A culturally insensitive, politically incorrect and historically inaccurate account of trekking in the Hermit Kingdom.
Chapter Five: John the 2iC and a Cynic’s Eye
Back at the base camp John is actually chatting away with the guide. He is the only one of us on marginal speaking terms with him. Roger tolerates the odd talk but this is only out a sense of duty as Ashley Gideon. Every great commander needs a second-in-command and Ashley has John. He is a natural 2iC in these circumstances. Like Roger he is a former Gurkha officer and speaks Nepali. Many of the people around here understand a bit of Nepali and that’s enough for John to get into what sound like complex discussions to me. They all end with him leading a round of some Nepali folk song. His new recruits sing along with gusto.
As a 2iC should be, he is exceedingly well prepared for this trip. I thought I was well prepared. I have a small medical kit (mostly full of things to stave off diarrhea), four snickers bars, an i-pad to take some notes and even a solar charger to keep that and my phone-camera working. John has a medical case weighing in at 12 kilograms. He can carry out minor surgical interventions with the gear he has in that kit. He has two walking sticks, three different hats and several pairs of boots. He has an endless supply of granola bars, chocolate and electrolyte drinks. This is odd because he loses his appetite over 3,000 meters. Ben and Roger calculate that he spent over 15 hours in his tent after retiring early without dinner. This convinces us that the rumors are true: he also has a small microwave oven and a satellite TV in his massive bag. With his many cameras and partially understood Nepalese banter, John has great success in convincing just about anybody to stop and pose for a few pictures. Indeed, he snaps up some of the best shots of the trip.
After two days of hiking, long before we get to the base camp, we are starting to realize that this trek may not be as adventurous, difficult or remote as the one we made to the Panchpokhari lakes in central Nepal nine years ago. If the over-used camp sites are a clue, then the stream of trekkers coming down the path is the proof. The stories are all the same: “Beautiful base camp but all passes onwards are snowed in. We stayed a few days and turned around.” Most disheartening is that many of these people do not look like hard core trekkers. Many are much older than us. And except for Ben, we are not young. Bagger and I recently turned 50. John and Roger survived that trauma a couple of years ago. There are 70 year olds merrily streaming past us on their way home. There is even one 7 year old who leads her own pony in case she gets tired of walking. As far as we can tell she has had no need for pony assistance. But it must be nice to be 7 years old and have a private pony for a week or two.
Connectivity was another unpleasant surprise. We came here to disconnect, clear our heads and re-charge. I am rarely off the grid when travelling and can get quite anxious when not connected. But once every few years it’s nice to be inaccessible for a few days. It’s easy enough not to turn on my devices and I leave the email and other connections turned off. But when cooks and horsemen are calling their girlfriends or mothers for most of the day, the sense or remoteness abates. Even worse, some Chinese guy is trying to call Bagger about a container of Australian wine that has gone off or is missing some crucial paperwork or perhaps corks. Ever the Philosopher-Cynic, Bagger figures he can’t do anything to help the guy while we are on trek so there is no point in talking to him. Unfortunately, Philosopher-Cynics of our generation are often luddites. He doesn’t know how to turn the phone to silent. So four or five times a day we hear muffled plaintive ringing from the persistent and presumably pissed-off Chinaman escaping from Bagger’s day-pack.
Bhutan is going to have a problem making the most of trekking tourism opportunities if it doesn’t take action soon. The camp sites are truly disgraceful. Tourism was partly de-regulated a few years ago and now there are over 100 companies offering trekking and other tours. None of them coordinate or communicate with each other. Groups end up trekking on top of each other. There is a basic administrative system in place but it is not enough. The trekking routes are in National Parks and fees are collected to enter. Responsibilities for key campsites are given to individuals or groups of families in the area. They collect daily camp fees and are ostensibly responsible for maintenance and cleaning the sites. This works to varying degrees of success depending on the individuals. The half-way camp just below the tree line is superbly run by a very entrepreneurial guy named ‘Jimmy Dodgy’. For USD12 Jimmy will build a huge bonfire, heat up a pile of stones until they glow red and then throw them in a wooden bath full of freezing mountain water. The crude tub is fed by a clever bamboo aqueduct system he has built. He has many happy customers.
In contrast, responsibility for the Chomolhari base camp is shared between four families who point fingers at each other saying “it’s your turn today”, then wander off to find their yaks. They are good at collecting fees from the guides but poor at collecting the trash. In a rare instance of collective protest, all the cooks and guides of the five groups that were in residence at base camp with us agree to deduct a portion of the standard fee. We are not sure how this helps gets the camp cleaner for the next group. We also wonder what the withheld fees will be used for. Perhaps it’s progress. Probably not.
Bagger has a thousand suggestions for improvement. The most logical is insisting to camp somewhere else. But that is not going to happen. Our guide is supremely pissed off and petulant at this point. He mumbles something about it not being allowed. This is the problem with a Philosopher-Cynic. It’s hard to argue with his observations or suggestions. It’s even harder to get him to see the part of the glass that might be at least one-quarter full, if not half full. Take our arrival at the base camp:
Bagger and I arrived at base camp slightly ahead of the hired hands and the others. There aren’t too many other places like this on the planet. The camp site is in the T-junction of 3 valleys. Below is the Paro River, in the direction we arrived from. In front of us, up a short valley, the whole of Mount Chomolhari fills our view. At 7,326 M (24,035 ft) this is Bhutan’s second highest peak and the 79th highest on the planet. Chomolhari has only been climbed six times. On one of those expeditions in the 1970s half the group slid off the slippery northern face and tumbled down to the Tibetan plateau where they are presumed to remain today. In the foreground are the ruins of a 17th Century Dzong fortress. This must have been a lonely posting back in those days. A small clear creek of glacial melt water runs past our feet. Yak herders have erected solid stone waist-high walls in random picturesque lines. The third valley continues uphill to the source of the Paro River: a massive glacier at the base of another huge peak, Jichu Drake. It is magnificent. It is primeval. I imagine that this is what all the earth looked like shortly after it was formed 4.5 billion years ago.
These are the things that I see. I feel lucky, even amazed that I am here. The journey was not as difficult as I had hoped, but still it’s an incredible place. Bagger sees only the litter, the pony shit, yak shit and remains of trekker toilets scattered around the area. He spots the best site to pitch tents in the area but already the camp hands for a very old English couple have claimed it. Something to immediately regret! “We should camp further up the valley”, he declares.
He doesn’t like the look of the corrugated metal roof on an otherwise not bad looking stone building. The purpose of this building remains a mystery until we discovered a few days later that it contains a small provision shop. Twice a day a local yak herder with a severely twisted face shows up with keys. I buy a few bottles of Druk 11000: the 8% over-proof local beer that works to great effect at this altitude. The beauty of the building improves marginally in Bagger’s eyes after a bottle of Druk 11000.
Roger has explained that the cynic part of philosophical cynicism is not unusual. Everyone becomes a proficient cynic by the age of 35, he figures. “Some more than others, to be sure. And some earlier than others. This is about the time when we realize that the future is no longer the completely unwritten book we thought it was. Life options do become limited at some point. The way we viewed the world in our twenties is gone. No longer do we believe in the boundless potential and the God-given right to be anything, do anything we can. So, of course, we revert to cynicism. But maybe Bagger got a head start on the rest of us. Probably when he was sent at the age of 8 to that unheated boarding school in the English countryside.”
