THE FANTASTICAL KINGDOM OF LO | Guest Post by Persis Anklesaria

 

 

Persis Anklesaria, is a veteran South Col trekker, keen photographer and gifted writer. In this post she recounts her journey to the once forbidden kingdom of Mustang  - a fascinating part of the Himalayan rain shadow.

Wedged between the Himalayas and shuttered Tibet, lies an ancient Buddhist kingdom within the borders of Hindu Nepal. 

 

The kingdom of Lo.

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 In the year 1380, the warrior chieftain Ame Pal, gained control of the trade routes between India and Tibet, established a kingdom and built Lo Manthang --- a grand walled capital of palaces, monasteries and gompas.

 

Nothing much has changed since then.  Sheltered behind 26,000 ft. high peaks, the Lobas continue to live a centuries old existence, farming, raising livestock and preserving their ancient faith. Today, this domain of approximately 13 settlements is the last bastion of pure Tibetan culture, its monasteries the finest example of Buddhist art, and Ame Pal’s capital the best-preserved medieval fortification in the world.

 

Till the 1950’s the only route into Mustang was on horseback via treacherous passes. Now, a Chinese road extends from Lhasa to Kathmandu, daily flights bring in a gaggle of tourists.  Before a way of life disappears forever, eight Southcol Expedition trekkers including me, embark on a 7-day, 64km climb from Jomsom airstrip (9000 ft.), northwards to Lo Manthang (12,400ft.).  

 

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As the Tara Air, 16-seater lifts off, Pokhara’s lake and green fields slip away, melting into puffy clouds.   Within minutes the skies darken as we tunnel between the world’s two greatest mountain ranges at wingtip distance. The Annapurna Peak metamorphoses into her fabled fish tail, while across the aisle, the east face of Dhaulagiri, 26,000ft of dazzling beauty floats past the windows. Below us the light-speckled Kali Gandaki River, its plunging gorges, valleys and tributaries, bisect the terrain.  Half-an-hour later we are in Jomsom, a brown, barren, rocky desert.

 

After a brief breakfast we’re off, to Kagbeni our first night-stop.  The nine km trail lowers us to the river spread wide across the valley, and lifts us to dizzy heights exposing us to Mustang’s infamous winds.  Whipping caps off our heads, and blinding us in spiralling dust, it’s a shame that we barely pause to admire the terrain.

 

Entering the ancient trading post, we soon get lost in its maze of Tibetan-style mud houses with tiny doors and windows. Twigs and straw piled on roofs dry in the afternoon sun, and goat skull talismans dangle from doorways.  Low-tunnel alleyways lead to courtyards of prayer wheels and chortens, and clanging pans to teahouse kitchens. Lunch awaits--- watery dal, overcooked bhat, and mutilated greens devoured under the gaze of a smiling Dalai Lama hanging from the walls.

 

As we walk past the school that evening, children suspend their game of volleyball to greet us.  ‘Hi ya!’ they chant, in fake American accents.  

 

I sit beside a little, old lady.  She would have been in her late teens when the Khampas, freedom fighters from Tibet, were staging raids across the border.  Although welcomed by the locals, the Khampa experience in Mustang was calamitous. There was little food, some got so desperate they cooked and ate their shoes, many starved to death.  By 1969 the resistance fizzled out and Nepal shut the border. Tibet remains sealed, though illicit trade continues through a practice of bribes, gifts and percentages.  

The Yamdo La

The next day we start ascending the Passes or Las, each one opening onto progressively more remote and beautiful valleys.  Yamdo La (13,200ft.), not only is it the highest we climb on this trek, but the views into the next valley are dramatically different from the past few days.  Leaving behind cluttered skies, rugged slopes, darkened valleys, we crest the pass and squinting in bright sunshine, gaze on a new world of rounded, caramel-brown hills rolling all the way to the horizon under vacant blue skies.  Nepal seems to halt at Yamdo La while Tibet beckons.  We spin like giddy dervishes enjoying the contrasting views.

 

With one eye on the remarkable vistas, the other scours constantly for food and rest. Spotted! On a solitary trail ribboning to infinity, a solitary teahouse. But distances are deceptive; via steep and dangerous shortcuts its hours before we stumble into our lunch stop.  

Twilight - settlement of Gelling

Post-lunch another La, but this one’s a quickie. Finally, by the orange glow of twilight, we wind down to Gelling (11,800ft.).  Long shadows on the hills, diffused light falling over a broken wall, shafts striking a blood-red monastery, I reach for my camera.  Parking myself on a boulder I watch the sun slip away, plunging the valley into darkness, the tip of Annapurna catching the last light.  

Gami for apple pie

Next morning, the Las continue before we descend for lunch to Gami, nestling at the foot of a majestic rock face. The Japanese fell in love with this charming settlement, built a hospital, and introduced apple farming. And yes, there’s Japanese-style apple strudel on the menu and we binge as if we’ve never seen apples!  

The red cliffs of Drakmar

A perfect afternoon of honey sunshine follows as we climb past Nepal’s longest mani wall into the next valley.  The trail is gentle, it’s eerily quiet, our only companions, goats flooding down the slopes in a frenzy of tinkles. As we descend, colors deepen, from flamingo pink, to earthy rust, and finally to an astonishing red.  We are in a valley of soaring, blood-colored cliffs pockmarked with 2000-year-old caves--- The Red Cliffs of Drakmar.  To add to the magic, clouds scurry across the sky, shifting shadows and reworking the landscape.  We halt in our tracks in utter amazement. Playing with our cameras, taking groupies, taking selfies, it’s hours before we tumble into our forgettable lodge and devour unremarkable food. 

 

By the fifth day the landscape flattens.  We are on a treeless path, en route to Ghar Gompa, Mustang’s oldest and most sacred Buddhist monastery.  Legends swirl around this structure, site of a fearsome battle between the 8^th century Indian Tantric, Guru Padmasambha and the demoness he vanquished.  He disemboweled her, unravelled her intestines where a 1000ft long mani wall stands and poured her blood down the red cliffs of Drakmar.  Over her heart he built Ghar Gompa and established Buddhism in the valley.

 

The Gompa feels like a cave locked for centuries, pitch dark save for flickering butter lamps and light from a skylight high above.  Along the walls are glass cases with dusty figures wrapped in ripped silk scarves, at the end of the room is the seated Padmasambha.  The wall-to-ceiling paintings damaged by neglect and moisture are reduced to smudges of color; here a delicate hand, there a blue face, fangs and bulging eyes. The place is strangely evocative in the light of the dancing lamps but as cold as a tomb, much better to be in the sun with the furry mascot of Ghar Gompa. Full of doggy wisdom, he sits on the top-most step, gazing at fluttering prayer flags, not caring a hoot for trespassers.

 

The next day, our final trek, the final La, our first views of Ame Pal’s fabled city, we’re buoyant.  The air is dry, we are treading on soft, fine sand at 13,000 ft. We hadn’t bargained for a 5-hour march through a desert; no ups, no downs, no views, no to-rest-boulders, no mid-morning tea… a long litany of complaints, but nothing now matters. Snow peaks have come into view and I spot the fluttering flags atop Lo La.

                         

Lo La or Windy Pass lives up to its name, blinding us in spiralling clouds of dust, we can barely stand. Determined to record the occasion,  my back to the gale, I fumble with camera settings, then spin on my heels and through a dusty lens, and eyes squeezed half-shut, I search…

Fitst glimpse of Lo Manthang from the Lho La

                     

                            …It’s a higgledy-piggledy, puzzle of a landscape.  Lo Manthang, her turrets barely visible, nestles at the bottom of a valley surrounded by patterned, coloured hills, while above snow peaks command the horizon. Had the conditions been more hospitable, we could have paused to savour the moment, but all I can think of is an empty water bottle, my parched throat and the howling winds. 

 

The road descends, meandering endlessly, round mound after mound, after mound. Walls and turrets appear and reappear in mirage upon dusty mirage, but the city eludes. Hours later, squinting into the sockets of a suspended, centuries-old yak skull, we knock at the gates of Ame Pal’s city of pelf and piety. 

 

Straddling the trade routes, Ame Pal’s markets teemed with heckling merchants, and Ame Pal, shrewd cookie, taxed them exorbitantly and built his fortified capital. Mud walls soaring 6mts. high, his palace, a 9-cornered skyscraper, and monasteries of gilded Buddhas and floor-to-ceiling Mandalas encrusted with gemstones. It is believed that over 2000 monks lived in his ‘City of Prayers’, their drums and chants echoing through the valley.

 

Markets? Prayers? We hear no drums, but enter a quadrangle lined with -- hold your breath -- Mahindra Boleros. Locals in cowboy gear, their ponies, with tails bedecked in bows and ribbons crowd the courtyard, while monks strut their stuff in dark glasses and swirling robes. An acrid smell of animal dung hangs in the air as cattle munch by the roadside and chickens squawk between our legs.  Signboards advertise cafes and lodges, Mustang Mystique--- hold your breath again--- Mona Lisa Guest House.  Whew, I’ll be damned, Mahindra and Leonardo sharing a courtyard!

 

Our lodge, Mystique Himalayan and its menu is all we need.  We consume everything except dal bhat, sip tea from Donald Duck cups, retire to enjoy a siesta, and spend the rest of the evening in showers emptying the water tanks. In an orgy of soap and splashing, I watch 7 days of scum curl down the drain.  No wonder I’m humming.

 

Then to bed and dreaming…we have three days and four nights in Lo. 

 

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I pull the curtains aside, let the sunshine in, and get down to bag-sorting and settling in.  Another quick shower, fresh and shinning, I step out into a perfect Lo morning.  25^th April 2015, what’s not to like today?

 

                        After a brief tour of the town, we cram into a Thangka shop, the size of a broom cupboard. The artist, happy to explain his handiwork, is deep in Buddhist  afterlife --- doom and damnation, a fiery hell, witches roasting in their cauldrons … the conversation’s going swimmingly.

 

At first, we hardly notice it---the tinkle of brushes in their pots, the swinging of tankhas from their hangings.  I’m half-amused, the ultimate Lo experience, meeting a Lo witch?  Lobas believe their valleys are haunted.  Hot headed demons, ghostly apparitions and evil spirits lurk round every corner, unleashing blizzards and storms, their little tricksters in the kitchen, curdle milk, steal chickens, and drink the precious water. 

 

But somethings amiss.  The trembling persists.

 

A low rumble reaches up from the belly of the mountains, the ground begins to heave, the walls begin to tilt, the dancing brushes tip over their cups, and we fly out of the room. 

                         

                        Finally, it’s over. In the deafening silence, we whisper, “That was an earthquake”.

 

Leaving Lo Manthang - The Upper Mustang Express

                        In the meantime, a very ill fellow trekker, stuck in a very empty lodge is needing   help.  Sham our guide  and Vikram,  one of our porters, carry her down, Lo’s only doctor is called, and it’s suggested she be moved immediately to lower altitudes.  Our team leader pays an arm and a leg for a Bolero, “The Upper Mustang Express”, and we flee with our fellow trekker attached to an oxygen cylinder.

                         

                        It’s grey, it’s drizzling and painfully slow as we manoeuvre round fallen boulders.  The mood is funereal, but our driver seems unfazed. With film music renting the air, he’s enjoying the swinging ride, singing and spitting with gay abandon. It didn’t help that he looked 12 years old.

 

                        By the time we get to the steep passes, it’s almost dark, the rain has turned the track into slush, the tyres don’t grip, and each elbow bend is a backward slide. Finally, at Yamdo La, the “Express” gives up and we climb into a second vehicle.   After three such swaps we get to Samar well past sundown. Thinking we had escaped from the jaws of death, I sleep soundly, grateful an evil day had passed. How wrong I was!

 

Over breakfast, everyone’s looking glumly into their porridge, a heavy silence hangs in the air.  And where are the porters? Sham, Vikram?  Oblivious to me, well past midnight the phones suddenly sprang to life and news began flooding in.  It was worse, far worse than we’d ever imagined. Kathmandu Valley was the epicentre. The injured, the dead?  Crazy numbers were flying around. Worst of all Sham received an SOS from home---his father  and his home gone forever. The true horror of it all finally sinks in. 

                         

                        Rushing to relieve Sham we are on the road again.  Jomsom is in panic. Pounded by aftershocks the town is camping on the runway and our flights have been cancelled.  Thankful for rooms and a meagre meal, we sleep fitfully, fully dressed with our shoes on. 

                         

                        At the crack of dawn, we are on the move again; another arm and a leg, for a 10-hour journey on a rutted road, past some surreal views.  On the ground, devastation with uprooted trees and pylons --- up in the sky, Dhaulagiri flashing her very best!

                         

                        Pokhara is untouched but unnervingly quiet.  Shops are open --- gems and carpets on display--- but the tourists have fled. With nothing better to do, we spend 3 days, calling home, taking obscenely long siestas, eating Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and waiting with trepidation for our flight to Kathmandu.

                         

Powerless, without food or water, her air choked with dust and her priceless heritage in ruins, noisy, boisterous Kathmandu has been defeated. So many lives lost, I can’t bring myself to ask the dreaded question. My favourite pagoda in Durbar Square, young couples used to run up her steps seeking privacy and great views, ‘Is it still standing?’ ‘Rubble.’

 

Wasn’t I glad to flee the country, get home to a house that wasn’t shaking, and a great mum, so calm so composed so full of kisses. 

                         

                        Three months later Mum passed away.  This diary is a tribute to her encouragement to venture out and seek adventure among the high peaks.   We were a great team.  She was the first to see the pictures, the last to edit the diaries, and in between, there was natter, and chuckling over cups of coffee.  ‘Mustang is unfinished busines, you should return’, she said.

                         

I did. The following year we were on the trail again.  The colours had changed as had the seasons.  The skies were clearer, scattered patches of monsoon green were climbing up the Passes, and the fields were ripe with harvest.

 

Same lodge, same room, same roommate, we’re back in Lo Manthang with a packed schedule.  The Palace is too damaged to visit, but we spend hours in Ame Pal’s 600-year-old gompas, examine the world’s finest collection of Mandalas by the light of our cell phones, drive to the famous Chosar Caves, and finally, surrounded by bubbling streams, golden meadows and the last of harvest, we trot all morning on our farting ponies with a whistling pony man.

 

And so, I exorcised the ghosts of 2015--- a sad tumultuous year with so much, so cherished, gone forever.

persis4@gmail.com