Reflections of a pilgrim
The air is thin, and I am blinded by the whiteness of snow.
Four days ago, I was still on solid ground eating potatoes and curry, and sipping hot black tea. My cousin Racquel and I were wearing down jackets over our dri-fit shirts, enjoying the morning cold in a quaint café at Pokhara and watching the local children play with jump ropes.
We were leaving Pokhara in an hour to catch a bus heading to Nayapul, and from there, start our trek to the Annapurna Base Camp.
It was an exciting idea back then — but now, just two hours away from the base camp, we were freezing cold and trying to keep all our senses together until we could reach the tea houses.
It was December and the temperature tended to drop to around 5-10°C.I saw the blue roofs overhead and my heart soared, if only for a moment.
I pulled out the balaclava I borrowed, and my breathing finally adjusted. Ahead of me was Racquel and a local guide named Dil, who was the guide of the middle-aged Korean couple behind us. Tight of budget, we had decided to wing it and tag along with hikers who had experienced guides with them.
The trek to the Annapurna Base Camp was a lonely excursion. It was not a technical climb. The challenge came from the simplest things: the diligence of waking up early in the morning and walking with your heavy pack until you found another tea house where you could rest for the night.
The trail is comparable to the Cordillera trails we have in the Philippines, except for the black ice and snow; and instead of pine trees, you get bamboo shoots. While the air is dewy and heavy in our mountains, here the air is dry and cold. While our mountains feel dense but gossamer, mythical and cozy with their mossy forests, these mountains feel wide, cool and distant. Like looking at postcards even when you’re already there.
Hiking these mountains was tedious work, but with the novelty of the new and foreign. The snow-capped peaks were beautiful and monstrous at the same time, and the daily regimen had quieted my heart and cleared something in my head: I matter, but I am tiny.
When we reached the base camp after much labor and ragged breathing, we settled in our tea house and ordered two garlic soups. We ate dinner and took some pictures.
I was facing the Machhapuchhre range, and the sunset was already casting a soft pink glow over the toothy peaks and the snow on top. The moon was hovering over them, tiny and out of reach from these massive landforms. Heaven and earth meeting, but not quite.
Even though it was biting cold outside and my hands were already numb, I found quiet by looking at the mountain range. I told myself, you are not going to see this again, in this way and in this time. We went back to our rooms as the pink light started to fade and the darkness started to creep in.
Back inside our rooms, we were restless, and our hearts were thumping wildly against our chests. It must be the altitude, we thought. We went out in the middle of the night to seek help.
As we stepped out into the cold, we were swept away by the view of the massif, at once pressing and distant, its stillness suspending all the thoughts, anxieties and fear that had wrapped around me back in our room. It was the face of God looking down on me, unsmiling and forbidding. The peace was unsettling.
We got back to our hotel at Pokhara two days later. Some Malaysians we met along the trail accompanied us back to the jump-off. It was a surreal experience, and we took the finality of our journey quietly, as we walked along the lively shops to get to our hotel, still carrying our backpacks.
The world below did not change. The bar still opened at 8 p.m. and the lady handling the counter at our hotel remained the same. The café where we ate our morning breakfast before leaving Pokhara was still the same, the children sleeping late at night and rising early to welcome customers.
Every day, the world settles into a routine, whether in the mountains or in the city. Yet it seemed like time was working differently up in the mountains, as people worked and paced themselves differently wherever they found themselves to be.
We came and went back, just like any other tourist. But something inside had changed, too — I just couldn’t ascertain what, and how.
Faith in a foreign place and their foreign peoples continues to fill me with wonder, a sense of daring and a welcoming attitude for the unknown. As the Nepalese would tell you smilingly, hunched over with a load of supplies on their backs: “Namaste!”
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Iya Gozum, 20, is from Taytay, Rizal.
