NEPAL 11: A Village in the Clouds

‘At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor, Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds.  I stare and stare.  It seems I was called for this: To glorify things just because they are.’ – Czeslaw Milosz

The path wound laboriously through the thick underbrush, the stones carving a primitive stairway into the steep mountainside.  The zigzag pattern of the trail was supposed to subdue the intensity of the incline.  I took little comfort in this, for my legs felt heavy and out of shape when pitted against the raw intensity of the hill’s rise.  The sun was in full strength today, and the heavy stones made a great place to pause and catch your breath.  My mind began to wander . . . How long had this stone stairway been here? Who took the time and painstaking effort to carry thousands (perhaps hundreds of thousands) of stones from the river below? Why? It wasn’t an afterthought for us tourists.  This stairway was overgrown, ancient, and well-worn from years of use.  Was it to aide the transportation of goods up to the ridge-top village during the monsoon season, or simply to make the journey from village to village a little easier? Justin cleared his throat and stirred me from my thoughts.  He seemed anxious to start again.  Against the will of my lungs and legs, I continued the assent once again. 

We passed the time chatting about the monkeys we had seen down by the river, how amazing a cheese burger sounded right at that moment, and stirred up plenty of ideas regarding the upcoming village.  The path rounded a hill and we caught our first glimpse of Syabru, enveloped by a piercing blue sky with wispy white clouds slowly drifting.  We saw a few homes along the end edge of a ridge, a stupa (Buddhist shrine), and a line flags that gently flapped about.   We gasped with excitement. “Is that it?” I asked pointing towards the ridge-top abodes.  The thrill of the moment caused me to become much more animated than I had felt.  Our heads were tilted so far back that our necks ached.  The strain from this motion reminded us of how far we still had to go and the exhilaration of the moment quickly faded into dread.  Our stomachs grumbled, and I began to wonder if we were climbing the wrong hill.  My eyes squinted against the sun, and my smile pulled sideways into concern.  “Is it on a different ridge?” I asked a bit apprehensively.  “Maybe that’s a different village,” Justin suggested doubtfully.

It was now four and a half hours into our journey, and a tiny shack appeared beside the path, near the edge of the cliff.  It blended with side of the hill, camouflaged by its construction.  The walls of mud and trees and the thatched roof of dried grass and twigs were harvested from the forest not twenty steps from the dwelling.  There was an empty cut-out where a door should have hung, and a single, square window.  A man sat up from a nearby bench.  He was dressed in a style more accustomed to that of Tibet than the Mongolian-influenced Sherpas we had seen in the east.  Upon approaching closer we realized he had an old weathered face graced with a pleasant disposition, and a large, mostly toothless, smile.  The chances of this situation serving us a sanitary lunch looked slim, but seeing as we were ravenous and hours away from any other opportunities to eat, we decided to risk it.  Justin communicated to him in Nepali that we were hungry, and asked if he would be so kind as to make us lunch.  His face lit up, and his smile grew as he hobbled over to his hut.  He peeked his head around the doorpost and motioned for us to come in.  Growing accustomed to ‘bowing’ while entering a home – so as to not hit our heads – we stepped onto the smooth, dirt floor and looked around to observe the single room barely large enough for Justin to lay down in length wise, and definitely not big enough for me to lay down in width wise.  Two steps from the doorway was a modest bed erected of strong branches and topped with a single blanket, to the right sat the standard single-burner open-mouthed mud stove, and in the corner were rudimentary shelves holding every possession he owned: two metal plates, a few empty, aged canning jars, a few pieces of silverware, and a large pot with cooked, white rice.  He waved his hand towards a bench scarcely large enough for a hobbit and we took our cue to sit.  He stooped over the fire stirring what looked to be what was left over from his lunch, and perhaps the remainder of his food.  Daal baht* was on the menu, and we were eager to try it.  Trying to ignore the nagging voice in my head lecturing me once again on the lack of food safety, I swallowed hard my hesitance, and smiled graciously as he handed us our plates.  The two steaming dishes were mounded in rice, carrots and potatoes cooked to near mush in daal – a thin, pale green broth. 

*Daal baht is the traditional food of Nepal and India, and is eaten twice a day: mid-morning and evening.  A typical plate will consist of a heap of steamed rice, daal or lentil soup, and vegetable tarkari – seasonal vegetables; sometimes it is accompanied with yogurt or curried chicken, and usually served with chutney.  Daal (lentils, peas or beans stripped of their husks) is cooked with garlic, ginger, tamarind, chili, coriander, garam masala, cumin, turmeric, and sometimes onion and tomatoes.  The daal baht experience will vary depending on the region, the ingredients available, and the cook.     

Our host rummaged around his home trying to create some resemblance of a table for us to set our plates on.  He pulled out a large plastic water container, and a small flat piece of wood.  He presented the water container in front of Justin with a large smile and a wide outward sweep of his hands, and then placed the board in front of me.  I was more than content to simply eat from my lap, but he was so anxious to make us feel at home that I couldn’t dishearten him and happily obliged to eat back bent low to the ground and face near the dirt floor.  The food was simple, tasty and more than satisfying.  He fussed about his ‘kitchen’ straightening and moving about his humble items, taking fleeting glimpses toward us with expectant sideways glances.  He was very attentive to our needs and continued piling more rice and daal onto our plates each time they looked slightly empty.  Eventually we had to wave our surrender as we held our bellies and beamed large satisfied smiles.  Stepping outside the hut we weren’t surprised to see that it was starting to sprinkle.  “Thank you for the food.  It was delicious! How far to Syabru?” Justin conversed confidently in Nepali.  The man pointed to the adjacent ridge, and only then did we realize that he had the most spectacular view of Syabru.  “Another hour and a half,” he replied in his native tongue.  We thanked and paid our host, then stood gazing out over the Langtang Valley at Syabru, the village in the clouds. 

Syabru looked every bit as the book had told us.  It stretched out along the razor’s edge of the ridge with about one hundred structures comprising of farm houses, guesthouses, stupas, temples, and homes.  White mist rolled over the top of the ridge and swept down around the township.  The village floated upon the clouds, a spectacular view even the most talented painter would find difficult to portray. 

Considering the village was indeed on a different ridge than we were on, there was a bit more travelling to do before we got there, and as usual we were fighting against time and the notorious night.  The altitude was starting to get to Justin, he felt very dizzy, had a pounding headache, and felt that at any moment he could lose consciousness – not the greatest place, on the edge of a cliff, for this to take place.  “Keep a close eye on me.” His voice forced my attention; he had never before spoke of feeling weak.  “I think you should walk behind me.” I quickly nodded and said, “We will be there soon.” It was the only thing I could offer; we were too far away from a lodge in either direction - we had to keep pressing on.  The edge of the cliff had long ago stopped quickening my heart, but now that Justin was threatening to pass out . . . my heart pounded in my chest and my breath held fast in my throat. 

Making our way down the cliff, zigzagging every few steps, we came to the largest extension bridge that we had crossed yet.  The river raged far beneath us, the bridge swayed back and forth, and our weight caused it to bounce slightly with each step.  ‘One step at a time.’ I thought, ‘Almost there.’  My fear of heights had been replaced with losing Justin over the edge.  ‘Just keep moving. . .’ I released a long, slow breath.  Justin swayed slightly more than usual; I stretched out my arm towards him and clenched my jaw trying not to over react.  My next breath choked in my throat as I forced out with faux confidence, “Almost there.  Just that last hill to climb.”  At last the end of the bridge came, my shoulders relaxed as air finally passed between my lips.  We started our final, painstaking assent toward Syabru.  Tediously we trudged up the long but mild slope until we hit the final staircase.  With each step death seemed a kinder option, with only the promise of a bed keeping us moving.  “I want to lie down and curl up in a ball on this step and let chickens peck me to death until I feel nothing at all.” Justin moaned.

Exhausted, we reached the top of the ridge.  The small town exceeded our preconceived notions.  One long path stretched along the ridge in between homes and lodges that sat along the spine of the ridge with the cliff dropping off on either side.  Night was rolling in, along with more clouds, and the promise of seeing the Ganesh Himal (mountain range), the Tibetan Himal, and the Langtang Himal was no closer now than at the bottom of the hill.  Our only hope was to find shelter, and try again in the morning. 

Venturing through the town proved to be almost as exhausting as trekking up the hill.  From every side people came out of their lodges, offering the ‘best deal in town’, internet, showers, and good food.  The offers came at us as though we were up for bid on the auction block.  They were overwhelming to our fatigued minds; we could only shake our heads and say one word, “Gomba” while pointing toward the top of the mountain where a large building designed for prayer and meditation stood erect.  We wanted the best view in town, and when we finally found a lodge as close to the top as we could get, we bargained her down to 100 rupies ($1.35) per night with free hot showers.  We wouldn’t find out until later that the solar-powered showers rarely got warm on the top of a ridge that is nearly always covered in clouds. 

Our clothes had become soaked and our new hosts offered to let us hang them by the fire.  The rectangular, white room was heated by a cast-iron fireplace like you would see in old movies.  A large table surrounded by chairs took up half of the room.  We sat down to order our food.  A boy of nearly eighteen sat down across from us.  I couldn’t quite make out where he was from; he looked as though he was both Tibetan and Nepali.  He pushed up his stylish, black framed glasses and proceeded to grin at us with a bright white smile.  I gathered from his excitement at our presence that there wasn’t much to do here, and he was nearly bursting with the opportunity to speak to us in English.  You could tell just by looking at him that he was educated, intelligent, and kind-hearted.  This boy’s name is Urkin.