This morning I woke up in my own little cabin in the courtyard of a mountain village 'hotel'. From outside I could hear next door's occupants gushing about the glorious weather as they brushed their teeth around the communal tap and stone basin. My curiosity piqued, I popped my head above the warmth of the heavy duvet to peer through the gap in the curtains. Sure enough, there was a streak of that primary, elemental blue that could only mean that this day in the mountains was going to be bright and hot and still. So what better plan to make than to ascend another kilometre into yet thinner air to visit a lake, sacred to the buddhist faith and encased eternally in ice and snow?
I've just finished my 4th day on the Annapurna circuit, a day I should be spending 'resting and acclimatising' at 3,600 m in Manang before making the final push for the Thorung Pass, itself situated at a height of 5,400m. As it turned out, I simply could not bring myself to spend such a perfect day sedentary in the teahouses and bakeries of this charming and surprisingly well-equipped village. This is a walk I have wanted to do for a very long time. In fact, when it comes to thru-hiking or trekking, the Annapurna Circuit must be one of the best in the world, and so far, it has delivered; but not perhaps for the reasons I expected.
The mountains, of course, are the most awesome on earth, and all you need is good weather to appreciate them. Autumn they say is the absolute best time for clear skies and good views. And sure enough, the first couple of days were a little hazy, with views of the higher peaks totally occluded by midday. But as I have gained altitude, the air has become clearer and fresher, with the result that you can make out all the twisted folds in the glaciers which hang on the higher slopes of the Annapurna massif.
The landscape too has changed. Four days ago at Besisahar, I started the circuit surrounded by subtropical flora, which has steadily given way to heady scented pines, scrub and what looks very much like volcanic tuffeta in the badlands surrounding Manang. And of course, it has got colder. Not that you notice when the sun is out, but as soon as it slips behind a cloud or sets behind the range, you understand why all the books say you need to pack such hefty thermal bulk.
But what I have found most warming and most pleasantly surprisingly about this whole trip has been the gentle sensibility of these mountain people.
Extremes of temperature and a diversity of flora you can find on almost any mountain walk in the world, but what is unique to the Annapurna Circuit is that you move from the Hindi villages of the lower valleys to the Buddhist ones of higher up. I must confess that I know very little about these religions, or the subtle differences between them. But already in Kathmandu I got a sense of just how mutually tolerant these systems are of each other. Strolling round the city on the day of a strike, I met the acquaintance of a group of friendly and knowledgable students who, as is the custom here, took me on a tour of the sights of their city in exchange for a few hundred roupees. Moving from one temple to the next, Hindi to Buddhist and back again, they undertook and embraced the rituals of each faith as if it were their only persuasion. Besides this admirable ability to coexist, in the raw environment of the mountains you really get a sense for how both religions continue to be influenced by ancient animistic beliefs. This is particularly true with the variation of Buddhism which is practised here in the higher valleys where the population hail originally from Tibet. Come here and you will see what I mean, for if you have any sense of wonder, I guarantee that after a couple of days you too will be unable to pass a bell without ringing it nor a set of prayer wheels without setting them spinning.
And I have been constantly amazed by the beauty of the children: little Asian Botticellis, happily clad bright plastic boots and dirty market clothes with incongruous western marketing slogans emblazoned on their tiny down jackets. Typically I come across the older ones eight, nine and ten years old, chasing iron hoops through the cobbled streets, while their little brothers and sisters sit cross legged on wooden benches, only their angelic face exposed to the bright sunshine and framed by a droopy-eared woollen hat. And only today there was the image of a young child idly toying with a prayer wheel as their playmate squatted down in the mud of the gutter to find out what exactly is glistening down there. Often there is a greeting when I pass, and sometimes a playful curiosity is taken in my trekking poles or my camera, or perhaps the chocloate that might lie concealed inside a zipped pocket. But always there are smiles, which in turn disarm you, break down all your barriers and open you up to the simple beauty of the world.
Smiles like this look best on the lips of children, but almost every Nepali I meet has such a smile for me. I love mountains, and mountain air and light that would make the very colours of the world vibrate. But what I love most about being here are in these mountains are such smiles. They colour the landscape of my experience more than the rose-gold peaks of the sunset ranges, morethan the ghostly porcelain of a hanging glacier, and more than the primary, elemental blue of my morning sky.
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