Category Archives: Photos of the wander

These are pictures of the walks

How to be a Guardian reader

Saturday in Wandering Man’s household is Guardian day. Not moral guardian or other examples of the word’s use. No, in Wandering Man’s abode it’s reading the Guardian day, as in the print version of the well known socialist, liberal intelligentsia, rule of law undermining, revolutionary, communist supporting……

OK. Most Saturdays, in the local artfully dishevelled trendy cafe over a bowl of organic, hand knitted yoghurt, Wandering Man opens the Guardian newspaper and get’s his fill of liberal journalism, confirming his bubbled view of the world.

And what a bubble. According to the newspaper’s own market research:

  • 88% of Guardian readers believe it is important that their clothes smell fresh
  • 77% are more likely to say the point of drinking is to get drunk
  • 54% of readers understand enough of another language to read newspapers or listen to radio news

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Well I suppose one of of three ain’t bad.

However, very occasionally amongst the articles on where the best Sunday lunch/skinny latte/ethically traded poncho can be found in the Outer Hebrides, there are little nuggets of tantalisation that stop you in your tracks. Whilst there are plentiful adverts aimed at finding  ‘bathing difficulty solutions’, there are also ethically informed instructions on how, where and when to go to places that might be suitable for the average quinoa eating reader.

For example, many years ago, Wandering man and a jolly Liverpudlian fellow from his workplace spent a couple of weeks in a South African township where the locals kept carelessly losing some of their patients. Taking a short weekend break from wandering around the township trying to find them, they set off to do some fishing in a small village along the coast, and stayed in a hotel that had been advertised in a feature in the Guardian Travel pages.

They arrived to find an extremely shabby ‘hostel’ with broken chairs and a collapsing veranda run by a couple of recent arrivals to South Africa from Europe who had clearly duped the Guardian into featuring their whole scheme. From time to time, other sundry Guardian readers who had followed the same advice arrived with the intention of a nice relaxing weekend by the estuary, expecting just enough of a rough edge to satisfy their sense of social justice.

The place was a Liberal elite sucking vortex. No one admitted it and all pretended this was just what they had wanted as they lay down on the mattress strewn floor under flimsy sheets during the freezing nights.

It took a mere 13 years for the memory of following the Guardian’s travel advice to fade before Wandering Man responded once again to the paper’s liberal call to travel arms. As he digested his yoghurt and took a sip of the skinny affogato macchiato in front of him, he turned the page to see a description of the Nepalese ‘Indigenous People’s Trail’. Affectionately known as the ‘Forgotten Trail’ this seemed perfect. If the locals had forgotten where it was then it surely boded well as the next adventure for Wandering Man and Rose. After all, Rose lived in the same sub-continent. It was literally round the corner for him.

A brief email and Rose responded. “Splendid old chap. Let’s go there before everyone else does.” On closer inspection it simply breathed perfection. Few signs, no map, less than 1000 or so visitors since the trail opened, a six hour dawn bus ride from Kathmandu to the trailhead. This was a trip almost certainly specifically designed for the two of us.

What could possibly go wrong?

 

 

Rose is on the move

 

Some of them are a order cialis online about order cialis online severe headache, an upset stomach. These natural medication are first of overnight viagra delivery all extremely harmless. This unassuming and tiny pill can work wonders for your sexual satisfaction, which comes at a lower online levitra canada price. The result-oriented, quality medicines and treatments tadalafil cipla have gained them the goodwill and name they have in the market. For those avid (and aged) readers of this blog blessed still with an ability to accurately recall past events, you will remember Rose’s approach to navigation. In order to begin our first wander in the Cathar mountains, Rose took it upon himself to travel via Saudi Arabia, where he spent a productive 12 hours staring at the wall in the airport at Riyadh, then stopped off for a night at Django Reinhardt’s closed nightclub in Paris, before appearing sylph-like out of the teleportation lift in Marmande, southern France.

This time Rose has decided to travel via the UK to Nepal. His curious sense of direction and flawless logic is leading him to arrive in the north of England. Never mind that he lives in India and, as far as most people are concerned, that is usually located next door to Nepal, Rose’s finely honed navigational skills have determined his route. Another portent of success for our forthcoming trek around the Nepalese countryside. A likely confused wander by the terminally baffled awaits us.

I packed my bag and in my bag I packed…..

 

It’s here! Leaping two by two down the institutional staircase of Wandering Man’s workplace in a blur of excited anticipation I headed off to the Porter’s office where the prospect of a new technical dawn awaited. Here it was at last. Part birthday present, bigger part boy’s toy indulgence, just a few minutes away lay the promise of perfect navigation. The Garmin. It had arrived.

The modern informed traveller is well served by the outdoor pursuits industry in the provision of ‘technical’ kit suited to whatever form of activity he or she could wish to undertake. Most of us would image that ‘technical’ refers to things with moving parts, but these days the word refers to anything that does not resemble a hair shirt. From underpants to overpants, anoraks to ankle socks, basic clothing has been reimagined using the kind of hi-tech metaphors previously reserved for sports cars and computers.

Passing beyond the world of wicking and waterproofing, there are then the truly technical experiences of portable navigation, power and light. A person’s basic hydration needs can be met through gadgets for water filtration and purification, not forgetting eco-soap assisted ablutions. You can choose any number of ingenious ways to boil your carefully filtered and cleaned water in a vast array of utensils, pots and pans. Once all that is over, sleeping presents no impediment to comfort via pages and pages of pads, mats and bags catalogued in a confusing litany of appeals to divest us of our wallet contents.

For Rose and Wandering Man, the key objective in packing was to reduce the weight of our bags, so that they came in as near as possible to the 10kg we had carried two years ago. However, during that previous wander, each evening Rose and I were able to arrive at well appointed hostelries that we had booked some months before. The ability to shower and wash our ‘technical’ clothing meant we could carry a minimal number of outfits. This year the guidebooks we had managed to consult let us know quite clearly that such facilities would be few and far between; as in absent. With a choice between increasing our weight of clothes or becoming riper by the day, we chose the polecat option.

Two sets of lightweight walking outfits later, we surveyed our additional requirements. Clearly, we would need clothes to travel in to Nepal and to wear whilst mooching about in Kathmandu, where we were scheduled to spend a day each side of our walk. Consequently, some non-technical underpants, trousers and shirts made their way into our bags, plus of course a pair of smart brogues for evening wear.

Evenings. Will it be cold? Will it be windy? Where will we be sleeping? Such questions exercised us mightily, particularly the issue of sleep. A sleeping bag liner or a sleeping bag itself? Self-inflating pad or traditional Karrimat? Some online accounts of the wander suggest that bed bugs are likely to be a less than pleasing constant companion in certain environments. So a sleeping bag it was then. Tied tightly at the neck.
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The weight began to mount up. And this was before we considered the vexed question of direction. How will we know where to go? I had read a throw away line in that very first Guardian article we read, about a ‘GPS unit’. What precisely did the writer mean by a GPS unit? Being old school, I am never happier than when stooped over a traditional paper map attempting to shield it from the driving Yorkshire rain. A GPS? Why was such a thing necessary?

Of course all boys need their toys. Hence the excitement and anticipation of the special delivery. As is always the case, of course, the reality never attains the expectation of the build up. Unpacking the unfamiliar device, I soon discovered that it needed charging up – a process that took up around the next 18 hours, leaving me ample time to chew my nails and consult a myriad YouTube videos of varying worth. Just what was the difference between a route (pronounced ‘rowt’ apparently), a track, and a trip? Uploads and downloads of TOPO and ‘Birdseye’ maps? It was a totally different language and world – literally. And it weighed a ton.

Much perseverance later, including a few practice walks and the device was starting to open up its secrets. However, a prodigious user of electricity, the device would be of little use without battery back up. Short of carrying a solar panel with us, the only solution seemed to be to purchase yet more tech, this time a pre-chargeable battery pack. One more trip to the online tech store later and this next piece of ‘vital’ equipment arrived. This weighed another ton. Between them, this real tech seemed to weigh more than all the other pretend tech of clothing and anti bed bug sleeping equipment put together; and it had cost only marginally less than the airfare.

With our 10kg limit well and truly consigned to the aspirational dustbin, more stuff went into the rapidly bulging packs. A water purification system, never previously used, dragged from the back of a cupboard. A ‘lightweight’ multi-fuel stove and fuel bottle. A pan for boiling water. Cup and bowl. First (and second) aid kit. Torch. Torch batteries. Protein bars. Bog roll. Wipes. Camera………….

Remember that lot next time you play Dr Foster went to Gloucester.

 

The Great Indigenous People’s Tale 0500 – 1100hrs ‘In the Mudhe’

We’re here” our taxi driver cried to our surprise. Looking around, we feared for our demise as only shutters and a barricade were visible to our eyes. In darkened street we would meet our maker before our feet had us forsaken. “Save our souls” I cried “let’s be chaps and wrestle them for our rucksacks” Just then, without much ado the shutters rose, there in the blue-black night a hotel concierge, a shining light.

You could have taken them,” I whispered to The Wandering Man for yes, avid bleader (someone who follows a blog), ‘tis time for the Great Indigenous Peoples Tale (artistic license applied for) featuring a host of your soon to be favourite characters. Meet and greet:

  • A Buffalo, the aptly name Buff XXX111 (“recurring”)
  • Goats
  • Architectural Llamas
  • Bhutan Carpenters
  • Another Buffalo, the aptly named Buffalo XXX111 (“to infinity”),
  • More Goats
  • The Women who Cross the Bridge for Money
  • The Stick-Gifter
  • Buff the Very First (“so there”)

Spend time with the ‘People who Wish You Well’ and other fully rounded out characters. Oh, and Big Bang Buff (“nuff said”) also makes a cameo appearance as ‘Buffalo Ploughing,’ in the style of the great 13th C. Tamangian artist, Ted.

All this and made up things too.

We got our bags out of the boot and readied ourselves for our late night hotel check in. I dismissed thoughts about future events and narrowed in on the moment.

In the gloom of the evening by the light of the silvery moon I could see the tension on the Wandering Man’s famed fizzog accompanied, as ever, by the fiercely protective full set that, when set against the natural environs, more than held its own and usually somebody else’s as well (see figure 1). I relieved the tension by serenading him with a Beatles’ medley. Visibly relaxed, I flaunted my Barry Manilow. The lights went out.

Figure 1 Famous fizzog & full set in natural environs

  • The following paragraph is for lovers of poor double entendre or those of a military persuasion. Whether you remain with the paragraph or leave please do so in light of the fullest disclosure of facts and not just because of your opinion of the author. It will not impact on remaining paragraphs or will it? Leavers go straight to Paragraph 3.

It’s 0530 hrs. The first reminder had been issued via personal voicemail, in person. “Are you up Rose”’ a saying that when used in earlier times had a variety of connotations. Resisting the urge to shout “Roger that!” in affirmation I managed a strangled “I’m coming” which, on later review, was not much better.

However, such a carry on aside, we’re in the lobby of the Eco Hotel with pack up breakfast provided of boiled egg, cheese sandwich, one apple and a carton of juice. We needed to be at the Ratna Park bus stop by 06.00hrs. The man who was about to drive us seven minutes down the road and charge us 500 Nepalese Rupees for the privilege was already waiting for us. The fee however included: knowing where he was going, getting there, arranging for the right person to get us on the right bus and not driving off with our bags. He earned his money.

The first stirrings of human existence seemed to be occurring around the dilapidated bus station. Bleary-eyed commuters boarded buses and then got off again in order to board the right bus. Sellers of assorted goods got on and off without making a sale, lips pursed in mild frustration as they looked for the next opportunity. The air was quickly turning industrial as engines fired up.

We had taken seats towards the rear of the bus. A gentleman and his companion arrived waiving tickets whilst saying the word “ticket” repeatedly. We confirmed we did not have one and enquired as to whether it was necessary. The answer was more waiving of tickets with an increasing frequency of the word ‘ticket’. A helpful chap explained that we were sitting in their seats. The seats they’d brought a ticket for. So we moved behind onto the seats above the wheels.

Now I like a fairground ride as much as the next person and very excitable I can be in a bumper car. However 4.5 hours in a vehicle that once had suspension, on roads whose very existence challenged the definition of the word ‘road’, had only succeeded in turning smiles into grimaces. Still it was fun watching Wandering Man change colour, the fetching shade of puce that arrived as the rear wheel left the road dangling over the edge of a severe drop, was particularly fetching. That’ll teach him to sit by the window.

No words needed to be exchanged between us when the vehicle stopped to confirm it had one wheel dangling. Nor when it pulled in and a man with a spanner disappeared under the vehicle right where we were sitting. Nor at the constant need to blow air into the tyres and certainly not as all the passengers bounced up, down and side to side, some sleeping whilst their hats did the movements. It was the public transport equivalent of the Hadron Collider. We rubbed our heads in awe. I discovered what I thought was a black hole. WMan spat on his hanky and rubbed hard.

On occasion, when not too dazed, we caught sight of the Sun Koshi River. We saw white-capped mountains, terraced valleys, plenty of temples. It was exciting. We needed to walk. Alighting in Mudhe, we were now on our own.

Except, there were two of us.

It was time for tea.

water, water (and tea and Raksi) everywhere

Those of you awake enough to pay attention will have read about our packing travails pre-wander in the previous ‘I packed my bag…’ blog posting. A desire to cover all bases and ensure that all situations however unlikely could be prepared for led us to vastly overpack. Compared to previous 10kg assisted wanders, this time we both carried around 17kg. This is ridiculous! Here’s an area to cut down.

The Indigenous People’s Trail is located in what are known as the ‘mid-hills’ or Lesser Himalaya area of Nepal. The terrain varies from terraced agricultural land through pine and deciduous woodland to alpine meadows. There are only three peaks – Sailung, Augleswori and Sunapati – only one of them, Sailung, is higher than 10,000 feet (3,000 metres), and all of them topped by ceremonial religious structures. From this you might surmise that actually you are going to meet quite a few Nepalese people on your trek. Correct. By no means will you be alone in the wilderness. Despite the depopulation of the countryside, people will pop up out of apparently nowhere all the time. That rustle in the trees? Someone gathering firewood or fodder for their goats. That small tin hut by the side of the path? A place selling snacks and tea. You will not be alone.

That is, of course, part of the purpose of this trail. The idea is to meet local people and spend your money on food and accommodation directly with them.

Now people need various elements of a life support system, principal among these food and water. As well as agricultural settlements, the mid-hills area is festooned with small bore black plastic pipes carrying water to village taps and in some cases to people’s houses. So that water purification outfit? Leave it behind. Water (paani) is fully available, of pretty good quality and usually boiled (taato paani), particularly if you ask for it to be so. All Nepalese houses seem to have a permanent supply of boiling water available to fuel the Nepalese people’s tea drinking habit. Basically, at no point in the trek will you be reduced to laboriously pumping water from a muddy puddle or stream through a filtration system.

Buy a water bottle that can stand being filled with boiling water and all will be well. Of course, water may not have been properly boiled or treated so the very most you need, if ever unsure about the extent to which water has been boiled, are some chlorine based sterilisation drops. Iodine used to be recommended but this has now been banned as poisonous in Europe and has been replaced by a combined chlorine preparation that you mix up before adding to water. If you still prefer iodine then it can be bought in Kathmandu.

Always speak to your doctor before taking any sort of medication so you can distinguish the problem and find the best solution for you. viagra buy germany With the help of occupational therapy, therapist assists unica-web.com buying cheap cialis you to keep your physical and mental health in order. Besides enhancing sexual libido, these nutty-flavored seeds contain essential fatty acids, including omega-3 and omega-6, which are the major concern among parents of India. cialis samples https://unica-web.com/members/south-korea.html You will cheap viagra get so many advantages from a single course under a single roof. Additional fluid can be bought from the ubiquitous tea shops along the route. In most villages and alongside larger tracks will be small shacks selling tea. It can be a little hard for the uninitiated to spot them, but after a while, if there were no sitting areas outside, we got used to peering inconspicuously inside likely-looking buildings trying to spot tables and chairs. And the tea they make is wonderful. Rose and I preferred the hot, sweet black tea (kaalo chiyaa), sometimes flavoured with lemon, occasionally with honey. It provides just the energy boost needed. Those who have travelled in India will be aware of the milky tea version (dudhko chiyaa). Your choice, although a cry of “black tea” will always be understood if you prefer the piping hot sweet black version.

Finally, alcohol, but not as we know it! Of course, you can buy bottles of beer (usually large 650ml ones) from some of the little village shops along the way, but we never found the need to do so and didn’t fancy lugging them around. Once drunk, bottles have to be disposed of and since there is no rubbish collection infrastructure in the mid-hills you will need to carry them for the rest of the trek until you leave the area. Better is to sample both versions of Nepalese homemade alcohol: Chhaang (cloudy beer made in a bucket from corn, millet and rice) and Raksi – a clear spirit distilled from Chhaang, not unlike rice wine. Many people make Raksi. Rose and I were offered it in most places we stayed. You tend to have to ask for Chhaang as unlike Raksi, it does not keep and is drunk as soon as it is made. The Nepalese regard Raksi as an important source of antifreeze for the cold nights and drink it by the mug-full.

One of our most memorable and slightly surreal experiences on the trek was being given little bowls of Chhaang by the Bhutanese head Lama at the Rajvir monastery below Sailung Peak and then having a lesson on how to make it from the lady who worked in the monastery kitchen. It tasted not unlike a sour Berliner Weisse beer, just with more bits floating in it!

Here’s a recipe if you are interested:

 

The kit list and other weighty matters

In two previous postings Rose and I already touched on some ideas about what to pack for the IP trail. From the blatantly hypothetical pre-trip pile it all in technique of ‘I packed my bag and in my bag I packed….’, to the realisation that we were both carrying around double the kind of weight remotely sensible for a pair of self-delusional aging overweight athletes in ‘General information… we have hinted that weight could, perhaps, just maybe, possibly be an issue. When half your pack contents spend seven days making no contribution to the trek, there is clearly a potential problem with non-contributory passengers. Something’s got to go. Many things actually.

Next time, oh next time, we would do it so differently.

We actually carried (please do not snort too loudly at this) a multi-fuel pressure stove with empty fuel bottle around the whole trek with us. Yes, that’s right. An EMPTY fuel bottle, which of course rendered the stove merely decorative. No one in Kathmandu sells the required fuel. So, no fuel, no purpose for the stove; no stove, no purpose for the mess tins and fancy eating set; no mess tins and fancy eating set, no purpose for the ground coffee and speciality herbal teas. And as you already know from ‘water, water (and tea and Raksi), everywhere’, tea is not exactly a rare commodity in Nepal. The whole thing just unravels from either end. It’s embarrassing.

Likewise the four packs of dense high protein bars that reappeared from the bottom of my pack in Kathmandu at the end of the trek. I’ve still got them, safely repatriated back home. Useless pack passengers, all twelve of them. Most days we walked from 08.00 to 14.00ish, fuelled up on some combination of rice, lentils, vegetables, rotis, boiled eggs and sweet black tea. Hungry? Have another cup of tea.

Clothing? Think about it. Just how many pairs of legs have you got? You can only wear one pair of trousers at a time. If you have been sensible and bought the modern wickable ones, any sweat generated one day will have dried out by the time you come to put them on the next. You’ll be sitting on hard packed earth floors and ancient benches in the evenings so its not as if you will need to dress for dinner. Two pairs will be plenty and even one would suffice if you are a real hard case and wash them out at night clad in your long johns. As for shorts, well Rose and I have different points of view. He is a shorts man, I’m not – mainly because I’m a pockets person and trousers score more highly in this regard. My shorts made the journey around the trek without making a single contribution to it. Smug bastards.

The perceptive among you will have noticed the fleeting reference to thermal underwear. Definitely a must. Warm clothing at night is essential, but try to use lightweight underclothes rather than a thick pair of additional trousers. I’d add a thick coat – the Nepalese all wear the ubiquitous ‘branded’ lightweight down-filled puffer jackets. There is a reason, follow their lead. It gets very cold at night and they pack up really small, being sort of swallowed by their inside pocket until they disappear in effect up their own bottoms. You get them in Kathmandu for less than £20 if you shop away from the tourist areas and bargain hard.

Like my shorts and protein bars, my thermal gloves applauded the free ride they were given throughout the trek, although Rose and I both found a woolly hat a real benefit for those cold nights. Rose generally sported a fetching orange outfit as well as his hat, even in his sleeping bag, but then he did find the transition from his home temperature of 30 degrees Celsius to single figure Nepalese nights a challenge. Still, no reason to look like a Hare Krishna devotee running the London marathon.

So here is the minimum kit list. Add more to increase both your weight and to slow down the decay of your sexual desirability quotient as the week progresses. We’ll start from the bottom up.

Clothes: the essentials

  1. Boots: one pair with spare laces.
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  3. Lightweight lace-free shoes for the evening and to wear when going to the toilet (you really do not want your boot laces to dangle down the squatting toilet long drops)
  4. Socks: two pairs of lightweight undersocks and one pair of thick walking socks
  5. Trousers; one pair (oh go on, maybe two), lightweight cargo pants style with multiple pockets otherwise all you will be doing is stopping and faffing about with your rucksack to find stuff (although there is often great merit in a good faff, it can be tiresome if repeated too often).
  6. Shorts x 2
  7. Underpants: two pairs of ‘technical’ super wickable ones
  8. Bras: some. Number and type unknown, as beyond our expertise
  9. Shirts: two lightweight tees of the same material as the pants
  10. Thermal underwear
  11. One lightweight long sleeved top
  12. Puffer down jacket or equivalent
  13. Woolly hat
  14. Sun hat with peak
  15. Windproof and rainproof jacket, it may never be needed but if the wind does get up on one of the three peaks, or it rains, you might be grateful

First aid kit

The actual contents really depends on your medical confidence or training. The obvious things like plasters, foot plasters and bandages are usual. We took an upgraded version with IV needles and cannulas in them in case one of us came a cropper and the local sterilisation procedures were not adequate. Also vital is an emergency blanket, the silver reflective variety, in case of an accident.

As for medication, as well as any regular prescription drugs we bought pain killers, anti-diarrhoea and anti vomiting pills. Anti diarrhoea pills are quite good to use on long bus journeys if you feel the slightest hint of things stirring unhelpfully. A bus in Nepal is the last place you want to have problems of this nature. However, whilst we prepared for the well-known Nepal runs, what we were not expecting was the opposite issue. Moving from a western diet to one consisting of vast amounts of rice, a few lentils and vegetables had the effect of both bunging us up and producing enough gas to have a significant effect on global warming. Not that I’m suggesting laxatives as a regular part of the medical kit, but be prepared for bowel changes in one of the two obvious directions.

The only other essentials we recommend are sleeping bag, maps, cell phones, guidebooks and GPS with the biggest powerbank you can get. Spare batteries may or may not be useful. Some water purifier drops (see water water…), a water bottle, a penknife, some travel soap and a travel towel, head torch and walking stick. Beyond that, you should consider if you really need anything else. Probably not, but anxiety is a powerful driver and as well as reassurance you are also going to increase your weight.

Finally, take as many plastic bags as you can and wrap everything in separate ones. After about three days, Rose and I overcame our endless faffing trying to find stuff in our packs and ended up knowing exactly which bag to look in. It actually became quite helpful.

Of Gods and Garbage

Packs on back, hats on head, boots on feet. WanderingMan armed with sprung pole to aid balance whilst I (Rose) contented myself with a partially fashioned walking stick found on our walk from Mudhe to Dhunge. We were posing for photographs at the trailhead. Two village girls along with a family from the village were going to offer Puja atop the revered Sailung Peak. They were going our way. The girls had offered to carry our packs, an offer we declined.

We’d walked through the village offering hearty Namastes to the many folk young and old who had come to see us off or just to stare. Ahead of us a 600 metre climb. We were marching off to soar.

The ascent offers beautiful views of terraced pastoral land against the backdrop of the Himalayas, 47 million years spent reaching for the light has left them white capped and a little curmudgeonly when responding to the scratching of humans.

The path up to Sailung Peak was littered with goat pooh and other animal droppings; an indication that ‘as the goat trots’ rather than ‘as the crow flies’ is the preferred measure of distance and shortcut validation. Our guides would stop and wait for us, ask us to pose for pictures, giggle, offer us sweet biscuits and ask to carry our bags.

It was all very lovely, until they discarded the biscuit wrapper straight onto nature’s floor. In fact all the way up to the Peak there were discarded plastic bottles, crisp packets, the ubiquitous blue and pink plastic carrier bags and other assorted debris. It jarred.

We would visit two more revered peaks during this trek and observe the same thing. Where there was worship there was garbage.

Although constitutionally secular Nepal has a significant majority of Hindus (81.3% at the 2011 census), followed by Buddhists (9%). Both view nature as sacred. In 1986 The WWF instigated a meeting in Assisi between leaders of five of the worlds major religions. It resulted in the Assisi Declarations on Nature (https://goo.gl/6qCWau) that allowed each faith to highlight its approach to the environment. Hindus and Buddhists alike affirmed the need to protect the earth and all sentient and non-sentient things.

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Faith groups, secular NGO’s, Governments, the World Bank and others all engaged in dialogue, all agreeing that the planet needs protecting and yet here we are with garbage strewn about for animals to eat, to contaminate land and invading a consciousness that should be engaged with the natural world in wonder.

Leaving aside the issues of infrastructure, education and worry which we in the West have become so accustomed to in respect of garbage. Leaving aside the behaviour change stratedgies and taxes levied on the consumer to manage waste disposal so de rigueur in the West. There is not a one size fits all enviromental programme but I do believe there is something we all can do. Pick it up and send it back. The people who need to see this mess are the manufacturers and shareholders and they need to see it outside their front doors. It is their behaviour, their pursuit of profit which needs to be confronted.

So here is my suggestion for protest within the principles of ahimsa (non-violence). When you go trekking take a postcard or an envelope. Pick up a piece of this debris – attach to postcard or envelope and send it back to the manufacturer’s parent company or to an identified shareholder either individual or institutional. “This is yours – you deal with it. With love from…”.

If you are so minded, talk to villagers and get them to collect the stuff as I’m sure the wealth of some of the tour parties who visit could be combined to send maybe a Kilo of garbage back. Let those who know but do nothing deal with the problems caused by selling sugary sweets, fast food and other shit entirely unnecessarily to villagers, in the process slowly trashing old ways of life. It’s entirely inappropriate and harmful if we set it against the principle that the planet needs protecting. It is the multi nationals whose behaviour has to change. Let them have their environment rendered toxic.

Rose…..Rose!” WMan shouted. “please shut up and look”. In the distance our guides had now gone onto perform their Puja carrying with them one hundred eggs as an offering. Behind them, scattered about, the unseemly mess of humans. All around us the unsurpassable majesty of the planet – “it must be worth a stamp’“I mused.

NB: rather gruesomely I would apply the same principle to shareholders in Munitions companies, although postage might be problematic.

A liberal dilemma

One of the reasons for the existence of the Indigenous People’s Trail is its originators’ stated intention to get tourists to visit the lesser known, but equally beautiful mid-hills area of Nepal, rarely seen by outsiders. In doing so a small proportion of the external currency spent in the country goes direct to people normally excluded from Nepal’s tourist industry. One of the principal ways this happens is by tourists purchasing bed and board.

So far, so good. The ethical trekker setting off on the IP Trail knows that his/her money will go directly to the people that provide those much needed creature comforts, principally a roof over our heads. What could be fairer? That warm glow of doing good in an unequal world bringing a quiet sense of satisfaction to meld with the scenery and pleasures of the trail. If only it were that simple.

So let’s illustrate this deceptive principle and have a look at accommodation.

Rose and I stayed in a variety of rooms in a variety of establishments along the IP Trail. Some nights we lay back and stared through the gloom cast by 20-watt light bulbs at soggy cardboard ceilings covering plastic roofing. We bedded down next to corrugated iron walls that ran with condensation from our breath, the only ventilation being provided by the holes in the roof through which daybreak dawned. Thin, ill-fitting plywood walls do not do much to keep warmth in or sounds out.

Most nights we played the, “would my wife stay here?” game. Only twice out of seven nights was the answer a solid, “yes”. On another three, it was a definite “no”. This is not to suggest that our wives are not up for adventure – both have travelled extensively, one of them has even been caught snacking on those well known southeast Asian delicacies of deep fried spiders and red ants. However, even these open minded souls would have struggled with being asked to sleep in rooms festooned with an odd assortment of building workers’ old socks and prayer flags, on beds recently vacated – and probably not changed – by said workers.

But there were always beds. Most of them also came with pillows and a very heavy duvet. Unfortunately, because of the night-time cold and poor ventilation most of the bedcovers felt very damp. It did not seem like they were being routinely aired between occupants. Only once was it so cold that we put them over our sleeping bags, mostly we placed them underneath as extra padding and insulation since most mattresses were thin and did little to soften the wooden bedboards.

It will be apparent from this account that a sleeping bag is a necessary item of kit, both for comfort and cleanliness. Although we never experienced any bedbugs, this might be because we tended to sleep with our bags wrapped tightly around our faces on account of the night-time cold. Perhaps that is doing an injustice to the people we rented rooms from, some of which were excellent. Chief among these were the ‘homestays’.

And here is the liberal dilemma. Actually there are two dilemmas.

Firstly, prices are cheap. We were charged – for two people – anywhere between 700 and 2000 Nepalese Rupees for dinner, bed and breakfast. It is just a paltry few pounds/dollars/euros. And Nepalese people are incredibly honest, only once did we feel we were being overcharged, albeit marginally, and this by a family of traders who were running a shop, tea-room and ‘hotel’ and knew the cost and value of everything, even charging for the hot water. We do not believe we were ever charged a special ‘tourist price’. Most times we did not even ask the price before agreeing to stay. We often gave a little more than was asked for or refused the change, depending on how we felt about the people we stayed with.

But not too much. We neither wanted to distort the market by encouraging the view that tourists are there to be ripped off – after all many young travellers are actually not well off at all – nor did we want to rub our relative wealth in the faces of people who we were staying with. Where people had been genuinely welcoming and inclusive of us, we were more generous. Our limit was, however, 2000 rupees, equivalent to the most expensive room we stayed in.

But who gets the money is another story; the second and more difficult liberal dilemma.

Nepal remains a hierarchical society. In the 1960s, the century old law that strictly cemented caste rights and privileges by birth and ethnicity was dissolved, but discrimination and exclusion of previously lesser castes from the political process pervades. For example, twice as many Tamang people, a historically marginalised group, live in poverty compared to the national average. Alonzo, our guidebook writer, gets pretty frothy about this in an online diatribe about the problem of well meaning NGOs funnelling aid into a narrow elite that essentially cements their power. We experienced this at first hand.

How to levitra de prescription overcome with Early Eructation Premature Ejaculation can cause problems in your personal life. However viagra from india online you don’t want to miss out on this. Senses sharpen and so does judgment because the brain fails to connect with the ejaculatory system in right purchase cheap cialis cute-n-tiny.com time. About Realpharmacyx.com Realpharmacyx.com is viagra free consultation a reliable online pharmacy that maintains highest quality products and are procured from professional manufacturers and dispensed by licensed pharmacists. One night we stayed in a homestay with a lovely family. The accommodation was good, clean, well kept. We had walls, a ceiling and a roof – all made of solid materials. The family welcomed us into their home, made conversation with us and invited us into the family kitchen where we ate the ubiquitous rice, lentils and vegetables cooked before our eyes over the wood fired clay firepit, whilst sitting on mats just above the mud earth floor. They were kind good people. When it came to pay the bill, it was scrupulously and honestly worked out to the last rupee. As a place to stay the night it definitely passed the “would our wives stay here?” test.

Although the wife and mother of the household spoke no English, the patriarch did and encouragingly, so did his daughter and his precociously intelligent six-year-old granddaughter whose eagerness to learn preoccupied Rose all evening as she brought book after book to talk over with him. These premises were an officially designated ‘homestay’ on the trail. We had absolutely no complaints about our stay and wrote as much in his visitors’ book.

It was only in the morning and upon reflection later that we realised we had experienced a part of Nepalese society that some would like to see changed. Our host was a Newari person, a people who originate in the south of Nepal and in the Kathmandu valley. The local area was mainly populated with the Tamang. As noted above, for many centuries the Tamang have been marginalised by others, including the Newari. Many Tamang lost their ancestral lands and became indentured labourers.

As we left the homestay, our host helped us find the path through his fields and proudly told us about how much land he owned and how much money he made from selling grass to the local villagers to feed their livestock. With a shock, we realised we had clearly wandered into the midst of the age-old Nepalese caste system. We were acutely reminded of Alonzo’s warning.

One can picture the scenario. Ten years ago, in an effort to bring much needed money into an impoverished area, well meaning members of the international community found locals willing to set themselves up as hosts for adventurous trekkers like Rose and Wandering man. Ironically, the people who stepped forward were not necessarily those for whom the ‘Indigenous People’s’ Trail was designed – i.e. the local Indigenous People – but the existing wealthy elite. How much of our paltry room and board fee can be considered to have helped the poorer members of that society is highly questionable. This became even more an issue to us when we discovered that the other western couple a day ahead of us on the trail had also stayed in the same place. Indeed, they then preceded us in renting the very same place as us the next night and then again two nights later.

None of this is to denigrate the wonderful hospitality of the people we stayed with. We would write the same glowing notes in the visitors’ book again. But one other incident made us uneasier still. Although we saw nothing but kindness in being shown a shorter path out of the valley that we would never have found without help, our host was also insistent we took that path, rather than the official route that took a loop through two other villages. One of these was the home of a even more marginalised tribal group, the Thami.

Perhaps we read too much into it, but we were left with an uncomfortable feeling that we had been steered away from something. Our host knew the official route because there was a map of it on his wall. Indeed comments were made about the inhabitants of the second village we were missing out on as not being very nice people. Was this an example of the age-old caste system in operation? Was the poverty of these villages something we were being ‘protected’ from? I guess we will never know for sure.

So, after these reflections, here is our advice on how to select accommodation so that your small contribution to the local economy goes as far as it can.

The ‘official’ IP Trail homestays have plaques on them, which clearly identify the house as an approved homestay and are of great quality. They will tend to be the most obvious potential accommodation buildings. The owners will have been taught what western tourists expect, however basic. Simple things like a rubbish bin in the room were only found in these establishments, never in any of the more basic lodges we stayed in. There is a kind of set homestay model that they all follow.

You might choose to stay in lodges. Some lodges will be commercial, run by families, whilst others will be official village lodges. They tend to be places where passing truck drivers, itinerant workers or other Nepalese travellers will stay. They will be cheaper but less salubrious, although our very first night in a lodge was filled with more family laughter, inclusivity and shared humanity than any of the other establishments we stayed in.

However, if you ask any Nepalese person if there is a room nearby, they will say yes and offer a room in their own house. This may not have a bin (or much in the way of walls/roof etc.) but if you are willing to compromise a bit then you can get deeper into a true cultural understanding. You will then stay in less ‘official’ places, and have a greater chance of benefitting more of the local community who will really appreciate your small financial contribution to their welfare.

Our advice is, therefore, to look around and scout out for the presence of homestays, lodges and other houses. Do not stop at the very first place you see because all this will mean is that the same establishment gets a tourist’s cash each time another person passes by. We are absolutely sure there were other bed and breakfast options that we never explored or located because, just like the other trekking couple ahead of us, we stumbled into the first one we found. Only on the last night, in a village devastated by the earthquake of 2015, did they and we diverge, suggesting that even in the most dilapidated of circumstances options existed.

Mind you, this was the one where Rose and I had to barricade ourselves in the room overnight for fear that one of us would stumble about in the middle of the night and fall to our doom from the unguarded ‘balcony’ to the hard ground below. That night’s accommodation and the experiences surrounding it was, however, the stand out highlight of our trip. Just a shame it definitely did NOT pass the “would my wife stay here?” test!

Chapter 2: ‘Stig Illuminati’

We joined forces in a place called Marmande (or Marmalade, as Rose named it) after he arrived from Goa via Saudi Arabia and an overnight Paris stop and I drove down from Northern France having taken the overnight ferry. Rose amused himself on the way by hiding out in Riyadh airport for twelve hours, getting his dates wrong (thereby arriving in France 24 hours too early), and paying a call on the ghost of Django Reinhardt at his La Chope des Puce, café and jazz restaurant. It was closed. Django was chained. A night in a cheap Paris flop house, as is his wont, and Rose was on his way.

In contrast, I arrived at the ferry port with ample time to spare, got an early place at the restaurant and enjoyed some fine French dining and a superb bottle of Medoc. A tour around the deck, some bracing sea air and a final nightcap gave ample incentive to retire to bed.

After an excellent night’s sleep aboard ship and a less than adequate French attempt at an English breakfast, I put the pedal to the metal and drove the 750 kilometres to our rendezvous. Turning left just outside of town led me to the car park of one of those wonderful, cheap and entirely adequate French travel hotels. Upon negotiating my stay, the receptionist strangely expecting me and pairing me with Rose, out of the lift walked, or rather flopped, the man himself.

A few words about Rose. Rose is resolutely both male and masculine, displaying all the expected attributes of a fellow of his age. Ex-musclebound bodies in their fifties do tend to allow lipids to lie comfortably where previously there was only fibrous tissue. Rose is no exception and is a fine example of this universal law. A year of near equatorial living has also enhanced this rather marvellous effect. In his now typical flip flop, shorts and tee shirt garb he oozed himself into the hotel foyer, beaming broadly.
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But why was he here? What would possess a seemingly sane and sensible man of his age to spend 36 hours in and between various tropical airports, several more hours making high speed progress on a TGV the length of France to appear like magic out of an Accor lift? The answer is another beginning.

Following those early crayon drawings referred to in the previous blog post, I had started to organise the 2015 wander – a six day trek along half of the Cathar Way in southern France. My dearly beloved had ‘suggested’ (a rather marvellous euphemism if ever there was one) that I should try a light weight first return attempt at long distance walking. This meant skipping the tent, cooker, sleeping bag, Karrimat, eating utensils, washing up bowl, gas bottle, toilet spade and kitchen sink, and organise accommodation en-route. This I duly did but her anxiety was still palpable at the thought of me going solo, despite the fact that I have been using my legs without benefit of an instructor for most of the previous 50 plus years.

Three weeks before the off, I received an email from Saudia Airlines headed ‘A friend wants to share his trip with you’. Very nice, I thought those days had long passed. On closer inspection it outlined a highly complex and tortuous journey from the Indian subcontinent to Paris and back again. Rose was on the move. His own dearly beloved had instigated the trip, or so we are led to believe; the mysterious connection between those of a different gender probably being the prime suspect for such an eventuality, given the rather improbable prospect of Rose shifting out of monsoon mode and into action via the world of Salafi Islam.

So there we were, to old and ancient friends staring across the lobby. It was quite an emotional meeting and of course led to a rather riotous evening in Marmalade’s only gay restaurant. It would have been rude not to. We drank some pretty average to vile beers in a local bar, via a brief stop to sample some stupendous red from a local wine merchant, and then had an excellent set meal at the restaurant. We sat outside in the square eating before a DJ came along; Rose danced with the waitress and then Top Gear’s Stig made an appearance in a multi-coloured illuminated racing suit. There was a point in the evening where Rose looked at the empty (and gorgeous) wine bottle, suggested ordering another, when I knew we were lost. It would not be the first time. I am surprised it took us so long.
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Chapter 4: ‘Brasserie Du Quercorb’

Homebrewed beer has a poor reputation in the UK. It probably has an equally bad press in other countries for that matter. Cans of slimy gloop poured into plastic buckets, sprinkled with granules of yeast and then left for a week or so produces a liquid which, whilst being alcoholic, is pretty far removed from the bright sparkling beverage many of us know and love. Not much different in fact from the rice-based drinks produced by some of the industrial conglomerates masquerading as breweries.Brasserie Du Quercorb Tap Room

Whilst this reputation is well earned, through armies of impoverished students buying cheap kits and equipment from local supermarkets in order to produce cheap party booze, in fact there has been a long history of small artisan brewers trying to replicate, preserve and advance the craft of brewing through the use of small quantities of the same raw ingredients that true breweries use – malted barley and hops. These stovetop brewers in the UK and the US in particular kept the practice of ‘all grain’ homebrewing alive as industrial brewers took over in the 1960s-1970s and all but destroyed the heterogeneous brewing sector in the UK. In the US, small scale brewing had already been wiped out by prohibition in the 1920s and homebrewers did their thing under threat of prosecution.

The consolidation of beer production has continued apace and the ubiquity of pale ‘lager’ beers worldwide has been established. Most English beer drinkers would associate Germany only with this style of beer, despite the fact that the Germans have been brewing a vast array of beers from pale Pilsners to dark Dunkels using many different techniques and recipes for centuries. And they still do, not that you would know it from the gallons and gallons of alcoholic flavoured water peddled by our friends in the brewing industry.

Thankfully, some of these all grain homebrewers loved their hobby so much that they began to think a little bigger than the 25 litre capacity batches they were used to cooking up. Pubs began to install small micro-breweries in their cellars. In the UK a highly successful consumer advocacy organisation, the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) fought often successfully to preserve both the regional diversity of beer brewing and the living breathing liquid that is cask conditioned (i.e. non-pasteurised) ‘real ale’.

But it was in the US where things really took a dramatic turn. With almost no small regional breweries to preserve and no tradition of cask conditioned ale, US enthusiasts created a movement from scratch – Craft Ale. And it was enthusiastic homebrewing artisans that led the charge.

For discerning beer drinkers such as Wandering Man and Rose it would be impossible to overstate the impact of this movement. Whilst the British fought for tradition, the Americans embraced technology. Rather in the way that Australian winemakers revolutionised wine production and quality in the old world as well as in theirs, the US craft beer brewers have exported their ideas, their techniques and their recipe diversity throughout the world. They have even bred and grown new fresh varieties of fruity flavoured hops in contrast to the earthy English varieties, giving vent to a vast new array of beer styles and flavours. Whilst the British were intent on keeping things as they were, the Americans threw away the brewing rulebook and went to town.

France too has a brewing tradition. Although enormous numbers of hectares, particularly in the Languedoc, are covered with grape vines, in the north east and west of France there is a significant brewing industry. But here we were, Wandering Man and Rose, in the south of France where wine is king. The previous year, Wandering Man had tried unsuccessfully to find an alternative to mass produced industrial beer in the region. But things had changed. The Brasserie du Quercorb in the small village of Puivert just outside Quillan had sprung up over the previous 12 months. We had to take a look.

It had been Rose who spotted it. Shortly after his email with the flight details had popped up in Wandering Man’s inbox, there arrived another one with a link to the Brasserie’s website. The poor man, he had obviously been desperate after a year of drinking Tuborg (and you really do not want to know what goes into that) in India and had spent many hollowed eyed nights searching forlornly for something worth drinking. The curious thing about his discovery was that it was based in Puivert, our first overnight stop after day one of the wander. That we now found it on our route from Mirapoix to Quillan was an even more auspicious event.

We drove through the village and pulled up at a petrol station forecourt, opposite an old garage building. Email contact over the last week had established that whilst the owner would be away, an androgynous sounding person by the name of Mitzi would be holding the fort and able to entertain us. We walked across the road.
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Brasserie Du Quercorb

Mitzi, it turned out, was a hirsute Celtish chap busily serving customers in the outsales office. We took the opportunity to sneak under the propped open delivery door, squeezed past sacks of grain and into the brewery, the one room converted workshop of the old garage at the far end of which was a lovely old style French bar, sitting incongruously alongside five shining stainless steel tanks which lined the back wall. Very shortly, Mitzi finished his grocery duties and made his entrance.

Having established that we shared a couple of languages but that we would probably get along better in English, we began a lively conversation about beer, brewing and all things malty, grainy and hoppy. We made friends, tasted some beers (in Rose’s case drinking rather than tasting – he being of the car passenger persuasion) and got down to the fine detail of brewing beer. Our car boot actually resembled a travelling salesman’s suitcase and at one point we produced a bottle of Wandering Man’s own all grain homebrewed stout to compare with the brewery’s own, provoking much discussion about the relative merits of Carafa malt and Black Barley.

Sensing a definite shared affinity, we resolved to hold Mitzi to his promise of keeping the tap room open the next day until such time as we arrived in the village after our first day’s walk. He duly promised to do so, even if the shock and strain of our first day was to delay us. We headed happily off with a mixed crate of fine craft ales and the promise of a session.

We arrived in Quillan, via a spectacularly vertiginous switchback road down into the valley within which the town was situated, a circumstance that we would ordinarily have enjoyed but was tempered by the realisation that this was precisely the same valley side we would have to climb back up the next day. True to form on arrival in Quillan we promptly got lost but after a couple of circles of the town eventually found the hotel and negotiated a secure parking spot for the week.

Quillan was almost as lovely as Mirapoix – all French towns and villages in these regions seem to be – and we wandered around, buying provisions for the walk the next day (saucisson, onion, apples, cheese), located a boulangerie to buy bread the next morning, and settled with an early pizza tea rather than a repeat of the three/four course French meal of the previous evening (and that day’s lunch as well). Already we were putting on weight, a sensible girding of our loins in preparation for the exertions to come. A final beer/calvados in a bar overlooking the ancient bridge over the river and the start of our walk and we headed off for an early night. A compulsive ‘read before you sleep’ person, Rose devoured a few pages of his book for the last time; on subsequent nights proving that exhaustion and reading are literally incompatible bedfellows. As we drifted off to sleep a huge storm came over the mountains and soaked the little town and hills. We heard nothing.