Prayer flags flutter in the wind. In red, yellow, orange, blue, green, and white, they carry Buddha's prayers through the high valley. The sky above us is blue, the colors incredibly brilliant and sharp, in an infinitely high and wide space where rocks, prayers, people, animals, and plants have come together to form, as it seems to the wanderer, one single great prayer, an ode to creation. We are in the Himalayas, in Jomsom in the Annapurna massif, the world's deepest gorge, as the Nepali guides never tire of emphasizing. To the east, the Dhaulagiri, the Fish Tail Peak (named for its fin-like summit), opposite the Annapurnas 1-8 (at 36 mountains, they stopped looking for new names), alongside many other peaks that soar far above 7,000 meters into the open sky. It’s hard to speak of a gorge in such vast dimensions. Here in Jomsom, at an altitude of 2,500 meters, we find ourselves on a high plateau, the riverbed of the Kali Gandaki, an ancient pilgrimage route and likely the busiest trek in the Himalayas.
As early as the mid-60s, the first licenses were granted to guest houses and lodges in today’s Annapurna Conservation Area, and during the heyday of the hippie era, the first Westerners dared to venture into the Himalayas – probably not least because hashish was officially available in the Hindu kingdom of Nepal (the countless pilgrimage routes and shrines in the Himalayas attract many sadhus, holy men from nearby India, especially Shiva devotees who love to partake in the ritual of smoking).
Among these first visitors from the West was the sadhu of the electric guitar, Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix obviously had a knack for beautiful places where cannabis products were plentiful: in Essaouira, the picturesque port city on the Moroccan Atlantic coast, stands the "Jimi Hendrix Villa," which the musician visited. In October 1967, he undertook the arduous yet easy-to-manage ascent to Jomsom with a friend and four Nepali helpers – the term Sherpa technically refers only to a specific ethnic group predominantly living in the Mount Everest region.
But back to the origins of this story, three years earlier: Muktinath is the destination for pilgrims and trekkers, a small village at 4,300 meters elevation. Here, the mountain river Kali Gandaki springs forth, its source water supplied through 108 copper bull heads, and here lies the place of worship for Hindus and Buddhists. The temple venerates the ancient tradition that views Muktinath as the site of the union of the god Shiva with his companion Parvati. In the Buddhist sanctuary, two natural methane gas flames emerge from the ground; a previously existing third flame has already gone out.
When encountering Indian pilgrims, they explain that a triple circumambulation of the Shiva temple, accompanied by a ritual washing in the spring, cleanses a person of bad karma. The negative actions committed out of ignorance or delusion receive absolution here. Under the vast sky, the clear air, and the relieved expressions of the pilgrims, embedded in the peaceful grove of the sanctuary with its countless prayer flags and freshly planted trees, such a belief seems plausible.
Returning to the small village, one is again surrounded by more mundane things: handicrafts for tourists, scarves, a control checkpoint for the conservation area, and guest houses and restaurants for up to 500 trekkers daily at the height of the season.
On my day there, I had the dubious pleasure of listening to a young Canadian who believed he needed to impress his surroundings. In an urban environment, this is quite normal, but in the paradisiacal clarity of the Himalayas, it was irritating. I felt sorry for the Nepali guide accompanying our precocious young man. I asked him what it was like to work for such a boss, and his response was marked by the typical Asian composure, always starting with a "No problem." He didn’t have to listen to everything his client had to say, and in a few days, after the trek, they would part ways anyway. How surprised I was when, two days later, the same guide overtook me alone and lightly, skipping along. Santaman, that was his name, had quit his job!
This called for a celebration, and he took me to the Tak-Khola Lodge, the place where Jimi Hendrix stayed in 1967. The proud owner Mankeshar Takhali, a musically inclined man and the lodge operator, asked during our conversation if I liked Jimi Hendrix’s music. Awestruck, he placed an old cassette into the recorder and listened intently to Hendrix's music. What made this moment so touching and surreal was that the cassette was warped, and the power fluctuations from the electrical supply caused varied playback speeds. Alongside Hendrix’s wah-wah effects, there were two extraneous sounds, yet Mankeshar listened as if he were directly connected to his god through this music. In mutual sympathy, I promised Mankeshar that I would bring a picture of Hendrix to hang on a wall in the Jimi Hendrix Rooftop Restaurant on my next visit.
Three years later: With the orange paint mixed according to my directives in my backpack, after a 12-day trek and conquering the Thorong La Pass at 5,400 meters, I reached Jomsom to fulfill my promise. How shocking the news from the family that the 53-year-old Man Keshar had suddenly passed away from a stroke two days earlier.
On the same day, his body had been cremated, and the lodge was filled with mourners. Shailendra, the nephew and the eldest descendant in the clan, said that according to Tibetan Buddhist belief, the soul of the deceased was still among them, and Man Keshar would still witness the fulfillment of my promise. However, there would only be one day since the next ceremony would take place the following day.
What to do with a forgotten image template in Kathmandu? Various fax attempts from the capital failed, and in the house whose restaurant was named after Jimi Hendrix, a small picture of the musician could only be found after a long search. Armed with pencil and eraser, I set up a makeshift scaffold and transferred the image onto the wall using a grid technique. The remaining relatives in the house and two monks engaged for the burial closely followed the progress of the work. Arju, Man Keshar’s youngest daughter, was of great assistance to me. The 7-year-old sharpened the pencil, held the template, and passed me the paint. Without many words, we became familiar with each other and by the end of the day, we celebrated a successful work.
The family was satisfied, and I was a guest at the Puja, the funeral ceremony, the next day. Since Man Keshar, according to Shailendra, was no longer physically present but deeply longed for his past existence, his friends and relatives also needed to drink and eat on his behalf. In the men’s ceremony room, the deceased’s leather jacket, watch, jewelry, and glasses were displayed. Everyone bowed repeatedly before the imagined deceased; after the ritual ceremony, they ate and drank until they collapsed. Rakshi, a sake-flavored spirit, was passed around in plastic containers; people were cheerful and in good spirits, unimaginable how even the youngest children of the deceased laughed brightly and freely in the day.
The only person truly grieving on that day – in the Western sense – was Man Keshar’s 47-year-old wife. In the darkest part of the house, the ground-level kitchen, she had withdrawn and received support from her sisters-in-law and children. Through tears, she asked me for help in educating her children. A little tipsy from the Rakshi but still with a clear mind, I resolved to do what I could to ensure a good education for Arju.
The people in the land of snow are marked by exceptional hospitality and politeness. At any time, a guest can enter the family kitchen, receive a baby in their arms, and warm their hands by the communal fire. Life is simple and precious, the space immeasurable, and the people warm-hearted and proud. In one of the poorest countries in the world lies great wealth. And even as dark clouds of political unrest currently loom over this beautiful land, one should not be deterred from visiting the country at the foot of the Himalayas. The people there need money to live, and at least I have received unforgettable moments in return. Those who have never been to the Himalayas have missed one of the most beautiful aspects of life.
P.S.: When Hendrix stayed at the Tak-Khola Lodge, he wrote a saying on a wall. Mankeshar restored it when it was washed away by a flood: "If I don’t meet you in this world, I’ll meet you in the next one. Don’t be late." I know that they have met.