Published in Wall Street Journal
20 November 1998

VIEW WITH A ROOM
Dirt floor, share toilet with yaks, but a view to die for

by Paul Spencer Sochaczewski © 1998

CHELE, Nepal

On a bluff at the entrance to the Kingdom of Mustang, a sign warns wanderlustful trekkers: "Stop. You are now entering the restricted area of Upper Mustang."

Savoring the attraction of the forbidden, we gaze up the wide, gravelled riverbed towards distant villages where patches of green barley offer evidence of civilization in this otherwise arid landscape, all ochres and browns and lunar. We can just make out the ancient salt route that winds along the river's banks. The track, accessible only by foot, pony or yak, connects the lowlands of India and Nepal with the isolated mountain plateaux of Tibet and Central Asia. We have walked through a pass in the Himalayas and are headed north towards Lo Manthang. This fabled walled-city is the capital of Upper Mustang and site of the seldom-seen Tiji festival, a three day masked dance performed by monks which aims to rid the world of devils.

A day's walk brings us to the Hotel Deuralee, a simple oasis set in a village of stucco houses perched a hundred meters above the river valley. The altitude is 3,300 meters and if you've come straight from the nearest airstrip, a day and a half away at Jomson, you'll be breathing hard in the rarefied air.

Turn right at the rock with the painted ad "You are always remember, Hotel Deuralee", turn left at the red, yellow and white chorten and enter the hotel through a corral. Traipse through the kitchen, climb a ladder to the roof, and tread carefully across a double plank bridge to an unnumbered door.

Your simple room, one of six, overlooks the Kali Gandaki River valley. Towards the south you see the Annapurna range that forms a rain shadow, ensuring that Mustang remains free from the monsoon rains. In the late afternoon a dusty wind whips through the darkened valley while snowcapped Nilgiri Mountain catches the last sun.

The attraction of the Hotel Deuralee ("top of the pass" in Nepali) partly lies in what it doesn't have. No web-site, no postcards, no health club, no carpets (pressed dirt floor), no balcony (you can meditate on the roof while Tibetan prayer flags accelerate your good thoughts to distant horizons). The only decoration is a poster of a crying Indian child with the admonition "Don't worry, be happy", and a pineapple motif sheet tacked to the ceiling to prevent dust from filtering on to the beds, which are covered with brightly colored Tibetan blankets.

While the Deuralee is cheap, US$ 1.60 per person, the cost of getting there makes the classic resorts seem to be a bargain. On top of the normal expense of hiring a trekking team of sherpas, porters and cooks, visitors to the "forbidden kingdom" of Mustang, which has only been open to foreigners since 1992, need a special trekking permit, which costs US$ 700 for ten days. Additionally, you have to pay US$ 400 for the services of a government liaison officer who's there to make sure you don't walk into Tibet.

The $700 fee, which buys a flimsy green trekking permit, has led to considerable tension in Upper Mustang.

Mr. Purna Kunwar, the Jomson director of ACAP-Annapurna Conservation Area Project, a powerful non-governmental organization that runs many of the development projects in the Annapurna region, explained the situation.

"When the government opened up Mustang to tourists in 1992 they signed an agreement with ACAP promising that 60% of the fee would go for development in Upper Mustang," he says.

That would have been a nice sum, based on potential income from the 800 visitors who enter Upper Mustang annually.

In practice, Mr. Kunwar explained, the amount allocated is just 8%, totalling about $4,500, which doesn't go very far when shared by a dozen villages spread over 780 square miles.

In frustration at being deprived of income from high-rolling tourists, in 1998 the local Tiji organising committee hit visitors with a hefty camera fee of US $50 per day for a still camera, and US$ 150 per day for a video (on top of a different $500 video camera fee that was to be paid in Kagbeni, the location of the "Stop" sign mentioned earlier). Their rationale was that they needed the cash to maintain the costumes, instruments and paintings used in the Tiji festival.

This fee was announced in a paper handed out to visitors when they first dug their Nikons out of their backpacks. "Hearty welcome to Teeji Festival", it read. "Owing to our lenience towards clicking the festival in the preceding years its deep rooted religious festival gets diluted which in turn decreases the number of its attendants as it had before."

Pema Tsering, 30, a shy, articulate teacher at the Great Sakyapa Monastic School and spokesman for the Tiji festival committee explained: "We're embarrassed by this as well. But what can we do? Most of the little money that ACAP collects for Upper Mustang goes for community development. Almost nothing is allocated for cultural development. We use this income to maintain the Tiji costumes. We've asked the government for some money but they ignore our request. If we don't take the initiative the government certainly won't do it for us."

The committee raised about $1,500 from camera fees paid by 15 tourists.

Most tourist groups nominated a designated photographer and bought one pass. One American doctor from Milwaukee, Wisconsin had his video camera confiscated (it was returned to him when he left Lo Manthang) by Tiji camera spies who busted him when he ignored the fine print in the festival's letter:

"Severe action will be taken by the committee for those who are seen clicking without permits and who violate this rule in any unfair and tricky means."

But Tiji is still days away. Deuralee owner Dil Bamadur Gurung, 59, and his daughter Nima Gurung, 18, whip up a Nepalese dinner of rice and lentils for about thirty cents, washed down with local barley brew.

Which leads in due course to a visit to the toilet, additional evidence that unexpected charm can be found in unlikely places.

A guest in need of this facility must cross the rooftop where the owner grows cucumbers and dries sheepskins, turn right at the solar panels, descend a flight of narrow stone steps, wander through a medieval stone labyrinth passageway, duck through a low door and enter a stable while waving "Namaste" to the yaks, climb a few more stairs, squat, do your business in a slot on the ground, and follow it up by dumping a bucketful of kitchen ash down the pit. Don't forget to look up - the Deuralee's toilet is open to the most magnificent night sky you're likely to ever see.