Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Sadhus, Hashish, and glorious Muktinath


Trek day Two: Kagbeni to Muktinath

We rose at 7 a.m. in Kagbeni, for hot “milk-coffee” (Nescafe with hot milk), Tibetan bread, and warm porridge with apples. We paid the bill, a meager 1,000 rupees (roughly 14 bucks for room, dinner, and breakfast for two). And we hit the road, the threat of the wind’s return hastening our pace. As Kim and I climbed straight up a loose scree hill, short of breath for the first time on this trip, we wondered aloud if the Nepalese had ever heard of switchbacks. Seemingly not. Our guide, Renuka, marveled at our pace and our porters seemed perturbed that we were so far ahead. But we were pumped, both by the scenery and the mere idea that we were trekking in the famed Mustang region of Nepal, after months – really years – of dreaming about it. Our high-altitude upbringing in Colorado was working in our favor. But Renuka warned us to hold back: If not, it would catch up with us later. So true.

A few hours into the taxing 2,900-foot ascent toward the temple of Muktinath (12,800 feet), we came upon a Sadhu, a dreadlocked spiritual pilgrim who had made the journey from the jungles of India in tan and filthy bare feet and a tattered red and yellow robe. He sat cross-legged on a brick wall, next to a marijuana plant in full bud in the front yard of a tea house. He seemed to possess only a pipe, a black ball of hashish (which he openly smoked as we approached), and a kind smile. Our guide explained that these Shaivite ascetics are known to walk for days to reach the cleansing waters and prayer wheels of Muktinath, a several-thousand-year-old hilltop temple oozing with both Hindu and Buddhist significance. Smoke often aids both in their journey and in their enlightenment.

When we finally arrived, groggy from the altitude, we found the same barefoot Sadhu seated at the temple gate, reeking of pot and Roxy (the local moonshine) and weaving a blanket with a fellow Sadhu. He was perfectly beaming.

Once inside the temple gate, with its flickering tea candles, burning incense, and 108 fountains spilling forth with purifying waters, we keenly understood why people come so far to experience this. Prayer flags undulate in the wind across the hillside for as far as the eye can see, strung up by devotees who scale steep crags to set them in place. Surprisingly there are few Westerners. We tucked into a nunnery said to house the “eternal flame” (a companion to to the earth, water, and wind elements pesent) in a dark pit under the ground. (I must admit, I could smell propane as I peeked in). Barefoot and mesmerized, we allowed an elder nun to give us each a tika, a red smudge between the eyes meant to symbolize the third eye.

Feeling blessed already, we pushed our luck and tried to attempt a side trip to a nearby ancient walled village called Jhong (the region's former capital). But after forging several streams and one large river by twilight, we decided to abort. The village was farther than it looked and Renuka seemed unsure of the way. With stomach’s growling, we short-cutted through a cow pasture, a group of teenage monks giggling from their second floor balcony as they guided us around their monestery and back to the road. Just before dark, we arrived at the Dream Home – the coolest lodge, with the most insane mountain views, that I will probably ever see in my life.

Warm pizza. Gin rummy. Amazing sunset. Deep Deep rest.

Tomorrow: To Marpha.

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