We had our usual breakfast this morning. As described in a previous post, a selection of banana pancake, omelet with yak cheese and vegetables, chapatti or Tibetan bread, and milk_coffee or tea. I was sorry to leave Langtang. The teahouse was well kept, comfortable, and fairly warm. The Australian girls livened the place up. Melissa was fair-skinned, thin, with purely European genes, and eager to get to the next phase of her life, maybe TEFL. Louise, the darker one, was part aboriginal, maybe all native, and spoke less. She smoked tobacco, so had some coughing fits that I could hear during the night. She would go out with their guide, a dapper, mid-forties, Kathmandu business man, who spoke about eight languages (he said), and smoked a lot. I could not figure out how he could fill his lungs with that much smog and still climb the hills we were climbing. When first encountering these women I made the mistake of asking if they were just out of high school and trekking before entering college. "Oh, no, we're twenty-one, and just out for the term, trying to decide if we want to go back or do something different."
The other memorable character's photograph is the last image on yesterday's post. But, to keep readers from flipping back and forth, here he is again.
As we were strolling through the village, seeing life lived in this high altitude enclave as we had been seeing it for six or seven days: weaving and washing hung on every rail of every balcony of every stone house; children playing; horses, cows, long haired goats, and yaks munching anything green, or hay, if they were lucky; grain pounded by hand; this ancient mountain man came up and started talking with Norsang in Tamang, and trying to show me something. It was a tarnished bronze disk about the size of a half-dollar hanging around his neck by a leather thong. He pulled it off and began describing the design that had been roughly tooled. Norsang translated, explaining that it was a Tibetan calendar, each year designated by an element, an animal, and a gender. Each symbol was distinguishable, but the way they all related to each other was difficult to understand. I could tell he had been drinking and needed whatever he was asking for another bowl of whatever fermented concoction he had been imbibing. I wanted a photo of that face to ponder and follow each crease in whichever direction it would take me. I offered him the number of rupees I had on me, $6 US, which was less than we was asking, $10 US, if I could take his picture. He grumbled a little but agreed. I felt extremely fortunate about the necklace, but Norsang said he was out there every time he brought a group up, selling these Tibetan calendar necklaces. The calendar is still unique, but the image is something I will treasure.
This Kyangin Gompa teahouse is the last overnight on the way up. There are only day trips from here to higher elevations (peaks like Kyangin Ri, 4,779m, and Tsergo Ri, 4,982m). I told Norsang that I did not need more steps up that led to more steps down; so we will head down, back to Langtang Village, and possibly farther, tomorrow.
We are above the clouds, so the valley below and all around us is filled with cold fog. It is snowing, and with the fog, there is no scenery available. Maybe it will be clear tomorrow. I still do not want to go up just to say I've been to X,000m in the Himalaya. Nothing left to prove.
It is freezing in this room. The flushing bucket at the toilet at the end of the balcony is frozen. I have eaten lightly today, so maybe I won't need to flush. The Diamox (high altitude sickness prevention) causes frequent urination, and with no lights and at this temperature, climbing out of the mummy bag to find the toilet is no fun.
The trip here from Langtang Village just took three hours, so we have been sitting around a wood stove in the dining area of the teahouse, staying warm, reading, (the guides and porters are playing cards), for about eight hours. Someone had left a book about being gay and traveling in Muslim countries. It was a compilation of travel articles by gay writers, some of it quite scary, some funny, but generally, very good writing.
Norsang took me on a walk to the Yak cheese factory. This is a collective that has been in operation for a few decades. The sign in the photograph is incorrect, but the correction does not show in the picture. The factory itself was closed, but the curing shed/dispensary was open while a man wiped the large yellow disks with a damp rag. The cheese cost about $1 US per gram. I bought three grams and passed it around at dinner. It tastes kind of like emmantaler.
The other memorable character's photograph is the last image on yesterday's post. But, to keep readers from flipping back and forth, here he is again.
As we were strolling through the village, seeing life lived in this high altitude enclave as we had been seeing it for six or seven days: weaving and washing hung on every rail of every balcony of every stone house; children playing; horses, cows, long haired goats, and yaks munching anything green, or hay, if they were lucky; grain pounded by hand; this ancient mountain man came up and started talking with Norsang in Tamang, and trying to show me something. It was a tarnished bronze disk about the size of a half-dollar hanging around his neck by a leather thong. He pulled it off and began describing the design that had been roughly tooled. Norsang translated, explaining that it was a Tibetan calendar, each year designated by an element, an animal, and a gender. Each symbol was distinguishable, but the way they all related to each other was difficult to understand. I could tell he had been drinking and needed whatever he was asking for another bowl of whatever fermented concoction he had been imbibing. I wanted a photo of that face to ponder and follow each crease in whichever direction it would take me. I offered him the number of rupees I had on me, $6 US, which was less than we was asking, $10 US, if I could take his picture. He grumbled a little but agreed. I felt extremely fortunate about the necklace, but Norsang said he was out there every time he brought a group up, selling these Tibetan calendar necklaces. The calendar is still unique, but the image is something I will treasure.
This Kyangin Gompa teahouse is the last overnight on the way up. There are only day trips from here to higher elevations (peaks like Kyangin Ri, 4,779m, and Tsergo Ri, 4,982m). I told Norsang that I did not need more steps up that led to more steps down; so we will head down, back to Langtang Village, and possibly farther, tomorrow.
We are above the clouds, so the valley below and all around us is filled with cold fog. It is snowing, and with the fog, there is no scenery available. Maybe it will be clear tomorrow. I still do not want to go up just to say I've been to X,000m in the Himalaya. Nothing left to prove.
It is freezing in this room. The flushing bucket at the toilet at the end of the balcony is frozen. I have eaten lightly today, so maybe I won't need to flush. The Diamox (high altitude sickness prevention) causes frequent urination, and with no lights and at this temperature, climbing out of the mummy bag to find the toilet is no fun.
Norsang took me on a walk to the Yak cheese factory. This is a collective that has been in operation for a few decades. The sign in the photograph is incorrect, but the correction does not show in the picture. The factory itself was closed, but the curing shed/dispensary was open while a man wiped the large yellow disks with a damp rag. The cheese cost about $1 US per gram. I bought three grams and passed it around at dinner. It tastes kind of like emmantaler.
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