`It is not a race!" This is the time-worn mantra for trekking in Nepal, and boy does it come in handy when you're half-way up a mountain and some Scandinavian twice your age overtakes you. And there's no avoiding it: to say you've been to Nepal without trekking into the Himalayas is the equivalent of going to Ireland without downing a pint of the plain stuff. Preposterous.
So, styling ourselves intrepid adventurers, Tanja and I went straight to the Annapurna region, the country's most popular trekking area, as soon as we arrived in Nepal. After half a day's research and some general questions to seasoned-looking trekker-types, we figured we were about ready to tackle the Himalayas. Armed with a map and six months' supply of iodine (for the treatment of dodgy water) we were off.
We hopped out of our taxi at Naya Pul, facing what was supposed to be a four-hour trek to Ghandrung, our first small village stop, which was only half a millimetre away on our map. Just as well I had no idea what was ahead of me, or I would have spent our four weeks in Nepal downing lassis in Kathmandu and seeing the Himalayas from the postcard perspective.
In infernal heat I found myself trekking vertically up a mountain that would put the entire Alpine range to shame. And so much for exploring the unknown - we passed as many fellow trekkers en route as you would shoppers on a Saturday on Grafton Street. Most of these were coming downhill, which didn't help our morale in the slightest. Polite questions of: "How long uphill?" were generally met with sardonic smiles and: "Very long." If that wasn't bad enough, the weather decided to change, and we were caught on a hillside in a storm of hailstones as big as ice-cubes.
By the time we reached Ghandrung, I was ready to hang up my sun-hat, donate everything in my backpack to the local villagers and call a halt to my trekking days.
Thankfully, after a few hearty meals and a decent night's sleep I was persuaded to march on. It was definitely worth every blister. Trekking through forests, up waterfalls, across stony riverbeds and through tiny Nepali villages, we encountered sights and sounds that made the daily aches, pains and insect bites infinitely worthwhile. Walking towards one small village, we were arrested by noises overhead, and looked up to see a family of hairy grey monkeys swinging through the trees. Often on the trek we'd hear the tinkle of bells that warned us of an approaching muletrain, which gave us just enough time to scuttle off the path before being shoved aside by laden mountain mules. We stumbled through yak droppings, gazed enviously at wallowing water buffaloes (this was after we hadn't seen a hot shower for a week), were unsettled on several occasions by hovering vultures who clearly had little faith in my personal stamina, and had alarmingly close encounters with all manner of enormous insects.
Encounters with the villagers on the way were much more gratifying. Local lodge-keepers were friendly and helpful, and eager to make our stay with them as pleasant as possible, even though we were often paying less than 30 pence a night. Toilets were usually of the hole-in-the-ground variety, and hot showers a luxury, but the atmosphere was generally warm and hospitable wherever we ended up. At night, as trekkers gathered inside the guesthouses, hot coals were placed under the tables to heat weary bones, and food, though it often took hours to arrive, was tasty and filling.
What became apparent to us after a few days on the trek was that there is an inherent hierarchy in trekkerdom, particularly among those who trek through the Annapurna region. There are those who come "over the pass". These are the trekkers who garner the most respect, as they have ascended to 5,400 metres at Thorong La pass and lived to tell the tale. Although they often appear slightly dazed and dopey-looking, their unquestionable achievement is respected by all. Then there are those like Tanja and I, who only trek up to 3,800 metres, but with their own backpacks. This is considered respectable enough, and places us well above the lower species who either hire porters to carry their luggage, or waddle around on donkeys (the lowest of the low).
We won even greater respect by arriving at our daily destination ahead of the hordes. This was entirely due to the fact that we got up at 5 a.m. every morning and sneaked out before any other trekkers surfaced. Although it was universally acknowledged that trekking "is not a race", the only ones who could say this without sounding like they were making excuses for their tardiness were those who were winning anyway. Our ruse worked remarkably well, barring the fact that it meant we had to go to bed at 8 p.m. night in complete exhaustion.
Exhaustion aside, we made it through without any serious injury, unless you count the Bon Jovi-style haircut I gave Tanja with the Swiss Army knife when her long locks became too heavy in the heat. We avoided diarrhoea, altitude sickness, broken bones and fatigue, and made it all the way up to Muktinath at 3,800 metres, in our allotted time, feeling more than a little proud of ourselves.
And then we ruined it all by spending $61 on a flight back down. I guess no matter how long you spend living the simple village life, once a tourist always a tourist. In any case, a 15-minute plane ride through the Himalayas covering what would have taken at least five days to trek is one sure way of winning the race. Not that it is one.
roundtheworld@ireland.com