Despite the rotten night, I felt much, much better in the morning, +, mirroring my own return to sweetness + light, the weather had picked up remarkably. Outside it was wonderfully clear + sunny, for the first time since we’d begun the trek. A glorious morning, in fact, portending a glorious day, so that in not too long a time, tho’ we didn’t especially hurry over breakfast, we were on our way.
The walk was quite the nicest of the entire trip (yes, I speak with the benefit of hindsight.) The ascent up the valley had eased considerably, so that one didn’t have to wipe the sweat from the eyes to look at the view (which was magnificent, + improved with nearly every step.) From here on, the place grew noticeably more Tibetan, the dress, the way of life. There was more to look at: Tibetan buddhist mani walls – stone shrines set along the trail, carved with Tibetan script + mysterious runes – herds of yaks roaming the hillsides; above all, literally + figuratively, the mountains, snow-covered, brilliant white. Half an hour before Langtang, there was a monastery a couple of hundred yards up the hill, + we decided to visit it. I don’t know exactly what we expected, but those hopes weren’t fulfilled. From the admittedly casual inspection that we were able to give it, it was little different from an ordinary village, the one outward concession to holiness being a temple with a bell-tower. We saw no-one in monkish garb, just 2 not particularly welcoming old men. One of them was in charge of a group of particularly obnoxious small children. When he left them, they amused themselves by pretending to threaten us with stones. On our descent from the village, they made good that threat. Luckily, their aim didn’t match their animosity. Even so, I repeat, it was a good morning’s walk. It wasn’t overlong, for once, so we had time to linger, to take photos.
Langtang itself was a disappointment, mainly because we had built it up in our mind’s eye to be something more than it was. The occasional signs along the route, “Way to Langtang”, had helped to foster that impression, along with the knowledge that the place supported an air-strip + govt offices. Surely it would have shops too!… and the visions swam in our mind: cheese, bars of chocolate, pots of honey, tinned fruit, aspirin (not really the stuff that dreams are made on, this last, but we’d come away dreadfully short.) So to discover a really tiny village, smaller than Syabru, without even one tiny shop, was a blow. We stopped for tea at one of the 2 lodges, then pushed on to Kyangjin, just 2 hours more, where there was another govt hostel. It was an equally pleasant walk, + it was still early when we arrived at the hostel, a very attractive new building, but already in a state of disrepair. The bad news was that the govt cheese factory there was not producing at the moment, particularly distressing for Val, who had been thinking of little else for the past couple of days.
Once we’d claimed our berths for the night – there seemed to be plenty of people staying, judging by the rucksacks, tho’ they were all out – I took off for a big rock about 50 yards away. I sheltered from the wind behind it, + sat in the warm sunshine + wrote this, no company bar a couple of curious yaks. I was only driven inside by a short, sharp, + sudden shower, but as soon as the wind + sun had dried the grass again, I resumed my seat. Val amused herself in the late afternoon by helping the lady of the place to make some momos, particularly since, in this incarnation, they were very much like tiny pasties. And even more so, coming from her hands. She was appalled, tho’, at the unsanitary conditions – all the work was done on the floor, where people + animals walked, nothing was washed. We had a plateful of them each, however – they were quite nice, but steamed, + a little tasteless. Chatted with a couple of American girls, one of whom was a journalist in Alaska – we swapped stories about Skagway. We also swapped books with the other girl – a relief, as I had nothing to read – the Hindu Kush book for Clavell’s “Noble House”.
Later, when nearly everyone else had gone to bed, I discovered by chance an English language magazine – one of the boys there was using it as a scribbling pad. It had lost a thick wad of pages from the other end, but there was still a good chunk left, and by searching thro’ I discovered it was a copy of The Economist, amazingly just 2 weeks old. I glared murderously at the boy for desecrating + mutilating the thing, + he went away. Not that I was particularly an Economist fan – I’d never read it before, but that such a source of news + information should end up so treated in so short a time was beyond endurance. In fact, it was very good – a little conservative perhaps, but at least free of the US bias of the big 2. (With a British bias instead, I suppose, but I can hack that.)
I thought at last I would get a decent night’s sleep, but it wasn’t to be – my body was shattered, but my mind was whirring, whirring. I tried everything to slow it down – a day-by-day, hour-by-hour analysis of our final approach to home (including a detailed conversation in French with the lady in the tourist office in Paris, + the working out what day her birthday will fall on) +, quite literally, counting sheep jumping over fences, to see if it would work. It didn’t, but then I only counted up to 9. I eventually fell asleep, after 4 miserable hrs lying awake in the dark, at about 1.
Not a great end to the day, but the rest of it seemed to have the usual attractions, especially since there were other people to talk to.
I’m loving reading about these treks in the Himalayas, Chris. I think your writing has gotten much better, too! I love the descriptions in this one, and how you show up in the writing. What an adventure! It’s also interesting to see how you and Val experience the trip differently. I especially like her attention to the crafts (weaving, beads, etc.). And, the people you meet along the way. The whole write-up is really very interesting. (I loved your thinking when trying to get to sleep in this entry.