In the Shadow of the Himalaya

I’m reminded of Balkanbat as I step aboard the Virgin Atlantic flight back to London Heathrow. That glowing grid which appeared out of the darkness as we edged towards Delhi more than 13 months ago. It seemed so contained, so manageable, so appealing. I was fearful of India, of its chaos and heat and poverty. For a moment I had wanted to abort the journey, to land in Balkanbat amidst the warmth of its ordered street lights. I looked it up at some point. Western Turkmenistan. Formerly Neftedag. A source of petroleum and natural gas. Maybe I’ll visit one day but for the moment that is enough. I have plenty to digest.

India… always something new, always something different. But it’s only now as I prepare for landing, for the return to a more familiar life, that I know what I want to hold onto, to keep in mind.  Nights spent in the jungle, the desert, mountain caves. The surge of the Ganga, from glacial meltwater to flame-licked resting place. The sudden silence of a stadium, dreams of a final ball victory cruelly shattered. Jam sessions in buffalo sheds and mud huts, on city rooftops and station platforms. Days that passed from glistening lakes to skies of angry black. The fluorescent fizz of the Sundarbans, the sharp outline of Macchapucchre.

The ability to sit in silence, to accept discomfort until it melts away. To shower with a bucketful of cold water and not utter a word, yet more to enjoy it. To bring a baby goat from the brink of death, yet more to see it die. I learnt to build steps giving equal attention to every stone, from the largest slab to the smallest piece of grit. I learnt to inhale the city, to let it spread through my being. To stand in queue while others push past, yet more to push ahead myself, elbows jutting.

I learnt to cook mutter paneer, to play Kabaddi, to pluck the sitar. To sing in Nepali, count in Hindi, nod with a waggle of the head. I learnt to harvest coffee and tea, in ways that sustain the natural environment. To ride a camel, to catch a scorpion, to milk a goat. I learnt to keep my wallet and my mobile somewhere other than my pockets, especially on the metro. That I shouldn’t teach English, nor get overly stressed by 10-year-old children. Nor assume that I can resolve conflicts that I don’t understand. I learnt to know what I have, where I come from, and why that matters. But also that it needn’t define me.

For more than a year I’ve lugged my tent around the subcontinent. My well-traveled parents weren’t ready to see it left out of the packing process. “We always thought if we had nothing else, nowhere to stay, we had our tent.” Wise words, worth heeding. Except we’ve always had somewhere to stay. Ashrams, desert camps, a small jungle hut patrolled by a gargantuan spider. And so my two-person Quechua has remained in the Unused Items Club, sat between a compass and one of those foil emergency keep-warm bags. I was delighted when some friends pitched the tent in the garden of a fully booked homestay in Mirik. But I was inside, lying under a big duvet, sinking into a soft mattress.

So it’s with a sense of dogged determination that I set out for Triund, a three-hour hike from Dharamkot, tent on back. This will be the night I again become a camper. I reach the main camping hub in good time and set about scouting some suitable ground away from the chai and the chatter. Setting my sights on a flutter of prayer flags I scramble up a rocky slope, wind my way between several dozen goats and stumble across Vijay. He’s seated on a sheep, armed with a pair of shears, singing as the wool falls to the ground. For four months a year he lives here, looking after his 120 livestock, and sleeping in a cave nestled in the hillside before heading back to the Punjab when the winter comes. I cast a greedy eye over the flat ground. The Dhauladhar mountains stretch into the distance, the other campers are far below. This will do just fine.

With the tent in place, I head for the snowline, another hours walk. I find the Himalaya Rest Cafe - a sturdy tent in the middle of nowhere - and watch shape-shifting clouds roll up the valley and across the cliff faces opposite. Mountain peaks rise alongside and in between one another. Behind me, the land drops away steeply, gaping, forested. Eagles circle and soar. I sit quietly, waiting for nothing. And then a friendly face, bounding towards me. Jamie. Before I know it we’re chatting about his PTSD, his sex life, and the meaning of yin and yang. The energy of trees, apocalyptic futures, divorce. Tears fill his eyes at one point. I take my leave as the cafe owner pitches a tent. Jamie will be staying a while.

Back at my own campsite, the evening lays a carpet of cloud. Layers of billowing fluffiness stretch beneath us, absorbing the lights of Dharamsala a few thousand metres below. I’m joined by Gus and Katy, east Londoners a month or so into a twelve-month trip. I can’t help but think how I felt at the beginning of this journey. Open, unhurried. Excited to use my tent. Gus and Katy tell me about semi-precious rocks, the intelligence of crows, about J. G. Bennett. The carpet reddens then darkens as the sun drops behind a ridge and we arrange to meet for litter picking the following morning before heading to our beds. I unzip the tent, snuggle into my sleeping bag, and let myself drift. Perfect. This is it...

My first sense of company is a gentle chomping, enough to get me sitting up, ears pricked. Then some movement, a brush against nylon, heavy breathing... Flatulence. Infamous cow wind. I’m tempted to jump out of the tent, flapping my arms and making scary noises. But I don’t trust cows, not in the dark. I think they opt to blindly charge, rather than turn on their hoof. So I wait for a pause, turn on my flash light and edge out slowly. There it is, right next to where my face was, nonchalantly massive, the proud owner of a fresh cowpat deposited on one of my tent pegs. I can’t sleep here. It will without doubt lie on my head. I didn’t come to India to suffocate beneath a farting cow.

Satpal Singh, on his way to sell milk at the market, finds me sitting against a wall at the bottom of some steps. The day is only just dawning, the village stirring. I’m engrossed in Game of Thrones, having long ago accepted that I’d arrived too early to find a ready-made bed. Satpal spots my bag. “Ya, you stay with me. 250 rupees. 2 days, 3 days, 5 days. 5 minutes further.” It’s more like 10. And I’m there for a month. My final month.

I was tired, just off an overnight bus from Delhi, and at the end of a busy week. From Bangalore I had taken a 44-hour train journey all the way to Ajmer, rejoining Soph in Pushkar and catching up with friends from our previous visit. Mango was still in fine form, Fiona was in the midst of building work, Rami as delightfully dry as ever. We had spent a day trawling the market stalls for gifts and bits of ethnic homeliness, and another with Rami's wife and a tube of mehndi, but it wasn’t long before we were rolling on to Delhi. Soph would catch her return flight to the UK a year to the day since our arrival. It was strange to see her go, to watch her merge into the numberless people pushing trolleys, to suddenly realise we wouldn’t complete this together. By the time she touched down I was halfway to Dharamsala, where I’d jump in a tuk-tuk and head on up to Dharamkot.

Satpal turned out not to be a Singh at all. The surname painted onto his cafe was merely to entice Punjabi visitors inside, or on to his homestay, or to employ him as their trekking guide. His cunning aside, Satpal was a lovely man with a lovely family: Anju, Isha and Vansu. I ate with them most nights, sitting around the fire in the kitchen as Anju dumped piles of rice and dal and subji on my plate, and I counted to 20 in Hindi. Ek, do, teen…. Satpal would call me Sir, much against my wishes, but he couldn’t remember his birthday let alone my name. It was always fun. We’d laugh about goat herding, my efforts with mehndi, Vansu's sudden outbursts that I never understood.

I spent the first week trudging up and down the steep slope to McLeod Ganj, home to His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. With impeccable timing he had some teachings scheduled at the Tsuglagkhang temple where pictures of Tibetans who have resorted to self-immolation line the entry. Armed with a radio so I could tune into the English translation I sat the first morning wedged between hundreds of monks, zoning in and out of the designated subject matter, 'Entering the Middle Way'. The next day I branched out to sit with more of the unrobed and enjoy a little space for the inevitable fidget. Each morning the crowds would lean towards the railings as the leader of the Tibetan people passed by, slowly making his way upstairs, waving to the masses and offering a gentle word here and there. He glowed with contentment.

And then I had to find a new routine. A walk down to Tushita for some guided meditation; a spell of writing in Common Ground or the Himalayan Tea Cafe, often with a potato paratha accompaniment; a run through the pine forest and back up the steep steps to Satpal's. I’d try and fit in some time with the guitar, building the repertoire. One time I heard Isha humming Royals to herself, it was nice to think I’d made a mark. They urged me to stay and celebrate Diwali with them and I was reminded of the uncomfortable time we’d endured with Karamjeet a year earlier. This time we had just a few candles, a modest change to the menu, the sound of Satpal's niece singing from the next house up.

I didn’t meet many travellers, set apart from the village halfway up the hillside, but I was fine with that. Those who I did meet became good friends. Adrian and Catherine were from New Zealand and Quebec, with the Kiwi half soon to attain the dubious honour of being a grandfather at 42.  We walked to Nadi one evening hoping to see a memorable sunset, and instead had to turn our backs on a man proclaiming the futility of vipassana. I met Gus and Katie whilst sitting atop a carpet of cloud in Triund. They were teachers from east London, a month into their travels. We spent a day watching Tibetan films at the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts where Satpal worked. Royal Café by Tenzin Dazel. The Sun Beaten Path by Sonthar Gyal. The Sacred Arrow by Pema Tseden.

Of all the railway journeys we have taken I never expected my favourite to be in Sri Lanka. For the second time our Indian visa was forcing a temporary exit and for the second time we had very little information about our destination. Perhaps I imagined the island-version of Nepal, more tropical, but similarly devoid of a railway network. Yet within a few hours of arriving at Colombo's swanky airport we were indeed aboard a train, headed for the hills. We sat in the First Class Observation Carriage, only a full height window separating us from the world outside, gradually unveiled to our greedy eyes. Fields of lush green, epic bridges and long tunnels, swathes of jungle dropping to the valley bottoms, rising to the hilltops. It put IMAX to shame. We sat back and enjoyed the show.

Ella was the first rock we scaled in Sri Lanka, setting the trend for a month of trekking to the tops of things. We set out from our homestay and were soon plodding along the railway track we had rolled along a few days before. It was good to become a part of what we’d seen from the train; to cross the bridges and pass through fields of tea, to scramble up through pine forests and take in the folds of the valleys and ridges. But Sri Lanka was feeling strange somehow, like a giant theme park, all very lush and pretty, calm and ordered. Jurassic Park meets Truman Show. Happy couples everywhere.

From Ella we headed to the east coast, to Arugam Bay. We split our time between the beach and our room, between pummelling waves and the whir of the fan. I struggled with the heat. One day we hired a scooter, dropping in at Panama Beach, a deserted strip of pristine sand and surf which would have been perfect for the afternoon if not for the scorching sun and lack of shade. The area around Lake Wawe was far more appealing. We walked through forest, cool under the canopy, rich with wildlife; a swooping eagle, a field of buffalo, scuttling peacocks. The sound of rustling trees stopped us in our tracks. I was convinced a feeding elephant lay just around the corner. I tip-toed on, a mix of fear and excitement. Would it charge? Would I panic? Monkeys.

We were soon heading back to the hills, this time to Nallathanniya at the foot of Adam's Peak. I gave into custom and set my alarm for two in the morning hoping to see the sunrise from the top. But I awoke to find the night full of mist and drizzle, the duvet tempting me back. Why did I need to do this? Soon I was trudging through the dark, passing other shadowy figures also wondering about the logic of this early morning rise. We knew we would get wet and see nothing. I found myself alone settling into the eeriness and magic, a hidden forest alive with chirping frogs and raindrops, guiding me to the peak. Several people were already at the top by the time I arrived and within half an hour we numbered close to fifty, huddling in corners. Fifty wet people, seeing nothing.

The telecoms tower outside Kandy was even less memorable. The most noteworthy moment was the walk back down when our awkward passing of a group of dawdling walkers coming the other way turned into a prolonged manoeuvre past more than 200 such beings. Back in Kandy we did city things. We ate kottu, drank bottles of Tiger, and watched a ‘cultural performance’. I bought some new glasses, Soph had an infected wound seen at the hospital, we sorted our Indian visas. But really we wanted to climb more rocks so we boarded a bus to Dambulla, home of the cave temples. At one point we slowed to overtake a crowd of people, led by a wooden crane, pushed and pulled. Then I saw a man, seemingly lifeless, hanging by threads from his nipples, a bag over his head. Again it felt slightly Trumany, like it was a production error, something that was supposed to remain backstage.

The cave temples kept us busy for a while, made up of a series of chambers replete with reclining and seated Buddhas carved out of the rock. The next day we headed to Sigiriya rock or at least to the less famous and costly Pidurangala rock nearby. After a short walk and a little bouldering we reached the top, a flat summit offering 360 degree views for miles around, shapely horizons pushing through the mist. And then we moved on, this time to Anuradhapura, edging closer to our departure. We took a bike ride between some ruins, visited a tree related to that of enlightenment fame, and took our place in a long line of people carrying a banner to Mirisawetiya Vihara. We finally opted for a safari too, jolting our way through the Wilpattu national park in the back of a jeep. I was hoping for elephants, bears and leopards. We saw some deer, some buffalo and a tortoise.

Everything is wet here. Dampness seeps into our sheets and our blankets. A layer of mould clings to my guitar case, crumpled in a corner. Raindrops fall from the hole in our roof where a monkey has removed the tile. The rain ceases only for short spells before the sound of it meeting the jungle canopy sends us running for shelter once again. There is a darkness too. The sun rarely breaks through the cloud and the solar-powered batteries, the source of the school’s electricity, are quickly drained. Still the dancers dance, the singers sing and the soft beat of a tabla continues unabated.

On Sundays we leave the dripping jungle behind and wander into Kalkeri. Through the gate and down the bank, past the building site and the water tower. We know who will greet us. The young girl, always smiling, rocking on haunches; the old lady, her 'namaste' more of a bitter chastisement than a cheery hello. We’ll head for one of the eateries, perch on benches sipping chai and nibbling rice Krispies or if we’re lucky an omelette in a bun. Sometimes we go further, catching the bus into Dharwad, picking up coffee and fruit and another pair of sandals before heading back to the school completely exhausted. One time we venture all the way to Hubli, celebrating Soph’s birthday with a night at a hotel. We let the morning drift and settle, until I’m hurried back for another photo shoot.

There are always more photos to take. Everyone needs a picture, especially in India. I start with the college students, forty of them, freshly riled by their monthly meeting. “Stand there. 1, 2, 3. Next.” Then it’s the First Standard, still settling in but full of smiles, happy to pose. It’s the staff that take the most time. Admin staff, wardens, academic teachers, music teachers, the maintenance team, kitchen workers, volunteers, Santosh and his locks. The women dress in saris for the occasion which only adds to the pressure to get it right. Later I sit with Adam in front of his computer and wait for the verdict. Hands out of place. Sideways face. Too much space. Adam is a perfectionist. He’s also the School Director, and a fellow Englishman with an indified accent. He’s been at KSV for more than 10 years, starting as a volunteer but destined for permanent jungle residence. Now he's married to a local, father of a three-year old son and regular giver of talks about the school.

He uses our fortnightly meetings to brief me on upcoming visits, events, festivals. I scribble furiously: a performance for the Chief Minister; a visit from State Bank of India; another cohort of Deshpande students. They’ll all need photos; they’ll all need a Facebook post. The highlight is the school fair and for once I’m able to ditch camera duties. The students compete as their six houses, moving between challenges, earning tokens for each success. It verges on chaos at times. Tokens are stolen. Scores are questioned. Wardens become abusive. My activity involves groups of 30 transporting themselves on mats from one end of the yogshala to the other without touching the floor. There’s an imaginary river to cross, an overhang to crawl beneath. Two members are blindfolded. Before I know it they’re off, self-elected leaders yelling instructions, cheaters protesting innocence, older students launching younger ones across the raging water. We don’t tell them we’ve messed up the timekeeping.

We finish the day with a performance from the volunteers – a mime that centres on some chewing gum and then the body percussion that Lois taught us. Boom click clap, boom boom click clap. If it was intended to calm the students at the end of a hectic day, it failed dismally. By the end they’re baying for the final result, surging towards Amethyst as she nears the announcement. Disorder rules. It’s such a delicate balance, between engaging students and realising they’ve taken control.

In the darkness of night, from up on the bank, it’s hard to believe there are hundreds students and staff settling down just a stone's throw away. It’s hard to imagine the busy classrooms, the rush for lunch, the latest dramas. Cricket and Kabaddi, sitar and bansuri. At night it is silent and still. I walk the pathway from the kitchen to our hut, scanning the ground for snakes and scorpions, dodging the muddy puddles. Tomorrow it will start again.

We first heard about Kalkeri Sangeet Vidyalaya from Dirk Goldschmidt, a young German brimming with confidence who we met in Jaipur on the rooftop of Tony's Guesthouse. He flicked through photos, alive with colour, smiling eyes, dimples and mischief. “It's a music school in the south of India, for disadvantaged children, open to volunteers.” This was surely what we were looking for. Yet, by the time volunteering was an option some months later, we had become a little hesitant, softened by the coolness of Nepal. Warnings abound. “Karnataka in June?! It will be soooo hot! 40 degrees some days!” We chose to take it on, reconvening after a month apart and then winding our way down from the misty hills of Mirik in the north, back through the sweltering heat of Kolkata, and into a 36 hour train journey to Hubli in the south.

Tucked in the back of a tuk-tuk, we watched traffic-crammed roads transform into muddy tracks, windowed shop fronts into lush green fields, before finally rolling into Kalkeri. Our first perceptions of the village and school seem strange now, each moment offering fresh experience, unencumbered by the layers of meaning and memory that would gather in the following months. A crossroads of types, men playing cards, a rocky approach. A friendly face to welcome us. It belonged to Anand, a giant of a man who I would come to wrestle in the sweaty heat of a hidden chamber by the village square. Our faces would be caked with the sacred soil of India, our breathing heavy, thighs aching. But for now he was the cheery chap who ensured we didn't pay too much to our driver.

It was Pierre who showed us our room, a crumbling mud hut atop the hill and near the perimeter fence, the envy of every other volunteer for the views from its terrace. Pierre would soon return to France, he told us, leaving his tabla behind, and jam sessions that missed his beat. He took us to the office and into the worlds of Santosh and Yashwant, Kaveeta and Sarah. A flick of long hair, a strong handshake, an infectious giggle. Another French accent. Amethyste arrived back from Bengaluru the following day and added further clarity, more stories, some ground rules. Our roles would remain uncertain for a while longer but it wasn't a problem. For the first few days we wandered around the site, laid in hammocks, and scooped up our rice and samba as things slowly clicked into place.

Finally, I was assigned 5th Standard English for my teaching duties. 23 faces peered up at me, more than a hint of a challenge filling the air. 12 boys, each with a shaven head. 11 girls, from the sweet to the cutting. Hadn’t I concluded on more than one occasion that teaching wasn’t for me? I was here for the music, for the jungle, for the cost-saving, not to force English upon those who have no interest. Gradually they acquired names and personalities. Abhishek and Darshan in the far corner, the best of friends until a bad word sparked fists and tears. Sunanda, quick to bite, only partially subdued by that visit to the office in the pouring rain. Vinay, rarely seated; Shabhana, highly revered; Jyoti, smiling. Govindraj, Saraswati, Mohammed. Mohammad, whose story you could never imagine.

The young red-robed monks work in fours and fives around a solitary seated peer. At first, I fear for him. His companions are relentless in their questioning, pointing accusatory fingers and slapping their hands with every minor victory. But there’s no bloody end to this confrontation, only a clearer sense of how to prove a point, at least for those familiar with Pali and Nepali. Thankfully we are spared the sparring and can instead capture the action through our viewfinders, the stunning Gompa providing the perfect backdrop. This is a photo I will cherish, for more than any other it captures that aspect of Buddhism which gives the faith such appeal; its deference to logical inquiry.

I’m at Kopan Monastery, set on a ridge far above the sprawl of Kathmandu. Having been inspired by Vipassana at the beginning of the year, but lacking the discipline to keep up its practise, I've enrolled on a 10-day 'Introduction to Buddhism’ course. It’s a forty minute taxi ride from Thamel to Kopan, along pot-holed back-alleys and past horse-drawn carts, across broken bridges and up winding lanes. Forty minutes that take me from the rush of the capital to a world of contemplation. Panoramic views stretch in all directions, the soft chatter of students and residents drifts with the breeze, the Stupa sparkles at the centre of a fairy-tale garden with grass that’s pleasant to sit on. This will be my last experience of Nepal and I’m ready to savour every moment.

Soon enough I’m happily settled into a daily mix of meditation, teaching and discussion. Question times are particularly insightful as our teachers grapple with the practical concerns of 200 students from around the world. “How can I be monogamous whilst loving everyone and everything?” “Why are animals considered to occupy a lesser realm than humans?” “Why do you sell Coca-Cola in the shop?” We listen eagerly to the answers, ready to pounce on any inconsistency, to flag up any chink in the philosophical armour. At times it feels like an interrogation, verging on the disrespectful, but it’s all taken in good spirit; there's a rational answer to everything. It’s only when someone mentions the plight of Tibet that I notice a stiffening of our teacher, a hardening of her voice, barely concealed anger rising to the surface.

Somehow I find myself leading a daily discussion group which meets on the rooftop of the tantra studio and outside the room where the relics of former lamas are displayed. The group becomes a space for honesty. In one session we have to reflect on death, the focus of our guided meditation the day before. We hear from Luiz, a Spanish man of forty-something whose father died minutes after Luiz had told him he wouldn’t and snuck out for a cigarette. There’s Mateya who was never far from the horror of death during the Balkan conflicts of the 90s. Most moving is Ben, an Australian whose wife died just three months before and who he watched struggle with cancer for half a year. “It was only as she finally slipped away that she seemed to grasp for something, that there was something to resolve.” It takes someone with a stable voice to thank him for sharing.

We finish the course with two days of silence. There are still the aeroplanes purring above us as they head for the airport or leave it behind, still the barking dogs that fight for territory in the city streets below. But we move between the Gompa, the Stupa, the dining hall and our dorms without uttering a word. Walking meditation is also introduced to our timetable. We step at snail's pace, in time with our breath, a foot slowly descending with each exhale. Our eyes are fixed on an arbitrary space six feet or so ahead of us, our mind straining for every bodily sensation. The workers look on bemused, pausing from the gruelling rebuilding work demanded by the 2015 earthquake.

Many people wander the streets of Kathmandu breathing through a mask. I tried it for a while but I’ve opted to inhale the city unhindered. I’ve chosen to step in with its stride, to vibe with its voice. For a while I was resistant to the urban quagmire but really that makes it all a big effort. It’s once you accept its apparent disorder that you see the colours of the prayer flags, that you hear the conversations, the clatter of plates, the clink of bicycle wheels. I’ve learnt to cross the road, to step confidently through rush hour traffic. I’ve learnt to settle into conversations but still not to stress about edging away, politeness upheld. It’s good to stay a while, to become attuned rather than stubbornly out of tune.

It helps that I’m here with a purpose. I’ve timed my visit to coincide with a week-long festival hosted by the Kathmandu Jazz Conservatory with the intention of recording musicians. For once I feel more than a tourist, I’m building a network. I sit in on a workshop led by Gianni Denitto, a sax-playing Italian who mixes his sounds with African drummers; I meet Samir Chettri who plays bass but is also producing a series of documentaries on the folk music of Nepal; I sip coffee with Kiran Nepali who runs the Sarangi Project and plays with the highly successful band, Kutumba. One night I end up recording Milan Thapa playing the harmonica in a deserted car park.

Some days I stay at the guest house, set away from the mix of trinket-sellers and hiking shops that crowd the streets of Thamel. There’s enough going on within these walls. I sip coffee in the second-floor common area as a lady applies lip stick in front of the mirror at the top of the stairs. “Derai ramro” I offer with a smile. A male appears alongside her and they take their seats next to me. “You like her?” he asks. “I was just saying she’s beautiful.” He nods knowingly and edges closer. “You are... interested?” She brushes her hair next to me. “In what?” I respond, inquisitive eyes of childlike ignorance. “Sex”. It’s 11.30 in the morning. The scent of coffee rises from beneath. A girl hangs out washing on the balcony opposite. “She likes foreigners” he adds, as if this is going to tip the boat. I mention my girlfriend but it’s another five minutes until they write me off as a potential customer.

I have many memorable encounters at the President Hotel. There's Mahesh from Bangladesh who plans to open a restaurant in the area as if there aren’t enough already; empty tables, redundant workers. There’s Lara, the entirety of her back still raw from her first tattoo, and Simone who has arrived with a new Lebanese boyfriend after some other-worldly experiences in Goa and several missed flights. Then there’s Maninder who spends the day chatting on his mobile and only pauses to demand my plans each time I leave my room. He hands me the phone one time and a sweet voice greets me. After a couple of efforts at conversation I hand it back. “I will marry this girl!” Maninder announces, excitedly twiddling his moustache. His family arrive from the Punjab a week or so later -father, mother, brother and an unidentified girl. Maninder says she is his cousin but she claims to be his fiancé. The father smiles approvingly. It’s evidently not the girl on the phone.

And then I’m out on the streets again. Maybe I’m headed to the residence of Mohan Joshi Prasad, a multi-instrumentalist of more than 70 years old who has agreed to a recording. We sit respectfully as he strums and plucks his sarod before we move to his son who plays the Jhol Taranga, a row of water-filled bowls which he strikes with wooden beaters. Another time I’m off to pick up a sarangi for Soph. “Owen, where are you going?!” Maninder's voice tails off behind me. Half an hour later I’m stepping carefully through the door and up the stairs of the Nepali Folk Music Museum. It is from this ramshackle base, precariously balanced since the 2015 earthquake, that Ram Prasad Kadel is leading a valiant effort to record and archive thousands of folk songs from around Nepal. “The stories of our ancestors are told in these songs but they are dying out, they are being forgotten”.

Pokhara is a city where the lake shimmers in twilight, where the sounds of the cicada rattle from the surrounding jungle, where the sky fills with paragliders reaching for the jagged peaks of Annapurna and Manaslu. Pokhara is another life. We rise to the deep blue of Lake Phewa stretching before us through invisible glass. We spend the morning reclining on the balcony, sipping rich coffee and gorging on the heap of yoghurt-topped muesli that Ralph, the owner of Palm Garden Lodge, brings from his kitchen below. Sometimes we venture out for food, to Rest Point, or we settle for the afternoon in Natural Mystic playing music or chess until the inevitable storm rolls across the lake and into the cafe.

Our neighbours at the lodge are two Turkish guys, rising each morning to check whether they have any customers to take paragliding. On the morning we arrive they invite us to share a homemade salad while boats glide across the water beneath us. It’s the perfect welcome. Upstairs there’s Anton, ejected from his house in Hemel Hempstead and now living for cheap whilst writing music for his band, High Fever. Sometimes he heads into the jungle to record his ideas, shedding inhibitions as he leaves behind any potential eavesdroppers. But there is plenty of life amidst the trees. Ralph tells us he once had to rescue his dog from the jaws of a cheetah.

Ben and Tess are here too. We came with them from Nalma, first by bus and then canned into the back of a tiny taxi as sizeable hailstones clattered against the roof. We headed straight for a bar where they caught up with a friend from home and we happily settled back into city life, however strange and perverse it sometimes seems. Our first night after a month in the mountains was spent watching live rock music and sipping expensive beer, something unimaginable a couple of days before. The next morning Ben and Tess set out to find an improvement on our guesthouse and stumbled across Palm Garden Lodge, our hub of creative thinking for the next few weeks.

Between jam sessions we chat more about Stems, Ben’s idea to build a library of high-quality single-instrument recordings that can be used by producers. He first aired the idea with me in Nalma and having similar dreams, albeit less developed, I was a keen listener. Now it takes more shape every day; a steady flow of questions and answers, only acceptable until they can be improved upon. It’s good to think again; to have an inspiring project that might just prove doable. I’ve also started drawing, inspired by Tess who spends hours on end bent over intricate mandalas and naked figures merging into nature. If I think about drawing, or rather what to draw, I will rarely put pen to paper. So I try to avoid working towards any vision and happily busy myself with adjoining lines and curves as they come to me. It’s turned into a kind of meditation.

The Annapurna mountain range had long been our horizon. It had been a reference point for incoming weather, an awe-inspiring backdrop on clear mornings, a distant place still making its mark. Now we were in amongst it, the razor edge of Machhapuchhre soaring above us. It was the morning of Day 6 and with torches in hand we were making the final ascent to the Annapurna Base Camp, or ‘ABC’ in trekker parlance. The snow and the 4am rise made for careful treading, but the star-studded sky and impending achievement filled us with anticipation. Joe and Colin were far ahead, no doubt energised by the latter's quick wit and alternative take on current affairs . We had our own motivation, a Snickers safely packed in the bag, only to be eaten at the base camp.

Almost a week earlier, a 30 minute taxi ride had taken us from our lodge in Pokhara to Phedi, one of several entry points for the trek. We had paused a while, relishing a final chai and buying a couple of woven wristbands from a Tibetan lady who lived in the city's refugee camp. And then we got going. The first day presented a 400 metre climb up several thousand steps and we quickly settled into rhythm – steps, water, biscuits. We met a man delivering a daily batch of newspapers to Dhampus, waved greetings at cheery children, and passed different-sized groups of different-sized trekkers. With the afternoon rain beginning to fall we made short work of some veg fried rice before rounding a corner into Pothana. Day 1 was complete.

Subsequent days threaten to blur. They follow similar patterns - early mornings, big meals, trekking pleasantries – but the landscape was always changing. Bamboo jungle. Riverside boulders. Scattered settlement. Our second night was spent at New Bridge, a couple of guesthouses nestled beneath a towering rock face the other side of the gorge. Lunch on Day 3 was taken at Chhomrong, a sprawling 'near-enough-town' that offers stunning views but first requires its visitors to climb another several thousand steps. Sweaty faces and uninvited calls of encouragement are all the rage in Chhomrong. And then there was Himalaya, our bed for the end of Day 4, the giver of macaroni drizzled in cheese sauce (and more via the leftovers of those sitting nearby). Himalaya provided our first walk on snow, our first snowstorm, our first sense that there might be a fair bit of snow from here on in.

The trek from Himalaya to Machhapuchhre Base Camp, our abode for the fifth night, took us past avalanche warning signs and across icy slopes where lines of ascending trekkers rubbed shoulders with their descending counterparts. The scene was surveyed by a Buddha figure far up on a cliff face, apparently etched by nature taking its course. He would be bemused I imagine; hordes of people, from Japan, Germany, Australia, the US, China, destined not for one of the 8000 metre peaks but a cabin complex at only half their altitude. Still there was a sense of danger. Every now and then a muffled rumbling would send us scanning the cliff faces as lumps of hardened ice gave way under the afternoon sun. Our host at MBC told us that the surrounding guest houses had all once been flattened by avalanches but of course we were perfectly safe in his.

Colin slept in our room that night, each of us fully clothed beneath heavy blankets. Conversation sank into the silence of night. And then an alarm, drawing us from the depths of sleep and back out into the surreal peak-peppered landscape outside, the final challenge ready for completion. An hour or so later and we were there, sipping on chai and biting into our frozen Snickers, awaiting the first of the sunlight to thaw our fingers. It edged down the slopes towards us, finally arriving at ABC as a helicopter soared around the corner and touched down a few feet away. It arrived not to ferry stricken trekkers from the perils of Annapurna but for the benefit of its camera-laden passengers. They stayed behind glass, taking in the scene. We turned around to retread our path.

We cantered back down the Himalayas, driven on the first day by reports of “no accommodation until Chhomrong”. We sang as we went, offered rousing words to those heading uphill, celebrated Thai New Year with a group of cheery Thais. In the event we were lucky enough to find space at Bamboo, just as Colin surged past, set on getting further. We pitched up in Chhomrong for the next night, awaiting celebrations for the arrival of 2074 in the Nepali calendar. They never materialised and we settled for conversation with a couple of mismatched Australian guys, trekking companions only because they lived near each other.

The bees came in a swarm from the mountains. Shanti and Katrin were picking potatoes behind the house and the bees flew right over their heads. Now there was a constant hum about the place as the incumbents tried to fight off the invaders. They wrestled outside the hive above the kitchen before rolling down the tiled roof and onto the paved courtyard, just as we tried to step between those that had already fallen. The bees came a day after those other things, like maggots with long wings that Baba says hatch from the soil when the rains are coming. They settled on the table and in the kitchen and in our rooms before writhing around until their wings fell off and they died. Their wings covered the ground. Now it was bees.

We struggled with the steps that day, trying this rock and that rock, and still not finding it secure. There was always a wobble, or an overhang or some other issue that made us piece it all together in new ways. But those rocks are heavy and soon we were sweating, our backs aching, our fingers cut. Later I carried a basket of the remaining stone fragments back from the dumping ground in the village centre. I placed the rope around my forehead and let the basket rest on my back just as I had seen the women do. It was my neck that felt the strain, my head pulled backwards, my hands desperately trying to relieve some of the weight. I’m not sure I had it quite right. I heard the great grandmother chuckling at my efforts from her perch above the courtyard.

We knew the rocks were heavy because we had helped to collect them someway down the track towards Besisahar. We watched as a group of men stood halfway up the cliff and drove a pole into the basalt beneath them causing all shapes and sizes to become dislodged and career towards us. I worried for their safety and thought of the many years they had been doing this, the strain on their bodies. Soph and Tess came too but were told they couldn’t help. Instead we had several boys lending a hand, passing us rocks to lift into the trailer, or just lobbing them straight in which caused an almighty crash and often split the rocks into pieces. That evening they came to collect payment from Baba and I wondered if child labour is always as clear-cut as we’re told.

The kids of Nalma would always call to us in the garden. “Namaste! What is your name? What is your father’s name?” They knew the answers, we had told them 100 times before, and anyway we were too engrossed in the garden to pay them much attention. Soph called us all over at one point, to her weeding spot. Between the onions and the fig tree and the tomatoes hung by string was a dead branch. In amongst the flaking bark was a lizard, its head erect, attentive and expectant. Its colour changed as we looked, maybe as camouflage or to regulate its temperature. Or maybe in greeting. I felt at one with that lizard. It tilted its head in my direction and came forward a few steps but then I lost the peace and got scared it would jump in my face. I went back to the house and read a bit more of The Secret Life of Plants. It talks of the extra-sensory channels of human-plant interaction. Six months before I’d have been sceptical. Not anymore.

Our final days in Nalma were never dull. We followed Ama through the jungle checking on some distant cardamom plants and sharing tea in a worker’s hut where the land opened up into a swathe of terraces ready for the next round of rice. We followed Baba through the village, walking the stone paths between the health clinic and the community hall, between workshops and goat sheds, between little window shops and the house which still has the traditional millstones in its porch, one for millet, one for rice. Rabindra returned from Kathmandu and made us pizza in the clay oven. He showed us more of the garden too, and talked of his grand plans for the future.

Some days I feel the scorch of the sun on my head. We sit in amongst patches of turned soil and wonder what to do next. There is the manure to mix, seeds to plant, walls and steps to fix. Or we talk about consciousness. Or child development. Some days we watch angry clouds pushing up the valley. Forks of lightning illuminate the heavy sky and we wait for the deep rolls of thunder that follow. As the first drops fall we move inside to the comfort of the straw-floored room that used to be for buffalos but now has a low table at its centre. One day we are too late, caught in plummeting hail stones as we return from a walk along the hillsides. We’re careful not to bang our heads as we shuffle in next to the others and shed our wet clothes. There is a guitar propped up in the corner and a drum that Ben likes to play. There are playing cards scattered over the table and shelves full of books and information that have been added over the years. Books about permaculture and cobb-building, about teaching English, about Nepal and Nepali.

Baba is our teacher here. Every morning he greets us and corrects our response. “Suba pra ba d” or something like that, always finishing with the soft “d” that doesn’t know when to finish. Baba is always busy in the morning. It’s an especially good time for filling things with water before the tap splutters and spits and finally runs dry. There are 48 taps in Nalma, installed by the Gurkha Welfare Service and each now readily linked to this or that hose pipe that leads to this or that person’s house. Baba also has 17 goats to tend to. It might have been 18 but a new born was lost in amongst the straw of the goat shed. Baba found it in the morning, a tiny, cold bundle with just a hint of a heartbeat. He washed it, covered it in sawdust, and left it in the sun. We kept it alive for two days, teaching its mother to offer her teat, naïvely celebrating as it learned to stand. Then it got cold again and Baba told us it died. “Keygannie?” What to do?

In the mornings we prepare for school, flicking through textbooks for English and Social Studies, bemoaning the lack of structure, the mistakes, the questionable examples; whether or not we should beat our little sister when she cries, whether ‘fat boy’ should be preceded by ‘a’ or ‘an’. We’re greeted by classes of 10 or so children, their noses snotty, their smiles charming. Most lessons turn into a sing-song about where different animals live or what clothes we like to wear or what jobs our neighbours do. Or I get angry and move someone to the front for talking too much and everything turns a little sour. At the end of the day the kids line up in the playground and stamp their feet as the Principal calls military instructions. Some children have been at school for nine hours. “Attention!” The sun beats down. “About turn!” They’re finally sent on their way.

Baba takes his goats to the jungle in the day. We never quite know where that is but I like to imagine it’s towards the peaks of Annapurna or Manaslu that rise up behind us, their snowy outline most visible on mornings after rainfall. I think Baba likes the time on his own, the sense of purpose. He talks of it being his duty. He leaves Ama to feed us, to bring us tea, to manage Babu and his sudden tantrums. Sometimes Babu is sent to school, to sit in with the youngest class, but he soon returns, teary and destructive. He grabs at whatever we are doing, hits us, steals my glasses. His father is based with the army in Kathmandu, his mother doesn’t get too involved. It’s left to Baba and Ama, his paternal grandparents, to try and teach him the goods from the bads. And to Shanti, their striking daughter, when she’s not busy teaching or cooking or washing plates or clothes.