Steam Clouds in Tatopani

"Om Mane Padme Om" carved on Mani stones at the start of the long climb, our day's destination being the far ridge.

Anabatic breezes slipped slowly in succession up the mountain causing the long trains of prayer flags to rise high, flutter momentarily and then gently descend, only to rise again on the next waft in a long slow cadence, like God breathing in slumber.

Gently rising prayer flags over Tatopani

Clouds of steam drifted up to be teased apart and fade into nothingness. The only sounds were the susurrating splash of steadily streaming water and quiet conversation. It was evening in Tatopani and villagers had come for the evening ritual of a wash in the geothermal springs that poured perpetually from the belly of the mountain through elegantly decorated stone conduits, followed by a convivial wallow in the swimming pool sized tubs built into the slope.

A cool evening makes for lots of steam.

The evening's bathing ritual enjoyed by all, youngest villager to the oldest.

Mothers, wearing only a simple cloth shift, scrubbed naked children and chattered quietly with husbands standing under the steaming cascades. After a day's climb that took us from Thambuchet at 1700 metres to Tatopani at 2607 metres the hot soak was the perfect end to a superb, if exhausting, day.

Sitting makes things less precarious on the slick stone floor.

That morning we'd woken early for a frugal breakfast of Tamang style pancakes, a thick doughy slab somewhat like a large crumpet, and hot sweet tea. People were already gathering around yesterday's bus for the return journey to Kathmandu. Asheesh briefed us on the day ahead while Yong-tashi produced a well frayed rope and proceeded to strap our two backpacks together. He'd carry both our backpacks over the next few days while all we carried where daypacks.
I've walked many a trail over mountains and along coasts and never had anyone carried my pack for me, but every dollar pumped into the local economy makes a big difference so I was happy to swallow my pride and pay for a guide and porter, although I still had my misgivings about the size of the packs versus the size of the porter.

Yong-tashi our porter, my son and Asheesh our guide at the start of the 1st day's trekking.

Thambuchet was slowly awakening, a woman with a large basket on her back was rhythmically harvesting nettles for cow fodder. After a swish of her long handled sickle she'd sweep the cuttings into her basket with a pair of very long tongs. Most of the houses had animal shelters below and the living quarters above. Hand looms, some with partially finished cloths, stood waiting for the days weaving.

Long tongs mean the nettles don't sting and you don't have to bend.

Tamang weave fine, brightly striped cloth which is made into a number of useful items.

Humans on top, animals below. Dwellings make the most of limited space.

We left Thambuchet and headed up the valley on narrow pathways threading through paddies, across a small suspension bridge and past the first of many chortens and mani we would encounter along the way. At the entrance to another small village we met three small girls, destined for a tough life of hard work, carrying large bundles of straw. They watched us pass with shy smiles and dirty faces.

Chortens, flanked by carved Mani, marking the way. We were supposed to pass on the left but these stones only had one path to the right. The locals didn't seem perturbed about dogma.

No fashion toys or sleepovers, these girls live a life far removed from that which western girls take for granted.

For a second time we crossed the river and then the climbing started. The path contoured tortuously, switching back upon itself so that at times a few steps would put you directly above the person behind you. Up and up we climbed and my legs became like jelly and lungs pumped like bellows, living an easy life at sea level was not translating well to hiking at altitude. I was also monitoring my son, this was his first hike and the start was the stiffest climb he'd ever done. Would he whimper and give up or vasbyt*and keep going?

Just as I was wondering how much further before I could rest my aching legs we topped a ridge and there, on a flat ledge cut into the mountain, was a kiosk with red plastic chairs and a million dollar view. Time for tea! The view was spectacular, to our left the valley with the tiny houses of Thambuchet in the distance, to our right the ridges soaring to snow covered Ganesh Himal, dazzling white against a baby blue sky.

Incongruous plastic chairs at the mid-morning break.

My fears about the strength and endurance my son and our porter were unfounded on both counts. We'd hardly made it through the first day of the trek before my son, once he got his breath back, started jabbering about where we should go walking next and kept pumping me about hikes I'd done in the past; where were they? what where they like? was it harder than this one or easier? A ceaseless, but enjoyable, jabber on all things outdoors and adventurous.
You can read all the parenting books you want and subscribe to all the theories, from Dr Spock to the over-the-top Tiger Mothers, but all you really need to know about being a father is to listen and take heed of the lessons in "Cat's in the Cradle". Money, toys and gadgets no substitute for time with your kids. We were enjoying ourselves immensely.

A Tamang child eyes me warily.

And what of Yong-tashie and the double backpacks? While we were perspiring and panting he hardly broke a sweat, bounding up the mountain while chatting to Asheesh without so much as breathing hard.
The phrase of the day was bistare bistare (bee-sta-reh) meaning slowly, take your time and walk at a pace you can handle. Why is it that "slowly" is a repetition in so many languages? I've picked up Swahili's pole pole (Pow-leh Pow-leh) while in East Africa and Arabic's shoei shoei (shway shway) in the Middle East and, now, the similar double-barrel phrase in Nepali.

After the initial steepness the path eased off drastically, but still a steady climb through forest and fields. I recognised the first shoots of potatoes pushing through the soil while other fields stood waste deep in oats, their green heads drooping but not yet golden.
Glittering streams flowed chattering between rocks and the sun released the heady smell of wet earth from their banks. Butterflies flittered about and unknown insects buzzed and chittered in the overgrowth. There were expertly packed dry stone walls everywhere, even many of the large buildings of more than one story where built without mortar, expert hands making sure the corners were true and crisp.

With little flat ground in Langtang, most buildings are cut back into the slope. This house was built entirely from dry stone walls.

We reached our destination a lot earlier than I expected, just in time for lunch. The menu was surprisingly extensive but because cooking fuel is scarce (wood, in a country suffering from deforestation) I consulted my son and we agreed that we'd joined Asheesh and Yong-tashi in their usual Dal Bhaat. And so it would be for the next few days with rare exception, Dhal Baat for lunch and for supper too, with some meat or delicious onion soup (home made from locally grown onions) thrown in where available. But hunger is the best seasoning and we inevitably wolfed it down as if it was the finest caviar.

The guesthouse owner was named Bamen (at first I thought Asheesh was talking about him being the barman) and he was very hospitable and kept his guesthouse very neat and clean. At breakfast the next morning he proudly produced his own yak milk cheese which was exceedingly good, hard and strongly flavoured.

Bamen's wife and children enjoy some family time as afternoon rain brews.

Cloud shrouded peaks of Langtang Lirung from our guesthouse balcony. Almost all houses take in trekkers for much needed cash, you could walk for weeks in these mountains and never need a tent.

After lunch we put on some swimming gear and walked to the springs after which the village was named, I was expecting some rocks and a trickle of water but to our surprise we found three large cisterns built into the hillside, each with it's own twin-inlets.
The drains of the two outer baths had been plugged and they were slowly filling with ochre coloured water, one still knee deep as it filled and the other above the waist.

Elegantly carve mythical beasts spew (almost) scalding water.

My son thought he'd try the 'showers' first and he'd hardly stepped under the flow when he yelped and sprang out like a ... well ... a scalded cat. The village was named Tatopani ( tato being hot and pani meaning water) and from the inevitable quick leap of most who stepped under the water for the first time it was obvious why.
We spent a few hours lazing around the springs, alternating between standing under the hot flow, wallowing in the waste deep baths and sitting on the edge to let the mountain breeze cool us again.

A mountain life of hard toil shows in the muscle and sinew.

By the end of the day the ochre coloured water had stained our swimming costumes dull red and turned my son's surfer blonde hair a tawny gold that would take days to rinse out.

Even in these remote parts you can get a beer and as I sat sipping my daily ration on the guest house 'terrace' with the million dollar view I replayed the day in my mind.
At last, trekking in Nepal, one more life-goal achieved.
What would my son go on to do in his time?

sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

*vasbyt, pronounced 'fuss-bait' - Afrikaans word meaning to persevere under difficult circumstances. Literally translated as 'bite down hard and hang on'.

Screaming Knees on the Thambuchet Bus

Roadworks camp near Dhunche, Langtang.

I took one look at our porter and thought "You're not much bigger than my son and he's only 13 ... and you're planning on carrying both our backpacks, a load roughly half as heavy a your skinny 50 kilos. I'm probably going to have step in and carry things myself before the trek is over". I would be proved very, very wrong over the next few days.

Sunrise at the bus station. Khatmandu.

Our bus, an ancient Tata long overdue for retiring, rumbled patiently in the dawn as baggage was handed up to the roof and passengers squeezed on board to locate pre-booked seats. Even at this early hour the 'bus station', an open, muddy kerbside lot, was already heaving with passengers, fruit sellers, luggage and bicycles. Underfoot mud, garbage and steel reinforcing rods, polished smooth by a thousand sandals, made you careful of where to step. The tang of cigarette smoke mingled with exhaust fumes and together they vied for nasal recognition with the smell of ripe fruit and the odour of rotting garbage. Many Nepalese wore masks over their mouths to protect themselves from Kathmandu's ever present air pollution.

The ticket office for the Thambuchet bus.

I hadn't even recognised the ticket office, despite standing right next to it, a corrugated iron lean-to under a tree, open on 3 sides and besieged by customers waving crumpled Rupee notes. We hung around waiting for departure, taking in the sights, sounds and smells, until a yell and a blast from the hooter exhorted my son and I to clamber on board, our backpacks long since having disappeared into the pile on the roof under the auspices of our guide, Aashish. I silently wondered if I'd see them again, they weren't even tied down.

Cellphones and cigarettes, a bus station food hawker.

We had, in theory, the best seats on the bus, right up front with a good view out the windshield. But over the years my buns-of-steel have become loaves and my six-pack is now more of a keg, so it was with trepidation that we squeezed into the equivalent of one-and-a-half airline seats. And there was no legroom. And I could see the back of the radiator and a sliver of the passing road below through gaps in the plywood firewall. And the lingering smell of scorched brake pads. And we had 9 hours to go.

From right-to-left: My arm, my son, old guy on the gearbox, another guy on the gearbox and, the dark shape, the driver. Asheesh is just behind us.

The crowded bus wended it's way north, stopping regularly for people to alight or leave, with seatless passengers standing in the aisle or climbing on to the roof. An old Nepali, friendly but silent, was wedged between us and the driver. Perched on the gearbox housing with no handholds he was constantly being thrown onto us as the bus swung around corners. But for the locals this was normal and we decided to just take it in our stride. "This is how most of the world travels." I said to my son, "at least those who can afford it."

Waiting for traffic to clear, plenty of hooting and revving of engines, precious little progress. Somewhere near Trisuli.

With our soundtrack, the falsetto squeal of hindi music from tinny speakers, we climbed out of Kathmandu Valley on a road cut into the side of the mountain, rising through greenery and passing countless villages, emerald rice paddies, terraced fields and even some trout farms. A stop for lunch in Trisuli where the only item on the menu was dal bhat , steamed white rice with a thin gruel of lentils. I'm not a small guy and can eat with the best of them, but watching Aashish and Yong-tashi pack away a mound of dhal bat was an education. Every now and then the cook would come around with a big pot of rice or dhal and offer us more, these two thin guys kept on going long after I couldn't eat another bite. Where did they put it all? We'd eat a lot of dhal bat over the next few days, now and then with the luxury of some chicken curry, yoghurt or spicy achar that would clear you sinuses, and each time we'd give up long before the other two.

A slow afternoon, as usual.

The miles dragged on and my knees ached, being crammed into a slightly bent position for hour after hour. My son and I switching sides every now and then for the hallowed window seat. All the discomfort was momentarily forgotten, or at least ignored, when we rounded a corner and in the distance caught our first glimpse of snow covered peaks and a daytime moon. It was a moment I'll never forget, my son and I grinning and touching fists knuckles-to-knuckles. Finally, the Himalaya!

The main, and only, road to Langtang. Often nothing more than a rough dirt track hugging the mountain side.

The road varied between tar and mud tracks that would do a 4x4 justice. Every so often we came across road crews repairing the more dangerous and eroded stretches with hard-packed gravel held in place by massive wire-cage gabions. Some of the worst sections were in towns and villages where the constant passing of heavy vehicles and the effects of rain had churned the road into mud.

The muddy mire that is the main road through town. At least we're welcome.

At every bend in the journey the driver would blast his hooter to warn oncoming traffic, size determining the right of way. Motorbikes gave way to cars, cars gave way to buses and buses to trucks. My confidence ebbed on a few occasions when I saw the wrecks of buses that had not quite made the turns, or stopped in time, lying far below the road.

Who will give way? Will we back-up a bit or edge past each other? Compare the width of the bus to the width of the road. The drop is hundreds of metres.

At times the road was so narrow that both vehicles would have to creep past each other inch by inch with only a finger width separating us. The driver would rely on a guide sitting on the roof, able to see the length the bus, who'd use complicated whistle signals to say if things were OK or that we were about to scrape. I had to pull my elbow in, from where it was resting on the window ledge, on many occasions.

Prospective passengers.

There were regular military roadblocks on the road and I assume we were in Maoist rebel country due to the many houses with a hammer and sickle painted on them.
Apparently, rooftop riding was not allowed so, approaching a roadblock, the bus would come to a stop and all those on the roof would climb off, some squeezing into the last breathing spaces in the bus while the rest would nonchalantly stroll through the checkpoint. At the checkpoint the bus would stop again and papers would be scrutinized by uniformed men carrying firearms, sometimes they'd squeeze through the bus checking faces and papers. Once the bus had been searched it would be waved on and less than a hundred metres further, in full view of the soldiers, everybody would climb back on again and the bus would clatter and rumble on its way.

The entrance to Langtang National Park, heart of our trek.

On the final long descent to Syabrubensi. I lost count after 12 hairpins, the smell of burnt brake pads isn't conducive to counting.

Don't ask me the correct spelling for the town of Syabrubensi, a walk down the main, and only, street delivered a variety of spellings. Almost each signboard was unique: 'Syabrubensi', 'Syabrubesi', 'Shyabrubensi', 'Sia brubesi' ... and so on. The bus took a break here, so we decamped to a guest house for cooldrinks or tea and to stretch our, by then, decrepit legs.

My son snoozing on the verandah of 'Hotel Peaceful' after tea. Waiting for passengers.

The cramped conditions got too much for my son who clambered onto the roof at Syabrubensi for the the last stretch to Thambuchet. Despite my misgivings about the safety of being perched on a wallowing bus clinging to the edge of a narrow mountain track I decided to let him go. We were here for adventure after all.

On the roof for the last leg of the journey.

Nepalese girl outside a dry stone walled house between Syabrubensi and Thambuchet. She hid when she saw my camera.

Terraced fields contribute to the deforestation of Nepal.

The bus stopped at Thambuchet which was the end of the road. Literally. Meaning the road also stopped at Thambuchet and the bus went as far as it could physically go without taking out a few of the village houses. I disembarked stiffly from the bus, my knees screaming at being released from the tight confines in which they'd spent all day, and we found our way to our guest house and a cold beer.

Understated colours in our room in Thambuchet guest house.

Looking at the old bridge from the new. Exhaustion is written all over his face, nine hours has taken its toll.

We spent the dusk exploring the village, glad to be able to get the blood flowing through our legs. That night, back in our rooms and the luxury of a bed, the two of us chatted briefly before slipping into black sleep. We'd start walking the next day.

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

Prayer Flags at Tatopani

No matter your faith, belief or creed, until you have been to Nepal you will never comprehend the peace of prayer flags rising to flutter on the breeze in the stillness of moon-rise evening .

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

Wildlife In Monochrome.

I don't make enough time to get out into areas with abundant wildlife, here in Arabia there is not a lot left after most species have been hunted close to, or beyond, extermination or having habitat covered in shopping malls and concrete. I know a place near Dubai where gazelles still run free, but they're so skittish that the only photos I have are of blurred streaks disappearing over dunes.
I also find wildlife difficult, too many of my images are just plain boring. Impala grazing, Impala standing, warthogs grazing (they do it on bended knees, y'know,) warthogs standing, elephants grazing ... you get the picture. From my collection of images these are a few that are a cut above the rest, not that I think they're prize winners, just images I like. I must get out there more often.

I have the privilege of returning to Africa every now and again and my hometown has the excellent Addo Elephant National Park nearby. On a great day with my brother and our sons this old guy was the last one we saw for the day.

Kudu like to keep to thick bush and can often be hard to spot unless they move. I like the way this one is largely obscured. Also from Addo.


A black & white animal in black & white? How original! But I couldn't resist. Just wish I'd dropped the depth of field more to get rid of that stick thingy that seems to be protruding from its nose. From out first trip to Hluhluwe Game Reserve.

Every now and then we go paddling in the mangroves at Umm Al Quwain. It's one of my favourite places in the UAE, a few short strokes of the paddle and you're away from the hustle and bustle of the city. There's always abundant bird life and the kayak gives you a low perspective on the flamingos. Shot in harsh midday sun, but it works.

The camel dropping was the highest vantage point around, and probably a lot cooler than the sand. These little agamids are plentiful in the desert but you have to move slowly and carefully o approach one as close as this. This was shot on slide and digitized, I kept wondering why pressing the shutter had no effect before realizing that I had to wind the film on between frames. As a result I only got a few frames before this little guy vanished into the sand.

OK! OK! So camels don't really qualify as wildlife seeing as these are technically farm animals. But these were wandering around the desert on their own so they're sort-of feral. Taking interesting, refreshing, non-cliched photos of camels is harder than you think, I like the way they're all looking the same way except one.

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

Slaughtered Goats At Sunrise - Part Two

Nothing Much Happening in the Village.

This is the second and final entry on Slaughtered Goats at Sunrise.

Clouds came scudding over the ramparts of Jebel Shams, ameliorating the sharp mountain sun and leaving the day warm but not oppressively hot.
The village had gone quiet as families gathered in private courtyards to carve up the morning's butchery and prepare meals for the remaining days of Eid Al Adha. Only a few goats wandering around kept me company as I walked back to my host's house where I made my way to our room and lay down for a nap.
My son had wandered of with some village kids and was probably herding goats or throwing stones somewhere out of sight, freedom he'd rarely have in the city.

An hour or so later the blade of the knife sang as I scraped it over the sharpening stone. Our host, Badr (Arabic for full moon,) fingered his knife to test its edge, all the while having a boisterous conversation through open windows with his mother and sisters who were bustling about inside. It seemed like I was the subject of the conversation, the women still wary of this stranger in thier house.

Badr, always smiling, starts the afternoon's butchery

Between us, on a large multi-coloured groundsheet, chunks of cow and goat quivered on platters and in plastic basins. We worked together, me holding the hunks of meat , Badr slicing them into long slivers and then dicing the slivers up into bite sized chunks, tossing them into big enamel bowls. He worked quickly but surely, the keen blade zipping past my fingers with millimetres to spare. Bones and tougher bits were sundered by axe on a small chopping block.

We worked steadily into the afternoon reducing the whole cow into piles of cubes, no steaks, chops or other cuts I'd consider the normal product of butchery. Spoonsful of a spice mix were tossed over the heaps and mixed through by hand, coating everything with a powdery crust. The aroma rich and heady in the afternoon.

And then the skewering began.

The women brought out bundles of pre-soaked bamboo skewers and deftly threaded the chunks on them, goat meat kebabs put one side and beef kebabs the other. They were a small family and I was surprised at the prodigious piles of kebabs that simply grew and grew. Being replete from the earlier, and rather filling, breakfast of mukli and the inevitable rounds of coffee and Halwa, I just couldn't imagine making any sort of meaningful dent in all those skewers. I asked Badr about this and he responded that the meat was for the next day and that the fires would be lit before sunrise so that the barbecue could begin. He used that exact word - barbecue - but rolled the 'r's in his Arabic accent , 'barrr-b-kyoo'.
But this evening, he said, they'd start cooking in the tinoor* and if I walked up behind the village a bit I could see the tinoor being prepared.

Dead wasps fill a trap suspended in a tree, hung to protect the beehives from predatory wasps.

Not knowing what on earth a tinoor was I set forth, guided by the boys who had returned from wherever they'd been. Instead of following the meandering course of the small wadi, Sultan guided me through the dry grass and the trees, stopping to inspect a trap filled with hundreds of dead wasp. The wasps around here are scary, abdomens almost the size of the first joint on my thumb, and are carnivorous. A few years ago I witnessed a dead snake being snipped apart, sliver by tiny sliver, by these wasps, their mandibles excising a tiny chunk of flesh that was carried off somewhere before the wasp returned for next chunk. They threaten the beehives by going in and killing and eating the bees, so the village has traps dotted throughout it to catch as many wasps as they can manage. Each trap I saw had hundreds of wasp corpses, I had never realised that there were so many wasps in such barren mountains.

An inferno rises from a pit-oven being prepared to cook Shuwa.

Soon we came upon Badr's brother who was tending a great fire, the heat was intense and he had to avert his face or shield it with his arm every time he re-arranged the logs, poking at them with a long stick. The tinoor, a pit-oven sunk into the ground, was about chest deep and some 3 feet square, lined carefully with stones to prevent the sides from collapsing, and capped by a steel frame. Nearby lay a steel 'lid' that would later be placed over the frame to complete the oven. The ground wasn't loose soil but weathered scree and gravel, so the digging of the pit must have taken a lot of hard labour and gallons of sweat.

Even out here cellphones are regularly checked for messages.

I sat on a nearby rise taking in the scene, majestic mountains as the backdrop, a roaring fire, sparks flying upward and the sun streaming from behind thick clouds.

Walking back to the village I came across another tinoor, this time a round one rather than square. In a barrow lay the flayed heads of the day's slaughter, along with the spines and other pieces that couldn't be used in a kebab.
A group of men joked and laughed as they wrapped these pieces in heavy tinfoil, rather than the traditional banana leaf sacking, and tied them up with strips torn from an old dishdash.

Wrapping the meat before it goes into the tinoor.

After some time the fire in the pit had burnt to a pile of glowng coals and the group, each manning a tinfoil package, took up station around it. Two of them picked up a heavy metal disk while others stood by with wheelbarrows filled with dirt and gravel.

Getting ready to make the drop. Don't be fooled by the traditional garb, in this photograph are engineers, technicians, teachers, businessmen and students, returned from far and wide for the Eid celebrations.

At a signal the package-men rapidly dropped the wrapped heads into the coals followed swiftly by the disk being placed over the tinoor and, lastly, the barrows were emptied on and around the edges to seal it off.

Time is of the essence, seconds after the meat is dropped the lid is laid over.

Pouring gravel around the edges to seal the oven off. The meat will bake for two days.

It took less than a minute, but the meal, called shuwa, would be cooked in the pit-oven for up to 48 hours until the meat simply dropped off the bones, succulent and fragrant from a mélange of spice.
For the umpteenth time that day coffee, dates and halwa were served, all of us sitting on a groundsheet and me being peppered with questions and jokes, most of it in Arabic. The day's work had been done and slowly the group drifted away to prepare for evening prayer at the small village mosque.

No task would be complete without some coffee, fruit and halwa. The nicest pomegranates I've ever eaten were from this village.

An evening of visits to various houses and more cups of coffee followed, but after the day's activity I was only too happy to place my mattress on the floor and drop off into black sleep, knowing that I'd be up before sunrise again for the big morning 'bar-b-kyoo'.

I felt as if I'd just fallen asleep when the chime of Badr's phone alarm went off, he rose and got ready for prayer by the glow of phone's LCD panel. I rolled over and tried to burrow deeper under the blanket but to no avail, I knew sleep was unlikely, so gave up and got out of bed, shook my son awake and got dressed.
I waited for a while outside the mosque, listening to the emanating murmur. After some time the morning prayer ended and men, wrapped to keep out the cold, hurried off to start the highly anticipated day.

The mosque, or more correctly masjid, center of village life.

On the previous day I'd seen a long trench dug at one end of the village and piled high with firewood, so that's where I headed. I was met by one of the friendly old men of the village and two youngsters who lit the fire as I approached, the dessicated wood igniting quickly and the flames spreading rapidly through the pile. Few things smell as good as woodsmoke permeating crisp pre-dawn air.




As the flames died to coals a stream of platters, piled high with a seemingly endless supply of kebabs, flowed from the nearby houses. Two long steel bars, welded with crosspieces at intervals to keep them parrallel and just the right distance apart to rest a skewer, were placed over the coals and the barbecuing began in earnest.
Kebabs were clapped in folding grids while others were simply placed side by side on the bars and continuously turned to prevent burning. Within minutes the aroma of roasting spices and meat permeated the mountain air and my stomach gurgled in anticipation, it wasn't long before the first smoky skewer was pressed into my hands with admonishments to "eat", "eat, you are welcome!"

The early morning kebab production line. Barbecue Omani-style.

Just like the sacrifice of the day before, there was no single village barbecue, but groups gathered together at various locations throughout the village, so having spent what I thought was the right amount of time not to appear rude I made my way to where Badr and his family were preparing their meal. Being a smaller family their fire was a lot more modest, but with the spectacular backdrop of mountains turned golden in the rising sun.

My son eating breakfast while Badr, wrapped against the chill, wields a spade to add fresh coals from a feeder fire.

Still more kebabs made their appearance and we ate them, piping hot, as they came off the fire, our hosts making certain that we tried both goat and cow. The spices were strong but not overpowering, complementing the rich flavour of the meat rather than overpowering it.

And still the meat keeps coming.

Both my son and I finally reached a point where we could not even think about eating another bite, yet still more kebabs were brought to be cooked. Although I would have loved to stay another day or so to witness the opening of the tinoor and relish the richness of two-day baked meat, but the east coast beckoned and we had a long drive ahead of us.

It was hard to bid the village goodbye, a large group turned out to say farewell and packages of food were thrust upon us with unending generosity. As our LandCruiser climbed the winding dirt track that led us out of the valley my son looked back and I knew that he would never forget the village, the people, the generosity of spirit, the welcome ... nor the slaughtered goats at sunrise.


*tinoor - I may have heard this incorrectly and it could have been 'tindoor'.

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave