Both of us had the most amazing sleep, in warmth and comfort. And this time when I woke, it wasn’t at 1.30, giving me no choice as to whether I could get up or not, but 5.30, which I could wait out in perfect equanimity. When Val and I went out to the bathroom together, at 6 or so, there was the girl who had been making roti all last evening, already hard at work cleaning dishes. The way she was working so hard made us believe she had to be a servant, or at least a distant relative, but no, she was one of the daughters, and Bharat’s niece. And she was going to college every day during term time, which involved a two hour walk in each direction. All of the children contribute to the running of the household, even their youngest son, called Chris like me (because he was born on Christmas Day) who runs around fetching things, putting everything away when it comes back from the outside tap.
We breakfasted together upstairs once again – hard-boiled eggs for us – and were entertained by Bharat’s great nephew, a lively and funny three-year-old. A door at the side of the living-room led directly onto the open roof of one of the first floor rooms, and we were amazed that the little chap was allowed to wander out there to play, entirely unsupervised, on an open space without any barrier, with a twenty-foot drop off the side. The stairs alone would give any western parent nightmares; as I said to Val, I don’t suppose manufacturers of stair-gates would make any money here.
But soon enough, we were on the move again, determined to make some more progress. Aparna was convinced we would be back at the truck stop by tonight, but clearly she had not thought this through; there was still the massive descent off the mountain, the one that had nearly killed me on the way up. The route was one we had tackled before, with just one or two modifications – somehow or other today we went past a primary school that we had missed before, but then again found ourselves back on familiar territory. I didn’t see how this could work, as surely this meant we had either taken a longer route then or now. But it was the same desperate slog, up and down, up and down, each of them as bad as the other.
Despite the fact that just about every day, Aparna said we would make up time by missing some meal or other, it almost never happened; the vast amount of energy expended by Bharat and Hari meant they required refuelling three times a day, even if we didn’t… or, at least in my case, I couldn’t face it. So we paused for lunch again, before making the final push to get down the mountain. That would not be the end of our journey, as there would still be a three-hour walk back to Makarigard, but it had to be done, and done in one go – there was nowhere to stop en route. And so, at 2 o’clock, we set off on our descent.
There had been some debate as to which route we should take. The way we had come up was shorter, but steeper and more dangerous; the alternative was to take the donkey track, longer and therefore slower. And, as Val and I agreed, ultimately just as tough. This was no well-made path, but a relentless series of difficult zig-zag descents, scrambling down a steep and painfully rocky path. And Bharat held my hand for the entire journey; I simply could not have managed it any other way.
So let me pause to say a few things about Bharat, and the remarkable man he is. We had employed him as a guide, but, vital as it is for him to show us the way, that was the least valuable of his many roles. He told us various names of places we have arrived at. Which Val dutifully repeated, and then he said it again, as if to correct her; perhaps his only mildly annoying fault.
His next job was as a porter, carrying two rucksacks, as well as his own, and for a time a heavy shopping bag as well. This he combined with duties clearing the trail – shifting loose rocks with his foot, picking up fallen branches, or even twigs, as well as borrowing one of our walking poles to beat back the nettles that sometimes intruded onto the trail.
He was an excellent forager, finding nuts which looked like walnuts, but containing, when he smashed them open with a rock, small fragments of something very tasty; or sometimes finding edible berries – too sharp for me, a bit like red blackcurrants (no, not redcurrants) which all the others seemed to enjoy. (On this note, Usha also found a small black peppercorn-like berry, which she instructed us to suck, giving off, for a remarkably long time, a fierce heat.)
He was a very good cameraman (though Val rated his brother, Hari, even more highly.)
He was a superb masseur. When I was in agonies because of my neck, my shoulders, my back (sounds like a children’s song) he would pummel and squeeze the affected areas, or give instructions on the exercises that would help, providing blessed relief. As the only male hiker, I was the only recipient of such a service. This may have been cultural, but actually he became almost my personal servant, looking after me almost exclusively.
When we reached camp, he would spring into action in various ways – fetching firewood, lighting fires, preparing vegetables, and always, always checking on our (my) welfare. He was sometimes an all too attentive manservant, untying my laces on my boots, removing my socks, and on just the one occasion that I can recall, washing my feet – very biblical.
And on one occasion that I can recall, he was a bridge-builder; unsatisfied with the stepping stones across one of the numerous streams, rapids, rivers that we had to cross, he and Hari heaved various enormous rocks into position, wedging them with smaller stones for stability, before helping various people across. For once, I was not the beneficiary of this skill, and we were able to record some of this on video from the far bank.
When I was sat down, on a rock, or just having collapsed into the undergrowth at the side of the trail, he would very nearly always haul me to my feet (though this was the one service he always provided for Val as well.) And though I am a heavy man, he never had any trouble, and I could always have complete confidence; he must have been immensely strong.
But over and above everything else, he was my walking hand-holder. During the first day, he was able to identify me as the most in need of his assistance. I was reluctant to infanticise myself quite so readily, but gradually succumbed. It started with “Give me your bag please, sir” to “Give me your hand please sir”, and then, over the course of the next few days, it shortened. “Give me your hand,” to “Your hand”, then “Hand”, and finally became wordless, an extended hand being all I needed. I did, to preserve my self-respect as much as anything, refuse sometimes, determined to demonstrate I was not quite so helpless as all that, but mostly I acceded. Gratefully.
And when was this? For just about every river crossing, when he judged, quite rightly, that I was not so nimble as to step lightly from stone to stone, that I needed to be secure on each stone before venturing to the next. (And of course it was vital that I was careful – any fall could have had disastrous consequences.) It was when the steps, either up or down, were particularly steep. It was when the footing was at all loose, on narrow dirt paths with perilous drops off to the side. So, lest you think I was entirely a small child, there were also huge chunks of time when I managed perfectly well on my own.
He shrugged off any discomfort this may have caused, even though it meant that, on particularly tricky sections, he was walking backwards, unable to check his own footing. Especially when crossing running water, he was not only stepping backwards from stone to stone, he was indicating with the toe of his (casually tied) loafer, exactly where I was to step next. On one particular occasion, when we were negotiating a particularly steep and narrow downward stretch, packed with loose dirt, and with a vertigo-inducing fall off to one side, he had both my hands in his, carrying two heavy rucksacks, and, since I now had no way to carry my walking poles, he tucked them beneath his chin.
Once I had overcome my natural reluctance to give myself over to his care, it was remarkably comforting. It has been a very long time since I have been the recipient of having my hand held (as opposed to being the hand-holder – a different thing entirely). Of course, it will come again; as Shakespeare has observed, if we are lucky to live so long, we all revert to second childhood eventually, but I always thought it more likely to be my daughters exhibiting such care. It was not as though I was being pulled; he was actually very gentle. It was the reassurance as much as anything more overtly physical, the sense that nothing bad would happen to me. And nothing did.
He never, ever complained, or gave any hint that this was anything but quite normal. Except just the once, this final descent, when the hand-holding was virtually unremitting. And, towards the bottom, when he too had to indulge in the same4 exercises to ease the ache in his shoulders, swinging his arms.
Even when – at last! – we reached the bottom, there was a half-hour before we could reach any sort of shelter for the night. It was – again! – pitch dark by now, phone-light once again our only help, and he too was resorting to a stream of “Oh my gods” over the last ten minutes or so, as good a mark as any of his own distress. We had given up on reaching any major destination, but Bharat had negotiated a place for us all to stay, at a place little more than a simple tea-stop, by no means a regular homestay. But it would do, anything would do. And eventually, with Hari returning back down the track to find us, having delivered Usha and Aparna to safety, we were there ourselves.
It was pretty rude accommodation, but it was enough. We were given a meal – I ate nothing, could face nothing – and then we were shown to our sleeping accommodation. Which turned out to be a store shed, some power tools stacked in one corner. There were a couple of thin mats on the stone floor, a bare minimum of blankets to cover ourselves with, but we were pathetically grateful.
Worst of all, however, was the access. There was just the one door, and this led onto a narrow (two foot maybe) concrete ledge, the extra bit of the concrete base on which the shed had been built. And then a sheer drop, some fifteen foot or so, onto stony ground – a broken leg at best. And with just a vertical metal bar attached to the shed to hang onto. I could scarcely face it alone (and during the night I peed from the doorway.)
But we could sleep, at least for a while. Our nightmare descent off the mountain was done. And tomorrow we would set off for home. Home being Dhangadhi.
