In late September of 1973, I set out with GS on a journey to the Crystal Mountain, walking west under Annapurna and north along the Kali Gandaki River, then west and north again, around the Dhaulagiri peaks and across the Kanjiroba, two hundred and fifty miles or more to the Land of Dolpo, on the Tibetan Plateau. GS is the zoologist George Schaller. I knew him first in 1969, in the Serengeti Plain of East Africa, where he was working on his celebrated study of the lion. When I saw him next, in New York City in the spring of 1972, he had started a survey of wild sheep and goats and their near relatives the goat-antelopes. He wondered if I might like to join him the following year on an expedition to northwest Nepal, near the frontier of Tibet, to study the bharal, or Himalayan blue sheep; it was his feeling, which he meant to confirm, that this strange "sheep" of remote ranges was actually less sheep than goat, and perhaps quite close to the archetypal ancestor of both. We would go in the autumn to observe the animals in rut, since the eating and sleeping that occupied them throughout the remainder of the year gave almost no clue to evolution and comparative behavior. Near Shey Gompa, "Crystal Monastery", where the Buddhist lama had forbidden people to molest them, the bharal were said to be numerous and easily observed. And where bharal were numerous, there was bound to appear that rarest and most beautiful of the great cats, the snow leopard. GS knew of only two Westerners-he was one-who had laid eyes on the Himalayan snow leopard in the past twenty-five years; the hope of glimpsing this near-mythic beast in the snow mountains was reason enough for the entire journey. Twelve years before, on a visit to Nepal, I had seen those astonishing snow peaks to the north; to close that distance, to go step by step across the greatest range on earth to somewhere called the Crystal Mountain, was a true pilgrimage, a journey of the heart. Since the usurpation of Tibet by the Chinese, the Land of Dolpo, all but unknown to Westerners even today, was said to be the last enclave of pure Tibetan culture left on earth, and Tibetan culture was the last citadel of "all that present-day humanity is longing for, either because it has been lost or not yet been realized or because it is danger of disappearing from human sight: the stability of a tradition, which has its roots not only in historical or cultural past, but within the innermost being of man…" The Lama of Shey, the most revered of all the rinpoches, the "precious ones", in Dolpo, had remained in seclusion when a scholar of Tibetan religions reached the Crystal Monastery seventeen years ago, but surely our own luck would be better. On the way to Nepal, I stopped at Varanasi, the holy city on the Ganges, and visited the Buddhist shrines at Bodh Gaya and Sarnath. In the monsoon days of mid-September, the brown heat of India was awesome, and after a few days on the Ganges Plain, I was glad to fly north to Kathmandu, in the green foothills of the Himalayan wall. That day was clear, and among the temple spires and tiered pagodas, black kites and red veered on the wind. The dry air at 4000 feet was a great relief from the humidity of India, but in the north the peaks were hidden by thick clouds of the monsoon, and by evening it was raining. I found GS at the hotel. We had not met in a year or more, our last correspondence had been in midsummer, and he was relieved that I had turned up without mishap. For the next two hours we talked so intensely that I wondered later if there was anything left to speak about in the months ahead; we shall have no company but each other, and we do not know each other very well. (Of GS, I had written earlier that "he is single-minded, not easy to know," and a "stern pragmatist, unable to muster up much grace in the face of unscientific attitudes; he takes a hard-eyed look at almost everything." He was also described as a "lean, intent young man," and I find him as lean and as intent as ever.) The rains prevailed throughout the last three days in Kathmandu. GS was desperate to get under way, not only because he loathes all cities but because winter comes early to the Himalaya, and these rains of the monsoon would bring heavy snow to the high passes between this place and our destination. (We later learned that the October rains set an all-time record.) Months before, he had applied for permission to enter Dolpo, but only now, on the final day, were permits granted. Last letters were written and sent off; there would be no mail where we were going. All excess gear and clothing were discarded, and traveler’s checks exchanged for small rupee notes by the dirty packet, since large bills have no currency among the hill peoples. With our Sherpa camp assistants, we packed tents and pots, and bargained for last-minute supplies in the Oriental rumpus of the Asan Bazaar, where in 1961 I had bought a small bronze Buddha, green with age. My wife and I were to become students of Zen Buddhism, and the green bronze Buddha from Kathmandu was the one I chose for a small altar in Deborah’s room in the New York hospital where she died last year of cancer, in the winter. In the early morning of September 26, in a hard rain, with a driver, two Sherpas, and all expedition gear, we packed ourselves into the Land Rover that would carry us as far as Pokhara; two more Sherpas and five Tamang porters were to come next day by bus, in time for departure from Pokhara on the twenty-eighth. But all arrivals and departures were in doubt; it had rained without relent for thirty hours. In the calamitous weather, the journey was losing all reality, and the warm smile of a pretty tourist at the hotel desk unsettled me; where did I imagine I was going, where and why? From Kathmandu there is a road through Gorka country to Pokhara, in the central foothills; farther west, no roads exist at all. The road winds through steep gorges of the Trisuli River, now in torrent; dirty whitecaps filled the rapids, and the brown flood was thickened every little while by thunderous rockslides down the walls of the ravine. Repeatedly the rocks fell on the road; the driver would wait for the slide to ease, then snake his way through the debris, while all heads peered at the boulders poised overhead. In raining mountains, a group of shrouded figures passed, bearing a corpse, and the sight aroused a dim, restless forboding. After midday, the rain eased, and the Land Rover rode into Pokhara on a shaft of storm light. Next day there was humid sun and shifting southern skies, but to the north a deep tumult of swirling grays was all that could be seen of the Himalaya. At dusk, white egrets flapped across the sunken clouds, now black with rain; on earth, the dark had come. Then, four miles above these mud streets of the lowlands, at a point so high as to seem overhead, a luminous whiteness shone-the light of snows. Glaciers loomed and vanished in the grays, and the sky parted, and the snow cone of Machhapuchare glistened like a spire of a higher kingdom. In the night, the stars convened, and the vast ghost of Machhapuchare radiated light, although there was no moon. In the shed where we lay down, behind a sort of inn, there were mosquitoes. My friend, dreaming, cried out in his sleep. Restless, I went out at daybreak and saw three peaks of Annapurna, soaring clear of low, soft clouds. This day we would depart for the northwest.
September 28
At sunrise the small expedition meets beneath a giant fig beyond Pokhara—two white sahibs, four sherpas, fourteen porters. The sherpas are of the famous mountain tribe of northeast Nepal, near Namche Bazaar, whose men accompany the ascents of the great peaks; they are Buddhist herders who have come down in recent centuries out of eastern Tibet—sherpa is a Tibetan word for "easterner"—and their language, culture, and appearance all reflect Tibetan origin. One of the porters is also a sherpa, and two are refugee Tibetans; the rest are of mixed Aryan and Mongol stock. Mostly barefoot, in ragged shorts or the big seated, jodhpur-legged pants of India, wearing all manner of old vests and shawls and headgear, the porters pick over the tall wicker baskets. In addition to their own food and blankets, they must carry a load of up to eighty pounds that is braced on their bent backs by a tump line around the forehead, and there is much hefting and denunciation of the loads, together with shrill bargaining, before any journey in these mountains can begin. Porters are mostly local men of uncertain occupation and unsteadfast habit, notorious for giving trouble. But it is also true that their toil is hard and wretchedly rewarded—about one dollar a day. As a rule, they accompany an expedition for no more than a week away from home, after which they are replaced by others, and the hefting and denunciation start anew. Today nearly two hours pass, and clouds have gathered, before all fourteen are mollified, and the tattered line sets off toward the west.
We are glad to go. These edges of Pokhara might be tropical outskirts anywhere—vacant children, listless adults, bent dogs and thin chickens in a litter of sagging shacks and rubble, mud, weeds, stagnant ditches, bad sweet smells, vivid bright broken plastic bits, and dirty fruit peelings awaiting the carrion pig; for want of better fare, both pigs and dogs consume the human excrement that lies everywhere along the paths. In fair weather, all this flux is tolerable, but now at the dregs end of the rainy season, the mire of life seems leached into the sallow skins of these thin beings, who squat and soap themselves and wring their clothes each morning in the rain puddles.
Brown eyes observe us as we pass. Confronted with the pain of Asia, one cannot look and cannot turn away. In India, human misery seems so pervasive that one takes in only stray details: a warped leg or a dead eye, a sick pariah dog eating withered grass, an ancient woman lifting her sari to move her shrunken bowels by the road. Yet in Varanasi there is hope of life that has been abandoned in such cities as Calcutta, which seems resigned to the dead and dying in its gutters. Shiva dances in the spicy foods, in the exhilarated bells of the swarming bicycles, the angry bus horns, the chatter of the temple monkeys, the vermilion tikka dot on the women’s foreheads, even in the scent of charred human flesh that pervades the ghats. The people smile—that is the greatest miracle of all. In the heat and stench and shriek of Varanasi, where in fiery sunrise swallows fly like departing spirits over the vast silent river, one delights in the smile of a blind girl being led, of a Hindu gentleman in white turban gazing benignly at the bus driver who reviles him, of a flute-playing beggar boy, of a slow old woman pouring holy water from Ganga, the River, onto a stone elephant daubed red.
Near the burning ghats, and the industry of death, a river palace has been painted with huge candy-striped tigers.
No doubt Varanasi is the destination of this ancient Hindu at the outskirts of Pokhara, propped up on a basket borne on poles across the shoulders of four servants—off, it appears, on his last pilgrimage to the Mother Ganges, to the dark temples that surround the ghats, to those hostels where the pilgrim waits his turn to join the company of white-shrouded cadavers by the river edge, waits to be laid upon the stacks of fired wood: the attendants will push this yellow foot, that shriveled elbow, back into the fire, and rake his remains off the burning platform into the swift river. And still enough scraps will remain to sustain life in the long-headed cadaverous dogs that haunt the ashes, while sacred kine—huge white silent things—devour the straw thongs that had bound this worn-out body to its stretcher.
The old man has been ravened from within. That blind and greedy stare of his, that caved-in look, and the mouth working, reveal who now inhabits him, who now stares out.
I nod to Death in passing, aware of the sound of my own feet upon my path. The ancient is lost in a shadow world, and gives no sign.
Gray river road, gray sky. From rock to torrent rock flits a pied wagtail.
Wayfarers: a delicate woman bears a hamper of small fishes, and another bends low beneath a basket of rocks that puts my own light pack to shame; her rocks will be hammered to gravel by other women of Pokhara, in the labor of the myriad brown hands that will surface a new road to India.
Through a shaft of sun moves a band of Magar women, scarlet-shawled; they wear heavy brass ornaments in the left nostril. In the new sun, a red-combed rooster clambers quickly to the roof matting of a roadside hut, and fitfully a little girl starts singing. The light irradiates white peaks of Annapurna marching down the sky, in the great rampart that spreads east and west for eighteen hundred miles, the Himalaya—the alaya (abode, or home) of hima (snow).
Hibiscus, frangipani, bougainvillea: seen under snow peaks, these tropical blossoms become the flowers of heroic landscapes. Macaques scamper in green meadow, and a turquoise roller spins in a golden light. Drongos, rollers, barbets, and the white Egyptian vulture are the common birds, and all have close relatives in East Africa, where GS and I first met; he wonders how this vulture would react if confronted with the egg of an ostrich, which was also a common in Asian bird during the Pleistocene. In Africa, the Egyptian vulture is recognized as a tool-using species, due to its knack of cracking the huge ostrich eggs by slinging rocks at them with its beak.
Until quite recently, these Nepal lowlands were broadleaf evergreen sal forest (Shorea robusta), the haunt of elephant and tiger and the great Indian rhinoceros. Forest-cutting and poaching cleared them out; except in last retreats such as the Rapti Valley, to the southeast, the saintly tread of elephants is gone. The last wild Indian cheetah was sighted in central India in 1952, the Asian lion is reduced to a single small population in the Gir Forest, northwest of Bombay, and the tiger becomes legendary almost everywhere. Especially in India and Pakistan, the hoofed animals are rapidly disappearing, due to destruction of habitat by subsistence agriculture, overcutting of the forests, overgrazing by the scraggy hordes of domestic animals, erosion, flood—the whole dismal cycle of events that accompanies overcrowding by human beings. In Asia more than all places on earth, it is crucial to establish wildlife sanctuaries at once, before the last animals are overwhelmed. As GS has written, "Man is modifying the world so fast and so drastically that most animals cannot adapt to the new conditions. In the Himalaya as elsewhere there is a great dying, one infinitely sadder than the Pleistocene extinction’s, for man now has the knowledge and the need to save these remnants of his past."
The track along the Yamdi River is a main trading route, passing through rice paddies and villages on its way west to the Kali Gandaki River, where it turns north to Mustang and Tibet. Green village compounds, set about with giant banyans and old stone pools and walls, are cropped to lawn by water buffalo and cattle; the fresh water and soft shade give them the harmony of parks. These village folk own even less than those of Pokhara, yet they are spared by their old economies from modern poverty: one understands why "village life" has been celebrated as the natural, happy domain of man by many thinkers, from Lao-tzu to Gandhi. In a warm sun children play, and women roll clothes on rocks at the village fountain and pound grain in stone mortars, and from all sides come reassuring dung smells and chicken clatter and wafts of smoke from the low hearths. In tidy yards, behind strong stiles and walls, the clay huts are of warm earthen red, with thatched roofs, hand-carved sills and shutters, and yellow-flowered pumpkin vines. Maize is stacked in narrow cribs, and rice is spread to dry on big straw mats, and between the banana and papaya trees big calm spiders hang against the sky.
A canal bridged here and there by ten-foot granite slabs runs through a hamlet, pouring slowly over the shining pebbles. It is midday, the sun melts the air, and we sit on a stone wall in the cool shade. By the canal is the village tea house, a simple open-fronted hut with makeshift benches and a clay oven in the form of a rounded mound on the clay floor. The mound has a side opening for inserting twigs and two holes on the top for boiling water, which is poured through a strainer of cheap tea dust into a glass containing coarse sugar and buffalo milk. With this chiya we take plain bread and a fresh cucumber, while children playing on the shining stones pretend to splash us, and a collared dove sways on a tall stalk of bamboo.
One by one the porters come, turning around to lower their loads onto the wall. A porter of shy face and childlike smile, who looks too slight for his load, is playing comb music on a fig leaf. "Too many hot," says another, smiling. This is the Sherpa porter, Tukten, a wiry small man with Mongol eyes and outsized ears and a disconcerting smile—I wonder why this Tukten is a porter.
I set off ahead, walking alone in the cool breeze of the valley. In the bright September light and mountain shadow—steep foothills are closing in as the valley narrows, and the snow peaks to the north are no longer seen—the path follows a dike between the reedy canal and the green terraces of rice that descend in steps to the margins of the river. Across the canal, more terraces ascend to the crests of the high hills, and a blue sky.
At a rest wall, two figs of different species were planted long ago; one is a banyan, or nigrodha (Ficus indica), the other a pipal (F. religiosa), sacred to both the Hindus and the Buddhists. Wild flowers and painted stones are set among the buttressed roots, to bring the traveler good fortune, and stone terraces are built up around the trunks in such a way that the shade-seeking traveler may back up and set down his load while standing almost straight. These resting places are everywhere along the trading routes, some of them so ancient that the great trees have long since died, leaving two round holes in a stonework oval platform. Like the tea houses and the broad steppingstones that are built into the hills, the rest walls impart a blessedness to this landscape, as if we had wandered into a lost country of the golden age.
Awaiting the line of porters that winds through the paddies, I sit on the top level of the wall, my feet on the step on which the loads are set and my back against a tree. In dry sunshine and the limpid breeze down from the mountains, two black cows are threshing rice, flanks gleaming in the light of afternoon. First the paddy is drained and the rice sickled, then the yoked animals, tied by a long line to a stake in the middle of the rice, are driven round and round in a slowly decreasing circle while children fling the stalks beneath their hooves. Then the stalks are tossed into the air, and the grains beneath swept into baskets to be taken home and winnowed. The fire-colored dragon-flies in the early autumn air, the bent backs in bright reds and yellows, the gleam on the black cattle and wheat stubble, the fresh green of the paddies and the sparkling river—over everything lies an immortal light, like transparent silver.
In the clean air and absence of all sound, of even the simplest machinery—for the track is often tortuous and steep, and fords too many streams, to permit bicycles—in the warmth and harmony and seeming plenty, come whispers of a paradisal age. Apparently the grove of sal trees called Lumbini, only thirty miles south of this same tree, in fertile lands north of the Rapti River, has changed little since the sixth century B.C., when Siddhartha Gautama was born there to a rich clan of the Sakya tribe in a kingdom of elephants and tigers. Gautama forsook a life of ease to become a holy mendicant, or "wanderer"—a common practice in northern India even today. Later he was known as Sakyamuni (Sage of the Sakyas), and afterward, the Buddha—the Awakened One. Fig trees and the smoke of peasant fires, the greensward and gaunt cattle, white egrets and jungle crows are still seen on the Ganges Plain where Sakyamuni passed his life, from Lumbini south and east to Varanasi (an ancient city even when Gautama came there) and Rajgir and Gaya. Tradition says that he traveled as far north as Kathmandu (even then a prosperous city of the Newars) and preached on the hill of Swayambhunath, among the monkeys and the pines.
In Sakyamuni’s time, the disciplines called yogas were already well evolved. Perhaps a thousand years before, the dark-skinned Dravidians of lowland India had been overcome by nomad Aryans from the Asian steppes who were bearing their creed of sky gods, wind, and light across Eurasia. Aryan concepts were contained in their Sanskrit Vedas, or knowledge—ancient texts of unknown origin which include the Rig Veda and the Upanushads and were to become the base of the Hindu religion. To the wandering ascetic named Sakyamuni, such epic preachments on the nature of the Universe and Man were useless as a cure for human suffering. In what became known as the Four Noble Truths, Sakyamuni perceived that man’s existence is inseparable from sorrow; that the cause of suffering is craving; that peace is attained by extinguishing craving; that this liberation may be brought about by following the Eight-fold Path: right attention to one’s understanding, intentions, speech, and actions; right livelihood, effort, mindfulness; right concentration, by which is meant the unification of the self through sitting yoga.
The Vedas already included the idea that the mortal desire—since it implies lack—had no place in the highest state of being; that what was needed was that death-in-life and spiritual rebirth sought by all teachers, from the early shamans to the existentialists. Sakyamuni’s creed was less a rejection of Vedic philosophy than an effort to apply it, and his intense practice of meditation does not content itself with the serenity of yoga states (which in his view falls short of ultimate truth) but goes beyond, until the transparent radiance of stilled mind opens out in prajna, or transcendent knowing, that higher consciousness or "Mind" which is inherent in all sentient beings, and which depends on the unsentimental embrace of all existence. A true experience of prajna corresponds to "enlightenment" or liberation—not change, but transformation—a profound vision of his identity with universal life, past, present, and future, that keeps man from doing harm to others and sets him free of birth-and -death.
In the fifth century B.C., near the town of Gaya, south and east of Varanasi, Sakyamuni attained enlightenment in the deep experience that his own "true nature," his Buddha-nature, was no different from the nature of the universe. For half a century thereafter, at such places as the Deer Park in Sarnath, and Nalanda, and the Vulture’s Peak near present-day Rajgir, he taught a doctrine based upon the impermanence of individual existence, the eternal continuity of becoming, as in the morning river that appears the same as the river of the night before, now passed away. (Though he preached to women and weakened the caste system by admitting low-born brethren to his order, Sakyamuni never involved himself in social justice, far less government; his way holds that self-realization is the greatest contribution one can make to one’s fellow man.) At the age of eighty, he ended his days at Kusinagara (the modern Kusinagara), forty miles east of Gorakhpur and just west of the Kali Gandaki River.
This much is true; all else is part of the great Buddha legend, which is truth of a different order. In regard to his enlightenment, it is related that this wanderer was in his thirties when he gave up the rigors of the yogi and embraced the "Middle Path" between sensuality and mortification, accepting food in a golden bowl from the daughter of the village headman. Thereupon, he was renounced by his disciples. At dusk he sat himself beneath a pipal tree with his face toward the East, vowing that though his skin and nerves and bone should waste away and his life-blood dry, he would not leave this seat until he had attained Supreme Enlightenment. All that night, beset by demons, Sakyamuni sat in meditation. And in that golden daybreak, it is told, the Self-Awakened One truly perceived the Morning Star, as if seeing it for the first time in his life.
In what is now known as Bodh Gaya—still a pastoral land of cattle savanna, shimmering water, rice paddies, palms, and red-clay hamlets without paved roads or wires—a Buddhist temple stands beside an ancient pipal, descended from that bodhi tree, or "Enlightenment Tree," beneath which this man sat. Here in a warm dawn, ten days ago, with three Tibetan monks in maroon robes, I watched the rising of the Morning Star and came away no wiser than before. But I later wondered if the Tibetans were aware that the bodhi tree was murmuring with gusts of birds, while another large pipal, so close by that it touched the holy tree with many branches, was without life. I make no claim for this event: I simply declare what I saw at Bodh Gaya.
Already the Yamdi Khola narrows; soon it will vanish among mountains. In a village on the northern slope, the huts are round or oval rather than rectangular, and Jang-bu, the head sherpa, says that this is a village of the Gurung, a people who came down long ago out of Tibet. In this region of southern Nepal live various hill peoples of Mongol and Aryan mix, most of them Paharis, or hill Hindus. For centuries, the Hindus have come up along the river valleys from the great plain of the Ganges, while the Tibetans crossed the mountain passes from the north: the Tibetan-speaking Buddhist tribes, which include the Sherpas, are called Bhotes, or southern Tibetans. (Bhot or B’od is Tibet; Bhutan, which lies at the southern edge of Tibet, means "End of Bhot.") Of the tribes represented by the porters, the Gurungs and the Tamangs tend toward Buddhism, while the Chetris and Magars are Hindus. Whether Hindu or Buddhist, most of these tribes—and the Gurung especially—pay respect to the animist deities of the old religions that persist in remote corners of the Asian mountains.
Some long-haired Tibetans, buttery flat faces red with ocher sheen, descend the river barefoot on the silver stones. (Ocher is a traditional protection against cold and insects, and before the civilizing influence of Buddhism, Tibet was known as the Land of the Red-faced Devils.) These people are bound for Pokhara from Dhorpatan, a week away. When the crops are harvested, the Tibetans, Mustang Bhotes, and other hill people follow the ridges and valleys south and east to Pokhara and Kathmandu, trading wool and salt for grain and paper, knives, tobacco, rice, and tea. One Tibetan boy has caught a rockfish in the shallows; he runs to show me, almond eyes agleam. The children all along the way are friendly and playful, even gay; though they beg a little, they are not serious about it, as are the grim Hindu children of the towns. More likely they will take your hand and walk along a little, or do a somersault, or tag and run away.
Where the valley narrows to a canyon, there is a tea house and some huts, and here a pack train of shaggy Mongol ponies descends from the mountain in a melody of bells and splashes across the swift green water at the ford. From the tea house, a trail climbs steeply toward the southwest sky. In this land, the subsistence economies have always depended upon travel, and in its decades—centuries, perhaps—as a trade route for the hill peoples, broad steps have been worn into the mountain path. Wild chestnut trees overhang the trail; we pull down branches to pick the spiny nuts.
At sunset, the trail arrives at the hill village called Naudanda. Here I try out my new home, a one-man mountain tent, in poor condition. Phu-Tsering, our merry cook, in bright red cap, brings supper of lentils and rice, and afterward I sit outside on a wicker stool acquired at the tea house at the ford, and listen to cicadas and a jackal. This east-west ridge falls steeply on both sides to the Yamdi Valley in the north, the Marsa in the south; from Naudanda, the Yamdi Khola is no more than a white ribbon rushing down between dark walls of conifers into its gorge. Far away eastward, far below, the Marsa River opens out into Lake Phewa, near Pokhara, which glints in the sunset of the foothills. There are no roads west of Pokhara, which is the last outpost of the modern world; in one day’s walk we are a century away.
September 29
A luminous mountain morning. Mist and fire smoke, sun shafts and dark ravines: a peak of Annapurna poises on soft clouds. In fresh light, to the peeping of baby chickens, we take breakfast in the village tea house, and are under way well before seven.
A child dragging bent useless legs is crawling up the hill outside the village. Nose to the stones, goat dung, and muddy trickles, she pulls herself along like a broken cricket. We falter, ashamed of our strong step, and noticing this, she gazes up, clear-eyed, without resentment—it seems much worse that she is pretty. In Bengal, GS says stiffly, beggars will break their children’s knees to achieve this pitiable effect for business purposes: this is his way of expressing his distress. But the child that lies here at our boots is not a beggar; she is merely a child, staring in curiosity at tall, white strangers. I long to give her something—a new life?--yet am afraid to tamper with such dignity. And so I smile as best I can, and say "Namas-te!" "Good Morning!" How absurd! And her voice follows as we go away, a small clear smiling voice—"Namas-te!"—a Sanskrit word for greeting and parting that means, "I salute you."
We are subdued by this reminder of mortality. I think of the corpse in Gorkha Country, borne on thin shoulders in the mountain rain, the black cloths blowing; I see the ancient dying man outside Pokhara; I hear again my own wife’s final breath. Such sights caused Sakyamuni to forsake Lumbini and go in search of the secret of existence that would free men from the pain of this sensory world, known as samsara.
Grieve not for me, but mourn for those who stay behind, bound by longings to which the fruit is sorrow…for what confidence have we in life when death is ever at hand? Even were I to return to my kindred by reason of affection, yet we should be divided in the end by death. The meeting and parting of living things is as when clouds having come together drift part gain, or as when the leaves are parted from the trees. There is nothing we may call our own in a union that is but a dream….
And yet, as his own death drew near, Sakyamuni turned again toward the north ("Come, Ananda, let us go to Kusinagara"). Like the rest of us, perhaps he longed for home.
The path tends west around small mountains, then climbs toward a village in the pass. Where a white vulture sails in the sunny mist, a high forest comes in view, threaded by waterfalls. We are escorted through the village by a boy playing a tom-tom; he wears a saucy hat, short shirt, and vest, and nothing more. One day this boy and others will destroy that forest, and their steep fields will erode in rain, and the thin soil will wash away into the torrents, clogging the river channels farther down so that monsoon floods will spread across the land. With its rapidly increasing population, primitive agriculture, and steep terrain, Nepal has the most serious erosion problem of any country in the world, and the problem worsens as more forests disappear in the scouring of the land for food and fuel; in eastern Nepal, and especially the Kathmandu Valley, firewood for cooking (not to speak of heat) is already precious, brought in by peasants who have walked for many miles to sell the meager faggots on their backs. The country folk cook their own by burning cakes of livestock dung, depriving the soil of the precious manure that would nourish it and permit it to hold water. Without wood humus or manure, the soil deteriorates, compacts, and turns to dust, to be washed away in the rush of the monsoon.
In GS’s view, Asia is fifteen to twenty years behind East Africa in its attitudes toward conservation, and the gap may well prove fatal. All of the region from western India to Turkey, and all of northern Africa as well, has turned to desert in historic times, and yet a country such as Pakistan, with but 3 percent of its territories left in forest, is doing nothing at all about the impending disaster, despite a huge idle standing army—sponsored, of course, by military-industrial interests in the United States—that could just as well be out in the weary countryside planting new trees.
Pine, rhododendron, barberry. Down mountain fields, a path of stones flows like mercury in the sunlight; even the huts have roofs of silver slates. The path winds around the mountain to the bottom of the pine forest, where a shady hamlet overlooks the confluence of the Modir River with its tributary from the north. This is the way of foot travel in Nepal, steeply up and steeply down the labyrinthine valleys. The down is hardest on the legs and feet, which jam at the knees and into the toe of the boot. In Kathmandu, our youngest sherpa, Gyaltsen, had taken my mountain boots to a cobbler to have them stretched, the boots came back with neat round patches of bright leather sewn onto the outside surfaces at the indicated points. The patches were removed in Pokhara, but the cobbler there had no tool to stretch the boots, and so they are just as narrow and –due to perforations—less rainworthy than before.
Today we have been walking for ten hours; there are signs of blisters. Gyaltsen, who is carrying my backpack, is somewhere far behind, and since I have no sneakers in my rucksack, I walk barefoot. My feet are still tough from the past summer, and the paths are mostly rain-softened, for we have descended once again into a lowland. Eyes to the ground, alert for sticks and stones, I can admire a cocoa-colored wood frog and the pale lavender-blue winged blossoms of the orchid tree (Bauhinia) and the warm log left by a buffalo, deposited calmly from the look of it and even, perhaps, in contemplation.
But since the encounter with the crawling child, I look at paradise askance. Along the Modir, my feet are hurt by sharp rock shale, and where we make camp in the village of Gijan, we pick off leeches: while taking rice supper in a local hut, GS investigates wetness in his sneaker and finds it full of his own blood.
It relieves me that GS is mortal, prey to the afflictions of the common pilgrim. I am an inspired walker, but he is formidable; were it not for the slow pace of the porters, he would run me into the ground. GS’s legs are so crucial to his work in the high mountains of the world that he will not ski or play rough sports for fear he might do them damage. I tease him now about his bloody shoe, quoting a letter from the curator of mammals at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City (in regard to a set of mousetraps for collecting purposes that I would bring to GS from America): "I look forward to learning what you and George see, hear and accomplish in a march through Nepal. I should warn you, the last friend I had who went walking with George in Asia came back—or more properly, turned back—when his boots were full of blood…."
"That chap was out of shape," GS says shortly.
September 30
Yesterday we walked for eleven hours of rough up-and down, and this morning the delicate porter who plays fig-leaf music has disappeared. Jang-bu, the head sherpa, replaces him in Gijan with an old Magar named Bimbahadur, a crook-legged veteran of the gurkha regiments who goes barefoot, in huge shorts. (Whether Hindu or Buddhist, a Nepalese who joins the regiments is called a "gurkha." The legend of these soldiers had its start in 1769, when the armies of the King of Gorkha spread out from the central valleys, absorbing the small tribal kingdoms and creating the Hindu state now called Nepal; in their great ferocity, they rushed into Tibet, only to be thrown back by the Chinese, who considered Tibet to be part of China even then. In the mid-nineteenth century, brandishing the wicked hatchet-knife known as the kukri, gurkha troops were sent to aid the British raj during the Indian mutiny, and gurkha regiments were later supported by both India and Britain.)
Our Sherpa porter, Tukten, is also a gurkha veteran, and he and Bimbahadur are soon companions, since Tukten—perhaps because he took a porter’s job, or for other reasons not yet clear—is kept at a subtle distance by the younger sherpas. Tukten might be thirty-five or fifty-three—his face is ageless—whereas Jang-bu, Phu-Tsering the cook, and the two camp assistants Gyalsen and Dawa are all in their early twenties. In his knickers and high sneakers, Gyaltsen looks like a schoolboy and has in fact brought tattered schoolbooks with him.
The route from Gijan goes west along a mountain ridge to a high point with a view of four deep valleys. Below, in the village where Modir meets the Jare, a woman sits in a window frame of old carved birds. The Modir is crossed on a wooden bridge with chain rail; the bridge sways and creaks over gray torrents that rush down from the Annapurna glaciers to the north.
A rice-field path follows narrow dikes worn to grease by human feet. A mist along the mountains: heavy heat. The green rice, red huts, the red clothes of the women point up the darkness of these valleys. Away from the rivers, a rooster cry cracks the still air, or an outraged human voice—a woman ranting at her buffalo, gone brooding in the pines, or the vacant laugh of a crazy man echoing outward toward the mountains.
Sun in the wings of dragonflies, over a meadow still in shadow: a dove calls from the secrets of the mountains. Now Machhapuchare rises, a halo of cloud wisps spun in a tight whorl around the pinnacle. (Unlike the peaks of the Annapurna massif, Machhapuchare remains pristine, not because it is impregnable—it was climbed to within 50 feet of the summit in 1957—but because to set foot on the peak is forbidden; the Gurung revere it as a holy mountain, and the Nepal government wisely preserves it in mysterium tremendum.) Soon all Annapurna is high and clear, turning minutely all day long as the trail moves westward. In 1950, the westernmost summit, known as Annapurna One, became the first peak of 25,000 feet or more that man had climbed.
How easy it feels to be superfluous on this expedition, in no haste and without gainful destination—gnaskor, or "going around places," as pilgrimages are described in Tibet. GS is back there harrying the porters, who overlook no opportunity to rest; the sherpas pretend to help him, but they know that the porters will not walk more than seven hours if they can help it and, lacking tents, are usually aware before they set out in the morning of the hut or cave where they will spend the night. GS knows this, too, but he also knows that the season is against him, and he will not really be at ease until he reaches the land of the blue sheep and the snow leopard. "Once the data start coming in," he said in Kathmandu, "I don’t care about much else; I feel I’m justifying my existence." (This single-mindedness helps to account for his reputation: I have heard GS referred to by a peer as "the finest field biologist working today.") Also he dislikes all these small villages; we are still too close to civilization to suit him. "The fewer people, the better," he says often. Originally he wished to fly this small expedition to the strip at Dhorpatan, a settlement of Tibetan refugees to the west, where all the porters that we needed might be found. But no plane was available until the second week of October, and with the weather still uncertain, it seemed best to make the trek to Dhorpatan on foot. Now he overtakes me, fretting: "It would take us four days to Dhorpatan instead of eight or nine if we didn’t have to wait for these damned porters."
GS sighs, for he knows that there nothing to be done to speed the pace. "I wish we were up there at eight thousand feet right now—I like crisp air." I do not answer. The porter’s pace just suits me, not less so because my boots feel stiff and small. I enjoy crisp air myself, but I am happy in this moment; we shall be up there in cold weather soon enough.
Glowing with nut grease, a squirrel observes our passing from its perch in a cotton tree (Bombax) in immense red blossom. This relative of the African baobab is often the one wild tree left standing, contributing to the village commons the deer-park aspect that calms this southern countryside. Now that the air is struck by the shrill of a single cicada, brilliant, eerie, a sound as fierce as a sword blade shrieking on a lathe, yet subtle, bell-like, with a ring that causes the spider webs to shimmer in the sunlight. I stand transfixed by this unearthly sound that radiates from all the world at once, as Tukten, passing, smiles. In this enigmatic smile there is something of Kasap. Seeking among his disciples for a successor, Sakyamuni held up a single lotus flower and was silent. Perceiving in this emblematic gesture the unified nature of existence, Kasapa smiled.
Kusma, a large Hindu village near the Kali Gandaki River, lies at about 3000 feet, nearly the lowest point of altitude on this journey. Phu-tsering replenishes our supplies with fresh cucumbers and guavas, and by noon we are under way once more, moving north along the eastern bank. In the first village on the river is a small wood temple, with two stone cows decked out in red hibiscus; on a stone head in the temple wall is another unfathomable smile. The village creaks to the soft rhythm of an ancient rice treadle, and under the windows babies sway in wicker baskets. In the serene and indiscriminate domesticity of these sunny villages, sow and piglet, cow and calf, mother and infant, hen and chicks, nanny and kid commingle in a common pulse of being. We eat a papaya at the tea house, and afterward bathe in the deep pools of a mountain torrent that comes foaming down over pale rocks beyond the village. On this last day of September I linger for a while in a warm waterfall, in the moist sun, while my washed clothes bake dry upon the stones.
All afternoon the trail continues up the Kali Gandaki, which rushes down from Mustang and Tibet onto the Ganges Plain; because it flows between the soaring massifs of Annapurna and Dhaulagiri, both more than 26,000 feet in altitude, the Kali Gandaki has the deepest canyon of any river in the world. Kali signifies "black female" or "dark woman," and it is true that its steep walls, gray torrent, and black boulders give a hellish darkness to this river. Fierce Kali the Black, the female aspect of Time and Death, and the Devourer of All Things, is the consort of the Hindu god of the Himalaya, Great Shiva the Re-Creator and Destroyer; her black image, with its necklace of human skulls, is the emblem of this dark river that, rumbling down out of hidden peaks and vast clouds of unknowing, has filled the traveler with dread since the first human being tried to cross and was borne away.
A far cicada rings high and clear over the river’s heavy wash. Morning glory, a lone dandelion, cassia, orchids. So far from the nearest sea, I am taken aback by the sight of a purple land crab, like a relict of the ancient days when the Indian subcontinent, adrift on the earth’s mantle, moved northward to collide with the Asian land mass, driving these marine rocks, inch by inch, five miles into the skies: the Kali Gandaki is a famous source of the black sacred stones called saligrams, which contain the spiral fossil forms of marine univalves. The rise of the Himalaya, begun in the Eocene, some fifty million years ago, is still continuing: an earthquake in 1959 caused mountains to fall into the rivers and changed the course of the great Brahmaputra, which comes down out of Tibet through northeastern India to join the Ganges near its delta at the Bay of Bengal. All the great rivers of southern Asia fall from the highest country in the world, from the Indus that empties into the Arabian Sea east to the Ganges and the Brahmaputra, the Mekong and the Yangtze, and even the great Hwang Ho that pours eastward across all of China into the Yellow Sea, since they come from the Tibetan Plateau, these rivers are much older than the mountains, and the Kali Gandaki forged its great abysses as the mountains rose.
At Paniavas, which has a brass cow head on its village font, a bridge crossed the roaring river, and camp is made on the far side in sudden rain. At twilight, I walk beneath the dripping trees. From the hill above, in their bird voices, the Pahari children cry out their few phrases of schoolbook English, laughing at my answers.
Good-a morning!
What it is you-a name?
What time it is by you-a watch?
Where are you-a going?
October 1
The monsoon rains continue all night long, and in the morning it is cool and cloudy. Along the trail up the Gandaki, there are fewer settlements, fewer stone huts in which travelers may take shelter, and with the north wind comes the uneasy feeling that, in this autumn season, we are bound into the wind, against the weather. Down the river comes a common sandpiper, the Eurasian kin of the spotted sandpiper of home: it teeters and flits from boulder to black boulder, bound for warm mud margins to the south. I have seen this jaunty bird in many places, from Galway to New Guinea, and am cheered a little when I meet it again here.
Under the clouds, the lower flanks of great Dhaulagiri, 26,810 feet high, are white from last night’s storm; the snow line is much lower than the altitudes that we must cross to get to Dolpo. This track continues northward to Jamoson and Mustang, and originally we planned to trek as far as Jamoson, then head west into Dolpo by way of Tscharka. But permits to travel beyond Jamoson are difficult to obtain from the Nepal government, which is very sensitive about all the wild region on the northwest border. Before the Gorkha wars in the late eighteenth century, Dolpo and Mustang were kingdoms of Tibet, a historical fact that might tempt Chinese encroachment. And both regions are hideouts of the fierce Tibetan nomads known as Kham-pa, who still actively resist the Chinese occupation and retreat to Dolpo and Mustang after their raids. Even in Marco Polo’s time, the Kham-pa were renowned bandits, and from all reports are fond of their old habits. Our present route, approaching from the south, lessens the chance of encountering Kham-pa and drawing attention to a situation that Nepal, for the sake of good relations with its tremendous neighbor, is anxious to ignore.
A bridge crosses the river to the trade center at Beni, from where another track heads west, under Dhaulagiri. We shall travel in this direction for six days, then round the western end of the Dhaulagiri massif on a route north across the Himalaya. Here at Beni Bazaar, the police are suspicious and aggressive, checking us out with exaggerated care; our permit for Dolpo is uncommon. But at last the papers are returned, and we leave this place as soon as possible.
The path follows the northern bank of a tributary river, the Magyandi, where the valley sides are too steep for farming, and the few poor hamlets lack even a tea stall. It is October now; the orchids disappear. Across the river, ghostly waterfalls—sometimes six or seven may be seen at once—flow down out of the clouds. A stone millhouse spans the white water of a stream where a ravine strikes into the river; there is no bridge, no sign of life, and the hermit, if he has not died, shares his solitude with the macaques that perch like sentinels about the silent dwelling.
A Tibetan with two women overtakes us; he stops short, cocking his head, to look us over, then invites us to accompany him to Dhorpatan. GS and I love to travel light, and would be happy to go with him, but we merely point in the direction of the porters who, as usual, are an hour or more behind.
We camp by the river at Tatopani, in a heavy rain.
October 2
Long ago, some traveler brought poinsettia and oleander to Tatopani, and there is a tea stall in this village. Across from the tea stall, on a thatch roof, grows a cucumber with yellow-flowered vine; under the eaves, on the clay windowsill, a flute, a wood comb, and a bright red pepper lie in happy composition. Beneath the windowsill, small children tumble, and one little girl, sedate and serious, changes her clothes from top to bottom. In the mud street, in the rain, three small boys hunching knee to knee play cards beneath a black umbrella.
At midmorning, we set out in a light rain. The Magyandi is rising, and over the thick rush and leaping of the torrent, the rumble of boulders, southbound swallows fly away down the gray river. Rain comes and goes. At midafternoon, the track arrives at this region’s main village, called Darbang, where the slate-roofed houses are strongly built of red and white clay bricks, with carved wood windows.
On the school veranda, Jang-bu and Phu-Tsering build a fire to dry sleeping bags, which are turned each little while by Dawa and Gyaltsen. Like all sherpa work, this is offered and accomplished cheerfully, and usually Tukten lends a hand, although such help is not expected of the porters and he is not paid for it. The sherpas are always alert for ways in which to be of use, yet are never insistent, far less servile; since they are paid to perform a service, why not do it as well as possible? "Here, sir! I will wash the mud!" "I carry that, sir!" As GS says, "When the going gets rough, they take care of you first." Yet their dignity is unassailable, for the service is rendered for its own sake—it is the task, not the employer, that is served. As Buddhists, they know that the doing matters more than the attainment or reward, that to serve in this selfless way is to be free. Because of their belief in karma—the principle of cause and effect that permeates Buddhism and Hinduism (and Christianity, for that matter: as ye sow, so shall ye reap)—they are tolerant and unjudgemental, knowing that bad acts will receive their due without the intervention of the victim. The generous and open outlook of the sherpas, a kind of merry defenselessness, is by no means common, even among unsophisticated peoples; I have never encountered it before except among the Eskimos. And since, in prehistory, the nomadic Mongol ancestors of both Tibetans and native Americans are thought to have spread from the same region of northern Asia, I wonder if this sense of life is not a common heritage from the far past.
These simple and uneducated men comport themselves with the wise calm of monks, and their well-being is in no way separable from their religion. And of course they are all incipient Buddhas—we are, too—according to the Mahayana texts compiled several centuries after Sakyamuni’s death. Since Mahayana insists on the interdependence of all life and aspires to the salvation of all beings, not just those who follow monastic orders, it does not demand renunciation of ordinary life (though it is expected that renunciation will later come about of its own accord) and is less narrow in all respects than the Hinayana of Ceylon and Southeast Asia, which adheres closely to the early Buddhism of Sakyamuni. As in the Hebrew and Christian traditions, which were developing in the same period, Mahayana suggests that spiritual attainment will be limited in him who seeks God only for himself: "Hast thou attuned thy being to humanity’s great pain, O Candidate for Light?" Thus there developed the ideal of the Bodhisattva (roughly, Buddha-Being) who has deferred his own entry into the eternal peace of nirvana, remaining here in the samsara state until all of us become enlightened; in this way Mahayana answered man’s need for a personal god and a divine savior, which early Buddhism and Hinayana lack. Mahayana lies at the foundation of the Tantric Buddhism of the Himalaya, Tibet, and Central Asia, as well as that extraordinary sect that developed in China, traveled eastward to Korea and Japan, and is now established in the United States.
The traditional founder of Ch’an Buddhism (in Japan, Zen) was Bodhidharma, a great teacher in the apostolic line of Sakyamuni, who carried the teaching from India to China in A.D. 527. Perhaps influenced by the simplicity of the Chinese philosophy called Tao (the Way), the fierce "blue-eyed monk," or "wall-gazer," exhorted his followers to ignore the sectarian disputes, ponderous scriptures, proliferating icons, and priestly trappings of organized religion and return to the intense meditation that had opened the Buddha’s path. Led by a succession of great masters, Zen Buddhism (of which Bodhidharma was First Patriarch in China) infused all of Oriental art and culture with the spare clarity of its vision. In Zen thought, even attachment to the Buddha’s "golden words" may get in the way of ultimate perception; hence the Zen expression "Kill the Buddha!" The universe itself is the scripture of Zen, for which religion is no more and no less than the apprehension of the infinite in every moment.
How wondrous, how mysterious!
I carry fuel, I draw water.
October 3
From the river above Darbang comes evil thunder. The cliffs are falling, and three wet dogs that scavenge in the schoolyard turn to listen. Rocks tremble and bound into the river, which after two days of heavy rain is rushing, roaring, lunging through the canyon.
The daily rain is nagging at our nerves, and mine especially, since my cramped and ratty tent leaks very badly. Hunched in a cold and soggy sleeping bag amongst the puddles, I have envied the owner of the crisp blue tent next door, and perhaps these base feelings fired our first argument, this dark morning, when GS tossed used cans and papers into the schoolyard. He asserted that he did so because the local people are always avid for containers, which is true. But why not set the can upon the wall instead of littering the place, and making the people pick them up out of the mud?
Beneath GS's stern control are gleams of anger, it appears, although he talks little of himself--there isn't much to go on. Essentially, I think, he is a solitary; a certain shy warmth is most apparent when he speaks of crows and pigs. Last year in New York, he said, "Perhaps you can teach me how to write about people; I don't know how to go about it." This sort of open and lonely remark redeems his sternness and an occaisional lack of proportion brought about by sheer intensity. "When Kay is typing up my notes, and I don't generally hear the typewriter," he says, "I go and ask her what's the matter: she gets wild at me." He often says this--"Kay gets wild at me"--as if to remind himself that his wife may have good reason.
In the Serengeti, GS was much respected and well liked, and he has fine, old-fashioned qualities in abundance. His mix of brains, strength, and integrity is not so common, and counts for a lot on an expedition such as ours: how many of one's friends, these days, could be entrusted with one's life?
When the rain relents a bit, we straggle out, but soon a man coming from the west warns Phu-Tsering about danger on the trails. Phu-Tsering, who is never serious if he can help it, murmurs, "Two day rain--very bad," making a sliding motion with his brown hand. In places the ledge trail has collapsed into the river, and elsewhere slides have buried it in an avalanche of shale. Crossing these places, the porters stare upward through the restless mists at the overhanging rocks. The young Tamang porter Pirim has a scrap of English, and as he passes me, remarks, "Today, tomorrow, trail no good." To assure me that he is serious, he swings with his heavy load to gaze at me from beneath the tump line around his forehead, then hobbles on along the path that climbs up this steep canyon. Such warnings, according to GS, are apt to precede threats to quit or demands for higher pay, but later, commanding the porters to stay closer together, he acknowledges the perilous conditions: "If one of these chaps slips," he says, "we'll never miss him until the end of the day." Not long afterward we must clamber up through bushes, since a whole traverse has fallen down the mountain.
Beyond a bridge over the Danga stream is a steep, slippery ascent; soon the worst of the climb is past. A pine forest drifts by in breaths of mist, and on the mountain face just opposite, seen through shifting clouds, ribbons of water turn from white to brown as they gather up soil in the fall to the roaring rivers. On a corner of the trail is a weird shrine where horns of many slaughtered goats are piled in a kind of altar, with red ribbons tied to branches of the trees. At this time of year, people pay homage to Durga, a dread demoness of ancient origin, who emerged again in the frist centuries A.D. as the black Kali, the dreadful female aspect of Lord Shiva and embodiment of all horrors of the mortal mind.
A bird note and the water rush command the stillness. Even in rain,
To Be Continued. (Last update, 5-1-98)
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