The Otherworld

Behind the Himalayan wall lies the rainshadow of Upper Mustang in all its arid glory. Here is my account of venturing into the otherworld.

Arid lands, snow-capped mountains, barren hills and nothingness. We found ourselves in the smack middle of nowhere, with not a soul in sight. Prayer flags fluttered and predatory birds overhead struggled to stay aflight against a battery of cold, dry gusts. Perhaps they were checking on if we were still moving. Drenched in sweat, out of breath and near-roasted from the midday sun, we were - barely. Spent, at the first pass we lay listless.

The trudge from the walled city of Lo Manthang to the secluded village of Samzong was all too oblivious. It was one of the villages not connected by roads, which meant steep uphill foot trails nobody had warned us about, and the cloudy morning skies but a joke. With bits of skin already burnt and peeling off, the decision of taking more energy bars instead of sunblock was instantly regretted. But the woes paled amidst ghostly appearance of Upper Mustang before our eyes. Surreal as they were in picturesque shades of brown, white, red, black and silver, giant green massifs over barren dune-like hills and rocky canyons dominated the landscape. We sat in awe with a deadpan look and not a word uttered.

The trek to Upper Mustang, formerly Kingdom of Lo, began with a jeepride from Kagbeni by Kali Gandaki River to Lo Manthang. Thanks to landslides and the lovely transportation syndicates, we lost count of the number of times we had to switch jeeps. We shared ours with a lively bunch of locals, which included a jolly grandmother, a drunk construction worker, a shy monk and a lot of dust. Amused they clearly were by the million photos we took like dutiful tourists, for the alienscape terrain to travellers like us was downright exotic. Despite having ventured on quite a few treks, never had I encountered such an extraordinary sight, completely desertified and jagged, and monasteries thousands of years old dotting the entire region. The slogans of Everest and Buddha chanted to reinforce nationalism do no justice to the heavenly calm and sandy emptiness of Lo’s countryside.

Upper Mustang comprises of the land above Kagbeni, and boasts a predominantly Tibetan culture. Indeed, it falls on the southern tip of the Tibetan plateau, within Nepal. The land was closed to foreigners until 1992, and now requires a special permit of USD 500 for 10 days. (Entry is free for Nepalese nationals.) An important trade route between Tibet and Nepal, Mustang was an independent kingdom till the 17th century when it was annexed by Nepal. It was the last kingdom to give up monarchy when the unofficial King of Lo stepped down in 2008. The border-crossing at Kora La pass along is still used to trade goods to and from Mustang. That explains the countless convenient stores in Mustang that sell an eclectic assortment of Chinese goods including Chinese Coke and godawful cookies that I shouldn’t have bought as trail munchies.

A rest longer than planned waned our lethargy and got us hurrying down to Samzong. As we approached the settlement, a crescendo of howling Tibetan Mastiffs soon had us sluggish tourists frantically looking for refuge. A woman in her 30s witnessed our plight and shooed the dogs off. We sighed in relief only to be met with cheeky chuckles of her 6-year-old daughter Dhoka Gurung. They led us inside their mud home and offered us stay. The less trodden Samzong village was another story altogether, with ruins of an ancient settlement and caves towering above the houses on one side, and unearthly black massifs on the other. The time shared with the Gurungs in their humble abode was easily the best Mustangi experience I could ask for. Save the onslaught of butter salt tea, which requires some getting used to.

For the next eight days, we trekked through secluded parts of Upper Mustang before heading back to Kagbeni. Not without more wonder, horror, surprise and butter tea of course. A certain Krishna Sunuwar in Ghiling deserves a special mention for trying to brush off his pot plantation as a science experiment.  It so happened that he was the lucky husband of the garrulous grandma we met in our jeepride. Lavish buckwheat rotis and homemade chhyang lovingly served by granny Phulmaya threatened to turn our lunch into siestas, but we dragged on.

Somehow amidst tumbling boulders, spider bites, ferocious dogs and sleepy monastery caretakers we reached Kagbeni on schedule. The wilderness, the welcoming people and a culture lost in time certainly tell me that it won’t be long before I’m back in the Forbidden Kingdom of Upper Mustang.

A Million Blue Hues

Trek to Rara Lake, where you’ll be bedazzled by the sublime beauty of the crystal clear waters on which dances a million blue hues.

“Often in moonless nights, it comes alive,” said a short-statured Gurung man we shared the bonfire with. He pointed at the clear sky above and added, “We call it the White Rainbow.” Waiting restlessly for our dinner at the end of a tiring day having traversed along glacier-fed Karnali River, we knew the streak overheard was anything but a rainbow. It was the Milky Way Galaxy – behind stars in their millions seen in distinct clarity of the night and meteorites that we lost count of that ripped through the hypnotic skies.

Our trek from Simikot to Rara Lake had started a couple of days prior with a humid and sweaty queue at Nepalgunj Airport as we queued up to board the first flight to Simikot. Having heard endlessly about the fabled trek over the years, it had made its way to a bucketlist of sorts, conveniently above lesser nuptial goals. Upon landing in Simikot far west of Nepal, we were instantly breathing the freshest air we had in awhile. The tiny town on a cliff was surrounded by hills on one side and peaks on the other, across Karnali. As we walked down the market, we felt Simikot had a really friendly vibe to it and people appeared too friendly to be true.

The trails we walked on were shared with old ladies headed to the market and mules carrying heavy loads on their backs. Rice, salt and apples among other goods for villages farther off. At the time of our trek, it was the season for apple harvesting and we didn’t fail to turn heads and draw an offer for an apple. Ripe ones would go straight to the tummy while raw ones went to dry in a bottle, some fantastic pickle in the making.

After passing several Magar villages for the first couple of days, we were brought to the tiny settlement called Sun Khada. At the base of our first tough pass or Lek at 3,600m in altitude – mountains for us born-and-bred urbanlings, mere hills for the locals – we’d look at the sky in amazement and beat the night chill around a bonfire. We were promised a hotel by locals we met on the way. But interestingly, this turned out to be a home of an elderly lady who let weary travellers crash at her place for a tiny fee. The nearest neighbors were at least a couple of hours away, which then made it possible for guests – not just trekkers like us, but also inhabitants of Humla and Mugu – to reach their destinations on long-haul treks. The stretch between Simikot and Rara is considered some of the most inaccessible places in Nepal and can demand several days of walking to reach one’s destination. So rooming with tired local travellers won’t be very surprising.

On this flawless night, guests the lady hosted were ourselves and the short man, garrulous and short-statured man, returning from Simikot having seen his sister off. He too would be sharing the route with us the following day and willingly volunteered to guide us to the lek. We prayed his navigation was not quite as iffy as his astronomical skills. We shared stories of life and travesties while snotty children ran amok, dressed shabbily, which for a region as remote hasn’t fallen out of fashion. Our supper got cooked on firewood stove and utensils but smoked and dented, probably decades old. Two hearty servings of rice and potato soup, plucked fresh from the garden, got us early to bed. The hardwood planks that doubled as a bed came without warning, but we tried to get a good night’s sleep to wake up early next morning and make the pass.

Two days of trekking here was enough to drop our expectations of any facilities even remotely luxurious, like a toilet for instance. Some houses do get due credit for having one, made obvious from a signage at their door. “We are proud to have a toilet in our home,” they read, which as comical as it was sad, reiterated seclusion of this region. The home we crashed in wasn’t one of them, which meant nights called for a chilly and dodgy walk to the bushes, braving stinging nettles and strange insects. This made us appreciate our lives back home even more.

Unlike a commercial lodge, our stay cost us barely anything though the experience was quite out of this world in its own rights. The old lady squinted at the two bills of hundred we handed her. “I can’t read,” she said, and stared hard at the money. “I have to look at the color to tell how much it is.” It so happened that like many women her age in the region, she never went to school. In the dim lights before dawn, she craftily stashed her revenue in an improvised safe, a pressure cooker, and wished us well for the tough ascent. As we started walking, Gurung went on to explain how the region lacked medicinal knowledge and explained about herbs they improvised to treat various maladies, including diarrhea and poor eyesight. “At altitudes this high the vegetation is pristine and there are ayurvedic experts who come up with natural potions,” he claimed. But these claims seemed questionable when he attributed anti-carcinogenic properties to an arbitrary species of fungus we found on the way.

The climb was intimidating and the ridge looked like it wouldn’t ever end. Amidst giant trees, we were shrunk to bite-sized chunks for bears we were told lurked in the dark corners of the woods. Blooming yellow flowers were incongruous to abandoned shacks used by travellers during winter time when it’d snow hard, and also our pit stops to make the climb less daunting. Natural spring waters tasted like heaven, and made us utterly forget uphill woes. After two hours on wet trails, we finally reached the top to find ourselves rewarded with bird’s eye view of tiny villages at the bottom and the might of Karnali that appeared like a trickling brooklet.

The intriguing culture throughout the trekking route was somewhat aboriginal indeed, which was most pronounced in the village of Simali. Women in a hot and sweaty day would casually walked about with their bosom freely breathing air, unencumbered by social constructs. Kids as small as five or six would gallop on their tiny mules, returning from other townships and villages upon finishing their delivery. Most men nonetheless were mysteriously missing, which upon a quick inquiry with other locals became evident that Humla and Mugu are no exception to the problem of youth emigration.

Nepalese people are generally quite inquisitive, perhaps intrusively so. While lunching at Simali, we were surrounded by a horde and we least of all hadn’t expected a Spanish inquisition. “Are you paid to travel?” would ask a male figure of the house where we ate. “How much do you earn from coming here?” another curious cat would follow up. Their benign questions would be somewhat of an offence in cities. But without further ado, they would go on, “How much did that camera cost?” Our usual lunch of millet bread and potatoes would be embellished with piercing questions. Several shameless servings later, we lied down on the floor, lulled and subdued. Yet the questions didn’t stop: “How many children do you have?”

A few more leks followed and the culture we experienced in the trek remained as pristine as the air was pure, people humble and nature untouched. I can’t say the same thing about a couple of villages which could clearly use a broom and a fly swatter. Towards the last stretch of the trek, signs of modernity became more evident, not excluding a hairstyle and guyliner on a bloke inspired by Korean movies, welcoming us to Mugu’s capital Gamgadi. Huffing and puffing, we left the town’s commotion behind marching towards Rara National Park, just a stone’s throw away.

Two hours later, we found ourselves under blunt glares of a soldier at the park entrance. “Dump everything from your bags onto the crate!” he ordained. It became obvious that they took security seriously at the park. Among our excited bunch was a father-son duo, locals looking for a quiet excursion and goat herders on a quest for their runaway cattle. Also present was a visibly distraught group of red panda specialists, conducting research on habitat of the endangered species.

The final hours to Rara Lake took us through the park’s dense jungle. Veiled by the dense foliage we could barely make out what hid behind, until we reached the shore and lo and behold – infinite shades of blue rippling across the lake. Reflections of the clouds danced on the surface of Rara Lake and turquoise blended effortlessly to deepest azure. Unspoilt greenery abound and gulls soared above while snowcapped peaks in the horizon complemented the serenity and beauty of the lake. We immediately proceeded to get our feets wet until getting sternly asked by authorities to step out of the water, crystal clear where fish could be seen wriggling through weeds, making the entire lake appear like an exotic aquarium. We settled in the quiet Danphe Hotel and got a good night’s sleep overlooking Rara.

It took us a fortnight of trekking on immaculately remote trails to reach Rara Lake, where let alone tourists, even locals would be hard to find on the route, where legs got totalled and ego tossed right out the window by gruelling climbs under unforgiving sun, where Rara’s glittering waters bedazzled Nepal’s far west and made the million blue hues seem like a lucid dream come true.

Kapuche: The Virgin Glacial Lake

The Gurung village of Sikles and an epic journey to the virgin glacial lake of Annapurna II - where not a even a soul, neither a local nor a tourist, crossed paths - wrapped up a short but awe-inspiring trek.

Four days to spare, a fairly mediocre shape and no plans were what we had shown up in Pokhara with. Binging beer along the lakeside in the evening, my friend and I juggled our options, though in vain, to plan an adventurous trekking trip, and by the sixth round we’d almost given up. Just as we came close to settling for the cliched boating by the day and partying by the night, a rather nosey but helpful waiter casually suggested, “Try Sikles. It’s a beautiful village about four or five hours away. The first bus leaves at 7am from a station nearby.”

I’d come across that name a few times somewhere, but remained skeptical of the idea.

“It’s a Gurung settlement, pristine and you can see Lamjung Himal up close. Like you can almost touch it.”

This was tempting.

“Passing through Sikles, you’ll be able to reach Annapurna II’s glacier and lake in just two days from here. It’s is also one of the lowest in the world.”

Eyes lit up and the deal was sealed. We bottomed up our drinks, set our alarms and called it a night.

Little did we know once we reached Kaaukhola bus station that the first bus of the day to Sikles was also the last. The crammed, old bus looked like it couldn’t take a couple more barely awake trekkers. Before we knew it, we found ourselves cringing on the roof. The five-hour drive on dirt roads, we were told, was not going to be particularly pleasant. We held on tight on ropes and bags and whatever we could lay our hands on. Half way through the ride, they popped up in the horizon - Annapurna II and Lamjung Himal almost like a poster, out of nowhere, appeared right in front of us. The snowcapped rock were a sharp contrast to the lush greenery abound. With each passing minute, the road got bumpier, the gorge below deeper and the mountains more majestic - all made for one heck of a bus ride. Woes of a sore butt from being tossed around on the bus roof, blistered arms from holding onto dear life and regrets of previous night’s debauchery nonetheless lingered. Yet in all fairness, we’d have missed the show had we sat inside.

We arrived in Sikles past noon and already blessed with a pleasant weather, prepared to take a quick tour of the village before heading to Namaste Guest House, one we were recommended. A maze of cobbled and clean alleways felt instantly inviting, as did the wide grins of locals who would come to talk to us. The clay houses were as pretty as ever, well decorated and upkept. A steel tower though flimsily built by the locals gave a perfect view of the village with Lamjung Himal peeking at the back. With almost 700 houses in a thick settlement, Sikles is not an easy navigation, but we got around fine. Namaste happened to be a clean and small tea house in the heart of Sikles. Run by Maila Gurung, a chatty and rather well known local figure, who happily volunteered to be our guide to the glacier.

After a fat breakfast next morning we began the 6-hour trek for the day. The gradual descent on stoney steps turned into dirt trails, and the spectacular views of the mountains graced us along. We crossed a suspension bridge and started the uphill on tiny steps against a barren cliff with a steep drop on the side, all the way down to Madi River, which originates from the lake. The sun by this hour was scorching and the solace of a thick canopy finally came at the end of the climb as we entered into the woods. Not to mentioned, a giant waterfall no less than 70 meters in height was the perfect resting spot.

As we inched along, the mountains looked steeper but the landscape around was unchanged and still lush. Barely trodden trails and precarious bridges took us to a lone goat shed, also our stay for the night, a couple of hours short of the glacier. Maila explained, “Until a few years ago, there used to be close to a dozen houses. People were involved in goat herding and honey hunting, but now the trade is dying.” As we were approached by a slender old man, Maila continued, “That is Major Gurung, he is an ace honey hunter but also among the last of his tribe. He is trying to revive his trade by training the young generation.” After a modest dinner of dheedo (millet paste) and potatoes with the hosts, we managed to get some good sleep, though I didn’t want to find out what were making those howling sounds all night.

The final couple of hours from the goat shed on fairly flat and shrubby trails took us to the edge of a cliff. Coming out of the bushes, we stood there frozen. The glacier and the emerald lake were right in front of us. Literally just a stone’s throw away! But reaching the base itself was no child's play as we maneuvered carefully over loose rocks and giant boulders, as enormous as any concrete mansion. Snow on Annapurna II melted in the heat, which sure enough triggered avalanches that deposited snow on the glacier. “If you hear a giant one coming, hide behind a rock,” cautioned Maila. We heeded the caution well but managed to disrobe and make a quick jump into the glacial lake. It was monumental and had to be done!

The unforgettable feat got us shivering, but we couldn’t stay much longer, neither soaking in the views nor waiting for the snow inching high up on the mountain’s shoulders to fall off, which could easily have been the biggest avalanche we saw that day and one that Maila had warned us about. We had a long way back to Sikles, so we packed up and headed up the cliff, not without making a narrow escape from tumbling rocks. We retraced our steps and several hours of tiresome walk later, we were back for a hot deserved shower and cold celebratory beer at Namaste.

We’re glad we chanced upon a journey to Sikles, perhaps Annapurna’s best-kept secret and a trip that would have otherwise never materialized for us. But glad at the end of the day we had an epic experience, especially the dip in the glacial lake, something we only joked we’d do as we were getting tossed and turned on the bus roof. Perhaps adventures are better off that way - unplanned and on a shoestring.

In the Midst of Mountains

Trekking to the mountains is always as challenging as it is beautiful. Whether that switched between idyllic sunshine, relentless rain or a whiteout snowfall, every gruelling step in our trek to the Himalayas was worth it. Trepidations of embarking to high altitudes was thrown into thin air as the night sky glittered with stars, and snow-capped mountains that surrounded us in every direction burst into a majestic sunrise at the Annapurna Base Camp.

Adrift on calm waters of Phewa Lake I massaged my hamstrings in vain attempts to relieve a burning sore. Five hours of involuntary manspreading from Kathmandu to Pokhara in a bus that claimed to have extra legroom (and WiFi) had taken its toll. Yet the discomfort paled before Annapurnas’ grandeur, albeit partially hidden behind scattered clouds. We rejoiced in the morning mist on our last boat ride ensued by a hefty sandwich vital for any trek.

We drove off on jeep from Halan Chowk and after a couple of hours reached Phedi, the starting point of our 9-day trek to Annapurna Base Camp at 4,130m. The gradual uphill climb on stony steps to Dhampus was mere prelude of what awaited. Amidst rice and millet terraces, we slowly made our way up on steps and as the sun scorched, made our way through midhills. With a backpack over 20kgs strapped on my back, the climb would get quite exhausting at times. Layers of clothes got shed by the time we got used to the steps that seemed to know no end. The occasional chautaras as well as Gurung settlements along the wide trail did wonders to help us catch our breath and appreciate the greenery.

Crossing dodgy suspension bridges we reached thick woods and could feel a sense of remoteness of our adventure. Bulls possessive of their femmes were certainly a threat, especially if you had to walk past them while they were mating, which we encountered on more than a few occasions. A brief stop at a shop that sold nak cheese made us smirk on the typo, only to realize that it was not yaks, but their female counterparts naks, that make cheese. As we zeroed in on our first destination Landruk, mountains popped up prominently in a distance just in time to quell complaints about painful legs from uphill walk.

Annapurna’s massifs from the restive Pothana village seemed like from another world altogether. Macchapuchare in its photogenic glory was indeed a treat to the eyes over lunch so delicious that the most insatiable of food critics would be silenced and left salivating for more. After hogging down more servings of dal bhat than we’re proud of, we trailed on, bloated and happy. By this time, the clouds were moving in, which was quite a respite after the dog day afternoon. Weather was in fact perfect as we reached our destination in Landruk. We were settled into our rooms and served hot homemade millet brew called raksi, affectionately called tharra or local. The sleep here was hearty and the sight of the first sight of mountains in the horizon was one to behold.

The jeep tracks from Landruk would dwindle to trails through a forest followed by a gorgeous waterfall. Making our way down towards the fresh white waters of Modi River, we reached a tiny settlement called New Bridge. Distant rolling hills would merge with haze below skies filled with cotton balls of picturesque clouds. It was interesting to note the influx of Nepali tourists, especially youngsters, as we moved up the trails, a few of whom almost tipped us over the cliff by accident when their inebriated selves couldn’t handle the rocky and slippery steps in Jhinu. It then bears pointing out that the prices of beverages (and food) can be pretty steep as it gets more remote. That’s mainly because it has to be carried by porters. We wondered where they got all that booze from. It would take about half an hour’s walk to find that out, as made a pit stop at a small hotel.

A lovely Tamang lady and her differently abled son had championed hospitality to unwitting and exhausted tourists on that climb. Tasty omelettes coupled with fresh pickles from her farm had me licking my fingers. And the liquor she crafted was true to her words: the best and strongest in the Annapurnas. Well, probably. As the only openly drunk raksi-appreciator I took a couple of pegs with the lady. She went on to explain how her last bunch of patrons – half a dozen Nepalese boys – finished a jerry can just a while earlier. No wonder. I would gladly have spent a few hours here, blown away by the jolly hosts, amazing refreshments and equally remarkable views. But we were due for Chhomrong, a ginormous town up a ginormous hill, by dark.

The backbreaking ascent to Chhomrong came without warning. The higher we climbed, the more exhausted we got and better the vantage point. Quite unfortunately, the skies were overcast and mountains up north were shrouded behind gloomy clouds. We conquered the long climb towards dusk and upon arrival at Chhomrong were greeted with chilly drizzles. As everybody prepared to put extra layers of fleece and down, mine went mysteriously missing. Must’ve left it at the omelette place, I thought. So much for merrymaking. The chill in Chhomrong would be nothing compared to the freezing cold in ABC, or so I was told. In a panic-stricken hysteria, I went around early next morning to a million shops trying to find jackets for rent. To no avail. The closest one was one with furry yak wool that made me look like a Siberian hillbilly.

I’d almost given up until I decided to have some coffee in a bakery where croissants looked like swollen boomerangs and the owner’s pretty daughter was basking in the morning sun. I decided to steer clear from the interesting delights, fearing for my tummy. Instead, I settled for some spicy noodles the young lady was having. In fact, after hearing my wardrobe predicament she invited me into her room with a smile. She slowly reached down and pulled out a rusty chest from under her bed. It was filled with medieval-looking clothes, including downjackets left behind by trekkers for her baker father almost two decades ago. Godawful smell and stains from the jackets corroborated her story. Now don’t get me wrong, a good pair to buy would cost upwards of USD 200, and renting would cost USD 10 a day. Instead, she offered it for 50 cents a day. Bingo! I was off with an oversized blue down jacket looking like a clown and smelling like fungus. And with a phone number, might I add.

We really began to feel the altitude Chhomrong onwards as we reached the last few settlements before entering Annapurna Conservation Area Project (ACAP). We arrived at a place aptly called Himalaya whence the mountains towered right above. Soldering on along Modi River raging below and surrounded by rhododendron forests, giant snow-covered peaks followed us. Our ascent seemed endless and just as our legs warmed up and got acquainted to the steps, in rolled ominous black clouds and drenched us in a matter of seconds.

Icefalls and waterfalls were a common site and walking over snow deposits become a breeze as we reached closer to Macchapuchare Base Camp, a station before ABC. The last leg to ABC had our hearts thudding with each heavy step. And if that wasn’t enough, it started snowing hard and mercury dropped further with strong headwinds. Nevermind the mountains ahead, even our steps were far from visible in the inclement weather. Notwithstanding, the eerie feeling of walking on sludge into white Himalayan oblivion was quite thrilling. We were lucky that despite such physical strain in high altitude, our breathing was normal and avoided high altitude sickness as we had taken it slow and steady since day one.

Just as we edged towards ABC on the final path, clouds started dispersing. Almost like the weather gods wanted to save the best for the last, unveiled before our eyes what were phenomenal mountains, some of the highest points on this planet, right ahead, surrounding us in every single direction. Wherever we looked, absolutely stunning sights of elaborate ridges readily took our breaths away and at night when stars lit the peaks, we would stand in awe, sighing at the mountains, ready with a wish, waiting for another meteorite to whiz past millions of stars. More than we could keep count of or even imagine to witness in the nondescript skies of the grind we had escaped.

In bouts of ogling magical landscapes, we forgot that we were soaked wet in the sleet. The heated dining hall came as a warm solace, but not without the price of a singed toe. In burning realization, the heater turned out to be nothing more than a small propane stove under the table, along with smelly boots and socks left to dry. A surprisingly delicious order of pizza was enough to make us ditch the warm room for shivering hours spent outside watching Himalayas in its glory. A peaceful night of sleep was well deserved.

The wake of dawn was no less enchanting. Braving cold chills just before sunrise, we huddled together on the hotel’s tiny patio to watch royal purple glow on Annapurna that gradually turned orange. As the first rays of sun touched the mountain’s eastern flank, a burst of yellow illuminated the summits in a magnificent show of lights and dazzling hues. Annapurna’s furious facade came to life. It was most prominently seen from a short distance away by prayer flags and memorial stones of vanished climbers, spectators in hundreds but dwarfed and humbled by the mountains’ inexplicable might. It is quite fascinating to imagine the monumental feat of conquering mountains, and in that, yourself. Though a daring few have accomplished and lived to tell the tale, memorial stones by the gumba where I stood painted a grim picture. A reminder that mountains are billions of years old, and unlike our transient lives, will be there till eternity. I stood there motionless, numbed, staring into the timeless mountains. Miniscule, as I was and felt, a mere vanishing dot in shadows of imposing rocks. It was a transcendental experience, moving, awe-inspiring and humbling to the knees to say the very least.

My thoughts were cut short when faint sounds coming from far off in the mountains drew my attention. I had lost track of time and the sun now brighter, had started melting previous day’s snow on peaks, causing avalanche high up on the peaks. They looked tiny as they swept their way down, but we knew that if one even half as big got triggered at our spot, a wrath of nature’s hell would be unleashed. The dire prophecy too much to bear led me to seek refuge in a breakfast of pancakes and eggs, which, meanwhile, had gone unregrettably cold. We were thoroughly intrigued and could stay here a whole lot longer, but had a long way to walk back. Snow, foot-deep, got shovelled out at the hotel gate while we packed our bags and prepared to bid the mountains a hesitant goodbye.

Looking back every so often to catch what was now a passing glimpse of the Annapurnas, we retraced our steps. Descents were as deceptively laborious as ascents on the now slippery trail, and especially with heavy rucksacks we were carrying, our knees took an ugly beating. But there was no stopping until walked down to Sinuwa and then Jhunu the next day. Walking back, we couldn’t help but feel proud to have climbed up steps that appeared impossibly steep.

Jhinu was an quite an experience in itself. The hot spring at a hiking distance from the village won’t be obvious. There are no shops by the pool, so our little picnic included snacks and a bottle of local brew. A week of trekking later, relaxing dip in the hot pool served our muscles well. When the heat would become unbearable, it only make sense to take a plunge into the freezing cold waters of Modi River gushing by. It would take sheer luck to avoid tirades (and harassment lawsuits) after nearly barging into ladies’ changing room, thanks to unlabelled doors. The pool was unsurprisingly abuzz with dozens of people. A group of Nepali doctors were on a weekend getaway to the hot spring. As were locals from Ghandruk and Chhomrong on a quick trip to pamper themselves. But mostly it was trekkers like us, trying to unwind and kick back.

Back in our hotel, the owners – a mid-aged down-to-earth couple – partook in an intense and prolonged dohori face-off between our guide and a French-speaking guide. Shortly before midnight as others went to bed, the troupe in dining room, myself a gawky vocal sidekick, was just getting started. After countless rounds of friendly yet intimidating exchanges (and a flurry of noise complaints from sleepy, lacklustre patrons), the party slowly crawled its way to bed well past midnight.

I woke up with a terrible hangover next morning to sensational news that would also explain the toilet filled with holy yuck. Apparently, the French guide in a bid to ease his untimely intoxication (he was with VIP clients) and an unprecedented defeat in dohori (our guide had had prevailed) thought it was a good idea to venture to the hot spring – alone and in pre-dawn pitch darkness. Almost an hour later, an ad hoc SAR team would discover the hapless monsieur a few hundred meters away passed out in cattle cesspool. Embarrassment and dung on his face evident and a foul smell made for the most grotesquely amusing story of this trip. Bad as we felt for him, got a few good laughs out of his drunken stupor.

We reached the spotlessly clean village of Ghandruk in late afternoon, also our final stop of the journey, and explored the quiet, cobbled streets. In the most perfect of Annapurna mornings, familiar sights of mountains, only distant, boasted for a fine setting to recap our trip. We hopped on a bus in Kimche and reached Pokhara in the evening, concluding a trip we’d be bragging about for a long time.

There is no wonder why Annapurna Base Camp is one of the most renowned trekking destinations in the world, one that thousands of trekkers check off from their bucket list every year. For our bunch, it was a dreamy treat to the senses, immersion in a variety of rich cultures and bonding with the wilderness. It was an emotional experience where mystical gompas dotted the snowy abode of mythical yetis, where every exhilarating stride was equal parts tough and rejuvenating, and where showers became luxury and in that cold, barely a priority. Moments spent in the midst of mountains have been etched in our hearts, and they’ve left us with enlivened spirits, tightened glutes, and daydreaming in office cubicle, a longing to return.

Wedding Nuisance

Mangal Dhun, cheesy Bollywood numbers and dohoris dominate airwaves in ornately decorated party palaces. Newlyweds tirelessly greet guests that come in hordes with bouquets and gifts. Young ladies in scant designer blouses defy the winter chill. And the free booze, the fat reason why I’m here, comes with an upsetting realization and a haunting past.

It’s that time of the year… the entire town is getting married. Close to half a dozen weddings of cousins and friends came with joy and merry brought on by all-I-can-drink beer, wine and whiskey drunk to old times and a happy future. An occasion to indulge without trepidation – that of blacking out or of a beer belly. Nothing came between me and the free flow of beer. Even grandpa’s well dreaded look of disapproval failed to deter me from celebrating, my already tarnished image brought on by my drinking habits notwithstanding. Receptions came as a godsend to break my budget-induced drinking hiatus. And with that, my liberty in revelry knew no bounds in a series of weddings.

Except this particular one which, like a mentally stigmatizing experience, like a splinter in the back of my mind, shook my foundations.

I’ve always had a thing for wedding receptions. I remember years ago during my teetotal high school days, I’d given my old bicycle to a party palace guard. The alliance was forged for a rather strategic reason: to crash weddings at the venue. He’d call me whenever there was a fancy party going on and I’d waste no time in getting into his guard jacket and queuing up in the buffet line. I was young and the thrill of conning my way to free food was all lighthearted, all in good humor.

Fast-forward a decade, and I stood there at the party by the bonfire, tipsy, downing one glass of Belgian beer after another. I socialized with the people around the fire, half of whom I didn’t know. Perhaps they were from the dula side, I wondered, but under the influence, I wasn’t even a little hesitant to brag about my drinking capacity to whoever I could. As I got more drunk, I lost focus of what the others were saying and just stared into the flames, unwary of the conversation.

Like a freight train, without a warning, it hit me – Nothing was lighthearted anymore! Folks I played guccha and hide n’ seek with were getting married. The burning realization that time had gone by in a jiffy was simply unbearable. I cringed and a small part of me silently died. I had to clear my mind. In a single gulp I bottomed the glass and, trying not to stagger, made my way through the crowd to the bar for a self-medicating round. I distracted myself by watching a couple of inebriated gentlemen take the lead to set the dancefloor on fire. Lungi Dance had gotten their bellies and bums to shake uncontrollably, which got a good laugh out of me and fellow spectators.

This was an instant fix I felt, and just when the fiery show seemed to put my drunken ponderings to rest, as if things couldn’t get any worse, out popped an army of gossip aunts from the crowd. A session of pulling my cheeks later, they got right into business: “Now it’s your turn! We’ll find a nice girl for you. Or have you already found one? What’s her caste?” Kill me! It was neither the best time nor the correct state of mind to be harassed and pestered. They were adding insult to my injury. I needed solace from this misery and stormed away for dinner. Even as I darted away, along came their intimidating last ditch cry, “Coming Mangshir!”

My system was now precariously hanging at the edge of being smashed, perhaps just a glass away from joining the Lungi guys. I knew the dinner was my last chance to pull myself together. Seated alone in a corner, I started hogging down everything I could fit on my plate, and went for more servings – the second as big as the first, and the third as the second. I couldn’t afford to skip the dessert so, still with some space for Gajar ko Haluwa, I stood in line for a plate.

I noticed someone familiar in front of me in a designer blouse and, in what was the most awkward of moments, came face to face with my ex-girlfriend (who I wasn’t on speaking terms with)! It hadn’t ended on the best of notes, for she had called off the wedding that was the supposed reason for our break up. Before I could even react, in an unprecedented psychological trauma to befall on me, the group of gossip aunts appeared once again and, pointing to my ex, said, “Anuj, have you met [name redacted]? She’s your age.”

So the party ended for me with a cold reminder: Beer is a diddly squat of a solution when time catches up and your hairline recedes, or when you’re surrounded by gossipy aunts and a forlorn ex.

5 Things to do in Nepal

1. Watch spectacular sunrise from Poon Hill
Let’s face it! You’ve either been always too late for the sunrise or you blame that giant, ungodly building in front for ruining it. Give yourself a break you’re in Pokhara next time with a taxi ride to Nayapul and a conquest to Ghorepani’s hilltop. The 6-hour trek itself is quite spectacular with innumerable waterfalls and dense moss-covered woods giving an ethereal feeling of being lost in nature. Ghorepani is the start of what will become a painful hike up to Poon Hill next morning followed by momentous views of the sunrise over the hills. Spectacular sight of first rays touching giant massifs of Dhaulagiri and Annapurna ranges takes your breath away. Speaking of which, situated at 3,210m in altitude, Poon Hill hike may lead to slight difficulty in breathing or headache, some symptoms of high altitude sickness, but we’ll take it easy on the hike and drink plenty of water. Before heading back, queue up to take a selfie with Poon Hill’s signage like it’s your best friend, with mountain in the backdrop. So next time you find yourself in bed hitting the snooze button, let it dawn on you that you’re missing out on a awe-inspiring sunrise somewhere in the Himalayas.

2. Food hop in Kathmandu
Kathmandu has secrets elusive to most guidebooks. You may be mystified by a jogi’s modern antiques in Pashupati, or take an excursion on beaten routes to the hills, and complement your siesta in a chic garden with meals that burn a hole in your pocket. Don’t get me wrong, but you won’t have lived until you’ve tried hot chhoela and chatmari in Patan’s narrowest alleyways or gotten drunk off strawberry raksi in Kakani looking at the widest stretch of mountains before your eyes – best consumed with Tamangs in their residence over a fine plate of sukuti for sittan. Or walking through Indrachowk, chug down a delicious glass of lassi or devour a plate or two of Everest momo in Naxal as you complain about prices. A spicy pani puri and chatpat marathon in Maru Galli leaves you salivating profusely but nothing that a Shreegaha’s Tang-flavored popsicle can’t beat. But if you really mean business, dip hot gwaramaris into Bhaktapur’s juju dhau laced with coconut shreddings, and there you have it – the valley à la carte!

3. Lend a helping hand
Central Nepal has been quite affected in the aftermath of earthquakes and aftershocks. Now as most parts of the country returns to business as usual, there are still countless villages in remote places where people have struggled to bring back normalcy to their lives. If you’ve ever wanted to visit Nepal, now’s the best time! Come over to see the mountains and the gorgeous culture and architecture Nepal is blessed with and take the opportunity to give back selflessly to people of Nepal who most need help. Whether in constructing schools, creating a homely environment or build livelihoods, touch lives in the most meaningful manner. Volunteer at a school as a teacher and tutor the children in any subject you feel comfortable. Help you in the farms and experience Nepal like you never could. Further, the lovely meal prepared by your host family and their hospitality in a cozy home will be as authentic a local experience as you can get. Make a memorable holiday with beloveds by mixing the passion of travelling and creating a lasting bond.

4. Take a dip in Bagmati
If you think taking a bath in Bagmati is out of question, think again. A one-hour bus from Chabil to Sundarijal takes you to the shockingly clean rapids of Bagmati River. Originating from Shivapuri National Park just above our drop-off point, the river with its verdant surrounding is nothing short of blissful. Not to mention tranquility and fresh breeze will add more punch to your nice and quiet bathing escapade. Nice and quiet if you can find a private spot, that is. More often than not, you’ll be joined by overzealous and curious butt-naked kids who proceed to show off their diving and swimming skills, splashing water hither and thither. Ignore distractions and slide into the river and let your system cool down in the fresh waters of Bagmati, which starts from Shivapuri National Park just above Sundarijal. Besides ending up with gleaming skin and refreshed spirits (and wrinkly appendages), it will also hopefully cleanse a few sins under your belt, or so goes the Hindu mythology regarding bathing in Bagmati.

5. Go Jungle Safari
Snug on an elephant’s back, embark on a jungle safari deep into the conserved woods of Chitwan. Under the dense canopy, discover a host of exotic and rare species of animals including rhinos and elephants. And if you’re incredibly lucky, face off with endangered tigers. But it’s nothing your expert Mahouts from Kasara Resort can’t take care of as you sway with your elephants swag and head back to your cottage. Spa and massage treatment as well as ad dip into the azure swimming pool after a day of exploring, boating and visiting the crocodile breeding center will soothe your muscles. The luxurious resort hosts a performance of Tharu dancers in the evening that you can enjoy with chilled beer and popcorn to top off an adventure in wilderness. To up the ante, immerse yourself culturally and ride bicycles like locals around the national park. The perfectly blended nature and modern amenities at the luxurious Kasara Resort will leave you mesmerized. There won’t be a better way to get as close to the wild as you possibly can!

The Otherworld

Behind the Himalayan wall lies the rainshadow of Upper Mustang in all its arid glory. Here is my account of venturing into the otherworld.

Arid lands, snow-capped mountains, barren hills and nothingness. We found ourselves in the smack middle of nowhere, with not a soul in sight. Prayer flags fluttered and predatory birds overhead struggled to stay aflight against a battery of cold, dry gusts. Perhaps they were checking on if we were still moving. Drenched in sweat, out of breath and near-roasted from the midday sun, we were - barely. Spent, at the first pass we lay listless.

The trudge from the walled city of Lo Manthang to the secluded village of Samzong was all too oblivious. It was one of the villages not connected by roads, which meant steep uphill foot trails nobody had warned us about, and the cloudy morning skies but a joke. With bits of skin already burnt and peeling off, the decision of taking more energy bars instead of sunblock was instantly regretted. But the woes paled amidst ghostly appearance of Upper Mustang before our eyes. Surreal as they were in picturesque shades of brown, white, red, black and silver, giant green massifs over barren dune-like hills and rocky canyons dominated the landscape. We sat in awe with a deadpan look and not a word uttered.

The trek to Upper Mustang, formerly Kingdom of Lo, began with a jeepride from Kagbeni by Kali Gandaki River to Lo Manthang. Thanks to landslides and the lovely transportation syndicates, we lost count of the number of times we had to switch jeeps. We shared ours with a lively bunch of locals, which included a jolly grandmother, a drunk construction worker, a shy monk and a lot of dust. Amused they clearly were by the million photos we took like dutiful tourists, for the alienscape terrain to travellers like us was downright exotic. Despite having ventured on quite a few treks, never had I encountered such an extraordinary sight, completely desertified and jagged, and monasteries thousands of years old dotting the entire region. The slogans of Everest and Buddha chanted to reinforce nationalism do no justice to the heavenly calm and sandy emptiness of Lo’s countryside.

Upper Mustang comprises of the land above Kagbeni, and boasts a predominantly Tibetan culture. Indeed, it falls on the southern tip of the Tibetan plateau, within Nepal. The land was closed to foreigners until 1992, and now requires a special permit of USD 500 for 10 days. (Entry is free for Nepalese nationals.) An important trade route between Tibet and Nepal, Mustang was an independent kingdom till the 17th century when it was annexed by Nepal. It was the last kingdom to give up monarchy when the unofficial King of Lo stepped down in 2008. The border-crossing at Kora La pass along is still used to trade goods to and from Mustang. That explains the countless convenient stores in Mustang that sell an eclectic assortment of Chinese goods including Chinese Coke and godawful cookies that I shouldn’t have bought as trail munchies.

A rest longer than planned waned our lethargy and got us hurrying down to Samzong. As we approached the settlement, a crescendo of howling Tibetan Mastiffs soon had us sluggish tourists frantically looking for refuge. A woman in her 30s witnessed our plight and shooed the dogs off. We sighed in relief only to be met with cheeky chuckles of her 6-year-old daughter Dhoka Gurung. They led us inside their mud home and offered us stay. The less trodden Samzong village was another story altogether, with ruins of an ancient settlement and caves towering above the houses on one side, and unearthly black massifs on the other. The time shared with the Gurungs in their humble abode was easily the best Mustangi experience I could ask for. Save the onslaught of butter salt tea, which requires some getting used to.

For the next eight days, we trekked through secluded parts of Upper Mustang before heading back to Kagbeni. Not without more wonder, horror, surprise and butter tea of course. A certain Krishna Sunuwar in Ghiling deserves a special mention for trying to brush off his pot plantation as a science experiment.  It so happened that he was the lucky husband of the garrulous grandma we met in our jeepride. Lavish buckwheat rotis and homemade chhyang lovingly served by granny Phulmaya threatened to turn our lunch into siestas, but we dragged on.

Somehow amidst tumbling boulders, spider bites, ferocious dogs and sleepy monastery caretakers we reached Kagbeni on schedule. The wilderness, the welcoming people and a culture lost in time certainly tell me that it won’t be long before I’m back in the Forbidden Kingdom of Upper Mustang.

A Million Blue Hues

Trek to Rara Lake, where you’ll be bedazzled by the sublime beauty of the crystal clear waters on which dances a million blue hues.

“Often in moonless nights, it comes alive,” said a short-statured Gurung man we shared the bonfire with. He pointed at the clear sky above and added, “We call it the White Rainbow.” Waiting restlessly for our dinner at the end of a tiring day having traversed along glacier-fed Karnali River, we knew the streak overheard was anything but a rainbow. It was the Milky Way Galaxy – behind stars in their millions seen in distinct clarity of the night and meteorites that we lost count of that ripped through the hypnotic skies.

Our trek from Simikot to Rara Lake had started a couple of days prior with a humid and sweaty queue at Nepalgunj Airport as we queued up to board the first flight to Simikot. Having heard endlessly about the fabled trek over the years, it had made its way to a bucketlist of sorts, conveniently above lesser nuptial goals. Upon landing in Simikot far west of Nepal, we were instantly breathing the freshest air we had in awhile. The tiny town on a cliff was surrounded by hills on one side and peaks on the other, across Karnali. As we walked down the market, we felt Simikot had a really friendly vibe to it and people appeared too friendly to be true.

The trails we walked on were shared with old ladies headed to the market and mules carrying heavy loads on their backs. Rice, salt and apples among other goods for villages farther off. At the time of our trek, it was the season for apple harvesting and we didn’t fail to turn heads and draw an offer for an apple. Ripe ones would go straight to the tummy while raw ones went to dry in a bottle, some fantastic pickle in the making.

After passing several Magar villages for the first couple of days, we were brought to the tiny settlement called Sun Khada. At the base of our first tough pass or Lek at 3,600m in altitude – mountains for us born-and-bred urbanlings, mere hills for the locals – we’d look at the sky in amazement and beat the night chill around a bonfire. We were promised a hotel by locals we met on the way. But interestingly, this turned out to be a home of an elderly lady who let weary travellers crash at her place for a tiny fee. The nearest neighbors were at least a couple of hours away, which then made it possible for guests – not just trekkers like us, but also inhabitants of Humla and Mugu – to reach their destinations on long-haul treks. The stretch between Simikot and Rara is considered some of the most inaccessible places in Nepal and can demand several days of walking to reach one’s destination. So rooming with tired local travellers won’t be very surprising.

On this flawless night, guests the lady hosted were ourselves and the short man, garrulous and short-statured man, returning from Simikot having seen his sister off. He too would be sharing the route with us the following day and willingly volunteered to guide us to the lek. We prayed his navigation was not quite as iffy as his astronomical skills. We shared stories of life and travesties while snotty children ran amok, dressed shabbily, which for a region as remote hasn’t fallen out of fashion. Our supper got cooked on firewood stove and utensils but smoked and dented, probably decades old. Two hearty servings of rice and potato soup, plucked fresh from the garden, got us early to bed. The hardwood planks that doubled as a bed came without warning, but we tried to get a good night’s sleep to wake up early next morning and make the pass.

Two days of trekking here was enough to drop our expectations of any facilities even remotely luxurious, like a toilet for instance. Some houses do get due credit for having one, made obvious from a signage at their door. “We are proud to have a toilet in our home,” they read, which as comical as it was sad, reiterated seclusion of this region. The home we crashed in wasn’t one of them, which meant nights called for a chilly and dodgy walk to the bushes, braving stinging nettles and strange insects. This made us appreciate our lives back home even more.

Unlike a commercial lodge, our stay cost us barely anything though the experience was quite out of this world in its own rights. The old lady squinted at the two bills of hundred we handed her. “I can’t read,” she said, and stared hard at the money. “I have to look at the color to tell how much it is.” It so happened that like many women her age in the region, she never went to school. In the dim lights before dawn, she craftily stashed her revenue in an improvised safe, a pressure cooker, and wished us well for the tough ascent. As we started walking, Gurung went on to explain how the region lacked medicinal knowledge and explained about herbs they improvised to treat various maladies, including diarrhea and poor eyesight. “At altitudes this high the vegetation is pristine and there are ayurvedic experts who come up with natural potions,” he claimed. But these claims seemed questionable when he attributed anti-carcinogenic properties to an arbitrary species of fungus we found on the way.

The climb was intimidating and the ridge looked like it wouldn’t ever end. Amidst giant trees, we were shrunk to bite-sized chunks for bears we were told lurked in the dark corners of the woods. Blooming yellow flowers were incongruous to abandoned shacks used by travellers during winter time when it’d snow hard, and also our pit stops to make the climb less daunting. Natural spring waters tasted like heaven, and made us utterly forget uphill woes. After two hours on wet trails, we finally reached the top to find ourselves rewarded with bird’s eye view of tiny villages at the bottom and the might of Karnali that appeared like a trickling brooklet.

The intriguing culture throughout the trekking route was somewhat aboriginal indeed, which was most pronounced in the village of Simali. Women in a hot and sweaty day would casually walked about with their bosom freely breathing air, unencumbered by social constructs. Kids as small as five or six would gallop on their tiny mules, returning from other townships and villages upon finishing their delivery. Most men nonetheless were mysteriously missing, which upon a quick inquiry with other locals became evident that Humla and Mugu are no exception to the problem of youth emigration.

Nepalese people are generally quite inquisitive, perhaps intrusively so. While lunching at Simali, we were surrounded by a horde and we least of all hadn’t expected a Spanish inquisition. “Are you paid to travel?” would ask a male figure of the house where we ate. “How much do you earn from coming here?” another curious cat would follow up. Their benign questions would be somewhat of an offence in cities. But without further ado, they would go on, “How much did that camera cost?” Our usual lunch of millet bread and potatoes would be embellished with piercing questions. Several shameless servings later, we lied down on the floor, lulled and subdued. Yet the questions didn’t stop: “How many children do you have?”

A few more leks followed and the culture we experienced in the trek remained as pristine as the air was pure, people humble and nature untouched. I can’t say the same thing about a couple of villages which could clearly use a broom and a fly swatter. Towards the last stretch of the trek, signs of modernity became more evident, not excluding a hairstyle and guyliner on a bloke inspired by Korean movies, welcoming us to Mugu’s capital Gamgadi. Huffing and puffing, we left the town’s commotion behind marching towards Rara National Park, just a stone’s throw away.

Two hours later, we found ourselves under blunt glares of a soldier at the park entrance. “Dump everything from your bags onto the crate!” he ordained. It became obvious that they took security seriously at the park. Among our excited bunch was a father-son duo, locals looking for a quiet excursion and goat herders on a quest for their runaway cattle. Also present was a visibly distraught group of red panda specialists, conducting research on habitat of the endangered species.

The final hours to Rara Lake took us through the park’s dense jungle. Veiled by the dense foliage we could barely make out what hid behind, until we reached the shore and lo and behold – infinite shades of blue rippling across the lake. Reflections of the clouds danced on the surface of Rara Lake and turquoise blended effortlessly to deepest azure. Unspoilt greenery abound and gulls soared above while snowcapped peaks in the horizon complemented the serenity and beauty of the lake. We immediately proceeded to get our feets wet until getting sternly asked by authorities to step out of the water, crystal clear where fish could be seen wriggling through weeds, making the entire lake appear like an exotic aquarium. We settled in the quiet Danphe Hotel and got a good night’s sleep overlooking Rara.

It took us a fortnight of trekking on immaculately remote trails to reach Rara Lake, where let alone tourists, even locals would be hard to find on the route, where legs got totalled and ego tossed right out the window by gruelling climbs under unforgiving sun, where Rara’s glittering waters bedazzled Nepal’s far west and made the million blue hues seem like a lucid dream come true.

Kapuche: The Virgin Glacial Lake

The Gurung village of Sikles and an epic journey to the virgin glacial lake of Annapurna II - where not a even a soul, neither a local nor a tourist, crossed paths - wrapped up a short but awe-inspiring trek.

Four days to spare, a fairly mediocre shape and no plans were what we had shown up in Pokhara with. Binging beer along the lakeside in the evening, my friend and I juggled our options, though in vain, to plan an adventurous trekking trip, and by the sixth round we’d almost given up. Just as we came close to settling for the cliched boating by the day and partying by the night, a rather nosey but helpful waiter casually suggested, “Try Sikles. It’s a beautiful village about four or five hours away. The first bus leaves at 7am from a station nearby.”

I’d come across that name a few times somewhere, but remained skeptical of the idea.

“It’s a Gurung settlement, pristine and you can see Lamjung Himal up close. Like you can almost touch it.”

This was tempting.

“Passing through Sikles, you’ll be able to reach Annapurna II’s glacier and lake in just two days from here. It’s is also one of the lowest in the world.”

Eyes lit up and the deal was sealed. We bottomed up our drinks, set our alarms and called it a night.

Little did we know once we reached Kaaukhola bus station that the first bus of the day to Sikles was also the last. The crammed, old bus looked like it couldn’t take a couple more barely awake trekkers. Before we knew it, we found ourselves cringing on the roof. The five-hour drive on dirt roads, we were told, was not going to be particularly pleasant. We held on tight on ropes and bags and whatever we could lay our hands on. Half way through the ride, they popped up in the horizon - Annapurna II and Lamjung Himal almost like a poster, out of nowhere, appeared right in front of us. The snowcapped rock were a sharp contrast to the lush greenery abound. With each passing minute, the road got bumpier, the gorge below deeper and the mountains more majestic - all made for one heck of a bus ride. Woes of a sore butt from being tossed around on the bus roof, blistered arms from holding onto dear life and regrets of previous night’s debauchery nonetheless lingered. Yet in all fairness, we’d have missed the show had we sat inside.

We arrived in Sikles past noon and already blessed with a pleasant weather, prepared to take a quick tour of the village before heading to Namaste Guest House, one we were recommended. A maze of cobbled and clean alleways felt instantly inviting, as did the wide grins of locals who would come to talk to us. The clay houses were as pretty as ever, well decorated and upkept. A steel tower though flimsily built by the locals gave a perfect view of the village with Lamjung Himal peeking at the back. With almost 700 houses in a thick settlement, Sikles is not an easy navigation, but we got around fine. Namaste happened to be a clean and small tea house in the heart of Sikles. Run by Maila Gurung, a chatty and rather well known local figure, who happily volunteered to be our guide to the glacier.

After a fat breakfast next morning we began the 6-hour trek for the day. The gradual descent on stoney steps turned into dirt trails, and the spectacular views of the mountains graced us along. We crossed a suspension bridge and started the uphill on tiny steps against a barren cliff with a steep drop on the side, all the way down to Madi River, which originates from the lake. The sun by this hour was scorching and the solace of a thick canopy finally came at the end of the climb as we entered into the woods. Not to mentioned, a giant waterfall no less than 70 meters in height was the perfect resting spot.

As we inched along, the mountains looked steeper but the landscape around was unchanged and still lush. Barely trodden trails and precarious bridges took us to a lone goat shed, also our stay for the night, a couple of hours short of the glacier. Maila explained, “Until a few years ago, there used to be close to a dozen houses. People were involved in goat herding and honey hunting, but now the trade is dying.” As we were approached by a slender old man, Maila continued, “That is Major Gurung, he is an ace honey hunter but also among the last of his tribe. He is trying to revive his trade by training the young generation.” After a modest dinner of dheedo (millet paste) and potatoes with the hosts, we managed to get some good sleep, though I didn’t want to find out what were making those howling sounds all night.

The final couple of hours from the goat shed on fairly flat and shrubby trails took us to the edge of a cliff. Coming out of the bushes, we stood there frozen. The glacier and the emerald lake were right in front of us. Literally just a stone’s throw away! But reaching the base itself was no child's play as we maneuvered carefully over loose rocks and giant boulders, as enormous as any concrete mansion. Snow on Annapurna II melted in the heat, which sure enough triggered avalanches that deposited snow on the glacier. “If you hear a giant one coming, hide behind a rock,” cautioned Maila. We heeded the caution well but managed to disrobe and make a quick jump into the glacial lake. It was monumental and had to be done!

The unforgettable feat got us shivering, but we couldn’t stay much longer, neither soaking in the views nor waiting for the snow inching high up on the mountain’s shoulders to fall off, which could easily have been the biggest avalanche we saw that day and one that Maila had warned us about. We had a long way back to Sikles, so we packed up and headed up the cliff, not without making a narrow escape from tumbling rocks. We retraced our steps and several hours of tiresome walk later, we were back for a hot deserved shower and cold celebratory beer at Namaste.

We’re glad we chanced upon a journey to Sikles, perhaps Annapurna’s best-kept secret and a trip that would have otherwise never materialized for us. But glad at the end of the day we had an epic experience, especially the dip in the glacial lake, something we only joked we’d do as we were getting tossed and turned on the bus roof. Perhaps adventures are better off that way - unplanned and on a shoestring.

In the Midst of Mountains

Trekking to the mountains is always as challenging as it is beautiful. Whether that switched between idyllic sunshine, relentless rain or a whiteout snowfall, every gruelling step in our trek to the Himalayas was worth it. Trepidations of embarking to high altitudes was thrown into thin air as the night sky glittered with stars, and snow-capped mountains that surrounded us in every direction burst into a majestic sunrise at the Annapurna Base Camp.

Adrift on calm waters of Phewa Lake I massaged my hamstrings in vain attempts to relieve a burning sore. Five hours of involuntary manspreading from Kathmandu to Pokhara in a bus that claimed to have extra legroom (and WiFi) had taken its toll. Yet the discomfort paled before Annapurnas’ grandeur, albeit partially hidden behind scattered clouds. We rejoiced in the morning mist on our last boat ride ensued by a hefty sandwich vital for any trek.

We drove off on jeep from Halan Chowk and after a couple of hours reached Phedi, the starting point of our 9-day trek to Annapurna Base Camp at 4,130m. The gradual uphill climb on stony steps to Dhampus was mere prelude of what awaited. Amidst rice and millet terraces, we slowly made our way up on steps and as the sun scorched, made our way through midhills. With a backpack over 20kgs strapped on my back, the climb would get quite exhausting at times. Layers of clothes got shed by the time we got used to the steps that seemed to know no end. The occasional chautaras as well as Gurung settlements along the wide trail did wonders to help us catch our breath and appreciate the greenery.

Crossing dodgy suspension bridges we reached thick woods and could feel a sense of remoteness of our adventure. Bulls possessive of their femmes were certainly a threat, especially if you had to walk past them while they were mating, which we encountered on more than a few occasions. A brief stop at a shop that sold nak cheese made us smirk on the typo, only to realize that it was not yaks, but their female counterparts naks, that make cheese. As we zeroed in on our first destination Landruk, mountains popped up prominently in a distance just in time to quell complaints about painful legs from uphill walk.

Annapurna’s massifs from the restive Pothana village seemed like from another world altogether. Macchapuchare in its photogenic glory was indeed a treat to the eyes over lunch so delicious that the most insatiable of food critics would be silenced and left salivating for more. After hogging down more servings of dal bhat than we’re proud of, we trailed on, bloated and happy. By this time, the clouds were moving in, which was quite a respite after the dog day afternoon. Weather was in fact perfect as we reached our destination in Landruk. We were settled into our rooms and served hot homemade millet brew called raksi, affectionately called tharra or local. The sleep here was hearty and the sight of the first sight of mountains in the horizon was one to behold.

The jeep tracks from Landruk would dwindle to trails through a forest followed by a gorgeous waterfall. Making our way down towards the fresh white waters of Modi River, we reached a tiny settlement called New Bridge. Distant rolling hills would merge with haze below skies filled with cotton balls of picturesque clouds. It was interesting to note the influx of Nepali tourists, especially youngsters, as we moved up the trails, a few of whom almost tipped us over the cliff by accident when their inebriated selves couldn’t handle the rocky and slippery steps in Jhinu. It then bears pointing out that the prices of beverages (and food) can be pretty steep as it gets more remote. That’s mainly because it has to be carried by porters. We wondered where they got all that booze from. It would take about half an hour’s walk to find that out, as made a pit stop at a small hotel.

A lovely Tamang lady and her differently abled son had championed hospitality to unwitting and exhausted tourists on that climb. Tasty omelettes coupled with fresh pickles from her farm had me licking my fingers. And the liquor she crafted was true to her words: the best and strongest in the Annapurnas. Well, probably. As the only openly drunk raksi-appreciator I took a couple of pegs with the lady. She went on to explain how her last bunch of patrons – half a dozen Nepalese boys – finished a jerry can just a while earlier. No wonder. I would gladly have spent a few hours here, blown away by the jolly hosts, amazing refreshments and equally remarkable views. But we were due for Chhomrong, a ginormous town up a ginormous hill, by dark.

The backbreaking ascent to Chhomrong came without warning. The higher we climbed, the more exhausted we got and better the vantage point. Quite unfortunately, the skies were overcast and mountains up north were shrouded behind gloomy clouds. We conquered the long climb towards dusk and upon arrival at Chhomrong were greeted with chilly drizzles. As everybody prepared to put extra layers of fleece and down, mine went mysteriously missing. Must’ve left it at the omelette place, I thought. So much for merrymaking. The chill in Chhomrong would be nothing compared to the freezing cold in ABC, or so I was told. In a panic-stricken hysteria, I went around early next morning to a million shops trying to find jackets for rent. To no avail. The closest one was one with furry yak wool that made me look like a Siberian hillbilly.

I’d almost given up until I decided to have some coffee in a bakery where croissants looked like swollen boomerangs and the owner’s pretty daughter was basking in the morning sun. I decided to steer clear from the interesting delights, fearing for my tummy. Instead, I settled for some spicy noodles the young lady was having. In fact, after hearing my wardrobe predicament she invited me into her room with a smile. She slowly reached down and pulled out a rusty chest from under her bed. It was filled with medieval-looking clothes, including downjackets left behind by trekkers for her baker father almost two decades ago. Godawful smell and stains from the jackets corroborated her story. Now don’t get me wrong, a good pair to buy would cost upwards of USD 200, and renting would cost USD 10 a day. Instead, she offered it for 50 cents a day. Bingo! I was off with an oversized blue down jacket looking like a clown and smelling like fungus. And with a phone number, might I add.

We really began to feel the altitude Chhomrong onwards as we reached the last few settlements before entering Annapurna Conservation Area Project (ACAP). We arrived at a place aptly called Himalaya whence the mountains towered right above. Soldering on along Modi River raging below and surrounded by rhododendron forests, giant snow-covered peaks followed us. Our ascent seemed endless and just as our legs warmed up and got acquainted to the steps, in rolled ominous black clouds and drenched us in a matter of seconds.

Icefalls and waterfalls were a common site and walking over snow deposits become a breeze as we reached closer to Macchapuchare Base Camp, a station before ABC. The last leg to ABC had our hearts thudding with each heavy step. And if that wasn’t enough, it started snowing hard and mercury dropped further with strong headwinds. Nevermind the mountains ahead, even our steps were far from visible in the inclement weather. Notwithstanding, the eerie feeling of walking on sludge into white Himalayan oblivion was quite thrilling. We were lucky that despite such physical strain in high altitude, our breathing was normal and avoided high altitude sickness as we had taken it slow and steady since day one.

Just as we edged towards ABC on the final path, clouds started dispersing. Almost like the weather gods wanted to save the best for the last, unveiled before our eyes what were phenomenal mountains, some of the highest points on this planet, right ahead, surrounding us in every single direction. Wherever we looked, absolutely stunning sights of elaborate ridges readily took our breaths away and at night when stars lit the peaks, we would stand in awe, sighing at the mountains, ready with a wish, waiting for another meteorite to whiz past millions of stars. More than we could keep count of or even imagine to witness in the nondescript skies of the grind we had escaped.

In bouts of ogling magical landscapes, we forgot that we were soaked wet in the sleet. The heated dining hall came as a warm solace, but not without the price of a singed toe. In burning realization, the heater turned out to be nothing more than a small propane stove under the table, along with smelly boots and socks left to dry. A surprisingly delicious order of pizza was enough to make us ditch the warm room for shivering hours spent outside watching Himalayas in its glory. A peaceful night of sleep was well deserved.

The wake of dawn was no less enchanting. Braving cold chills just before sunrise, we huddled together on the hotel’s tiny patio to watch royal purple glow on Annapurna that gradually turned orange. As the first rays of sun touched the mountain’s eastern flank, a burst of yellow illuminated the summits in a magnificent show of lights and dazzling hues. Annapurna’s furious facade came to life. It was most prominently seen from a short distance away by prayer flags and memorial stones of vanished climbers, spectators in hundreds but dwarfed and humbled by the mountains’ inexplicable might. It is quite fascinating to imagine the monumental feat of conquering mountains, and in that, yourself. Though a daring few have accomplished and lived to tell the tale, memorial stones by the gumba where I stood painted a grim picture. A reminder that mountains are billions of years old, and unlike our transient lives, will be there till eternity. I stood there motionless, numbed, staring into the timeless mountains. Miniscule, as I was and felt, a mere vanishing dot in shadows of imposing rocks. It was a transcendental experience, moving, awe-inspiring and humbling to the knees to say the very least.

My thoughts were cut short when faint sounds coming from far off in the mountains drew my attention. I had lost track of time and the sun now brighter, had started melting previous day’s snow on peaks, causing avalanche high up on the peaks. They looked tiny as they swept their way down, but we knew that if one even half as big got triggered at our spot, a wrath of nature’s hell would be unleashed. The dire prophecy too much to bear led me to seek refuge in a breakfast of pancakes and eggs, which, meanwhile, had gone unregrettably cold. We were thoroughly intrigued and could stay here a whole lot longer, but had a long way to walk back. Snow, foot-deep, got shovelled out at the hotel gate while we packed our bags and prepared to bid the mountains a hesitant goodbye.

Looking back every so often to catch what was now a passing glimpse of the Annapurnas, we retraced our steps. Descents were as deceptively laborious as ascents on the now slippery trail, and especially with heavy rucksacks we were carrying, our knees took an ugly beating. But there was no stopping until walked down to Sinuwa and then Jhunu the next day. Walking back, we couldn’t help but feel proud to have climbed up steps that appeared impossibly steep.

Jhinu was an quite an experience in itself. The hot spring at a hiking distance from the village won’t be obvious. There are no shops by the pool, so our little picnic included snacks and a bottle of local brew. A week of trekking later, relaxing dip in the hot pool served our muscles well. When the heat would become unbearable, it only make sense to take a plunge into the freezing cold waters of Modi River gushing by. It would take sheer luck to avoid tirades (and harassment lawsuits) after nearly barging into ladies’ changing room, thanks to unlabelled doors. The pool was unsurprisingly abuzz with dozens of people. A group of Nepali doctors were on a weekend getaway to the hot spring. As were locals from Ghandruk and Chhomrong on a quick trip to pamper themselves. But mostly it was trekkers like us, trying to unwind and kick back.

Back in our hotel, the owners – a mid-aged down-to-earth couple – partook in an intense and prolonged dohori face-off between our guide and a French-speaking guide. Shortly before midnight as others went to bed, the troupe in dining room, myself a gawky vocal sidekick, was just getting started. After countless rounds of friendly yet intimidating exchanges (and a flurry of noise complaints from sleepy, lacklustre patrons), the party slowly crawled its way to bed well past midnight.

I woke up with a terrible hangover next morning to sensational news that would also explain the toilet filled with holy yuck. Apparently, the French guide in a bid to ease his untimely intoxication (he was with VIP clients) and an unprecedented defeat in dohori (our guide had had prevailed) thought it was a good idea to venture to the hot spring – alone and in pre-dawn pitch darkness. Almost an hour later, an ad hoc SAR team would discover the hapless monsieur a few hundred meters away passed out in cattle cesspool. Embarrassment and dung on his face evident and a foul smell made for the most grotesquely amusing story of this trip. Bad as we felt for him, got a few good laughs out of his drunken stupor.

We reached the spotlessly clean village of Ghandruk in late afternoon, also our final stop of the journey, and explored the quiet, cobbled streets. In the most perfect of Annapurna mornings, familiar sights of mountains, only distant, boasted for a fine setting to recap our trip. We hopped on a bus in Kimche and reached Pokhara in the evening, concluding a trip we’d be bragging about for a long time.

There is no wonder why Annapurna Base Camp is one of the most renowned trekking destinations in the world, one that thousands of trekkers check off from their bucket list every year. For our bunch, it was a dreamy treat to the senses, immersion in a variety of rich cultures and bonding with the wilderness. It was an emotional experience where mystical gompas dotted the snowy abode of mythical yetis, where every exhilarating stride was equal parts tough and rejuvenating, and where showers became luxury and in that cold, barely a priority. Moments spent in the midst of mountains have been etched in our hearts, and they’ve left us with enlivened spirits, tightened glutes, and daydreaming in office cubicle, a longing to return.

Wedding Nuisance

Mangal Dhun, cheesy Bollywood numbers and dohoris dominate airwaves in ornately decorated party palaces. Newlyweds tirelessly greet guests that come in hordes with bouquets and gifts. Young ladies in scant designer blouses defy the winter chill. And the free booze, the fat reason why I’m here, comes with an upsetting realization and a haunting past.

It’s that time of the year… the entire town is getting married. Close to half a dozen weddings of cousins and friends came with joy and merry brought on by all-I-can-drink beer, wine and whiskey drunk to old times and a happy future. An occasion to indulge without trepidation – that of blacking out or of a beer belly. Nothing came between me and the free flow of beer. Even grandpa’s well dreaded look of disapproval failed to deter me from celebrating, my already tarnished image brought on by my drinking habits notwithstanding. Receptions came as a godsend to break my budget-induced drinking hiatus. And with that, my liberty in revelry knew no bounds in a series of weddings.

Except this particular one which, like a mentally stigmatizing experience, like a splinter in the back of my mind, shook my foundations.

I’ve always had a thing for wedding receptions. I remember years ago during my teetotal high school days, I’d given my old bicycle to a party palace guard. The alliance was forged for a rather strategic reason: to crash weddings at the venue. He’d call me whenever there was a fancy party going on and I’d waste no time in getting into his guard jacket and queuing up in the buffet line. I was young and the thrill of conning my way to free food was all lighthearted, all in good humor.

Fast-forward a decade, and I stood there at the party by the bonfire, tipsy, downing one glass of Belgian beer after another. I socialized with the people around the fire, half of whom I didn’t know. Perhaps they were from the dula side, I wondered, but under the influence, I wasn’t even a little hesitant to brag about my drinking capacity to whoever I could. As I got more drunk, I lost focus of what the others were saying and just stared into the flames, unwary of the conversation.

Like a freight train, without a warning, it hit me – Nothing was lighthearted anymore! Folks I played guccha and hide n’ seek with were getting married. The burning realization that time had gone by in a jiffy was simply unbearable. I cringed and a small part of me silently died. I had to clear my mind. In a single gulp I bottomed the glass and, trying not to stagger, made my way through the crowd to the bar for a self-medicating round. I distracted myself by watching a couple of inebriated gentlemen take the lead to set the dancefloor on fire. Lungi Dance had gotten their bellies and bums to shake uncontrollably, which got a good laugh out of me and fellow spectators.

This was an instant fix I felt, and just when the fiery show seemed to put my drunken ponderings to rest, as if things couldn’t get any worse, out popped an army of gossip aunts from the crowd. A session of pulling my cheeks later, they got right into business: “Now it’s your turn! We’ll find a nice girl for you. Or have you already found one? What’s her caste?” Kill me! It was neither the best time nor the correct state of mind to be harassed and pestered. They were adding insult to my injury. I needed solace from this misery and stormed away for dinner. Even as I darted away, along came their intimidating last ditch cry, “Coming Mangshir!”

My system was now precariously hanging at the edge of being smashed, perhaps just a glass away from joining the Lungi guys. I knew the dinner was my last chance to pull myself together. Seated alone in a corner, I started hogging down everything I could fit on my plate, and went for more servings – the second as big as the first, and the third as the second. I couldn’t afford to skip the dessert so, still with some space for Gajar ko Haluwa, I stood in line for a plate.

I noticed someone familiar in front of me in a designer blouse and, in what was the most awkward of moments, came face to face with my ex-girlfriend (who I wasn’t on speaking terms with)! It hadn’t ended on the best of notes, for she had called off the wedding that was the supposed reason for our break up. Before I could even react, in an unprecedented psychological trauma to befall on me, the group of gossip aunts appeared once again and, pointing to my ex, said, “Anuj, have you met [name redacted]? She’s your age.”

So the party ended for me with a cold reminder: Beer is a diddly squat of a solution when time catches up and your hairline recedes, or when you’re surrounded by gossipy aunts and a forlorn ex.

5 Things to do in Nepal

1. Watch spectacular sunrise from Poon Hill
Let’s face it! You’ve either been always too late for the sunrise or you blame that giant, ungodly building in front for ruining it. Give yourself a break you’re in Pokhara next time with a taxi ride to Nayapul and a conquest to Ghorepani’s hilltop. The 6-hour trek itself is quite spectacular with innumerable waterfalls and dense moss-covered woods giving an ethereal feeling of being lost in nature. Ghorepani is the start of what will become a painful hike up to Poon Hill next morning followed by momentous views of the sunrise over the hills. Spectacular sight of first rays touching giant massifs of Dhaulagiri and Annapurna ranges takes your breath away. Speaking of which, situated at 3,210m in altitude, Poon Hill hike may lead to slight difficulty in breathing or headache, some symptoms of high altitude sickness, but we’ll take it easy on the hike and drink plenty of water. Before heading back, queue up to take a selfie with Poon Hill’s signage like it’s your best friend, with mountain in the backdrop. So next time you find yourself in bed hitting the snooze button, let it dawn on you that you’re missing out on a awe-inspiring sunrise somewhere in the Himalayas.

2. Food hop in Kathmandu
Kathmandu has secrets elusive to most guidebooks. You may be mystified by a jogi’s modern antiques in Pashupati, or take an excursion on beaten routes to the hills, and complement your siesta in a chic garden with meals that burn a hole in your pocket. Don’t get me wrong, but you won’t have lived until you’ve tried hot chhoela and chatmari in Patan’s narrowest alleyways or gotten drunk off strawberry raksi in Kakani looking at the widest stretch of mountains before your eyes – best consumed with Tamangs in their residence over a fine plate of sukuti for sittan. Or walking through Indrachowk, chug down a delicious glass of lassi or devour a plate or two of Everest momo in Naxal as you complain about prices. A spicy pani puri and chatpat marathon in Maru Galli leaves you salivating profusely but nothing that a Shreegaha’s Tang-flavored popsicle can’t beat. But if you really mean business, dip hot gwaramaris into Bhaktapur’s juju dhau laced with coconut shreddings, and there you have it – the valley à la carte!

3. Lend a helping hand
Central Nepal has been quite affected in the aftermath of earthquakes and aftershocks. Now as most parts of the country returns to business as usual, there are still countless villages in remote places where people have struggled to bring back normalcy to their lives. If you’ve ever wanted to visit Nepal, now’s the best time! Come over to see the mountains and the gorgeous culture and architecture Nepal is blessed with and take the opportunity to give back selflessly to people of Nepal who most need help. Whether in constructing schools, creating a homely environment or build livelihoods, touch lives in the most meaningful manner. Volunteer at a school as a teacher and tutor the children in any subject you feel comfortable. Help you in the farms and experience Nepal like you never could. Further, the lovely meal prepared by your host family and their hospitality in a cozy home will be as authentic a local experience as you can get. Make a memorable holiday with beloveds by mixing the passion of travelling and creating a lasting bond.

4. Take a dip in Bagmati
If you think taking a bath in Bagmati is out of question, think again. A one-hour bus from Chabil to Sundarijal takes you to the shockingly clean rapids of Bagmati River. Originating from Shivapuri National Park just above our drop-off point, the river with its verdant surrounding is nothing short of blissful. Not to mention tranquility and fresh breeze will add more punch to your nice and quiet bathing escapade. Nice and quiet if you can find a private spot, that is. More often than not, you’ll be joined by overzealous and curious butt-naked kids who proceed to show off their diving and swimming skills, splashing water hither and thither. Ignore distractions and slide into the river and let your system cool down in the fresh waters of Bagmati, which starts from Shivapuri National Park just above Sundarijal. Besides ending up with gleaming skin and refreshed spirits (and wrinkly appendages), it will also hopefully cleanse a few sins under your belt, or so goes the Hindu mythology regarding bathing in Bagmati.

5. Go Jungle Safari
Snug on an elephant’s back, embark on a jungle safari deep into the conserved woods of Chitwan. Under the dense canopy, discover a host of exotic and rare species of animals including rhinos and elephants. And if you’re incredibly lucky, face off with endangered tigers. But it’s nothing your expert Mahouts from Kasara Resort can’t take care of as you sway with your elephants swag and head back to your cottage. Spa and massage treatment as well as ad dip into the azure swimming pool after a day of exploring, boating and visiting the crocodile breeding center will soothe your muscles. The luxurious resort hosts a performance of Tharu dancers in the evening that you can enjoy with chilled beer and popcorn to top off an adventure in wilderness. To up the ante, immerse yourself culturally and ride bicycles like locals around the national park. The perfectly blended nature and modern amenities at the luxurious Kasara Resort will leave you mesmerized. There won’t be a better way to get as close to the wild as you possibly can!