Eagle hunting is a leisurely, contemplative pursuit. We walk through a desert of snow-covered frozen rocks, ascending one hill after another, blown by the ever-present wind sweeping through the valley. Each scenic spot provides an opportunity to pause, observe, and scan for the small reddish or white dot that will come to life in the distance. Bekhen moves frantically in all directions, as if his life depends on it—all in vain. I can’t shake the feeling that today’s expedition is a lost cause, and truth be told, that’s not that bad considering I’m beginning to freeze. Bakhbergen, in his mellifluous voice, suggests we seek warmth at one of his aunt’s places “not far from here, on the other side of the hill.” I quickly lose sight of him and find myself alone, struggling to follow the tracks left by the horses on the thin layer of frozen snow, all while blisters form in the holes of my Chinese socks.

From a distance, I see Bakhbergen rushing towards me: “fox! fox!” He urges his horse to move as fast as possible along the slope, and I run down through the scree like a madman, my camera swinging and bouncing against my ribs to catch up with the hunters. Running in a deel is not ideal—no pun intended. The layers of wool make each step heavier, and the length of the tunic hinders my strides. I arrive breathless. The two golden eagles firmly grip a red fox in their talons, a devilish blend of curves and points. Formidable weapons. Is it dead? No, it still valiantly fights for its life, but its chances are slim. Bekhen holds its mouth closed to prevent it from attacking the eagles. It has already torn a talon from one of them; the bone is exposed. The hunters strive to loosen the grip of the raptors, but the eagles are hungry and excited by their catch. They peck at the fox as if it were already just a pile of meat, and up close, I regularly take wing flaps to the face. The scene is electric. The eagles must not damage the fox’s fur. With their leather gloves, the hunters try to grasp the talons and systematically undo them, one by one, offering pieces of meat to appease the fierce appetite of the predators. Then, Bekhen resumes the struggle against the fox. He grabs it by the throat and thrusts a stick into its mouth. Will he finish it off like this? The scene is brutal and clashes with my sanitized city-boy sensibility. Deep inside I hope the fox will survive, but its fate is sealed. Bekhen seizes it by the rear legs, previously tied, and spins it in a perfect circle before slamming its skull against the rocks with all his strength: “POC!” No unnecessary suffering, the goal is a swift death. I avert my gaze. A second plummet: “POC!” This time it’s dead (?). A final blow of the rock on the skull: one can never be too sure… There, it’s over. The creature that struggled like a demon now gazes towards infinity, its corneas tainted by dust. Bekhen hands me the carcass: “it’s for you!” I find it difficult to look at it in the eyes; I feel responsible for its death. They cut off the front legs: “one for each hunter,” explains Bakhbergen. They carefully stow them in their small pouches adorned with Kazakh motifs, replace the leather hood on their eagles’ heads, and mount their horses towards the small hamlet a few dozen meters away, content with their catch. There awaits a warm stove and liters of piping hot milk tea that we engulf in the company of the eagles, in the living room.

In our Western civilization, neatly packaged in cellophane, there’s a quick tendency to forget just how intricately life and death are intertwined—a timeless couple whose bonds cannot be severed. Without one, the other would cease to exist. Among the Kazakhs in Western Mongolia, this relationship is no taboo: to live, one must kill, and this understanding permeates from a young age. The climate in that region is such that without meat, no culture could have thrived. So, when winter arrives, the endless procession of trucks laden with sheep, goats, cows, and horses destined for the pantry seems unending. During this time of the year, be it in the city or the countryside, each family slaughters approximately ten sheep and goats, a cow, and a horse. It’s not uncommon to step out of a house and find oneself face to face with a sheep being slaughtered, or to enter a home where women are cheerfully cleaning intestines. For someone like me, who has always tried to slip away when the scent of death becomes too overwhelming, there’s no option but to confront it head-on.

Today, Bekhen has planned to slaughter eight sheep and goats. Knowing my aversion, he takes great pleasure in teasing me: “Me, sheep champion!” He then mimics the motion of a knife going back and forth under his throat, emitting gurgling sounds before bursting into laughter. Here, when a joke finds its way, it’s cherished and repeated endlessly; I’ll have to endure it every day, several times a day. Once outside, he seizes the first sheep by the horns and leads it towards the small wooden house that serves as a butchery/pantry. The animal barely struggles, as if it has already accepted its fate. Holding it close to him, he recites a prayer, then turns it upside down, enters the room, lays it on the ground, and ties its legs. The sheep doesn’t even resist. He delicately cuts its throat while holding its head. The blood flows to the rhythm of the heartbeats into a small stainless steel basin, and life leaves its gaze in a subtle transition—sheep, even alive, have vacant eyes. In the span of a minute, the animal transforms into meat. He removes the head, separates the skin from the steaming flesh, and hangs the body on a hook to cut the various pieces, which are then salted and hung to dry. Meanwhile, Saole, his wife, with her usual maternal gaze and a smile filled with tenderness, empties and cleans the animal’s intestines, playfully acknowledging that I’m photographing her. What is an unusual and discomforting spectacle for me is entirely natural for them. They witnessed it as children and now reproduce the same ritual every year. Once the first sheep is cut, Bekhen goes to get the next one, then another… The morbid procession lasts all afternoon, neighbors come to lend a hand, turning it into a social event. Of the eight animals, five have been slaughtered and prepared. It’s a Herculean task. My heart is turned upside down, and the heads of the deceased animals that sit in a basin at the entrance of the living room, waiting to be prepared, serve as a reminder that one day it will be my turn. Memento mori. At forty, it might be time for me to toughen up a bit.

Death, it seems, doesn’t stray far from human endeavors either. On an exceptionally cold day, I join Bakhbergen on horseback to assist a neighbor. He needs help loading a horse into his truck to bring it to the village for slaughter. Already there are Bekhen, one of Bakhbergen’s brothers, and other men. The will to live and the intelligence of horses, especially the semi-wild Mongolian ones, are incomparable to that of sheep. They’re ready to fight to preserve their right to life. We head towards the enclosure where the horses are restless, sensing something is amiss. Five men armed with lassos enter, knowing well that the operation is risky. The first attempt fails miserably. As soon as the rope touches the horse, it bolts, triggering a wild chase with the others. The enclosure is tight, demanding quick reactions to avoid getting trampled. After several tentative efforts, the lasso finally snags around the neck of a horse. It panics. The men, leaning backward and gripping the rope, exert all their strength, attempting to control the animal. However, their brute force is no match. They strategically use trunks in the enclosure to form angles, attempting to reduce the horse’s traction. Yet, one trunk collapses, they lose control, and the horse regains dominance. Bekhen’s brother falls, and the scene unfolds in slow motion. Attempting to rise and avoid an approaching horse, he takes two kicks to the face, collapsing, knocked out. The others drop the rope and rush to his aid, working swiftly to get him out of the enclosure. He holds his face, groaning in pain, and Bekhen, his father, remains by his side until he regains consciousness. The others return to the hunt. As a typical Westerner, I attempt to convey to Bakhbergen the urgency of taking his brother to the hospital, emphasizing the potential seriousness of the situation. He acknowledges my concern, but priorities here are different. Only after the horse is securely tied to the back of the truck, a good quarter of an hour later, can I make my voice heard. “OK. They’ll head down to the village and take him to the hospital,” he informs me in a neutral, almost indifferent tone. Whether said to reassure me or genuinely carried out, when I check in the next day, the brother is recovering well, and that’s the most important. They express warm gratitude for my inquiry: “rakhmet, rakhmet“—”thank you, thank you.”

I’m physically and mentally drained. My body is slowly giving in. Fatigue, upset stomach, cough, all I want to do is stay close to the fire and play the dombra, the two-stringed Kazakh guitar. I’m familiar with this feeling; it’s not the first time it’s happened to me. So, I push my weak body a little further, knowing that soon I’ll return to civilization and its comforts where I can rejuvenate. Today, there’s a wedding with our neighbors, and I can’t afford to miss it. Not having planned for it, I’m dressed like a sore thumb, standing out while the entire family is dressed to the nines–I’m getting used to this too. Kazakhs love to celebrate at the slightest opportunity. When I talk about a celebration, I’m not referring to a meal with a dozen people–that’s a normal meal–but rather an event with several dozens–hundreds in the city–of people. Every occasion is a good reason to celebrate: the first birthday of a child, their entry into primary school, the construction of a house, and so on. The wedding, of course, is one of these significant moments in life and deserves two celebrations: one at the bride’s family, followed by another at the groom’s family where she will go to live. The small winter house is just big enough to accommodate the guests. I struggle to understand where all these people come from in this vast, mostly uninhabited steppe. Each room hosts a small party with a different atmosphere. One room is filled with the youth, another with a feast for the elders where everyone sits on the floor on carpets, side by side, devouring the colorful food laid out on a long tablecloth–Kazakhs, much like the French, share this interest in food, even though we have two distinct ways of appreciating it. Another room becomes the gathering place for those wanting to down a few shots of vodka, and later transforms into the space where grandmothers take care of the babies. I encounter familiar faces, including my host from a few days ago. He looks at me seriously, nods his head while pointing to a woman, sometimes his wife, and repeatedly hits his palm against his fist in an obscene gesture before pushing her towards me, causing everyone to burst into laughter and making Bakhbergen uncomfortable. Of course, a joke is only funny when repeated endlessly. I’ll get it every time I cross paths with him throughout the day.

As I devour the cucumber and tomato slices covered in mayonnaise–damn, vegetables!–overlooked by the Kazakhs, even though it’s a sort of luxury here in the remote wilderness, the meat is abundant. Several sheep have been sacrificed for the occasion, and four times immense plates of boiled meat are served. Without fail, with each delivery, Bekhen looks straight into my eyes with his mocking smile: “sheep champion!” Then, he waves his finger under his throat, gurgling again. The joke never gets old. Before diving into the meat feast, he now adds: “Kazakh krokodil!” in reference to a comment Bakhbergen had made while we were watching a wildlife documentary at a neighbor’s place, where reptiles attacked a herd of wildebeests: “We Kazakhs are like crocodiles.” Meals are punctuated by breaks where guests come to make a donation to the family, thanking them and wishing them the best in a long speech recited with varying degrees of confidence. Then, the musician guests launch into a melancholic song accompanied by a dombra, an accordion, or even a cappella, quickly joined in chorus by the others. I discover in Bekhen a talent for playing the accordion, and in his son Bakhbergen, a voice of incredible beauty. Could a family of artists be hiding under this wild appearance? I discover in them a sensitivity that I wouldn’t have imagined after being so familiar with death in recent days. Could the Kazakh Krokodils be cute little lambs under their carnivorous scales?

1. Traditional Mongolian dress. ︎

I step inside through a wooden door covered with a worn piece of woolen carpet. It creaks. I feel enveloped by a wave of warmth. The interior is dimly lit, illuminated by a broken window covered with plastic—oh gosh, I adore those lights! On the floor, there’s a goatskin with fur against the dusty ground, upon which a pile of entrails and another of meat are laid out. It’s a common sight in these Kazakh shepherd’s homes, but it never fails to stir my stomach. I can’t help but imagine that tiny animal frolicking on the steppe with its friends just a few hours ago, and suddenly, the cute little creature has become meat. Tchokeu, the mistress of the house, with rosy cheeks from the cold and green eyes, welcomes me with a warm smile that seems somewhat incongruent with her current activity: she’s busy scrubbing the head and paws of the lifeless creature with a steel sponge in a basin filled with black water. The two children are more reserved. Here, they exude an impressive shyness. Despite my years of experience in trying to be amusing and make them laugh, I feel like I’m making silly faces and sounds in front of an impenetrable wall. Seated in a corner near the stove, at a respectful distance, the young ones observe me with bright, almost unblinking eyes. They scrutinize me for a long time, thoroughly. It takes a good hour before the slightest trace of amusement starts to emerge on their plump faces, especially after the younger one seeks solace in his mother’s arms, shedding a few tears.

Preparing dinner takes up the entire day. The aroma of boiling guts pervades the room and will remain for the whole day. I wonder how I can gracefully avoid it. Should I feign a sudden stomachache? Explain that I simply can’t ingest it? I carefully consider my options. I’m more than willing to adapt from my nearly vegetarian diet to a meaty one, given the meat-centric culture of this place. However, there are limits, and guts is where I draw the line. I just can’t bring myself to eat it. As night approaches, we switch on the light. In all the houses in this region, the same three-branched LED light prevails, casting a harsh, unforgiving illumination powered by a car battery charged by an old solar panel. Family and friends enter the house. With each entrance, a cold draft sweeps. Among the Kazakhs, it’s tradition to serve copious amounts of salted milk tea to the extent that I’ve never seen any of them drinking water. On the table, an abundance of customary treats awaits: qurt (pronounced « korrrt » with rolled Rs), an exceptionally hard cheese that could almost break your teeth; irimshik, another cheese with a softer texture resembling a soft biscuit, although, according to Karbai, it has a reputation to make you fart; butter; thick cream; bauirsak, small pastries varying in crunchiness based on their freshness; sugar cubes for dipping into the tea and letting them dissolve on the tongue, candies, cookies, and more. These appetizers serve as both breakfast and snacks, nibbled on throughout the day, not just by family but also by numerous passersby, as the Kazakhs are known for their sociable nature. Here, you enter others’ homes as if they were your own, taking a seat on a bench or stool, and then waiting for the lady of the house to serve you the first bowl of tea before diving into the assortment of food on the table. Once the bowl is emptied, whether it’s the first or the tenth, it’s never left vacant for more than a few seconds. Such impoliteness would not be tolerated by the hosts or anyone at the table, who would promptly refill it or signal the lady of the house to do so. I quickly learn the word « toydem, » meaning « I’m full, » which I say while placing my hand on my belly. It has the merit of eliciting laughter and sparing me from a overfeeding explosion.

The dreaded mealtime has arrived. I’m invited to wash my hands using a jug of water poured by a young guy to cleanse our black-covered fingers. Guests of all ages gather around the table. The centerpiece is the traditional Kazakh dish called beshbarmak, which means “five fingers” and indeed requires all them fingers to be enjoyed without creating a mess. After a brief Arabic prayer and a ceremonial passing of our hands in front of our faces, the feast begins. Two men take charge of the guts, skillfully slicing them with large knives, helping themselves in the process, while the hungry guests reach for the pieces tossed into the dish. They alternate between liver, intestines, <insert_your_favourite_gut>, and pieces of sticky dough, which forms the foundation of the meal. If the piece you pick doesn’t quite suit your taste, you can either leave it in place or throw it towards your neighbour to pick a better one—no fuss is made. Everything has been cooked with the guts, but I’m lucky. Amid the lovecraftian-shaped morsels, there’s also some fine fesh meat. I take a refined approach and keep an eye on the small meat chunks scattered among the guts, taking the time to chew each bite to make it last longer: when you’re not eating or reaching for food, there’s always someone gently encouraging you to « enjoy yourself. »

Then comes the moment to tackle the goat’s head. The skilled butcher hands me a piece, beaming with pride to honor me. Such a smile means I have no choice. To my surprise, it tastes OK, although the texture doesn’t encourage me to relive the experience. Quickly, the head turns into a skull. Knives are plunged into it to extract the juicy eyes and the brain, a kind of sticky paste. My uncomfortable look is enough to convey that I’m not tempted, but they still offer me a piece, laughing about it—oh, those tourists, so delicate… The meal only lasts a few intense minutes. The scattered bones around the dish form a circle. I feel like I’ve witnessed a pack of wolves feasting on their prey. Now satiated, the wild Kazakhs turn back into nice and gentle humans. We open the first bottle of vodka, then the next. Tomorrow is the big day of the autumn migration, and it’s worth celebrating. There are only two « shooters » in the house, so we pair up as drinking buddies, and the bottles empty within minutes. I love their surprise and laughter each time I down my—double?—shooter, while they seem to approach it more cautiously—haha! Who’s the delicate tourist now? To wash away the taste, a sip of milk tea or a sugar cube do the trick. After a few drinks, we understand each other much better, even though we’re still limited to the same handful of words. The alcohol is just starting to take effect when the evening comes to an end, and everyone gets up to return home. What? Already? I feel sad. This is such a peculiar way of partying… We bring out the thin mattresses, set them up on the floor, add a few blankets, and then burrow in for a cold and short night.

Being the guest holds a certain privilege. In the morning, when it’s -1000°C, I’m excused from lighting the fire. I get roused by a noise… or perhaps is it the light? I cast a glance around. The beds are still filled with people in the throes of slumber. I can go back to sleep. I wake up for a second time around 5:30. I’m gently told it’s not my hour yet. Great! 6:00, my alarm rings. This time, it’s for real. The breakfast table is laid out with steaming hot tea, and the family is loading the back of their enormous Soviet truck—surely a veteran of countless migrations—with all their possessions. I offer a hand, then join Nauka, 25 years old, and Koghul, 18 years old, with the herd. This time, I’m wearing my friend Oko’s—whom I met a decade ago among the Tsaatans— winter del, a Mongolian wool tunic. I’d rather be too warm than too cold. The night brought snowfall. The golden steppe is now dusted with a delicate white layer, creating beautiful shades of colour as the sun rises. In the distance, the peaks are covered in enough snow to last until next summer. Winter is now flirting with the autumn pastures, signaling the start of the migration, and we’re not alone on the road. Nauka and Koghul take turns between the horse and the motorcycle to gather and guide the livestock, unabashedly making all sorts of noises and honking like mad. I, on the other hand, mostly walk. Walking lends a deliberate pace to this transhumance. The sound of the cows’ hooves on the firm ground, the goat kids’ bleating as they search for their mothers, the gentle melodies of the cold wind brushing through the valleys, the horses’ farts… All these subtle details can only be savored by taking your time and distancing yourself from the engines. Yet after several hours, it’s not unpleasant to catch a ride on a motorcycle to the nearest house for a steaming cup of tea and a snack. Following a little tense moment where we prevented our herd from mingling with another and played traffic police to get them across a bridge, we cross paths with the family’s fully-loaded truck, overflowing with forage. We have forgotten a sheep, which had been tethered to the top of the pile. They lower it down for us before we part ways once more.

Young Kazakhs appear to have a mixed view of this tradition. They take pleasure in participating in the migrations that occur between two and four times a year. However, the idea of becoming a shepherd is out of the question for them. For instance, Nauka studied business in Ulan-Bator and now runs his own business, selling coal to the villagers for heating. Koghul, on the other hand, is still a student and aspires to become an architect. It seems that only the young who currently lack access to education will continue in the footsteps of their ancestors. As night falls, Nauka takes me on his motorcycle. Initially, I think it’s for another tea break, but this time he drops me off at the family’s house where we will spend the night. I appreciate the gesture, even though I feel a bit frustrated to once again be privileged into warm indoors while they’re out in the cold herding the animals. Before departing, he fills an old soda bottle with milk tea for Koghul, who will gulp it down in a matter of minutes. Kazakhs seem to have oversized stomachs and bladders; I can’t think of any other explanation for their capacity to consume such colossal quantities of tea. When I ask Nauka how many bowls he has in the morning, he replies, « Oh, maybe ten? »

The following day unfolds in the same manner. Walking, honking, shouting, and tossing rocks to gather a herd that spreads out at the rhythm of valley openings. And… drinking tea, of course. This time, we stop at a Mongolian yurt. Mongols of the Tuva ethnicity coexist with the majority of Kazakhs in these valleys. A man is busy treating his sheep for ticks. As always, he asks me if I’m married and if I have children. Here, families with four or more children are the norm. People find it hard to understand that us Westerners might not want or have children, and they look saddened when they learn of it. So, when I explain, he explicitly conveys with his hands and hips’ moves that I should fuck more, for which we share a hearty laugh. The snow begins to fall again. We overlook a river with a panoramic view of the flat valley stretching all around. Some leaning conifers suggest that the wind that’s been battering us for several days is no exception. The sight of Nauka and Koghul working hard to keep the herd together takes on an epic quality. It feels like a wintry Western with sheep instead of cows—and, well, a motorcycle that stands out a bit.

The sky remains gray, and the ground, which had been stripped of snow, is once again covered in white. The mist-shrouded mountains take on an appearance reminiscent of Asian calligraphy. The herd forms chaotic lines, resembling a slow, brownish flow spreading across the freshly blanketed valley, with sporadic bleats serving as a background soundtrack. It’s the end of the day, and we’re tired, so we let loose. Shouting and making all sorts of noises to motivate the herd, which is also starting to lag, warms us up and provides some amusement. « The winter home is on the other side of the pass, » Nauka informs me. It’s not very close, especially with the herd. But like the previous day, as night falls, he brings me towards the house. By the time I become aware of it, it’s already too late to turn back. He stops his motorcycle. It’s dark, and the slope is too steep for both of us to ride together. He indicates that he’ll lead the way, and I should follow on foot. I ascend, and I start to sweat in my winter del. Upon reaching the top of the pass, Bukhai, the family’s father, awaits me with his motorcycle. He speeds downhill on the snow, bathed in the yellow glow of the headlight, all the way to the winter house. I grip the seat, imagining the motorcycle skidding at any moment. I really don’t like those two-wheelers! We haven’t seen each other for just two days, but I feel immense joy in reuniting with the family in this remote house in the middle of nowhere, and the joy is mutual. When it’s time to part ways, in addition to the broad smiles, they fill my pockets with qurt.

It’s now time to return to the town. I climb onto the motorcycle with Nauka and Koghul. Being close to each other helps us fight the cold. On a motorcycle, warmth dissipates as you pick up speed, and it’s all downhill from here. The full moon bathes the snowy ground and the surrounding mountains in its soft light. I feel like I’m floating in a dreamlike landscape, and a profound sense of contentment fills me to the point where I forget about the cold. I came here in search of adventure, excitement, and, even though it was just for a few days, I’ve lived through one of my best travel experiences ever. Rakhmet! — Thank you!

Night Trains

The first one is that of the overnight trains. Let me be clear, I’m speaking about the budget version, the one favored by the masses, not the comfortable carriages where a good night’s sleep is guaranteed. I’m talking about the warmth of the old carriages dating back to the Soviet era, where railway attendants in blue shirts meticulously inspect the train’s condition at every stop by tapping the wheels with a hammer. These carriages exude a retro charm and offer a sticky heat, but most importantly, they provide a sense of camaraderie that helps us forget our lonely human condition. Through the weathered windows that have been contemplated by generations of Uzbeks and travelers, the landscapes of the Silk Road unfold. Slowly, to the rhythm of the train’s “toc-toc, toc-toc” as it glides along uneven tracks, villages, towns, and deserts pass by. Passengers of all ages sit on the berths. They may have never met before, but it seems as if they’ve known each other for a lifetime. A radiant young woman boards the train with her baby, seeking assistance. Naturally, an elderly man takes the child into his arms and cares for him as if it were his own grandchild, while another child joins in to play. Few speak English, but that doesn’t hinder their curiosity and their willingness to share a cup of tea with me. Google Translate becomes my trusty companion and performs admirably. Since the Uzbek alphabet is similar to ours, I attempt the pronunciation, which seems to work well and allows for brief conversations.

Then comes the time for prayer. The devout passengers orient themselves toward Mecca and invoke Allah through whispers and gestures that are unfamiliar to me. So, I capture these moments with my camera. After the prayers conclude, their curiosity leads them to view the photos with a hearty laugh, and they eagerly show me their thumbs.

As mealtime approaches, I’m invited to join them at the small table nestled between the berths. Food is shared generously, and the table is filled to the brim. I brought my own provisions: bread, smoked sausage, and a few bananas. The feast begins in an informal and communal fashion. We pass around small tidbits to nibble on while the setting sun casts a warm glow on people’s faces, etching these memories into my mind. I never anticipated that the light could be so magical within the confines of a train carriage. After the meal, the elders express their gratitude by sweeping their hands before their faces, and everyone retires to their berths to sleep, with their feet dangling over the edge. We might be woken at the next stop or the one after, when the carriage attendant switches on the lights for new passengers or when someone mistakenly thinks you’re sleeping on the wrong berth. But who cares… that’s part of the fun.

As the sun rises and bathes the drowsy carriage in its golden light once more, some faces have departed, replaced by new ones. The early risers are either engulfed into their smartphones’ screens or captivated by the passing scenery. Regardless the window through which they look, humans need to escape. Suddenly, a young man arrives, his face adorned with a carnivorous grin, carrying a large bowl. He invites me to partake. Bread? It is a bit dry, but why not? But that’s a trick. Under the thin layer of bread lie kilos of meat. That’s where that jubilant grin comes from! It’s 8 AM, and my new companions insist that I « try » it. I have no say in the matter, breakfast will be meaty.

The Nuratau Mountains

The other highlight of this trip was spending several days in the Nuratau villages. After hours of traversing the arid Kyzylkum Desert, a mountain range suddenly appears out of nowhere. You can’t help but wonder why the fuck it’s there. Mountains often mean remote villages, and that, I love. In recent times, the villagers, Tajiks who rely on their livestock and walnut production, have ventured into tourism to supplement their income and preserve their traditional way of life, preventing the rural exodus. Now, you can find home-stays in various villages—Sentob, Majrum, Hayot, Ukhum, Asrof, Porasht—and many of them feel heaven-like. If people have chosen to settle here, it’s because, amid all the aridity, there’s water. The Nuratau villages are oases where greenery explodes amidst the prevailing dryness.

Built along riverbanks in the heart of the valleys, the houses are nestled in small clearings surrounded by lush greenery. Gardens are equipped with tables, chairs, and tapchans (raised platforms with carpets) for everyone’s comfort. The streets are lined with centuries-old trees. Legend has it that one of them, a conifer with branches several meters in diameter, dates back to the time of Alexander the Great. Regardless of where you are, you can hear the joyous cries of children playing and saying « hellooooo! », birds singing, chickens clucking, cows grazing—they don’t moo much, but you can hear the “frrrsht frrrrsht” as they chew on the grass—and donkeys braying the hell out of their mouth from miles away. Unfortunately, where there are herds, there are also dogs, which disrupt the peaceful bucolic atmosphere, especially between Hayot and Ukhum, where I was attacked three times in two hours. These pesky dogs don’t want to let me use the path between the two villages. Feels like Tusheti…

As evening approaches, we gather around a table in the garden. October still feels good, even at night. The table is adorned with delicious dishes made from garden vegetables, locally sourced meat, and fresh dairy products, all prepared with love and served with a hearty « bon appétit! » (in French) by the woman or women of the house. Polygamy still exists here, although it’s not very common. Of course, just like everywhere else in Uzbekistan, the meal is accompanied by copious amounts of green tea before we retire to our beds, feeling content, in a room with a vintage decor: floral bed linens, carpets on the walls, and glass chandeliers shaped like leaves. And, naturally, there are hearts and love motifs everywhere…

The next day, a few hours of hiking through the mountains are sufficient to reach the next village. From the mountain passes, a breathtaking view of Aydar lake unfolds, a long and vividly blue body of water, contrasting with the surrounding beige and dusty desert. Along the way, I greet one or two shepherds with a friendly « Salom! ». No dogs in sight. It appears they remain in the village, even though some herds wander freely and return to their enclosures in the evening. Nevertheless, I must remain cautious of the « cobras » as the locals call them—although are they really cobras? I encountered one, just a baby, incredibly cute, which tried to take shelter under my shoe. Eventually, down in a valley, I reach my destination: a lush green mound of vibrant colors dotted with a few houses. It’s the village where my next liter of tea awaits. I encounter children on their way to school, more or less well dressed in their uniforms, who greet me shyly. In one of my pockets, I still have a few stones, remnants from previous dog encounters—and not for keeping children at bay, mind you! I show them to the guesthouse owner, uttering « it, » « dog » in Uzbek. He chuckles and tells me that I should also carry a stick. But in this village, he reassures me, « the dogs are all chill. » I spend the rest of the day playing with the kids and wandering through the village’s streets and paths, exploring the cemetery covered in golden grass… One could say, here as well, that each day follows the same pattern, and that would be true. However, when the days are beautiful and inspiring, why deny oneself the opportunity to repeat them?

Tiji Festival

The festivities begin in the early afternoon, and they’re a considerable letdown. The dances lack enthusiasm, and it feels as if we’re in an eco-museum. Ugly tourists, clad in neon jackets with sunblock-coated faces as pale as butts, have flocked here to witness a cultural performance which looks like a portrayal of what Mustang was like before the modern era, played by teenagers working summer jobs. In typical Western fashion, we occupy most of the space. The few locals here, never ones to cause a fuss, have voluntarily retreated to the back knowing well that we’re here to capture hundreds of images and videos to inundate our social media feeds. A bitter taste fills my mouth, and taking photos pains me. I must confront the fact that I’m no different from the rest, as I’m here for the same reason.

The festival draws to a close on the third day with a puja and the firing of muskets, remains of a turbulent past, with the “son of the king” participating. Initially, we’re puzzled by him wearing headphones. Does he have such pressing matters to attend to that he disregards the people of Mustang? However, the reason becomes clear when a deafening BOOM makes my ears ring—akin to scenes from war movies where the hero escapes an explosion. Men, cloaked in ceremonial chubas and sporting fox fur hats, fire the muskets repeatedly. They’re having a blast. The muskets are ignited, and half the time, they misfire. The other half, after the BOOM, the men chorus “So, so, so…!” Meanwhile, a monk smashes tormas—sacrificial cakes—against the ground. Naughty demons! The grand finale takes place in the dance square, where a final puja unfolds. They drape the “son of the king” in khata—ceremonial silk scarves—and the ceremony concludes in front of the gompa. Only one Asian tourist remains, having a lot of fun with her camera, much like me. The final blessing, involving tsampa—roasted barley flour—evolves into a playful skirmish, with flour flying in all directions. We end up covered in it. On the way back, the villagers, seeing me like that, break into laughter, explaining that it’s a propitious sign: “You will enjoy a long and beautiful life.” If in Colombia, I might have had run-ins with the authorities.

North of Lo Manthang

We spend several days exploring the white villages with concrete streets to the north of Lo Manthang. It’s not very crowded here either, but a tourist rudely jostles me with his stick without a greeting or an apology. That’s something I haven’t missed! He’s filming everything he sees, and it seems his guide isn’t enjoying his time too much. We come across him several times, and he earns the nickname “the naughty yellow.” Besides him, we encounter a few elderly folks sitting on the ground, chatting while spinning their prayer wheels, known as mani. “Tashideleeeeek!” They respond the same with toothless smiles. In the middle of the street, a woman and her daughter stretch out a small weaving loom and work on a piece of colorful yak wool fabric that will serve as a belt. We chat briefly with her, I take her photo, and she bids us farewell with a cheerful “Bye bye! … I love youuuuu,” followed by laughter that we share. In another village, the atmosphere is less jovial, and I receive aggressive responses like, “No money, no photo!” So be it. I imagine I’d do the same if I was in their shoes.

The Villages of the East

To the east of Upper Mustang lie villages that suit my taste better. We arrive there after a day of walking in crazy winds, swept by gusts carrying dust and scraps of paper printed with sutras, similar to prayer flags. We cross a landslide that reminds me of the path to Tilicho Lake, ten years ago. I’m doing fine, as I’m used to it, but I can’t resist teasing Clo, who gets assistance from Kumari on the descents. We’ve been bickering incessantly since we’re kids. It’s never serious, but to an outsider, it might seem strange. So we apologize to Kumari. But she finds it amusing, saying, “ooooh dai¹!” as she often does, with a tender smile and an intonation exuding deep compassion or perhaps… pity? And suddenly, below us, the village of Dhi unfolds like an oasis of greenery amid the mountainous desert. The sun sets, and our host shows us their prayer room, present in every Tibetan home, explaining the basics of Buddhism, translated by their two daughters. They live in the United States and have returned for their father’s 49th birthday, a sacred number. They humorously tell us, “We’re learning about our culture on the fly, thanks to you.”

Yara. I wake up with a stomachache and chills then rush to the toilet. Then it’s Clo’s turn. The guesthouse owner wonders how it’s possible: “You didn’t eat meat, and I wash my hands before cooking!” After devouring a bowl of noodles, we set off to visit Luri Gompa, a sacred cave where a religious representative resides. “Every year, we add a new line to the mural,” explains a thirty-year-old nun with a commanding voice. She’s in charge of the cave this year. She’s delighted to see that we’re with a woman guide, a rare sight in this very male-dominated milieu in Nepal. She accompanies us to the gompa below, carrying a thermos of tea and a can of Red Bull in her hands. “You’re lucky; you have a comfortable body,” she says to Clo along the way. Then she stops us at a souvenir stand run by a villager, like so many others. “It’s your choice; you decide,” she repeats, indirectly encouraging us to buy something. Kumari, wanting to be kind, decides on a lucky charm bracelet. The nun then points to a mountain: “Do you see that big rock that appears suspended? Several centuries ago, the great Kunzung Tsalu² flew there to meditate.” We part ways to the sound of the mantras the nun murmurs throughout her day. Back in Yara, the owner, the last polyandric woman in Mustang—an old tradition to retain the scarce land within the same family—confides in us and shares her life story. It’s a deeply emotional moment that seems to have done her good because since then, she hasn’t stopped smiling at us and offering tea and popcorn. Moments like these bring people closer in an instant, make them endearing, and it’s heart-wrenching to have to leave.

Refugees of the Drought

In Mustang, several villages were relocated due to drought. Naya Dhye—pronounced Dhey—, a village stretched out lengthwise, happens to be one of them. As we stroll through the village, the houses gradually give way to blossoming apple orchards, but curiously, there’s no one to be seen.
“Do you know where we’re staying tonight?”, we inquire.
“Yes, we will sleep in Goat Cottage,” she responds with confidence.
“Great, sounds perfect!” we agree.
Yet, fifteen minutes later, there’s still no sign of our destination. One house somewhat resembles an inn.
“Should we check if this is a guesthouse?” asks Kumari.
“Wait… Aren’t we supposed to sleep at Goat Cottage?” we ask back, perplexed.
“Oh! But that was a joke! There’s no such thing as Goat Cottage!” she confesses, then bursts into laughter.
Oh, Kumari, you certainly caught us off guard with that one. The sole guesthouse is located what feels like an eternity away, deep at the far end of the village. Dust is everywhere, and while our hosts are friendly, they seem somewhat peculiar. Nevertheless, we have no other options, so we adapt. In their modest kitchen, the man is listening to a Buddhist teaching on his smartphone, while the grandmother gazes at us as if we’re characters in a talk show. No need for television here.

The sky becomes grey, casting a menacing shadow over the mountains. Monsoon season has begun on the opposite side of the Annapurnas, with clouds breaching the icy barriers. We embark on a climb that will lead us to the pass and then a descent towards the old village of Dhye. In the distance, massive fur-covered animals, yaks, follow our route. They are moving much faster than us, though, despite their substantial weight. We can’t help but feel somewhat inadequate. Our journey takes us through chaotic landscapes of rocks and mud in varying shades of brown, beige, and white, reminiscent of a volcanic terrain, and fossils abound. The village is stunning. Traditional houses line the landscape, century-old flowering trees provide a burst of joy, and a serene pond lays at the heart of it all, providing water for the village’s animals. The few inhabitants still residing here, women, are diligently tending to their fields and caring for their goats. They inform us, “The men have either gone to celebrate a neighbor’s 49th birthday or are out with the herds.”

Our host in Old Dhye is adorable. As we arrive, she greets us with a radiant smile and the faint scent of freshly applied henna in her hair. She can’t stop laughing, especially when I aim my camera in her direction. Here, there’s no running water. Locals draw water from the nearby spring and store it in large bronze containers. The outdoor toilets, situated on the upper floor, are peculiar. Mold in concrete, they feature tiny footrests and have two openings. No further explanation is required, right? But what’s even more captivating is the view of the mountains from this vantage point.

Twice daily, Kunjhok leads her horses to the pond for a drink, followed by a serving of hay. She then tends to her cows, milking them each morning to obtain fresh milk for tea. I feel close to Pasang, a young shepherd I encounter alongside his animals during sunset, who has opted to remain in the old village and care for his livestock. Despite his rural lifestyle, Pasang is a modern man. He shares funny TikTok videos with me, laughing out loud, and perhaps one day he may reconsider his decision and join his neighbors to tend to the apple orchards, or even leave the region in search of work in the city, as many of his peers have done.

One Last Painful Day

As we near the end of our trek, the final day proves to be the most grueling, spanning 10 hours of walking. We begrudgingly set out at sunrise. Initially, we grumble a bit, but soon we fall silent and press on, our mantra becoming “march or die.” Along the way, Kumari, already burdened like a pack mule, seizes a moment of distraction to surreptitiously take a couple of Clo’s belongings in an effort to lighten her load. Clo vehemently resists.
“No, bhaini³, stop!” she declares.
“Come on, didi⁴, give it to me. You’re tired,” Kumari insists, with a playful grin.
“No, it’s fine. Your backpack is already super heavy, bhaini,” Clo responds, stubbornly.
“Ooooooh, didi!” relents Kumari, with her endearingly voice.

Our ascent culminates at Pa Pass—a name that I find utterly funny. We replenish our water bottles at the last available source and then continue along a windy ridge, where we’re treated to the most breathtaking view of the entire trek. To one side, we gaze upon the valley carved by the Kali Gandaki river, where we can see the road-scars and villages we crossed on our journey. To the other side, an otherworldly landscape builds under us, featuring peculiarly shaped peaks that shift in color from beige to a deep orange, almost crimson. We burn our last calories on a steep, slippery descent, all while battling the ever-present, relentless wind—an enduring curse that has plagued this region throughout its history. Upon reaching our destination, our feet are thoroughly disgruntled. Nevertheless, we find it within ourselves to congratulate each other, sipping on one last seabuckthorn juice, a local berry beverage that combines sour and sweet flavors—yes, we’re pretty hardcore, I know. A Jeep arrives, sparing us from the arduous journey back to Kagbeni. The driver captures a final photograph to commemorate our departure from Upper Mustang. Although fatigue is etched upon our faces, we can’t help but reflect on what an extraordinary trek it has been!

1. “Big brother” in English. ︎
2. Transcription by ear. ︎
3. “Little sister” in English. ︎
4. “Big sister” in English. ︎

Largely ignored by explorers and anthropologists until the 1950s when Toni Hagen, Giuseppe Tucci, and later Michel Peissel provided the first accounts, Mustang became the epicenter for Khampa guerrilla fighters against Chinese invaders in the 1960s. Not the best time to visit. But whether the accounts date back to the 1960s or the 1990s, the observations remain consistent describing a rustic way of life. Peter Mathiessen mentions that due to water’s extreme scarcity, “a bath-less life considered beneficial to one’s health”. Michel Peissel portrays a medieval, hierarchal society where faith—a word synonymous with fear in Tibet—doesn’t entertain doubt, and where “the incredible is believed, the unusual is unquestioned, and the miraculous is considered entirely ordinary.” Since those times, much has actually changed. One of the catalysts for this transformation has been the advent of numerous roads that scar the landscape but make traversing the region in a day possible. Reaching most villages by car is now an option, affording the residents a level of comfort their ancestors could only dream of.

Prerequisite

To visit the former Kingdom of Lo—there’s still a king, but his title is now purely ceremonial, and the locals refer to his descendant as the “son of the king”—you must be accompanied by a guide and secure a costly permit, with the proceeds theoretically benefiting the region. This trip presented the perfect opportunity to invite my cousin, Clo, along. Kumari, a tiny and smiling young woman, would serve as our guide and travel companion, proving indispensable in translating our inquiries. She would also exhibit an impressive patience in dealing with our daily squabbles and the typical grievances of French tourists… Hats off to her!

It all begins with… a bout of diarrhea. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Now, you might be wondering, “Why is this gentleman still discussing low bodily functions?” Well, to be entirely forthright, I simply wanted to insert this piece of wisdom from the anthropologist Michel Peissel’s book, “Mustang: Forbidden Tibetan Kingdom,” which I find utterly intriguing: “In Tibetan, the word for diarrhea is nearly synonymous with ‘journey to India’.” There you have it, and now we can embark on our journey.

A Tibetan Western

Mustang is now divided into two distinct regions: on one side, we have Lower Mustang, which sits at lower altitudes (thank you Captain Obvious) and doesn’t require any pricey permit, but we won’t dwell on this in this article; on the other side, there’s Upper Mustang, which demands a clean slate at Kagbeni checkpoint. Kagbeni is the quintessential tourist village with its hotels, cafes, souvenir shops, and the famous Yak Donald’s. That’s where we go — Upper Mustang, not Yak Donald’s.

On the first day of our journey, the road is terribly monotonous. We’re trudging along a track relentlessly battered by powerful winds that make it a struggle to move forward. As we approach the village of Chhusang, the scenery starts to captivate us. Steep, dry rock walls in various shades of beige, shaped by erosion and dotted with caves, rise majestically from the river below. Down in the village, it’s a charming mix of traditional houses—irregular white cubes adorned with dry wood to fuel their fires—and modern constructions with sharp angles that don’t quite fit the landscape—and look ugly, to be honest. Every village here is like a green oasis, with willow and poplar trees, fruit orchards, and fields of wheat, barley, and buckwheat, all nourished by small streams for irrigation. It is a place that makes you feel at ease.

We continue along roads and footpaths, crossing suspended bridges, some of which span deep canyons. Speaking of canyons, we walk through a couple of them, surveilled by vultures hoping for an unfortunate fall. Sometimes, between two rocky walls, we come across herds of bharals, which are not particularly timid. The arid landscape, dotted with fiery bushes and gnarled juniper trees twisted by the wind, makes us envision a Tibetan version of Sergio Leone’s westerns, with Khampa warriors playing the role of cowboys and Chinese invaders taking the place of Mexican gangsters. As a soundtrack, the ritual Buddhist music would add a spiritual touch to the rugged setting as this region boasts numerous sacred sites, including caves where revered masters, like Padamasambhava, once meditated. Also known as Guru Rinpoche¹, he holds significant importance in Tibetan Buddhism for having converted the demons that once haunted the Tibetan passes and valleys into protective allies. Our moods oscillate depending on where we’re walking. A dusty road? “Damn, that sucks!” A picturesque trail? “Wow, this is awesome!” and on the guesthouses we stumble upon: “What a terrible owner! ” vs. “This family is so adorable. ” Once the village is cast in shadow, as Clo regularly reminds us, “It’s getting seriously cold!” So, we seek refuge in the kitchen where the stove, fueled by bits of wood and dried dung, lulls us into a well-deserved night’s rest.

The Reincarnation Ghost

Along a dusty road, we allow ourselves a little luxury in a tiny village comprising just two houses. There’s a unique café that catches our eye: “Look, Clo! They have cappuccinos!” I’m as excited as a kid in a candy store. Upon entering, I encounter a little girl, about 3 or 4 years old: “Tashidelek!”—Hello! No response. I try in Nepali: “Namaste! Tapaiko naam ke ho?”—What’s your name? She looks at me and makes strange noises before leaving. Okaaaay, I hope they won’t think I’m some sort of pedophile… We meet the owner, a modern young woman dressed in a bulky down jacket and comfortable sweatpants. In perfect English, she tells us that her daughter only accepts to speak in English. She flat out refuses to respond when people address her in Nepali or in the local dialect, a Tibetan language, even at school. “We wonder if she might be the reincarnation of a tourist,” she says with a blushing smile. She then shares with us the tragic story of losing her sister, who lived in France, in a kayaking accident. As we leave, we notice that a face has been cut out and removed from one of the family photos hanging on the wall. Is it her sister’s? We leave the place feeling weird.

The Rock Fortress

On this side of the Kali Gandaki, we’ve walked through a handful of dusty roads. Yet, occasionally, they spring delightful surprises. After enduring hours of monotony, a simple turn reveals the “fortresses” of Dakhmar, mirage-like. These mountains seem plucked from the pages of an epic fantasy, their contours resembling colossal structures hewn from ocher-hued stone, punctuated with ancient caves where monks once meditated. A closer look reveals that it’s not stone but rather compacted mud speckled with tiny stones, vulnerable to crumbling at the slightest rain. Down in the eponymous village, a grandmother engages with a child. Discerning if the child is indeed her grandchild remains an enigma. Here, children traverse the embrace of every family member, with only the mother being unmistakable when she breastfeeds them. As twilight descends, shepherds return with their flocks of tiny black goats, sporting horns painted with vivid colors. They aren’t destined for slaughter here but are sold to Nepalis for sacrifices during the Dasein festival. Same same, but different.

Potatoes, Always Potatoes

We arrive at Charang Gompa², the second-oldest gompa in Mustang, dating back to the 14th century. Young villagers and monks are meticulously repainting the compound walls in the sect’s emblematic colors – blue, white, and red. Employing local pigments—accounting for the blue’s gradient toward gray—they perpetuate this annual ritual. Pouring paint along the walls with teapots, they harness gravity to accomplish the lion’s share of the task. A spirited young monk guides us through the prayer hall, his demeanor betraying hints of stress and apprehension. “My buddies tease me,” he chuckles, “and it leaves me slightly uneasy.” Speaking with a strange accent, he imparts knowledge interwoven with a generous layer of humor. When words elude him, he taps my shoulder, seeking assistance, and punctuates each joke with a fist bump. He mimics the statues’ postures, the countenances of tourists frustrated by their guides’ ignorance, and jests about a fat Buddha. Then he quips, “Potatoes are the staple here. Potatoes in the morning, potatoes for lunch, potatoes in the evening… Even potato chips!” He’s got this thing that makes tours entertaining. The puja—the prayer—concludes, heralding the arrival of mealtime. He hastens the tour, exclaiming, “I’m hungry too!” As we bid farewell, he playfully murmurs in my ear, “See you in the next life!” then departs, laughing.

The (Not So) Forbidden City

The road to Lo Manthang is excruciatingly monotonous. Walking along a road is, by default, a tedious affair. Regrettably, choice is not always available. Hence, I don headphones and tread mechanically, harboring hopes that the sight of the “Forbidden City”—now an overused term exploited for marketing purposes—will at least be worth it. Well, dear reader, it does not. The streets of the city are enshrouded in dust, stirred ceaselessly by gusts of wind. Not a soul ventures out; the population has sought refuge indoors. Once more, it evokes imagery of a Western set in Tibet. However, tomorrow will mark the commencement of the Tiji festival, spanning three days, promising a transformation in ambiance. The Tiji myth centers around a deity, Dorje Jono, fated to rescue his people from the calamity unleashed by his father, a terrible demon threatening drought, famine, and societal collapse. Eventually, the demon meets his demise, water flows abundantly, and equilibrium and harmony are reinstated. Water scarcity indisputably permeates local culture, and the multitude of tourists converging for the festival, clamoring for showers and hot beverages, presents both a boon and bane for the region. We had pre-booked a room, but the hotel informs us being full, though they’ve arranged an alternative in another hotel, which, ironically, has no record of our reservation. “Fortunately”, they offer us a well-appointed—i.e. gloomy—room without window at a steep price—albeit with a discount. Although I don’t remember telling it at the moment, my thoughts resounded with, “You go fuck yourselves!” Once again, I feel like being a walking wallet, ripe for lightening, reminiscent of Everest. After relentless efforts, buoyed by Kumari’s charm which can soften the sternest of hearts, we strike a reasonable compromise, even if it entails sleeping on café benches or in the vacant beds of the Nepali guides’ room.

Before the festival kicks off, we explore the three gompas of Lo Manthang. Inside the walls, one can find colossal mandalas, intricate paintings of Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and demons from the Buddhist pantheon, some of the finest I’ve ever seen. Despite the subdued lighting, we lose ourselves for hours, examining the gruesome depictions of what awaits those who fail to escape the clutches of hell after death: demonic rapes, entrails spilling out, impalement on barbecue skewers, and quite a lot of fun basically, all reminiscent of the hellish visions of Hieronymus Bosch. Perhaps it’s time to start chanting our Om Mani Padme Hums… Suddenly, amidst the dimly lit gompa, the sound of instruments heralds the puja—drums, cymbals, flutes, and resonant, nasal brass instruments. A monk with an otherworldly low voice initiates the recitation of a sutra, followed by the rest of the brotherhood, wrapped in saffron-colored blankets and donning amusing red crested caps. Light filters from the ceiling, mingling with incense smoke to craft a mystical ambiance that transports me elsewhere. It sends shivers down my spine. I could spend hours immersed in this spectacle, but alas, photography is strictly prohibited.

Continue the story here…

1. “Precious Master” in English. Not to be pronounced like Gollum would. ︎
2. A gompa is more or less the equivalent of a monastery in Buddhist culture. ︎

Behind the Scenes of Mass Trekking

Lobuche: We consider ourselves “fortunate” as we’ve managed to secure a room… in the ugliest hotel within the ugliest village along the trek. It feels like a chicken coop, with staff seemingly engaged in a competition to determine who can provide the least welcoming service in the entire valley—the gold medal will be awarded to the next village, Gorak Shep. To pass the time, we take a stroll along the moraine, all while the constant roar of helicopters fills the air as they take off and land just a few meters away from us every ten minutes, ferrying tourists and equipment. It’s during this walk that we encounter yet another open-air dumping ground. Two young girls and a man with disproportionately large hands paired with an enormous smile that seem suspended from his small body, are incinerating their lodge’s waste. They earn €250 a month and come from a neighboring valley, supplementing the meager agricultural income of their families in this manner. As for the porters, those individuals who are officially limited to carrying loads of 35kg—although they often bear heavier loads because regulations are what they are—the Everest experience isn’t a that great either. One porter laments, “We spend almost all our earnings on food and lodging. The only income we actually receive comes from tips. Also, there are times when we have to sleep in a nearby village because the porter’s quarters are fully occupied.”

A few plastic bottles and biscuit wrappers later, still under the constant drone of helicopters, we arrive at Gorak Shep—aka Gorak Shit. Gorak Shep is a rat hole where the understocked hotels feed then vomit armies of humans more or less suited to be at such an altitude. But let’s not be overly critical. There are also some wonderful aspects to this place. The moment you venture a bit beyond this enclave, the landscape transforms into a grand spectacle. Right beside us, the Khumbu glacier sprawls out, originating from Mount Sagarmatha. Above the glacier, a series of towering peaks adorned with smaller glaciers, which vary from chaotic to geometric in form, create a mesmerizing vista. On the opposite side, Mount Pumori presents its rounded and comforting silhouette in contrast to the sharp contours of Nuptse and the preceding mountain range. As the evening draws near and everyone seeks refuge indoors, the successive waves of clouds, steadily thickening, eventually envelop the entire panorama. It’s a spectacle that I have the privilege of witnessing almost in solitude.

Everest Base Camp (EBC)

The Everest Base Camp is an unlikely place. Situated right on the glacier, what initially started as a Spartan, utilitarian tent camp, essential for climbing the world’s tallest peak, has evolved into a village of tents catering to rich tourists. There are spas, cafes – equipped with a bona fide espresso machine, no less! – delectable food… the camp relies on a fleet of helicopters to ferry clients and fresh provisions. Hundreds of Nepalis work here, returning season after season. Among them are guides, porters, cooks, and support staff responsible for tasks like fetching water and transporting blue containers filled with shit to the airport. They construct camps using iron bars to break the ice, lay down pathways, and establish prayer shrines for blessings, among other duties. And, of course, there are the renowned “Ice Doctors” who install ropes and prepare the route up to camp 2, with whom I engage in insightful discussions about the region’s challenges. Nepalis are known for their cheerful disposition, so I revisit the camp multiple times to capture moments of life. I even have the privilege of spending a night there. In this milieu, you encounter a different breed of tourists, and while I don’t endorse the extravagant display of resources, arriving with a substantial bias, I do manage to forge meaningful connections – albeit not always – and even encounter one of the porters I had followed for several days during the Makalu trek six years ago. If only I didn’t have to write this sentence in my journal: “HELICOPTERS, HELICOPTERS, HELICOPTERS!!!! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!”

Kongma La, the Last of the Three Passes

After spending these few days at the base of the world’s cock-a-doodle-doo it’s time to embark on the journey towards the third and final pass: Kongma La. Let’s not keep you in suspense any longer. Despite often being overshadowed, I personally find it to be the most beautiful of the three passes, even though I struggle to make it to the top – whereas Umesh considers it “the easiest of the three.” The descent treats us to breathtaking vistas of Ama Dablam, momentarily diverting our attention from watching our steps. In Chhukung, we receive a warm welcome on this blustery day, just as the first snowflakes begin to fall. Finally, we spend the evening engaged in delightful conversations with the lodge owners around a generous stove. With pride, he showcases his collection of gemstones gathered from the region, as well as a variety of foreign currencies. I contribute a few Iranian coins from my wallet to his collection.

Ama Dablam — The Queen of Solukhumbu

On the journey back, a poo-poo break becomes necessary. Umesh approaches me, looking disheartened: “These are traditional toilets; I can’t shit in them!” I burst into laughter and playfully taunt him, “Who’s the tourist here?” Considering the abundance of hotels in the village, it appears we’ve stumbled upon the sole local tea-house. Before bidding farewell to the valley, we embark on one final side-trek to the Ama Dablam base camp. Fresh snow has blanketed the ground due to the previous day’s snowfall, and I’m tired, battling a sore throat, and walking with discomfort. The ascent isn’t particularly strenuous, but my body has decided otherwise. Along the way, I offer words of encouragement to a porter laboring under the weight of an oversized load spilling over from all directions, which revitalizes me somewhat. Finally, at the summit of the ascent, Ama Dablam presents itself—an exquisite rocky pyramid shaped by the skilled hands of some divine craftsman, crowned with ice chiseled by unrelenting winds. It stands as a colossal queen, commanding our admiration for its grandeur and flawless contours. Since this particular side-trek isn’t included in the “packages” offered by trekking agencies, only a handful of climbers—among them two amiable Russians who live up to their reputation as enthusiastic drinkers—and a handful of passing tourists share this space. Nonetheless, there’s inevitably that one motherfucker with a Bluetooth speaker, dancing and recording a TikTok video.

Amidst Trekkers & Donkey Shit

Descending, one descent after another, we relish the sight of tourists struggling uphill, all while wearing smiles on our faces, perhaps tinged with a touch of sadistic amusement. We wish we could reassure them, assure them they’re nearly there, that things will get better, but such words would be untruthful. And so, we remain silent. Umesh, typically a cheerful individual, comes close to losing his composure when a group of five people monopolizes the entire trail, colliding with him without offering even a perfunctory apology. He’s grown weary of this bustling crowd as well. The time to depart has arrived. We once again tread the “donkey trail,” this time in the opposite direction, trudging through the mud and the remnants of mule droppings that clutter the path. These hardworking mules labor daily to ferry supplies—mainly gas and food—from Lukla Airport our evening’s resting place. I harbor an odd desire to visit the renowned airport where aircraft seem to teeter on the edge of the abyss due to the airport’s exceptionally short and steep runway.

Oh No! I’m Going to Diiiiie!

Before embarking on our journey, we face one final challenge just a few meters from the “bus station” where the Jeeps are parked, known as Tham Dada. Here, a new road is in the process of being constructed. Our path ends up in a narrow trail over unstable terrain composed of sand and crumbling stones that threaten to tumble into the abyss below. I’ve encountered my fair share of treacherous paths, but this one ranks among the most harrowing, despite its brevity. There’s no margin for the slightest mistake; one wrong move, and it’s curtains! Umesh, youthful and resourceful, doesn’t hesitate for an instant. As for me, burdened by my unwieldy backpack, I’m feeling somewhat uneasy. “I believe I’ll opt for the longer path, even if it’s less comfortable with this backpack on,” I admit. Umesh offers to come and retrieve it for me, but that’s simply not an option. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news to his parents, explaining that he slipped and fell. So, positioned above me, he seizes a length of rope handed to him by a local villager and instructs, “Attach your bag, I’ll pull it.” Beneath their concerned gaze, I embark on the tightrope-like trail. Step by step, my eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead, I advance with extreme care. I dare not shift my gaze to the right for fear of being drawn into the abyss. Finally, there’s one last ascent up a mound of gravel that crumbles progressively with each step, and this time, I hurry to prevent my thoughts from overtaking me. Reaching the summit, my mouth is dry, and my heart is beating hard. A peculiar conclusion to our trek. Nepali locals approach from the opposite direction, and we offer them a word of caution about the danger. It’s even more challenging in their direction. The first person takes a brief look and forges ahead. OMG! I can’t bear to watch. The second individual agrees to be “secured” by grasping a length of rope handed to him by another Nepali. He proceeds with the utmost care and, too, arrives safely.

Postface

Since then, Umesh completed his training to become a guide. Just a few days ago, he successfully obtained his license. Now, there’s only one thing he’s eagerly anticipating: venturing into the mountains with his inaugural group of clients. Soon, soon, bhai¹!

This text has been translated with the help of an AI. The translation sounds so much fancier than me that I found it really funny and kept it like that except for a few bad words which I inevitably had to keep to « make it real ».

1. “bhai” means “little brother” in Nepali. ︎

First Days in Solukhumbu

Most tourists opt for a plane ride to reach the starting points of their treks. As for me, I prefer journeys that come with a dose of challenge. Buses that slide on slippery roads, breakdowns in the middle of nowhere, jeeps stuck in riverbeds, modest roadside eateries, and run-down hostels, all contribute to the allure of traveling, in my view. They act as a sort of mental preparation before embarking on a multi-day trek with a fifteen-kilogram backpack on my shoulders. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), we make it to Salleri, a quaint village nestled in the Solu Valley, without any major mishaps. From there, we set out early in the morning to kickstart our Three Passes of Everest trail adventure, a journey that, including some side treks, will span three weeks in total.

The first day of our hike proves to be rather easy. Enveloped in mist, we traverse vast rhododendron forests, encountering scarcely anyone along the way, except for a delightful girl whose home we seek refuge in to cook some noodles during a sudden rain shower. Umesh seems to be quite smitten by her and, to our surprise, even manages to obtain her phone number. He confesses, “I’d like to marry a Sherpa; they are reliable and hardworking women.” However, the following day presents an entirely different challenge. To be honest, it’s one of the most arduous days of the entire trek: a 2000-meter ascent followed by an almost equivalent descent. The surroundings are plunged into darkness. Exhausted and fatigued, we take our final break, a mere 100 meters away from the village where we hope to find lodging. There’s only a short, treacherous stretch left to climb, and a dog awaits us, barking in the distance. We pause for a few seconds, contemplating our next move. If need be, we’re prepared to throw stones to ward it off, but it neither appears particularly menacing nor aggressive. The initial days of a trek in Nepal are undeniably among the most challenging. Your body must adjust to the new pace and the additional weight, and sometimes even adapt to the warmer temperatures at the “lower” altitudes. Yet, perhaps more than anything, it’s about maintaining high spirits as you continue the cycle of ascending, descending, and ascending again… seemingly ad infinitum.

Welcome to You Mass Tourist

Phakding: our initial encounter with Himalayan mass tourism—a rather jolting one, to be honest. Despite the absence of motorized vehicles in this location, it resembles a bustling city. Dozens of hotels are stacked next to each other, alongside souvenir shops, snooker halls, pubs, cafes, and even a “reggae bar.” Additionally, we encounter children who hurl insults my way because I decline to give them money: “You fuck up!”³. Thankfully, it’s not overly crowded. Nevertheless, we heeded the advice of some experienced guides and booked a room in advance, a practice entirely unfamiliar to me during treks. Yet, Phakding merely serves as a foretaste of the renowned Namche Bazaar, once a trading post and now a bustling tourist hub. We learn from a friendly hotel manager—an uncommon find in this region, where tourists are often regarded as walking wallets—that the streets were exceptionally crowded the previous day. He informs us, “Due to the recent inclement weather, many flights were canceled. When the sun reappeared, over a thousand people arrived on the same day. It was chaotic, and some even got into fights!”

Staying in Namche’s comfort may be appealing at the conclusion of a trek, but I’m not inclined to linger here. We unanimously decide to continue acclimatizing further afield and set out early in the morning for the first pass, Renjo La. As we progress through the valley, it offers us our initial glimpses of the snow-capped peaks and their majestic glaciers. Along the path, I spot someone ahead of me, wrapped in a Buff and sporting sunglasses, who seems oddly familiar and, in turn, appears to recognize me. Raising my sunglasses, I inquire, “Dhili?” Indeed, it’s him! He identified me by my array of hanging cameras. We share a warm embrace. I had crossed paths with Dhili five years ago in Kanchenjunga when he was guiding a group of French tourists, with whom I had joined for a portion of their journey. However, he’s currently on his way back with his client. Sadly, our encounter will be all too brief

On the Way to Renjo La

We journey through several villages surrounded by yet-to-be-planted potato fields. The reception we receive is in line with the prevailing weather, but at least there are no more shops or bars in sight. The wind howls relentlessly against the lodge’s thin glass windows as we huddle around an unlit stove. The room feels drafty, and we’re shivering from the cold. A small group enters, led by an overweight middle-aged man accompanied by his wife, who is wearing makeup, and a team of Nepalis. They sit down, exhausted, and the man proceeds to order a Wi-Fi access card, working on his laptop well into the evening. His guide, a seasoned and humble mountaineer, explains in a composed manner, “He’s wealthy and had originally planned to summit Everest. I managed to persuade him that it was too perilous, but he still insists on attempting to reach Camp 2. With a bit of luck, we should be able to make it.”

In the early morning, frost covers the grass, and the valley still lies in the shadow of sleep. Wrapped in warm layers, we start our ascent toward Renjo La. Along the way, we encounter numerous tourists catching their breath, and the first rays of sunlight gently warm our spirits. Two ducks gracefully touch down on a shimmering lake beneath a crisp blue sky, creating a serene tableau… until a group of Italians, loudly shouting and snapping selfies, disrupts the tranquility. As we continue, we strike up conversations with other travelers, with whom we’ll share parts of our expedition. These serendipitous encounters and the memorable moments we share with these strangers, whom we’ll likely never cross paths with again, are also part of the charm of trekking in Nepal. Surprisingly, I feel invigorated, while Umesh appears exhausted but refrains from complaining. “Are you okay, man?” We’re perched at 5,200 meters, and this altitude is new territory for him. He admits to feeling tired. We take a brief break to nibble on biscuits and rejuvenate our energy. “Bistari, bistari”⁴, as the Nepalis say. Half an hour later, a row of prayer flags, silhouetted against the sun, appears above us. We finally reach the pass. About twenty tourists join us in awe of the breathtaking view of Mount Sagarmatha—Everest—which undeniably overshadows the surrounding peaks⁵, while jackdaws elegantly glide through the air, snatching up leftover picnic crumbs.

Gokyo, Not Tokyo!

On the other side of the pass, bordered by a deep blue lake and surrounded by snow-capped peaks, lies the village of Gokyo. It’s an eyesore of stone and tin-covered hotels in a rugged glacial valley. Once again, we encounter the “mass tourism” atmosphere, but I have to confess that we appreciate the warmth and comfort of the lodge—which also doubles as a bakery. Besides, it is Umesh’s birthday, so I treat him to a triple-chocolate cake. After such a hard day, all vices are permitted. What’s interesting in Gokyo is not the village itself, but the numerous lakes that, when followed for several hours, lead you to the base of Cho Oyu, a white and quirky monster whose glacier carves the valley. Its charm reveals itself once the clouds roll in, playing hide-and-seek with lights. But to enjoy this spectacle, one mustn’t forget to ignore the yellowish layer of pollution that blankets the glacier just before the clouds arrive.

The following day, my alarm rings at 3 a.m. The last time I glimpsed at the clock before finally drifting off to sleep, it was 1:37 a.m. So, I managed just about an hour of rest. I’ll be grumpier than usual—poor Umesh. The light from my headlamp reflects in the eyes of the drowsy yaks and mingles with the clouds of steam I exhale. I make my way up Gokyo Ri, a peak that stands 600 meters higher, all in pursuit of witnessing the sunrise. In the distance, I can spot other headlamps in motion. I’m not the only idiot climbing through the frigid night. I feel weak, ascending in slow motion: one step, one deep breath, one step, one deep breath… It takes me two hours in automatic mode to reach the summit. It’s undeniably beautiful up here, but in terms of photography, it’s kinda meh. I did the efforts, so I do my best to capture something, but it’s not exactly enjoyable: my fingers are frozen as they press the tiny camera buttons, my nose drips onto the screen, and the tripod remains unsteady among the rocks, irritating me… it’s not a pleasant experience at all. However, the view is awe-inspiring, and the “mountain chickens⁶” are there to brighten my descent, showing me their ass and flaunting their plumage, feathers splayed like peacocks, perhaps with the intent to startle me—or maybe their motives are entirely different? With the sun now risen, the first tourists start to appear on the path, moving slowly and envisioning what awaits them up there. I descend swiftly, daydreaming about the hearty breakfast that awaits me.

Fuckin’ Hell, Traffic Jam…

Having crossed the first pass, our next destination is Cho La, which happens to be the busiest of the three passes. After navigating a rocky glacier under the scorching sun, we encounter a group progressing like a horde of zombies. One of their members, clearly exhausted, is riding on horseback. This sight becomes increasingly common in the region where the trek merges with its XS version. While the pass itself is relatively easy to climb, there’s a caveat. Climbing Cho La in April means dealing with… traffic jams. It feels like rush hour on a busy highway. People cut in line, jostle one another, and forget all forms of civility and courtesy. Upon reaching the pass, we find dozens of sunbathing individuals indulging in a selfie orgy. The ground is littered with garbage, which I attempt to collect as much as possible, but it’s evident that this isn’t a concern for many. It’s only at our next stop that I fully grasp the extent of the issue that the locals would like to get rid of. On the far edge of the village, boasting a breathtaking view of one of the world’s most magnificent mountains, Ama Dablam, lies the ruins of an old house that serves as a dump occasionally set on fire. However, at this high altitude, fire struggles to ignite properly, and lighter waste items such as plastic bags are carried away by the winds that sweep through the valley daily. I feel powerless. If looking for faith in humanity, you’ll have to search elsewhere.

Read the rest of the story…

This text has been translated with the help of an AI. The translation sounds so much fancier than me that I found it really funny and kept it like that except for a few bad words which I inevitably had to keep to « make it real ».

1. Source : https://mteveresttoday.com/the-number-of-tourists-visiting-everest-region-has-increased-by-55-percent/ ︎
2. Source : https://mteveresttoday.com/tourism-business-in-kanchenjunga-region-gradually-returning-to-normal/ ︎
3. Literally. What made me laugh after I scared them and they ran away. ︎
4. “Bistari, bistari” means “slowly, slowly” in Nepali. ︎
5. This is the only place where we could see how gigantic this mountain is. From other viewpoints, it appears all compressed. ︎
6. “chukar” is their real name. ︎

I had been wanting to photograph these ice structures for years, and never thought it would be so difficult to find one. Our first three attempts were unsuccessful. Year after year, the villagers abandoned the project: too expensive, too difficult. It wasn’t long before we realized that to have an ice stupa is not just a matter of installing the equipment and waiting for the ice to build up, but that it is imperative to monitor and maintain it on a daily basis. Numerous phone calls later, Rigzin is confident, « In Ang, there’s one. For sure! »

Ang Village

Ang is a village tucked away at the end of a valley, a small cluster of square, flat-roofed houses surrounded by deserted fields. It may be winter, but like almost everywhere else in Ladakh, the snow doesn’t last. The wind quickly sweeps it away and, apart from a few scattered snowdrifts, the ground is desperately dry and the sky frightfully blue — a photographer’s nightmare. On the other hand, given that our little car has neither chains nor snow tires — nor heating, for that matter — it’s no bad thing. When we arrive, not a soul is to be seen. Will we find a place to stay? On the wall of one house, a « Homestay » sign followed by an arrow: we’re told it’s closed, but there’s another house where a small woman with a big smile named Stanzin lives. She speaks good English and welcomes us into her home. We warm up, sitting on the floor around the stove. Stanzin’s mother — also named Stanzin — is a woman whose face seems to have been carved to smile all the time. She serves us tea after tea¹. It’s customary to refill the cup even if it’s barely been tasted. She doesn’t speak a word of English but it doesn’t stop her from trying to communicate with me between laughs and pretending to understand what I’m saying. « Hmmm, hmmm, » she nods — and smiles, since she’s always smiling — then laughs again, offering me the tenth cup of tea, which I don’t refuse. Apart from the kitchen stove, it’s the only source of heat in a Ladakhi house in winter. With full bellies and warm bodies, we walk for half an hour through a steep valley to find the ice stupa. On the one hand, I’m glad we managed to find one, but on the other, the photos I’ve taken are bad, really bad, « Sorry Rigzin, but we’ll have to come back tomorrow when there’s life. »

The Ice Stupa Builders

Every day, at least one of the five stupa builders climbs up to make sure everything is running smoothly. Today, three of them are present — there are five at all. Jigmet, a tall, round-faced man, Ringchen, with jet-black hair and a goatee, with a Romany look, and Thinlas, the carpenter, the handyman, more reserved but always solving problems. « Without him, we would never have made it, » confides Jigmet. A few meters further down, a makeshift tent with a gas stove. This is where villagers and other curious visitors come to warm up with the builders over a cup of tea after visiting the site. It’s also the « break room » after a sometimes exhausting day, as I would understand a few days later when I was stuck in the village for several days due to heavy snowfalls.

To grow the stupa, the ice must build around it. The builders place branches and stretch wires around. Water dispersed from the top of the stupa will then cling to these and freeze, making the structure grow. You also need to climb to the top every day to make sure the sprinkler hasn’t frozen, go into the tunnel under the stupa and break any ice that has built up on the pipes, turn off the water supply when it’s too « hot » outside, then turn it back on in the evening, etc. It’s hard work, and dangerous too: the stupa is about fifteen metres high!

Ice Stupa Problems — Frost and Avalanches

One evening, as the sun has already set, a water inlet freezes. « Fortunately, this only happens a few times a year, » I’m told. The pipes are dismantled, one by one, to try and find out which one is blocked. Water squirts everywhere and the outside temperature plummets to -20°C. Jackets get covered in ice and I realize that they’re handling the pipes with their bare hands — whereas with my gloves and under-gloves the cold is already making me suffer. There is nothing to be done now, we’ll have to wait until the next day to heat the pressure cookers on kerosene stoves and send steam for hours into the pipes to melt the ice: it’s the vertical one that climbs to the top of the stupa that has frozen. I am fascinated and despite the high cost of transport in Ladakh during winter, I say to Rigzin, « We’ve got to find more ice stupas! »

Over the next few days, we cross Ladakh in search of other stupas and learn that many challenges await, both for the local people and for us. As we set off in search of a small village in the Kargil region, the car begins to skid on an ice-covered road despite the chains — this time we’ve taken them. We spend an hour breaking it up with jacks, meter by meter. Once on the dry tarmac, we congratulate each other, all out of breath, before getting back on the road. At a bend, as we seem to be heading downhill towards a village, Rigzin asks, « Are you sure we’re on the right road? » to which I reply, « Of course we’re on the right road! » while glancing at the GPS. « Ah well no, shit, it’s the one above! » Bad luck, we’re already on an ice-covered slope. Impossible to turn around, there’s barely room for a car. We have to go backwards but it’s a slippery ride. We take out the jack, hit, hit, hit but the ice on the road is tough. We put the chains on the road to back up the car fifty centimetres by fifty centimetres. Half an hour later, we realize that it will take us several hours at this rhythm to reach a dry patch of tarmac. Despair sets in. Rigzin leaves to find help in the village below while I rest, out of breath — we’re almost 3000m above sea level. He returns with a big bag of earth and a shovel, « There are no men in the village, so the women gave me that. » Rigzin presses hard on the pedal as I push the car backwards, then it slides back down the slope. The village women come to the rescue. Together we push the car to the crossroads. Phew! We’ve made it. The image of these women in white veils and long dresses — the Kargil area is predominantly Muslim — and a European guy pushing a car on the ice must have been fun to see. « Come and have a cup of tea at home, » they suggest as a man joins us. We warm up with the whole family in the kitchen of their little brick house, the kind of house that is increasingly hard to find in Ladakh, where the light from the window radiates a soft glow over the faces and creates a powerful contrast with the dark walls of the nooks and crannies. Luckily, they know one of the builders of the ice wall we were on our way to. He can take us there tomorrow morning, weather permitting, as this is an avalanche-prone area and their ice wall was recently buried by two avalanches. They don’t want to take any chances.

We need to be there at 8 a.m. Getting out of bed when it’s well below 0°C in the bedroom is a pain. Climbing into a frozen car and driving with the windows open while the sun is not yet shining on the valley to prevent condensation from icing the windshield, the body not yet fully awake, is close to torture. At times like this, I dare not meet Rigzin’s eyes for fear of being struck by lightning. Or I’ll make a little joke like, « It feels good today, » but it doesn’t really make me laugh anyways. Fortunately, he takes it with a smile, even though I know it pisses him off. Once in the village, Mohammad Abuzar and Mohammad Hassan accompany us up the avalanche path to see the remains of their ice wall. While on a short break during which I seem to be the only one gasping for breath they explain, « It’s good for us because even though our infrastructure has been destroyed, the ice wall blocked part of the avalanche and we’ll have plenty of water for the spring. » It’s the first time they’ve been back here since the avalanches and they’re happy to answer questions and take photos. As in Ang — and the other villages we’ve visited where people have built an ice stupa — you can sense a real passion for their project in these men. Back in the village we’re invited for breakfast with their family and neighbors under the sunshine on the roof of a house, with a breathtaking view on the frosty mountains.

The Good Moments

Whether it’s during hard times or after sharing a moment together, it’s these little surprises that I love most about traveling. You meet people more or less by chance, people who have nothing to do with your everyday life, whom you would never have met otherwise. Then they invite you in, offer you something to eat and drink, introduce you to their family and friends, and once you’ve asked, not without some embarrassment, if you could take a photo, a kind of trust is established and everyone asks to be photographed with so-and-so, and it all ends in laughter and goodbyes that go on forever, with a smile stuck on your lips and the sweet feeling that it was a day worth living.

During our adventure we meet several teams of builders, all with their own problems and solutions, and it’s with a team of students and researchers that we end it. Their aim is to install a system to automate the opening and closing of the water supply, the most time-consuming and problematic operation, which discourages many villagers from trying again to build an ice stupa. From the village, it takes an hour and a half to reach the ice wall maintained by a 19-year-old villager, his father and a neighbor. The aim of this pilot project is also to repopulate the village, which was abandoned a few years ago due to a lack of water. I’m fascinated by the energy deployed not only by the villagers but also by these students. Carrying tools and crates of equipment, they will spend the day freezing their butts off — even by local standards — to install this new system. It’s heartwarming to see them struggling to come up with new ideas in such a joyful, good-humored way, and then putting them to good use to sweeten up a daily grind that grates on the body. Instead of abandoning everything for a better life far from Ladakh, as more and more young Ladakhis want to do, why not try some new alternatives?

1. Ladakhi tea is a salted tea with fresh butter, unlike Tibetan tea, which uses rancid butter and gives me the shits every other time… ︎

That was almost ten years ago. Fate tickled me again two years ago during a sailing expedition in Greenland. After helping to install a weather station on a glacier, I hit it off with Faezeh and Babak, two Iranian expats now living in Europe. So much that we ended up dancing to Persian music on the deck of a Danish army ship — a real military boat, with armor, guns and all!
– You have to visit Iran. If you come I can introduce you to my family, they can help. There are great mountains, deserts and lovely people. You’ll love it!
– Alright I promise, I’ll visit Iran.

So when the startup I was working for announced a voluntary departure plan, I didn’t hesitate long to seize the opportunity and keep my promise.

First steps in Iran

Sina, Faezeh’s brother, is a wise and smiling young man. He shows me around Tehran. He takes me to a march through the city where thousands of pilgrims dressed in black beat their chests in memory of the death of martyr Hossein. It is the pilgrimage of Arbaeen, a day of sharing where everyone is offered food and drinks. A few hours later, I receive a text message from the embassy recommending me to avoid public demonstrations. Sina explains me that there is nothing to fear because this pilgrimage is not an anti-government demonstration before telling me about a young woman who was supposedly killed by the morality police the day before because she was not wearing her veil correctly, hence the protests to avoid. I would never have imagined at that time that this movement would grow to such an extent — at the time of writing, these protests have been going on for forty days.

One of the advantages of the blockade in Iran is that there are few tourists. Visiting UNESCO world heritage sites and being almost alone, what more could one ask for? I spend several hours in the mosques of Isfahan, nuggets of Persian architecture, observing and photographing the improbable marriages of curves and angles several meters high. Between the visits I join Sina and Sara, a friend of his who brings us to traditional Persian restaurants with breathtaking beauty. But each time they won’t let me pay. In Iran, there is this tradition of taroof which consists in offering out of politeness, even when you don’t feel like it. But theoretically by insisting they should have given in. Alas, I had to develop a more aggressive technique: throwing myself at the front, card in hand, when it’s time to pay the bill. It worked and I finally managed to pay! Except that the next day Sara contacts me: « By the way, I need your receipt from yesterday because Sina had already paid the restaurant when he left. You will be reimbursed on your card… ». I give up.

The hospitality doesn’t stop at friends. When I wear the camera around my neck I am regularly approached by random people, young and old: « Welcome to Iran! » — even the merchants in the bazaar are delighted to invite me for saffron tea and sometimes deep discussions in their stall even though they know I won’t buy anything. « First, human relations. Then maybe business » as they say. But when I start to get tired and want to be left alone I put my camera away and, thanks to my Mediterranean appearance, the only people who now approach me do so in Persian, a language I don’t speak. Convenient indeed!

I am feeling at ease in this country and rediscover the joy of meeting strangers. Through these new ephemeral friendships I feel the lightness of life of the traveler who doesn’t know what tomorrow will be made of and voluntarily lets himself be carried away like a dead leaf on a river.

Towards Zagros mountains

It is on the way to Zagros mountains, where I’m about to follow the transhumance of the Bakhtiari nomads, that shit starts hitting the fan. It is supposed to be the highlight of this trip in Iran but after ten hours in buses and cabs, my back hurts. « This feeling, I know it. No, that can’t be… not now! ». The next day, while driving on the bumpy tracks, I have to face the evidence. This pain starting from the back and ending at the buttock resembles badly the sciatica which handicapped me in Mongolia — once again, I was with nomads… correlation or causality?

We stop at a first village. Mohammad, our guide, offers dates and cigarettes to the inhabitants. It’s part of the « pact » he made with them. Here, one doesn’t come empty-handed. This territory has been defended by the Bakhtiari for centuries. From feared plunderers they have become nomadic shepherds but they remain mountain people with a rough life. In order to help them keep their culture alive, he has been cultivating a relationship of friendship and exchange with the few families who have not yet settled.

At the end of the track I learn that we will not have mules to carry the bags to the nomads’ camp as planned. Shit! I had generously loaded mine because I was not going to carry it. These 20 kg on my back with the sciatica… I have a bad feeling. Benham, a twenty-five years old Bakhtiari as talkative as a magpie and a born joker, guides us towards his family’s camp — Mohammad will confide to me later that he could not translate all his jokes because he never stopped. The hybrid landscape between the harshness of the Mustang desert and the softness of the oak forests of Provence is delicious, but the heat and thirst affect this idyllic experience. Fortunately, we left after sunset.

Darkness soon covers us. We need to be careful with the scorpions and spiders that indulge themselves between the rocks on which we rest our sweaty carcass a little too often. Dried out after having walked several hours under a canopy of oaks pierced by starlight, we are welcomed by Behnam’s family with fresh spring water — never water tasted so good! Sitting on carpets under a precarious roof of dead branches and lit by the glow of a flickering fire, we share a hot meal and tea. Seized by fatigue we then fall asleep, eyes riveted to the stars, as do the Bakhtiari in the summer.

The transhumance — the ‘kooch’

The sun is still below the horizon when I wake up. In front of me stand a mountain range that seems infinite and the silhouette of Marziye, Behnam’s sister, lighting the fire. I feel as if I’m dreaming but an anguish brings me back to reality: is the pain still there? An electric shock hits me in my buttock and makes me scream when I try to stand up. This time I’m convinced: I have sciatica and yesterday’s walk amplified it. What am I going to do? Will I be able to walk? After all, in Mongolia I managed to drag myself for more than a month even if in the end I arrived home in a terrible state with a herniated disc as a bonus. I try not to think about it and to enjoy the hot tea before taking a couple of pictures — while limping. After an hour, the main lens of my camera fails. I can’t focus anymore. They say that « bad things never come alone ». Fuckin’ proverb! I am disintegrating. Fortunately I always have with me a few fixed lenses that can serve as a backup. I’ll have to make do with them even if it adds an extra constraint.

Sheep and goats have been regrouped, belongings loaded on mules and donkeys. It is time to leave. It is not even 10 AM but the sun is hitting hard. I’m going to talk about it once and for all so as not to repeat myself: I have felt thirst every single day, almost all the time, so much so that I could sometimes hardly swallow. And yet, I drank gallons of water. Between heat, dust and the dryness of the air my body never seemed to be satisfied. Fortunately, the pain signals sent by my sciatic nerve rarely occurred while climbing (70% of the trek). It was during the stops that I suffered the most: sitting down, lying down, bending over to get water, taking off or putting on my shoes, … all these little everyday gestures became torture. And let’s not talk about the low angle photos.

I have become a walking ruin but the landscapes and the way of life of these nomads fascinate me. This is where photography plays an important role. As soon as I enter a photographic flow, everything happening outside the frame disappears. The only thing that counts in these moments are the shepherds gathering their flock, the silhouettes of my fellow travelers around the fire, the arid landscapes softened by the light of the setting sun… But once the camera is slung over my shoulder, the pain comes back and brings me back to reality.

Three days later we arrive at the edge of a road. A few squabbles have taken place with other nomadic families. Nothing serious, just a territorial dispute. It is pitch black, the men gather the animals without light. Do they do it by ear? Marziyeh lights a fire and then starts baking flat breads on a metal saucer covered with ashes. Tonight we feast. For the occasion a sheep will be transformed into kebab. I don’t like killing scenes, but this one is masterfully handled. A sheep is isolated then hidden from the others. They comfort it, give it a drink, then gently tie its legs before slitting its throat. No scream, no sudden gesture. The scene is solemn. We are a world apart from the slaughterhouses. The carcass is then hung from a tree and cut with precision before being grilled on skewers over the camp fire. A treat!

As I wake up, I feel an excruciating pain now extending to my knee. I must have given everything I could, maybe too much. I get up and try to walk a few steps to relax my back. No relief, this pain is tough. The sun rises on a dry mountain, just my kind of images. I take a few shots but my head is elsewhere, I feel like crying. I was starting to feel alive again and now this shit happens. There are six days of intense walking left, I will not be able to handle that. If I keep going I’ll end up with a paralyzed leg and then need back surgery. I must give up. Mohammad comforts me: « You made the right choice ». With a tear in my eye I greet one last time the rough but adorable mountain people who have been fascinating me. Several attempts and cries of pain later, I finally get into the 4WD vehicle. As we drive through the mountains I am already nostalgic for the nights in the open air, the waking up around the camp fire, the early afternoon breaks drinking tea and napping under the oaks, the long days of walking in the arid landscape. I have tasted and enjoyed every minute of this outdoor life, now I have to return to the oppression of the city.

Back to Isfahan: A visit to the hospital

In Isfahan the situation has worsened. The protests have grown and are now happening daily. I hear them passing in front of the hostel — as a tourist, you’d better avoid finding yourself in the middle of those or you might end up in jail. Besides, there are almost no tourists left. In the hostel we are four foreigners, then four becomes two. Luckily, a few Iranians are also here. The atmosphere is weird but we meet every morning at breakfast to exchange jokes and brighten up the mood.

Now I have to go to the hospital. Maybe with a good treatment I’ll be fine in a few days. I am welcomed by a guy who speaks a few words of English. He takes me under his wing. Here, every act — consultation, purchase of medication, treatment — requires a checkout. I enter the doctor’s office with my ticket. He speaks English, but barely enough for us to understand each other, then hands me a scribbled piece of paper: his prescription — do all doctors get trained to write like pigs, no matter what country?

The nurse who is going to give me the injection is an imposing woman with a placid look. She must have jabbed quite a lot of buttocks to look that jaded. I feel like she’s going to hurt me. It may even be her little pleasure to pierce people’s asses with those big syringes, who knows? Ouch! She smashes mine, but I thank her anyway. She doesn’t flinch and leaves without even saying goodbye. The next day I repeat the experience, this time by calling a nurse to the hostel and I didn’t feel anything — one can deduce what one wants…

After these injections I am supposed to lie down for three days. Alone in a dormitory of six, that’s more than enough time to mull over. I try without success to forget that I should be with my nomadic friends in the mountains… So I read. A lot. I travel by proxy through « Flash or the Great Trip » by Duchaussois (apparently not yet translated to English), an adventure in the golden age of travel ending in a drug addict’s bad trip in Kathmandu. It puts things in perspective. Thanks to the corticosteroids, pain subsided. But it’s still there, slumbering in a corner of my buttocks. I sink into gloom. My only hope was that I could continue this trip to Iran, which was supposed to last two months, but I am still stuck. I feel guilty when I think that right now people are being killed in the streets but my little self feels strangely more important. Now I have to plan an early return with a slow and censored internet connection. The lightness I was beginning to feel is now gone.

Back to France

The return trip will be long. I need to take a six-hour bus ride to Tehran, then two three-to-four-hours flights with multiple hours waits in between. I’m going to need another shot to get through this. The memories of my comeback from Mongolia are engraved in my mind: I arrived in France in such pain that I had to bend over on the side to be able to line up one step in front of the other. So before taking the bus, I take a cab back to the hospital. The frustrated nurse is still there. She’s going to smash me again, and she doesn’t fail at it! By the doors of the hospital my friend recognizes me — now calling me Georges. He introduces me to a fluent English-speaking doctor offering me a pack of medicines to soothe the pain during the trip. Even in hospitals, Iranians are generous and have a sense of hospitality.

Thanks to the pills and the injection the trip hasn’t been too hard. Now landed in France, the stewardess does her best to organize the exit of the plane whose doors aren’t open yet. A guy, annoyed to wait, gets up and yells at her before rushing to his luggage. A part of the flock follows his initiative. I can see hopelessness in her eyes — which I understand, really. Welcome to Gaul! A cab comes to pick me up — thanks insurance. During the whole trip he talks to me about covid, vaccines, Macron… I can’t take it anymore. The following days, unable to do anything, not even to sit my ass on a chair for more than thirty minutes, I sink into the abyss. I have no more desire to read, to listen to music… I don’t feel like doing anything. I don’t even enjoy eating the tomatoes from my garden anymore. I binge-watch series in the hope of lobotomizing myself. On top of that, a flu keeps me stuck for two days. I hope I have touched the bottom because the summit now seems very, very far away!

A month later, my situation improves. I can now live an almost normal life: edit my photos, write, walk a few hours (on flat ground). I’m going back up the slope, step by step. Here I find myself again up for a long trek, this time in a figurative way. I have taken a good slap in the face, but it reminded me that this is also what traveling is about: getting beaten up in order to rise again, stronger.

Gaomajos!

A few days ago another accident happened on the road to Tusheti claiming the life of four people. There will be no dancing nor singing during this festival out of respect for the deceased. We settle in the women’s tent for lunch. A little old lady with a sparse dentition is happy to see Céline enjoying her — very sweet — red wine and toasts with us every few minutes. « Gaomajos! »: « May the victory be ours! »

The men’s tent is shaken by raucous and manly laughter. Unlike the women’s where everyone was seated quietly, this place is driven by excitement and chaotic. We are obviously offered to drink. A big, strong guy in his fifties, dressed in military pants and rangers, invites us to sit and try a home-brewed beer with a fresh and light taste. « Here we are in a democracy. If you want to drink, you drink. If you don’t, you don’t drink! » he shouts in my ear. Does he really think I’m going to watch him drink while sitting still?

The toast tradition

The tradition in Georgia is to raise a toast before drinking. No one touches their glass until the tamada, the master of ceremony, has finished speaking. The tradition of the toast is still obscure to me but I invite you to read this if you are interested in the subject.

The man with the rangers raises a toast to our friendship. A good natured chap in his fifties joins us. He doesn’t speak English well but proudly shows us on his smartphone the paintings he exhibited in Italy. Another one, even more ebriated, comes into the tent with his horse as everyone prudently moves aside. He swallows a cha-cha then leaves. But it is out of the question that we leave without having tried a game. With Michael, a German guy who was hanging around, we are invited to the game of “beer in a horn” in which you have to drink the whole content of the horn as fast as you can then scratch your back with it when you’ve finished. The young Georgian who was our opponent obviously won both games.

The afternoon has barely started that the party seems over. Youngsters are acting shy in front of the camera. I join the elders, sitting on the floor, chatting while nibbling on dried fish. I raise my first toast in honor of Tusheti’s fish: awkward silence. I think they think I’m weird, but find it hard to get into this tradition. Sometimes I am handed a glass and as I am about to drink it I am asked to wait for the toast; other times I wait for the toast and am asked to drink my glass quickly because we only have one… and sometimes the toast turns into arguments and bickering that last forever…

A grandfather arrives with his grandson. He seems to be very attached to him, cuddling and playing with him with a tender look as I have rarely seen in this country where feelings are not openly displayed in public. I am asked to give a toast in honor of his son who died two years ago in a car accident. I feel uneased. Ten minutes ago I was raising a toast to Tusheti’s fishes, now I have to raise one to a dead man I don’t even know. I do my best, they translate what I say. The old man looks moved and wants us to take a picture together. It’s my turn to be touched.

Chat by the fire

The sun is about to set while the youngsters play soccer with a few drunken elders. A father is lying on the lawn and playing with his children. The Georgians that I found gruff and distant now appear under a softer light.

Night falls on the village of Shenako. Teenagers gather around a big camp fire, alternating laughter and glimpses on their smartphones’ screens. They ask me if I put my pictures on Facebook or Instagram. I answer that yes, it happens. Suddenly I am surrounded by a bunch of friends. These teenagers that appeared shy a few hours ago actually speak English very well. They invite me to sit down, bring me beer, want to know where I trekked and ask me a lot of questions. I feel like an adventurer returning from a distant land in the last century. They have a sharp mind and I have the chance to have interesting discussions with them. They explain to me that it hurts them to see that Tusheti, which is so dear to them even if they only live here during the summer months, is modernizing that fast. They do not want their region to look like the Black Sea coast, the Georgian Riviera. Even if the rest of the year they live lower down, in Alvani or Telavi, Tusheti is part of them and they are attached to it. I can not disagree.