The Old Diocesan Issue 13 - Magazine - Page 43
THE COLUMN
Brandon de Kock (1986K) is, among many other things,
a writer, photographer and speaker. For his day job, he is the
co-founder and director of storytelling at WhyFive, the insightdriven research company behind the annual BrandMapp survey.
hesitate: “Dal bhat power – 24
hour!” A tray of lentils and rice,
served with spiced meat or veg,
spinach, pickles and papad, it’s
considered the national dish of
Nepal and the ultimate trek-fuel.
So we dal bhatted ourselves up
a seemingly endless staircase of
silver-flecked schist. Mica deposits
in the rock make the path shine
back at you, and coat boots and
fingers with a shimmering dust.
Although our core sustenance
remained the same each night,
it was seasoned by the personal
touch of each cook and the
occasional surprise foraged
at high altitude – like the ningro
or edible ferns at a camp called
Pittam Deurali, cooked with garlic
and toasted sesame seeds.
A second taste of the forest
came when Sarki suddenly
dropped his pack and dived into
the undergrowth. He’d spotted
some shrooms, and when we
reached camp, they were treated
like prized possessions, washed
thoroughly and fried in a pan
with onions. We felt like honoured
guests to be offered a taste of their
firm nuttiness – but only one small
bowl to share, and only as a treat
once we’d finished our lentils!
There’s a haze that sets in at this
time of year in the foothills of the
Himalayas that makes morning by
some stretch the optimal time for
hiking. With neither of us having
a huge appetite for breakfast, Doz
came up with a simple plan. Two
boiled eggs each – and a sprinkling
of salt – wrapped in foil and
stashed in the pack. As it turned
out, though, not for very long.
In the late morning on day two,
on the approach to Low Camp, we
crested a ridge to find a teahouse
perched high above the trees, set
against a backdrop so real it looked
fake: blue sky on top, haze below
and the ghostly panorama of the
Annapurna massif stretched across
the middle. And there we sat, in
the shade of a weathered green
garden umbrella, gazing into the
distance, shelling our eggs and
feasting on birdsong.
Then we headed off again, into
the unknown, the route rising up
slowly through a mossy tangle
of lush rhododendrons, branches
heavy with red, pink and brilliant
white blossoms, and the forest
floor littered with dark-veined
leaves almost crying out to be
photographed and turned into
wallpaper.
Every now and then, we
breached the canopy and the
mountains appeared, increasingly
breathtaking the closer we got. It
was only when we reached High
Camp, at about 3,500 metres,
that things took a decidedly Tim
Burtonesque turn: the rugged,
rocky set constructed in scarified
shades of brown and grey, with
large-billed crows strafing the
landscape searching for scraps.
At that altitude, the air thins
out fast, and the Sherpa guides
start mumbling “slow, slow” with
monotonous regularity. Since
both Doz and I have free lifetime
Brandon (right) and Doz share a Kodak moment at the viewpoint: four times
higher than Table Mountain, and still a kilometre short of Everest Base Camp!
THE OLD DIOCESAN | 39
