I last left this story after my long, dark night of terror...this is how the trip ends...
I told the trek
leaders I wanted to get off the mountain the next morning, cup of breakfast chai wobbling in my already trembling
hands at 7.30 am. They promised to get me to the village we were aiming for and from there we
would decide what to do.
We crossed the hills to a
school that morning. The pathways were wider and I felt safer – or perhaps I’d
just run out of fear. We began another descent, but the guides were always
ahead of me to block my view, and the trekkers who dropped back to become Group
3 walked with and around me, taking my hand as needed. At the bottom of this
hill was another river pulsing rapidly over rocks that we were meant to hop
across with the ease and grace of a gazelle! It was around this point that I
acquired Ashok, my own personal Sherpa. I don’t know if he took it on himself
or if he was ‘assigned’ the task, but he stayed with me for the rest of the
trek, my silent, sure-footed guardian, with no coat, and tattered trainers.
After lunch, trek leader,
Paul, pointed up to the heavily wooded steep ascent ahead and asked if I wanted
to come. “No,” I said, “you promised.”
Three other women were in
trouble. One had a chest infection she thought she was over, another had
terrible blisters and our only case of Delhi belly, and the other (our oldest
at 75) had had a fall and was shaken. So the four of us were taken off in a
jeep (after another hour’s clambering over rocks back to the river and across
yet another rusty floored rope bridge) to Chongay’s guest house. It was an
adventure in itself – driving on these roads wasn’t much safer than walking the
mountains! Chongay’s family were originally from Tibet, so we learned more of
that culture, his way of life, his values and beliefs. We were fed and watered
and asleep by ten o’clock, not rising til 9 next morning. After breakfast (the
first I’d managed to eat), we were driven back to catch up with the others at
another point of the trek. Herein lay the moment of truth: would I have the
courage to rejoin them for further climbs in the mountains, or would I retire
to the safety of the village? Three of us went ahead.
Although a steep climb,
the paths were wider as this was a known tourist trek from McLeod Ganj to
Triund Hill. We caught up with the rest of Group 3 at the chai shop ‘Magic
View’, and on we went together again. Arriving on the plateau to the surprise
of groups 1&2 was my first sense of achievement. Around the camp fire I
taught them all a song (yes, I can sing when I’m not crying). Paul confessed
that he was glad I hadn’t been there the previous afternoon. ‘I’d have had to
blindfold you,’ he said. It was a treacherous climb that everyone found
difficult. Trees had come down blocking the way so that the mules had to turn
back, two injured on the way, and bags were ripped. I’m glad I wasn’t there.
From our camp on the
plateau, the next day would be our final ascent to our summit – Paul pointed
out a temple 2mm high up a mountain with no discernible pathways. Did I want to
go? Honestly? I was tempted to say no, as I was pretty happy with overcoming my
fear and coming back up this far. But would I regret not trying? Group 3 made
the decision for me…’but we’re taking you.’ And so they did. For that final
journey, Paul swapped the order of the groups and we went first. This time we
would have altitude to deal with, passing through the clouds, almost reaching
the snow line.
It wasn’t an easy climb.
The guides were leaving markers so the others would know which path we’d picked
out over the ridge. But it was a happy climb: totally bonded now as a group, we
were determined to succeed. It was a delightful surprise, when half way up,
just over a verge, was the most beautiful sun-filled ‘valley’, a glacial
moraine, providing a wind-protected sunspot with its own chai shop. We stopped
a while enjoying our warm drinks and success, before setting off again to stay
ahead of the others.
Layers went on as we
continued to climb, and clusters of frozen hailstones appeared at our feet.
Ashok, coatless, zipped up his hoody, and continued beside me. At the top, the
little concrete temple provided a base for us to sit and reflect. Paul gave us
prayer flags for us to write our name on, the name of the person we were there
for, and a message to them. There were tears and hugs and smiles as we made our
mark. Then while we had lunch, we had the pleasure of watching the others
arrive; the looks of pride and amazement as each one made the summit. (Though a
little voice was niggling in my heart – the cloud was closing in and I still
had to survive the descent to camp.) Again Group 3 headed off first and we were
more than 2/3 of the way down when the hail hit us – huge hailstones in the
Himalayas! As I crossed the plateau into camp, Chongay started to clap ahead of
me. ‘What are you clapping for?’ I asked. ‘You’re first to complete your trek!’
And I was.
It was a peaceful and
relaxed night around the campfire in the knowledge that all that was left was
the homeward stretch back down the tourist path – broad, if bouldered. The
morning brought the sun. I attached one of my poles to my rucksack, now
un-needed, and marched down the hill – my poor Ashok looking a little dejected
as my confidence finally took over. When I arrived at the bottom, I called to
Chongay that I hadn’t once said the ‘f’ word. He gave me a delighted hug.
We finished that afternoon
by being jeeped back to McLeod Ganj to see the Dalai Lama’s temple which was
spacious, but appropriately unassuming. Some people expressed surprise that it
wasn’t grander – but how could it be? Nothing would be more wrong pitched
against the poverty of this nation. A gilded cathedral would be like a knife in
the ribs. We went shopping in the market, and our rupees were gratefully
received. I’ve never been happier to spend money.
The next day we left the
mountains, their majesty, their clear air and their light to be plunged once
more into the hot uncomfortable travel by coach and train to arrive in Delhi,
at midnight, in the most beautiful hotel, where we were to have 4 ½ hours’
sleep before driving to the Taj Mahal in the morning!
Delhi is a true culture
shock: the smells, the dirt, the smog, the rubbish. I watched a pile of bags
stand up into a human being and begin setting out their meagre market wares.
Rubbish, particularly plastic, is everywhere. We witnessed a commotion by the
railway track where a man lay dead. Others sleep and live in the railway
station, immune to the people stepping over them to go about their day. And all
the way along the main roads, the towns displayed the same lifestyle: tiny,
dusty homes with no electricity. I wondered what they had to do all day, what
they had to eat. I felt guilty about all the money we spent on equipment etc to
be in India on this trek, and all the money we had raised for our charity back
in the UK and it didn’t sit entirely easy with me. By the time we got to the
Taj Mahal, it was midday, Saturday, and 32 degrees. I looked at this marble
wonder and couldn’t appreciate it. I thought of the cost, the hours of labour,
the people who died on the task – and the ridiculous notion that it was all
made in honour of the ruler’s dead
wife…she’d never even see it!
Then it was five more
hours watching street life from the coach as we made our way to the airport.
It has been an immensely
challenging journey – one that will stay with me for a long time. I still dream
about some aspect of that trip every night. India reminds me to be deeply
grateful for all that I have here: a comfortable home, food, heat, the NHS,
safe cars and roads. The list is long, but let me end with how incredibly lucky
we are to have organisations like St Margaret’s Hopices who deliver care and
attention to our loved ones at the end of their days so that the dignity of
life remains paramount.
And thank you for your
support and generous donation for mine and their endeavours.
