The first awakening after the first night in tents and antelucano. The signal that it's time to start depositing Kishan gives a bowl of hot water at the entrance of our tent. Chitra, brings us a cup of coffee.
Outside it's still very cold and the landscape is foggy.
Chele In minutes disappears behind our backs.
The path climbs. Climbs steeply up to a plateau and later became a trench dug in the artificial rock. Below, dramatically lower, the Kali Gandaki.
I have the impression of being on the Brenta River, along the path of the jets. Same red rocks. Same vertical wall. Same dizziness. The absolute silence.
Carriers rising fast. Soon are nothing but dots that disappear and reappear at every turn.
The altitude begins to make itself felt. My legs soft, a principle of nausea and I find it hard to climb. Not even two hours of walking and I'm already tired. A stone, on which was painted in large red hammer and sickle, indicates that we share in 3620. Too little to begin to get sick, I tell myself. They are restless and decided to keep the discomfort to me.
The hammer and sickle drawn with red paint on the stone is a sign that we have entered in Maoist area. Tales from the Maoists, along these valleys abound. It is said that down to fifty, a hundred villages, passing from house to house demanding food at dawn and go away laden with rice, potatoes, and accompanied by a few goats. It is said that in some cases send a courier to warn of their arrival. Bringing together the people in the evening in the village square, forcing them to attend a show of song and dance revolutionaries and then claim a heavy tax. What people are afraid. That no one has forgotten what they did before their leader, Prachanda, to become part of the government. Abducted teens to enlist in their ranks. Murdered the leaders of post offices or those in their shop held the satellite phone to communicate with the world. "To communicate their positions to the army," reiterated adolescents soldier with the red bandana on his head. Some recall that the younger kids, when fired, they laughed.
A few meters from the ridge beyond the high wall of rock a pair of France going down to Kagbeni / Jomosom. I am disappointed. Ten days, ten days of hard work, and not a ray of sunshine. He, a geologist, said to have been in these mountains some ten years ago. Here is the entire history of the earth, he says. A paradise for us geologists. Too bad it did not have the sun. Without the sun, the peaks are not seen. And the mountains around here are spectacular ...
In Samar, four houses and a gompa hidden among the poplars, we make a first stop. Me, I always feel worse. Now I have no doubt. I have the dreaded altitude sickness. I tell myself that I must pay attention to symptoms. I remember the words of Guido, his cousin mountaineer three symptoms and need to get off. Five hundred feet below, and you're done. For the moment I'm tired and I have a start of nausea. Il che fa un sintomo e mezzo, visto che la stanchezza con tutte le salite e discese che abbiamo nelle gambe più che un sintomo è una conseguenza logica dello sforzo. Ma lo penso per rassicurarmi. Non voglio tornare indietro. Non voglio scendere.
Usciti da Samar passiamo sotto un grande chorten dipinto di rosso, nero, giallo e bianco, tutti pigmenti ricavati dalle rocce locali. Si sale e si scende, per salire e scendere di nuovo. Qui, nell’alto Mustang, non ci sono i ponti che permettono di passare da un versante della valle all’altra. E le valli sono profondissime. A Bhuna, dove sostiamo per pranzare sono letteralmente sfiancata.
Bhuna è quello che i francesi chiamano lieu-dit. Tre case, una a fianco all’altra, abitate da una vecchia semicieca e da due uomini. Vecchissimi anche loro. A stare a Goma la vecchia è sempre vissuta maritalmente con i due pastori. Da queste parti, ci dice, capita che le donne abbiano anche due mariti. Magari due fratelli. È più pratico così, continua, e ridacchia.
La donna e i due uomini al nostro arrivo levano appena lo sguardo. Non si avvicinano. Non parlano tra loro. La donna, ad un certo punto, si alza in piedi, si dirige lentamente verso di noi, poi cambia idea e si allontana. È semicieca, l’abito a brandelli, un paio di scarpe da ginnastica sfondate ai piedi. Uno dei due uomini è semidisteso davanti all’ingresso home. The other way is there in a dark room with a dirt floor. Some seeps from the roof beam of light, which suggests that water infiltration during heavy monsoon rains. Dilish has already installed the kitchen and prepare lunch. The man looks at us nervously. I can not support its academic look and go out. I am increasingly tired and would just lie down somewhere and sleep. A slight headache is in addition to nausea.
The memory of the rest of the day is mixed with suffering. Suffering to rise. The lungs bursting. The legs give way. A ford. Two fords. The icy water on his legs. Go up and down endless. The hope of a glimpse of the pace at every bend. The headaches became excruciating. I tell myself that I must go down. What is dangerous to continue, but continuous. I read that the edema due to the altitude affects those who can not decide for the descent. The body yearns for rest, but the mind is confused. Get off becomes yield. Get off it becomes taboo. Falls further behind. I lose sight of the carriers. Then Goma. Then Claudio. I strive to put one foot before the other. I just think to arrive. I stop and sit down on the path.
close my eyes and wait to pass.
Kishan touches me lightly on the shoulder.
does not have the basket. It has no load on his shoulders. You fell for me. Non dice niente. Si siede vicino a me. Mi costringe a bere dalla borraccia. So che più si sale più bisogna bere. Ma non ho sete.
Il cielo si fa sempre più grigio.
« Go, Didi, go... ». Kishan non parla inglese. Sa dire thank’you, water, e go. Si alza in piedi e mi guarda. Poi scuote la testa. Mi prende lo zaino e inizia a salire. Si volta. Go, didi, go.
Arrivo sfinita al passo di Yamdo La. 4100 metri. Il mal di testa si fa insopportabile. Mezz’ora dopo, me ne sto distesa all’interno della tenda. Siamo scesi a 3900 mt. Ma i sintomi persistono. Non mi sono cambiata, non mi sono nemmeno tolta le scarpe. Kishan fa la spola between the kitchen and the tent and forces me to drink cups of tea cups sweetened up. While I try to swallow the drink watching me silently. It's cold. Cold air coming down from the snowy peaks. A patch of clouds and a glimpse of a glacier above us.
Before you fall asleep as soon as I am aware that Shyangmochen, our stage is nothing more than a few houses and a barn.
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