As I type the swirl of humanity passes in a constant stream, pausing only momentarily to gaze curiously as the gangly white man, who appears to be sporting a Guardsman’s Busby, plonks away on his electronic contraption. The bravest of these souls clamber round and try and make sense of the confusion of words that litter the screen. School children dressed in immaculate white shirts and neatly ironed blue slacks file past, exercise books tucked under arms and hair combed with meticulous care. Work hardened women make their way to market leading pigs on lengths of twine or shepherding cattle with the expert flick of a bamboo cane. It appears to be chicken day today and any man without a fat, indignant fowl clutched in his grasp has either just sold it or is on the way to buy one.
To my front stretches the muddy airstrip of Tumlingtar ‘International’ Airport, guarded by miles of decaying barbed wire and a troop of lethargic military types. There is much debate as to whether the thatched shack, which serves as the departure lounge, will sell the outsized Toblerone bars or Rolex watches that are obligatory purchases when one frequents these establishments. The jury is still out but I think it is safe to say that the smoked salmon and caviar will probably be beyond its best, Nepal being a landlocked country and the stifling heat playing havoc with the Shack’s non-existent air conditioning.
Today marks the end of our five day walk out from Makalu Base Camp and really the end of the expedition. The torrential rain which woke us a five o’clock this morning, drumming on the tin roofs in a deafening roar, heralded the start of the monsoon season. The air is heavy and dank and the moisture forms on our brows with frightening regularity. And yet, the rains are the very life blood of these people. Yesterday, as we walked down through acres of terraced farm land, we were treated to some spectacular scenery. The region seems to be suspended in a remarkable time warp with the locals tilling the land by hand or with yoked oxen. Children, some only knee high, work alongside generations of parents and grandparents as they irrigate the rice or harvest the maze. Every inch of the landscape as far as the eye can see is festooned with crops and signs of agricultural industry. Not one square yard of soil or drop of rain is wasted and the streams are carefully channeled to flood the mud walled paddy fields to the exact degree.
The last few days have been full of reflection on what we, as a team, have achieved over the past few months. It has also been a time for my own personal quiet contemplation on what it has meant to me. The buzz of humanity and industry has gradually grown as we have descended to the populated foothills that surround the airhead of Tumlingtar. With luck (and if the runway dries out!) we will fly today back to Kathmandu and once more be immersed into the hustle and bustle of the material world. The tranquility and pantheistic nature of the Upper Baron Valley will seem like a life time away. With a soft bed and hot shower to ease body and soul the hardships and challenges that we have faced will blurr with the fickle nature of our memories. Photographs and journals will be all that remains to remind us of the tremendous experiences we have witnessed and shared.
The chapter draws to a close and our eyes become weary of the reading. And yet, for us of the South East Ridge team, the ending to this great book has yet to be written. The author is far from penning the epilogue to what will be his Magnus Opus. 500m from the summit if far too close to turn back now. By hook or by crook we will be back. But that is another story……
Posted by Toby
