Between Kathmandu and Pokhara there are about two hundred kilometers. But in Nepal the miles mean nothing. Travel times are dictated by landslides, roadblocks, the condition of the vehicle, stop by the driver who decides to do. It is a spirit all Eastern dunque, che saliamo sulla corriera che dovrebbe portarci alla meta: vai e non sai quando arriverai, ma non importa, arriverai comunque.
A Kathmandu le corriere partono solo quando sono ben piene. Piene zeppe. La nostra dovrebbe partire alle 6 e 30 della mattina, ma alle 7 e 30 siamo ancora fermi in attesa che l'assistente dell'autista raccolga i viaggiatori necessari a riempire i sedili rimasti vuoti.
Piove leggermente. Una pioggerellina che non bagna. Il cielo è uniformemente grigio…
Seduto dietro di me, un vecchio che è diretto in Mustang. L'uomo, sui settant'anni, è molto bello e molto degno. Alto, magro, con delle grosse trecce che gli girano attorno alla testa. Infilata between the strands of hair forming braids, a turquoise stone. The old man next to him his son, who accompanies him to Pokhara. From then on - this tells us his son - the sbrigherà alone. Will run only from the valley dating back to the Kali Gandhaki and valicherà alone the Himalayan barrier that protects Lho Manthang, the capital. Maybe - continues his son - rent a horse. He added: "I accompany in Pokhara, which you never know ..."
First impressions of a world upside down. A world that sees the danger in the city or on the bus Kathmandu-Pokhara. Here, the mountains, with steep, do not fear anyone ...
Before leaving I buy Kathmandu Post, one of two English language newspapers in the city. The parties in government, they will agree on when to make new elections. The protests continue rug pickers. A woman, Umarawati, is found alive in a garbage truck that was downloaded to a collection center. Suspicions focus on the grandson. The man, annoyed by the presence of the old home, he would be liberated by throwing it in the trash.
A Pokhara arrive about three o'clock in the afternoon. It breathes with difficulty. The heat of the monsoon before the downpour is heavy. It's so hot that the noise of cars and motorcycles muffled. "Dump, isn'it?" Apologize trekking agency managers, technicians of Internet cafes, vendors of equipment used by mountains, remnant of shipments in the spring or Annapurna region of Dolpo. The embroidered pashminas, hung on display at the front door of the shops are almost all faded from the sun. The cafes are empty. Along the lake, tourists, even the shadow. Hours go by and the heat is even heavier and more unbearable. Sitting at a coffee shop, sipping a banana property Lhasa. I sweat drops on the eyes, blurred vision. A blonde American girl, ponytail, shoes, shorts and white T-shirt all, jogging along the sidewalk. Rapid and synchronous. Unreal vision.
The path climbs up the Kali Gandaki up to Jomsom and the border with Mustang, starts from Beni, about seventy miles east of Pokhara.
Goods, one of the main strongholds of the Maoists Prachanda's followers, in March 2004 is set on fire by government troops firing on the people from their helicopters. A few days after a newspaper published a photo of Kathmandu chilling: the ground, lined up, dozens of bodies lying in the uniform green of the guerrillas. Difficult to know the budget of the carnage. Some speak of 500, of whom 50 died. For years
Heritage is cut off from the paths of access to the Annapurna massif. Too dangerous, they say trekking agencies. The risk of encountering the "maobadi", the Maoist guerrillas in the area, is very high. Bouncing along the trails of Annapurna trekkers stories to which the Maoists have called for a heavy tax: a thousand rupees each, less than ten dollars, meaning that the earth is, and that the permissions of the Nepalese government are not worth anything. For several months, since Prachanda and his party entered the coalition that supports the provisional government pending a referendum for the Constituent Assembly, it seems that we can move to Real again. Among the local police based within the town and the ex-guerrillas reigns in fact a sorta di accordo di non belligeranza. Fragile quanto si vuole. Ma, per il momento rispettato da entrambe le parti.
Per tutta la notte, a Pokhara, imperversa violentissimo il monsone. All'alba, quando ci svegliamo, la nostra guesthouse è semiinondata. Facciamo colazione coi piedi nell'acqua tra i secchi e le bacinelle. Il taxista che ci viene a prendere per portarci a Beni, prima di girare la chiave di avviamento fa una piccola cerimonia propiziatoria: si tocca il petto, la fronte e poi tocca una statuetta sul cruscotto che rappresenta una qualche divinità indù. La macchina è piccola e scalcagnata e non dà nessun affidamento. Dovrebbe poter arrivare a Baglung, ma là finisce il pezzo asphalt. It is necessary to arrive at Beni go another twenty miles of dirt roads.
continues to rain very strong and the green valleys and valleys that cross is brilliant.
A Baglung arrive three hours later. Three hours of winding, narrow, and asphalt is gone. The people of the country makes us shook his hand, but the taxi driver continued undaunted. Less than two miles and the belt road disappears under a stream that falls from the violent mountain ridge. We stop. Across the river a narrow group of people under one large umbrella watching us. We look disconsolate current, and the people expect. The taxi driver does not feel like moving. The best thing, we understand, is expected to pass a jeep or a truck. We take them away. If not we can always come back to Baglung anyone looking for a more suitable .... After about half an hour
arrives jeeppone Chinese overloaded with Nepalese boys. It seems unlikely to welcome us and above all that it can accommodate the backpacks, but in the East of space is an elastic concept. Our taxi driver begins an endless negotiation with the driver of the jeep, which in turn lively discussions with the passengers. At least two boys come down from the dump behind us and leave the place. Then, once we settled in, climb on the step outside and take hold on the carrier.
I'm not quiet. The water of the river that cuts us down the road with extreme violence swirling downstream. And, along the ford, check glimpse of the big stones. The driver of the jeep starts and accelerates as if he were making a start in Formula One. Then, suddenly throws the jeep into the water fast. It is a moment ... One of the two guys that are attached outside the vehicle is knocked out and falls overboard. All you bring to scream. But the boy gets up immediately and as wet from head to toe seems unharmed.
A miracle. He could have dropped her back on a rock, or be dragged down by the current. Instead trudging up dripping the jeep, cries a little behind the driver, then climbs back on the running board and everyone again. Two or three miles later, the same situation occurs again. But this time the stream that crosses the road is much wider and deeper. The driver of the jeep shakes his head and says there is nothing to do. He can not pass. Too dangerous. And to wade, bringing backpacks, not even mentioned.
on both sides of the river two giant Tata courier.
Properties. Some passengers sit patiently inside. The other form of knots around the shore and observe the vortices and eddies che si formano attorno ai sassi e alle rocce che l'acqua, scendendo, ha trascinato con sè. Sono almeno tre ore che aspettano là, fermi, che smetta di piovere. Col sole il livello dell'acqua scenderà. Mi appaiono fiduciosi. O rassegnati.
Trasbordiamo i nostri zaini sulla corriera e ci disponiamo ad aspettare con loro.
Un ragazzo si avvicina e inizia a chiacchierare. Il suo inglese è perfetto, praticamente oxfordiano. È in viaggio da Kathmandu assieme a due amici. I tre hanno viaggiato tutta la notte e devono imperativamente raggiungere il loro reggimento a Jomoom entro la sera del giorno successivo. Sono tutti allievi della scuola ufficiali degli alpini. Avevano programmato di prendere l'aeroplanino che collega Pokhara a Jomsom, ma l'aeroplanino, date le condizioni del tempo, non era decollato. Il loro capitano, contattato via radio, li aveva minacciati di sanzioni gravissime se loro non si fossero trovati in caserma all'ora prevista. Certo che lo sapevano che da Beni a Jomsom ci sono quattro giorni di marcia, e anche il capitano lo sapeva, ma quelle erano le regole dell'esercito. Loro non potevano permettersi di non arrivare, e dunque, se fossero riusciti a guadare il fiume, avrebbero camminato tutta la notte e il giorno dopo.
Il ragazzo che mi parla ha uno sguardo curioso. E una cicatrice che gli attraversa il viso. Mi chiede cosa ne pensiamo del Nepal, della politica nepalese, del re. Mi chiede se secondo noi è normale che un paese che possiede tutta quell'acqua che scende impetuosa dalle vette himalyane, non abbia corrente elettrica a sufficienza. Se troviamo normale che a Kathmandu, la capitale, la città sia quotidianamente paralizzata dai black-out. Mi chiede se secondo me il Nepal, un giorno, potrà decollare economicamente.
I tre ragazzi sono estremamente cortesi ed educatissimi. Ci offrono da mangiare, e poi ci chiedono chi siamo e da dove veniamo. Gli dico da Venezia, e Babin, il più aristocratico, si mette a snocciolarmi, in inglese perfetto, alcuni brani del "Mercante di Venezia" di Shakespeare. Resto allibita. Lui ha studiato in un college in India, mi dice. La sua famiglia l'ha mandato a studiare là because he believed that in Nepal there were no schools at. In India they had thoroughly studied Shakespeare and he especially loved that play.
Babin is really a strange kind. I ask him where is the scar across his face. A motorcycle accident, he said. Three months in a coma. Then the awakening. Everyone had given up, and ride.Babi, laughs often laughs but strange.
The rain stopped abruptly. Slowly the sun heats the earth, and clouds of moisture rising from leaves, grass, tree tops. The water, says a gentleman, is visibly declining. He systematically measure a few hours before dipping a stick one meter from the shore.
Then it happens. People are active. Sale coach quickly. It takes place on the seats and bags of rice that litter the hallway. The driver slips in a cassette tape of Indian music, turn up the volume with throttle, start the engine, gives gas. I did not realize it, but in a few seconds, we stay inside the bus just me, and Claudio in an old sari. The others got out and quickly climbed to the roof. I wonder if perhaps it would be better to follow, when the driver gives gas and launches into the middle of the stream. The bus, however shabby, is a Tata bus, one of those beasts that cross the Indian lands of Asia's most inaccessible. Forward Caracalla, it seems almost have made it, then suddenly hits a rock, stop in midstream and start to lean towards the cliff. Screams rise from the roof and all jump into the water on the opposite side. We are being thrown against the wall. The old woman screams. Then she cries. If the bus continues to tilt it down and we do so by the end of the mouse. We leave the windows and we throw ourselves into the water.
The old left alone in the bus and continued to cry. The coach seems to tip over, then, miraculously, it hangs. If it remains there, tilted on its side in the water that swirls around him. A man slips inside and pulls the old out the window. The situation
è ancora peggiore di prima. Noi oramai siamo sull'altra riva, che abbiamo raggiunto a guado, facendo catena, ma gli zaini con tutte le nostre cose sono dentro il portabagagli, probabilmente bagnati e, per come stanno le cose, è impossibile recuperarli.
I tre allievi ufficiali ci salutano. Loro proseguiranno verso Beni a piedi. Non possono permettersi di aspettare che arrivi qualcuno a disincagliare la corriera. Tra un paio d'ore saranno a Beni, ci dicono, e da là risaliranno direttamente la valle fino a Jomsom. Quando arriveremo a Jomsom dobbiamo assolutamente andarli a trovare in caserma. Sarà un onore per loro riceverci, ci dicono. Poi ci dicono di non preoccuparci e ci fanno ciao con la mano.
Deadlock. Some passengers depart on foot. Others, those of us who have the luggage on board, waiting. The rain is now a memory and the sun shines relentlessly. There is even a shade tree that face.
After half an hour I noticed a commotion. Some men have entered the water and are tying a rope to the fenders of the truck. The situation is absurd. How can a truck tonnage than to be dragged out of the water with a handful of men who dragged a cordicina that hardly could be used to hang out the laundry? The attempt, as expected, so be it. The rope snaps and the small group of tie rods ends up in water like in the movies of Ridolini. From nothing stands another rope. Iron and thicker this time. But nothing doing. The bus will not move an inch. After another hour. There are now 4 pm. And the night in these parts, down to around half past six. Suddenly, because at these latitudes is not dark. We are thinking of
groped a sortie in the trunk to take back their packs, when from behind the corner looms a bulldozer. A bulldozer, true to those seen in America. Yellow, big, huge with a shovel. The operation is quickly made. The bulldozer clears the way to the bus, lifting it up slightly with the shovel to move the rock that blocks it, and in a few minutes, the vessel on the other side River.
off again. With advancing bulldozer in front of us and every stream - in fact there are others that block the passage - repeating the same work. It paves the way and clears.
umpteenth ford crossing a woman who goes down. You un'occidentale and has a great
backpack. In broken English, tells me: "You can not go. You can not go forward. I tried for two days to go up the Kali Gandaki, but it is impossible. Too many avalanches. Too dangerous!" Estonia is, he says. And back to Pokhara, waiting for the weather to improve. Then he ran away.
overcome a village and after a few hundred yards we realize that the road is gone. It slid into the valley. Stavlta the bulldozer can not help it. Those who want to continue on foot. From there, we are told, Heritage is only 12 kilometers. From the bus drop
covered all passengers. Do not waste time to protest or complain. Loading the luggage on his back, a little more than the landslide in the mountain and they walk in single file. There is a kind of resignation in this country, I say. A flat acceptance of fate. Whatever it is. Wisdom or folly?
Bad perspective. Twelve miles on a 12-pound backpack on his shoulders.
I do not even have time to To walk a little boy who comes up to me. Indicates our backpacks and beckons us that we will bring him up to Beni. One, I say. It is a fragile young boy, he will not fifteen. At the foot has a pair of tong. He shakes his head. It would take them both, and in return we'll pay you double. $ 3, he says, and the eyes sparkle. Not even mentioned, I say. And I look around for another porter. He laughs. But no one comes forward. A couple of eager guys looking backpack Claudio but there is a tacit agreement that prevents them from coming forward.
Kishan, that's what you call the guy, meanwhile has pulled out of a belt of braided rope. A first pack if it is already loaded on the shoulders and the second if he does put on. A minimum of 30 pounds of stuff. Then he wandered away without looking back and in two minutes is the other side of the chasm. Sherpa holds the load in the manner, with the belt just behind, in backpacks placed on the head on his head, to avoid scratching the front of the guy wearing a red crocheted wool Caciottina. Kishan
between me and it was love at first sight.
Two hours later we are at Beni. I have sore feet. Socks and wet shoes, you know, are the enemies of the walker. But it is useless groped to change wet socks with the socks dry because it proceeds without wading sosta torrenti, corsi d'acqua e immense pozzanghere. Kishan non parla inglese, ma mi sta vicino. Ogni tanto si ferma nei pressi di una roccia e vi depone il carico senza staccare la cinghia dal capo. Un paio di volte faccio il tentativo di recuperare lo zaino, perché ho vergogna di farmelo portare da un ragazzino, ma Kishan ride, scuote la testa, e la gente attorno a lui ride ancora di più forte.
Quando arriviamo a Beni è quasi sera. Dal nulla si materializzano guida e portatori. Ci stavano aspettando. Erano preoccupati. Non riesco a capire quanti sono, chi fa parte della spedizione e chi li accompagna giusto per bighellonare un poco. A un'ora da Beni, un poco più in alto, c'è il piccolo villaggio di Galishor. Sarà là che pernotteremo, mi dice Goma. Bisogna affrettarsi.
Allungo a Kishan un biglietto di dieci dollari. Lui mi guarda, guarda Goma, non sa cosa fare. Goma gli fa un cenno d'assenso. Kishan prende i soldi e se ne va.
Il sentiero che sale a Galishor corre dritto davanti a noi. Goma ci dice di proseguire. Prenderanno loro le nostre cose e ci raggiungeranno là.
Neanche un chilometro dopo, sentiamo rumore di pietre che cadono. È praticamente buio pesto. Due ragazze che camminano qualche passo davanti a noi si fermano, e di colpo arretrano di corsa. Il sentiero in costa alla montagna sparisce quasi del tutto sotto la gragnuola di pietre che cadono. Aspettiamo un paio di minuti. Quando si fa nuovamente silenzio le ragazze scavalcano di corsa la slavina e noi le seguiamo. Più sotto si sente il rumore sordo del fiume, un affluente del Kali Gandaki.
Alla Paradise Guesthouse di Galishor manca la corrente, ma la signora che la gestisce ci porta un paio di candele. Io sono preoccupatissima per i miei piedi, che tento di curare come posso.
Al lume di candela intravedo le facce dei portatori che se ne stanno sdraiati sul prato di fronte all'ingresso. Lungo il muro un'infinità di gerle di vimini coperte da teli di plastica blù.
Children welcome us in Beni
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