Last year, I started walking from right here. Can you imagine?” says my hiking companion pointing to Baling village through the car window. The taxi we are in is piled high with supplies — rations, fuel, clothes and some treats (read eggs, flavoured milk and stationery) for family and friends of those headed home.
This year though, the road has gone beyond Baling, all the way to Duktu village in Darma valley of Kumaon Himalaya close to the China border.
As we get off, Beerendra, a Darma resident and our other hiking mate, meets a tea stall owner who invites us for the staple tea-and-Maggi offering. Over a bowl of steaming noodles and heavily sweetened tea, we discuss the new road on which I’ve just had a hair-raising drive.
The road has brought much with it to Duktu village, a gateway to the Panchachuli mountain base camp and home to the Rung community. Along with infrastructure, daily connectivity, and a means of quick transport for people and goods to the nearest big town of Dharchula on the Indo-Nepal border, the road has come with its baggage of excessive tourists, weekend revellers from Pithoragarh here for a tipple, and a lot of plastic.
Inhaling the freshness
A 30-minute walk across the bridge leads you to Daatu, a village that showcases the glorious Panchachuli peaks and their glaciers that feed the Nyuli Yangti rivulet.
Daatu is where one really begins to get a feel of the true beauty of Darma and its culture. I take a close look at the heavily carved doors and windows and inhale the rich, earthy smell that rises from the mud floor of the houses and cowsheds.
A modest statue commemorates Jasuli Devi, a 19th century philanthropist of the Rung community, who after her husband’s death, used his wealth to build inns across Kumaon for pilgrims and travellers.
An emotional stopover
Past Daatu is the village of Gho that stands precariously on a cave-like structure, followed by Dhakar. Beyond this, the ITBP starts its serious patrolling as we enter the last of the Darma villages — Tedang, Marcha and Sipu.
It’s too late to reach Sipu by evening; Beerendra insists we stop at his relatives’ in Marcha for the night. By sunset, we reach our stopover and after many squeals of delight at the cousins’ reunion (our arrival was a surprise), washing weary feet and dusty faces, we sit cross-legged around the fire of the hearth where I get a chance to discover the Rung culture.
Deepa, our young hostess, whips up a hearty meal of rice and vegetable curry laced with timur, wild Szechuan pepper that is generously used in Nepali and Kumaoni cuisine.
Before we eat, rich barley wine makhti, is generously into glasses, offered to the gods, then passed around the fire for men and women to relish.
The road will bring its advantages, and maybe even cellular connectivity someday and that mobile phone Deepa craves. The only reason she wants one, she says, is because everyone seems to have one — not because she really needs one. That’s pretty much the story of our lives, I tell her.
Basking in the warmth of perfect strangers with whom I share neither language, cuisine or culture, I walk under the stars as Marcha sleeps in its isolated, dreamy world.
Beyond, the Dhauli Ganga flows silently through the vast Darma valley and I can see the silhouette of alpine flowers against the moonlight.
Born and brought up in the Himalayas, the writer derives great joy from napping under the mountain sun.
