I would listen to the sound of my walking stick, witness myself breath just to stay in the moment and not dwell too much on how much I had to walk. I would almost give up, but next hundred steps and a turn, I’d see a white giant looming tall, powerful, and beautiful – in full humility. Every time I witnessed such awe, I was overcome by faith; I imagined there must be a God who orchestrated it all. – Rode past a farmer ploughing his field. From a horseback in Chosser, Mustang. ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After a two-hour jeep ride along rocky river beds and unpredictable terrain, I and my wife, Yasodha reached Kagbeni. Kagbeni primarily is an old village made up of mud houses and dark alleys. This is also where the trekking trail to Upper Mustang separates from the Annapurna circuit. The journey actually started the next morning, when I woke up to a splitting headache and we had not even started our trek. I could clearly see that Yasodha was somewhat disappointed but I was determined even with an operated and limping leg. And as we were sitting on the dining room having breakfast, I was overwhelmed with energy never like before, a curiosity and most of all a never-ending anticipation to what laid ahead. We packed our bags, made sure my camera battery was fully charged and started walking towards Lo Manthang.
Sometimes the trail was long and winding, always something spectacular behind each turn. The vast sky was the purest blue, not a spec of dust. The clouds formed bizarre shapes and moved in unison. Sometimes I would stop and stare at the moving clouds and it felt like the entire mountain was moving slowly. And we walked. Sometimes it would take us an entire hour just to cross a dried up river bed rampant with fossil rocks. And I would keep looking back to see if I missed something as the setting sun cast a beautiful beam that would on occasion light up a section of the mountain. And then after hours of overwhelm and exhaustion, my wife would spot yellow tree, a shape what looking like a house and we would know that was where we would be spending the night. As I look back I realize our clothes were covered in dust and our skin was starting to burn. I was tired but never lost my spirit, never hesitated, looked back only to say goodbye as if I was leaving my past behind, walking into the abyss never to return. After a full meal and a good night rest, the next day we would start walking again. Uphill and never-ending. Downhill and wobbly and then a steady incline. In rotation. We would lose our way only to realize after an hours walk that we had missed a shortcut because of the dense morning fog. I now understand the phrase, “One step at a time”. Sometimes, taking one more step was like taking a giant leap of faith. I would listen to the sound of my walking stick, witness myself breath just to stay in the moment and not dwell too much on how much I had to walk. I would almost give up, but next hundred steps and a turn, I’d see a white giant mountain looming tall, powerful, and beautiful in full humility. Every time I witnessed such awe, I was overcome by faith; I imagined there must be a God who orchestrated it all.
As we walked more, it was slowly becoming clear as to why it’s so difficult to reach. For one, you can only go four months of the year— March April, October and November—when the weather is good enough to trek. We chose October as it falls at the end of the monsoon rains, and also Yasodha gets time off work for the Dashain holidays. As we walked I would see Yasodha at ease, maintaining a regular pace regardless of the slope or difficulty of the terrain. The constant pace she set allowed us to walk for 6-7 hours a day without being too tired. Towards the end of the 3rd day after crossing several psychedelically colored mountains we arrived at a village where we would be lodging. I remember obliviously staring at a village from a distance, mesmerized by its beauty. The villages were an art in them. Never has a village seemed more beautiful, inviting or idyllic! It was surrounded by a multitude of yellow leaved trees that gently cascaded towards the riverbed. These trees seemed to dance as the wind swayed them from side to side. The sound of the brook that made way through the trees and the breeze off the leaves was the only sound I could hear in the vast stretch of land. A raven sometimes would Kaw. As I stood there motionless, I wondered if this trek will be an experience so profound and enriching that my outlook on life will change.
As we resumed our trek towards Lo Manthang, I felt like I was going deeper into the wild, away from what we call “civilization”. As we walked, I could see my footprints, which would eventually be covered by sand. It was like I was erasing my footprints as I walked. A caravan of indifferent donkeys who must have followed the path a hundred times would pass us leaving behind a cloud of dust making us impossible for u the breathe. As we grew closer to Lo Manthang, we would see more people and children. I reflected on how our base for happiness has become money and how in contrast the people from these lands, surviving with the very bare essentials were really happy and friendly people. Nowhere throughout my trek did I come across a frowning or an unwelcoming face.
On the afternoon of 5th day, after days of walk and before we knew it, we were few hours from Lo Manthang. I could feel the anticipation grow. I looked back on the times when I would sit along and think if I could really make it so far. But this day I had. The joy of arriving step by step in a medieval city surrounded by a desert and barren mountains, a city that can only be reached by foot and has remained unchanged for 1,000 years, was something indescribable. This was a city where the king would welcome each and every travelers sharing stories of how Lo Manthang came to be, showing books written on Lo Manthang and spending some time answering the inquisitive travelers. As I walked the narrow maze of alleys that ran through Lo Manthang, my experience was one of constant awe. The palace of the then monarch stood tall in white brick, elevated from the ground with a base of stones, around which the village dwellers inhabited the rest of Lo Manthang. I would meet children playing, appearing from one alley and disappearing into the other one instantly, elderly and woman basking on the late summer sun, watching tourists intently as they passed by. I would stop and make small talk and they answered my question with a full smile and asked me where I came from. When I mentioned I was from Kathmandu I could see they became more enthused. They would say the number of people coming in from Kathmandu and other parts of Nepal has been steadily increasing. Sometimes when lost in the maze I would ask for directions and they would actually take me to where I had to be.
The first afternoon in Lo Manthang I entered a household and asked if I could spend some time talking to them and they welcomed me with salt-tea. On the rooftop of the house a monk was praying and beating the gong for what it seemed like quite some time. Overwhelmed with their culture I had a lot of questions. They informed be that they change the prayer flags twice every year and every time the flag was to be changed they held a ceremony to bring good luck. I was told that the purest form of Tibetan Buddhism was only to be found in Lo Manthang. Even though I was born into a Hindu family, Buddha if not his teaching has been a great part of my life as both religions was closely-knit. I have always had a deep-rooted respect for the teaching, as I understood Buddhism talked predominantly of peace. As I visited the monasteries, the immediately question that would come to my mind how did they build these giant monuments, statues and the foundation pillars. This was a place hidden from the entire world for such a long time but the art was so rich and meticulous. I just stood there and watched.
….To be Continued.
