It's over.
Farewell Mustang.
I think and write it on the evening when we come to Jomosom.
last day I remember especially the wind. A strong wind that blows against us and prevents us at times to move forward. We cover your head with the handkerchief, slip on your sunglasses and yet we can hardly see where we are feet. breathe with your hands cupped in front of the mouth.
The wind rises to ten in the morning. More or less the height of Tangbe.
The nun who accompany us along the way, you wrap your head with their red tunics. Persons who have put on your sunglasses glacier. It looks like a caravan of beggars raffozzanati as best.
Staying in the valley is impossible because there is no shelter. The sand that rises from the valley of the Kali Gandaki affects the skin of the face with violence. Thousands of needles that sting. Yet there
il sole. La giornata è limpidissima. E il Dhaulagiri si mostra sempre più grande ed imponente ad ogni tornante.
Poco prima di Kagbeni, dove sostiamo per mangiare, evitiamo di striscio una piccola valanga che fa rotolare sul sentiero fin giù al fiume centinaia di rocce e sassi. Kishan mi strattona per il braccio e mi obbliga a tornare indietro per almeno un centinaio di metri. In fila indiana, noi e i monaci, osserviamo il fianco della montagna ed attendiamo che i sassi che rotolano giù si facciano sempre più rari.
Poi si passa. Uno alla volta. E di corsa. Si guarda in alto e via a testa bassa fino a che non siamo dall’altra parte. Not even two hundred yards and the path on which we are walking and landslides. Which obliges us to a diversion. Doobie jump three feet of anything. Not much, but underneath, there's always him, the Kali Gandaki, with its roaring water. Kishan, when I jump on the other hand, offers me his hand. And that's it.
For Ekhlai Bhatti, a group of Rajasthani pilgrims. They left in forty foot, from India to reach Muktinath. They were three of us. Are sixty days are walking. And finally, tomorrow, will reach Muktinath. And then? I ask. Then you go home, tell us. And they add, we are tired, but the pilgrimage once in their life it must be done.
Again the Panga Khola. Once again the ford. But the water is less violent than the first time with us to wade through when there were nuns. The pass easily, without worries of mind and even a couple of hours later we are Jomosom, at the inn.
Before reaching the photographer porter, the Sirdar, the guide. There is air at the end of travel and adventure end and the boys are visibly happy to be home.
owner of the inn to ask us a cake. The most you get are crepes with sugar and lemon. For the first time since the beginning of the trip, the boys accettano di mangiare seduti a tavola con noi. Si ride, ci si scambia impressioni. Si ricorda.
Kishan che viene a farsi spalmare la crema sul piede. I cani che si gettano sulla nostra tenda. La volta che ci siamo persi. Il passo più alto. Dilish che a Tsarang ci ha cucinato una torta di mele, senza il forno. La litigata con il proprietario del Mystic Resort a Lho Manthang.
Goma che puntualmente perdeva a carte.
Kishan fa di tutto per attirare la mia attenzione. Poi mi strattona per la manica e mi prende in disparte pre scrivermi il suo « indirizzo ». Scrive a matita sul Moleskine : My name is Kishan Nepali. I live in Rakhu, peple six, Myagdi. Nepal. Ma the porter when they read what you wrote laugh. Kishan Nepali, they say, means just that Kishan Kishan is in Nepal and Nepal there are millions. Kishan is a pariah. It has no name. It has no home. It has no documents. And I say, smiling, the porter, and I want to cry.
not know yet, in the evening, the next day if we can take the airplane, which leads to Pokhara. It depends on the wind, weather, clouds. If the plane does not come out again together. The boys, however, go down on foot. Three more days to Heritage and then home. Ram2 and Chitra go in Khumbu, at the foot of Everest, in their village. Ram, Goma and Dilish in Kathmandu. Others in Gorkha.
After dinner we sit on the wall of the inn to see who goes, the flashes of batteries in the dark, a woman crying in pain. It is dirty, poor and visibly broke his ankle. He wants at all costs to give her something, but I more than a box of aspirin can not give. You climb on foot from Beni to reach a relative to Chele. But now he can not walk and has no place to stay. I try to convince her to come with me to the dispensary, but the woman scorned and does not want. Continues to cry in silence until the arrival of a man who on his shoulders.
The next morning at six o'clock the sky to watch for vedere se arriva l’aeroplanino. Con noi una manciata di passeggeri e qualche abitante del villaggio. Kishan è voluto venire con me fin sulla pista di atterraggio. Tiene in mano con soddisfazione la racchetta che gli ho lasciato. Gli altri, quando siamo usciti, si stavano alzando e stavano preparando le gerle per scendere a vallae. La notte era stata lunga. E innaffiata copiosamente dal rakshi.
I saluti calorosi.
Abbracci forti, fortissimi, ad uno ad uno, al lume di candela.
Ti voglio bene, Kishan, gli dico in italiano. Lui non è abituato ai baci. Si schernisce e mi fa ciao con la mano.
L’aeroplanino che arriva Pokhara is a small turboprop from a dozen places in all, one after another. Lands and we go up in a hurry. The pilot does not want to waste time and risk cloudiness that would impede the take off. Fly to view the valley and that the plane must pass through the valley is narrower and deeper in the world.
A few seconds after takeoff, I see them.
are, still, all lined up along the coast path in the mountains. Fix our plane touches them a little higher. Suddenly, all together, raise their arms and waving at us. I
hello through the window, but I know that I can see. I still do hello, among I can not hold back tears, until they disappear from sight.
I turn to Claudio. I shook his hand. Even he can not hold back the tears.
from top left: Dinesh, Ram, Ram2, Kumar, Goma, Chitra
below: Arjun, Dilish, Kishan
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