'Day heroic. " So I wrote in my moleskine. And I keep pointing out
that we went up a step and decreased to Shyangmochen. Of Shyangmochen not remember anything. Will remain a name because the day is marked instead of the canyon and climb.
You know that down at the bottom of a canyon, where the river flows, also includes a lift, but when you slip the path down, deeper and deeper, we are elated.
The scenery is magnificent, and as far as we are getting used to the immensity of this land, it is impossible not to feel emotion.
deseeded path in single file between two huge walls of red rock. The porter run. I'm running. The descent, the landscape reminds me of the descent of the Grand Canyon, taken in espadrilles centuries ago. I run and lose myself in memories.
The measure of euphoria that has taken damage, the porter. They always so quiet and measured, they laugh, they call each other out loud to hear the echo bouncing from a perfect wall to wall. The descent continues. Long and sweet. Ancient caves and shelters under rocks pastors. Dry stone fences. Bushes. Noise crystal clear water flowing.
down, deeper and down to the River. The porter, hanging out there waiting on the shore. Kishan moves some rocks to allow me to cross a stream in order to get his feet wet as possible. We sprayed. We joke.
Then, suddenly, I see it.
I see the climb that is lost in height. I tell myself that it is not possible, which is not an ascent of the human kind. I tell myself that we were crazy to make that diversion, that we'll never get to Chusang by night. The trail is carved into the rock above us there is a high wall a thousand meters. I've never seen anything so high and so close at the same time.
There is no solution. You must climb.
time to gather all the courage I have left and the porter are already distant speck. I decide to catch my heart.
remember the beating heart. What a beating. The incessant impulse to look up. How far is it? What sounds like the summit is nothing but a huge step up from which another, equally long, equally steep. I'm restless. So the trick is to continue, slowly, sometimes counting the steps. Every hundred yards I raise my head. To see what is remaining. Then look down. Claudio calculation that is about half an hour from me. A punticino, much lower. With him and Goma Ram, who, being the basis, they must suffer a little, too. Above, in front of everyone, the small Dilish with his legs thin and short. He runs well because he has to prepare the kitchen for lunch?
I can not do what I had promised. I stop. I have the impression that he has squeezed all the strength I had left. After all, far below all, leads a caravan. Mules, horses and a dozen monks who recognize the long red tunics. They go fast, I hardly felt fatigue.
In step I sit next to the pile of stones from which the prayer flags waving. Slowly came the monks. Before the horses, then the mules, then they. They laugh, salute, are talkative and visibly happy. The smaller kids a decade or so, goofing around throwing stones at them. Their cries echo in the depths of the canyon.
Quello che mi sembra il capo e che mastica un poco di inglese mi racconta che si stanno dirigendo in India, al monastero di Dheradun, a un paio d’ore da Dehli. È la che studiano. Teologia, filosofia, retorica. Hanno fretta, mi dice, perché tra una settimana devono essere al monastero. Ci sarà un grande meeting. Un grande rimpoché terrà alcune lezioni importanti. Poi vogliono la foto collettiva.
Dal passo si scende. O meglio si riscende. Vertiginosamente fino a Samar dove Dilish, come previsto ha allestito la cucina e preparato il pranzo.
Poco prima di arrivare a Charang due ragazzine ci fermano e ci offrono two apples. I am about to give them a few rupees, but they shake their heads and smile. A charango, where we arrived exhausted at dusk, we find the same faces we saw the first leg.
The inn, where it plans to stay warm, is occupied by a nun. There remains, therefore, that pitch a tent in the courtyard.
eat dinner together with the monks. A single table, all talking and laughing like a school trip. A boy is sitting on the sidelines muttering prayers that draws from a book that handles very gently. Do not ever raise your eyes. Do not eat. It is totally absorbed in his chanting softly.
The night strikes a pack of dogs on our tent. We hear them growling, barking, banging against the light fabric. Ram Kishan and Chitra jump out of their tent and the dogs howl, throwing at them everything that they find at hand. Stones, sticks, shoes. The dogs away. Climb over the wall of the courtyard for half an hour we hear them barking furiously in the vicinity.
I go back to sleep.
last night before the border.
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