A Month in the Mountains, Part 2

'If the idea is not absurd then there is no hope for it'                                                                Graffiti in Kathmandu bar toilet - since discovered it was Einstein

Climbing steep trails winding higher and higher, the notorious beauty of the Himalayas began to reveal itself. The world rolled in waves up to enormous snowy peaks cut high and jagged along the deep blue sky. The land up there looked far off, separate and unreachable; a vertical earth not meant for us.

A few days passed on the path and one night we made camp on a high, empty summit with no village insight and no hope to fill our water bottles. Morning came with a mouth as dry as sand and we walked on as a white light grew over the high ridge's. Horrible hours heading downhill in search of a fill up tugged at our tempers. At the first house we handed over our empties to a mother and dropped in purifying tablets sitting with the wet plastic in our hands like precious trophies, trying to wait the advised half an hour before drinking. The thirst I felt was a crave beyond compare and when we sucked down litres of life our moods broke into as happy and jokey as in a beer garden on a sunny day.

The valleys opened in our steps; layers of paddy fields sliced green and yellow down the valley walls, golden wheat swayed in the winds rhythm, a river rushed over shining stones and mud molded homes leaned over wild gardens. We walked in awe of the beauty. James stopped in his tracks - "this must be the most beautiful place in the world".

A dark evening we stomped into a tiny village under a sky bruised purple. A light rain fell and a heavy thunder rumbled. We took a room for the night: a low ceiling to duck under and two wooden beds with sheets stapled on. Next door was a bar with a few plastic tables that had never been sat at and the owner dug out some old dusty beers we drank warm, agreeing they were the most delicious out-of-date beers in the world.

That night, laced with weariness and old beer, we sat on the half built terrace outside our room:

An orange moon rises over mountains black with jungle, rain patters softly around me. The storm rolls away into the next valley and the hills around spout softly into life with the sounds of the forest. Life is tough but rewarding. My hands are black behind the nails, my hair is matted and wrecked with dirt and my feet reek and ache. We've barely scratched the surface of the distance to come, but right now, sat safely with a beer in hand listening to natures orchestra, I wonder - can life get better than this? 

'A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.' John Steinbeck

By lunchtime the next day, I felt slightly different. Following directions spat by a very a drunk man, we skipped happily on the hope of a short cut. The path faded into goat tracks skirting the flanks of a colossal valley, sloping to the edge and falling into nothing; a boundless plunge. A river ran blue-grey deep down in the chasm and a wind surged along the valley nudging our bags for moments of wobbly panic.

At one point the trail edged around an over hanging boulder. I reached around the stone, my fingers crawling like a spider along the rock feeling for a hand grip. Behind a gap fell down gravel flanks with no end. Watching James pass through was worse: he bear hugged the rocked with his bag hanging over the edge, his camera around his neck bumped the stone and the lens cover came off. We watched it roll off the edge and fall forever. He looked up as he clung there with a gulp, his eyes like light bulbs.

We scanned the slopes for faint lines leading somewhere, anywhere, following brown marks that ended at dead drops. The sun knifed white as we scrambled along crumbling banks and at one point in the panic I saw James trip and roll off a ledge ahead, disappearing out of view. I screamed after him sick with worry until his head popped up, checking himself for damage. He gave a cheeky thumbs up, but we both knew he was lucky. Fortune is a thin line in the mountains - a trip at another time and it's game over.

Stumbling on a stream in a nook of the cliffs, we pushed through into a moss cocooned tunnel so beautiful it looked designed by someone, or something. We rested there, washing for the first time on the trip in a small rushing pool. Splitting our options we decided to abandon the track before it killed us, to follow the jungle draped stream down the mountains assured that eventually it must reach the river and valley floor below.

Jumping from boulders and hopping the crystal stream, ducking through bushes and hellion nettles, finally to our cheering joy, the river and track road ran in the distance. We learnt that day to roll with adventure a step at a time, to stay calm and patient. You cant plan every moment. If you can then its not a proper adventure.

Two dumb drunk thieves.

With the earth cut and split so sharply, it was sometimes tricky finding a camping spot and we often squeezed the tent onto the trail itself as it was the only flat patch around. In a rosy village a lady moving quick and busy like all the others waved happily for us to camp in the field behind her home. It was a much more public camp than we were comfortable with, but bone-tired and moody, we couldn't muster the strength to search on and began pitching amongst the tiny forests of hemp plants with a crowd of locals watching us like a tele.

Picking fire wood a friendly man interrupted and invited us back to his house to stay and trusting his cheeky little smile we agreed to follow him home. The night wore into darkness through hours of rumbling bellies as he promised to cook some rice, and it clicked when I smelt the powering whiff of whiskey on his breath, that he and his brother were absolutely punch drunk.

We sat in a top bedroom in his farm house, boxed in as he and his brother slurred they wanted money. Alarm bells rang as we handed over cash for a bottle, despite them repeatedly assuring us they wanted nothing when we met out in the field.

Then they drank, fast, and wanted more, tearfully telling us how poor they were, yet the money they needed wasn't for the dozen kids peering around the doorway. "We've already bought you some" - " yes and we've drank it!" he cried. The promises of a free bed, to help a visitor in need because they were good people - "we are brothers!" - all fell away into clear tricks for a free drink and anything else they could wangle out of the rich foreigners.

Time rolled on listening to the dumb rambles, our tempers frayed as we watched them sit and steal seeming quite pleased with themselves. Their whining for more whiskey went on as they drained another bottle, nudging their children to ask for money and claiming pity for their unfortunate lives.

Another- "we are the same, we are brothers" and we cracked, jumping up in unison to pull on our bags.

The brother, around 50 years old and a local teacher, a shining example for the kids nosing around the doorway, grabbed my leg as I went to the leave, hugging my ankle like a drunk toddler. The other stood blocking the exit and as James went to move past, the man in his dribbling ruin crashed backwards into the wall. He regained his balance and I saw his eyes recollect - like a sobering slap of regret for his trickery. The whole village knew we were staying with him and we fled into the night choosing to sleep in a bush rather than in his home, and the shame was wiped across his stupid face.

We made a dash for it ducking through the dim, throwing bags to each other down three flights of ladders. Into the street in blind blackness, the frenzied barks and golden eyes of dogs encircled us. I huddled next to James following the beam of his head torch, fearing the clamp of hot teeth on my calf at any moment. We jumped a wall into a field and pitched camp in silence, the barks from the village echoed behind and we crouched low when the lights of a local passed.

We were angry for days after that, at ourselves as much as the sly manner of the robbery - why couldn't they be honest and pull a knife? We have both travelled enough and been scammed enough to know better and finding faith suddenly became harder, our eyes seeing the ugly rather than the honest.