Late October: To the extent it's possible in a dense city teeming with tourists and motorbikes, street merchants and tuktuks, pollution of every sort and temple monkeys, I relaxed for a few days in Kathmandu. But it's prime trekking season, so I soon made arrangements to hike the Manaslu Circuit (next to Anapurna), a two-week trip. A rather disorganized booking agent matched me with a guide, and I opted to carry my own pack -- I'd be sleeping and eating in tea houses (hostels, essentially), so it was easy to pack light.
Getting to the trailhead was a journey in itself. Around sunrise my guide and I alighted on a somewhat ratty bus. Now, some of you know my dad and brother are amateur racecar drivers, and have been known to deploy their superior reflexes, cornering, and passing-within-inches on regular roads. So I'm a calm passenger and used to, shall we say, aggressive maneuvers. This bus driver surpassed anything I have experienced, on the roughest cliffside roads I've experienced. We overtook *everyone,* honking on blind curves, bouncing over massive potholes and rocks, splashing through shallow rivers, while blasting Nepali dance music. And yes, there was a lady with chickens on the bus. There was also the most cocksure and stylish conductor, a guy about 25 who hopped off and on to round up passengers, and whistled and slapped the side of the bus to help signal when we'd squeeze by a truck on a village street. He seemed to relish his role like a mahout with a well-trained work elephant.
And so, the morning after our ten-hour bus ride, we started walking up the Buri Gandaki River valley. It took us a while to get acquainted as his English is a bit rusty and my Nepalese is nonexistent, but I quickly realized Nirkumar is awesome. He's polite and kind, often joked with passing locals, and -- rare amongst men -- didn't hesitate to ask for directions. Significant sections of the trail had collapsed in massive landslides; all that rain I had in Bhutan also fell in Nepal, with destructive and deadly results. Now, just a few weeks later, the local people had forged temporary walkways and begun the backbreaking work of fitting stones to reinforce ledges and eventually widen paths for two-way mule transit.
Mules! While trekkers use porters to carry excess stuff, a few mountaineers ferry supplies to scale the peak of Manaslu, and the villagers rely on mules for tanks of natural gas, food, and construction materials. The mule handlers' sharp whistles warn of their approach before the animals' clanging bells, and fresh poop is an indication we're on the right path when the trail is obscured.
It was so different not traveling in a big group, with sun all day every day, crisscrossing the river on massive suspension bridges, among lots of local people walking between villages. It was also different carrying 25 lbs. instead of 10 lbs., and spending the evening indoors. But I continued the ritual of afternoon chocolate and reading.
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