Line up for the Sikkim shuffle

Prayer flags flutter before mighty Kanchenjunga in Sikkim. Picture / Melanie Ball

I went to India with the hope of food-poisoning myself to a size 8 but, instead of losing weight, I developed an unwanted appetite for climbing things.

This is despite stumbling, scrambling and swearing my way up a Himalayan yak track to 4000m above sea level (the height of Mt Cook) to a view of the third-tallest mountain in the world, Kanchenjunga.

If you haven't heard of it, it's because big brother Everest generally hogs the limelight.

Mt Kanchenjunga resides near Sikkim - of which you probably haven't heard, either - one of India's smallest states and bordered by Nepal and Tibet.

But all that is likely to change. Sikkim is about to labour under the baggage of being called "the next Nepal".

Why? Because with Maoist guerrillas roaming Nepal and frightening trekkers away, Sikkim, an entire Himalayan range away from danger but close-by as the crow flies, is now an attractive and practical option.

When I say attractive, it is with a certain degree of latitude. When the glory of the Himalayas unfolded in front me, I was as awestruck as the next trekker. But getting there, 4000m up into the sky, was often an unattractive proposition, not to mention uncomfortable and, at times, seemingly unattainable.

Sikkim's most famous trail is the Dzongri and Goecha-La, opened by Sir Edmund's mate Tenzing Norgay in the early 1960s. The 104km, usually seven-day trek through rhododendron forests and across yak pastures to the snowcapped peaks and glaciers, beneath the summit of Kanchenjunga, is graded, in the language of trekkers, as "easy to moderate".

This was news to me. Many times on the four-day condensed version of the trek I was convinced I could not take another step.

However, around the time I was crawling up the hillside with my tongue carving a groove in the tundra, the Sikkim Government was announcing that it planned to woo foreign hikers by jacking up the toughness quotient. How, I wondered? A minefield?

Those more experienced than me seemed loath to make comparisons between the well-trodden trails of Nepal and those of Sikkim, where tourism is in its infancy.

At times I got the feeling that this was a trek for the dedicated, dare-I-say-it, "Trekspotter", who would find joy in being able to tick the box of Sikkim, those who have "done Nepal" and need a new challenge on which wear to out their hiking boots.

For a novice like me, seeing the beauty of the Himalayas for the first time, in this stunning region of North India, is one of my life's most memorable journeys.

We were lucky to have as our guide World Expeditions consultant Garry Weare, who literally wrote the book on trekking in the Indian Himalayas.

A man of few words, the advice he did dispense was invaluable. For instance: "Don't drink out of a stream unless I say so. Upstream, there might be a dead sheep, a goat or a defecating pilgrim."

With a white beard, and stick, Weare made a spritely Gandalf. The key to making it through each day, he said, was to eke your way up the trail with painfully patient little "sherpa steps". And so we did the Sikkim Shuffle.

Our porters had other ideas. A clattering of rocks behind you assigned the need to flatten yourself against the side of the trail in order to give them free reign. You won't find their brand of trekking gear at Great Outdoors. Kilos of dead weight are carried up the ridges by slight young men in Levi jeans and ragged football jerseys.

On one occasion a porter ran past me, his friendly greeting of "namaste" ringing in the thin air, as his yellow Wellington boots carried him out of sight. On his back was a basket of white clucking chickens being portered to their doom. Atop the basket were the knives, pots and gas cooker that would seal their fate.

One youngster was carrying an elephant-sized piece of Louis Vuitton luggage, the sort of expensive wheeled case you would see being pulled up to the first class counter at the airport.

It made me glad that I was carrying only the essentials: my Revlon Skin Lights and Superlustrous lipstick.

But, seriously, someone needs to get these guys a contract to do the inorganic rubbish collection.

While you trek in a group, it really is a solitary task, everyone digging deep into their own reserves and having their own ups and downs at differing stages of the ascent.

One of my ups was a true Julie Andrews moment. Yak-poo-shod and fleece-clad, hopping from rock to rock, ricocheting Dave Dobbyn numbers off the rocks at top volume, watched only by nodding tussock and an indifferent sky.

An hour later, I was ripping a leech off my trembling leg, cursing the day I had accepted World Expeditions' offer.

Just a few short days earlier, I had arrived at midnight to the organised chaos of Delhi Airport. 'This is the worst airport in the WORLD!" an upper-class British-accented turbaned man hissed at his wife during my two-hour wait at immigration. "It's worse than Islamabad."

Later, we flew two hours to Bagdogra, the base of the Indian airforce. MiG fighter jets screamed over our heads. I assume the Pakistanis were doing the same thing over the border.

Then we had four hours uphill on a narrow road, to Darjeeling, which clings to the side of steep ridges that roll down like green lava into the valleys.

Built for 10,000 people and home to more than 100,000, it seemed the busiest yet most relaxed place in the world. Jeeps bump and grind their way through the narrow streets, horns blasting. The drivers seem to have cat's whisker radar, and they are helped through narrow gaps by congenial passers-by who spur the jeep on by whacking its side like a horse in the home straight.

From Darjeeling, we set off by jeep through the tea plantations to where we would begin our trek. A little town called Yuksom signalled the end of road access.

There we camped the night and met some Indian Air Force officers who were also starting off on their trek the next day. These jumpsuited military men quizzed me on my marital status, which initially seemed flattering, but then asked if I had given my fiance a thorough examination before agreeing to marry him.

Despite what they thought of my morals, every time we met them on the track they would hand me lollies from their pockets for an extra boost of energy. They were a welcome sight the next evening when we reached our campsite after our first day of trekking and our dzos - slow-moving but sure-footed beasts of burden produced by crossing a cow with a yak - did not turn up leaving us short of vital equipment such as tents, sleeping bags and even a spade to dig the long drop.

I wouldn't normally miss these creatures whose personality is unfriendly and ferocious. Hearing their bells behind me on the track, being herded up by cries of 'cha!', was enough to make me run for cover from their pointy horns no matter how tired I felt.

But their absence, as we stood shivering in a field of rocks and yak poo, without the warm gear from our packs, was a bit of a low point. The Air Force got their porters to make us some sugary, milky coffee, served in Disney-themed plastic cups. Divine. 

The first day trekking, over steep rocky terrain, had been a real test. There is no intermediary campsite so we had to climb all the way to the campsite of Bakkim, which took seven hours.

Not only had our dzos done a bunk, four porters who were carrying our chairs and tables and our mess tent had vanished into the night. Our Indian guide Almas was sent down the mountain in the dark to find them, and eventually they were recovered somewhere down the hill, worse for wear on some local brew.

Our campsite was like no DoC brochure I've seen - yak grazed terraces covered in mud and boobytrapped with hidden rocks, tree roots and bracken. But the view next morning made it all worthwhile.

We could peer out of our tent flap down the valley we had trekked up the previous day. And we experienced our first taste of the delightful trekking custom of "bed tea", where porters with kettles come and pour lashings of tea into a sturdy mug before you've even crawled out of your sleeping bag.

Still, when we later trekked through the village of Tsoka, set up a generation ago by Tibetan refugees, I was happy to find a bottle of Coke for less than it would cost at a New Zealand service station. We had our refreshments in the outdoor courtyard of the "cafe" surrounded by horse and dogs, and saw our first snowy peak from there.

The trail was a medley of rocks, loose scree, gnarled trees, and duckboards. We trod along muddy duckboards, sidestepped deep dzo hoof holes, and avoided the temptation to sit every few steps.

We lost one of our group when his 15-year-old hiking boot parted from its sole. Seeing his disappointment made me realise that I should be grateful for the chance to carry on to our next campsite, a yak grazing meadow at Pethang, from which we would make our dash up to the viewing hill early the next morning.

Lunch was in the sun. The food on the trek cooked by experienced trekking chefs was delicious and wholesome and, unfortunately for me, cancelled out any weight loss caused by the endless footslog. Typically there were seven dishes including a meat curry, vegetables, dhal, chapati and eggs.

After that, it was dark by mid-afternoon and there was little to do but retire, shivering, to our tents, having been warned off drinking alcohol at altitude.

In the morning frost was on the tent and on the ground and the mud had turned hard as ice. I had slept in every item of clothing I had with my hat pulled over my face.

It was harder and slower climbing because the thin air was making my lungs gasp. But the view was everything we had been promised and more.

The sight of Mt Kanchenjunga, rising out of the ranges like a giant iceberg in the sky, whacks the breath out of you that hasn't been stolen by the altitude. Our guides said they had never seen the mountain so clear.

What do you do when the highlight of your day is over by 7.30am? We climbed down euphorically and had an enjoyable night drinking rum and Coke in the mess tent at Tzongri. There was chaos as the village is a bottleneck for trekkers and not everyone had beds and food organised by the time night fell. We felt lucky to be part of a well-organised outfit.

The next day it was a hard six hours' slog back to Yuksom, spurred on by the thought of a hot bath in Darjeeling.

Trekking downhill was delightful only for a short while. Every rock jumped up to bite my ankles and, thanks to the altitude, my fingers swelled like cocktail sausages.

When we reached the end of the trail, Weare mentioned again he was worried about too many tourists putting demands on the trekking trails. I suppose I could do my bit to avoid the problem by discouraging people from going. But I can't. Trekking in Sikkim may be tough but it's something everyone should have a go at. I think I've discovered there is a little bit of Sir Edmund in all of us.

* Theresa Garner travelled as guest of World Expeditions and Singapore Airlines.