The trek didn’t go as planned. The taxi driver tried to rip us off, our Bhutanese partner wasn’t available, it was cold, wet and foggy, I slept with rocks in my back, we got lost, some of my equipment was broken and my knees were pushed to the limit. But it wasn’t all bad.
We arrived the turnoff to Genekha just after 3pm and the taxi driver asked us if we wanted to be dropped off at the first corner. No, we said, at the end of the black top as agreed. He stopped a taxi coming the other way and asked for the price he usually charged. When the conversation was over, he translated that the price should have been 600 Nu rather than 400. ‘I didn’t realise you meant up here. I’m sorry.’
Why was he sorry? He’d made the mistake and would lose a little. In about 3 minutes, we reached the end of the tar and got out, the driver politely requesting that we pay 50% more than originally agreed. His arguments were many. It was soooo much further to this point than the turn off. The rate went up by 50% just today. The rate to the village was 1000, so it should be at least 600 to here. We argued that it was only 45 minutes rather than 40 minuts, the rate to the village was 450 according to the villagers, that the rate to Paro was 400, which we’d paid in full, and he could still pick up more passengers on his way home. It was like being back in India. If they used the meter fixed in each taxi, they wouldn’t have these problems.
Once at Genekha, we dropped our gear in the Forestry office that Jeremy uses as a base on his research trips and walked up to the tarpaulin covered bar a few hundred metres up the road. There we found out that Singye, our trekking partner had gone to Thimphu for some personal matters and probably wouldn’t be back in time to join us. So had the horseman, Tshering Wangdi. Everyone was volunteering each other to accompany us, but there was always a problem and even if someone could, we were still missing a stove that Singye was meant to provide.
We’d resigned ourselves to a day hike, but the next morning, Singye’s gas stove and bottle were waiting for us and two of Jeremy’s friends had got leave from their families to join us. Even Tshering Wangdi was waiting at the starting point. He’d brought a third horse ‘for himself’ which didn’t make much sense to us, but we weren’t about to argue when everything was suddenly working out.
Norbu is one of two Forestry officials for the Genekha territory which includes Dagala, but he’s only been in this post for a few months so he was keen to join us. Both his kids had been sick for a couple of days, but started eating again the night before so his wife let him come. Then Hodo, who is from the area but has been away getting trained as a tour guide, decided to come along as well, keen to show off his beloved lakes.
The day was gloomy, but waited until we’d almost reached the top to let us know how it really felt. A yak hut provided a brief respite from the rain and gave Hodo a chance to talk to a young lady herder called Dema. She was looking after their aged stepfather while her brother went looking for their horses. It was time to head down to warmer climes for the winter and they were the last in the area. Their hut was stone walled with shingle roof and a few perspex shingles let in a surprising amount of light. Two rooms at the front were storage for wood, while they lived in two larger rooms at the back.
It was raining by the time we reached our campsite an hour beyond the occupied yak hut. This was still yak herder territory and Hodo, Norbu and Tshering Wangdi wasted no time in replacing the shingle roof on one of the huts to make a kitchen – the shingles were stacked in a corner of the main room. Jeremy and I worked on the tents and quickly changed into warmer clothes as the temperature was dropping quickly.
Norbu and Hodo started on dinner, refusing to let Jeremy and me help. Whether that’s just because they thought of themselves as hosts or because we’d failed to bring tea, salt or oil, we weren’t sure. Either way, they managed to make a decent Bhutanese curry and continued to do so every meal for the next few days. We cleaned local style, with cups and dishes rinsed in doubtful stream water just before each meal. I say doubtful because the stream was more of a trickle through mud and yak manure.
It was only now that Tshering Wangdi told us that he hadn’t been able to eat for a few days because he was sick. I don’t know whether he considered a trek to 4000m a simple stroll or whether he needed the 1200 Nu so desparately, but it seems insane and dangerous to make such an expedition in an unfit state.
A rock was nicely placed in my lower back so that I could curl around it or even lie on my back without too much discomfort, but I woke stiff and sore from a cold night. It didn’t get much better as we walked through the valleys and over ridges to see a variety of lakes that gives the area its reputation. Heavy cloud and fog meant we only got glimpses, even when standing on the edge. It was weather to get lost in and a few times it seemed that our guide was unsure of the path himself.
With such poor weather and a sick horseman, we decided to start the return after lunch. One of the horses was spooked by the clanging of the gas stove, so Jeremy and I were told to go ahead while the others repacked and we figured we couldn’t go far wrong. Back down the valley then right to the yak hut. That turn was more tricky than it seemed, though. After waiting for half an hour to check our thinking, we decided to turn back and see where the others were. They weren’t.
We began to worry about missing them entirely and having to spend the cold night in a yak hut without warm gear. It was more luck than anything, but we found the path when I suggested we go up to the ridge so we could see all the way back to the campsite. Following that up, Jeremy heard shouts through the mist and half an hour later we’d reached the now deserted yak hut and three worried locals.
Tshering Wangdi was repacking one of the horse’s loads again and I noticed that the bag of my tent had been ripped open. Bhutanese are used to having cheap, replaceable, sturdy equipment and take no special care with the good stuff. Although I’d never had a problem with it, it looks like Tshering Wangdi had grabbed a handful of the tent bag and pulled without checking to see where else it was tied on. At least it was only the bag. I’d left my walking stick at the camp site though, and now it wasn’t working. I think they’d probably used strength to open it rather than the button to release the spring. Now one section doesn’t lock, so it’s only useful for a far shorter person than me.
Tshering Wangdi was all for pushing all the way back to Genekha, but we were running late so had another night in a yak hut halfway down. It was much warmer, but the stones were less forgiving so I managed only a few winks, getting up as soon as the light showed through my bag.
Outside, the sky had cleared and we had the view we’d wanted since the beginning, clear across to the Himalayan peaks. Jeremy and I stood there for about 3 hours, watching the clouds climb from the valleys up to wrap themselves around the mountains. Jomolhari, the most sacred mountain in Bhutan, stood proud and alone, yet radiating a peaceful welcome, a fitting monument to the Bhutanese people and the perfect finale for our trek.