room and flopped down on a hard, bare mattress.

But this was only for a minute. We cleaned up with the cold water in the tiny bathroom and prepared for dinner.

The dining room was a plain sitting area with long wooden tables for eight. The food was basic and dull, rice with vegetables, chicken curry, or “dal bhat” the Nepalese national dish of rice and lentils.

As the last to arrive, we took the only two seats left with a quiet group of four others. No one was talking. Even as tired as I was, I was determined to change that.

I engaged the others in conversation and discovered that the “quiet” looking couple were Lebanese, but living and working in Abu Dabi; she as an architect and he as an engineer. The more animated couple were from France and Monaco; she was a recently divorced Californian and wannabe actress living in Paris and he was a young Italian originally from Milan and now a rich banker in Monte Carlo.

Soon table talk became animated. We talked about the difficult trek, the Middle East, France, and Canada. We discovered that the Italian was in Asia to see a Formula 1 race, but couldn’t get tickets so decided to come to Nepal at the last minute. His Ralph Lauren bag was stuffed into a backpack he had hastily bought in Kathmandu. After Nepal, he was on his way to another Formual 1 race in Abu Dabi. It turned out that his partner had been married to a Lebanese and spoke fluent Lebanese Arabic. What a small world.

It wasn’t long before we learned that the Lebanese woman was a gifted singer. With a bit of teasing and coaxing from me, she was persuaded to sing a Lebanese love song for us and it rocked the room. She had a tremendous, lovely voice.

Upon hearing the singing, our “shy” guide Tilak came over. I asked if he could sing a Nepalese trekking song for us. I thought he would decline, but he suddenly grabbed another guide who took up a traditional Nepalese drum called a “madal” and the two began to sing wonderfully melodious mountaineering songs. This shy young man also had a lovely voice.

The evening turned out to be the second best thing about our trek, after the mountain viewing. It was one of those rare, magical moments that appear out of nowhere, like the smoke from a Genie’s lamp, and transform an ordinary evening into an unforgettable experience. Another wow moment!

Sunset on the Trail

We retired to bed, leg sore and weary. The room was damp and cold, but we had rented sleeping bags from our hotel in Pokhara and had also brought along our own silk liners for them. Thank goodness because the single cover was thin and dirty. We wore our Marino wool shirts and long underwear to keep warm. But we were too tired to care about the conditions and slept like logs in spite of the cold.

The next morning, we discovered that not only did we not have any hot water, we didn’t have any water at all. I had to hike back down the hill to a spring outlet and wait for a young boy to brush his teeth and wash his feet in order to fetch water to flush the toilet. It was only a couple of hundred steps down, but hard to climb back up with a full bucket of ice cold water.

Then before breakfast we hauled ourselves up another series of steps for 20 minutes to a look out at the high point in the village of Ghandruk to watch the sunrise. The morning light lit up the snow and glaciers on Annapurna South and “Fishtail” like torches.

View from Ghandruk just after Sunrise

It was truly special.

After breakfast, we faced a hard decision. Our original plan was to hike straight down to the bottom of the valley, then climb back up the steep mountain on the other side to the small village of Tokla for our second night.

When we reached the fork in the trail a half hour after our start, our guide still hadn’t been able to book a room in the village of Tokla. Faced with the prospect of no room, or at best another cold night in a room with no bathroom or no water, we weighed our options.

Tokla on the Other Side of the Valley

The view of the mountains would be the same for the next two days of trekking, so there would be little to gain by going down a 1,000 metres only to climb back up another 1,000 metres to stay in a damp, cold room with no water, if we could even get a room.

Little to gain for lots of pain. We opted to follow my brother-in-law Jim’s motto, which says, “No pain, no pain,” and headed back down 15 km to the start of the trail at Nayapul and drive back to the relative comfort of Pokhara.

But going down was faster, not necessarily easier – stepping down onto loose rocks was tricky. And not less painful; it was harder on the shins and our toes kept jamming into our boots. Ouch!

In the end though, we were glad we had done the trek. It wasn’t a major trek, but it was more than enough for us. The weather was ideal, the sun was shining and the sky was blue. We had a memorable evening with fellow international travellers and had seen Annapurna up close and personal as we had wanted to.

Now on to the next adventure – wherever that might be.