Cicadas – love them or hate them…

A big Himalayan mountaineering adventure is so much more than just a long climbing trip – it is the whole travel experience, the journey, the place, the people, the incidentals along the way, even the coffee…

Steve, "Bird," and I had elected to arrive in Kathmandu in mid-August, a few days in front of the rest of the expedition. This allowed us to acclimatise on the Everest approach walk from the old road head at Jiri - over the 3,530 meter (11,580 feet) Lamjura Pass to Lukla, where most of the others would fly in to join us.

​It was early in the season for climbing, with bursts of sun and short deluges of monsoon rain, generating a hot, humid environment for walking in. The leeches were a problem, little thready buggers which could get through the weave of your socks or the eyelets of your boots, reducing your feet to a bloody mess each night. And itch…

Steve, "Bird", and author Tony came to Nepal to climb a previously unclimbed route on Kusum Kanguru in the Hinku Valley east of Lukla, Nepal, among several other peaks in the area. Peak 43 (left) is an unclimbed mountain where climbers are forbidden to access it for religious reasons. (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)

​Despite the leeches, it was fascinating walking, umbrellas up against the occasional showers, no westerners, carpets of flowers in full bloom, and a lushness that we knew would soon be replaced by the dustiness of the autumnal droughts.

The symphony of male cicadas, those large burrowing insects of the forest floor, was extraordinarily beautiful: individuals would start “singing,” to be joined by thousands of fellows in a pulsing wave of harmony, apparently exceeding 120 decibels on occasions. Then first one, then another, would lose the beat and the whole orchestra would collapse to a discordant jumble of sound, only to start again minutes later. Wonderful.

​Accommodation was a bit difficult though, as this was out of season. But, as long as we weren’t fussy, we could always find someone to feed us and provide us with a sleeping space. And so we met Dawa* and his rabid Tibetan mastiffs that scared the bejeebers out of us.

His teahouse might have been dark and dirty, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was here we were introduced to that weapon of mass destruction called Mustang Coffee, a favourite among travelers in western Nepal’s Mustang region.

After a hot curry meal of potatoes - well, more potatoes - laced with a chili, garlic and radish pickle, that blew our socks off - Dawa tentatively asked us if we would like a glass of local coffee.

​A grubby glass was duly produced, which was half-filled with a clear spirit that looked suspiciously like neat vodka or sake. This was added to a very hot, near black, layer of what we were told was coffee, though it sure didn’t taste like any coffee we had tried before. The concoction was completed with a top layer of yak butter and condensed milk.

The Tasmanian Players: Steve Brown, Tony McKenny, and Robert “Bird” Hamilton

Three happy little climbers - a sketch by author Tony McKenny on the trip.

“Drink it through the coffee if you can” said Dawa. We dutifully tried. “That is possibly the worst drink I have ever tasted," said Steve, to which both 'Bird" and I concurred as the spirit - Nepalese home-brewed raksi whiskey - burnt our throats and seemed to explode in our stomachs. “But maybe we should at least try a second glass," Steve added after finishing the last drop. 

​Now, that next one was surprisingly different . Sure it burnt on the way down, but it ended in an unexpectedly smooth, even velvety sensation as the coffee, butter, and milk worked some sort of magic with the raksi. 

“That was more interesting, “ said "Bird," to which Steve and I again concurred.

“Same, again, please Dawa."  

Was it me, or was Steve slurring his words just a little bit, and why were my legs feeling a bit detached from my body, kind of floating?

The third glass was easily the finest drink I had ever tasted - a nectar of the gods, a subtle amalgam of many differing, contrasting and competing sensations and flavours. 

We sat and grinned at each other in an inebriated second heaven, finders of the alcoholic Holy Grail.

“Steve, shall we have another?” or at least that is what I was trying to say, but Steve was gone, fast asleep across the bench seat and snoring gently, a very happy smile on his face. And with that, we joined him…
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The next morning it was a slow start, a breakfast of chapatti and eggs swimming in greasy yak butter proving too much for the intrepid trio.

We quietly farewelled our friendly host and his evil hounds. It was a subdued group of climbers who slowly panted their way in the thin air up to the prayer flags marking the Lamjura Pass far, far above us.

​If anything, the noise in our heads, a strange rhythmic thumping of exquisite pain, was even louder than those bloody cicadas…

The Tasmanian Team climbed three peaks on this expedition, including a new route on Kasum. One of the team members is descending one of the ridges. (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)

*Dawa, Monday’s child. Most Nepalese men are named after the day of the week they are born. Simple eh!