After the glorious canter from base camp to Pangboche I was really looking forward to the next leg to Namche Bazaar. I had always been fascinated by this town; it's name evoked the mystery of the east and it's location, tucked into the hills, looked like a fairy tale. After a great night's sleep despite the hobnail boot wearing elephants who moved into the room (aka plywood box) above me I wolfed down breakfast at 7:30 (you can guess what I had) and headed out. Tim, Ellis and Alex were finishing off bits and pieces and they would follow shortly. Unlike yesterday I wasn't looking for solitude, I just didn't want to stand around in the courtyard of the Sonam Lodge looking all dressed up with no place to go. Up the steps and past an old yak that had obviously checked into the garden suite overnight I turned left onto the track, continuing where I had left off in the gathering clouds yesterday.
Behind my left shoulder the sun was up although not sufficiently high to provide much warmth. However it's effect on the land was magical. The little houses in the village were bathed in the most beautiful pale yellow wash. Windows occasionally glinting as I made my way between stone walls, green paintwork and green corrugated iron roofs. Occasionally the track through the village would be split in two by a religious monument or a row of chiselled slabs that also have religious significance and which must be passed on the left.
As I was in no hurry, and actually looking forward to walking with company, I dawdled through Pangboche. After a few minutes I passed Rob coming out of his hostel. He would normally have stayed at Gurmen's Sonam Lodge but there was no room by the time he arrived yesterday. He was in deep conversation with a small group of Sherpas yet still raised a cheery wave and smile as I passed, shading his eyes as he did so. The path was smooth sand and well maintained so I could take the time to really look around and take in my surroundings, rather than adopting my customary head down and blast through demeanour. The hostels had wonderfully evocative names such as the 'Everest View Lodge & Restaurant' which advertised hygienic food preparation, telephone, and an inside toilet. Mock not - such luxuries are not that common! It also had a little sunny terrace with plastic chairs and tables with gaily coloured coverings. This idyllic scene made me draw breath and soak up the atmosphere. It was clean and fresh. Maybe the hint of woodsmoke (or yak poo smoke) in the air but otherwise just great clean air. Passing some washing hanging on a line, mostly duvet covers and bed linen, I paused to reflect that this was quite unusual. The lady next door adopted the custom of draping her washing over trees, bushes, and the dry stone wall. What kind of place views a washing line as a new invention?
Little by little I was being drawn into the spirit, not just of Pangboche but of the region. The rhythm of life beats to a different drum here. Indeed it is no drum at all. Passing a sign adverting the cold drinks available at the Himalayan Lodge & Restaurant I had to take care as the path swung hard left and went down several rocky steps that required care to negotiate due to their roughness and irregularity.
Passing a little shop with various items of potential importance to trekkers; hats, knock-off TNF jackets, water (350 Rupees per litre - about £2.50) and seeing a young porter coming towards me I was reminded again that everything, everything has to be carried in. The porter was wearing a huge rattan basket on his back. The basket had a frame above so that goods could be piled on top of the basket and strapped to the frame giving a load height of well over 1 metre, from about the back of the knee to just over head height. The basket was supported by a broad cloth strap which the porter placed over his head, roughly midway between forehead and the top of the head. Straining forward enabled him to carry this load with the weight going directly down his spine. On either side of the load were straps which he used to maintain stability. As he approached I could see he was in old scuffed trainers, jeans and a red Manchester United t-shirt, and he had buds in his ears listening to some rock music which I didn't recognise. I offered a 'namaste!' but he didn't hear. In front of the shop where this little cameo unfolded was a young woman washing her long black hair in a broad bowl. I had seen her before, doing exactly the same thing on my walk in as I had bought a chocolate bar from this shop. She heard my 'namaste' and thinking it directed to her replied cheerfully, with the distinctive lilt and rising cadence at the end of the word that just cannot replicate. How delightful!
Passing the Beyul Ciber Cafe (closed as usual - the network really is suffering this year) I was nearing the edge of the village. The relative wealth of the lodges had gone and in front of me I had a glimpse of an older way of life. On my right a hillside dwelling, stone walled and green painted in traditional style with the window lintels painted red and yellow and blue. To my left a small house, perhaps a farm house, washing drying in the early sun on the walls, with lines of prayer flags steaming from the chimney. Passing down the track I left the village noting a farmer, probably from the house with the flags, turning the deep rich soil in his field with a wooden plough drawn by 2 yaks. While I could see him clearly, dressed in heavy dark yak's wool jacket a trousers, the early morning mist not yet burned off by the rising sun leant the scene an ethereal beauty that I have never seen before.
Towards me, coming into the sunlight from a little copse of silver birch, were 2 yaks being herded by a whistling, calling herder. Bells clanging on their necks the shaggy beasts of burden came on, apparently needing constant encouragement not to become engrossed in the vegetation along the way. Each had a saddle or covering of wool over their backs and while well laden did not appear to be unduly concerned by the weight. As the herder approach I saw it was a young woman maybe in her 20s in traditional clothing. Multicoloured headscarf, dark skinned with flashing eyes, large metal earrings, woollen jacket and long skirt with flat chequered apron, and trainers. She carried a stick in each hand and a small rucksack on her back. It was as if I had, in the short time since leaving the Sonam, become super-sensitised to this incredible country. I felt immersed in the this scene of pure rural idyll rather than a passer-by. As the girl approached she smiled a little and placing her hands together made the slightest of bows and offered 'namaste', which I returned with equal deference.
Stopped in my tracks I turned to watch her and the yaks ringing and snuffling their way to the village. In so turning I now faced the sun and saw the little village appearing to melt in the glorious golden sunshine, whisps and tendrils of mist rising from the woodlands. The farmer ploughed his field, and the girl in front of the shop dryed her hair. While staring in wonder at such serenity, from my left, from the little house on the hillside, a young girl began singing. I have no idea what words she used and I couldn't see her. But she was singing sweetly seemingly for the sheer joy of doing so on this most beautiful of mornings. Her virtuoso heard by a shop girl, a farmer, a yak herder, and me.
Oh sweet heaven how I am blessed this day.