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I hadn't had the best night's sleep. I wasn't uncomfortable but I was too hot and I had plenty of dreams to keep my brain active. I'm prone to strange, often disturbing dreams, but they had been related to the film that night. I couldn't get it out of my head and thought about it for days to come. I was moved, maybe slightly troubled, by it but I was thinking critically it and I thought it was indeed worth thinking about. The cold but free shower, using fresh mountain water, shocked me into life and rendered my head and hands numb. I looked outside and found blue sky, with small amounts of cloud. I caught sight of my first proper peaks. We had been unknowingly surrounded by them and it was so exhilarating that I couldn't wait to get out and start walking.
We ate outside in the pleasantness. I ordered a Nepalese porridge thinking that it might look more appetising than our traditional porridge. I was wrong. At first I thought I liked it, being more of a bran style porridge with a slight spice but by the end of the bowl I was really forcing it into my mouth. As I sipped my jasmine tea I heard bells ringing, it was a yak train transporting wood in the direction of Lukla. They didn't need much coaxing by their driver, they knew their jobs. A walking train of school children followed skipping hand in hand and wearing maroon uniforms. We looked at the map, analysing our route which, for the most part, looked easy enough but a potentially challenging climax awaited.
I set off, almost skipping with excitement myself. It was just a tremendous feeling to be walking through the mountains of the Himalayas. He didn't say so but I imagined Bepin, whilst he agreed, was probably fed up of me voicing my opinions about it. The weather was hot and despite having already applied sun cream my face and neck were red. We were that bit closer to the sun and I could really feel it. The river was just as fast and angry as the day before but made for some dramatic views and a handy path to follow. As well as stone dwellings, there were numerous wooden ones too. They were dark inside, with little windows and years of staining from the smoke of the wood fire inside. It was a nice smell, to me, reminiscent of my childhood and building enormous bonfires with my father, and one that became a feature of the trek. Clothes were everywhere, hanging out to dry which was a much more difficult task than back home. Wood sat in neat piles tight up against houses allowing the awnings to keep them dry.
I was surprised by the amount of water that was all around. Obviously the large and thundering river was one source but there were waterfalls, one which we had to walk under, and streams that needed constant crossing. Smaller streams coming off the mountains were channelled into pipes, spouts or taps that ran constantly. Each had a small rock-lined pool underneath allowing for more efficient cleaning of clothes and washing of vegetables. It was such strange concept to see useful water constantly flowing. My initial thought was that it was a massive waste but what was to waste when the flow was never ending.
I had a misled notion that the Himalayas would be a beautiful but barren tundra that lacked any kind of organic feel. How wrong I was. The odd little house with the odd little person tending their crops in the many little fields that provided the region with food. The Himalayas showed itself to be a living breathing habitat where people thrived. It wasn't the dead wasteland that people just walked through. It was a magnificent testament to the Sherpa people that lived there. It was a harsh environment but one that supported a population. The thought of the little communities living happily and providing a means that allowed me to see their home made me happy. I was in the Nepalese countryside and it had proven itself to be an active and picturesque place to be.
We made our way across another suspension bridge just in time to see some yaks being driven across it. As we passed locals they continued to ask how we'd made it to the trek. They'd all heard about the crash but they didn't know we'd come in by helicopter and I began to feel like a travelling news reader. The people in their mostly traditional dress were even more colourful than the buildings in which they lived. Just like in Kathmandu, England was a popular country to come from. We stopped at a cluster of houses to escape the heat and refuel. The trek had had some steep sections but I felt that I was coping well. The lady that served us made us a nice dal baht which was plentiful in quantity. As she prepared our food I watched a yak and calf graze on her lawn. Small, bright red berries were being picked by a lady across the way. We thought they must be some kind of spice as we saw them being dried on sheets in the sun. After lunch I was again astounded by the scenery. It really was spectacular and made me feel like all the mountains that I'd seen previously were mere hillocks in comparison and I have a certain Canadian friend that I think would agree. This feeling became especially apparent when, around a corner and out of some pine trees came another first. It was a snow-capped mountain! We both stood in awe of this towering, glistening wonder. You know you're looking at a proper mountain when it has snow on its peak.
We'd reached the national park boundary. A pale yellow pagoda-style building housed an information centre and a model of the Everest region. We bought our park permits, provided our TIMS cards for inspection and marvelled at the blackboard behind the clerks. It displayed the number of visitors for the park by month for several recent years. The five thousand people in April 2010 was shocking and again made us appreciate the fact that we had the route all to ourselves. After that we did meet a German couple that were on their way back to Lukla. They'd not made it to Base Camp as they'd succumbed to the altitude and contracted a cold. They did, however, make the trek to Gokyo which is a feat in itself. To say they were on their way down they looked terrible and made us question whether the return journey would be as easy as previously thought. They were shocked to hear of the flight situation but already knew of the crash. Moving down from the office was a long and wide stone staircase that curved to meet the river at the bottom. To the left was a single piece of stone which made a small cliff face and on every inch of it there were mantras carved and painted white, making it the biggest and most impressive Mani stone we'd seen. At the wide and rocky valley bottom was another long bridge, the roaring river underfoot, with fluttering prayer flags on each cable rail. After crossing it we met an American man with not one but two Sherpa's carrying his things. There were also impressed with our helicopter flight telling us that they were not often used, especially for tourists. There was an old bridge, now disused and its slats removed, that ran diagonally from the new one but provided a vantage point for photos. The water was a pearly white from the quartz-granite sediment that it carried. It was glistening not only from reflection but also from the glittery pieces that were floating in it. We were now walking along the rocky and sandy banks of the river which was covered with tiny yellow flowers. We looked on nervously as we glared at our final nemesis for the day - a steep and relentless two hour ascent to Namche Bazaar. Namche would be the largest of the villages we would see and one that we would stay in for two nights. We had to get there first though.
We crossed the highest of all the bridges between two vertical valley sides at an angry confluence and then trudged, step by step, our way up the 400m ascent. Clouds blew in, reducing visibility and making everything damp but I was too hot to put my coat on. I was either going to get wet from the rain or wet from sweat. I asked a Sherpa how long until Namche but it was still over an hour. The irregular rocks and dirt path that had been partly washed away hampered our progress. I realised that if I kept my head down and my feat moving I could keep going. We were partly sheltered by the trees around us but we still got wet as we were submerged in cloud. The path snaked up the mountain, lulling us into a false sense of arrival at every hairpin bend where the trees thinned. A mixture of sweat and rain made its way down my face with every shuffle forward. I seemed to be using my legs less and my arms and my pole even more, trying to desperately to pull my way up the mountain. I wanted to use my other pole too but the effort of stopping and taking my rucksack off was too much to contemplate. My rucksack was not keen on the forward motion trying as it might to pull me back down the slope. We overtook several Sherpas, and one monk, during our incline but that was no compliment. They were carrying loads nearly as tall as they were in a basket strapped around their forehead. I hadn't the faintest idea how they managed to carry so much stuff, for example three 10kg bags of rice and some barrels, in such a way up a steep slope. Up and up we went. I could almost feel my stride get shorter with each step. I kept looking at the altitude reading on my GPS to get an idea of how far we were away. I don't think the altitude was the biggest pressure though, more likely my bag. I asked another Sherpa how far we were away. He said five minutes! I had to ask again to check but we'd almost made it. It was great feeling and an impressive achievement.
We scrabbled up to some buildings but before we could find a lodge to stay in we had to show our park permits and TIMS cards. We had to climb up a long flight of stairs up to the village proper. It was a painful end to a day where we'd climbed nearly one thousand metres. Namche Bazaar was not the large town I had envisaged and neither should it be up in the loft of the planet. It was, however, an important meeting and crossover point for Sherpas and travellers alike and this was shown in the diversity of establishments that were there. Being the offseason the majority of places were closed but there were bakeries, shops, internet cafes and even a massage parlour. I think the signs for these places said more than they should, for example the bakery looked like it sold chapattis, the odd loaf and a pre-packed pizza but it was still impressive. The horseshoe-shaped village was cut stepwise into the mountain we had just climbed and partially covered by cloud. The lodge we chose from the Lonely Planet book was a good one. It was a large and well run affair, owned and managed by a Buddhist lady that had two degrees from the UK. It had a restaurant which was large with pine everywhere, some varnished, and some painted brightly in the traditional fashion. There was even Wi-Fi which, just like the hot showers and food, was extortionately priced but worth it for ten minutes of email checking and blog uploading. I tried some momo for dinner, which are Nepalese dumplings in the shape of a Cornish Pasty that are either steamed or fried. It was probably, like all food in the Himalayas, partly due to the distance from Kathmandu but they were unfortunately bland. It was nice to get into my sleeping bag after a hard day on the mountain. Bepin had decided that he didn't want to join me on the challenging hike to Thame the next day as he needed to rest. I certainly wanted to but it was weather dependent. My heart rate was now up to 80bpm - a significant increase from my normal heart rate much closer to sea level but it was to be expected. I had plenty of reserve.
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