Another in the series of ‘mountain immortals’ and their equally timeless words. Neema, at 89 years old, says of his days upon the Himalayas’ Tea Horse Road:
“The mountains and mules had a contract with eachother. If we traders didn’t care for the mules, the mountains wouldn’t care for us”.
Neema evidently cared.
Neema the Wise
One of our newest (and rarest) offerings at Jalamteas gets a nice bit of press from Nicole Martin at ‘Tea For Me Please‘.
To see the review please see here
A series of portraits that I took along that immortal route and obsession of mine, The Tea Horse Road. The series is simply called ‘The Immortals’. Gokuming’s article and the portraits appear
Was asked to do an article about those stunning and often tortured Himalayas for About.com on trade and those icons of the mountains, the people.
Article here
Next to a legend of the mountains, Abdul Raza
I’m reminded of some simple mountain-borne brilliance. The deliverer of the words was as simple and straightforward as the words themselves. The old Himalayan brigand and trader’s words about the mountains rings truer on every journey through them that I take. “They punish and they protect in equal measure”…
A little video clip here shot as our team descends the magic monochrome of ice that is the Parang Pass. This pass was as notorious for its brigands and bandits as it was Mother Nature’s ‘moods’. Upon summiting the pass our epic horseman Sadanand said rather ominously, “Too long on the pass is not good” referring to the deities and elements that still hold power in the world of the heights…we moved. Video was shot on our brilliant little Liquid Image “EGO”…
The skin, bones, and essence of our trip: the faces and personalities behind the efforts. I thought it time to properly ‘introduce’ the team with some thoughts, some colour, and some quotes from our magnificent team.
Suresh the fearless in full gallop in the winds.
We begin with Suresh who at his best is an absolute bear. Proud, strong, and the perfect man to delegate, he is a great point-man with a voice that comes close to a baritone. A tale teller of fabulous analogies, he is prone to moments of epic passion and explosive outbursts.
Dharam the Gazelle
Moving with grace and smooth speed, Dharam was the equivalent of our scout, always moving on the periphery with his long strides. Seemingly unaffected by sun or thirst, Dharam has the blood of the desert movers. A gentlemen with steel in the tendons.
Karma the Great, Karma the Calm
A presence relentless in his calm, that would eventually (with his calm competence) become a kind of deity and leader on our journey. Not once did his voice raise above a hush (and I tried to get it above a hush), and it was to him that we looked when there wasn’t an answer forthcoming…and an utter god in the cooking department.
Kaku the Man-Boy who could do it all
Handsome and buzzing with a relentless energy, Kaku is the figure who would and could do it all. No task is too dismal, no distance too great, and no request too ridiculous. An understated essential who is a key to all of our momentum.
Tashi of the Calves
Tashi of the fiercely muscular calves and the giant smiles, was also Tashi of the smooth abilities in the mountains to lead. A leader who leads through quiet and competent action day after day, with a voice that should be doing voice-overs in animated series.
Epic Sadanand
There could well be a small book on the lives, the loves, the words, and the character of this very special man. Stubborn to a fault, tough beyond words, and almost a thing of fables, Sadanand not only added some neurotic hysteria to the journey, he also reminded again and again of the wonderful characters to be found in the mountains.
Michael the Wool Hunter
Who else could possible deal with my own rambling, at times non-sensical queries and expeditions into the complete unknown? Relentless friend Michael, who manages to stay somehow elegant even while losing half his body weight sweating. A man who will not steer away from much that is out there and who managed to smile the big smile when hitting Parang Pass. And last but certainly not least, the man whose tireless wanderings to yield yak wool for ‘kora’ is nothing short of remarkable.
“I” of the routes
Put the hint of a mountain trail, a trade route, or simply a strand that veers into the mountains in front of me, and I’m gone…needing only a hint of a schedule and a very large quantity of tea.
‘That’ Wild Ass….
Wild Asses exist. One long muscular creature stands in front of the shimmering surface that marks the legendary Tso Moriri lake. The one Michael and I stare at on the flat surface is a muscle-laden thing that doesn’t look at all worried that our little troupe is moving across its terrain. In fact, the way he saunters along I imagine he is swishing his hips a bit from side to side. There is a bit of attitude from this ass.
Michael leads our team across an expanse of stone
Tashi tells us a little tale of how often these tough, fleet of foot creatures will ‘kidnap’ a horse or mule in the hope of copulating with it. With this knowledge in my head I give the animal another longer look, having perhaps a little less respect for it because of this newfound information. Tashi, shortly after though tells me of how wolves though – numerous as they are in the region – hunt the odd Wild Ass (called kyang), so in some ways, everything balances out up here with the animal kingdom. I wonder briefly though whether Tashi tells me this tale to even things out a little bit.
Early morning love amongst our mule team
Sadanand, who is impossible not to notice or comment upon at any time, has been a little slower in the past days and is slightly disheveled looking. His immaculate little moustache is being joined by a prized amount of other invading whiskers and his hunched walk and broken strides are just a tad slower than they have been in the past.
Camp along the Parang Chu
Nothing though, takes any of the emphasis away from this mass of water called Tso Moriri. Clear, apparently salty – though we cannot taste even a trace of anything salty – it is a massive body of water that creates its own micro-climate along with the surrounding mountains. It takes us aback seeing it, as it reminds us that the only water we have seen in recent weeks are glacial rivers and wandering streams.
Nearby Karzok looks like a forgotten windblown little ripple of a town, that is trying to take itself into the future by cleaning itself up. Whether this is true or it is simply outsiders who are changing the landscape, we do not find out. It is odd but I prefer its ‘old self’ looking at the dark little homes that are built into the side of the mountain facing the lake on the northwest. They at least seem to make sense given the battles that all objects must undertake with the elements.
A rain squall above Tso Moriri
Winters here are wicked blowing masses of force. The ‘new’ portions haven’t been thought of much. They have simply been erected to appear new, while the winds happily tear at these modern fabrics of plastic and paper. Karzok and places like it work only in their ancient forms – in my mind at least – because the ancient fabrics, the mud homes, and the low slung buildings pay a kind of homage to the greater surrounding elements.
Heroes on hooves. Our mule team carefully makes its way down a mere strand of a path
Michael sums up a feeling I have by telling me that he prefers being away from the villages and items of man. Karzok is the first real settlement in days and pitching a tent within its general borders is a strange feeling. Our windblown camps where not a soul moved are missed. Here, dog packs roam, cows seek out anything at all that is chewable and humans ride aboard motorcycles. Even this minute little settlement seems devastating to my senses, which have been shaped by winds, our team, and more winds.
Within the realm of the tent
The lake, its semi-nomadic residents, and its goats were all part of the wool routes, as well as salt, which seemed an inevitable partner on so many of wool’s journeys.
Weather systems kilometres wide hover and tease in the skies above the lake and above us. The sky is a part creator of these swaths of sky that send showers down in vertical lines.
Our route along the lake
Climbing up the western slope beside the lake I peer down at the water which seems more like a sky that has dropped in amidst the mountains. There is much here in these lands that seems to hint that they don’t need any mortals to set foot upon them. The vision of the wild ass comes back to me, and the way it strutted about knowing its place in these vast wide spaces with nowhere to hide.
A wall that has been cut and chiseled by a thousand years of glaciers, and glacial streams
Still further up footprints set in ancient mud have the imprint of a large mammal with wide feet, huge nails…a wolf on a trail home, tracking an ibex. It doesn’t really matter but it does feel good to know that predators are still pacing about on their long hunts.
Up above the lake, the mountains shimmer in their own light
I wonder long about the wolf and its neighbour the Wild Ass and about their inevitable and eternal match of wits and brawn. I’ve suddenly become almost obsessed about seeing a wolf…one of the earth’s great predators and underated teachers.
Leaves that solve so much: tea
Karzok the community looks nothing like its name, which rings with intention and power. The town looks like it has been sleeping and dealing with the winds for far too long. Now, no trade comes other than the odd outsider, and the young leave for any place other than here. Isolation in the mountains is brutal on villages that must endure the seasons and the relentless winds whereas the black yak wool tents that bristle seem at least to be alive.
Up a nearby western valley a community of nomads infuses me with a sense that there are still those who move with the seasons. Movement feels right in these lands whereas remaining in one place amidst such hugeness and potent altitude hints at self-destruction.
Tso Moriri from above
West is the direction we’ll take, towards Leh and past the big peaks and snow covered ridges. Wind here is beyond constant…it is the everything.
Sadanand is tired, but even in this state he is unable to rest. Whether it is the place, his relentless spirit, or the winds, there seems something in the air that keeps us all restless. We need to leave.
A nomadic tent near Karzok…a relieving site.
Mornings, and particularly bad one’s can be down to simply being unable to shut off the mind the night before, or too much cold, maybe the tent location is off, or sometimes they can simply be down to an unknown. Waking below the Parang Pass I’ve got the somewhat deadly condition of an ugly mood with no apparent reason. With all of the excitement in me that is generated by mountain passes I’m confused. There is no reason for the mood…it simply is there, like the vapid grey above our valley. Sometime in the night a fog moved into my mind and simply installed itself like a piece of bad furniture. We’re all up and moving about well before seven as we’ve got a long day ahead. The intention is to make the pass and get well off of it and into the Parang Chu valley and set up camp, but the day will likely be at least nine hours.
Michael with cup number 1 of tea
I avoid everyone and know what I must do to ‘cure’ myself: double the morning tea intake and stay away from everyone as long as it takes to get the irritability whisked away. Normally I simply drift off without much worry but for whatever reason the engine was somehow short-cicuited. I have cakes with me of great tea and this morning I get into the Lao Banzhang – a special tea for special times. I sit as Michael chats about the morning and his excitement of the upcoming pass.
Preparations to depart with none other than Sadanand in the middle of things
We’ve done many of these mountain ascents together and I make no mention or word of my dangerous feelings of explosiveness in the fear that even whispering the feelings will somehow break a code, or ruin the first daylight hours when all is kind and anticipated. This feeling isn’t towards him or anyone in particular. It is simply like some sort of power has me by the throat and has lodged in the being. I simply sit and sip tea and eventually, the tea and my silence do their work and I begin to feel vague little shards of my ‘other me’. One worry too, and there is always this little mind-game going on is that if I don’t mention it and particularly to Michael – who knows my moods well – that he will simply pick up on it, and this will disturb him as well. I simply clam my mouth shut and pray that the tea’s potent stimulants that I crave will evaporate the murkiness and vague sense of edge.
Yawns sometimes do not help
These moments happen to all on the trail in slightly different ways and for slightly different reasons. What goes on in the minds of the team, no one really knows until it is spoken, or ‘if’ it is spoken. Michael has his moments, epic Sadanand also has them, and maybe even Karma – our resident sage – has them, though I seriously doubt he allows such trivial thoughts to enter his sanctum of a brain. Me, I simply refer to them as my ‘Hungarian Moments’. It is akin to having a relative over who doesn’t like to call or announce their arrival, nor can they quite keep a lid on their inhibitions or inappropriateness. You deal with them because you know that they will always show up and that they will hopefully always depart. The faster they disperse, the better, but there is nothing to keep them at bay really. When they show up they show up. This process of exorcising the dark tinges is always and has always been aided by tea, so I keep the sips ‘sipping’.
The day begins when we’re on the trail.
Breakfast is wolfed down by Michael, who has a remarkable ability to simply inhale calories within minutes of jumping out of bed. I take much more time and need tea to prompt the grumblings of hunger, while he can dig in with a vengeance with seconds notice. Breakfasts down, we deconstruct our camp and we are ready to head for the pass by shortly after 7 am.
My one sure thing every single morning: a 1 litre container of Puerh tea
Tashi lets me know out of the blue that he has not slept well. I look at him and he too seems to look like I felt when first waking up: as though our minds had been altered by some filter colour for the day and camp. There is no disguise for this as the eyes look like they might jump out of the sockets and the muscles of the face feel as though someone has moved them around under the skin. These moods or whatever they are, are better simply put behind us. “Trekking and climbing” (I’m sure someone has said before) “is a kind of meditation in itself”, and in time the dark will go with the pressing of the feet on stone.
Michael with his Zhang Lang tea from Jalamteas…his fix of choice.
Every morning without fail it is the same for me. Once the mules are loaded and we are packed I feel an exhilaration, and a kind of glorious triumph that the day has begun with movement and that our caravan of bodies (however moody, odd shaped or otherwise) has once again found its direction and that the neurons are firing. Movement is in many ways vindication for all things and thoughts.
Our little unit moves over the high arid zones
The day’s first hour or two do not go smoothly though. The loads on the mules’ backs need tightening, shifting, and the mules themselves need soothing. On ascents a load not perfectly secured will cause the animal pain, and grief as the weights wiggle their way to becoming looser still causing friction and sometimes sores upon the bodies of the mules. This drives the poor animals completely mad to the point where they will either bolt or simply stop and refuse to budge.
Fun in the hills: Karma tries to coax a mule over a raging stream
Descents are not such an issue, but when ascending on an angle the mules will practically curse you within minutes if all is not well upon their backs. In our case this morning three mules decide to go on a walkabout as if in rebellion. Karma, Kaku and Sadanand patiently tie and retie the loads. Sadanand’s eyes are little diamonds of fire and he isn’t pleased, grunting and looking particularly livid.
Mules are precious
After a few muttered threats from Sadanand at the mules, and a few returned muttered threats from the mules to Sadanand, all is well, and we begin to make good time. Ochre and taupe seem the colours of the season as the stone ridges, piled like layer cake where the subterranean techtonic shifts lifted them, surround us. The sky remains a stoic coloured mess of grey, and not even an interesting grey at that. The tea in my blood has taken over and Michael and I – as we often do – stride ahead of the caravan to wander at will at our own pace.
Even when the lands are flat, there are river crossings to deal with
Karma shows his worth again and again, with him and Tashi urging the mules to continue to move forward rather than lounge too long at grazing. One mule, a bit of a naughty piece of work I’ve christened simply as “Purple” has a routine that is both clever and maddening all at once, though the beast entertains me continuously.
It will veer off course to munch on these mighty thistles that grow sporadically along our route and then feign ignorance when whistled at or screamed at in frustration. Then, it will try to create pandemonium by nipping at the other mules as though trying to distract the other mules and somehow escape notice.. It is the chaos theory or agent-provocateur perfectly enacted and put into practice. Purple seems to take particular pleasure in winding up Sadanand, who takes the bait every single time, and drives him to near hysteria at times. Once Sadanand seems ready to burst a blood vessel in a rage because of Purple’s intransigence, only then will Purple – in a perfect vision of good behavior – move on in orderly conduct. I decide that this mule is a neurotic genius.
A last crossing before we make camp
Passes in the Himalayas are not things of macho indulgence. They are necessary entry points and exit points for zones. They are informal borders that mark a successful passage over a ridge of mountains onto another side which might be the equivalent of walking from one climate zone into another, so different can these ‘up and over’s’ be in. They are also numerous. Passes, summits, peaks…these aren’t places for long hushed moments of meditation, but rather they are places to be treated with a tad of mortal trepidation, they are to be inhaled in a few deep breaths, and then they are to be said farewell to. Indecision upon their backs doesn’t end well.
Michael and I atop Parang Pass
Our ascent up the nearly 5,600 metre pass is an exercise in breathing, in pace, and in the odd bit of wonder at what continually marks our passing. More than super human moments of effort the ascent is an act of ‘finding the ability to find the air’. A steady consistent pace, and a steady consistent breath, along with a discipline to avoid racing or stopping, is what makes it possible.
Getting off the pass in small steps
Shards of stone that split that miserable grey sky into sections mark the horizon like a series of gothic headstones. Winds tease with power before disappearing, leaving a surprising and rather depressing amount of dead-aired heat in the valleys that we make our way up. Sadanand is a man possessed, saying no to food or water and continuing to lead the mule team upwards. His pace – a hobbled grinding that is never ending – would annihilate many who tried to keep up.
Michael treats many of these ascents as personal tests as he pushes himself to move beyond limits and thresholds. Tashi is surprisingly strong and can keep pace with anyone, his short muscular legs churning through terrain.
Emptiness can be something of beauty
Around us the tight valleys give way and begin to open up, though the air stays a dull tone and nothing seems to move. One aspect that is often disconcerting to people when in the high mountains is the lack of ‘obvious’ life forms and the inability to properly judge distances. One senses that there is much life but that it chooses to remain locked in or hidden. Peaks that seem “just over there” might be twenty kilometres away.
The pass looks like a soft line that simply curves into the sky. The tight ‘V’ shape of the valley becomes a cup-shaped dome of open space, and I continually wonder and hope that the winds will begin to sing soon?
A glacier stream plunges on past us
They do start picking up, but only gently. Sadanand is his relentless self, grinding upwards in his green knit vest trudging in front of the mules. Bent and green, he has himself become a moving landmark for us and when he’s visible, all is well. Karma and Kaku pull up the rear and Tashi walks off to the side like an insurance policy. Michael is continuing his climb; this is the highest he will have ever been and therefore a kind of sacred passage for him and it is not lost on him. His breaths are deep but he is unrelenting. He will ascend! Here, it is worth noting that altitude has that ability to find the weak link in the body (and by extension the mind) and start to whittle away at it. I’ve known people to be reminded of an old injury that they had long forgotten. Joints, organs, blood and tissue all kneel down before altitude and its accompanying air-pressure systems that can bludgeon, depress, and make leaden in weight…but the heights can also stimulate like nothing else. Bodies react differently to its power.
Parang Pass doesn’t disappoint, for as we individually make the pass the winds begin to shriek and howl. Our path has been earth, dust, and stone thus far, but on the north-facing side a hardened crust of snow and ice carpets our descent. Finally, the white makes its appearance. A little celebrating from all of our team at the pass – including Sadanand who at long last dons another jacket…but not yet any boots – and we move off. There has long been a tradition that while a brief show of gratitude at such times is necessary, dallying and unnecessary celebrations are simply asking for trouble. The skies character can change in seconds and change the very world we occupy.
It is only when we break camp that we know most of the day is done. Purple stands in the foreground
A string of prayer flags snap in the winds, issuing out their song and piles of stones rest immobile, having been put up by successive waves of travelers, pilgrims, and wanderers. Passes carry few scars or signs of the centuries of use. It is the paths themselves that are most significant. The paths still exist, however vague.
The flags – little tributes of colour – and stone always move me, regardless of if I completely understand their meaning. I understand the idea and celebrate it…they are more than simply photographs. They are little icons and trinkets that contain the efforts of their makers.
Mules are sliding, skidding, righting themselves upright upon the snow-ice combination…it is the time of descent. Even with grey skies the ‘warmth’ and intensity of the light is biting. A glacier river off to our left, having burrowed its way through ice, gushes off to our left.
It will be another 3.5 hours before we camp. The pass has passed but like most passes leaves an impression embedded in the body and mind. It only takes minutes to cross but the feel is left inside. It is always the way with passes….
Entrances, exits, humps, delirious hurdles, sacrosanct windows…passes are all of these things, but they are never camps. Our own camp is a place of groans as we set up. Bodies are less supple and pliant than they should be. The day had taken a little more from us than usual and to provide a backdrop for this, black muscular clouds make their way from the pass towards us. Rain hits camp with a slap….
