The Happy Couple

We started off quite early on our trek. Al had brought quite a sensible sized bag with him but, although we had managed to leave loads of our usual load behind, we were still both carrying quite heavy bags. Our hotel owner in Kathmandu had told us that there would be mosquitos on the trek, although no malaria, but it already seemed obvious that this was nonsense as the temperature in Syabrubese was already several degrees cooler than Kathmandu.

Weeds

Joanne and Al on the Heavenly Path

Walking through the village on the way to the main path up the valley, there was lots more of the “heavenly path” graffiti as well as lots of possible clues as to what it all meant, I thought: in the town there had been a few, but all the way along the route there were cannabis plants growing wild. Loads of them, scattered all over the place, growing like – well – weeds. In some sections there were huge patches just off the path and in others they were growing in a row down the middle of the path. Heavenly Path indeed!

First glimpse of high peaks

The walking was not too difficult, but our bags were too heavy and we hadn't done much exercise lately so we struggled a bit, especially Joanne.

Undergrowth next to the path

We had to get from about 1500m to 2470m. This was probably going to be the hardest day so I kept reminding her to pace herself since she kept going fast for a while then needing to stop completely for about as long. It wasn't necessary to go particularly fast, since we seemed to passing through the little villages in good time but Al was setting the pace a bit faster than us with his light bag. The scenery was very pleasant and reminded a lot more of Scotland than I expected. Much of the walking was through forest, along beside a river. Every now and then we got peeks at higher peaks, though, and you knew it definitely wasn't Scotland. Since we seemed to be making such good time, we stopped off a couple of the little villages for tea. Actually, most of the villages don't really have much to them except one or two tea houses. The tea house owners were all really friendly, but clearly desperate for business; they always ran out as we were passing and begged us to stop for tea or, better yet, food. We passed only a few other tourists walking in the other direction, but quite a few locals, most of them carrying huge packages strapped round their foreheads and hung down their backs. It doesn't look like a particularly comfortable way to carry anything, but they seem able to carry huge loads like that. Even these people with the huge loads still took the time (and energy) to say “namaste” as they puffed past.

The approach to Landslide

Al approaching Landslide

Our target for lunch had been a place called Landslide Lodge at a “village” simply called Landslide. We stopped for tea at a place we assumed was still some distance before Landslide, but there was a sign nearby which said “Landslide Hotel” on it. We asked the owner if it was Landslide and he said “Yes, this Landslide. This hot spring. This everything”. We knew there was a hot spring somewhere on the route, but it sounded just a bit like he was trying to be all things to all people in fact he'd almost said as much. Not long after he said it, though, there was a thunderous noise and a cascade of rocks poured down the hill and over the path, where we had just been walking. Did he have a friend up there to kick rocks down to help convince tourists this was Landslide?

View from inside the tea house at Landslide

There were several different signs around, and the sign in front of the building did not match the name above the door, and this did not match the name on the menu. We had begun monitoring the menus to try and get an idea of what the prices were doing. As expected they had jumped as soon as we left Syabrubese, so we quickly noted established a few benchmark items through which we could gauge each place. The daal bhaat index and the momo index has only risen slightly so far, but the beer index had already jumped past the affordable level. We left the place of many names, expecting to continue for maybe an hour before lunch but, just round the corner from this guy who had been pleading with us to stay for lunch, was Landslide Hotel.

View from Landslide

We stopped there for lunch but felt a little guilty since we were only just out of sight of the last place. The owner of Landslide Hotel was holding a printout and frowning. He asked Al if he could help him translate “because I'm not an educated man”. It was an email in English from someone in Germany who had run out of money, saying that he had transferred what he owed to the owner's bank account. However the email was about two years old! Had he been sitting there for two years trying to work out what the email said? Al and I both had momos, which were very nice, and Joanne had a disappointing noodle soup thing. Unfortunately buff momos were not on the menu, but the veg ones were very nice: spinach and garlic. I had ordered a raksi just to find out what it was and because it was cheap. As I'd been hoping it was alcoholic: it's locally produced millet wine, so it doesn't have the huge premium added to beer to pay for the porters to carry it up the valley. When it came to pay the bill he asked us to write it down and add it up. Very trusting, but I suppose he has little choice if he's as uneducated as he claims. Just as we were getting ready to go some animal moved around in the bushes. He pointed it out to us and told us we were very lucky. I didn't get a good enough look to be sure what it was, but there are red pandas in the area, as well as various monkeys. I'm sure it was one of the two.

Joanne at Bamboo

Not long later we were at Bamboo, where we stopped again for tea. This was the last place before our final destination so we seemed to be making great time, however referring to the guidebook revealed that we had not yet clocked up even half the day's ascent. We had started to notice that the menus were fairly generic and most of them did not say the name of the tea house they were in, in fact most of them said the name of a tea house or hotel further up the valley. We later realised that the places at the top of the valley must pass their the menus on down the valley each time they have a new one printed; this way the further down the valley you are, you older the prices are you are paying. At the bottom the menus must be about four years old.

Nice forest path

Joanne carrying her heavy bag

The rest of the day's trek was quite a hike. Quite steep sections, although not once did it get anywhere near the sort of difficult terrain you have to tackle on an average day's hillwalking in Scotland; apart from anything else the trail was a huge built highway by Scottish standards. The weather held out for the whole day and, although it was quite cloudy at times, there was no rain at all. We eventually got to Rimche at 2470m, where we had been thinking of staying, rather than going on to the “big town” of Changtang, known as Lama Hotel, which the Lonely Planet trekking guide had decreed was the end of the first day. We had to be a little bit careful about altitude from the following day on, but we weren't high enough to have to worry yet. However Lama Hotel is lower than Rimche, so we would be getting a head start on the acclimatisation and staying in a smaller, nicer, we expected, place. Rimche is split into Lower and Upper Rimche and we almost ended up stopping too soon when an owner swore blind that we were in Rimche.

The river we follwed up the valley

However we had the name of the place we were heading to: Ganesh View, which was actually still quite a climb from Lower Rimche. As we approached a sign said “Best shower on the Langtang – a customer” which sounded like an awfully nice idea. Most of the day people had been offering us free rooms if only we would stay, therefore eating and drinking with them. Some actually sounded like they just wanted the company and several of them said they were very bored with no tourists. So we tried it here and it paid off: as long as we kept our voices down she would give us the room for free. The two Americans, who had been on top of the bus with us and spoke Nepali were already there and presumably not getting their room for free. We almost completely failed to make conversation with them and in the end gave up. They were about as friendly as Indians. One by one we took a shower and amazingly the solar shower had enough water for all five of us, and it was still hot at the end. In fact it was so hot that you needed to add some cold water. Electricity was there but very limited as that is also entirely solar. Ganesh View was a lovely place, with beautiful views down the valley and up towards some of the higher peaks. One of the few things the Americans did say to us was to tip us off that daal bhaat was the menu option to go for if you wanted value for money. Joanne and Al both ordered it, but I couldn't resist more momos, which were delicious again. The daal bhaat was certainly good value and came with a free refill of both rice and daal. I made a particularly good discovery there: mustang coffee, which was only Rs60 compared to about Rs250 for a beer, has a large slug of local spirit in it, mustang I suppose, which is probably distilled raksi. Mustang coffees have all the warming qualities of an Irish coffee or a hot toddy. And we felt quite chilly that night, so we needed a few.

Ganesh View

We got up on time and took a taxi to the bus station, just to make sure we were on time. Even the taxi driver was very friendly. We continued to be amazed by the difference in friendliness after India. In fact, after only a few hours in Kathmandu, Joanne had asked me if I knew what this “namaste” word meant, that everyone was saying to us. It is Nepali for “hello” or “how are you?”. Interestingly it is the same in Hindi but after a week in India we hadn't heard it once. Yet in a few hours in Nepal's capitol we were showered in greetings. In fact it means literally “I salute the god in you”.

The start of our trek was at a place called Syabrubese at the foot of the Langtang Valley. There was a bus direct to there, but we needed to obtain park permits at Dhunche which is about one hour before you get to Syabrubese, so we weren't sure whether we'd have to get off at Dhunche and get another bus from there. The Lonely Planet advised that you could just turn up before the bus leaves so we had not bothered to book it in advance, in fact we didn't know whether it was possible. When we arrived at the bus stop it was starting to rain a bit. This is what we had resigned ourselves to: seven or eight days of getting soaked and munched by leeches. The conductor told us that the bus would be stopping at Dhunche for 15 minutes, which we hoped would be enough time to get our park permits and TIMS cards, new things they were introducing to try and keep track of whether foreigners had returned when they had planned. We decided to gamble and just bought tickets all the way to Syabrubese. “Only roof” he told us when we bought the tickets. There were no seats left – why do we ever believe anything to Lonely Planet says?

Under the tarp on top of the bus

Joanne was very unhappy about the prospect of sitting on the roof of the bus and I was a bit nervous myself. Al seemed quite happy because, he explained, you at least get a chance to stretch out on the roof. True, the seats left less rooms for your legs than the back seat of a Carrera, but I really didn't fancy the nine hour journey getting soaked with rain, even with my new poncho on. Incidentally, that's 137km in nine hours, which had already given us some clue as to the sort of road we could expect. The roof is also where they store all of the luggage because these little buses don't have a boot and the luggage is usually covered with a large tarpaulin when it is raining. Our bus did not seem to have any tarpaulin, but after a bit of pleading with a boy who was helping load the bus, he appeared with a brand new one for us. So that was how the journey started: us playing “den”, hiding in the surreal blue world of the tarp, isolated from the rain and the rest of outside.

On top of the bus, free from the tarp

Every so often the bus stopped and I could feel people brushing past me and the edge along the top of the bus to the open end at the back. People started to squash up a bit and my cherished legroom began to shrink as my feet were shoved in ever closer. After about two hours of this strange isolation, we became aware of a bit more air blowing through our den, and noticed that the rain had almost stopped; some people had peeled the tarpaulin back from the edges to get their heads out, so we took this as our queue, as people at the front of the roof where the tarpaulin was tucked in, to gather the whole lot up and roll it up in front of us. There were an unbelievable number of people on the roof. It had started off probably under ten, but with all the stops there were now over twenty people clinging on. What a change being able to see the outside made. Up to that point we had been enduring, but now had become quite pleasurable and very exhilarating: the freedom, the wind blowing through our hair, the views, and the fun of ducking all the low branches which, up till then, had been deflected by the tarpaulin enough that we hadn't needed to worry. Not long after we were liberate from the tarpaulin, the bus stopped and a conductor shouted up something in Nepali. People started to climb down, some walking ahead, others clinging on to the side of the bus. When all the Nepalis except one old guy were off the roof, we started again and just round the next corner was a check point. I'm not sure whether the uniforms were police of army, but this was apparently the reason for the change of weight distribution. An American girl who'd hardly said a word so far announced that they're not allowed people on the top of the bus, but they don't really mind about foreigners; apparently she could speak Nepali. I suppose the elderly must get the same dispensation. As soon as we were round the next corner, everyone jumped back on top of the bus again. What a farce!

Me and Al on top of the bus

After about another hour we stopped for lunch. Everyone from the bus seemed to sit down for a large plate of rice and daal. The take-up was so complete I wondered whether it might be included in the ticket and nobody had bothered to tell us. We tried sitting down as well. “Nepali set meal?” we were asked and nodded our assent. The rice and daal was a bit boring so, when we were offered some chicken I agreed, but Joanne declined, not liking unidentifiable sinewy bits of animal you have to eat off the bone. They were even bringing round the daal and offering refills. I thought it might be free, but Joanne went to the counter as I was finishing off and shouted over in alarm that they wanted Rs350. Considering I'd had excellent chilly momos for only Rs60 the day before, I was expecting this bland basic food to come to no more than Rs100 for the two of us. I got up to complain and begin haggling, but Joanne said that everyone else was paying the same; that was just the cost. The “daal bhaat” was Rs150 and the tiny mouthful of gristly chicken was Rs50. At least the refills were free. Mental note was duly made: never sit down to eat without first asking the price, especially in a roadside cafe.

The view around the bus

The muddy bit where we got stuck

While we had been eating our lunch, something had happened with the bus: all the luggage had been thrown from the roof of one bus to another, and lots of people were piling on top. Our good places were gone! We managed to find a place close enough to our bags to keep a bit of an eye on them, but people were sitting on them and we were left to perch at the very edge of the bus. I don't know how many people were on the top of the bus now, but Al's estimate when relaying the story later was that there were fifty people on top. I doubt there were really that many, but I'm fairly sure there were more than thirty on top and hanging onto the sides, at the busiest. After lunch the road had taken a turn for the scarier: we were now well and truly into the mountains and the tarmac was long behind us now. For the rest of the trip we were bouncing up and down, clinging onto the edge of the bus, as it twisted round tight corners, over the remains of landslides, and only just kept all four wheels on the road. Actually at times I think part of the outside tyres were over the edge, but I didn't want to lean out that far to check.

My view off the bus

At one point there was a sharp turn into a climb where it looked like there had been a recent landslide, but the road had not yet been restored to it's former “high quality”. The bus got stuck in the mud and we spent about twenty minutes sliding across the road with the wheels spinning, as the conductors threw stones and drier dirt under the wheels to try and offer some purchase. I was pretty scared at this point; although the fact the road had just twisted back on itself meant the bus would only tumble a few metres before coming to a rest, instead of the several hundred metres promised for most of the journey, I still thought that would result in plenty of casualties, and I started thinking about which direction to jump from the top of the bus if it went over the edge. A shovel appeared from somewhere and a bit of digging in addition to the rocks finally got us moving again. By that time there was a traffic jam behind us: three other buses all loaded with people waited in a queue. None of the other buses had as many people on top as ours, which is maybe why none of the others appeared to get stuck and they were soon driving right up behind us beeping intently. One by one the other buses sneaked past us at various terrifying points in the road, which had not improved much after where we were stuck.

Another view down the side of the bus

The last few hours before Dhunche were through lovely mountain scenery, but the drops below the crumbly road very terrifying. The section with all the scariest drops also had very uneven sections of road, meaning that the bus leant over by an alarming amount always, it seemed, in the direction of the drop; the inside part of the road was always the higher one. Even the Nepalis were looking quite scared, and nervous giggling and whooping accompanied this part of the trip. I was seriously consider the escape route now; luckily for this section our side of the bus was looking toward the looming rocks above rather than the chasm below, so we probably did stand some change of being able to jump clear if we went at the right moment. In the end I couldn't keep the anxiety up for that amount of time and I found myself adopting more of a fatalistic state of mind: the driver did this all the time, as did many of the passengers but, if he made a mistake, what realistically could I do? Better just to relax, enjoy the scenery, and treat it like a fairground ride, where the tacit assumption is your own survival. That did the trick and I had a great time for the rest of the journey.

Syabrubese and prayer flags

The stop in Dhunche went smoothly and we got our permits. The TIMS card was slightly different: we filled in an application form, but didn't get an actual card. The official told us that we should have applied in Kathmandu if we wanted one, but said all we would be required to show was our permit. The last hour of the bus journey were incredibly uncomfortable. Enough people got off at Dhunche that we were told to get back on inside the bus. It was only 15km, but it was the bumpiest road in existence. By the time we reached Syabrubese my spine felt like it had been compacted by all the bouncing and my knees were bruised quite badly from being crammed in behind the seat in front. Throughout the latter part of the journey, there had been occasional graffiti, all in red paint, many of them including a large question mark with a spiral at the bottom. Most of them also said “Heavenly Path” and something in the Devenagari script used by both Hindi and Nepali; some said “Lovism”. During this last section, after the park border at Dhunche, the frequency had increased so that it seemed every second boulder was daubed in red. I was none the wiser; could it be some Buddhist spiritual thing?

Bus waiting for the morning

Syabrubese is a quiet little one-street town, surrounded by mountains. We went into the first hotel just to find our what the cost would be. The LP had warned us that prices in the mountains can be very high, and the further away from the road you get the higher they climb. I suppose this place still qualifies as on the road, although it is insane to drive buses along it. Inside Potala guesthouse the owner asked “How much do you want to pay?” which took us slightly aback. No tourists, he explained. Rs200 for both room, Al ventured, and the guy said OK immediately. The room rates were on the menu and we discovered that we had just got 50% off. Well done to us for coming after peak season! The food and drink prices were quite a bit higher than Kathmandu but we were expecting this; after all the goods have to go through the same nightmare journey to get there. We went out for a wee walk around town, but there wasn't much to it, and half of that was closed. So Al and I each got a peg of whisky and we discussed the trek route before getting and early night. We didn't have much choice about the early night because soon after it was dark, everything shut.

Hills around Syabrubese

Trips:

Shorthand link:

Buddy List

Shopping in Kathmandu

Kathmandu, Nepal

Descent

Syabru Bensi, Nepal

Nepal

Langtang, Nepal

Long walk to Langtang Shisha and back

Kyanjin Gompa, Nepal

Kyanjin Ri

Kyanjin Gompa, Nepal

Road to Kyanjin Gompa

Kyanjin Gompa, Nepal

Prayer sheet party

Langtang, Nepal

Heavenly Path

Rimche, Nepal

Nightmare bus journey of hell

Syabru Bensi, Nepal

Kathmandu - like India, but nice.

Kathmandu, Nepal

Heading South?