122 - Tengboche to Dingboche (Three Passes Trek, Nepal)
"Bite off more than you can chew, then chew it. Plan more than you can do, then do it."
-- Anonymous
MY GUESTHOUSE IN TENGBOCHE WAS A HOTBED OF SOCIALIZATION. Folks hailed from Ireland, Belgium, England, and the Netherlands. A conversation with a young Dutch woman sticks in my head. She wasn’t traveling in a group. Her sole companions were a porter and a guide, a guide she described as “a bit clingy.” Her guesthouse was next door; she was the only occupant. In light of this, she dropped in to enjoy the camaraderie of fellow travelers.
Her guide was not amused. I’m paraphrasing, but his general complaint was they weren’t spending enough quality time together. He didn’t seem to understand hanging out in a dark lodge and having conversations in broken English wasn’t her ideal Himalayan adventure. They had a “come to Jesus” heart-to-heart when he asked if she wanted another guide. (Another guide? From where?) Tears were shed. She managed to mollify him somewhat, but had to walk an amorous tightrope.
Bizarre, you say? Not in the slightest. As far as many Nepali men are concerned, female “Westies” (as I like to call them) are considered the romantic Holy Grail, especially when they’re fetching. She told me they’d spent a day together in Kathmandu on a sightseeing tour. She didn’t realize she was on a date and, as I explained, meant he was neck-deep in love. Cupid is a fickle little bastard.
I laughed when she highlighted his fondness for sitting practically on her lap while conversing and believed, erroneously, it might be a cultural thing. Nuh-uh. To underscore my point, I engaged a few of the nearby Sherpa guides and had them share their anecdotes. One had an expectant girlfriend back in Sydney, Australia. Another told of a guide friend who played naughty games with a German woman on her honeymoon trek. He served as guide to the newlyweds. My first guide in Nepal had an affair with a Spanish woman he'd met while she and her husband were visiting Nepal. Yep, he was their guide. One romantic rendezvous included the outdoor toilet. Be still my heart.
And I had my own anecdotes. A friend of mine (Nepali guide) also had an Australian girlfriend who’d just delivered his baby Down Under. On my rafting trip, a female cohort played slappy-grabass with the safety kayaker (affectionately known as the 'sexy' kayaker). So, you see, if one Nepali stud can hit the jackpot, then who’s to say lightning can’t strike once, twice, three tiiiimes a laaaady? Not me.
(Full disclosure, I was hoping for some slappy-grabass with Team Netherlands myself, but my degraded state of sanitation stifled all carnal desires.)
The next day it was Tengboche to Dingboche via Pangboche. (A lot of “-boches.”) A mere three hours later, I entered the area surrounding Ding. Again, I was inclined to keep moving, but the region was so enchanting, I forced myself to stay put. Besides, a little acclimatization never hurt anybody.
I arrived at the Valley View Lodge, ate a massive lunch, and went for a stroll. Ama Dablam was so close I could almost lick it, while Mt. Taboche stood sentry over the valley. And just behind Dingboche stands Mt. Nangkartshang, a smaller peak yearning to be surmounted. I heard it calling… that or my schizophrenia was flaring up. (I’m kidding. Mental illness is no joke. I’m a terrible person.) I would oblige, but not until the morrow.
(Author’s Note: Memory has failed me. View Valley Lodge is in Pangboche, not Dingboche, but my notes tell me I went to Ding, not Pang. I can’t find Mt. Nangkartshang on Google Earth, but assumed it was behind Ding, not Pang. I’ve read other accounts that verified Nang was behind Ding, not Pang, but this doesn’t jive with my stay at View Valley in Pang, not Ding. Still, I’m 99.5% sure Nang is behind Ding, not Pang, and 100% sure I’m a ding-, not a pang-, bat.)
Back at my lodge, I experienced what was to become a familiar sentiment from guides along the trail. There’s an undercurrent of resentment toward lone wolves hitting the trail without a guide who choose to carry their belongings. They view it as depriving a Nepali guide or porter of much-needed income while leeching off the well-tread paths established by years of Sherpa diligence. There’s merit to this, which is why I made every effort to hire a guide before leaving Kathmandu, visiting a dizzying number of trekking agencies.
No one would consider my needs, damn it. (Therapy, anyone?) They were all hell-bent on standard itineraries with zero room for improvisation. I wanted options. If I wanted to linger, I’d linger. If I wanted to speed up, I’d speed up. Climb an extra peak. Retrace my steps. Follow my whim. Tickle my fancy. Constraints be damned!
Agencies wanted none of it. They’re all so entrenched on a canonized itinerary, they couldn’t conceive of doing it any other way. Tourists are yaks to be herded along a set route and concrete timeline. That’s it. That’s all. Love it or leave it. I’m not a yak, though if I were, my horns would be symmetrical, my wool white and of the finest quality, and I’d meander the hillside with that unmistakable air of yak entitlement.
Guides have no desire to blaze through a three-week trek in thirteen days with three or four 5000 m peaks thrown in for kicks. I wanted a guide as much for companionship as for safety. When I realized it was a lost cause, I turned to the Lonely Planet and charted my own path. The benefits were enormous. I covered far more ground than the standard tours and did so at a fraction of the cost, even considering regional inflation.
The next morning, I greeted Nangkartshang (5090 m – 16797 ft) with a smile and made my way up her less than gentle slope. Cue the broken record—an arresting vista a la the majesty and awe of the Himalayas. No blubbering this time. I stood. I stared. I tried to absorb the primordial hum. With all that absorbing, I lost my grip on a trekking pole and watched helplessly as it cascaded over the side of a cliff, making the signature cling-clang-tonk sounds on the journey down. I suppose the local deity needed a sacrifice. Better a cheap piece of Chinese metal than yours truly. With plenty of daylight ahead, I returned to the teahouse, packed up, and arrived in Chhukung village by noon. From there, I’d be passing the first of three passes on the Three Passes Trek alone (gulp).