Morning comes fresh and early, but when we gingerly open the door to our cottage, our suffering is carried away on the mountain breeze. In front of us stands the glorious, bold double peak of Machapuchare, the Fish's Tail. The mountain is sacred to Hindus and has never been climbed, though a 1957 British-led ascent stopped within sight of the peak, proving it would have been possible. To its left lies the larger Annapurna South, the world's 101st highest peak at 7219m – almost five and half times the size of Ben Nevis – that was conquered in 1964 by a Japanese expedition.
.JPG)
Dawa and Minbhadur join us for breakfast. Strangely, neither of these mountain men seem at all interested in climbing peaks. For all the walking they do, with colossal weights on their backs and all, the mountaineering part seems like folly – too dangerous, too expensive.
We walked for six hours yesterday and are scheduled to do eight today. I confide in Dawa that it simply won't be possible. Instead, we will shorten the journey by a day and go back the way we came, rather than complete the planned circular route. If he or Minbhadur notice our embarrassment, they do a good job of hiding it.“We think you have a magic taxi,” I say to the silent bag man, who's comfortably old enough to be my father. He laughs and shakes his head. His secret, aside from growing up in Nepal's notoriously tough Mustang region, is dal bhat. Nepal's national dish certainly seems to have some kind of miraculous properties. According to Dawa, it's easy to digest and provides a neat balance of nutrients. It's also cheap and tasty, which no doubt helps a bit too. Typically it comes in three or four little bowls, containing boiled spinach, the dal itself (lentil curry), a poppadom or two, rice and sometimes some curried chicken. Minbhadur also has a bowl of raw chillies, just for fun.
This is all washed down with a glass or two of raksi, which round these parts they brew themselves (when I realise that this is what Minbhadur was drinking at every stop, I'm not sure whether I think more or less of the twinkle-toed bastard). Made from millet seeds, the clear booze tastes somewhere between whiskey and grappa. Lord only knows what the alcohol content is. No-one here seems to care.
.JPG)
After a slow breakfast, we get ready to head back down the hill, but not before noticing that a Dutch lady who has just left to head further into the mountains is on her 40th trip to the country. She is 67 years old. Embarrassment turns to shame.
We leave and heading down feels fine – fun almost. But It's not long before that too becomes arduous. Our quads and hamstrings, annihilated from the day before, tremble with each step and I grasp at an invisible rail on more than one occasion. It's hot too. Meanwhile, local kids who've spent their entire lives on The Stairs whip past like rain on the mountainside, absolutely sure-footed as they career downward.By the time we stop for lunch, I know that I've strained the cartilage in my good knee and upset my bad one (when I get to look at it later, I find it grotesquely puffed). Still, compared to the day before, it's a skoosh. The village children also make the whole journey more bearable.
They come at you with smiles, sometimes with the hand out, but the majority of them ask for sweets, not money. As we have none, we eventually give this pair about 20p after taking their picture and melting in the glow of their dirty little faces.
.JPG)
.JPG)