The Cave
Don’t look up. Just don’t. Just keep looking down and lift your stupid leg. Good. Now the other.
-the neck instinctively cranes upward-
No! No! Not yet. Two more steps, then you can look. Two more deep breaths of this thin air, then look.
The soul sounds of the 70’s plays faintly over my labored breathing. Something by Sly and the Family Stone. Not necessarily hiking music, but what is? The monstrous amount of sweat pouring off me in the jungle heat has fried one of my earbuds into silence, in it’s place the buzz of a million crickets fills the gap.
Okay, now you can look.
Fuuuuuck.
Slowly I lift my eyes off the rock step in front of me. It’s face is worn smooth. A smoothness generally only seen on the marble steps of Rome or the cobbled streets of Varanasi. A shine only brought out by millions upon millions of feet slowly sanding the edges until barely a step could be had. Centuries of barefooted children, well heeled merchants and roughly shod soldiers have worn this path down, and now it feels as if me and my fatness might die here on it.
As my view widens upwards the scene falls upon me like a lead weight. Thousands of steps, all slick with rain and mud stretch out in a ribbon, see-sawing like Christmas lights up into the gray clouds – my path home.
You shouldn’t have looked up.
My legs shake under me. I feel like I will collapse and I soon do. In a great heap I barely control my fall into a patch of grass and lie breathless looking at the canopy.
Definitely should not have looked up.
I am in Bandipur, Nepal. A small medieval merchant town straddling an ancient trading route through the mountains. For millennia, men and women from the far flung reaches of East and West would have walked this path, laden with goods for sale to the famed Newari merchants that controlled this vital link between India and China.
As I suck the last drops of stale water from a grungy plastic bottle an old man rounds the path in front of me, headed down the mountain. He is dressed the way of most Nepali mountain men – sandals, grey shorts, grey shirt, and a smart blue vest. On his head he wears a matching blue dhakka topi, the classic head covering of the Newari, and in his hands he carries a worn walking stick.
He greets me with a big smile, his short white beard parting to show a set of yellowed teeth.
‘Namaste’
‘Namaskar’, I respond, using the honorific for those senior to you.
‘Which country you?’
‘American’
‘Amerikay, hmm’. He nods his understanding of my citizenship.
‘Where you go?’
‘Bandipur, my home’.
‘You come cave Siddha?’ He says, pointing into the deep valley with his stick.
‘Yes, very beautiful, but very far.’
He laughs, bringing the wrinkles on his face into sharp resolve, and with a curt nod continues bouncing nimbly down the steep path.
The cave itself, my reason for trekking down from my rented room above the clouds, was indeed beautiful – in that way that dank pits in the ground laced with spiders and bat shit can be beautiful – but at this point, on this step, and with untold thousands still to go, I wonder if it was worth it.
Of course it was, and had I zip-lined down to it and helicoptered back up I might still be in awe of it. But at this moment, lying exhausted in a puddle of myself, being slowly picked at by the creeping crawling jungle floor, it’s tough enough to recall.
The largest cave in Nepal, Siddha was discovered only fairly recently in 1979. I find this hard to believe, however. The idea that anything would go undiscovered in a land this ancient and well traveled seems strange, but the remoteness of this path and the thickness of the jungle perhaps make it plausible.
My intrepid traveling partner, Cassie, had charted our way faithfully, first to the top of the 1,100m mountain, then over it’s crest, and deep into the valley below. The way down is melancholy. It’s easy – but the sour feeling in the pit of your stomach rises with each step, knowing it will have to be done again, against the grade, and possibly in the dark.
Arriving at the bottom a wrought iron gate guarded the entrance to the cave, it’s mouth blowing cool air tinged with death. A sleepy middle-aged man in shorts and rubber crocs offers to guide us for the equivalent of a dollar each and, after collecting his flashlight, we set in.
The entrance of the cave looks as if it had long ago been deemed a place of worship. Small altars, ringed with wilted flowers, and covered in colorful paints and holy powders spring up from the muddy floor. Many look far older than the 70’s, and are more than likely quite ancient, with the rest of the caves expanse only being opened up through recent earthquakes.
A series of small ropes pinioned into the rock face allows shaky access over some boulders and into the pitch darkness.
Flipping on our headlamps we realize we have made a huge mistake. Both of our batteries, worn down by a month of living in a tent, have almost entirely given up the ghost. Unnoticed in the daylight, but now simply lapped up by the cavernous dark, our lights are barely enough to see our feet.
Our guide trudges on however, his brilliant torch illuminating a cathedral-like space over 150ft high. Wanting desperately not to fall into an unseen chasm we both scurry to keep up, practically hanging onto his shirttails.
The chirp of bats and the squish of our boots in the mud is the only sound save for the whistle of cool air up from the depths. What little light I can focus shows the floors and walls are awash in all manner of wildlife. Roaches, stick bugs, and large pale spiders, too delicate for the sunlight roam freely over our feet and hands.
Coming to a cliff, our guide motions to a metal ladder descending at an awkward angle into the nothingness. Each small rung is slick with mud, and the view – hemmed in by my dying light over a seemingly bottomless cavern – is enough to make me say a small prayer to see daylight again.
A rare moment of fear in an otherwise placid country.
Coming to a landing we pause to catch our breath and spot the unmistakable flicker of light in the distant dark. It is warm, welcoming, not the harsh light of an LED but a set of small candles.
Approaching the glow through a side cave we come upon a thin figure seated cross-legged on the ground.
‘Babu’, whispers our guide. Hushed as if not yet wanting to break the holy man from his meditations. Regardless, the crunching of bugs on the floor has betrayed our presence.
The yogi turns to us, wordless. He is young, maybe early 30’s, with piercing eyes and long black hair and beard. His robes, a giant billowing pile on the floor are a vibrant blue laced with gold. In the flickering light of the three small tea-candles his few possessions are laid bare. No water or food is visible save for a few crushed pieces of coconut on a small altar. A metal plate holds the dyes, powders, and dried flowers associated with Hindu prayer ritual.
He motions for us to approach.
I turn off my headlamp, remove my hat, and ease my battered knees into a kneel before him. In the candlelight his eyes are balls of reflected fire bordered by smears of white and blue paint.
He picks up the plate, whispering incantations I could not possibly hope to understand, then dabs my forehead with scented oils and a smear of dye. He then removes from the altar a small piece of crushed coconut. Pressing it into my palm he clasps his hands together and raises them to his brow. I pop the stale coconut into my mouth and do the same. It tastes awful, but I munch it happily and retreat, whispering my thanks.
Ascetics of this area are known for their deep meditations. Living simply these holy men seek enlightenment through personal pain, fasting, and physical endurance. This particular man, our guide informs us, will be here for a month.
A month…
The thought is jarring. Here, four stories underground, a maze of twists and turns between one and daylight – it almost seems too much.
The only water collects in vast pools filled with eons of bat shit and dead insects – the live ones would surely carry one away at night. But with one last look as we turn to leave through the small opening we have crawled through, the yogi looks very much at home. His candles, however long they will last, give his small cave a warm glow, and I am almost sad to step back out into the pitch darkness.
Our guide points the way out, and we fall in line. Not wanting to lag behind with our fading lamps. Each step on the wet rocks, smoothed and rounded by time, is dangerous. Despite our fancy Western hiking boots we spend most of our time sliding as if on ice-skates, meanwhile our guide scampers effortlessly past us in his cheap rubber sandals.
Each unknown turn, each precarious ascent holding a rope in one arm and a handful of mud in the other makes me thankful for our guide. With no rope trail behind us we would surely have become lost without him, wandering aimlessly before perhaps turning to our own cave meditations.
With the last rung of the ladder we are up, the faint shine of the sun just barely peeking through. Passing the altars, now home to a set of sleeping children, we step out into the daylight. The temperature change is instant – like stepping out of a walk-in freezer and into a sauna. I am drenched again in seconds.
Battered and bleeding I have been cut by unseen rocks, and slowly covered by the sticky mud of the cave. My knees feel weak from the ladders and my back aches terribly from the constant stooping and crawling. Yet with the sun beginning to set, and a long way to go before a shower and food, we must march on. The thousands of steps that we had happily bounded down now a seemingly vertical wall stretching into the gray clouds.
-sigh-
Just don’t look up.
