Gazing at the majestic peaks of the Annapurna mountain range in Nepal is nothing short of magical, Liu Yi-ling discovers.
Nothing is as satisfying as watching dawn break over Annapurna. All is still and silent, except for the soft crunch of snow under thick-soled boots, as the mountains poke through the mist, bathed in the tawny glow of the Nepalese sun.
In 2010, 79,000 trekkers, mostly from Southeast Asia, flocked to the vast Annapurna Sanctuary, hoping to catch a glimpse of the vast amphitheater of Himalayan peaks. We were one such group.
Getting there, however, was no easy feat, especially for a large group like ours.
Of the three routes available, we chose the 12-day Annapurna Sanctuary trek, through forests of oak, rhododendron and Gurung villages - the perfect route for 23 rowdy high school students who craved adventure yet were unwilling to relinquish the luxury of hot showers for more than two weeks.
And we chose the perfect time, October, late enough to escape the monsoon, but early enough to avoid the risk of being crushed by winter avalanches.
We began our journey well-fed, rested and full of anticipation, making our way from the coastal tourist city of Pokhara to the start of our trek in one of Nepal's many double-decker "hippie buses" - complete with vinyl seats and intricate Buddhist graffiti adorning its walls.
Sticking our heads out of the window, we watched throngs of tourists threading in and out of dusty streets, and enjoyed the scent of hot local breads, known as chapatti, wafting from the market stalls, reveling in the cacophony of the civilized world before embarking on our trek.
The first days of hiking, from Dhampus to Landrung, was surprisingly relaxed. I was expecting rugged, rocky landscapes and vigorous uphill climbs. Instead, there were flat, stone paths, chestnut forests, locals tending to their crops and rolling hills that looked like cake batter falling into a tin tray.
Protected within the Annapurna Conservation Area, it felt like strolling through a Shangri-La of lush green and wispy cirrus clouds.
I was beginning to think my full pack of blister pads and dehydration salts were redundant. How wrong I was.
As we entered the gateway to the Annapurna Sanctuary, the light green hues darkened and a jagged path dotted with suspension bridges hanging precariously between two cliffs, appeared. The oppressive heat and harsh incline of the slope instantly wiped off our eager grins and killed all conversation.
While I trudged on in my shiny Columbia hiking boots, the porters, ranging in age from 15 to 50, bounded up cracked stone steps with 10 kg packs strapped on their backs and flimsy plastic sandals on their feet. As we stepped aside to let them pass (giving way to the porters being the golden rule of Annapurna courtesy), I could only muster a shame-faced nod of admiration and disbelief.
Tourist hikers were easily distinguishable by their elaborate fanny packs, hiking poles, waterproof pants and ankle-high Gortex shoes. Regardless of nationality, we greeted fellow hikers with a nod and a breathless namaste, or hello, proudly displaying the full extent of our Nepalese vocabulary.
Frequently, especially at the beginning of the trek, groups of elderly women, approached us with bags of handmade goods. Even the most frugal among us could not but help succumb to their persuasive marketing - "300 rupees, you buy Very, very nice, wear this bracelet, no more bad luck".
Other locals worked at the many lodges dotting the way with names such as "Hungry Eye" and "Sherpo Lodge", where we stocked up on glass bottles of coke, melted Twix bars and Nepalese Tea.
At mealtimes, we huddled around a rectangular table, chatting, playing cards, and rewinding after a hard day's work. The food was mostly Nepalese fare, dahl (lentils), rice, curry, and chapatti, accompanied by a variety of American Diner-type dishes, such as potatoes, buttered rolls and a bizarre desert - the Snickers roll (baked chocolate bars).
Whatever the delicacy served, we shoveled it into our mouths with enthusiasm. We devoured anything edible. The Himalayas have a way of curing picky eaters.
Days typically started at 6 am and ended at 8:30 pm, when the sky turned pitch black. Guided by the soft glow of our headlamps, we would then shuffle to our rooms, and collapse on the beds and savor the delicious warmth of our sleeping bags.
Solar-powered hot showers in tin huts, were a luxury. However, if we did manage to scrape a hot shower and enjoyed more than five minutes of steaming bliss, we would suffer, inevitably, from the vicious glares of fellow hikers.
Each day of the trek, the altitude rose, forcing us to down a white Diamox pill (to combat altitude sickness) with our breakfast. We also began to get clearer views of the snow-capped, 7,000-meter high Mount Macchapachure, dubbed "Fishtail" after its pointed double summit. Considered sacred to the God Shiva, it's off limits to hikers.
It rained on our final day toward the foot of Mount Macchapachure, an incessant, frustrating drizzle that clung to our ponchos and soaked our packs.
We watched our feet intently, cautious not to step on ubiquitous piles of cowpat, wondering how on earth a cow had managed to find its way up all those jagged stone steps that had taken us hours to climb. With the entire landscape encased in a thick fog, all we could do was walk on blindly, knowing that the majestic fishtail loomed somewhere in the distance.
The climax of our trek, however, was walking to Annapurna Base Camp, waking up at 3:30 am, clad in full gear - thermals, fleeces, goose-downs, outer ski-layers - and making our way single file through the darkness.
We arrived just in time to see Annapurna wake up. The fog lifted and the peaks, from Annapurna I to Hintchuli, became visible in the sunlight.
For a moment, we felt miniscule, insignificant, dwarfed by these majestic peaks. Annapurna I, that soars 8,091 meters into the sky, is the 10th highest summit in the world. The mountains, so rugged, so white and pristine, and so untouched by man, seemed to be daring us to take them on.
We had reached the end of our trip and I thought about the others, Frenchman Maurice Herzog in the 1950s, alpinist Ian Clough in the 70s, for whom reaching the base camp was only the beginning.
Would I come back and try to join the list of successful mountaineers The prospect, I must say, while I stood at the foothills, gazing upwards at the peaks, was tempting.
But, alas, that is for another time. After a dozen more camera flashes and several mugs of hot chocolate, we began our return trek - a big relief.
We were sunburned, hungry, covered in grime and sweat and had blisters the size and shape of beetles in between our toes - and yet we were full of euphoria.
I was elated and feeling smug - we had trekked over 94.45 km and climbed 10,173 meters.
All I needed was a hot, steaming shower.
(China Daily 01/27/2011 page19)
No comments:
Post a Comment