A rising tide of trekkers
After a gorgeous walk from Thame through the Himalayan forests, now in their autumn colours, we re-joined the trekking conveyer belt at Namche Bazaar yesterday afternoon. Namche was bustling in the mid-day sun with every western amenity transplanted into this historic Sherpa capital.
The big hill down from Namche to Monjo proved a challenge but not in the manner expected. A rising tide of trekkers, mule-trains and yak herders flooded up the trail as we fought to descend.
As we walked through the old meat market a steady stream of the long distance, Paphlu porters streamed in labouring under their immense loads of merchandise carried in from the road head 4 days walk away. Namche was receiving its deliveries of San Miguel Beer, toilet rolls and Horlicks. Each porter carried an ancient, sturdy ‘T’ shaped staff on which he could perch his load and catch breath with the strain on the neck temporarily relieved.
Behind the porters came the yak and mule trains. One teenage mule handler usually responsible for driving his dozen, fully laden beasts up the steep and twisting track. They do it with a mixture of tail pulling, stick beating on the load, shrill whistles and monosyllabic Sherpa shouts. Somehow the train finds its way and we descenders avoid getting lampooned by sharp horns, crushed between a rock and a saddled-up propane cylinder or nudged off a cliff. On the narrow suspension bridges the yaks and mules reign supreme. On the rare occasion a trekker dares to cross a bridge against the flow of mules then an ignominious retreat by trekker invariably results.
Even more interesting than the beasts-of-burden were the armies of trekkers swarming up the hill. Scores of nations were represented all breathing hard in the thinning air. Origins were frequently betrayed by snippets of conversations overheard as we pass in the melee. A couple of German columns marched, two abreast, and heedless of the need to let others pass. Their Sherpa Guides controlled their trekking charges with a shrill dog whistle. I wonder how that would go down with a British group?
The French groups laboured least. They were able to chatter away in their columns with the minimum of sweating and huffing and puffing. Their Lycra had the best colour coordination and bulged least. Lean and hardy trekkers transplanted from their Alpine playground.
The Brits trekked in steaming thermals and chatted about sore knees, diarrhoea, headaches and food fantasies. The Japanese marched silently and, oh-so-slowly, undeflected by the needs of those going the other way.
Only the Sherpas were able to chatter away on their mobile phones whilst weaving their way lithely through the crowds up the hill.
For two hours we swam against the tide of all humanity, waiting patiently for the columns to cross before the ascending hoards began to diminish.
We stayed at Monjo where it rained overnight and we trekked the last day to cloudy Lukla against the flow of trekkers and surrounded by mist covered mountains and autumnal forests.
We are now in cold and cloudy Lukla adjacent to the airport hoping that the clouds will part and tomorrow’s flight will happen. Being the most dangerous airport in the world we are content to wait for the flying conditions to improve!
Lukla airport in the cloud
