After a night disturbed only once, by hearing Simon in the next door room complain bitterly about just having thrown his guts up, we arose, + as it was a clear morning, decided to climb Poon Hill. We were quite early, but even so there were already others on the hill-side above us, so we dressed hurriedly + rushed off up the hill. For once, I was blessed with abnormal energy, + soon left Val behind me, + caught then passed those ahead too. Unfortunately, Poon Hill turned out to be one of those infuriating hills with many false crests, each one only revealing itself when the one below, thought to be the one, had been conquered. So what had started out as a mad sprint to the top soon degenerated into my customary steady plod. And far from being, as I had first fondly imagined, the first to the summit, I found myself preceded by a large tour group; another Scott beaten to the winning post by a horde of – as I was to discover – Italian Amundsens. The summit was no windswept peak, was rather marked by a white wooden lookout stand, looking more suited to be a folly in a Victorian garden. Then view, however, was wonderful – high, snow-capped mountains (including Annapurna + Dalgiri the second highest in the world) on one side, deep grey valleys running away to the horizon on the other. I was glad we had made the effort, but there was no temptation to linger.
As soon as Val had come up + seen what there was to see, + we had taken a few photos, we descended again, + back at the lodge had the leisure to indulge in some breakfast, a fine rice pudding. While we were eating, a girl from the next door lodge came in + asked if anyone were heading over to Ghandrung – we said we were + would be happy to accompany her + her party. The reason for this is not company, but security – a few days ago, an American couple were attacked + robbed on the same trail. The details, naturally, have become lurid + sensational, but it does seem he had a broken skull, + his girlfriend was stabbed, tho’ not too seriously. (I hope they weren’t from New York or Detroit – the ultimate irony.) And so the result of this violence is that for a little while anyway people are walking the trail ion convoy, if possible. Our fellow-travellers were 3, all New Zealanders: Helen, Sue and Greg – they trained together as nurses, tho’ Greg is a little older, having come to the profession late.
We set off at a leisurely pace, the first section being uphill, which suited Val + I fine. I quickly dropped to the rear, where I was able to wander along lost in my own thoughts, without having to make a decision about the route… or anything else. At the top of a hill, we had a wonderful view, just about as good as the one we’d got earlier from Poon Hill. If I’d known this was in prospect I’m not sure I’d have made the other climb, but perhaps it was as well to play safe. At the top we also ran into the Italians again – they too were off to Ghandrung – ah well. Or Que Sera, sera. We stopped at a small tea-house… + Val + I managed to bolt down a bowlful of corn flakes with hot milk – wonderful. They have appalling locally made corn flakes here, tough + stodgy, but hot milk manages to soften it up a treat.
Then we began the long descent to Ghandrung. It was a very, very pleasant walk. There was still a lot of hail around on the ground, so we were able to slide along quite happily, like cross-country skiers, only without skis. And then there was one spectacular descent down thro’ a steep river gorge – a little unnerving, as the path was precarious in places, but exhilarating + beautiful. At the bottom of the gorge, we had problems overtaking the Italians on the narrow trail. They were agonisingly slow (they had re-overtaken us at our corn flake stop) but were unwilling to let us pass. However, we all made it past eventually, + pushed on at a good pace, even the Kiwi girls, till now a bit sluggish, stepping it out.
We stopped for lunch at a small place 2-3 hours from Ghandrung – the food took a long time coming (+ we were overtaken again) but was good + tasty, + we made the last stretch in excellent time, coming in, I’m proud to say (tho’ it’s foolish pride, no doubt) ahead of the Italian contingent. There was a pleasant-looking lodge as we entered Ghandrung, built rather in the style of a Balinese losmen, enclosing a courtyard, + with a good view. Greg went off to check a neighbouring place. A sensible move, it seemed to me, especially when he said the view was even better, but it seemed to infuriate Helen + Sue, who were determined to stay at this one. So, rather than cause a fuss, we all checked in, + ordered our evening meal. It had been a good day: nice weather, good views, an easy walk, pleasant, if unexciting company.
Now, however, it all went wrong. The Italian party arrived in town, +, attracted as we had been by the lodge, came in. They were camping, so would be eating + sleeping elsewhere, but obviously felt like a snack, so promptly started ordering beer + chapattis. The owners of the place, obviously for clear, commercial reasons, devoted all their time + energies to them, so all of our orders, even for a cup of tea, + other small items ordered before their arrival, were ignored. Worse than that, the Italians were so loud, so noisy, so boorish… + so many of them, 20 plus. We kept thinking they must go, but then a few late stragglers would arrive, prompting another round of chapattis. Eventually, I could stand it no more, + went to bed. Even then, I had no peace for what sounded like a furious + voluble row developed… tho, being Italian, they were probably discussing the weather. Eventually, I did get to sleep, only to be awoken by Val shaking me, telling me my dinner was ready. It was a depressing meal in a dark + dingy dining-room, nobody being in good spirits. Even the food was bloody awful.
Not that I have a racist thing about all Italians, but this lot were decidedly obnoxious and adversely affected our day several times. However, apart from them, it ddid seem to have been a good day, with some good walking, good views…
I basically love Italians, but when I was climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro I had a similar experience. At 12,000 feet, we stayed in the hut with a tiny kitchen, and the Italians camped outside in tents. But they took over the kitchen and we couldn’t eat until they’d completely finished cooking their elaborate meal. What boors!