Our horseman: Guddu or Dharm?

I'LL start out with our horseman and the relationships we formed with him over three weeks of walking together, eating together, and generally being in close proximity.
In Manali we were told his name was Guddu and as we drove into Zanskar Sumdo there waited a lone horseman who responded to the same name. He was young for a horseman - twenty-four where Mum was expecting a weathered old man, who she hoped would hum as he walked the mountains he had been navigating all his life.Very soon it became clear that Guddu did not speak any English, bar the words "my horse" and "my house," - which could mean anything from 'my house,' to someone else's house or a whole village. Communication was not really an issue as my Hindi was enough to get us by most of the time and Mum and Guddu developed an effective system of using hand gestures while talking fluently in their own natural tongue at each other. It usually got the message across. Guddu was humble and very polite and was soon calling Mum 'Aunty' and treating her like an old lady, which she rather liked.
The first palava we had occurred within the first few minutes of communicating with Guddu; he had forgotten to bring a stove, which was of course an essential ingredient for our trek. He said his brother had the stove and he would be in Zanskar Sumdo in the next one to twenty days. There were only two other groups there and the nearest village was 2000 rupees away. The 'hotel' man didn't have one. (Hotels are small tea shops, often made from old parachute tents, that were at some of the campsites along the way. They collect camping and horse grazing fees and are supposed to clean up the copious amounts of rubbish most trekking groups leave behind.) The second group consisted of twenty Indian college students and their teacher, camped cheekily on the other side of the fence to avoid paying the fee (Mum and I were horrified when they told us we'd be trekking all the to Lamayuru together - so much for peaceful Himalayas). Guddu eventually went over to ask them and came back grinning with a rusty stove. A stove that would cause us a fair bit of frustration but eventually see us all the way through to Lamayuru. Turns our he purchased it from their horseman for the price of a brand new one.
We soon had a routine established with Guddu wherein we would eat breakfast and dinner together and walk apart during the day. We'd usually meet around lunchtime as he overtook us and once or twice (the time I almost fell down the mountain and the time Mum rode a mule across the river) he helped us out of a tricky patch. But otherwise Mum and I would leave after breakfast and Guddu would stay back to load up the horses and then set off.
Guddu often made chai in the morning and despite what I said before he did cook us a decent number of delicious meals. He was very particular about his food and more than once he turned down Mum's sabji and our quinoa porridge breakfast. He could cut onions as well as a chef (holding the whole thing together in his hand while he cut it into perfect pieces) and make round chapattis without a rolling pin. My onion cutting was rejected and the two times Mum and I tried to make chapattis he called them Punjab papads, naan bread and other mocking names. Mainly in jest but I soon gave up on trying to wash his pots and pans (he unhappily pointed out a patch of black soot I had left on the underside) and stopped listening to his complaints about our cooking. Twice Guddu made a delicious lassi sabji for our dinner. He gave me the recipe, which I will put up later. He also made great dal and for a couple of breakfasts he made a delicious rice dish. I have to say, simple things like a cup of chai being made for you in the morning, or dinner after a long trek makes a huge difference. Although waiting for Guddu to make dinner often left us eating past nine pm.
Two things Guddu was not good at was punctuality (making dinner before seven, as we had asked for) and calculating distance. When Guddu said the day's walk would take five hours it would take between seven and eight, and we soon learned to estimate the day's walk by adding at least two hours to his quotes. Guddu also worried a fair bit - about his horses, money, potentially running out of kerosene, potentially not finding us when we took a jeep from Reru to Karsha, and so on.
He was good most everything else though. When we arrived in Chuminakpo he and another horseman got out their hammers and nails and proceeded to cold shoe the horses. Pretty impressive. It also became clear he was a much better housewife than Mum and I, judging by the scolding we received and Guddu's cooking and cleaning skills. Finally, observing the relationship he had with his horses was quite humbling. Not all horsemen we saw along the way were the same but a couple stood out; particularly Guddu and another nineteen year old horseman named Karam who we met along the way. They use certain sounds (whistling and a throaty 'oh, oh, oh' being the main ones) that can mean walk on, stop (and they do stop in their tracks), turn around, it is okay, etc. The horses, no matter how flighty or bitey with others, are like angels with their horsemen.They listened to their horsemen, but the opposite was also true; both depend on the other for their livelihood and it is clear when one observes the bond between them. On the Shingo La our horses' legs were going straight through the snow and two of them (to my horror) fell and rolled a few metres down the mountain. They lay still until Guddu had untied all of their bags and had another man help to hoist them up.When our horse Kallu did not want to take a path we went elsewhere, and when Kali poisoned himself on some Ladakhi flowers and we could not find a vet for three days, Guddu became clearly depressed (we eventually found a vet in Hanupatta and left Kali behind for a week of injections).
Mum and Guddu got along well. Like I said, they didn't have spoken language but managed to communicate with each other just fine when it was needed. To Guddu and the other Indians we met along the way Mum was considered quite the old lady. They called her 'aunty' and became very concerned when she was sick. They were all surprised at how 'fast' she could walk. Mum and Guddu had a constant discourse going over the height of our horse cum kitchen tent/tarp. Mum would say it was too low, she couldn't sit up straight, and Guddu needed a new stick. Guddu would half know what she was saying and repeat that the tarp was too low - "chota chota'. The next day nothing would have changed and they would have the same conversation again. It was quite humorous.
Guddu and I got along well and I was happy for the opportunity to polish my Hindi. It definitely improved on our trek, although I still have a way to go. Guddu  fell a bit in love with me but that story is for another time; it goes under my 'multiple love stories' section. Our conversations usually consisted of the necessities and once or twice I braved the attempt to use more complex Hindi. On those occasions I learned he has been a horseman for six years, has three brothers working as either horsemen or salesmen and did have one sister but she died young. He dropped out of school at thirteen and learned horsemanship from his father.
One evening in the final few days of our trek Guddu was looking through his things and pulled out an ID card. We asked to look at it and were surprised to find, 'name Dharm Singh, age 29,' written on the card. Mum and I asked Guddu why it said Dharm, not Guddu and he proceeded to explain it was his brother's name, no it was his name, no it was his nickname. He laughed and looked slightly guilty and we asked again but by then he had fixed his explanation on the latter: Nickname, nickname. He said to keep calling him Guddu so we did. Although with a hint of suspicion.
When we stopped in Hanumila Guddu's brother had left him a bag of horse shoes as he passed. When the woman asked Guddu his name he saw me listening and halted before telling her it was Guddu. I was sure she said (in Hindi) "Oh yes, your brother Guddu was here!" On the last day Guddu gave me his contact details, which had been written on a piece of paper by someone else (Guddu can't write English). When I started copying them down he crossed out the name Guddu and said, "My brother... Send it to Dharm for me." We have worked out that we were assigned Guddu Singh, Guddu's (Dharm's) older brother, who is also a horseman. He was in Mandi when they called him up and couldn't make it in time, so he called his little bro.When we arrived in Zanskar Sumdo and started calling out for Guddu, Dharm decided to roll with it. He will always be Guddu to us though.

What is to come and the day-by-day

I have given you what were sort of the concluding comments, the summary or the résumé of our trek; it is time to go into some detail. While we walked I wrote; we'd arrive at camp mid to late afternoon, pop up our two man (that is really a one man) tent and then with a much-needed afternoon chai in hand I would slip off to some rock or grassy patch to begin scribbling away. I have a couple of diaries containing the day-by-day run-down of what we did, but I cannot be asked to put all that up on this blog and you might very well find it rather boring. Instead I will write about the highlights - the characters we met, near-death experiences, special places, etc.
Each day we had our routine: We would wake up at around about six am, stretch and slip out of our smooth silky Kathmandu sleeping bag liners to varying degrees of cool. The first ten days had me going to bed in all my thermals and even my down jackets and piling Mum's warm clothes under my feet (I have a super short thermorest), while Mum snuggled onto her full-length, down-lined, extra-warm Exped mat and woke up each morning saying how hot she'd been. Crawling out of the tent I would, each morning, be blown away by the view - snow-capped mountains, raging rivers, gorges, the Himalayas! We'd get into our trekking gear and pack up the tent before breakfast. Our horseman would sometimes bring us a chai, which would make our morning all the merrier. For breakfast there was usually some variation on sabji and rice - chapattis or muesli if we were lucky and once or twice omelettes (!). Somehow, by the time we had slip-slap-slopped (put on our sunscreen, for all you non-Aussies) and were ready to set out it was usually about half seven. One morning we left before five to cross the Shingo La before the snow had melted and we risked disappearing underneath it, but in general our departure time got later and once we started walking with our French buddies we were doomed to leave at eight or eight thirty.It wasn't really an issue but setting out is usually better because a) it gets hot and b) days were long and it is nice to arrive at camp with a bit of time left to enjoy the afternoon. Our horseman said Mum and I walk fast, which we don't. We walk at a good pace (if you ask me) stopping to take pics, enjoy the view, eat a few fruits and nuts and sometimes we'd even tack on an extra break for lunch (Manali cheese and bread while we had it and then stale-ish chapattis by the end). But our breaks weren't long and we did make good time. Once we'd done the camp set up it was usually time to eat or prepare dinner. We had asked for our horseman to do dinners for us but it didn't often turn out that way. He cooked half the time and was off in the mountains with his horses the rest of it, which meant Mum was often in charge of dinner, reluctant or not. I somehow managed to get out of dinner duty most nights, I think it was a combination of our horseman's reactions to my cooking and cleaning and my being busy writing. By the time we had eaten it was usually late (past nine) and after I watched the sky for a good ten minutes - the stars are spectacularly bright and each night I saw at least one shooting star - it was time to crash.
Within this rather stable routine I have collected countless wonderful memories and photographs that I will share in this blog over the next few weeks or months.The stories won't be in chronological order but it should be clear enough. Now you have the context I can get into meat of it all!

Arrival in Leh: Dusty and full of mountain air

Twenty days since we set off from Zanskar Sumdo we have arrived in Leh. Ten days since my only shower in Padum and the lines in my hands were black with dust. When I rinsed out my hair the shower water was brown and while the rest of my body is still as white as the Melbourne Winter left it, my arms are brown like the colour of the Ladakhi mountains.
Twenty days have passed quickly but at the same time I feel as though I have been living in the mountains and sleeping in a tent for months. It feels odd to be sleeping in a guesthouse under a concrete roof, walking streets packed with cars, tourists and cafes and drinking semi-real coffee (they user those funny capsule things here). It feels good to taste some food outside of the daily sabji and rice but beside that I can already feel a slight yearning for the stars and rivers and glaciers and endless walking creeping back in.
In what I will call a brief overview, the past twenty days have been breathtaking, spectacular, delicious, tough and eye-opening. We walked around fifteen to twenty kilometres each day bar three days in which we acclimatised in Chuminakpo, and did our shopping and Dalai Lama birthday celebrations in Padum. Over eight passes (Las) ranging from 3800m to 5100m made the final eight days of our journey very much either up or down - I have developed some decent mountain leg muscles. I'd say the first ten days were like training - one big pass on day three (the spectacular snow-covered Shingo La at 5100m) and after that long days winding through gorges and up valleys, visiting homes and gonpas (Buddhist monasteries) nestled high up in cliffs and on mountains.
There were a couple of tricky spots where I wondered if I might end my days tumbling down a mountain face into the roaring river or being washed away by an especially deep and ferocious river crossing (Mum was on a mule).Both Mum and I came down with our own ailments; Mum was still recovering from flu and managed to poison herself on either fresh yoghurt or dirty water later on in the trek, and I got sinusitis and some lovely wound up my nose that meant I had a prolonged bloody nose.We managed to run out of money, expecting an ATM in Padum and finding there was none. That made for some serious budgeting and cutting out such luxuries as peanut butter; I am really craving peanut butter on toast right now. We far from starved though and our hardships brought wonderful new people into our lives: a group of Indian college kids and a great Englishwoman, a couple of hilarious French guys and kind Ladakhi families.
Each day I woke and could hardly believe the beauty of it all. Every valley has its own feel, its own colours, its own flowers. Each turn brings a chorten or a mani wall to encourage the tired hiker when it is getting late and each pass a flutter of coulourful prayer flags and a panorama of the days ahead. The views were sensational and I could have sat up there for days watching the valleys and the snow-capped mountains on every side. There were gorges where each side rose over a thousand metres above us and mountains, like the great granite Mount Gambar Ranjang which towered above us for days, that felt like the sacred guardians of the Himalayas. Springs flowed from the sides of the driest mountains, adorned with little rocky shrines made by past travellers and village people, and each time we came across one it was like small miracle.There was wildlife everywhere: fluffy marmots, colourful birds of yellows, reds and more, ibex and lizards. And although I know yaks and goats are hardly classified as wildlife their presence in the middle of nowhere, hours from villages all alone, far above on snowy mountains or close causing mini landslides, made them feel like part of the wildlife. The Ladakhi homes are great inside and out, made from mud brick with door frames that require you to bend right over, with tiny rooms and beautiful generations-old furniture and brass cooking pots. There were fields full of peas and barley and Spring flowers and I was inspired by the way each village subsists, in places cut off from the the rest of the world the whole of Winter.
The roads are coming in and I am glad we did the trek when we did it. It is sad to see them and they change everything. I'd say within three years this trek will be finished.The roads cut through farms and ancient rock walls and are soul-draining to walk on. But of course India 'needs' this road for their army.
There is much more to write about: improving my Hindi with our horseman, the travels of my monkeys, the celebrations in Karsha and Lingshed and more. And of course I have so many photos to put up!
But for now I am starving and need to go and drink some fresh seabuckberry juice and indulge in the many varying cuisines of the Leh cafes.