Walking to Rara Lake

"Hot Tea," the kitchen boy Bimba roused us each morning. The steaming brew sweet with milk and sugar would be followed with a hot breakfast: oatmeal or rice porridge, a fried or scrambled egg, warm juice.

Mimor had learned to cook in the Indian army. He ran his kitchen with military discipline, ordering Bimba and the second helper Tilok to scrub pots, pack supplies, or carry out a myriad of other chores. Late in the day, he would scan the horizon, looking for a level spot with a supply of flat rocks. "Up there," he would gesture excitedly, and we would climb the fallow rice terraces to the one he spied for tonight's kitchen. He would send one of the boys for firewood, while he configured the stones into an oven and stove. Soon the pots and food packages would be strewn haphazardly across the ground, a breakdown of the military order. He would begin rattling his cast iron skillet over the open flame, popping the corn that would serve as the hor'doerves for the evening's dinner. Soup would come next, spicy tomato or chicken, then a main course of french fries or curried potatoes, rice with lentils, tuna, apple pancakes, poori. The fare was frequently enough to feed a brigade. Dendi had first call on leftovers and passed whatever remained down a rigid pecking order.

"Mimor promises a special surprise tonight," Dendi informed us the day after we reached Rara Lake. The cook had disappeared after breakfast, off to search for this treat. The rest of us were relaxing to celebrate our arrival, Dendi studying Japanese for an anticipated wave of East Asian trekkers, our porters bathing for the first time in more months than they could remember.

When we wandered back to camp after an afternoon exploring the abandoned villages around the lake, the controversy over the evening meal was flaring up. "Take this and do it." Mimor held out his kukri, the traditional knife of the Gurkha soldiers. Tilok backed away. Two chickens flopped on the ground, their feet bound. Mimor had purchased them at a village to the south , apparently the only fowl within a few hours walk. We hoped our eggbox was already supplied.

The Nepalis looked at one another uneasily. Dendi motioned to one of the porters. "Not me," he stammered and hurried away to his own fire. He may have been the low man on the totem pole, but his responsibilities were carrying equipment, not preparing dinner.

We watched with amusement. Nepalis tormented their animals constantly. Yesterday, we had passed a young herder beating his cow furiously over the head as it straddled a fence, unable to escape. Our trekking crew loved to aim rocks at anything that moved, lizards sunning on boulders, monkeys in the rice fields. But with their Buddhist background, the taking of a life was a serious offense. No one wanted to earn the demerits of beheading the hens, especially at Rara Lake, renowned as a Buddhist shrine.

Mimor turned on Bimba next. The cook himself couldn't back down. Even if he overcame his religious zeal, he had to maintain discipline. Bimba was more timid than Tilok, much less likely to put up a strong resistance. He looked squeamish, recognizing he was defeated. He picked up the fowl and trudged up the slope. At least if he got away from the lake's sacred waters, he could lower the marks against him.

Following the usual popcorn and soup, the chicken was served with a flourish. Mimor selected the well-rounded thighs, the meatiest part of what were really scrawny birds. We bit into the dark flesh and began to chew - and chew and chew, a grimace coming over Diane's face. The pride which had gone into this delicacy was evident, but it had come out like a rubber ball. Nepali chickens forage for their food, and the diet and scratching in the dirt had toughened these birds. "Nepali racing chickens," she commented as she swallowed the first mouthful. I laughed half-heartedly, eying the remaining pieces that we needed to stomach one way or another.

But Mimor had not yet completed the surprise. His desert had a golden crust, apple pie needing only a little sugar sprinkled on top to sweeten the sour fruit. Even without cinnamon, sharp cheddar, or ice cream, the meal was redeemed.