The next chapter of my Sikkim trip.

“SIKKIM
Bakim
We are woken by the sounds of the porters moving and hawking up phlegm. They live in such smoke filled enviroments that even non-smokers have a hacking 40 a day cough.

Standard waking procedure.
“Oh my God! what time is it, any Views?”
“ Where’s my camera? Jeez it’s cold, I’m going back to my bag.”
I’m eager to get going while the weather is clear. Having learnt that the only time to walk is in the morning while the monsoon is on. We scoff down a quick cuppa, leave our bags out for the porters and move on up the track.

In the drier weather we walk a bit faster, it’s still very slippery and quite steep. It takes us about an hour to get to the village of Tsoka. It’s a much larger village than Bakim, one of those places that eventually as tourism takes hold will be full of little lodges and bakeries.

As we walk into the hut the other trekkers are getting ready to leave. We feel slightly in the way and move back outside. One of our porters grabs two chairs and puts them outside for us. We sit and watch the views. The clouds that were starting to brew over Bakim are tearing themselves into little wisps that slide down the valley. We watch the wisps form up and move back up the valley and we sit shrouded in a mist so thick that we can barely see the lodge. The other trekkers have gone and Ram has set his kitchen up and breakfast is ready. It’s a great breakfast and sitting back drinking coffee in the warm hut makes it hard to get motivated. Eventually Siva smiles and says it’s time to go.

Our walk to Pethang is through mist and a light rain. The Rain forest of yesterday has changed completely to Cloud Forest. Huge deodars and ancient rhododendrons, trunks a foot thick, long spindly branches looking like the fingers of old women criss-cross the track above us. Spanish mosses drip from these fingers. Small, quiet birds flutter and disappear barely seen.

We’ve picked up a new "camp dog" at Tsoka and it runs around eyes wide, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He’s running rings around us and is always sneaking up on Siva and nipping him on the ankles or tripping him up.

The track is still very rocky and slippery, this makes it seem that we’ve been walking longer than we actually have. I ask Siva how far to Pethang. He shrugs and says about half way. I’m momentarily crushed. Only half way! It’s at this point that I lose my competitive urges, “I gotta catch those other trekkers” , relax and enjoy the walk.

The rain is now back and set in making the track even more slippery and we all at different times slip over. Siva quick and nimble as he is, slips awkwardly on his ankle giving him a fright. A large rock overhang provides us with some shelter as we wait for the rain to ease off a bit. We sit and talk about ourselves. Siva doesn’t normally guide for this particular company and is only doing it as a favour. He should be training for a climb he’s got planned a couple of weeks after we get back.

With the rain easing we continue upwards. The track is steep and difficult but thankfully levels out for a short while. Walking on level ground feels like bliss. It’s short lived though as we start to climb upwards again. We pass murky grey ponds their surfaces broken by big drops that fall out of the trees. Although not as hot as the last two days its still quite muggy, making it impossible to where our Goretex, so we persevere with our trekking umbrellas.

We crest a mound and find ourselves in a clearing about the size of a football oval. The clearing overlooks the valley which we assume is below and off to the left, hidden in the clouds.
A hut sits off to one side, a boarded path leads over and past it. Curious to know why it doesn’t just go to it I follow it and then walk towards the hut and instantly sink up to my ankles in thick black mud. I slosh over to the door in time to watch my wife do the same.
The hut is not at all as well appointed as the others we’ve seen. Which could explain why the other trekkers havent stayed. It is a basic wooden structure, with a verandah out front and two rooms. One room we make the kitchen and the other will be where we eat. Siva explains that we needed the tent for this night as it’s not really used for sleeping.

Ram has a brew on within minutes of arriving, we sit and dangle our legs over the verandah drink tea and eat biscuits off an Aluminium tray covered with paper serviette and watch the rain. Our boys come up in dribs and drabs, drop there loads grab a cuppa and talk to each other in the kitchen. The younger guys are showing the days exertion on their faces, the older guys smile and smoke their bidis hands wrapped around steel mugs.

Sivar decides it’s time to put the tent up, so with the help of a couple of the guys they set to work.
I was engrossed in a conversation with one of the porters (monosyllables in English and Nepali along with various hand gestures) and didn’t watch what they were doing. So when it came time to dump our stuff into the tent, I was unable to contain my horror. It was a floppy, sodden lump of nylon draped around a centre pole. I tried to crawl in and lie down. I couldn’t fit! Each time I rolled to the side of the mat, I could hear it squeegeing water up into the mat. The centre pole, instead of sitting into a grommet, just went straight up through the large hole where the grommet should have been. They cleverly tied a lace around the pole to keep it in place. I put our bags into the tent and onto the mats, to keep them out of the puddles that were forming in the corners.

My wife came over and tried to help me figure out a way to stop the fly from touching the inner, which was making water dribble onto the mats. Eventually she looked at the tent , squinted her eyes, put her hands on her hips, shook her head and said “They’ve put the fly on inside out”.
We both had a laugh and put it the right way up. It still made no difference.

The rain which had eased, now came back in a torrent. The water went from pooling in the corners to streaming down over the floor. I went over to Siva and told him that I was a bit concerned about the water and he nonchalantly suggested they could put a tarp under the tent to keep the water from soaking in. I insisted he come out into the rain to have a good look at the tent. At this point he could tell I wasn’t happy. I don’t loose my cool when talking to these guys. There’s no point and it wont achieve anything. So I explained my concerns about the condition of the tent and how it was impossible to sleep in it. Siva, now seeing how wet it had become, flushed with embarrassment, saying that he had never done a trek with this crowd before and that it will be the last time unless they upgrade the gear. I stood staring at him until at last he made the offer of sleeping in the hut. I grabbed the bags again and stuck them inside the hut. Got a cup of tea and sat in the corner fuming. The porters seeing they had nowhere to sleep head back down the track to Tsoka, unloaded they will be there in no time.

I stew a bit during dinner, but the meals are hilarious. My wife is Queen of the Porters and has them eating out of her hand. She has such an infectious laugh that soon everyone is wetting themselves, even though they don’t know why. We play cards after dinner, which was too large and too close to lunch. Spaghetti cake (I’m serious), sauce, curry veges, roasted potatoes all followed by banana fritters. After one last cuppa we organise our packs for the next day and get ready for bed. The leech bites are driving us nuts, we just want to scratch our legs to pieces.
Mila sleeps in the Kitchen with one of the older porters, Ram and Siva bunk in with us.

I fall asleep easily and wake every now and again, dreams of large horses frighteningly vivid make my pulse race.”

“I just found out there's a Nepalaneese(SP?) restaurant in my area. It's supposed to be the best in the States. Can't wait to check it out and see exactly what you were eatting Bunyip! Thanks for another fine recounting.”

“Say this to your waiter.
"Tapai la kasto Cha"
"Sansay Cha?"
It's not rude.
It means, "How are you? Good?"”

“I love reading your trip reports Bunyip, you sure have a way with words and I love the pictures you paint with `em. It`s just like being there.

Thanks!”

“No, thanks for reading it.”