Manthang left the early morning, not without difficulty. The owner of the inn asking an exorbitant price for our stay. $ 20, which is to say € 2000. Goma, and carriers adopt the traditional Asian attitude. Wait for things to resolve themselves. Claudio ranks. I acted.
I do not want to cede to the demands of the boy. That, in addition to everything, I do not like. Upon arrival we had agreed a price which was half of what he now alleges. But the boy refuses to discuss. Suggests that it is only an emissary, and that the inn belongs to his brother. Which is somewhere in the city. The boy remains vague. The carriers if they are crouched in the yard beside their baskets. Gaze upon the infinite. Goma shrugs. Kishan chuckles.
I understand that the attempt is to get us to exhaustion and then drop everything. Guide, inn, porters, and I go in search of his brother. What is his intention to cook at home like a tortilla. Into the house like a fury, handed him $ 10, I go out, I reach for the carriers and say to them, let's go!
We'll talk all day. Goma thumb up in victory. Ram gives me a pat on the back. Dilish chuckles and Chitra, laconic, he says good.
The red flag with hammer and sickle is no longer there, close to Garritt. Someone has pulled down at night.
Leaving Manthang Lho usual Cappannelli of children, women, old men, curious.
People greets us. A child does with his hand hello. Another repeated hello, hello, hello. The rise does not even look old. Continue to rattle their rosaries.
We head to the west. To return to Jomosom without having to go over the same road are two paths. One east, the other to the west. Discard the east because people in Lo Manthang told us that is interrupted by two tributaries of the Kali Gandaki in full. And it is impossible to traverse without horses, or at least too dangerous. So we opt for the path west, much steeper, but workable.
The Manthang hour later, the first herd of yaks. And a vision. I had it behind us and known by the fact that I stopped to photograph yaks. In the background a big snow mountain, which will remain unknown because none of the carriers can tell me his name. Himal, repeat. But Himal in Nepal, it simply means mountain. Below, as in the scenes of a theater of the huge sand dunes. Lower down still, the great prairies. Green for crossed by dozens of streams and rivers. The lawn is dotted by edelweiss and strange purple flowers. The silence around us. Away the silhouette of a knight who descends from the galloping pace.
crossing points without much effort the Chogha La, at 4400 mt. The descent, steep, diagonal cuts a deep gorge and takes us after a few hours walk to the village of Lo Gekhar. More than a village, Gekhar This is a group of five or six houses that surround a square. On one side of the square stands the ghompa Ghar, one of the oldest in the whole of Tibet, dating back probably to the seventh century. We visit the ghompa Dilish while the kitchen prepares a refuge for pilgrims. We eat lunch on the steps of ghompa surrounded by villagers who are interested primarily in my bat walk. Each testing, lengthens, shortens, struts, under the gaze of Kishan worried that for some reason unknown to me there is a special bond. I read a girl's hand, listing the long life and many children. Immediately, word spread and all the women of the village to get jostled around me read your hand in turn. The hands of the women are tough and calloused palm.
The reading of the hand takes on the size of a circus event so we are forced to leave the village to escape the solicitations of prophecies. I exhausted my imagination and makes me a translator monaco si scusa ma ci deve lasciare perché è giunta l’ora della preghiera. Un cane legato alla catena abbaia furiosamente.
È primo pomeriggio. Il cielo per la prima vlta da quando sono partita è totalmente sgombro da nuvole. Partiamo soli, io e Claudio, lungo un costone fino al secondo valico della giornata. Il sentiero è ben segnato e non c’è possibilità di perdersi. Ciononostante, dopo un paio di tornanti vedo spuntare a fondo valle un puntino. Come farà Kishan a raggiungerci col peso che ha sulle spalle ?
Ci raggiunge Kishan e quando la valle si apre e vedo le rosse montagne di Dhakmar avrei voglia di abbracciarlo.
Dhakmar, un puntolino immerso nel verde, un ruscello che lo attraversa e attorno i canyon di Thelma e Louise. Un’aquila vola in circolo sopra le nostre teste e il sole, il rosso delle montagne, il verde della valle, il sentiero che vedo perdersi nel nulla mi fanno piangere.
E piango davvero. Perché lascio dietro di me questa terra, perché tra qualche giorno dirò addio alle persone che hanno diviso tutto con noi da quasi due settimane, perché so che non le rivedrò più, perché non saprò mai cosa diventerà Kishan, chi sarà da grande, come sarà la sua vita. Piango e capisco in quel momento, per la prima volta nella mia vita, quanto la bellezza sia dolorosa. Quanto i rari attimi perfetti di una vita lascino, ancora prima to end the terrible and bitter sense of loss, of absence.
No returns. No returns.
Everything flows.
A Dhakmar not you stop.
I wanted, but Goma continue pushing for another hour until Gham. I'm not going back to Gham, we've been, and Dhakmar is a pure wonder, but Goma Dhakmar argues that there is no possibility to install the kitchen, which the locals are not welcoming, that the way go the next day is long. I suspect that behind this decision there is the rather rakhsi producing the nephew of the king. And the chance to sleep in his nice warm inn.
therefore continue to Gham.
the evening in our room on the roof to be treated the foot is present in two. And Kishan Kumar. Kumar, just twenty years, is a quiet boy, sometimes sharply. The way that grabs the basket and if the charge on the shoulders, precise gestures that makes installing the kitchen, the voice. Big, man. At the same time is a shy boy. Every time I must extend something, a cup, salt, a plate, hints at a slight bow and joined his hands cupped. Sale Room along with Kishan who is the master. A gesture makes me realize that suffers a lot al piede sinistro. Diagnostico un inizio di tendinite, brutta storia, e decido per un intervento radicale. Gli spalmo il piede col Voltaren e gli faccio ingurgitare un antinfiammatorio. Appuntamento l’indomani mattina per un secondo rattamento. Kumar si allontana dalla stanza zoppicando.
L’indomani partiamo prestissimo. Alle 7 Ghami è già lontana. Kumar zoppica ancora vistosamente. Prego Goma di ripartire il carico di Kumar tra noi e gli altri portatori, ma il ragazzo non vuole. Scuote la testa e insiste per portare la gerla che peserà almeno 30 chili. Goma alza le spalle. Per gli sherpa, mi dice, cedere il proprio carico è un’umiliazione.
Lentamente ci inerpichiamo su per una montagna brulla. Il senso di isolamento è assoluto e accentuato dal fatto che senza che ce ne rendiamo conto il sentiero sparisce. Da sentiero a traccia e poi più nulla. Solo roccia e qualche basso cespuglio battuto dal vento.
Continuiamo a salire, ad arrancare piuttosto, facendo dei lunghi zig zag. La valle è profondissima e il fianco della montagna estremamente ripido. Ho paura di scivolare e procedo con grande lentezza, evitando di fermarmi. Sono inquieta e sento che mi stanno riprendendo le vertigini. Allora mi concentro sui miei piedi, sui miei passi e salgo evitando di guardare più in basso di loro.
Anche Goma è inquieto. Fissa le cime. Si stops. He looks around. Seems to sniff the air. Several times, consult with the Ram.
Kishan has nausea. I am often asked to drink and touch her belly.
Kumar limps.
I suddenly realize that we lost.
Yet it continues to rise. I tell myself that reached the top we will have a broader view of the valley, but it is not. Now on top opens another valley that we outline in an unstable balance keeping us on the ridge.
Once in a second step we all sit down for a rest. No one speaks. A certain uneasiness lingers or I who are anxious?
Below us an endless sea of \u200b\u200bmountains. In the background the snow-capped Nilgiri. And no sign of life.
Ram, however, it seems pretty quiet. He admits that we lost the trail but insists that this is still the right direction. What to do? Follow the law of the mountain - when you lose go back - or continue to nothing?
and fatigue that keeps us going. Descend back to the valley in search of the path is simply unimaginable. And so it goes on. A climb hills, contouring valleys, cross passes of sbiego walking along the barren mountain. Finally, on a ridge, far east, a heap of stones. Which marks the beginning of a hint of a path. Ram Goma and are visibly relieved and the children share boldly. Still mountains wrap, at least a dozen, and, after yet another brow, bottom, ocher lost a green dot, it appears the village of Gehling.
The porter disappear. They run a search for accommodation. The show, despite the abandoned carcass of a cow at the beginning of the country, is triumphant.
Gehling is a gem. Fifteen houses of whitewashed stone and a huge lawn in the center of the village. A stream che lo divide in due e in alto, annidato in cima ad una altura, un grande ghompa rosso sul quale sventolano centinaia di bandierine da preghiera.
Il resto del pomeriggio lo trascorriamo sul prato in mezzo a cavallini in libertà, attorniati da nugoli di bambini, mani nere e moccio che scende dal naso.
La banda di ragazzini è capitanata da una bambina più grande, dieci anni forse, dallo sguardo vivo e intelligente. Si avvicinano, i bambini, a noi. E più passa il tempo, più osano. Ci toccano, ci prendono la mano, ci studiano. La ragazzina veglia a che i più piccoli non ci arrechino disturbo e ci trattino con educazione. Una donna attraversa the lawn and shouting something to the children. Vanishing running, laughing, to return shortly after. The youngest child will not even two years. It takes up barely. The girl puts me in his arms and walks away.
At the fountain a knot of girls look at us and laughs. Wash their things slam down hard on the rocks. It's sunny. It is almost warm.
I wear strolling up and down the lawn. Climb up a hill. Reduction in groups of two or three. Holding hands. Svacco extraordinary atmosphere of the afternoon.
ghompa the three monks and a girl, with a pair of tails to Pippi Longstocking, which housekeeping. Al center's main hall, on the floor, a sand mandala. I heard about it. I had read about this ancient art of Tibetan ritual. A circle of sand to two feet in diameter, within which, again with the sand, are depicted deities or esoteric designs. Is processed by the monks patiently and when finished is blown away. To symbolize the insecurity, instability of all that exists.
The three pilgrims on their entry to the ghompa, two men and a woman, wear offerings. Bow down to the ground, his forehead touching the floor, and then extracted from their pockets the mite per i monaci. Quattro bottigliette di olio e due ciotole di riso. L’uomo, il più vecchio, estrae anche una pergamena che mostra con deferenza ad uno dei lama. Gli si inchina davanti e gli presenta la pergamena a mani giunte.
I monaci non ringraziano, non manifestano nessuna empatia nei confronti dei viandanti. Le bottigliette d’olio, le riversano in un’anfora e le ciotole di riso in un grande piatto che contiene altro riso. La pergamena viene osservata, commentata e messa da parte. L’offerta accolta come un atto dovuto.
I monaci poi si siedono su un muretto all’esterno del monastero, accanto allo zhor fatto di corna di animali che adorna il muro esterno del tempio. Chiacchierano quietly, indifferent to everything except themselves.
anger.
I know I do not understand. I know it's hard to judge so far away from my culture. But I feel anger. Anger at the glacial indifference. Anger at a medieval world so that the poor, miserable, she pleaded with the clerk to accept his offer. Anger at the incessant and autistic repeat prayers, chanting readings, sometimes obscure the monks themselves. Anger at the big empty halls of the faithful echo of the sound of trumpets, drums and bells. We feel the people of the village Gehling, so low and so far, those sounds? It will benefit? These monks above le righe, questi lama serafici e assenti, penso, non si occupano dei malati, dei poveri, dei bambini...Rinchiusi nei loro tetri monasteri praticano esercizi che li renderanno più forti, più spirituali, più simili a lui, il Buddha rinato, il Buddha a venire...E la gente dei villaggi, di questi sperduti villaggi himalayani, che si toglie il pane di bocca per loro...
Eppure, so che non capisco. Come spiegare, infatti lo sguardo di gioia della pellegrina – una donna di una certa età, sdentata e coperta di grasso e polvere - quando il lama ne accetta l’offerta ? Il suo stringersi felice al marito, il suo piegarsi a terra nella posizione più umile ? Come spiegare ?
In the meadow at the foot of the monastery there is agitation. Bustle. The children run screaming. They're called. Chase. There's two women with huge logs on the back. Where they have found the trees? Where do they come? They throw the logs near a house that lacks the roof. Runs on the lawn people. Rush porter. Imbizzariscono ponies that graze freely near the stream. They give a crazy race up and down the pratone.
The cause of the commotion is a monkey. A boy holds a tame monkey tied to a rope and dragged behind like a dog. A monkey at 4000 mt.
The boy across the lawn with regal gait and safe while children do their best to touch the animal. The boy does not bay. Continue straight to a house then rises rapidly to the roof, he and the monkey that grinds his teeth, pay the smaller, vanishing at the sight of all.
the evening drags me to the edge of the village. Then he nods to sit on the wall near the Chorten. It's almost dark and the shepherds fall pastures. Hundreds and hundreds of goats in the file disorderly reach civilians.
An old near the chorten a prayer wheel turning constantly blankly. His face is a network of wrinkles, but when I approach known to have a good look and frank. Three children that I have not noticed the afternoon I also approach them and stare at me with big brown eyes.
Nameless dirty. Beautiful eyes.
We remain there until nightfall. Kishan looking at me and I draw.
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