Abode of the Gods. Kev ReynoldsЧитать онлайн книгу.
window allows light to enter and some of the smoke to leave. A faint blue beam angles from window to floor, picking out the gentle swirl of smoke and dancing dust fairies. The bare walls are black and shining with the soot of who knows how many years of yak-dung fires; the only furnishings are the rugs on which we sit and a pair of long, thick cushions against the wall beneath the window.
Rolling the tsampa into a ball with one hand, Mahdri tosses it into his mouth. He does this many times until the bowl is empty, then runs his fingers round the edge to collect any spare food before licking his fingers clean. The old man passes him a metal jug, which he holds above his tilted head and pours water into his mouth. Not a drop is spilled, and none touches his lips. Above the crackling of the fire I hear the gulping sounds as Mahdri swallows.
‘It’s easy to die of altitude sickness. Anyone can do it! Trekkers do it every year. Not the same trekkers, of course – they only do it once. Once each, that is.’ The newly qualified German doctor, with an enviable command of English, is enjoying himself. No doubt it’s the same spiel he uses every day, but it’s effective, and his audience takes note.
We’re sitting in the roofless outdoor lecture room at the health post run by the Himalayan Rescue Association (HRA) in Manang, where every afternoon during the trekking season one of two volunteer doctors based here gives a presentation on how to avoid altitude sickness. While the subject is serious, the lecture is entertaining. It has to be in order to keep the audience’s attention. But more than that, it’s informative and, no doubt, life saving for some of those present, for the Annapurna Circus attracts plenty of visitors with little or no mountain experience – let alone high-altitude experience. These include world travellers who last month were on the beach in Goa, next month will be drifting through Thailand, but this month are ‘doing Nepal’. And that means a week or so in Kathmandu followed by a quick trek round Annapurna. Many are ill equipped and, like the Danish couple in Pisang, have no idea what to expect.
Recognising this the doctor stresses the importance of drinking plenty of liquids, of gaining altitude in slow and easy stages, and of keeping alert for warning signs in yourself and your companions. He’s graphic in his description of death from pulmonary and cerebral oedema, and makes his audience sit up by telling them, ‘It can strike even here in Manang. You don’t have to go all the way to the Thorong La to die.’ Warning of the cold and high winds up at the pass, he gives several instances of trekkers and their porters setting out for the La never to make it. ‘All because they were not prepared, were in too much of a hurry, were too proud to turn back, or – in the case of the porters – they did not know what was happening to them. Remember’, he says, prodding the air with emphasis, ‘you can die through stupidity if you like. That is your choice. But if you have porters with you, you are responsible for their safety. Their lives are as important as yours.’ He pauses for effect, then says, ‘Actually, from where I’m standing, I’d say more important than some of you.’
We all laugh, but wonder who he’s getting at.
Manang is bustling. At just over 3500 metres, it’s sensible for anyone planning to cross the Thorong La to spend at least two nights at this altitude to help the process of acclimatisation. That’s why there are twice as many trekkers congregating here than in any other village along the trail. Not only independent teahouse trekkers, like us, but organised groups too, with their porters, Sherpas and sirdars. Two groups are camped on the edge of the village, but there are even tents pitched on the flat roofs of some of the houses.
There must be at least 200 houses in Manang. A maze of narrow alleys twists between them, opening to a square with a row of prayer wheels and a heart-stopping view of the Annapurnas across the valley. The Tibetan influence is strong in the features of the Manangis. Tough and worldly-wise, I doubt anyone ever beat them to a bargain, but we find them friendly and hospitable, and although the food served in our lodge may not always be what we order, it helps keep the cold at bay.
It is cold too. Wandering alone up-valley I visit a neighbouring village where yak crossbreeds plough the frozen fields. Winter is in the air. It comes drifting from Annapurnas II and IV as snow plumes are torn from their ridges. It comes from Gangapurna’s glacier, whose icefall tips to a half-frozen lake. And it comes in blusters of wind tasting of snow, yet the sky remains blue and almost cloudless.
Passing a row of well-worn prayer wheels, a metallic clack-clack accompanies each of the prayers as I spin their release. Above a chorten, prayer flags are stripped into tatters by the wind, and because of that wind I go no further, but crouch in the lee of the chorten and listen to the cracking of the flags, thankful to be in view of the Himalaya once more. Heaven, I tell myself, is a crowd of snow mountains and no demands to climb them.
Back in Manang I find Alan drinking hot chocolate behind steamed windows in the dining room of the Yak Lodge, most of whose tables are occupied by trekkers wearing down jackets. Seated opposite him are the Canadians Ray and Linda, with whom we’d shared a lodge in Bahundanda. They arrived an hour ago, having stayed last night a short way down-valley. Ray is wearing a week’s stubble and an incomplete smile. His eyes speak of concern, and when his daughter leaves to visit the chaarpi, he confides in us. ‘She’s kinda sick. I dunno what it is, but she’s not right. Keeps telling me not to worry, but I know that kid, and she’s just not healthy. There’s no way she’s gonna make it over the La until she’s got herself fit.’
‘Is it the altitude?’
‘Nope. At least, I don’t think so. Got pains; I can see that, but she says nothin’. Spends a lot of time visitin’ the chaarpi – in fact she probably knows more about the chaarpis of Nepal than anyone alive!’
‘Have you been to the health post?’
‘Health post?’ asks Ray. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Just across the way. Two doctors are based there. Why don’t you get Linda to go for a check if you’re that concerned?’
The Canadian’s eyes brighten. ‘Hey now, that’s like good news.’
Half an hour later father and daughter wander across to the HRA post. They’re gone for quite a while, and Alan and I are on our third mugs of hot chocolate by the time they return. Linda’s face is still pasty, heavy bags beneath her eyes, her nose glowing with the cold. She smiles a weak smile and pads off to visit the chaarpi again. Her father scrapes the bench, sits beside me and sighs with relief. ‘We’re going down!’ Alan’s eyes briefly meet mine and an eyebrow goes up. We wait, for it’s not our place to pry, after all we hardly know the man, but he wants to share the news.
‘Kidney infection. The German doctor says there’s no way she should go any higher.’ Ray scratches at his week-old beard, then wipes his nose with the back of his engineer’s hand. ‘Maybe there’s a flight we can take from Hongde that’ll get us back to Kathmandu soonest. She’s supposed to be in Japan for the ski season, so we’ll need to get her right. I guess we’ll head out in the morning.’
In Bahundanda Ray doubted his ability to get over the Thorong La, but Linda was going to look after him. In trekking, nothing is certain.
Tonight the chill invades our cell at the Annapurna Hotel. Awake before midnight, I lie listening to the wind while trying to find the courage to get out of my sleeping bag, pull on boots and go for a pee. When at last I do, it’s to find snow falling – big flakes, the size of goose down. It’s still falling as dawn light filters from unseen mountains, and what we can see of Manang reminds me of Christmas. But instead of reindeer, two hefty yaks lie outside our lodge with fresh snow piling round them. No one is going anywhere in this.
Feeling delicate Alan is off his breakfast, but I’m okay and have a double helping of porridge, an omelette, chapatti and several cups of tea. Alan sips his tea and wonders aloud if Mahdri is home yet. When we’d arrived late in the afternoon the day before yesterday, Alan had paid him off. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘He’ll have been home in no time; downhill with a following wind and no rucksack to slow his pace.’
It had been our plan to go up to Letdar today, move on to Thorong Phedi tomorrow and cross the La the day after, but this snow has put paid to that. Happily we have time