Seven Days in Tibet

...well, actually, more like nine days, but this just sounded better.

After exactly two months in Nepal, including three weeks of trekking, I was ready to go to Tibet. I spent one day in Pokhara to rest, and to do something I had been wanting to do for some time: paragliding. Unfortunately, it was very cloudy that day. But it seemed like such a good opportunity - I was there, and could be up and flying in a few hours - that I decided to do it anyway. It was a nice experience, very graceful, and not scary at all. However, in spite of the preventive pill I took, I did get motion sickness. My pilot kindly requested to throw up as far behind him as I could. It was a bit hard to enjoy the view while sprinkling the content of my stomach all over the the Nepali hills. I was still vomiting while we landed. The local kids looked amused when, as we were sliding down, legs stretched forward, I had to bend over sideways to throw up. The whole thing didn't take more than 20 minutes,but considering my condition, it was more than enough. It started raining just after we landed, so I was very lucky to have been flying to start with.

View of Pokhara during paragliding

The next day I went back to Kathmandu. Just like almost every bus trip in Nepal, this one wasn't without incidents. Some bridge had collapsed, forcing all the traffic to go through one lane, which caused a huge traffic jam. As soon as I arrived in Kathmandu, I went to the travel agent to arrange my tour through Tibet. I had tried to figure out a way to travel alone through the heavily guarded country (oops, I mean, region, sorry), but that turned out to be virtually impossible. The roads are full of checkpoints, and foreigners are not allowed to travel without a guide or with public transport. My only option was to go on a short and expensive group tour. Partly because I wanted to see Tibet, and partly because I wanted to go to China, by land, I went through with it. I booked a seven nights, eight days overland tour from Kathmandu to Lhasa. From Lhasa I would take a train to Chengdu. I was happy to find I could leave six days later.

I didn't do much on my last days in Kathmandu. It was the first week of Dasain, a 15-day Hindu festival, the biggest one in Nepal. There was a festive atmosphere, but the capital was more overcrowded than ever. As I once again realized, Kathmandu could be an extremely nice city, but there are just too many people there. One day I went bungee jumping at 'Last Resort', a place close to the Tibetan border. It's said to be the second highest jump in the world, but maybe it's only the third, or the fourth; anyway, it's 160 m, and that's high enough for me. I got extremely nervous on the way there, and even more when I first looked down from the bridge. Talking to the British-Japanese guy I had met on the bus, I realized at least I wasn't the only one. The jump was amazing, but, of course, short. For a reasonable additional payment, you can do a "canyon swing" as well (allegedly the highest one in the world). The rope to which the victim is attached is suspended at some distance, so that after falling for a few seconds, the poor fellow starts swinging back and forth. My companion and I decided to give it a go. It looked less scary than the bungee jump, as you jump feet first instead of head first. Besides, since we had jumped once, the second one was bound to be easier...right? We bragged to each other:
-"Man, I'm so not nervous this time. "
-"Yeah, me neither. I mean, we did this before, didn't we? No, I'm supercalm, dude."
For some reason, there was a significant change in attitude once we reached the bridge:
-"Dude, are you nervous?"
-"Dead nervous, man."
-"Me too, man. Why are we doing this, again??"
And, although I wouldn't believe it, what they say is true: the canyon swing is definitely scarier than the bungee jump.

Two days later, I finally left for Tibet. I had been told to go standing in front of the travel agency at 6.30 am. I had hoped I would be greeted by some driver, or at least some other travelers, but I was all alone. For the first twenty minutes I just enjoyed watching the people pass; they were all going to temples with offerings for Dasain. But then I started to worry. Had I misunderstood? Did I go to the wrong place, or at the wrong time? Where were the other people? I knew there were dozens of other travel agents, but this one was the actual organizer of the tour; surely everyone would end up there? I paid so much money for this, I can't afford to miss it! After one hour of nervous pacing around and trying to calm myself in vain, I finally got picked up by a man on a motorbike. I had a vague recollection of being told we would be in Jeeps in groups of six, but I also expected that, as always, all the people from different travel agencies would be thrown together. So I wasn't really surprised when I saw the two big buses. Our group consisted of fifty people of all ages and backgrounds. This shows striking similarities to my worse nightmare, but it was the only way I was going to get to Tibet. As I understood later, a big group has one advantage: I was bound to get along well with at least some of them.

I knew the first day was going to be a long one. We would mainly drive to the border and go through the formalities. Although it was drizzling, it was an beautiful drive. The Dasain festival was coming to its more intense part. As a tradition, huge swings made with bamboo sticks were installed in the gardens. Despite the rain, everywhere there were children playing on the swings, which created a very festive atmosphere.
At the border, I had my first look at Chinese soldiers with their neat uniforms. The day before I had acquired my first Yuans, with the face of Mao on them. I realized that a fifth of the world's population uses banknotes that portrait one of the biggest murderers of all times. The guides had warned us about getting some certain books across the border. The Lonely Planet guidebook, for instance, contains a map which doesn't show Taiwan as being part of China. I had my guidebook at the bottom of my small backpack, and the fantastic "Wild Swans" (Jung Chang), which is banned in China, hidden away somewhere in my big backpack. They found none of both; I was happy to call myself a successful book smuggler.

After crossing the border, we drove on, on the nicest asphalt road I had seen in months. A lot can be said about the Chinese presence in Tibet, but they are rightful in their claim that they bring good infrastructure. That night, I stayed in a room with five others, all twentysomething. We had great fun, and they would be my buddies for the rest of the tour.

The next day and a half was mostly a lot of driving. We climbed up to the vast, endless Tibetan plateau. The landscape was arid: just rocks, sand, and some dry grass. The plains were vast, and the peaks always looked far away. The brand new road was broad and almost empty. The few people we saw were mostly men on tractors, bicycles or motorbikes. Funnily enough, most of them were wearing Western style hats. They looked strangely out of place on this modern road. When I saw some mud brick houses with prayer flags, and some people plowing the barren soil with long-haired yaks, I realized: I'm in Tibet!

Typical Tibetan landscape

On day three, we reached Shigatse, the second biggest city in the country (oops, did I say country again? Sorry, I meant region). That's the first place where I fully realized the extent of the Chinese presence in Tibet. The old town, with traditional mud brick houses, was completely surrounded by ugly concrete buildings and asphalt roads, with signs in big red Chinese characters everywhere. We arrived in Shigatse around noon, and went straight to the monastery. Fortunately, me and my British roommate had the same dislike for guided tours, so we split off from the group at the first opportunity. We infiltrated in a group of pilgrims who were going around the monastery. We were surprised by the speed and pragmatism with which they proceeded. They rushed from chapel to chapel, mumbling their mantras, pushing slower people aside. They dropped some money here and there, and added some butter from their big packs to the lamps. I remembered how Heinrich Harrer made several reverences to the rancid smell of butter lamps in "Seven Years in Tibet"- that's one thing that doesn't seem to have changed too much. Many pilgrims were wearing dark and heavy clothes with a colorful belt, much like the people I had seen in Ladakh. Many women wore their hair in many small braids, tied together at the end with a piece of ornament. In spite of the Chinese presence everywhere, I really felt that I was in Tibet.

Two monks at the monastery in Shigatse

The next day we went to Gyantse, where there's another monastery and a beautiful, nine-tiered stupa. Again we strayed from the group and followed what we had come to call our braided-haired friends. They performed the same kind of rituals, at the same excruciating pace. The Tibetan part of Gyantse looked pretty authentic. I recognized the architecture from Ladakh: white-washed mud brick houses with a black strip on top and the wood from the roof sticking out in between, painted red. Most houses had stacks of firewood on the sides of the roof, and yak dung was stuck against some walls to make it dry.

The drive on day five, from Gyantse to Lhasa, was the most beautiful one of all. We passed two lakes of the most beautiful turquoise I've ever seen, and stopped at a glacier. And then, after five days of mostly driving, we finally arrived at the Holy City of Lhasa. Our arrival at the capital of Tibet wasn't exactly like I imagined it, though. We passed through ugly suburbs, on sterile avenues lined by modern buildings. I got only a small glimpse of the mythical Potala palace, the former winter residence of the Dalai Lama, before we arrived at our hotel. I felt like we had really arrived in China. Luckily, we were staying in what seems to be the only proper Tibetan neighborhood that Lhasa still has, around the Jokhang Temple. This is the holiest temple in Tibet, and one of the biggest attractions in Lhasa, along with the Potala. My (and probably anyone's) favorite place in Lhasa is the Bharkor, the circuit around the temple. A part of any pilgrimage to Tibet is to circumambulate the temple one or more times. Day and night, pilgrims take laps around the temple, some of them prostrating every two steps, others spinning their prayer wheel in one hand and holding their rosary in the other. In front of the temple, there is a special area where people are prostrating themselves over and over again. The sides of the Barkhor are full of stalls and small shops selling jewelery, paintings and religious items. It's a real joy to be carried around by the clockwise flow of people, and I must have done about a dozen of laps in the few days I was there.
It's well knows that there's a strong Chinese military presence in the center of Lhasa, especially following the protests in 2008. About half a dozen military were standing on each corner of the Barkhor. On several places you could also see them on the roofs. Any new protest would immediately be quelled.

Pilgrim at (Yamdrok?) lake

On the morning of the sixth day, we visited the Potala palace. Many famous monuments have appeared almost disappointingly small to me when I saw them in real: the Notre Dame in Paris, the Tower Bridge in London, the Taj Mahal, etc. - not so the Potala. With its thirteen stories and over 1000 rooms, it looks massive. Visitors are allowed to stay one hour inside the palace. We rushed through heavily decorated residential quarters and audience halls of the Dalai Lama. Despite the brightly colored woodwork and carpets, the interior of the Potala is kind of murky. In "Seven Years in Tibet", I read how the young Dalai Lama couldn't wait to get out of the dark Potala to go to his summer palace, the Norbulingka - I can imagine all too well. That afternoon, we visited the Jokhang temple, the spiritual center of Tibet. I was started to get tired of Buddhas and butter lamps by then, but I enjoyed being on top of the temple, with its beautiful golden roofs and statues. The view was terrific: the arid valley around, the pilgrims prostrating themselves down on the square, and the mighty Potala in the distance.

Prostrating pilgrims viewed from the roof of Jokhang temple

On the program for day seven: two monasteries. Drepung and Sera monasteries are two of the largest ones in the country (oh man, did I do it again? So sorry - I meant region), and a must on a trip to Tibet. As I said, by then I had had my share of Buddhist stuff (and I wasn't the only one), so I wasn't too enthusiastic at first. The best thing about Drepung monastery I found the stunning view on the valley - those monks really knew what they were doing when they decided where to build there residence. Drepung used to be the biggest monastery in the world, with no less than 7000 monks (some sources say 10000). At some point, we heard singing, that didn't really sound like Buddhist chanting. It came from somewhere above our heads. As we looked up, we saw about a dozen people on a roof. They were banging on the floor with sticks, presumably with something attached at their end to make the floor flat. They were all singing a cheerful working song to the rhythm of the banging sticks, dancing gently back and forth. It was fascinating to observe.
"Alright, the last one", some of us sighed with relief when we attacked Sera monastery. It turned out to be pretty entertaining, with beautiful sand paintings and animatedly debating monks. And then we were finally free! Since the train to Chengdu ran every other day, I had one more day in Lhasa than most of the people, who just flew back to Kathmandu the next morning.

On my last full day in Lhasa, after saying goodbye to my buddies, I checked into a youth hostel full of Chinese tourists and rented a bike. In front of the Potala, I asked one Chinese girl to take a picture of me; I ended up posing for ten minutes because the whole group - all girls, I can't complain - wanted a picture with me. Clearly my celebrity status hadn't ended yet; it was the first of many similar experiences in China.
The weather was excellent that day, and I thought I'd just ride around town. Unfortunately, broad Chinese avenues and ugly concrete buildings don't make the best biking trip. Also, I kept getting lost because I couldn't recognize any of the characters from my Chinese map on the signs. I gave them names, like "house with cross" and "man on chair". I spent quite some time trying to find ladder-and-robot-with-hat-and-hockey-stick street, but it was either a ladder with other stuff, or a robot without hockey stick. So I gave up and went to the summer palace (Norbulingka), which was mentioned quite a lot in "Seven Years in Tibet", so I was curious to see it. They Norbulingka complex is really a nice park, with buildings here and there. It was fall in Lhasa; after months of tropical climate, walking around between trees that were starting to loose their colorful leaves almost felt like home. At some point, I heard some happy singing, so I went towards the sounds. Some Tibetan families were having a picnic in the park. They had brought a huge barrel of chang, the local barley beer, from which they drunk glass after glass, frequently toasting. In a couple of tents around, men were playing some dice game, where they shook the dice in a box which they then slammed down on the table with a loud bang. It was a cheerful atmosphere, and no-one really seemed to notice me. I was the only Western tourist around; the exaggerated entrance fee keeps the crowds away.

Me posing in front of the Potala; I did this pose because about fifteen Chinese girls were screaming "pose! pose!".

On the ninth day since I left Nepal, I took my first Chinese train, from Lhasa to Chengdu. It's the highest train in the world, with a big part of the way above 4000 m, and a pass above 5000 m. Each passenger has his own oxygen supply, although I never figured out how it works. It takes about forty-three hours to get to Chengdu. The train makes a huge detour, going about 500 km north, then east and then all the way south again. Once again, it was an astonishingly beautiful ride. Tibet north from Lhasa is pretty much like Tibet south from Lhasa: an endless, arid plateau. The altitude increased progressively over a couple of hours as we approached the pass. The higher we went, the more surprised I was to see small villages and people, even around 4500 m. The most touching image was that solitary yak that was roaming around the steppe at almost 5000 m, surrounded by nothingness. The night fell while we crossed the pass. The next morning when I woke up, we were still above 3500 m. The landscape was very much like I what I would later see in Mongolia: endless plains with hills here and there, covered by a thin layer of snow. And then, as we got below 3000 m, we finally started seeing some trees again. We were back in more populated areas, with cities, roads, and fields. It looked strangely familiar; the snow-covered fields reminded me of Belgium the way I had left it in February. The weather wasn't like in Lhasa; it was cloudy and gray. As we gradually went further down, the scenery changed yet again, into misty hills of gray rock, covered with greenery. I went to sleep again thinking about all I had seen, but also about what was coming. The next morning I would wake up to the next chapter of my trip: China!

Annapurna trek

How do you prepare for a three-week trek in the Himalayas? Granted, the Annapurna trek is extremely touristic, with plenty of restaurants and guesthouses along the way. Still, I was going to be days away from roads, and when you're a couple of kilometers above sea level in October, the temperature can drop well below zero . It took me a couple of days of running around Pokhara to arrange everything, from clothing to permits. In the meantime, it was still raining regularly; monsoon was definitely not over yet.

The Annapurna circuit trek usually takes about 20 days. The trail circles six giants of more than 7000m elevation (Annapurna I-IV, Gangapurna and Annapurna South) and goes over one pass at 5416m (Thorong La). After about 10 days you reach a city called Jomsom. Unfortunately, the Nepali government built a road from Jomsom to the end of the trek a couple of years ago. This road, which replaces long stretches of the original hiking trail, is said to largely ruin the charm of the second part of what is considered one of the most beautiful treks in the world. My plan was to see how I felt when I reached Jomsom, and to decide there whether or not to continue. If I would still be enjoying myself towards the end of the circuit, I had the option of continuing to the Annapurna sanctuary, in the heart of the massif, which would take me an additional six days. The Annapurna region draws big crowds - about 80000 people visited the Annapurna Conservation Area last year. It is well known that in high season, which starts in October, there are just too many people to enjoy it. I started in mid-September, when the masses hadn't arrived yet. If I was lucky, monsoon would stop just in time so that I would have great views, without being part of one continuous procession of tourists. I was hoping that, for once, I would be at the right place at the right time. There is a lot of advertisement for guides and porters in Pokhara - every Nepali seems to be a trekking expert -, but many people had told me I needed neither.

It was ominously cloudy when I took the bus to Besi Sahar, the starting point of the Annapurna circuit trek. I was supposed to be excited about what was coming, but I was not. I had two major concerns: the weather, and company. Like I had done in Ladakh, I left alone, hoping I would meet some nice people right away, on the way to Besi Sahar. After my bad experience on my previous trek, I had promised myself I would never walk alone. Unfortunately, I was the only trekker on the bus. I had visions of me walking all alone, in the rain, with no views but gray clouds and misty valleys, for three weeks. Those weather gods - I just didn't trust them anymore. Just as I got out of the bus in Besi Sahar, rain started to pour. Even though I knew there was a bus to the next village, I had decided to go on foot. In spite of the rain, I stubbornly started walking. After not more than 50m, I already found myself having to cross a large river. That was more than I could bear; I went back and took the bus. As I sat there, staring at the raindrops rolling down the windows, I realized things were looking pretty grim. You can imagine my relief when I ran into some people at a checkpoint just after getting off the bus. I met two Finnish girls and four Australians, all with guides and porters. The rain had stopped, and we had a nice and short walk to the next village, where we spent the night. I was where I wanted to be, and I had some company - day one was a mild success.

For the next two days, I walked with the same people. They were pretty slow and stopped early, but I had promised myself I would take it easy and enjoy, and I was very happy to have company. The scenery on the Annapurna circuit trek is said to change continuously; this was true right from the start. We started below 1000m elevation. The earth had drunk greedily from the heavy monsoon rains, and everything was lush green. The hills in that area - as most of the Nepali hills - are almost entirely turned into rice terraces. Water was rushing down the slopes in big and small waterfalls. On day three (the second proper day of hiking), the hills became more rocky, and the rice terraces disappeared. There were many landslides, which we spent quite some time and energy avoiding. Some of us had leeches, but I was spared, although I did catch one in the act of penetrating my gore-tex boots.

On the morning of day four, we saw snow for the first time, on a distant mountain top. The hills were getting even more rocky, with large pine forests. I wanted to go a bit faster, and I decided that this time it was safe enough to walk alone. For the first time on the trek, I crossed picturesque villages with a relaxed, rural atmosphere, and Tibetan prayer flags were starting to make their appearance. After a pretty long day of walking mostly on my own, I was glad to meet a nice English couple, whose company I would enjoy that night and the next day.

Day five was the first one with clear weather. We had some magnificent views of the majestic Annapurna II (7937m), as well as Paungda Danda, a huge curved rock face of more than 1500m high. That night we stayed in Pisang, which I found the first truly special place. The village lies in a long valley, and is dominated by Annapurna II, towering 4700m higher. The upper part of Pisang, where we stayed, consists of old mud brick houses, surrounded by red buckwheat fields. There are plenty of mani stones (stone plates inscribed with Buddhist mantras), prayer wheels, and a beautiful little temple. We were now above 3000m, and it was starting to get really cold at night.

Day six was one of the most exhilarating hikes of the whole trip. I left alone, because my English companions were taking a shorter path. It was cloudy when I started, but soon enough the sun came through, and the most amazing views of Annapurna II and IV slowly emerged from the fog. After a steep climb I reached Ghyaru, one of the most picturesque villages I have seen. The mud brick houses are surrounded by a soft patchwork blanket of red buckwheat and yellow barley fields. When I walked a bit further, past a flock of hovering vultures, I reached a pass between the valley of Pisang and the next. I had a view on the entire valley, mostly populated by pine trees, with Pisang in the distance, the surreal Paungda Danda rock face shimmering behind, and Annapurna II and IV rising high above. On the other side, the valley was much dryer. The pine trees were much less densely scattered around the valley. The slopes were mostly rocks and some bushes. I went down to the next village and had lunch there. While I was waiting for my food, the clouds slowly revealed the impressive, massive, rough Annapurna III (7575m) at the other side of the valley. The rest of the afternoon was a beautiful walk between the pines in the valley. The clouds played with me, continuously changing the view, allowing me to see some peaks while covering others. Erosion had carved unlikely shapes out of some of the rocks, reminding me a bit of Cappadocia, in Turkey. After visiting the charming village of Braga, I arrived in Manang (3500m), the most common acclimatization spot before the Thorong-La pass. I was all alone in a big, overpriced hotel, and I thought that for the first time, I would have dinner alone. Fortunately, I ran into the friendly Dutch couple I had met a few times in the previous days. I was glad to find out that he wanted to do the same thing as me on our acclimatization day: climb up to Ice Lake. She was not too keen on the side trip, which involves climbing more than 1000m (from 3480m to 4620m), so she decided to stay in Manang.

On day six. The Pisang valley with Paungda Danda on the left and a part of Annapurna II on the right.

The weather the next day was not so good. It was more or less dry, but very cloudy. Still we enjoyed the steep climb, which turned out to be the most difficult one of the whole circuit. When we reached Ice Lake (which was not frozen at all), it was cold and drizzly. We had occasional glimpses of the snow-capped mountains on the other side of the valley - just enough to make us realize how amazing the spot must be in clear weather. The best moment was when we came across a big herd of majestic yaks, with their long hair and huge horns.

The next two days were short. We weren't supposed to climb too fast because of the altitude. When I reached the hostel after just a few hours, I was extremely frustrated. I wanted to go on, to the pass! But since it was foggy and drizzly, and my guidebook strongly advised to spend a night there, I decided to stay. I was rewarded with excellent company - the Dutch couple and three Israelis -, with whom I spent a cozy afternoon playing cards. The next morning, we reached the last stop before the pass, called Thorong Phedi (4450 m). There we did the same thing as the day before: playing cards, drinking tea and eating cake. The weather was still not so good. In the afternoon, the sky cleared up a bit, and we noticed how close by Gangapurna (7455 m) had been all the time. Unfortunately, the cloud curtains were closed again shortly after. I decided that I would wait for the weather to get better before going up to the pass. I went to bed with the secret hope of having a clear sky the next morning, although I knew that it was not very likely at all. When I woke up at 5 the next morning, the first thing I did was to look out the window. Stars, I saw stars! When I got out of my room, I saw Gangapurna, beautifully lit by moonlight. All of a sudden, I was bursting with impatience. I knew from my trek in Sikkim how quickly the clouds could roll in, so I wanted to get up there as soon as possible. I shoveled my breakfast down, hastily packed my bag, and left. I rushed up, only stopping every once in a while to take pictures. The first bit, a steep 500 m slope made up of scree, was the hardest one. A herd of animals - supposedly blue sheep - were causing fairly large rocks to roll down. The mild fear made me accelerate even more, even though I was a bit worried about those behind me. In the meantime, the sun was coming up, coloring Gangapurna beautifully orange. After the first climb, it got much easier. The slopes were less steep, and regularly interrupted by flat parts. I could feel the altitude, but the many Kodak moments were enough to let me catch my breath. On and on I walked, through this landscape of rocks and snowy peaks. After 2:30 hrs, I reached a bunch of prayer flags, and a sign that said: "Thorong-La Pass. 5416 m. Congratulations for the success!!! Hope you enjoyed the trek in Manang. See you again!!!". I arrived in t-shirt, but quickly put on all my clothes because it was cold and windy. The first few minutes I felt a bit confused, undoubtedly because of the altitude. After taking some pictures (there was one other man up there at that moment), I started exploring the surroundings. There is a small hut where some brave people sold tea, and two mounds with prayer flags. The snowline was not much higher; there was snow on both sides of the saddle-shaped pass. The valley on the western side of Thorong-La is extremely barren - the same rugged landscape I knew from Ladakh. On the far side of the valley, which is deep and broad, I saw a series of snow-capped mountains. On the side I had come from, the peaks were very close by. I decided to stay and wait for my friends. It was cold, but not unbearably so. I spent some time walking around, taking pictures, and welcoming new arrivals. After two hours, there was still no sign of my friends, and I started to get a headache, so I started heading down. The way down was strenuous - a steep 1500 m descent over mostly scree. As it got hotter and hotter, a bright green patch started to appear in the valley. The village of Muktinath lay before us like an oasis, a promised land - that's how it felt after spending a couple of days without seeing any greenery. While I was having lunch, my friends caught up with me. That's when I met the Dutch guy and the Scottish girl with whom I would spent the rest of my trip.

The next day, I walked around the valley with my new companions. Muktinath is an important pilgrimage site for Hindus and Buddhists. We visited the big temple there, where fortunately there weren't too many people. The weather was still excellent, and the relaxed atmosphere was one of genuine worship . We also visited a smaller village with a Buddhist monastery, and walked on a ridge where we had astonishing views of the surroundings.

Muktinath

After a good night's sleep and a breathtaking sunrise, we continued or journey. I told you a road starts in Jomsom; in fact, a dirt road, suitable for jeeps, connects Muktinath and Jomsom. We took a detour to avoid the road, which proved to be an excellent idea. We crossed a small pass with the best views of the Muktinath valley. In the next valley, we needed to cross a river to reach the village of Lubra. When we got there, we found ourselves facing a violent torrent, with no bridge in sight. It wasn't so broad - less than 5 m, I think -, but it was turbulent, and the dark color of the water didn't help to make it inviting. Remembering my ordeal in Ladakh, I was quite reluctant to cross it. Okay, I confess, I was frankly scared. Luckily, the Scottish girl had experience in river crossing. She boldly threw off her backpack, took her shoes off, took my walking stick (a piece of bamboo I had found on some landslide), and crossed the river. Yes, but that's without backpack, I said. But my friend knew a special technique. We stood in a circle, facing each other, arms around each other's shoulders, and rotated while crossing the river. We reached the other side easily, and walked on to the village. We soon realized it had been worth the effort: Lubra is an extremely picturesque place, which obviously doesn't see many tourists. Another thing that makes it interesting is that it has two monasteries of Bön religion, the Tibetan spiritual tradition before Buddhism. We were starving, but there was no restaurant, so we ended up having delicious lunch in someone's home. After lunch, we continued walking towards the village of Kagbeni. This was a huge detour - more or less two sides of a triangle -, but we thought it might be worth it. Kagbeni is the closest you can get to the region of upper Mustang, a former kingdom with close ties to Tibet, which is now part of Nepal. To get further north than Kagbeni, you need to pay 500$ for a permit. On the way there, we walked across a small desert plateau, with nothing but rocks and dry bushes. It was worth the detour: Kagbeni is a lovely village with mud brick houses and narrow streets and tunnels, where the sound of playing children mingles with the bleating of sheep.

The next three days were all about trying to avoid the road. We tried as much as we could to stay on the other side of the river, and visit some villages there. The weather remained excellent. On the morning of day thirteen we walked to Jomsom - the town where the road starts - on the broad valley floor, made up mainly of loose rocks; no trees were to be seen. In the afternoon we crossed the river to avoid the road, and found ourselves back in a rocky scenery with pine tress, much like in the vicinity of Manang, on the other side of the pass. The views of mount Nilgiri (6140 m) were amazing. As would be the case in the next few days, there was no way to avoid the road on the last bit before the village where we spent the night. On day fourteen and fifteen, the vegetation got denser and denser. Day fifteen was not an easy day. We were determined to stay on the other side of the river for as long as we could. There were a couple of rivers to cross, and we were unsure about the existence or the state of bridges. After a couple of hours, we got to a broad valley with a river and no bridge. We applied the same trick as before, and I was glad we did because it was deeper and more violent than the previous one. When we got to the next village, some people kindly informed us that we couldn't go that way because some bridge had collapsed. There were several bridges on our map, so we stubbornly tried to find another one. We got lost in the forest, and tried to find our way pretty much on intuition. We understood that our sixth sense wasn't what we had hoped for when we found ourselves on top of a huge cliff. We wisely decided to go back to a village where we knew for a fact that there was a bridge, and walked the rest of the way on the road.

mount Nilgiri

On day sixteen, we walked to Tatopani, a village well known for its hot springs. The road was unavoidable, but in spite of that, the walk was very beautiful. We were below 2000 m, and everything was green again. Big waterfalls rushed down the hills. We saw orange and banana trees and colorful flowers, as well as lizards, butterflies and dragonflies. The valley was buzzing with life; I can barely imagine a bigger contrast with the barren scenery of the north part of the trek. We arrived early and spent a relaxing afternoon. I didn't expect much of the hot springs, but I was pleasantly surprised. I had never had a hot bath in such a beautiful setting.

The next day we walked to Ghorepani, also a famous place because of nearby Poon Hill (3200 m), which offers a great view of the Annapurnas. It was a long and monotonous day. It got cloudier and cloudier as the day went on, and we arrived in Ghorepani in the rain. Again, like before the pass, I went to bed with the secret hope that everything would be fine in the morning.
Again, we were lucky. When we woke up, before dawn, the clouds had cleared, and the sky was starry. It was the 3rd of October, and the tourist season had clearly begun. We had to overtake dozens of people on our way to the hilltop. Poon Hill deserves its success, though. The Annapurnas and surrounding mountains are so close that you feel like you could almost touch them. I had my first good view of the spectacular Machhapuchhre or mount Fishtail (6998 m), called like this because of its sharp double peak. After second breakfast, we started the long walk towards the Annapurna Sanctuary. I had decided by then that I wanted to go all the way to base camp, and so did my companions. We had worked out that we could probably reach it in three days, and it seemed silly not to do it. It was a long day, but the views were beautiful. We walked through a forest which, with its lianas and moss-covered trees, looked like something out of a fairy-tale. The next day, we walked up to Himalayan Hotel (3270 m). The big star on the way to Annapurna base camp is mount Fishtail. With its sharp, jagged form, I understand why this mountain is considered holy; I couldn't take my eyes of it.

On day twenty, we walked to Annapurna base camp (ABC). It was beautifully clear, and mount Fishtail was looking stunning. I got impatient again, and left my friends behind. I didn't want to stop, I didn't want to eat, I didn't want to drink - I just wanted to get to the Sanctuary. Just like on my way to Thorong-La, I had to force myself to stop to enjoy the view and take some pictures. Mountains appeared everywhere: Gangapurna and Annapurna III at the end of the valley (to the north), and later on, as I reached Machhapuchhre base camp (MBC), Annapurna South to the west. I understood how the Annapurna Sanctuary got its name. They are all standing there, these white giants with their unlikely shapes, as if they are guarding the entrance to some mysterious paradise. At MBC, the trail makes a 90° turn to the west to go up to ABC. Since the last bit is fairly flat, base camp is visible from a distance. Still, it has a big surprise in store. Just as you reach ABC, you discover Annapurna I (8091 m), the biggest one of all, was hiding right around the corner (to the north). The base of the massive mountain is clad with three glaciers. Left of Annapurna I stands Annapurna South, which also ends in glaciers. All this forms a surreal arena of snow, rocks and ice. Between base camp and Annapurna I lies a huge plain of sand and gravel - as my Scottish friend put it, a cat wouldn't have any problem to find a place to relieve itself here. Just when I reached base camp, clouds rolled in fast. We spent the afternoon in a dense fog, which, helped by the occasional crashing sounds when gigantic blocks of ice detached from the glaciers, gave an apocalyptic dimension to the place. It seemed like a dead end, the end of the world. And then, in the late afternoon, something unexpected happened: the sky completely cleared up. We witnessed possibly the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen, which colored mount Fishtail orange, and then red. This was followed by an amazing starry sky, which we could enjoy only briefly because of the cold - after all, we were at 4130 m. The next morning, we woke up before sunrise, which was just as beautiful as sunset. The sky was perfectly clear, and we spent some time walking around there, drinking with our eyes.

Sunset on mount Fishtail

With my friends, in front of Annapurna I

And then, it was time to go back down. I had seen everything I wanted to see, and was looking forward to the continuation of my trip, hopefully to Tibet. When we stopped relatively early that afternoon, I got a bit angry. My companions clearly didn't share my impatience, so I decided I would walk on my own pace the next day, and try to reach the end of the trek. In spite of my hurry, I did enjoy day twenty-two, the last day of walking. I saw a deer and monkeys, and was back in the land of rice terraces and typical Hindu villages. A thunderstorm caught up with me, so I walked the last hour in the pouring rain. That night I had dinner alone. I smiled at the thought that the two things I had been afraid of - rain and being alone - didn't occur once until the very last day.

When I left the Annapurna area the next day, I felt strange. For three weeks, all I had done was walking - and I had enjoyed it intensely. I had to go back to the so-called civilized world, with its cars and its crowds and its hurry. I had one final surprise: I spent the two-hour journey back to Pokhara on top of the bus. From there, I had some last incredible views of the snow-capped mountains, including mount Fishtail. I returned to Pokhara extremely satisfied with my trek, but a bit nervous about all the arrangements I had to make for my trip to Tibet.

Vipassana meditation course

Me, Julien Deckx, going on a meditation course? That sounds a bit like the pope going to a school of rock, you may say. How did I get this crazy idea? A French guy I met in India - the same guy who had told me to go to Tribeni Ghat - had done it. He told me how "his mind had escaped his body" at some point. I'm a bit too skeptical to accept that kind of statement just like that, but I thought I should be open-minded enough to at least find out for myself. Adding to that my growing interest for Buddhism and the vague resolution to "work on my body and mind" during my trip, it sounded like a perfect plan.

Vipassana meditation is "a method of mental purification which allows one to face life's tensions and problems in a calm, balanced way". During the ten-day course, you spend ten hours a day meditating. The rules are very strict: no talking or other forms of communication with other students (a.k.a. noble silence), complete separation of men and women, no music, no reading, no writing - even physical exercise and religious rituals are forbidden. The students must also observe Five Precepts: no killing any living being (yep, that includes the mozzies), no stealing, no sexual activities, no telling lies (pretty hard to lie when you're not allowed to communicate), no intoxicants. Also, there is no dinner; there's a tea break at 5 p.m., where new students do get cereals and an apple. Here's the full timetable of a day in what I like to call "concentration camp":

4:00 a.m. Morning wake-up bell
4:30 - 6:30 a.m. Meditate in the hall
6:30 - 8:00 a.m. Breakfast break
8:00 - 9:00 a.m. Group meditation in the hall
9:00 - 11:00 a.m. Meditate in the hall
11:00 - noon Lunch break
12:00 -1:00 p.m. Rest
1:00 - 2:30 p.m. Meditate in the hall
2:30 - 3:30 p.m. Group meditation in the hall
3:30 - 5:00 p.m. Meditate in the hall
5:00 - 6:00 p.m. Tea break
6:00 - 7:00 p.m. Group meditation in the hall
7:00 - 8:15 p.m. Teacher's discourse in the hall
8:15 - 9:00 p.m. Group meditation in the hall
9:00 - 9:30 p.m. Question time in the hall
9:30 p.m. Retire to your room; lights out

At the center where I went, Vipassana is taught by S.N. Goenka. Since there are hundreds of such centers all over the world, the teacher is only present virtually, on CD's and DVD's. He is also represented by an assistant teacher. Just like the rest of the staff, the teacher works as a volunteer. The course is completely free of charge, but students are encouraged to give a donation.

On the first of September, the first day of school for children in Belgium, I took a couple of buses and hiked up to the Vipassana center at Begnas lake, close to Pokhara. I felt a bit like on a first schoolday - the same mix of excitement, curiosity and fear. How will the teacher be? Will my classmates be nice? When I arrived, other students were filling in some papers. Whispering, I asked if I was still allowed to talk. Yes, was the answer; the noble silence would start after the first evening session. After going through the necessary paperwork, we had the afternoon free. So I spent a couple of hours chatting with the people I would live with, but not say a word to, for ten days. After tea, we got an introduction, where they repeated the rules and modalities of the course. And then, to the meditation hall! The teacher (the real one) gave a short introduction, after which he switched on the CD player. The teacher (the virtual one) then explained what we were to do the first three days. We had to breathe through our nose, and observe our respiration, as well as any sensation - tickling, pressure, pain, etc.- in the triangular area formed by the nose and the base of the upper lip. That's it? That's it. For ten hours a day. I was looking forward to it.

At 4 o'clock the next morning, the gong signaled the start of day 1. There's a wake-up gong 4, and a second signal at 4.30, when meditation starts. That first morning, I found it very pleasant to be woken up by a gong. For the first and last time, I enthusiastically got up with the first signal to freshen up and brush my teeth. I really enjoyed my first morning meditation. While we all sat there, perfectly quiet, the day slowly awoke and the first rays of the sun appeared through the windows. The last half hour of every morning session, the teacher (the real one) puts on a CD of chanting by the teacher (the virtual one). Meditating there, with the rising sun and the (not so melodious, but still special) voice of the teacher in the background: I was loving it.
Day one was fairly easy. Of course, I had a hard time keeping my attention on my breath. My thoughts were wandering, but I tried my best to bring them back to my respiration. I was a bit worried about my position. I knew that at some point we wouldn't be allowed to change position during meditation anymore. So I started experimenting with how to put my legs - with little success. Lotus position? Impossible. Half lotus position? Extremely painful. Cross-legged with right foot under left leg? Foot falls asleep and hurts a lot after a while. Left foot under right leg? Ouch, no! Whichever position I tried, I had to give up after less than half an hour because the pain got too intense.

On the second day, I had the first case of what I call "mental mutiny". I got angry, and started questioning the whole meditation course. What am I doing here? I have a bad concentration, I don't really believe in Buddhist theories, and I'm too stiff to sit cross-legged for a long time. Besides, I'm perfectly happy; I don't need this. I got over my anger and carried on patiently, but it came back the second day, twice. I just got sick and tired of constantly concentrating on the same thing. This set the tone for the rest of the course. Every day had its ups and downs. There wasn't a single day that I didn't feel hopeless or fed up at least once; but every day I managed to win a couple of small personal victories.

My biggest enemy, I soon understood, was time. I knew the principle all too well from my boring summer jobs as a student: the more you want time to pass, the less it does. So you try to make the best of the situation - in this case, to explore the wonders of your own respiration. Not easy, with a concentration span like mine: "Okay, concentrate on your breath. All the air seems to go through my right nostril. Interesting. Yeah... I feel a bit thirsty. I could definitely go for a Belgian beer right now. Possibly a Duvel. Hmm, Duvel... I wonder what kind of weather they're having in Belgium. And if we have a government yet...probably not. Oh shit, that's right, I'm meditating. Were was I? Oh yeah, so, right nostril...amazing..."

On day 4, we started the actual Vipassana meditation. We now had to focus our attention on our entire body, as the teacher (the virtual one) repeated endlessly: "part by part, piece by piece". The purpose was to understand the changing nature of our body: nothing stays forever (or to say it in terms of western classical philosophy: panta rhei - everything flows). Unfortunately, by the time I would get to my left small toe I would have forgotten the itch I had felt on top of my head and the strange pressure on my right cheek.
After the 4th day, the three one-hour group sessions we had every day would be "hours of strong determination". This meant we had to try not to move at all during one hour. I knew this was the start of some serious suffering.

In the meantime, I started to get into the daily routine at the meditation center. I got used to getting up, eating and going to sleep at the same times every day, and developed my own little rituals. Having no-one to talk to, I entertained myself with jokes and comments, smiling on my own. I looked forward to the teacher's discourses in the end of the evening, showed on DVD - the one time in the day I did something else than meditating, eating, sleeping or just sitting around. The teacher (the virtual one) is an extremely good speaker, who uses a lot of humor and anecdotes in his discourses. Every night, he would tell something more about the theory of Vipassana meditation and Buddhist ideas in general. However, as the days passed, I disagreed more and more with him. He talked about how everything is made up of basic particles consisting of earth, water, air and fire and then he claimed that the theory matches the modern ideas of quantum physics - a bit hard for me to stomach.

During the breaks, there's nothing else to do than taking a nap or just sitting outside. It was raining quite a lot those days, but when it didn't, most of us would hang around in the garden in front. We would admire the magnificent view on the lake, and observe the shadows that the clouds painted on the green terraced hills. The prohibition to communicate - which, by the way, is not at all hard to observe - made it pretty special; not often do people spend long moments just enjoying a view together without saying a word. I knew that, when the sky was clear, there was a magnificent view on the snow-capped Annapurnas. I secretly hoped that the last days, the rains would stop, and I would be able to admire the mountains - an excellent transition to the trek I had planned to do after the course. We caught our first glimpses of snow and rocks on day 6. On day 7, we occasionally had good views on some of the peaks. The morning of day 8 was beautiful and clear, and most of the mountains, with their unlikely jagged forms, were visible. We all stared, awe-struck, at the beauty that surrounded us. Those unmovable white giants, which had been standing there the whole time, were finally revealed to us. My euphoria was bad for my concentration: monsoon is over! Let's go trekking! Unfortunately, it was too good to be true; the rains came back in the next days.

The rainy season is a great time for insects. Many a times I had to dodge because I was on the trajectory of some flying invertebrate madman - quite often huge flying cockroaches. It was impossible to observe the precept of not killing any beings. On one of the first days, I rescued ants who were helplessly drowning in my shower. I later decided that my vow didn't compel me to actually save lives. I must have (half-)unintentionally squashed dozens of ants. I don't think I killed any mosquitoes; fortunately, I had brought large quantities of insect repellent cream. But there weren't only cockroaches, ants and mosquitoes. Our meditation sessions were always accompanied by vuvuzela concerts of grasshoppers and crickets. I also saw a couple of real masters of camouflage - insects looking extraordinarily accurately like a leaf or a twig. And one time we stared with open mouth at a huge caterpillar, I estimate about 20 cm long and and 3 cm in diameter. The Nepalis quickly caught it with a branch and threw it away, because it might be dangerous.

After the freshness of concentrating on something else than just my respiration, I got bored with the Vipassana technique pretty quickly. I was still fighting my battle with time - in fact, it seemed to go slower and slower. I forced myself not to think about it, and never to look at the big clock that was hanging behind us. Another temptation was to analyze the movements of the others, and to compare. "See, this guy is fed up too, it's normal", I would think, or, "that guy seems to be so concentrated all the time. How does he do it?". By far the most interesting moments for me were the group sessions. Sitting cross-legged for one hour straight is a real torture. After half an hour, the pain starts. Initially, it's pretty easy to ignore- but after a while, it just becomes too intense. That's when you start negotiating with yourself. You started the hour determined not to budge. So there's a part of you that really wants you to succeed. But there's another part of you, one that's screaming louder and louder, that wants you to stop the madness. It's very much like the little demon and angel on the shoulders. As a child, I used to play a game with my grandmother. She had a mirror with two sides, one of which was magnifying. My reflection on this side was "big Julien", a mature and reasonable boy, and the other side was "small Julien", a capricious child. On those moments of agony, small Julien is angry with big Julien: "Why are you doing this? It hurts!" He starts inventing excuses: "You're too stiff for this, you won't succeed anyway. Besides, it's only the third time you're trying it. Nobody expects you to do the full hour that quickly. Look, the guy next to you gave up already." The first few times, that's how I usually failed; I would come up with an excuse that seemed acceptable. So after a while, I started thinking of all the possible excuses beforehand and making up counter-arguments. That worked well - big Julien became intransigent. After running out of excuses, I would start begging myself, mentally dropping to my knees, but the determined part of me was just stronger. So I managed to make it through the hour, one or two times a day, but the suffering was still intense. I had to find a way to make the last fifteen minutes more bearable. At first, I tried just to ignore the pain, and to stay positive. I had to disconnect emotionally from the sharp impulses my body was sending to my brain. After a while, I became pretty good at it. Interestingly, rather than trying to ignore the pain, it seemed better to focus on it and analyze it - sometimes, it would even fade away. I had moments in which I could look at my body objectively and observe that I was in a lot of pain, without reacting to it. My mind disconnected from my body; in that sense, I think I came to understand pretty well what my French friend meant. It was even a bit frightening sometimes, and a couple of times the feeling lasted even after the meditation was over. One time, as I was concentrating on particularly intense pain in my leg, I had a very special feeling, as if my whole body was being sucked upward. One step closer to levitation, I guess.

As the end of the course drew nearer, I started really losing my patience. On day 9, during the lunch break, I burst into hysterical laughter at the thought of some funny event. I just couldn't contain myself - probably a result of the long days of forced self-restraint. That afternoon, I realized I was really tired of observing my body over and over again. I didn't agree with the theory behind it, and I had completely lost my motivation. But I saw it as a challenge to make it until the last day, and the hours of strong determination I still found interesting, so I stayed. I started taking more breaks, but still tried to concentrate and make the best of it, as it was the only way to cope with it.

On the morning of day 10, Vipassana meditation was over. We were allowed to talk again, and only the three remaining group sittings would still be held. I had thought I would come out of ten days of silence and meditation (almost 100 hours in total!) calm and detached. More the contrary, I was bursting with energy and full of plans. I wasn't the only one; everybody was beaming with joy. We chattered and chattered and chattered - I have never been as talkative as in the next few days. It's amazing how you can become attached to people you don't communicate with. For nine days, we hadn't said a word to each other, but we had lived together, eaten and slept together, gone through the same difficulties - that really creates a bond.

On the morning of day 11, after breakfast, we were free to go. Back to the real world. I evaluated the previous week. Was it worthwhile? The answer is definitely yes. The ultimate purpose of the technique is to learn how to suppress negative emotions like anger and craving. I don't believe in the theory behind the technique, which is based on Buddhist principles. Although the teacher insists that the technique is universal and not based on any religion, he talks about things like reincarnation as if they were completely accepted by everyone. In spite of that, I don't completely rule out the possibility that it could somehow be beneficial. When you're angry, you get a very strong impulse to react. Similarly, during the hour of strong determination, the pain gives rise to a very strong impulse that urges you to change position. It may be that by learning to observe pain objectively without reacting to it, you learn how to do the same with anger. In theory, you should meditate for two hours every day to make the technique effective - not very realistic, if you ask me. Apart from that, I think by meditating you learn how to be patient. Patience seems to be the ability to make the best of a moment, regardless of past and future. When you meditate, you are sitting there, and you'll be sitting there one more hour, so you might as well explore your body for sensations. And in fact, it's pretty surprising how detailed the sensations are that you start identifying after a while. I had the feeling that my mind was sharper altogether, although that's not something that I can determine objectively. Spending a lot of time with few external impulses, I also came to many insights and ideas - unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to write them down during the course. In spite of all these benefits, it was very hard, and I was extremely bored at times, especially towards the end. In conclusion: I'm glad I did it, but I won't do it again.

On the last day, we were shown a documentary about how the Vipassana technique was (allegedly successfully) taught to inmates of the biggest prison in India. You can find it, in 11 parts, on Youtube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtbBYzrYnAs). To be honest, I don't really know what to make of it.

From India to Nepal

When I got back to Manali from Leh, I had about two weeks left before my Indian visa expired. I wanted to go to Nepal, but there was one thing I wanted to do before: to visit my Indian friend, at whose house I had celebrated the Holi festival in March. His hometown, Roorkee, was right on the way from Manali to where I wanted to cross the border. And right on the way fro Manali to Roorkee is Chandigarh, the capital of the state of Punjab.

Chandigarh is a special place, as it was built from scratch in the early fifties, and designed by Le Corbusier, the famous architect. I spent only one (extremely rainy) day there, but I'm glad I saw it. It's a bit to surreal to see broad, empty avenues with roundabouts in India. The highlight for me, though, was Nek Chand's Rock Garden, a park filled with hundreds of statues and decorations made from recycled materials like bangles and plug sockets.

That same night, I took the train to Roorkee. I spent a couple of days with my friend and his family. I was treated like a brother and a son, in good Indian tradition. I felt at home, which was a relief after all that traveling around.
I had come to Roorkee at the right time. There was a Hindu festival, where pilgrims walk to nearby Haridwar to fetch water from the holy Ganga and bring it back to their homes. They dress in orange and carry a pole with two pots, one on each end, for the holy water. An endless procession of pilgrims was passing through the town, day and night. People were sleeping everywhere and anywhere: on the sidewalk, in gas stations, banks, etc. One day we drove to Haridwar where, needless to say, the atmosphere was pretty special. Thousands of people were bathing in the holy river and going to temples, some of them crawling bare-chested on the dirty floor.
It was with a heavy heart that I said goodbye to my friend and his family, leaving the peace and quiet of Roorkee for my last chaotic journey through India. The way to the border crossing was pretty long, so I spent one night in Lucknow, the capital of Utthar Pradesh. Lucknow is a typically hot, chaotic, polluted Indian city, but there are a couple of monuments I found worth seeing.

With my Indian family...

And then the moment had come: I was leaving India. I was leaving this enormous, overcrowded, ugly and beautiful, irritating and fascinating, shocking and touching continent of a country, so rich and yet so poor, the country of the caste system and of Mahatma Gandhi, of beggars and maharajahs, of Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, and others. I had become half Indian by then: I wobbled my head more than is considered healthy in my culture; I ate with my hands just as skilfully as the poorest farmer; I consumed an average of ten milk teas a day; I could hum along with most of the recent Bollywood songs; I found food without hot spices tasteless; I spat and burped and snorted regardless of where I was, and had gotten used to people loudly clearing their throats; I crossed raging highways without blinking an eye; I found it perfectly normal to jump into moving trains and buses; I didn't even think of buying anything without bargaining; I had stopped noticing the smell of animals, open sewers, public urinals, rotting meat and my own sweat. And so I left India, and I went to Nepal, where... people wobble their heads, eat spicy food, drink milk tea, watch Bollywood music, spit and snort, etc. Even the Nepali language is really close to Hindi, and the script is the same. All of this I didn't really know yet, but still, I didn't feel like I was really leaving India. After all, Nepal could easily be just another Indian state.

On the 8th of August, I crossed the Nepali border. On my first bus ride, I was surprised by the number of police checkposts and military along the way. I shouldn't have been; after all, this country has been terrorized by Maoist insurgencies until merely 5 years ago. Democracy, established in 1990 after a popular uprising, is still young here, and is struggling to survive. To make a very long story short: after another popular uprising, the monarchy was ultimately abolished and Nepal became a republic in 2008. During my stay, Nepal was in a political deadlock. For months, the political parties were trying to reach a consensus about a constitutional assembly. But hey, as a Belgian, I don't feel like I'm in a good position to say anything.

My first destination in Nepal was Pokhara, where I would meet my Spanish friends. Pokhara is situated at the beautiful Fewa lake, surrounded by green hills and with stunning views of the Annapurna mountains when the weather is clear (which wasn't the case at that time). It's one of the biggest tourist places in Nepal - much too touristy for my taste, actually. But I found a nice guest house and had a good time with my friends. One day, we rented motorbikes. We drove to a nearby lake called Begnas Tal, which I actually find even more beautiful than Fewa lake. We drove up to a meditation center that I wanted to visit. Since the monsoon wasn't going to stop until sometime in September and I wanted to go trekking when it would get dryer, I had decided to follow a ten day meditation course in the meantime. I had registered to start the course a couple of days later in a center in Lumbini, the birthplace of Buddha, very close to the Indian border. But when I saw the center at Begnas lake, I immediately fell in love with the place and ultimately changed my plans. The center is really isolated, with breath-taking views on the lake. If I was going to suffer for ten days, I thought, I might as well do it somewhere beautiful. The only problem was that the course there didn't start until two weeks later. I decided it was worth waiting for, and I was sure I would find plenty of things to do in the meantime.

Begnas lake

I decided to go to Kathmandu, stopping in some villages in between. In one of those typical cases of travelers' luck, some nice people I had met at my guest house were planning to do the same thing on the same day. Together, we took a bus to a town called Gorkha. Underway, we had to stop fore more than an hour because a vehicle was being pulled out of the valley. Gorkha used to be a kingdom, from where king Prithvi Narayan Shah conquered nearby kingdoms and unified Nepal in the 18th century. The small but beautiful palace, perched on top of a hill, was well worth visiting. Most buildings in the region are made in the Newari style, of which I'm a big fan: red bricks and beautifully carved woodwork, with tiered, pyramid-shaped roofs covered with baked clay tiles, often with metal decorations underneath.

After spending two nights in Gorkha, I took the bus to Kathmandu. Again we stopped at some point; this time a truck had fallen of a bridge. There's thirty times more probability of dying in a traffic accident in Nepal than in developed countries, and it's easy to see why.
I spent a couple of days in Kathmandu, visiting the city and surroundings, buying gear for the trek I would do later, and informing for my upcoming trip to Tibet. For the third time, I met up with the Spanish couple, who had become extremely nice friends.
There used to be three kingdoms in the Kathmandu valley: Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur. Each have a central square called Durbar square, with temples and a royal palace. I kind of like Kathmandu, and Durbar square is the main reason for this. Traffic is limited, which makes it a comparatively quiet place. I really enjoy sitting on one of the beautiful Newari style temples, just watching people pass by. That's what I missed in Indian cities, where the center of the city is invariably the most congested place. Other than that, Kathmandu is an extremely busy city, and the narrow streets of the center are absolutely not adapted to the many motorbikes and rickshaws. I got stuck in traffic jams several times - as a pedestrian. Just, it seems, like any city in South-Asia, Kathmandu is at its best in the early morning, when the streets are quiets, the people go perform their morning rituals in the many small temples, and the charm of small, colorful street markets is not yet spoiled by noise and pollution. The young people in Kathmandu are modern, well-dressed, boasting high-tech smartphones and mp3 players. It makes you forget that Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world. Patan and Bhaktapur are more quiet and laid-back than Kathmandu, and each have a magnificent Durbar Square and other temples and houses in Newari style.

Durbar square in Patan

The third biggest tourist attraction in Nepal, after Kathmandu and Pokhara, is Chitwan National Park. I actually wanted to go to the much more distant and less touristy Bardia park, but since Chitwan was more or less on the way there, I thought I might as well stop there. After a beautiful bus drive, where the misty green hills with rice terraces reminded me of the image I have of the north of Vietnam I arrived at the park in the pouring rain. Together with two Polish guys I had met in the bus, I arranged a canoe trip and an elephant safari for the next day. The next morning, it was still raining heavily, and the boatman hesitated about going on the river, as it was flowing fast and he was afraid of flooding. I didn't really believe him, but didn't feel like arguing; the prospect of spending a couple of hours in a boat under the showering rain didn't particularly appeal to me. We decided to wait for a couple of hours and see how the situation evolved. When we went back to the river after taking some rest, we found that it had become much broader, and that some bars at the riverside were half submerged - the boatman hadn't lied about the risk of flooding. The locals didn't seem much affected; they were smiling and joking, and people seemed to come from nearby villages to look at the phenomenon. We learned that this happens every year, usually without dramatic consequences. A couple of years ago, though, there was a major flood, which affected the whole village, and the inhabitants were evacuated. This was the period where major floods terrorized Pakistan and the south of China. When we read in the newspaper that four people had been killed in floods in Nepal the day before, we started to feel a bit unsafe. The locals tried to reassure us, telling us that we wouldn't die; in the worst case, we would be evacuated by helicopter. Fantastic prospects. We had booked an elephant safari of one and a half hours for one hour later; after much debating, we decided we would stay at least for the safari. The elephant safari is the biggest attraction in Chitwan, and the only thing I was really interested in. I'm happy we chose to stay. I can't imagine a better way to explore a jungle than on the back of an elephant. We went steadily through the forest, from clearing to clearing. At a few of these clearing we saw rhinos, the symbol of Chitwan. The animals didn't seem to mind the presents of the elephants - in fact, they completely ignored them. I was really impressed by these mastodons. With their thick, armor-like carapace and their majestic one horn, they looked like dinosaurs to me; I felt like I was in Jurassic park. We saw some deers as well, but they were, of course, much shyer. We didn't have the luck to come across any wild elephants or monkeys, let alone tigers, but it was still more than worthwhile. I the end, we were pretty lucky with the weather: the rain diminished, and eventually stopped. The flood actually added an extra dimension to the safari, as we waded elephant-knee-deep through some parts of the forest. Since the weather had gotten better, our escaping plans had become obsolete, so we decided to stay another night. I also buried my plans for Bardia park; not only is it in the far west of Nepal, at a horrible 16 hours bus drive from there, but the Bardia district was also one of the most affected by floods.

Rhinos!

The next morning, we went to Lumbini. Lumbini is, as I told you, the birthplace of Buddha, close to the Indian border, in the southern plains of the Terai. When we reached the Terai, we realized we had forgotten how hot it was down there. As I had been told many times, Lumbini is barely worth mentioning. We visited the temple that afternoon. The next morning we hired a bicycle and went around the many monasteries built in the area by countries from around the world. Many monasteries were still under construction, but a couple of them, like the Chinese and the Thai ones, were worth seeing. I'm glad I saw Lumbini, but one night in the hot and mosquito-infested town was definitely enough.

The day I left Lumbini, the weather was excellent. Since I had a couple of days left before the meditation course, I wanted to check out a tip I had received. I French guy I met in India had told me about a place called Tribeni Ghat, at the west of Chitwan National park, not too far from Lumbini, where there were no tourists at all. Since I felt like getting off the beaten track, I thought it would be perfect. I had to change buses twice to get there. The last bus drive was great: as the road got worse and worse, villages got smaller and the scenery more picturesque, with huts made out of straw and mud and people working in the fields and herding their buffaloes. The ride was much longer that I expected, and I was starting to worry a bit: had my friend said there was a hotel there? It seemed pretty unlikely. And would they have an ATM? I didn't have much cash left. As the bus approached the village, to my surprise I saw that they were burning corpses on the riverbank. I could have known: "ghat" refers to a place where there are stairs to access a holy river. On so-called "burning ghats", which I had also seen in India, the dead are burnt. As I found out later, Tribeni is a Hindu pilgrimage town. As a result, there were hotels - no ATM, though. When I arrived, a couple of children showed me the way to a lodge. The shabby room was highly overpriced, but it was getting dark and I wasn't sure if there were any other hotels, so I took it.
I went for a stroll in the village, and ended up at the riverside. Tribeni sits at the confluence of two rivers. Between the two streams lies Chitwan National Park. At the other side of the broad river lies India. On a pole in the water sits a statue of a Hindu god. I sat down there, looking around and absorbing the atmosphere. As the sun was setting, people were performing there evening rituals there, singing and saying prayers. Since I was probably the only foreign tourist there in months, people were very interested in me. So I found myself chattering about religion, travel and castes, with villagers of all ages. At some point, I told them about my money problem. With the price there were asking at the hotel, I wouldn't last one day. I asked a man where I could find dinner at a reasonable price, as for this too, the hotel was overcharging. He at once called the hotel owner and smilingly announced that I had to pay only almost half of what they had told me before.
After my delicious dinner in company of some curious but nice young men, a drunk man came to talk to me. Don't worry, he said in broken English, tomorrow, you'll sleep in my house, and have food there, no problem. He then urged me to come and meet his family. I got dragged to his "family's" house - later on I found out he didn't have a family - where he introduced me to everyone. I saw the distress on some of the family members' faces, but I didn't really had a choice but to play along. I repeatedly thanked them and insisted that I didn't want to be of any trouble. So the next morning I moved my stuff to their house. From that moment on, I was treated like a member of the family, or rather, like a king. The food they gave me was absolutely delicious. Nepali don't really have breakfast. They have some tea and biscuits in the morning, and a proper meal around 11 a.m. and at night. This proper meal is the same, twice a day, every day: rice with lentil soup (dal), vegetables and potatoes, a.k.a. dal bhat. They served me delicious dal bhat, sometimes with fish or meat, and as is customary with dal bhat (even in restaurants), they kept topping up until I would practically explode.
The first day, the weather was still good - that is, it didn't rain, but it was extremely hot and humid. My new friends showed me around their lovely village and took me to a couple of temples on the outskirts of the jungle. We talked a lot. About caste: they are Chhetri, the second highest Hindu caste. Apparently, they don't get a long very well with the members of the highest caste, the Brahmins. About development: they would like to make Tribeni more accessible, building a road through the jungle. Not surprisingly, the government is not too keen on that. Tribeni used to be a pretty important pilgrimage site, they told me, but as other places got more accessible, its popularity waned. As a result, there is very little money to be made in the village. Most of the men work abroad, either in the army or in the Middle East. They dream of making Tribeni into a tourist hub for Chitwan, so that they can earn a living while staying in their village. I tried to explain that they should not expect their village to remain as peaceful if tourists would come, but they didn't seem to agree or to understand. The word "development" is on everyone's lips in Nepal. As much as from a Western point of view we value authenticity, who are we to deny them things like proper access to good hospitals? I also met a "baba" my friend had told me about. A baba, also called sadhu, is an ascetic person who lives of alms. I usually don't have a very high opinion about sadhus, but this man was extremely well-read, and very eloquent in English. He lived a comfortable upper class youth in Calcutta, but one fine day he decided to renounce all worldly goods. When I met him, he was living in the jungle across the river. I had a very interesting talk with him.

The second day, it was raining a lot all day. I insisted on joining my "brother" when he went out to fish some wood out of the river with some friends. The fast-flowing river carried a lot of trees and branches that were swept away by monsoon floods. When they see a big piece of timber floating not to far from the riverside, one of the young men jumps in and chases the potential treasure, dragging it to the side, where they attach it with pieces of cloth. They then saw and chop it into logs, which can be carried away and chopped into smaller pieces. Depending on the quality of the wood, they can sell it as firewood or, more lucratively, as timber to make furniture. They had secured a huge tree the day before, and wanted to cut it into pieces that day. That's how I ended up stripped down to my underwear, standing in a cold and fast-flowing river, heaving a big piece of wood with half a dozen of Nepali boys, while rain was pouring down. At some point I realized that less than 100m from there (upstream!), a body was being burned, the ashes being carried away by the river. Some time later, when the guys saw another tree arriving in the distance, they shamelessly ran past the funeral, at only a few meters from the burning body. I followed, embarrassed, keeping my eyes to the ground. As I observed more then once before, there's not really such a thing as privacy in South-Asia.
Since the weather had gone bad again, and the river was too high to go on a canoe trip, I left the next morning. I made one more stop on my way to Pokhara, in the town of Tansen. It's a picturesque village, where I was lucky to witness both a wedding and a religious festival. I spent a relaxing afternoon there. The next morning I took a bus to Pokhara, where I would finally follow the long-anticipated meditation course.

Dusk in Tribeni

Little Tibet (Part II: motorbikes again, and crazy trekking adventures)

After going to the Dalai Lama teachings in the adjacent Nubra valley, me and the Spanish couple I had met on my way there got back to Leh. They had taken up the plan of renting a motorbike for a few days. Delighted to have found biking partners, I invited myself as proverbial third wheel. The weather was magnificent that day. We covered large distances, traveling along the Indus, exploring villages to the east and to the west of Leh. Once again I marveled at the beauty of the valley. You travel through this rugged land, with no soul in sight, when all of a sudden a bright green patch of life appears. Ladakhis live in big, beautiful houses, made out of white-washed mud bricks, with the roof invariably decorated with Tibetan prayer flags (at least in the Buddhist regions). Almost every village has its own monastery, usually perched on some hilltop. Monasteries are striking in their simplicity; with their straight lines and the combination of white brick and maroon woodwork, they fit perfectly in the barren landscape.

Motorcycle Madness

A palace in the Indus valley

That night, when returning the bikes, I was wondering what to do next. I could afford to stay six more days in Ladakh, and I wanted to do some trekking, but I had no idea with whom or where to. But I was sure that, as always, the answer would come somehow. I used to have dinner at the same place every night. Before going to the Nubra valley, I stayed at a family guest house, where the hostess cooks a delicious Ladakhi dinner. It's at a very reasonable price; the deal is that everybody helps a bit with cutting vegetables and serving plates. It was a delight to do some cooking after so many months. The hostess (commonly called 'didi', or 'older sister') is an adorably lady, who insists that you eat "littil bit more" until you practically explode. The common cooking and happy atmosphere make dinner at that guest house a great occasion to meet people. That's where, on the night of the motorbike trip, some people told me about their trek in the Markha valley. It was beautiful, you didn't need a tent, it took four days, it was not too hard, you could easily go on your own and meet plenty of people on the trail, and the bus left two days later; it was perfect.

That's how, on a sunny Sunday morning, I left for what would turn out to be a bit of an adventure. Taking the bus was, as always, an interesting experience. The bus stand had no booking office or information booth, so I had gone around asking people at what time the bus would leave. In India, when you need some information, you always at least double- or triple-check. To be perfectly sure, I had asked roughly ten people. Out of these ten, seven said the bus was at 7 a.m., two assured me it was at at 8, and one told me it was at "7...err...8...no wait...9, yeah, at 9". Majority rules, I thought, so I got up early and got to the bus stand at 6.30, just to make sure. This was the start of a long day. The bus didn't show up until 9.20. People literally ran to the arriving bus, 'booking' seats by throwing their bags on them through the windows. As a result, even though I had been by far the first to be there, I got the worst spot: standing, and completely at the back. As always, it took quite some time before the bus left, but after 20 minutes, we were finally on our way. At some point, we stopped for 15 minutes because they were busy constructing the road. But the main obstacle came after the bus ride. To start the trek, we had to cross a river with a pulley bridge. Only, some idiots - according to the locals, certainly tourists - had fastened the car at the other side of the river. There was nothing to do but to wait for someone to come from the other side. But who was there going to be? Trekkers normally go in the direction we were going, and villagers going to the city would have come earlier in the day. I had met some other trekkers on the bus: a French couple, two French guys, and four Israeli men. We walked further down the road to see if we could spot someone on the other side, but in vain. We started, half-seriously, to make wild plans: couldn't we swim across, or build a raft? The river looked pretty wild. Or couldn't someone climb the rope? But what if he would run out of strength somewhere in the middle? Luckily, it never had to come to that. After four hours, miraculously, a couple of trekkers appeared. Fortunately, the first day of the trek is a short one, so we got to the village around sunset. Actually, since I wanted to do a five-day trek in four days, I had planned to do two stages that day; the delay ruined my plans. I was going to be in a bit of a hurry for the rest of the trek.

Crossing with the pulley bridge

Surprisingly few people go for the option sleeping in so-called homestays, like I did. People accommodate you in their houses and give you three meals (a pack for lunch) for a fixed price. It's a nice way to come into contact with the local population, and it avoids the burden of a heavy tent and sleeping mat. As I had learned during my trek in Sikkim, early morning is the best part of the day. The others seemed to attach more importance to a good night of sleep, so the next morning, I left on my own. Well-prepared as always, my only guidance was a copy of the more or less detailed description of the itinerary in the Lonely Planet. But the trail was easy to follow, that morning, so I had no trouble finding my way. I was very glad I had made the choice to leave early; nothing compares to the feeling of being all alone, surrounded by nature. The landscape was similar to the other valleys, but for a small yet significant difference: no roads! No cars! I realized more than ever that that's probably the best thing about trekking: being somewhere really, truly remote. Walking also allows one to appreciate better the small religious monuments that dot the valley: not only monasteries, but also numerous small stupas, mani walls (made out of stones with religious carvings) and prayer wheels. The hike was pretty long, that day, so I didn't have the courage to go further. I was still on schedule for the five-day trek, that is, behind schedule for the four-day trek. At least this time we had arrived early enough to enjoy the majestic sunset.

Markha valley

The next morning again, I left early, and on my own. The description said I had to walk 2 km in the valley before crossing the river (that is, without a bridge), then walk for a while and cross it again. It warned that crossing could be dangerous in the afternoon, when melting snow increases the flow. But since it was early in the morning, and I had crossed the river elsewhere the day before without any problems, I didn't feel like I had any reason to worry. What I didn't realize, was that unusual rain- and snowfall up in the mountains had caused the level of the water to rise higher that usual.
Walking alongside the river, at some point, I had to choose between going up a ledge or staying on the riverbank; I went for the easy option. Before long, I reached a place where I had no option but to cross the river. I didn't feel like I had been walking for 2 km, but the Lonely Planet description had deceived me before; so I slowly started crossing the river. It wasn't so broad - I estimate between five and ten meters - so I would reach the other side quickly. The water was extremely cold, making my feet and legs go a bit numb, but with the help of the walking stick I had found that morning, I managed to get halfway, where a small sandbank allowed me to rest for a few seconds. I started to realize it wasn't going to be as easy as I had thought; the second half looked deeper, and more violent. Wanting to get it over with, I moved on. The water came higher and higher, reaching my knees, and rising still further...I started talking to myself: "go on, go on, don't stop, go on". And then, in a couple of seconds, it happened. All of a sudden, for some reason, I had to let go of my walking stick. I remember watching it being carried away by the stream, and next thing I know, I had lost my balance and fallen on my side. I was being dragged helplessly over the rocky bottom, gasping for breath because of the cold water; I was really scared. That feeling of being completely at the mercy of the unforgiving nature is something I will never forget. I was just about to throw off my backpack to save myself, when I somehow manged to get up and reach the riverside.
I was soaked from tip to toe, including my backpack, my camera and my cellphone. I was shivering with cold, feeling lonely and miserable. While I took some time to regain my senses, I saw the first guided group appearing on the other side of the river. Instead of staying on the riverbank, as I had done, they were following the ledge. I then understood that not only had the river been swollen because of the rains, but I had also crossed it much too soon. I was now determined to stay on that side of the river until I reached the actual crossing, much too afraid to risk the same misadventure again. That proved to be harder than I thought. Though where I had crossed, the riverside was pretty broad, the strip of land I was walking on was narrowing more and more. I struggled my way through some trees and bushes, went up and down a couple of times, but then the riverbank stopped. There was nothing left between the water and the steep rocks. My dread for crossing the river again was so big that I started climbing the wall, slowly making my way sideways. It was fairly easy to find good grips, but at some point, I got stuck. I was trying not to loose my grip on the rocks, feeling the weight of my wet backpack, and saw the fast-flowing current below. In the meantime, on the opposite side, other trekkers were walking high above, on the ledge I had failed to follow. No-one seemed to notice me; I felt lonely and, once again, scared. I was struggling to stay positive and not to let myself be driven into despair. "Okay, Julien, you're going to climb back, cross the river again, and this will all be over", I told myself out loud; I had no other option. As always, climbing back was harder than getting there, but somehow I managed. I looked for a place where the river looked a bit broader and calmer. I gave myself a pep talk, out loud, counted to three, and started crossing, shouting "come on, keep going, come on!". Interestingly, all this shouting and talking to myself was in French; I don't know if it was my mother tongue coming to the surface on such an acute moment, or the fact that I had spent two days in French company. When I reached the other side, without falling this time, I burst out, not in joy but in anger - anger with the situation and with myself, for having been so stupid.
Relieved to be on the right side of the river again, I walked on and I reached the place where I had been supposed to cross.The valley at that point is broader, allowing the river to split into several calmer streams. So I crossed the river for the third time, this time without too much trouble. As I was making my way through the water, bare-chested and soaked to the bone, I was being eyed curiously by a group of trekkers at the other side. When I reached the riverbank, I found out they were...Belgians. In five months I had met only a handful of compatriots, but just then, in my weakest moment, I had to meet a whole bunch of them. I gratefully told them my story; they must have taken me for some kind of idiot or madman, trekking there on my own and without a guide. I crossed the river with them, for the fourth and last time - some of them, middle-aged, were really struggling -, put on my dry clothes and carried on.
Not to appear as a weakling, I feel the urge to add the following. Further on the trail, I met a German girl, who was trekking with a guide. She had apparently told him she liked crossing rivers, so to challenge her, he had taken him to the same place where I had crossed. She too had fallen; she told me she had been very scared, and was very grateful that her guide had been there to help her, because she didn't know what would have happened otherwise. Maybe even more than a weakling, you may think I was an idiot, trekking on my own like that. I agree to some extent; it was not dangerous to leave on the trek on my own, because I had been told I would meet people, which I did, but it was stupid and dangerous to walk alone, and certainly to cross a river on my own.
That night I slept at 4000 m, in a tent that serves as restaurant during the day. Even though it was raining, I was struck by the beauty of the camping site: barren rocks, grazing yaks and the fast-flowing river. The clouds only occasionally allowed for a glimpse of the huge, snow-topped Kang Yatze (elevation 6400 m) that dominates the valley.

The next day, I had a heavy program. I needed to get to the last village of the trek, where I had to take a bus to Leh the day after, because I had booked the bus back to Manali for that night. I had to walk two stages in one day. The first stage leads up to 4700 m, at the foot of the Kungmaru La pass, and the second stage crosses the pass (at 5150 m) before going all the way down to the village, at an elevation of around 3000 m. To make sure I would make it to the end of the trek I left early and again, on my own
The first part of the trail was exhilarating. I was all alone again, enjoying it more than ever; I even had a pretty close encounter with a marmot. Amazingly, at more than 4000 m altitude, I saw many bright yellow and red flowers. At some point, I got to a viewing point. The vista was awesome: the rocky valley with the river down below; the rugged mountains in the east, with distant white peaks illuminated by the sun; the huge, snow-capped Kang Yatze, partially covered by clouds, in the south; and pitch-black, ominous mountains in the north.
And then, I got lost. Because of my fall in the river, my itinerary had been reduced to shreds. I had the beginning of a description, and what I thought was the end, with a couple of sentences missing in between. As I realized afterwards, the second part was probably the end of a description of a side trip. At some point it said "head south", when the first stage was actually going straight to the east. I tried to follow the traces of hooves of yaks and horses, but then I realized the whole area was covered with traces. To make things worse, and as always in this type of situations, it started raining. I was supposed to reach the camp at 4700 m in 2-3 hours. The water had ruined my faithful waterproof "COSIO" watch, and I had lost all concept of time. All I could to was going from hilltop to hilltop, hoping to see something or someone. The hope I had while climbing to a high point turned into deception time after time when all I saw was more hilltops, and more nothingness. I was just about to go all the way back in the hope to find other trekkers, when I saw them: people! They were walking in an opposite direction, so I started running towards them, whistling and shouting as loud as I could, "stop!wait!help!". But the mountains are treacherous in many ways, and it wasn't until I was at less than 100 m that they finally heard me. When I reached them, exhausted, they told me I had to go back north, and I would find the camp easily. I still had some trouble finding it, so it took much longer than I had hoped for, but in the end, I reached the camp. I was worried. I new the second stage would take at least six hours, and I had no idea what time it was. If it was after 12, it would be too late to try and finish the trek the same day. I found out it was 11 a.m.; it had taken me 5-6 hours to get there, instead of 2-3 hours. I could still try to do the next stage, but I had lost a lot of energy already, and I was through with trekking alone, especially when having to cross a pass at 5150 m. I was slowly starting to accept my defeat; I would miss the bus to Manali. But then arrived the two French guys I had met on the bus. They were even more crazy than me, and they too wanted to end the trek that same day. So, after checking with experienced guides if we could actually make it before sunset ("yes, if you are fit"), we were on our way.

The Kungmaru pass is right above the camping site. The ascend, especially the last bit, is extremely steep. The air above 5000 m gets very thin, and we weren't acclimatized, coming from 4000m that morning. We had to stop every couple of steps to catch our breath. It was the second time I ascended a high pass (the first time was in Sikkim), and I realized how much I like it, in a strange, masochist way. The altitude created a strange pressure in my head, and the lack of oxygen made my heart race. I felt that I was not far from being delirious; it felt like being trapped in some kind of nightmare. It took us one and a half hours to reach the top. The weather gods, who definitely seem to have decided to do their best to spoil my trip (in vain), denied us the superb view my guidebook had promised. We quickly started the steep, muddy, slippery descent, as rain started falling again. The way down was difficult and annoying, but once we reached the bottom of the valley, the weather got better, and the trail led us alongside a beautiful river. The description warned me that we had to cross the river "several times". Call me a whiner, but to me, an estimated 20 to 30 times (no exaggeration!) deserves the appellation 'many times'. Not wanting to wet our feet, we balanced on rocks with increasing difficulty as we went downstream; the fact that all three of us managed to do so so many times without falling once can be considered a miracle. Or fine skill, of course.
We walked at a brisk pace - or rather, they did, and I struggled to follow - and reached the last village after a bit more than six hours, just before sunset. I had walked for about eleven hours that day; I was still sore three days later.

The next morning, we had to take the bus to Leh. Of course there was a problem - or what did you expect. The bus was there, but it had a flat tire. Because it was on a slope, transversally, they were worried that lifting one side with the car jack would cause the bus to tilt and fall over. We ended up all hanging at the other side of the bus to ensure the balance - us foreigners with particular enthusiasm. And so I managed to get back to Leh. The rainfall had caused the Road to Manali to be closed in the previous days, but luckily for me, it was open by then. So I took the bus back to Manali that night, for the final chapter of my stay in India...

About two weeks after I left Ladakh, a massive cloudburst caused flash floods in the region, killing dozens of people. Entire villages were swept away. I told you about my experiences with the wonderful people of Ladakh; I was very affected when I heard the news. This, along with other recent catastrophes, like the floods in Pakistan and China, is yet another testimony of the disastrous consequences of our changing climate. If this change is caused at least partially by us humans, as many people believe, this tragically shows how we are destroying our own paradises.