5 minute read
A Cheese Factory Christmas
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In the early 1970s, with much of south and Southeast Asia in political upheaval, the region was descended upon by armies of ‘hippie’ adventurers, most unprepared for what was unfolding around them. In an extract from his memoir Me. And me now: A 1970s’ Hippie Trail Adventure, former journalist and academic Alan Samson recalls a Christmas Day respite at 3000m, recovering from an Everest trek without a jacket and in jandals.
My idiotic 34-day trek to and from the Everest hinterland was notable for its speed, ignoring warnings about altitude sickness, and poor preparation — no jacket and unbroken-in boots. The last error of judgement had me virtually crippled in the ascent and most of my hike done in jandals. Astonishingly, I made it to the top of the Kala Patthar summit (5500m), then a desperately needed break on the homeward leg. A remote cheese factory at Thodung (3125m), although still above the danger level for altitude sickness, proved the perfect spot.
DAY 29: Thodung (3125m)
Christmas Eve. I climbed, exertion upon exertion, but the effort was worth it and I was happy enough when I passed a summit spur with glorious views of the fertile valley of Bandar hanging below. I strolled down to the river but from there the walk grew harder. The valley was long and uncompromising and I found this latest uphill haul deceiving and taxing.
Thodung came. It had to. But I was not prepared for the early hour and, in consequence, plunged into teas and cream curds rather carelessly, sitting outdoors under a benign sun with husband Parsay. He had studied in Taranaki and had much to show me: photographs, a Kiwi badge, and an embossed postcard of Christmas greetings from the Hillary family. He asked me what a New Zealand Christmas was like and, a little homesick, I did my best to convey the occasion. “Most important, is family,” I told him. “Christmas is all about family.” And perhaps that was why, alone at a remote cheese factory at nigh-on 3350m, I felt suddenly lonely and went to bed early. with my thoughts in front of a huge log fire when a broad Australian voice broke the calm: “Anyone else ’ere?” There was indeed, and I rose from my chair to pass yuletide greetings. Soon there were three more, an Austrian, an American and, finally, an Englishwoman. All intended to continue but, possessed of extraordinary powers of persuasion, I convinced all that the 25th was not a day to be spent trekking. A New Zealander arrived and we joined forces to convince him too to stay. All had guides and porters, but these were happy to be dismissed for the evening, opting for a party of their own at a neighbouring village. One Sherpa had engaged a porter for himself out of his wages, but I was not into mockery, this most festive of days.
We began the day by demolishing the factory’s cream curd supplies. We drank coffee out of china teacups then devoured cheese with freshly baked crusted breads. Afterwards, we sat in the sun and explored each other’s adventures. A middle-aged Englishman in Nepal to recruit Ghurkhas for the English army arrived. It was interesting the English still had pulling power in independent Nepal. But much foreign exchange was apparently generated. He was a trifle condescending, however, and no one was disappointed when he decided to continue to the next village.
I shared my favourite view of primrose Gauri Shankar at sunset, drug-free, then we adjourned to the lounge fire till the call for dinner had us filing expectantly to the kitchen. Before us were consomme soups, enormous plates of ham steaks, chips and grated white radish. All this at a remote cheese factory at more than 3000m, aeons from cars, flush toilets and electricity, aeons from home! We scraped our plates then spontaneously began crooning Christmas “carols”, slaughtering such extremes as Silent Night and Click go the Shears. After raksi was produced, I attempted a Maori haka. Our hosts chipped in with an enthusiastic rendition of a children’s song featuring animal noises and we responded competitively with Sweet Molly Malone. A little tipsy, we concluded with Auld Lang Syne.
Back in our outhouse, we huddled around a fire and continued the hilarity. There was even a gift unwrapping, for the Kiwi had been carrying a present from home, with a message asserting the contents would be “sorely needed” by this stage of the trek. Predictably, it was cologne, and we Dean Martin-ishly passed the bottle around. We did sleep. I am sure we did, for the final reward to the evening’s frolic was a kiss from the English girl, Lynne, and there could have been no more fitting finale to an extraordinary day. In lieu of mistletoe, we had hung the Australian’s polka dot underbriefs from a roof beam.
DAY 31: Those (1930m)
Ready for the onward trek, I caused a bit of a furore when I appeared in short pants and jandals. The others all sported woollen jumpers, jackets, thick woollen socks, and imposing tramping boots designed for the Everest summit. Tagged “the mad New Zealander”, I became the target of a frightening array of cinematic machinery. After fond farewells to the Thodung staff we all climbed down to the Bandar Pass summit where my friends turned left and I turned right. Their Everest adventures lay before them; mine were almost done. I had no great desire now to cover great distances so descended with frequent rest stops. I shared my cheese with a passing Sherpa then refound valley floor where I wandered dreamfully till Those [the next village] persuaded my halt.
Those was a strange antiquity. Its houses, all two or three storeys, faced each other, and the way between was of such trifling breadth that a museum arcade rather than a township was indicated. I found a teahouse, unconcerned that midday had barely arrived.
