October 21, 2024, day 5

Kjangjin Gompa is the last outpost of the Langtang Valley, it is the village with the highest altitude, three thousand nine hundred meters.
Seven kilometers of path and a difference in altitude of three hundred and eighty meters await us, a walk.
Just before the village there is a Hindu monastery. There is a series of prayer wheels set in metal housings. The prayer wheel is actually a cylinder on its surface is printed in relief the Tibetan mantra 'Om mani padme hum' in Sanskrit. Normally a prayer wheel is operated by hand, here they are operated automatically by the current of a stream thanks to fixed paddles at the bottom of each wheel, the same principle as a water mill. There is a stupa with a very colorful entrance. Inside, a large prayer wheel, operated manually with a handle. At each complete turn, a rod at the top strikes a bell.
Places of prayer, ALL places of prayer of any religion, do not arouse my sympathy but this one is an exception: the environment is very colorful, the walls are colored blue, the wheel is red. It is a combination that works, it induces a state of peace and well-being. The wind does its part, the soft sound of the typical colored pennants flapping reminds us in their own way that existence consists of discrete perceptions.

The stop at Kjangjin Gompa includes two days, one day of acclimatization and one of hiking. The village is the access route to two peaks that tower over it: Kjangjin Ri, with a lower viewpoint, four thousand four hundred meters, and an upper viewpoint, four thousand seven hundred meters, and Tserko Ri, four thousand nine hundred eighty-five meters. Usually hikers choose one or the other. I choose both. Padàm tells me that Kjangjin Ri is the favorite destination for foreigners, while Tserko Ri is more populated by locals. By 'foreigners' Padàm means 'Westerners', while among the locals he includes hikers from Bhutan, India, and Pakistan.
There is time for a meal. I treat myself to a soup of choumin and vegetables. Tsering, our host, who is also the cook, asks me if I prefer to have lunch outside or indoors. The sky is clear, a light breeze blows, the sun grants a pleasant warmth. I will have lunch outside. All around me, the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas.

Just beyond my table there is a dry stone wall, beyond the wall there is another guesthouse with its repertoire of hikers coming, hikers going, locals going to the garden and picking vegetables, and there is a girl. She is washing dishes at a water spout. She looks at me and smiles, a smile full of joy for life. I wave, 'ciao' I say to her in Italian. She responds eagerly, she waves her mouth by dragging a finger across her upper lip and then points her finger at me. My moustache. I touch my moustache. 'Nice!', says the girl with her smile. She likes my moustache. Then she says something else that I don't understand, at that moment a gust of wind blows that covers her words. I ask her to repeat, she repeats but the wind blows. La dolce vita. I am living a scene from the film, the final scene. Marcello is on the seashore, the wind is blowing hard, a little further on there is a girl, a waitress he met at a restaurant, she says something to him but he doesn't understand, she repeats but he doesn't understand and finally shrugs. And with bitter resignation he makes a gesture as if to say 'goodbye forever'.
After lunch, I ask Tsering if he has a map.
- Sure, sir - he says to me. He takes the map and hands it to me.
- No, - I tell him while brandishing my cell phone - I want to make a clip of you telling us the names of the mountains that surround us. -
- Sure, sir. -
Let's make the clip. Time is running out.
We're going up.

 

It is a very steep climb. We proceed at a slow pace. It is my first, authentic test of endurance, that new thing that scares me a little. We are at an altitude of four thousand, up to that point no nausea, no headache, no feeling of asphyxiation typical of altitude sickness. I should already be acclimatized but you never know, it is all new to me. One step after another. Every fifty steps or so, a stop. Time is running out but I do not intend to risk it, slowness is power. I take advantage of the stops to look around. As we gradually gain altitude, snow-capped peaks emerge after other snow-capped peaks, behind me the village is the only detail that makes it smaller, everything else is amplified by the majesty. I realize that I am left speechless: to inhale more air, in amazement.
Except for the steepness, the trail has no other critical aspects, four kilometers long for five hundred meters of altitude difference, close to a vertical. The ground is scattered with rocks of varying sizes, the risk of a fall is high. I help myself with the trekking pole. The wind rises, from the bottom of the valley wisps of condensation rise that will become thick clouds.
We reach the lower peak, an altitude of four thousand four hundred. It was hard but not very hard, no nausea, no headache, nothing other than normal physical fatigue in the legs only, I inhale gulps of air in full lungs. The clouds envelop us, moments of total absence of visibility alternate with clear clearings. 

I absent myself. I abandon that sack of flesh and bones they call Gabriel. I ignore myself and I ignore everything else. Thoughts vanish, my mind empties. I abstain from myself, I abstain from thinking, from using adjectives, from seeking metaphors, from describing what I see, it would be an exercise in corruption. The exercise of being becomes worn out.
Colored pennants dot the summit, there is a plaque that reports the name and the altitude. They flutter in the wind. From the bottom of the valley the wind rises, its voice rises. I sit on a rock.

In the mountains, the descents are more treacherous than the climbs. The one from the top of Kjangjin Ri is no exception. Every other step slips on the gravel. Padàm descends quickly but Padàm carries half my weight, compared to me he is a small being. We stop on a rock whose shape vaguely resembles that of an armchair. Our path winds corrupted by rocks, in front of us another path proceeds quickly halfway up the hill. It is a less steep path, less stony, with a substratum of bare, low, red vegetation.
- Let's take that path, - I say - it seems better, there is grass, it will lead to Kjangjin Gompa anyway. - When the critical points of a path add up, when in doubt go on the grass, the ground is more stable and the step is firmer. Padàm approves my proposal. He proceeds respecting the hairpin bends, I cut and descend galloping. In a shorter time than expected we are at the village.
- The next time I bring guests here, - says Padàm - I will descend from this path. -
Beyond the usual low wall there is the girl, she greets us, I answer 'ciao' and she says 'ciao' smiling.

Hot shower, then dining room.
Tsering, our host, is about thirty years old. His hands are wet from water, he is washing vegetables. All around the walls of the room is the cupboard. In the middle of the long side of the room, the cupboard stops to make room for a shrine with a photo of the Dalai Lama. There are some lit candles. Padàm approaches the shrine and says a prayer. Padàm is not Buddhist, he is Hindu. I have seen a similar phenomenon in Kathmandu, even though Buddhism is a heresy of Hinduism, Hindus do not formalize themselves to pray in front of a Buddhist stupa and Buddhists do not formalize themselves to pray in Hindu temples. Christianity is also a heresy of Judaism and yet Christians and Jews hate each other to death.
Next to the shrine are two photographic portraits, a man and a woman.
- My parents - explains Tsering. - They died in the 2015 earthquake. We lived in Langtang Village. -

For dinner I order roasted potatoes and a plate of spaghetti with vegetables.
Tsering asks me where I'm from.
- From Italy, - I say.
- Oh, Italy, - Tsering says, and points to a display case in the cupboard where packets of pasta are kept.
- Pasta or spaghetti? - Tsering asks me.
- Spaghetti and pasta are the same thing, spaghetti is pasta, - I explain. - Spaghetti is a type of pasta. -
- Really?? - Tsering blurts out in surprise.
I take the menu, in the menu there is a section dedicated to Italian dishes, there are also 'macaroni', it is written exactly like that. I point to 'macaroni'.

- Even 'macaroni' are pasta. The shape changes, the shape is important. If you like tomato sauce you use 'macaroni', so the sauce goes inside the 'macaroni'. If you like fried vegetables instead you make spaghetti, when you are about to finish, the spaghetti helps you collect what's left of the vegetables. When we collect what's left, in Italy we say that 'we 'scarpone'. -
My explanation amuses Tsering a lot.
We joke a bit in front of a cup of ginger tea and the fire in the stove in the center of the room. Then I thank you and wish you goodnight.
It's just 8:00 p.m. When you walk you go to bed early, especially if you have sciatic exhibitionists who come to visit you in the middle of the night.
And then the next day Tserko Ri awaits us. With Padàm we agree on the time for breakfast: 4:00. At five we leave.