Saturday September 25, 1999

I’m further out in the Pacific than I’ve ever been before, so it’s all new territory from here. It’s 11:00 am personal time, although the deep blue-tinged blackness outside says that 11:00 is certainly not local time anymore. The only visual separation of Earth and sky comes from the clouds below: all vertical puffy pillars, looking like stark moonlit ghosts marching in procession toward Asia.

Karen and I are well into the trans-Pacific leg of our journey on a China Airlines 747. Since we’re going to Taipei, I wonder if China Airlines is a Taiwanese company with its plane coming home, or if it is a Chinese company with its destination in a country it would like to call home. The mix of people is decidedly Asian, and the international flavor or our trip first truly hit me just a few minutes ago in an unusual way. “Life Is Beautiful” is playing on the movie screen: Italian dialog with Chinese subtitles (oops for us!).

Catching sleep on the flight has actually been better than expected, though the “fun” of adapting to a 180 degree opposite night/day schedule has yet to begin. Upon waking up a little while ago, I actually felt pretty well rested. The recline feature and U-shaped headrests are better for sleeping than what is provided on most domestic aircraft, and my lack of sleep the night before probably made it easier to have a deeper and longer sleep than the usual on-plane variety. Last night, I was at work until midnight getting multiple last minute balls properly juggled, and then I was up until 5:30 am packing and organizing all my stuff for this trip. I was unpleasantly surprised at how long it took me to get everything ready for travel; I even already had practically everything out in the living room ready to be packed. One of those strange time-filling-the-time-available mysteries…

So, you may be wondering what I bring on a 3 1/2 week trip to Nepal and Thailand. Well, here’s the answer in jumbled order:

  • Vaccinations for tetanus, hepatitis A, polio, and typhoid fever
  • Duct tape
  • Electrical tape
  • Washcloth
  • Pack-towel
  • Clothes line
  • Campsuds
  • Iodine tablets and taste neutralizers
  • DEET insect repellent
  • Toilet paper
  • Sunblock lotion
  • Lip balm with sunblock
  • 2 pairs of ear plugs
  • Eye cover mask
  • TUMs
  • Razor and razor blades
  • Shaving cream
  • Toothbrush
  • Toothpaste
  • Soap
  • Shampoo
  • Hand lotions
  • Dental floss
  • Medications
  • Deodorant
  • Mirror
  • Comb
  • WetOnes hand washers
  • Trowel
  • Moleskins
  • BandAids
  • Aspirin
  • Multivitamins
  • Calcium
  • Immodium AD
  • Ibuprofen
  • Cipro
  • Eye lubricating drops
  • Eye allergy drops
  • Nail clippers
  • Lighter
  • Hiking boots
  • Teva sandals
  • Orthotics
  • Padded insoles
  • Padlock and key
  • Home key
  • Swiss army knife
  • Bandana
  • Polar fleece windproof ankara
  • Polar fleece pants
  • Long underwear Coolmax top
  • 2 pair padded trekking socks
  • 2 pair underwear
  • Gloves
  • Light easy-drying nylon long hiking pants
  • Tilley hat (for outside and sun)
  • Thin hat (for sleeping and/or warmth)
  • Polar fleece hat with ear flaps (warmth)
  • 2 T-shirts
  • North Face Goretex Mountain jacket
  • Sink stopper (for washing clothes)
  • 4 passport photos
  • Passport
  • Copy of passport
  • $350 traveler’s checks
  • $300 cash
  • Money belt
  • Plane tickets
  • Info about Nepal plane arrangements
  • Driver’s license
  • Mastercard
  • American Express
  • Health insurance card
  • Calling card
  • International vaccination records
  • Backpack
  • Duffle bag (to transport and protect backpack)
  • Daypack (for plane carry-on and holding extra stuff)
  • Sleeping pad and stuff sack
  • Sleeping bag and stuff sack
  • Watch with alarm
  • Old and new glasses
  • Old and new sunglasses
  • 2 water bottles
  • Waterproof headlamp
  • 2 spare bulbs
  • 16 AA batteries
  • Spare camera batteries
  • Nikon camera outfit
  • Camera bag
  • Bogen tripod
  • Olympus point-and-shoot camera (backup)
  • “Trekking in the Everest Region” by Jamie McGuiness
  • “Trekking in the Nepal Himalaya” by Stan Armington
  • “The Armchair Mountaineer” edited by David Reuther and John Thorn
  • “The Dispossessed” by Ursula K. LeGuin
  • Journal
  • 4 Pens
  • And a few other etceteras

Sunday September 26, 1999

We’re here! I’m sitting at a table in the open air cafe of the Welcome Sawasdee Inn, our hotel. It’s relatively quiet here, tucked away down a 1-car wide but 2-way alley/street. There are some other North American and European traveling types scattered around, and the clack of ricocheting pool balls can be heard over the sound of ’70s style American music. We found out today how different this “backpacker/budget” area of Bangkok truly is from the rest of the city. It’s a nice minimalist oasis, but it’s not Bangkok. Bangkok starts several blocks off the white bread traveler path, and in between the classic tourist spots. More on that later.

Today’s travel went relatively smoothly, and the few delays and layovers were sweetened by the camaraderie I am finding among the travel-and-experience set. Our original itinerary was changed midstream due to effects from a typhoon in Hong Kong, so we hung in Taipei four hours longer than expected but got a shorter direct flight in the trade.

We got to know some other travelers from the US and Canada during the wait: Mark and MJ from Vancouver Canada and who have not worked a 9-5 job in 3 years; Dave from San Francisco who just quit his prior job and was also heading to Nepal before his next job starts (that break was part of his acceptance deal); the optometrist from San Diego who was doing volunteer optometry in remote areas of Australia and Nepal; a post-college/pre-jobs couple of women traveling before their next life transition. All were pleasant and talkative; an instant interest and bond forms quickly.

The airport in Taipei was the same yet different. Kinda stark and kinda modern, yet water damaged in areas, air conditioned sometimes and hot/humid other times, moldy smelling, and lacking in North American-style services. The restroom was called “Man Toilet”. Vending machines dispensed small herbal health drinks. The entire building rocked as we all had expressions of realization at different times on different faces: earthquake.

We were drowsy before and during the flight: Karen napped fitfully and I stayed awake reading about Nepal. We ended up staying awake fine until a normal bedtime here Sunday night, and Monday we literally did not feel ANY jet lag effects even though we are on the complete opposite side of the planet. Amazing and pleasantly surprising. Our new environment is grabbing our attention so much as to keep us completely preoccupied from our helter skelter bio clocks.

My writing catch-up was caught short by a sleepy Karen. She came down to my table and ate 2 fruits she had bought from vendors on the street: a mango and something that looked like a cross between a huge granny smith apple and a gourd. We talked about the day, all the while with stray cats underfoot and a general sense of “just hanging out” from everyone around us in the cafe. Off to sweet sleep with the a.c. cranked on, comfortable after an earlier sweat-rinsing shower.

Back to Sunday: upon arrival in Bangkok, my first impression was humidity. Something I don’t particularly miss about the Maryland and DC area. We filed off our plane full of Asians and started figuring out poorly translated signs to go through customs and get our bags. The faces and voices were foreign except for our little oasis of 4 other Americans. Dave was nice enough and little disoriented since he had done no planning for Thailand (he was only there for less than a day before continuing on to Kathmandu), so he joined us in our cab to downtown Bangkok. Our friend Julie had informed us of a street with budget hotels, so he was happy to go somewhere with someone having a plan of sorts.

The driver didn’t know exactly how to get there, but close enough. He also overcharged the gullible Americans. He declared “300 baht”, half decisively and half questioning. The other two seemed fine with it, so I didn’t say anything. However, the “metered” taxis are notorious for not using the meter and instead quoting higher prices to tourists. The meter never comes on and most neophytes don’t know the difference. The new environment and disparities in income act to the advantage of the taxi drivers. On our later return to the airport Tuesday, I had to insist four times to be put on the meter, which he finally did with and “innocent” smile. The fare was 165 bahts (100 bahts = 2.50 US$), though, to be fair, that direction did not include the airport taxi departure fee of 50 baht.

Golf cart-like tuk tuks are even more variable and are always open to negotiation. It is expected. They frequently do not use a meter, and the culture is one of uncertainty, pushiness, and trying to milk the passenger in a noncombative way. Monday, we had to literally go through three tuk tuks to finally arrive at one that would actually take us where we wanted to go. The first two would negotiate a fare, get us in the tuk tuk, and lie to us by saying the place we were going was closed for another hour or for the entire day because of a fictitious Buddhist holiday. In each case, the driver would either offer to take us on a tour or take us shopping, both of which would have led us to shops with which the driver had a connection or commission arrangement (unstated, of course). We finally convinced the third driver only when we stood firm at 40 baht (down from the proposed 60, and still very likely higher than their minimum price for the locals) and repeatedly said “no shop!”.

Once the price and arrangements are verbally agreed upon, the tuk tuks are fun. They are three-wheeled dirty vehicles wherein the driver sits on the single front seat and straddles the shifter and motorcycle-style handlebars. Behind him is a single bench seat. The sides are open, and it is covered on top with a metal-framed canopy. Like everything else that transports the city, it is loud and unmuffled, belches black coughing smoke, and is beaten by miles but held together for time. They have the advantage of size, and frequently take advantage of it. Tuk tuk drivers create imaginary illegal lanes, double over in existing lanes, go against traffic when traffic isn’t too near in the opposing lane, and suck the bumpers of anything blocking their paths.

Only motorcycles get around quicker, which are small and nimble and have balanced drivers practiced in the skills of slowly squeezing their handlebars through congested or moving traffic. Clothing ranges from shorts and shirt to full gear, and “freight” ranges from just the driver to boxes piled seven feet high and strapped all around the bike’s perimeter, bottoming out the suspension and flattening the tires. From time to time you’ll also see a family of four riding together on a 100cc bike.

Back to Sunday: we inspected a few budget/backpacker hotels and settled upon the Welcome Sawasdee Inn. Our room was up 4 flights of stairs and down an unlit hall (we later found the light switch); it was the size of a walk-in closet but it had a.c. (which costs extra but is an appreciated luxury after walking through hot and sticky polluted streets all day). The bathroom was shared down the hall, consisting of a sailboat-style head: toilet, sink, and showerhead on a hose, all in the same small closet-sized space with a clogged drain in the floor. And the water was one temperature: cool.

Dave met us for a walk around the local neighborhoods. I could see the “this isn’t Kansas anymore” excitement brewing in him. The night time banter and the open cafes. Packs of stray mutt dogs everywhere, intermixed with wary but brave stray cats. Pungent foods and spices, aromas mixed with rotting garbage and passing exhaust pipes. Street vendors everywhere along long stretches of sidewalk. Shops spilling over from their metal gates to confront every passerby: brightly painted junk baubles, bakery sweets, foods to take home, foods to eat there. Once we left the immediate environs of “backpacker’s row”, we eventually realized that we were the ONLY white people for a couple hours of wandering, without exception. We weren’t the minority, we were the only.

 

Monday September 27, 1999

Monday began the day by visiting sites and mingling with Japanese tourists. The opulence of the Buddhist sites is striking, but primarily through size and color, not necessarily through detailed and implied wealth. The detail does exist in the craftsmanship of some venerated objects, and the wealth does exist through sheer architectural size and solid gold construction, but close inspection has a different feel than the opulence of American wealth, which is different and seemingly more varied.

The Grand Palace is truly grand, though, and appears very eclectic to outside eyes. It is a huge, sprawling (but in some areas tightly compacted) amusement park of Buddhist flash. A 50 foot tall bell shaped building, covered everywhere in gold paint. Shrines to deities and 100+ foot murals telling their stories. Incense burning and people kneeling with prayers written on paper.

The colors are the real visual feast. Many of the buildings are covered in shards of multicolored porcelain, much of which was used as ballast in ancient trading ships and repurposed for grand spiritual designs. Light from the Sun glimmers off of golden bells that sway and tinkle in the breeze, hanging up high and filling the air with a chorus of single note music. Designs of glass provide three dimensionality, like a hologram, only harder to focus on. And paint covers the flat areas not otherwise adorned: repeating symbols, Buddha symbols, stories, patterns, bright gold to subdued dark hues.

When entering temples with Buddha statues, there are specific traditions that even nonbelievers and tourists must follow. And there are “tradition pseudo-guards” to ensure compliance. Feet are the dirtiest part of the body, with the occasional exception of the left hand’s dirtiness, which is only used for wiping oneself after defecating and should not be used for handing something to another person or for eating. One should never show the bottom of one’s foot to another, and should likewise never step over someone leaning against a wall or reclining on the ground. Either go around or wait for the person to move. This, of course, especially applies to Buddha. So, take off your shoes upon entering a temple, and never show the bottoms of your feet to Buddha. The traditional way to ensure this is to sit on the floor facing Buddha, with legs out to one side so that the knees project forward and the feet face backward.

There are some other restrictions, more simple, such as no taking an image of Buddha. So, no photography or videography.

It was then off to the Vimanmek Mansion, after the aforementioned verbal battles with several tuk tuk drivers. Vimanmek is essentially and “extra” royal palace that the king wanted around the turn of this century, and it is made entirely of fine teak wood. Walking it’s halls reminded me of being on a sailboat, taking in its wood and finish aromas. The king used it for a few years, then some other family members used it for a while, then it apparently went unused before being fully opened to the public. Talk about discretionary income! Thought not as grand as The Grand Palace, it is certainly huge and has very nice, landscaped park-like grounds (unlike The Grand Palace grounds, which are congested with an ornate cornucopia of buildings). An English-speaking tour was given, but it was useless. The only words I generally understood were numbers. So, we followed a well-meaning lady from room to room and listened to “—– —- —– — —– ——- —- —- —- 1910 —- — —— —–.” Karen and I quickly trailed behind the group to just look and theorize, but we then got pleasantly ushered along by a guide-in-training girl. She ended up joining us the whole way and gave us a personal tour. Still hard to understand, but we could at least ask for clarification. Usually, I just nodded and smiled, though, after the second repeated sentence which still sounded like “—— — —– —– — ——“.

The evening walk from Vimanmek back to our hotel turned out to be an unexpected visual feast of Bangkok street culture. It started in a cosmopolitan way, with wide avenues full of congestion, open spaces, and wide sidewalks. The city always has a rush hour feel, but this was true rush hour. It was much faster to walk than to take a vehicle.

Karen was famished and it was getting dark. We crossed shop after shop, but not a single restaurant, and Karen was ready for anything that looked mildly edible. We could have had our windshield replaced, bought a radio, or stood for a custom-tailored suit, but no food. It’s invisibleness seemed strange.

Then, finally, a restaurant emerged from a dark street corner. Karen went straight in, and all heads turned to look at the white foreigners. The daughter motioned to a table, the son checked on us, the mother confirmed our order and tried haltingly to answer our English questions, and the father likely cooked our meals out of view.

I was reintroduced to Thai soft drinks. The local Coca-Cola bottlers reuse bottles, apparently over and over again. In fact, a “new” bottle looks literally like it was kicked around by kids and then buried for a while. The markings are worn. The glass is scratched from a history of many swigs. The area around the bottle’s mouth has caked dirt on it. When I first came across all this last night, I asked for a new bottle and suspected that the restaurateur was trying to pass off a new bottle by putting fountain soda into an old bottle. But the next dirty bottle came with a sealed cap on it, and it popped with the fizz of carbonation when removed. Drink up!

The fun started after our meal. We walked for a couple hours through the streets of Bangkok, only generally knowing our direction and figuring things out as we went. For that entire couple hours, we never saw a single non-local, and it was fascinating to wind through Bangkok’s night time food culture. All the shop-fronts are open, spilling 3 feet out onto the sidewalk with sweets, treats, meats, and gaudily colored baubles. On the street side of the sidewalk are blocks upon blocks of vendor tables and carts packed together. The street-side vendors stand in the street, with their mud-filled washing water bins and extra food for display and preparation. Between the two sides of the gauntlet is enough room for one person in each direction to pass each other by twisting their shoulders, ducking under awnings, and stepping over boxes.

The foods were alien. Unknown fruits and vegetables shaped like gourds or half-moons or spheres or whatever your fancy. Colors spanned most of the rainbow, especially the ones that could be seen beneath the surface dirt. Meats were laid out on any available surface: old wood crates, greasy uncleaned metal, plastic bags, whatever. Fruits were washed in the brown water and served as slices or drinks or whole. And, strangely, there seemed far more vendors than actual eaters, yet it was obviously thriving for the local communities. Probably an aftereffect of night time there and not staying to observe one stand at length. There were certainly lots of people, and the commotion vibrated.

Later, we showered off the humid street grime of Bangkok and hand-washed our clothes, hanging them to dry on a makeshift string over our beds.

 

Tuesday September 28, 1999

If your destination is near the Chao Phraya River that runs through Bangkok, I recommend taking the Chao Phraya express boats which run (no… sprint) up and down the river. Faster, simpler, more convenient, cheaper, and far more interesting than the wheeled land transport.

We left from the pier closest to our hotel, Pra Arthit, and were off for quite a ride. The express boats are about 60 feet long, with an open stern deck and mostly consisting of a covered sitting/standing area that runs through most of the boat’s length. Skilled boat pilots cruise around other boats crisscrossing quickly from all directions, and they swing the rear of the boat to bump up against the pier. Jump either way quick, because the boat pilot waits for no one before slamming the throttle off to the next pier. Karen nearly did a foot-on-the-boat/foot-on-the-pier split when the boat pulled away with her still mid-jump-off.

The river is chaotic and energizing. It’s brown churned-mud waters roll with wakes from all the fast-moving boats. Trash congregates along the banks, which are lined with buildings up to the river’s very edge. Boats vary in shape, size, and condition, with some looking newly painted and others looking like floating shipwrecks. I especially liked the thin, long, fast transport boats that served as taxis or guide boats or moving cargo ships. Unmuffled, unfiltered, completely exposed big block car engines pivoted in the air at the boat’s stern, controlled by a 6 foot shaft running straight up to the boat pilot, and connected to the water by a 10 foot long propeller shaft which was completely exposed in the air. The pilot would dip the propeller into the river and send a rooster tail of water high into the air. To shut off the engine, the pilot would put his hand over the air intake to starve it.

Seeing the city from the water gave it new perspective, and approaching our destination from the water provided a view not available from land. Wat Arun is a large white temple shaped somewhat like and intricately ornamented horn placed on its wide end. Bells tinkled in waves with each breeze, and colorful details glistened in the Sun.

It was a well-timed visit before leaving Bangkok.

Nepal beckoned to us through our airliner’s windows: lush green foothills heading up into the high clouds beyond, dotted with homes and farm plots.

Karki, our exceptional travel agent that we found through the Internet, met us at the airport. One foot after stepping over an informal tourist/everyone boundary line, the Third World started hitting us head on. Boys pulled our bags from our hands so they could take them to our car and force a tip. Our taxi was a beat up 1970s Toyota, like most of the others. And the clamor and apparent pandemonium just kept rising.

We drove the Ring Road, Kathmandu’s main highway that circles the city. Let’s first reset on our definition of highway: a 2 lane dirt and rock road. The inner city roads are worse: 1 American lane wide, and no sidewalks. The Ring Road was a real life video game where the player (the driver) careened through objects moving at different speeds and different directions, from the left and right and head-on. Dodging bicycles… playing chicken with tuk tuks… coming within inches of non-flinching pedestrians. A small boy ran straight into traffic, too young and too oblivious. The driver swerved to a skidding halt off the road into a hole between the mayhem and a pole, coming to a stop with the boy on the fender but unhurt. Mario Andretti would have been proud.

Nepal and Kathmandu are even larger leaps away from rarefied America. The pollution is nauseating. The chaotic Brownian movement is accentuated by horns: car horns everywhere, all in full-on honk mode. Incessant honking is an understood form of communication: “watch out, I’m coming around this blind corner and not slowing down”, “watch out, I’m behind you and will hit your arm if you don’t move a few inches”, “ watch out, we are both in a game of chicken where it is understood neither will slow but both will generally swerve and pass”. While the cars were rough, grimy, and held together by duct tape, we were amazed at the lack of dings and bashed fenders. There were thousands of close calls in our few car trips there, but never a hit. A typical American driver would quickly freeze at the wheel and pull to the side of the road in an agitated sweat (probably wanting to use their cell phone or AAA card to get them out of the driving combat zone).

Once in the Thamel area and into the city, the roads become a 3 story canyon-like labyrinth. The crumbling brick buildings are all continuous, almost always sharing the same format: first floor with shops open to the road, and living quarters above. The shops are small, too! No Wal-Marts here. I saw a number of shops that were literally 4 feet wide (with a 3 foot regular door across the front) and 6 feet deep. Basically, a closet with some goods stacked in the back and Nepali man peering out from on a wooden stool.

By fortuitous chance, we happened upon our friends Julie, Shayona, and Julie’s sister Leah while driving to Hotel Harati. It was a big grinner of a moment. They knew we were coming in that afternoon, but the specifics had gotten mushy beyond that and we had other unused communication plans for coordinating a rendezvous. Not needed!

After settling in at our hotel (which was very swank by Kathmandu standards), we all convened for dinner and catching up. Julie is on a 5 month, post-quit-her-job vacation in Asia and Shayona came to join Julie prior to our arrival.

I was especially interested in Leah’s story. She has been directly helping a Nepali village for years in areas of education, women’s issues, water processing, community organization, and such. She has single-handedly started – and runs – a nonprofit organization that exists for the sole purpose of bettering the lives in her village. When she runs out of money or visa extensions, she returns to The States and woks as a physical therapist. There, she saves money and raises funds until her next trip back to the village.

That evening, the unfortunate saga of my food poisoning episode started. I persevered through the evening of fun conversation, but had to cut it off when I nearly puked on the table at our place of choice for dessert. The night was miserable, and the next day was worse.

 

Wednesday February 29, 1999

I was nauseous, weak, achy, feverish, had the shakes, and generally felt really bad. Likely culprit was a particular sandwich back in Bangkok, but damnable sources can be hard to pinpoint around here.

I very much wanted to walk the streets and mix with the mass of movement, so Karen and I did several errands for a couple hours in the morning. So, of course, I vomited hard into the trash can at a money exchange bank Karen was using at the time. Back to the hotel, where I did a really good comatose zombie impersonation.

While Karen enjoyed Kathmandu’s streets and lost her apprehensiveness of the initially bewildering environment, I slept. And puked. And slept some more. My fever started subsiding from 101.5 degrees in late afternoon, and I started feeling better in the evening. I ate and drank very little for a span of 3 days, which set me up poorly for our impending trek into the high elevations of the Solu Khumbu region, but that was all my stomach could handle. The whole episode dehydrated and under-nourished me, and it took a while into the trek to regain even the beginnings of food and energy expenditure equilibrium.

 

Thursday September 30, 1999

Today, our Himalayan trek began. Karki, our personable and reliable travel agent who owns Naso Riesen Tours, and Kamal, our 22 year old porter, met us promptly in the morning at our hotel. I still felt ill, but was improving fast.

Our driver reversed course back through the winding commotion to the airport. Kamal, who speaks English commendably (which is a rare luxury with porters), instantly began demonstrating his value as interpreter and intermediary, well beyond just bag porter.

Kamal is an interesting sort, very amenable and friendly, and certainly hard working. Few people in the US have an understanding of extreme physical labor, as compared to what Nepali porters do for a living. Karen and I had fully expected to pay for 2 porters, one for each of our packs. At $10/day, why bother with all the load and effort? At first, I felt very uncomfortable having a human being carry my stuff for me as I sauntered along with just a camera and water bottle. But, several books and people emphasized portering’s contribution to the local economy, and it’s way of life, and the relatively high and easy wages provided for the porters. And now that I have already been at altitude for a few days when I’m writing this, I realize that Carrying all my gear would have been a much less enjoyable experience. Karen recognizes that she could not even physically do it, given the extreme steepness and the weakening effects of altitude.

Kamal is from a village 6 days walk from Kathmandu, but he moved to the city since there was no economic engine or jobs in his village. His wife came with him, and he has portered for the past 2 years. He aspires to be a guide/sirdar (who lead group treks and make even better money yet do not carry loads). They have no children because of the associated costs and constraints, so he is actually doing a form of family and professional planning. He is somewhat reserved, but very receptive and attentive. Also, he is opening up and loosening around us over time, much to our mutual appreciation.

The Gorkha Airlines 16-seater took us up into the valleys, clouds rolling over hilltops above simple homes connected only by walking trails. Flights to Lukla are heavily dependent upon weather conditions, and it was easy to see why as we skimmed through mountain passes, lush green cliffs and steep waterfalls to our sides.

The approach to Lukla is a quick hoot. Lukla’s gravel airstrip is very short and ends in a building on the hard side of the mountain. It is even slanted with the mountain to help slow down in time on landing as the plane rolls up the mountain, and also to help increase speed going downhill before falling off the end of the takeoff area’s cliff.

Then the world changes again. Locals line a makeshift fence to watch the few daily flights in and out, staring down at the new fancy travelers coming in with their multicolored North Face gear. We got a few inquiries about whether or not we needed a porter, and headed to a local shop for some rough rope to tie our bags together.

We were off and trekking! Moving among a steady stream of heavily laden porters, many walking with bare feet or old flip flop sandals over the rock and mud and yak shit, we began this part of the journey. Many of the porters were heading to the Saturday market and tourist dependent shops at Namche Bazar. Practically everything that is manufactured and available for sale in the mountains were at one time in baskets on porters’ backs, with most of the weight supported by a wide band across their foreheads and some extra weight taken up by rope shoulder straps. Similarly, Kamal supports the weight of both our packs with a strap across the top of his head.

The path of centuries lied before us, traveled by Nepali and Tibetans to trade, to communicate, to branch out, and to live lives. Porters moved swiftly from muddy rock to muddy rock, never wavering or wasting momentum. Downhill, some even run. Loads are sometimes both taller and wider than their bodies. I saw 5 thick 4 foot by 8 foot sheets of plywood on one man’s back. A basket of building rocks on another. Cases of beer on another.

The trail goes from small village to small village, providing the highway and artery for the Nepali valleys. Villages can frequently be as small as 4 buildings, each of which may consist of a combined home, lodge, and restaurant if they are immediately accessible to the trail. Further homes subsist on farming and livestock, using small plots terraced into the steep valley sides. One soon realizes that this highway literally passes by the windows and through the backyards of people’s homes. Probably a fine situation before the advent of larger scale trading and visiting foreigners, but the trail has not adapted and it seems somehow intrusive by American standards.

The visiting foreigners are still strange enough to the locals that they will pause and stare; the Hillary expedition 46 years ago must have been perceived as space aliens. Nepali children are friendly and frequently want their picture taken if given a chance. They have unfortunately picked up some mild begging practices and will ask any white person “hello, pen?”, “hello, bon bon?”, or “hello, sweet?”. A few are mischievous, and many just run around oblivious in their own little kid worlds.

Our destination for the evening was Phakding, and we stayed in a room for 75¢ (68 rupees = $1 US). The general economics of the trekking region is that the lodges make their money off the food for guests, not off the actual lodging. Even so, our total combined cost for lodging, dinner, and breakfast was nine dollars, and we were very full.

That evening, we had a good time conversing and joking with a special British army unit that was part of a large coordinated effort among 18 units to scale Nepal’s trekking peaks. Their high-tech laptop computer and satellite phone jarred with the environment and seemed completely our of place. The wry humor sent us off to bed well. Other than getting a spurt of water on my chest from a roof leak, we slept uninterrupted and much better than in the hot, stuffy city we had left behind.

 

Friday October 1, 1999

In very unusual fashion, the monsoons have not left Nepal by this time of the year. Fortunately, the rains are only light mists, but the distant mountain views are obscured. However, the swirling clouds and changing light gives the whole journey a very mysterious and cinematic feel, and I actually like it. I definitely hope for clear weather soon but am in no way disappointed by the Nepal clouds.

Today was my “opportunity” to trade one sickness for another. I was just getting over the effects of food poisoning and had not yet regained an appetite when I was hit by altitude sickness. All the symptoms: headache, weakness, lightheaded, no appetite, fuzzy thoughts. Shit!

So, we took the prudent route and paid attention to our research. Altitude sickness can become deadly in several different ways if left unattended to, so we stopped our upward ascent in Monjo instead of pushing for Namche Bazar up higher and farther. Good thing, since I literally would have buckled and fallen to the ground trying the steep ascent we tackled later the next day. Some nice Americans gave me Diamox (helps altitude sickness by better regulating breathing and oxygen uptake), which I took before falling into our bed at the teahouse.

We were joined by two very sick Danish women and a sick Englishman, and we all commiserated and compared notes on our woes. The peace was shattered later, though, by a large group of obnoxiously loud Japanese who were celebrating the final night of their trek. Volume and singing are obviously central to their culture in such situations. Fortunately, they all simultaneously went to bed at 8:30, which is actually late for an area that goes dark at 6:00 and does not have electrical conveniences to keep everything going strong into the evening (a number of lodges so far have had a few fluorescent bulbs powered by solar-charged batteries, but that is it for electrical equipment, and is only in some places).

To get me moving around (which is recommended for people with altitude sickness), we went for a night flashlight walk through the village. Eerie mist swirled through our light beams as we walked down medieval stone paths by candlelit windows and darkened rough hewn homes. Karen even got kicked in the leg by a yak for good measure.

I looked very forward to actually feeling well for a change in Nepal.

Today’s route took us through the villages of Zamphute, Toktok, Bemkar, Chumoa, and on to Monjo at 9,235 feet elevation. As we are finding throughout our trek, sometimes we are not even aware that we have passed through a village since some villages consist of only a couple houses, and others we’re not quite sure where they even could have been.

 

Saturday October 2, 1999

Let the steep stuff begin! Today we entered Sagarmatha national Park at the Jorsale entrance and began the steep climb to Namche, passing through Thaog. This was the day to earn a real appreciation for the heavily laden porters. We were passed frequently by them, and we only passed them when they were briefly resting on the side of the trail! Even the yaks (males), naks (females), and dzoom (crossbreeds) were passing the slow-moving low altitude Americans.

The trails are truly beautiful, and I was especially impressed by the fact that any of the waterfalls we passed by or river canyons we passed over would be set aside as a special park in the U.S. Fortunately, that has recently been done here, in its own Nepali way, with the recent creation of Sagarmatha National Park. However, to 99% of the people walking by, it is all just a part of the highway’s backdrop. Though they likely appreciate the beauty all around, familiarity also likely breeds invisibleness. I’ve noticed that Kamal will do double takes to see what we are looking at, trying to follow our gaze to see what foreigners find interesting in his homeland.

The trail passes by flowing brooks, wet green altitude-stunted forests, cascading waterfalls a thousand feet tall that disappear into the clouds, and all the while beside the Dudh Kosi (Milk River). The main river gets its name from the gray-white glacial flour which pours over the rocks like milk over cereal. Within the past 10 years, the national government has built several sturdy metal suspension bridges to replace wooden suspension bridges (that likely replaced log bridges from centuries past; these older bridges get washed away down the valleys frequently). All are fun to cross, and they start bouncing in a wave when porters join you in either direction. Circumventing yaks (on a 3 foot wide bridge that is bouncing up and down and drops 100 feet to the gorge below on either side) adds some extra challenge.

The going rises steeply and quickly up the valley sides, in some places steep enough to stand upright and reach out to touch the rocks your feet will be on in a few hard steps. Porters wipe their brows with bandanas and make grunting noises from time to time, spitting and hacking as they go. Coming down with empty baskets, some porters leap from rock to rock at a near vertical run.

Finally, a few buildings appear on the outskirts of Namche Bazar, the closest thing to a bustling metropolis in the Khumbu Region. A small hydroelectric project was built a few years ago by Europeans for the locals, and their way of life has been changed forever. Electric lights at night. Loud music at pool bars. Microwaves. Hot showers. Even washers and dryers. The week before we arrived, and Internet and e-mail business was established, uplinking and connecting via satellite phone, powered by powerful new Pentium III 450 computers. Even with all the technology and conveniences alien to this environment for centuries, I was most impressed by the human aspect: those washers and dryers and monitors came on someone’s back from over a week’s walk away in Jiri.

The village is huge by Khumbu standards: at least 70 buildings scattered within a steep shoehorn-shaped hillside valley. All the buildings are connected by the same yak shit covered muddy rock paths as everywhere else, but time will change that. Namche will become distinctively separate when someday in the future the Khumbu trails get replaced by in-town sidewalks. No need or incentive for that yet, but I expect that it will eventually come.

We stayed at the expensive Sherpa Co-op, a relatively pricey 300 rupees per night because we had a toilet room attached to our sleeping quarters. The “toilet” opening was even with the floor and required straddling and squatting over, but that is the norm in the area. Most toilets beyond Namche exist in stone outhouses that have only a hole in the floor; you usually are standing on deep mounds of dirt and leaves. In comparison, this was the Khumbu Ritz Carlton. Still no running water, and you had to dip a pitcher into a bucket of dirty water and pour it into the toilet to “flush”, but it was pretty swank by local standards. Even an electric light in our room!

 

Sunday October 3, 1999

We spent an extra day and night in Namche to aid with acclimatization, so today was a lazy day of goofing and exploring the town.

For food, we sampled several different restaurants, and we settled upon several meals at our preference: The Mt. Everest Bakery. Our own lodge was excruciatingly slow in serving food (over 1 ½ hours to get basic stuff), plus the dining area was in a claustrophobic room off the bar/pool table area, so it was not particularly enticing. Another restaurant was too heavy on the onions and garlic, so that was out. Everest Bakery not only had the regular menu that every other lodge up and down the Khumbu has, but also pizza and a number of pretty good bakery treats. Therefore, our place of choice.

The Namche shops are fun, but essentially very similar from one to another. After exploring a while, the interesting part came in finding the single unusual new item, as opposed to a whole new shop of stuff. Some did have side specialties, though: climbing gear, blankets, medicines, locally handmade paper. But, there were always constants: Snickers and Mars bars, bottled water, canned/bottled sodas, crackers, local crafts. Each shop also had a cloth-covered table outside to attract passing tourists, filled with very interesting Tibetan stuff: portable prayer wheels, cow bells, carved jewelry, ornate boxes, prayer books, incense holders. There were things of interest to be found, but we still had a good ways on our journey to go and we didn’t want to pack it with us. Maybe something for the return pass through Namche.

We also visited some boa fide tourist attractions, again a part of the economic growth exhibited in Namche. The Tibetan Cultural Museum was a basic collection of local stuff, with a few pithy explanatory notes taped around. Kamal’s presence made the experience very interesting, though, since he had actually used many of the items in his home village. At least as informative was a photo gallery put together to show local traditions and lifestyles. The rites of marriage were particularly interesting, and were again fleshed out by Kamal’s descriptions of his own multi-day wedding ceremony.

We also walked the town’s steep walkways to the Choi Gang area, where the national park headquarters is located with informative exhibits on regional wildlife and villages. On a clear day, there must have been great views of the surrounding snowcapped peaks. As it was, we walked through thick mists and looked down upon an atmospherically moody Namche. The Dudh Kosi rumbled, and Asian ravens squawked.

We sampled different parts of town life as we wandered. We joined some local policemen in the process of slaughtering, skinning, and dividing up a goat. Karen unfortunately came down with a cold, so she visited the local Tibetan doctor for some unknown and foul tasting herbal remedies that looked like deer shit pellets. We watched men build wood frames for windows, and observed the construction of a new stone building. Workers threw rocks in chain gang fashion, and others chiseled rocks into squared blocks for the walls. Women washing clothes by hand, men digging trenches. Some of Namche was very new, but much was still old.

 

Monday October 4, 1999

Today we moved beyond the town of Namche and left its modernity behind. We ascended steeply out of the town’s horseshoe valley, and left it with a resting glance at the top before moving on. We continued higher on the western side of the larger valley that was halved by the Dudh Kosi below.

The trail followed the general slope of the river, so the rate of ascent was more pleasant. The trail was also the widest and smoothest of the trek so far, making for easy going.

For a while, the clouds parted and the hugeness of the Himalayas became apparent. Nupla and Kongde Ri loomed huge and steep, their snowcapped slopes blending in with the high altitude clouds parting and forming around them. Magnificent stuff, and we hope for other clear views in the near future.

Above Namche, the number of porters and trekkers thins considerably. Passing yaks on the trail can occur just as frequently as passing people. The small high altitude flowers are apparent, and they dot the damp hillsides with color among the low scrub. Vast hillsides are filled with deep golden-tinged reds, greens, yellows, and oranges among the jumbles of dark gray boulders.

We bypassed Kunde and Khumjung by accident, not having been sure of which trail to follow above Namche. Since there are rarely signs, it is mostly a matter of distinguishing between which trail is for livestock, which goes to a person’s home, and which is actually the main trail. Fortunately, mistakes are generally minor since the trails consistently crisscross and reconnect further up the valley.

We got directions in Kyangjuma and followed a very steep trail cut into the side of an imposing cliff. Steps were formed by rocks strategically placed long ago, and in other sections the going was just a stepping stone scramble over whatever was available. In certain stretches, the path dropped off immediately to the right for a couple hundred foot plunge. This way took us up over Sanasa and Tashinga villages, which could be seen through the mists in the valley below.

Our route continued steeply up until cresting Mong-La, or Mong Pass. At Mong-La, a chorten (stone representation of Buddha) greeted us in the middle of a few stacked rock buildings. Karen stopped for hot tea, and I explored the small village. Karen thought she would go out of her mind if she had to live in such a remote, small place sitting around a smoke-filled kitchen waiting for a trekker, any trekker, to break up the routine and boredom. The teahouse owners were warm and friendly, though, and seemed at peace with themselves and their lifestyle.

After cresting this pass, we also left behind the views we had of our earlier journey through Monjo, Thaog, and over the various swaying suspension bridges which were all visible from our bird’s eye view path. The trail descended as steeply as it had risen to the 13,035 foot pass, and we cruised down to Phortse Tenga at 12,057 feet for the evening. Scrubbing off altitude like that is always unfortunate since it will need to be made up for later, but that is part of mountain travel. In addition, it put us at a good altitude increment above Namche to acclimatize for the evening.

Phortse Tenga has only 2 buildings by the trail, both primitive lodges. Each has open dormitory style sleeping, one for 10 rupees and the other for 20 rupees (that’s 15¢ or 30¢ per evening). The walls are covered with a hodgepodge of plastic sheets, the floors are rock and dirt, and the mattresses are thin foam slabs that have never been cleaned of their stains from dirty trekkers with yak-shit-covered boots. A Tibetan mother and daughter ran the lodge we stayed at, with the father likely off portering or doing trade. That evening, we listened with a French couple to Kamal describing aspects of his life, village, family, and friends. Then we were off to brushing out teeth in the rain with a flashlight, and sleep.

 

Tuesday October 5, 1999

We woke up to beautiful skies arching over the Himalayas we had only guessed at during the past days of misty clouds. The air was crisp, the sky wispy blue, and the mountains were very imposing, keeping the valleys both protected and imprisoned by their sheer mass. Besides their height, I am continually impressed by their steepness, signs of a young and still growing mountain range.

Unfortunately, we made a mistake that we will learn from. After admiring the views from near our lodge, we had a leisurely breakfast and nonchalant packing. When we returned to the trail, the clouds had also returned. Views were interspersed throughout the closing cloud banks, and eventually the clouds crowded in close again. We have noticed that the weather has generally been clearest in the mornings, followed by rising new clouds powered by the Sun.

The hike was a pleasant and relatively short one because we quickly ascended to an elevation that made a good stopping point for today’s acclimatization. Our destination for evening was Dole, at 13,254 feet.

Throughout this trek, our actual distances traveled have been relatively short, sometimes just a couple miles in a day. The miles are very slow due to steepness and especially to our unacclimatized bodies, though. We are easily fatigued and walk with deliberate trudging steps. We also experience symptoms of mild AMS (acute mountain sickness) from time to time: headache, nausea, fatigue, loss of appetite.

Helicopter rescue pilots call the route we are traveling “Death Valley” because of the large number of people who die in this area from AMS. Some people push too high too fast because of the short distances traveled; people should instead rest and acclimatize. They feel OK at first, get delayed symptoms, don’t heed the warning signs and/or get personally pressured by being in a group moving ahead, and die unexpectedly from high altitude pulmonary edema. Our itinerary has been dictated by recommended guidelines of about 1,000 feet per day altitude gain and an extra rest day every 3,000 feet. My initial symptoms of AMS changed our schedule early on, but we already planned for flexibility to account for that eventuality. We are also aware that the Khumbu/Everest region has the most distant and inaccessible medical facilities of any of Nepal’s trekking regions, so prudence is good. Especially since we have already experienced mild AMS even within our planned itinerary.

I also added traveler’s diarrhea to my list of ailments on this trip. Presumably from something I ate that was spoiled or unhygienically prepared. It was controllable, but obnoxious, and it persisted into the next day.

Since we have such short hiking days, we end up spending a lot of time in each lodge and village. I’ve used the time to catch up on this journal and do some reading, but the most interesting experiences have occurred hanging out with other acclimatizing travelers. This night, we talked at length to a young Nepali man fascinated by questions and answers about America, a German couple on a long trip through Asia, an old Indian man carrying his own pack on our same route (taught us some humility there…), two young Australian women resting on their way up higher, and a single late 40s woman from South Africa on her third Nepal trek. Fortunately, English is the common traveler’s language, though certainly not all travelers in the region know it. I’m learning a lot about both Nepal and the world well beyond Nepal in these conversations, and it makes the long rest periods very worthwhile.

We went to sleep around 9:00 pm (that never happens at home) so that we could listen to the voice of experience and get up early the next day.

 

Wednesday October 6, 1999

Today we rose early, before even first light out, but the clear weather did not repeat itself this morning. The clouds hung low in the valley around Dole, yet high enough to see up and down the surrounding hills and rivers, with only occasional peek-a-boos to some of the hidden massive monsters. Locals and travelers alike are surprised at how late the monsoon season has extended itself, well beyond the usual. Fortunately, if it rains, it is only a short light misting, and usually it is just damp and outwardly foggy. We console ourselves by thinking that the rains should be ending soon, if for no other reason than they should have gone a month ago. On balance, I enjoy the grand atmospherics of the undulating mountain clouds, and will actually be happy to have experienced this if we do get good days with clear views.

We walked around the village some and sat atop a rock looking down upon Dole in the early gray light. Wanting to move on and not dilly dally, we skipped breakfast and pushed on toward Machermo, passing through the villages of Lhafarma and Luza along the way. These villages had an ancient, deserted feel to them, and no one was to be seen in the pastures or buildings. However, Nepali people keep fairly tidy yards, so it can be difficult to tell if a dark home is inhabited without actually knocking. Also, the nak and yak are down lower now, so empty pastures do not necessarily mean unused homes. Some people live seasonally in different homes, adjusting for the weather, agriculture, livestock, and trekking.

Yesterday the temperature started getting noticeably colder, and today was colder still. I walk with several layers on, and hang out in our lodge here in Machermo (14,468 feet) with practically all the layers I have brought with me. Karen is bundled to the max and is still cold, looking like a giant pumpkin in her puffy orange rented down jacket. The effects of Sun, cloud, and mist are significant on temperature and comfort, and we have experienced them all. Sun warms the days, but misty clouds cool everything.

Machermo has five lodges of varying simplicity, and we end up at one owned by a previous cirdar (guide) who has been on many expeditions. He regales us in the evening with tales of trips, his views on the needs for more Buddhism, problems with government, and what/how to eat to avoid altitude sickness problems. An amiable, interesting fellow who has many American experiences but makes it clear he does not need more material possessions or Western tastes like so many people in the world. Margaret from South Africa is especially interested in his religious perspectives, and his stories go down many paths.

Now that we are getting further up, Karen experienced her first bout of mild altitude sickness, and I also had a headache. We are considering our options for tomorrow. Our next goal is Gokyo, the highest and last village in this region. We don’t want to push AMS at these altitudes, so we will plan and adjust accordingly. We still have 2 days in our itinerary for exploring out from Gokyo, so we have some flexibility to work with. Our high destination is very near!

 

Thursday October 7, 1999

The skies came alive today! We woke early, to the usual grayness outside our windows. But after pressing our faces closer to the glass and looking around, we saw a high peak. Even though Karen had a strange night of being unable to sleep, she was up like lightning and I was out right after her.

The grayness from the room had been deceiving, mostly caused by the early hour and the unusual horizon that exists in this region: it’s thousands of meters above your head. Clouds were still about, but they only accented the mountains and did not hide them as had been the norm. We walked the Dudh Kosi valley, and we gazed upon the scene for three hours. We moved around the ridge from view spot to view spot, but mostly stood, sat, watched, talked, and took pictures.

The mountains here are truly awesome, so much more sheer and high than anything the Rockies has to offer. Our elevation at Machermo is nearing the snowline, so we could visually follow the transitions from the Dudh Kosi to the golden tundra, up to the powdered sugar covered slopes and then very high into the atmosphere to the snow corniced summits. These mountains are all craggy, sheer, and new. They form segregated worlds, both horizontally and vertically. Horizontally, they define the travelable boundaries, keeping in what is already in and keeping out all others. Vertically, they present exponentially increasing physical and technical challenges: alien to the many, achievement and perseverance for the few, and claiming others forever.

There are high peaks in all directions, with us being in the heart of the Khumbu region. The tiny villages and stacked-stone fenced pastures seem tiny below, yet in place and very appropriate. And the clouds are wonderful, interplaying with the massive mountains, being formed and reshaped by them continually.

We finally left our perch after watching atmospheric floodgates open at the southern lower end of our valley, probably spurred on by the peak-cresting Sun. A slow moving tidal wave of white cloud filled the lower valley, crashing up against the mountains and flowing up, over, and down ridges as it advanced. The wispy leading edge washed over us, and we returned to our lodge to pack and move on. Fortunately, we still had great views for most of the rest of the day, though we had to visually prospect among the clouds from time to time to find the peaks.

Today’s hike was a whole whopping hour long. We both had serious headaches the evening before, though they were much improved by morning. So, we went to the next and only village between us and Gokyo, called Phangka. It was only 230 feet higher (14,698 feet) than Machermo, so just enough to help with our acclimatization but not so much as to exacerbate our symptoms in Gokyo (which starts at 15,584 feet).

Phangka is a pleasant village with a wonderful view up the valley heading in the direction of Gokyo. There are only two buildings of any size, and both are lodges. The second one consisted of one open smoke-filled room to sleep in, so we went with the first one. It at least had a dorm-style sleeping area separate from the kitchen, even if the floor was dirt and the foam mats were damp and musty. The lodge owner was friendly and helpful, too. One other lodge in the village was wiped out by an avalanche a few years ago (killing over 40 people), so this lodge was built away from the slopes above. Although it looked a rather dilapidated 30 years old, it must therefore have actually been only a few years old. The ravages of weather, basic construction, and nonexistent maintenance practices.

Today, we ate the best food I’ve had yet on this trip: Sherpa stew contains vegetables, dumplings, potatoes, and good broth. Dal baht is the staple of the region, and is very filling: rice, potatoes, cabbage, onions, and a lentil soup that is poured over it all. Surprisingly good, and both Karen and I were so stuffed that we took a quick nap – while fully outfitted down to our boots – on the damp foam mats afterwards.

The afternoon was spent exploring around Phangka. We watched the Dudh Kosi fresh from its glacial source above. The light changed across Na, the small village with several interesting chortens on the other side of the valley. And, of course, we watched as the mountains came in and out of the passing clouds.

Before going to sleep tonight, we sat inside the sleeping area with Kamal and a young German couple, all of us huddled near a yak shit-burning fire and an old Coleman-style gas lantern.

 

Friday October 8, 1999

Today was a day of highs and a day of lows. It started spectacularly and then ended with a physically dreadful evening.

The day began crystal clear, and we got up very early to take full advantage of it. In case the clouds rolled in again early, we wanted to be traveling and spectating as much as possible. As it turned out, the clouds stayed away until near dusk, so we got our first full-on view day. Interestingly, I was very happy to have these days that are increasingly clear with gorgeous vistas, but I was also happy that we got to experience earlier the mysterious monsoon clouds surrounding our paths and villages. Many would dread the cloudy scenes, but I found them a great counterbalance to classic blue sky days. I certainly would have been disappointed if the weather had been cloudy for the whole trip, and the weather is very welcome to stay clear, but it has been very interesting to have the variety.

The three of us walked the most beautiful walk yet, along a clear snow-fed river and an ascending path cut into hillsides and cliffsides. The Himalayas loomed large above on both sides. The temperature was comfortable and the jaunt to Gokyo was fun.

Upon arrival, we scoped out the lodges, which ranged from the simple smoky ones to relatively nice ones to ones that took 3 ½ hours to get food to the one we picked: “Gokyo Resort”. Gokyo Resort is actually the most famous lodge on this trek. Two of its four buildings were originally constructed to support the Balloon Across Everest expedition, and it has now been converted into quite an operation (relatively speaking, of course). The foam mattresses are thick, it has a surprisingly well stocked candy and stuff shop, the food is very good and diverse, and that food comes the quickest and hottest of any Khumbu lodge we have experienced. It is all presided over by a sunglass-wearing Nepali man who directs and supervises his employees while constantly walking the property to ensure everything is in order and ensure that guests can buy what they want. He is the Nepali with most American, business-like demeanor that we have seen on this trek, walking around assuredly with his hands in the pockets of his Adidas pants and matching Reebok shirt. I have also nicknamed him The Donald Trump of Gokyo.

Per usual on this trip, I was feeling nauseous and very tired uphill. The common consensus causes were altitude combined with dehydration. I have had an unfortunate Catch 22: I’m too dehydrated to feel well, but I’m too nauseous to eat or drink the quantities I need to feel better. Massive amounts of fluid intake are very important in acclimatization, and I have been well behind the curve ever since the trek started. Food poisoning, altitude sickness, and unappealing food have all synergized against me, and the effects have been cumulative. The physical effects became apparent later that day.

In the afternoon, we hiked up the valley north of Gokyo (15, 584 feet) to Donag, a.k.a. Fourth Lake (15,977 feet). Instead of taking the direct route, we crested the glacial lateral moraine above Gokyo, and got an awesome view of the Ngozumpa Glacier, Nepal’s largest glacier. It is very different from the typical white ice glaciers that most people are familiar with. The surface looks like a gray moonscape, filled with dirt, rocks, and large boulders that have accumulated on its surface and moved with it over time. The only direct view of the dirty ice below is where the ice calves into lakes that have formed within the glacier. The sounds of rocks and dirt falling into the lake is literally constant, and the splash zone could be easily seen from our perch above.

Three glaciologists from Scotland are in Gokyo for over 5 weeks to take measurements on the glacier. Apparently, Ngozumpa is considered unhealthy due to global climatic changes. The only “live” part of the glacier is near its beginning, and the rest is stagnant and downwasting at 1 meter in depth per year. The lecturer and Ph.D. students are studying this phenomenon.

On the way to Donag, my physical weakness was becoming more and more apparent. Walking on any uphill grade was an exhausting struggle, and I was breathing heavily as though I had just run a sprint, even when standing still.

Donag was a beautiful pale green-blue, looked over by the spiky Nameless Fangs high above. We sat on the rocky shoreline and watched the Sun set behind the mountains.

It was on the trip back when things started getting really bad. I had trouble breathing and was sucking air heavily even though we were on an easy downhill trail. My legs burned with exhaustion. I was a zombie automaton with one goal: my sleeping bag in the lodge. The corollary goal: I wanted the walk done and over, now.

We finally arrived at Gokyo, the post-sunset light dim in the valley. I fell into my sleeping bag. Karen went to get hot tea. Then a scary thing happened when Karen came into the room and said she wanted to go to a lower elevation now, in the dark night. She couldn’t breathe, her head was delirious, and she started crying saying that she felt like she was going to die. Given that altitude sickness can definitely kill, and she had symptoms of advanced stages, I leapt up and tried to get help at the lodge. Our porter was, thankfully, prepared to make the treacherous journey back to Phangka in the dark. There was a doctor among the trekkers who checked on Karen’s condition and determined that she could stay in Gokyo, but must be watched closely and go lower tomorrow morning if things had not improved. I gave her Diamox and she improved enough within the hour that we called off the night walk to a lower altitude.

For me, I had 4 vomiting episodes throughout the night, each time upchucking 6-8 times. Even on the 4th round, there was amazingly still a few things left in my stomach to come out between the dry heaves. This, in combination with diarrhea, exacerbated my dehydration and lack of food fuel even further.

 

Saturday October 9, 1999

The skies were beautifully clear without a cloud to be seen, Karen felt much better, and I was still nauseous enough to only drink a little water and eat part of a bowl of simple noodles.

We spent a couple hours sitting in chairs overlooking the Gokyo lake, monitoring my condition and ability to hike. I ate and drank a little, and was able to keep it down, so I decided to push for my goal for the trip in this direction: summit Gokyo Ri.

It was a painfully exhausting process, slowly trudging one foot in front of the other as I ascended the steep open terrain trail. I kept thinking how it went on seemingly forever, and I sometimes had to stop and rest after less than 10 steps. My dehydration, lack of food, and corresponding lack of acclimatization made it hurt to walk, with diarrhea along the bare windswept trail for good measure.

It was quite an elation to finally reach the summit. There were 360 degree views straight on to Everest, Cho Oyu, Renjo, and others all around. The summit (17,519 feet) was rocky and exposed, with Tibetan prayer flags sending prayers around the world on the chill breeze. Everest was impressively huge, but we actually preferred the shape aesthetics of several other mountains. The Ngozumpa Glacier and Gokyo lay far below, and multi-hued lakes could be seen in the valleys. Upon sitting on the summit rock, the pain of getting there seemed well worth it.

The jaunt down was, of course, much faster than that ascent. I was surprised by how much sweat the steep downhill thigh-straining gallop created. Once in Gokyo, I actually had an appetite, so I seized the opportunity and ate a good meal. I am easily made full on this trip, probably because of a “shrunken stomach” caused by ongoing travel illnesses and puking. Unfortunately, I just vomited up my entire dinner – and attempts at rehydration – on to a stone pile outside. Hopefully this won’t continue through the evening like last night.

The stars are brilliant tonight, with clear atmosphere and no city lights. So many stars are visible that it is difficult to distinguish constellations within the arching pinpointed mass.

 

Sunday October 10, 1999

Yippee yahoo, cowboy! After a slow, fuel-depleted morning, I revived about midday during our descent from Gokyo and feel 100 times better now. Last evening started on a good note when I got a sound night’s sleep and only got up once for a star-covered pee run to the smelly outhouse. No more puking beyond the one episode before going to sleep.

I had a bit of an appetite this morning, so I drank hot orange Tang and ate a tuna fish sandwich. The Gokyo Resort is the only place we have seen tuna fish sandwiches; they are a delicious remembrance of the value of a good basic sandwich. I could have eaten more, but wanted to keep everything from revisiting my mouth so I held back on getting full.

After packing, we said our goodbyes to the cast of characters at Gokyo Resort. The American doctor and her beau and sister. The Scottish glaciologists. The friendly Dutch couple. The British and the Germans. Donald Trump.

I was fascinated by the hardcore travelers. Dirk and Marianne were on an 18 month around-the-world vacation, having quit their jobs right across the river from my home: Portland, Oregon. They even have a website that gets updated about once every three weeks, chronicling their travels.

I’ve noticed how e-mail and the Internet has heavily infiltrated, influenced, and brought together the serious traveling community. As people go their separate ways, I regularly hear people exchanging e-mail addresses to stay in contact from anywhere in their travels. I have even been given two business cards preprinted with a traveler’s e-mail address and website, ready to share with other travelers.

I especially enjoyed talking to Chet at Gokyo Resort. I would label him a professional traveler. His address of record is a small shack that he built in Hawaii, but he rents it out and has not been there for a couple years. He’s 50 years old and has lived too far flung a lifestyle to ever have a family or even a consistent girlfriend, though he jokes about his philosophy of trying to find “a woman in every port”. He has been to so many exotic, remote locations that I didn’t even know some of them existed. After this time trekking through Nepal (he has traveled here extensively several times before), his next stops are through the Polynesian Islands, and then on to New Zealand to buy a cheap sailboat for a 5 year cruise. I was surprised at his attire as he left Gokyo and went up the valley beyond where the trails disappeared among remote, uninhabited glaciers and peaks. He sat there shivering in his simple Nike tennis shoes, thin few layers (his entire wardrobe), and his pants held up by rope for a belt. His “equipment” was a summer tent, 2 sleeping bags, and a plastic sheet. His food fit into a small plastic bag, and this was to hold him over until his return to a village in about 5 days. He’ll either be fine through sheer tenacity and experience, or he’ll be found a frozen human Popsicle someday. Definitely his own breed.

It was fun heading back down the valley along the path we had approached Gokyo. We walked from 8:00 – 5:00, and covered the same distance we had covered in 4 ½ days of coming up. The huge differences in distance were for two reasons: almost all downhill (except for cresting the Mong-La Pass) and no need to stop at regular 1,000 foot intervals for acclimatization.

The scenes were dramatically different than the approach since we had clearer skies until the usual afternoon clouds rolled over the mountains to fill the valleys. We revisited Phangka, Machermo, Luza, Lhafarma, Dole, Phortse Tenga, and ended the day with a steep ascent to Mong-La. We saw new things, experienced new vistas, and talked with new people. We even returned briefly to The Himalayan Lodge in Machermo for its good Sherpa stew, and were greeted with smiles and a welcoming return.

Mong-La came at the right time tonight, putting us in a good position for tomorrow’s jaunt and appearing just as the misty light darkened. The Snow Land View Lodge had two private rooms and an open dormitory-style room. The British / Dutch couple that arrived a few minutes before us got the first room, and we got the second. The four of us and our two porters are the only guests tonight. There are no windows in our room, so the fire marshal would have a fit, if there was such a thing as a fire marshal around here. For light, a piece-of-plastic skylight was put into the rustic ceiling above our cramped quarters.

Food service here is very slow, so I bought a Coke (relatively cheap here at $2.25 a can) and some boiled water for drinking later. Hopefully my dal baht will arrive sometime his evening…

Later: it did arrive, and was good and filling. Since it is the local staple food, both of the porters joined me in eating dal baht. The other porter slurped loudly with a spoon. Kamal ate the rice, lentil soup, potato, and cabbage concoction in typical Nepali fashion: entirely with his hands in a fast shoveling action.

 

Monday October 11, 1999

It was an unusual day today, with lots of distance covered and some definite misadventures.

The day opened with gorgeous views from Mong-La over to Phortse and up three different valley directions. We stood on a bluff promontory beside an uninhabited stone shack as the warming Sun crested the peak in front of us and filled our hillside with golden light.

Breakfast was simple and relatively quick, and we were all off to head down much lower to Monjo. Kamal took off quickly with his buddy porter Kosi, which started the main misadventure of the day. Karen and I walked at a leisurely pace toward the direction of Tashinga and Sanasa, but veered away from these villages on our new predetermined path toward Khumjung, which we had missed on the way up. Mysteriously, Kamal was nowhere in sight at or before the trail junction along the steep cliff face, so we continued on toward Khumjung. We had told Kamal several times of our plans, so we figured/hoped that he went on to Khumjung. I was leery already, thought, and Karen was irritated that he wasn’t abiding by her earlier request to stick close.

The walk to Khumjung was well worth it. The wooded valley approach makes for a pretty path. Khumjung itself is pleasant, too, and surprisingly very large. It seemingly has more buildings than even Namche, but with one big difference: Khumjung is primarily residential; Namche is primarily business. Khumjung is actually the Beverly Hills of the Khumbu region, with most of the relatively wealthy lodge owners throughout the area owning houses here. It has a good bakery, a school started by Sir Edmund Hillary, pretty stupas, nicely laid out open spaces, and a huge long wall of piled Tibetan script mani stones.

After heading out of Khumjung up and over the wide trail to Namche, we crested the high point between the two villages and were very surprised to see Everest. We had mistakenly thought that you had to go through either the Gokyo or Kala Patar routes for views of the world’s highest mountain, but there it was from above Namche. Certainly, the view was closer and much more expansive from Gokyo. But, for someone who just wants a personal sighting, they can hike to the crest above Namche.

We traveled around homes, buildings, and pastures into Syangboche, and then down the steep switchbacks into Namche from it’s western side. We searched around for Kamal, but he was nowhere to be found. We even came upon the British/Dutch couple from Mong-La, and they said they had last seen Kamal ahead of them near Sanasa. So, we called Karki in Kathmandu (since electrified Namche actually has some phones) to see if Kamal had checked in as planned. No. So, we waited.

Karen had a hankering for a particular bakery and it’s goodies, so we watched from there above a main alley. Unfortunately, that led to an undeniably gross experience. After going to the outside locked outhouse, I accidentally dropped the padlock out of my pocket. It went bounce bounce bounce kerplunk, straight into the water sewer hole. I won’t go into the details on what I had to reach through to retrieve the padlock, but go ahead and imagine the outhouse-worst. My hand and arm got many washings after that.

We then decided to push on toward our intended destination for the evening: Monjo. Kamal knew this, so maybe he was just being uncharacteristically unhelpful by just taking all our stuff there without keeping our stuff nearby for our use during the day. Karen was mostly confident in his good nature, but I was growing increasingly concerned that something was going very wrong. Maybe he was stealing all of our valuable Western stuff. It didn’t make sense from many viewpoints, but his actions today also didn’t make sense. He left us in a fast hurry. He didn’t go to Khumjung as we had told him. The British/Dutch coupe saw him continuing quickly on. Yet we could not find him in Namche. He had not checked at the lodge where we had stayed on our way up. And he had not called Karki from Namche, as was supposedly planned.

So, we stocked up on some bottled water and goodies and strode past the oncoming sweaty, panting faces as we descended the steep grade from Namche. Yaks became our bane, because they went slower than my pace but faster than Karen’s, so we were constantly bottlenecked by them as they gridlocked the path in difficult sections.

At one point, Karen stepped off the side of the trail absentmindedly to avoid a group of yaks, and I watched as she disappeared straight down. We were walking on the sides of cliffs, and she somehow thought that there was ground below the bushes that jutted from the side of the trail.

The key point she missed was that these bushes were growing out horizontally, not up vertically. She disappeared fast down through the air, and instantly exclaimed “Oh my God” as I realized she may have fallen hundreds of feet. Concern rose instantly as I leapt around yaks and peered over the edge. There she was, only twelve feet down, caught in some bamboo offshoots. Fortunately, this particular drop-off was only about thirty feet down to an open ledge, so she would be just hurt and not killed if the bamboo had given way. Porters scrambled, the yak herders didn’t know what to do, and the yaks started scattering in the commotion. I got a rope from a yak herder and three of us pulled Karen to safety. For the next hour, as we descended, some Nepali on the trail would smile knowingly at her. She had become the story of their day.

The lower trails started to cloud in some, but they were more open than our approach and just as pretty. We checked out at the armed and guarded Sagarmatha National park entrance and were soon afterwards in Monjo. No Kamal.

I had already decided that if he wasn’t there, I wasn’t going to depend on his hoped-for goodness. I was going further to see if I could catch him, in case he was trying to flee with our stuff. If it was all just a mix-up, then it would be an aggravation. If it was theft, then at least I tried.

I left my camera and bag with Karen in Monjo, and then headed out at a fast trot with only a water bottle, two granola bars, and money. Karen was in good hands at a friendly lodge. I covered a lot of ground quickly, checking in every single lodge and teahouse along the way, and even some homes. No Kamal.

Finally, all the way ahead in Ghat, I heard my voice yelled from behind. It was Kamal. He had run from Monjo, after briefly meeting Karen. He was angry that I had not trusted him. I was inwardly angry, but outwardly conciliatory without having anything to apologize for.

Basically, his major mistake was that he didn’t follow our directions to go to Khumjung. His secondary mistake was that he went too far ahead. Either mistake by itself would have salvaged all the hassles, but both mistakes in concert proved to be his unwitting undoing. He had apparently been trying all day to rectify the situation and to find us, but he got behind the curve and didn’t catch up until late that day after much running around, hunting, and asking. An experience for all, and hopefully a good set of lessons for him in his line of work.

I ended up staying in Ghat that night, using a loaned candle and two dirty, buggy blankets that the lodge could provide for me. Kamal went all the way back to Karen and our packs in Monjo, with the flashlight given to him by Karen earlier. We all slept well after a long day.

 

Tuesday October 12, 1999

Today was a leisurely and educational day, in stark contrast to the hectic and tense pace of yesterday. I was alone in Ghat, and I knew that it would take a while for Karen to eat, get packed, and walk the distance that I had traveled at a steady trot the evening before.

So, I ate a simple breakfast of Tibetan bread with jam, rara noodle soup, and hot chocolate drink. Two Canadian men were already there, and they knew me from the night before. They had quit their jobs as accountants for the Canadian Vancouver area timber industry and they were on a year long tour of Asia and Australia. After their departure, I was joined by two young Israeli men fresh out of their mandatory three year stint in the army. They were celebrating and enjoying before continuing on with their education.

Then I was alone to watch the day-to-day going-on of the lodge, its family, the adjacent gompa (Tibetan Buddhist temple), and the transients passing up and down. I learned quite a bit just sitting still and watching. Female monks came to the lodge entrance and sang until the woman of the lodge brought a food offering for them. The man of the lodge milked his cows into a dirty bucket by the front door. The water-flowing basin, which I had previously thought was just used for hand washing and getting pre-boiled drinking water, actually had many other uses: people stood in it and washed their feet, yaks drank from it, vegetables were washed in it, the older daughter cried by it because of something that happened in the lodge. The next door lama was a crotchety, yelling man who continually bossed around the children to get on with their chores.

And chores they had! I was surprised at the amount of responsibility and tasks given to small children. The ten year old son practically ran all of the interactions with any patrons. He spoke very good English – much better than his parents – and he did all of the finances, bill adding, change making, and answering of questions about prices. The young girls, some as young as 4 or 5, herded the cows into high pastures up the high cliffs to well beyond where I lost sight of them. Boys 10 – 13 carried empty baskets and hatchets up the cliffs for firewood, singing and dancing and whistling and ringing bells as they went. It was a regular homemade disco party on the cliffs of Nepal. Other children did school work; the “lodge manager” boy said he went to boarding school when his family was not busy at the lodge during trekking season.

Karen arrived after 11:00, with Kamal dutifully nearby after the experiences of yesterday. We caught up on each other’s evening events and were off on the final stretch of this trek back to Lukla. Again, we saw open views and different perspectives; so much was fresh and new. There were noticeably fewer porters than on our ascent along the same route, mostly since the time of week was still early to push goods up to the Namche Saturday bazaar. We also noticed more trekkers than before, which corresponded to what we had heard beforehand. The trekking season is very compacted, bounded by the summer monsoon and the winter cold. Like clockwork, this week is when the number of trekkers rises rapidly. Sagarmatha tracks all foreigners in the region through their permit system and armed checkpoint. Last year, slightly over 20,000 visitors came to some area of the Khumbu region! And almost 6,000 of those were here in October. Next highest visited months were: November (3,964), April (2,784), and March (1,863).

We finally came full circle and arrived in Lukla. I taught Kamal what a “high five” meant. The rest of the day was spent leisurely strolling around the muddy main trail of Lukla, bounded by lodges and tiny snack shops that catered to trekkers and the dawdlers created by the airstrip as an entrance/exit point.

The Garden Lodge was our place of choice since they had two small “cabins” that offered a better degree of privacy, even if the walls were a quarter inch thick and it sounded like the porters hanging around outside were talking and coughing up phlegm inside our room.

We were grimy and smelly, and the hot shower felt great. Putting on the same stained clothing didn’t provide the great cherry on top that fresh clothes can provide, but close enough.

I snacked on shrimp crackers and cheese balls, and Karen satiated her hankering for banana flavored gum. Surprisingly, we happened upon the fanciest place of our entire trek, and also had our best meal, at The Panoramic Hotel. It has a varied menu and food of a quality that would have been very good even in The States. Believe me, that is a rarest of rarities around Khumbu. I devoured a tuna cheese pizza, mashed potatoes, cinnamon roll, and a Pepsi. Karen chowed on a tuna fish sandwich and spaghetti with cheese and homemade tomato sauce. Our taste buds and tummies were happy. Even more surprisingly, this place had huge amounts of electricity and relatively expensive furnishings and fixtures. I suspected – and later confirmed – an electric generator. A TV (!) played a video of the recent George Clooney movie “Out of Sight”, followed by a video of the Imax movie “Everest”; most people there ignored the first but everyone sat transfixed on the latter. We watched scenes in the movie from places we had walked over the previous couple weeks, and it all seemed much more real and tangible there on that TV as compared to when I first saw it on a huge Imax screen on the other side of the world.

Wednesday October 13, 1999

Today started in a mad rush at Lukla and ended with a tasty dinner for two on a terrace overlooking Thamel in Kathmandu. By the end of the day, the beauty and peculiarities of the Khumbu region seemed far away, both in time and distance.

As of yesterday, we were supposed to be at the Lukla airstrip by 10:00 am for a 10:40 flight. At 7:15, Karen went outside our cabin and the lodge proprietor happens to mention that someone from Ghorka Airlines stopped by last night to tell us that the flight had been moved up to 8:00. Shit! Without even so much as taking a morning pee, I ran to the Ghorka office, which was of course closed and locked. I then ran the other way to the airstrip, and there I confirmed that our bags needed to be there now. Ran back, got Kamal, packed and stuffed everything fast, and quickly hoofed it all to the airstrip.

We made it. In typical Lukla hurry-up-and-wait fashion, the plane did not arrive until about 10:00 anyhow. Due to the very limited “parking” area for planes and since there is little reason for them to dilly dally, you had better be there when your plane arrives. As the propellers are spinning down after landing, baggage handlers are throwing incoming backpacks and expedition gear out onto the ground, and others are simultaneously stuffing the outgoing baggage into the plane. The 16 passengers all crowd around the drop-down aircraft steps, board, buckle up, and then you’re away. Don’t be late at Lukla: the planes will make you wait for them, but they won’t wait for you.

The takeoff is fun. The plane lines up at the top of the short downhill gravel runway, revs its engines with its wheel brakes full on, and then lets go of the brakes. It feels like a roller coaster ride, with everyone craning their necks to see the view forward through the pilot’s window. Some people were giggling, others looked away nervously. The plane bounces along quickly as the cliff edge end of the runway looms nearer and nearer, gets the plane feeling light, and then the ground drops away over a cliff as the wings get lift and we soar into the lush Nepali valley.

Good-bye, Khumbu, at least for now.

We watched the terraced, trailed hillsides and remote villages pass by below. Nepal is such a small country that the plane ride takes only about a half hour to reach Kathmandu. The small plane actually has a stewardess, who has just enough time to make 4 aisle runs: candy and cotton balls (for your ears amid the noise), peanuts, Frooti drink, and trash. Then touchdown back amidst the pollution and congestion and honking horns.

We took a taxi with Kamal to the Khangsar Guest House, located immediately above Karki’s office. After throwing down our packs, I developed an immediate appreciation for several things: running water (though still needing iodine tablets), non-smelly toilet, shower, clean sheets, bed, privacy, and a consistent “base of operations” that did not have to be packed up every morning. Ahhhhhhh.

Our first order of business was laundry for our clothes which had evolved into new life forms. Second order of business was an e-mail check and everything’s-fine-and-jim-dandy message to Mom and Dad.

Then the day was open to start exploring Thamel. Thamel is quite a bustling neighborhood, and it is definitely Kathmandu’s tourist-centered center. The number of Caucasian people was jarring after having been the minority for weeks in the Khumbu. Every business here, without exception, caters to tourists and not locals: guesthouses, travel agencies, money exchange, e-mail, international calling, restaurants, and shop after shop after shop to buy buy buy.

We sampled some delicious delights at an organic foods restaurant. I luxuriated in the variety, cold soft drinks, and relative hygiene security. Another Ahhhhhhh. We continued our gluttony at several bakeries along the way, and then topped it off with definitely desired decadence: a Baskin Robbins opened here a couple weeks ago.

The shops are very interesting to root around in. Clothes, antiques, trekking equipment, Nepalese items. We spent hours just on one small stretch of road, bouncing from side to side as things caught our fancy. The hard sell tactics and “I give you special discount” isn’t too overbearing, and the vendors will back off politely when asked to do so.

Dinner for the evening was in a nice restaurant on a veranda overlooking a three-way T intersection. Lots of visual interest to keep us occupied between bites. Tourists ranged from college crunchy granolas to post-60s-I’m-still-a-hippy types to yuppies to grandmothers to exuberant partyers Tourists have definitely changed and shaped Thamel. The hours are much later than in most of Nepal, just to cater to tourists with evening time on their hands. Shops are open until 9:00, restaurants and clubs even later. That short half hour plane ride put us back into another world.

 

Thursday October 14, 1999

Snake charmers, monkeys, ancient wooden architecture, squalid neighborhoods, 15¢ Cokes, temples, and a burning body. Interesting day here in Kathmandu.

After breakfast, Kamal met us to show us around some highlights of the city. He was clean and not wearing the same dirty leprechaun green outfit he wore throughout the trek. Almost didn’t recognize him.

The infamous Pashupati was our first destination, arrived at by yet another careening video game taxi driver. Pashupati contains a heavily Indian population in its surrounding neighborhoods, though the core religious sites are open to all Hindus. The temples and history and ancient woodwork was all interesting, but we were there for the same reason as most tourists in the area: for the morbid possibility of seeing a public creation. We got our wish.

Hindus believe in a life and death cycle centered around rivers, so the death ritual of cremation is performed right on the shore of the Bagmati River in Pashupati for all area Hindus. Soon after arriving, we saw a man throwing chopped wood onto the steps near a stone cremation pillar, so we figured something was up. While we explored the shrines and interacted with the local monkeys (one even reached out and grabbed my camera!), the preparation was underway.

Family members are responsible for cremating their deceased family member. Six men built a three foot tall stack of wood, and then brought out a shrouded body. The body was carefully carried around the woodpile and placed on top, all the while incorporating ritual movements and actions. The dead man’s gaunt, discolored face was revealed for everyone to see; his clothes were removed and thrown straight into the river, flowing down and out of sight with the current. Thin reedy stalks were placed in bunches over his exposed body and in nooks among the stacked wood. Then, solemnly, a man lit the reeds to slowly start the pyre burning. The dead man’s face was visible as flames licked his head, silent and starting to char. Even after his head and torso was covered with reeds wetted by the river, his legs stuck out from the pyre fully exposed throughout the process.

It was a very un-Western ritual, and Karen was uncomfortable with having tourists and locals watch a personal and solemn moment for the family involved. It is much more direct and unflinching than Western, Christian funerals. This process reconnected the body back to the Earth through fire and river, and reduced it to natural material. Western, Christian funerals avoid this directness by keeping everything out of sight: closed caskets, cremations with no family present, sealed burial into the unseeing ground, mausoleums, emphasis on spirit over material body. There are shared aspects, especially regarding spirit, but the public physicality is very different indeed.

Pashupati also shared its sadhus (pseudo-holy men who pose and beg for money), monkeys, shops, Indian open air markets, snake charmers, squalor, and intricate details with us. We walked along the dirt back-roads through poor neighborhoods to our next destination. Children giggled with glee as they kicked a dead rat like a soccer ball down the dirt streets. There were no foreign tourists to be found on these travels, and having Kamal along helped in both understanding what we were seeing and what we wanted to communicate.

The huge stupa at Boudhanath is impressive, being one of the largest in the world, and possibly the single largest. The Buddhist impression was strong, especially in comparison to Hindu Pashupatinath. Colorful prayer flags flying in the breeze, prayer wheels rotating, candles, Buddha images, and different sets of rituals. Since a Buddhist’s spiritual standing is increased by sheer volume of certain acts like reciting prayers, the repetition of ritual is very consuming for some devout individuals.

After a nice lunch overlooking Boudhanath and talking to a woman from Denver, we taxied to a famous tourist spot in Kathmandu: Durbar Square. Centuries of architecture, most crumbling and warping from the wear of time, is everywhere here. Brick interlaced with ornate woodwork. Five foot high doorways. The Kumari, who is a girl chosen for her beauty at 2 or 3 and then kept as a living god until her first menstruation, at which point she is replaced. An open air market of foods and locals and lots of fancy funky trinkets for the tourists. And, as usual, hubbub and commotion.

We ate snacks of fried cashew nuts and lentil patties on a rooftop overlooking it all, and then negotiated a two seat bicycle rickshaw ride back to our room. The ride was fun! Because of the congestion, the bicycles can move just as fast as taxi cars and tuk tuks/tempos/auto rickshaws. They are wide open, so all of the careening traffic whisks by within inches to either side. And the extra height of the passenger seats gives a great view of everything and everyone passing by.

Karen’s knee was still hurting from her fall off the trail avoiding the yaks a few days ago, so we took a short stroll around Thamel and ended up back at Green Leaves restaurant for their good food and live traditional Nepali music. The four person ensemble gave a soothing end to an educational day around Kathmandu.

 

Friday October 15, 1999

Today revolved around more Nepali education, Swayambhunath, and cruising the streets of Kathmandu. We started the day at a local bakery, gorging on chocolate pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh squeezed orange juice.

Karen is getting into the bartering thing, and she’s good at it, so she negotiated our bumpy taxi ride up out of the city and across the Vishnumati River. Destination: the very holy Buddhist stupa named Swayambhunath, or The Monkey Temple. After being let off at its base, we peered up the steps into the tree-lined entrance. There are 365 steps to the stupa, and their steepness literally increases the closer you get to the top. Merchants line the way selling the usual and the unusual, and an occasional monkey can be seen crawling around in the branches above.

The Swayambhunath Stupa is impressive in its size and ornamentation, and its perch on a hilltop above Kathmandu’s west flank offers excellent views of the city and surrounding hillsides. It’s gilded spires gleam in the sunlight as prayer flags and birds flutter in the air around.

The Monkey Temple is appropriately named. Rhesus monkeys roam the grounds unimpeded, and are extremely comfortable in close proximity to humans. Too much so, in fact. We saw monkeys approach people stealthily and unexpectedly from behind and snatch snacks right from the people’s hands. We heard some monkeys even grab and take cameras, as happened to me yesterday at Pashupatinath (but I held o tightly so they didn’t make off with the Nikon loot).

We then decided to get further educated, so it was off for another squalid back-road walk through poor and fascinating neighborhoods on the outskirts of Kathmandu. This took us to The National Museum, which is good by Nepali standards, but The Smithsonian certainly need not be concerned about any competition. It resides in old buildings that once comprised a Rana arsenal, among other things. Today, it has distinct sections on Nepali sculpture, paintings, Buddha’s life, national animals, weapons, and numismatics. Eclectic, but a good extra diversion for the day.

A tempo took us back to our hotel, where I waited for Kamal to take him and his wife to the latest big movie event there: “Nepali Baboo”. Karen got sidetracked unexpectedly with trying to navigate Indian visa bureaucracy with our friend Julie. While waiting for Kamal, who mysteriously never appeared, I talked at length to Karki. Nice guy. I found out about how he started his business, what he wants in the future, what his opinions are of different trekking areas, and even how he handles alcoholic drinks.

Karen was famished upon her return, so we headed straight for a different restaurant that met our usual criteria: terrace overlooking the busy streets. We both chowed well, but she was getting sick, possibly from food somewhere, and actually developed a slight fever later this evening. While she zoned and rested in bed, I cruised more of the streets of Thamel looking in shops and people watching. I’m hanging out at a great juice bar right now: two mixed fruit smoothies and a chocolate shake so far. All delicious. All ahhhhhhh…

 

Saturday October 16, 1999

After a slow and half-cooked breakfast on the roof terrace of our guest house, and a conversation with Kamal, we headed to the outskirts of Kathmandu on yet another bumpy, careening taxi ride. Today was going to be devoted to the medieval town of Bhaktapur.

Bhaktapur is a beautiful city, crumbling with time but still retaining architecture and artistry that dates the community back 17 centuries. After entering its walls, a most striking contradiction becomes apparent in the use of the buildings: ancient palaces and religious buildings are now inhabited by cramped poor families living in segmented rooms. The ornate window woodwork still exists, supported by – and supporting – the surrounding brick walls held together loosely by crumbling mortar. Much of the city was leveled by a huge 1934 earthquake, so the remaining structures become even more historically valuable as each day passes. Palace pleasure buildings now form a police post; a pagoda temple is now a café (with an excellent view of the happenings is a main square); we ate there); as usual, the street level doors open into tiny shops; and yet certain ornate Hindus-only temples maintain their original purposes and veneration. We saw the ancient bathing pools once used by Malla kings, which in centuries past had water piped in from miles away and spouting out of ornate serpent statue mouths. The water doesn’t flow anymore, and the pools are filled with a slimy stagnant green. The locals apparently do not appreciate the history and architecture that they live with every day, and are somewhat mystified at foreigners visiting their homes and at multinational attempts to save their crumbling buildings.

As usual, Karen and I went off the beaten path to areas where we never saw foreigners and where we got some unusual looks. We headed down the side alleys and away from main squares, following wherever there seemed to be some commotion for visual interest. We checked out cobblers and barber shops, and went into communal courtyards. Rice was being harvested, and grains were being dried in the Sun. The polluted river was a place to wash meats and squat to take a shit. A just-beheaded water buffalo was covered in hay and set ablaze, presumably to burn off hairs and cauterize the oozing meat. Karen even talked to a handmade paper shop owner about export possibilities.

Goats and buffalo were herded through the streets to be sold and sacrificed during the 10 day Dasain festival, which was going on now. Nepali people have been extremely friendly and trustworthy throughout our trip, and this seemed amplified even more by the festive, fun atmosphere of Dasain. Kites fill the skies, and people fill the streets.

Bhaktapur eventually filled our entire day, until past sunset. The here-and-there tourists pretty much disappeared by late afternoon, and the streets swarmed with locals. Eating, drinking, seeing, being seen, smiling, dressing up, running around.

Our taxi ride back to Thamel was very different, being at night. There are not streetlights, so light spilling out from shops and homes fill the voids in the city. Out beyond the hubbub of Kathmandu, though, the only light is provided by the dim headlights of taxis, motorcycles, busses, and tempos. Dark bicycles, pedestrians, dogs, and cows can rapidly materialize out of the blackness at any turn or stretch of road. Headlights come straight on, ignoring which side of the road to “properly” drive on. Vehicles pass three abreast and swerve at the last second to avoid head-on collisions, all the while honking and flowing as a part of Nepal’s normal way of getting somewhere.

This evening, we met Julie and caught up on tidbits and gossip form the past few weeks. She spent time in her sister’s village (Golfu), spent relaxation time in Pokhara, and did a short trek into the Langtang region with Shayona. The hectic atmosphere, poverty, and physical demands of Nepal are beginning to wear on her, so she is leery of even more in India with Karen after I leave them. In the meanwhile, she’s relaxing as best she can Kathmandu style.

 

Sunday October 17, 1999

Today felt like a relaxed extension of the day before, having spent the day in the third valley kingdom of Patan (the other two ancient city kingdoms being Kathmandu and Bhaktapur). Patan reminds me in many ways of Bhaktapur, with its main squares, ancient neglected architecture, seemingly random location of temples, intricate metalwork and wood carvings, and general mass flow of people and animals.

We arrived in Patan’s Durbar Square, smack in the thick of selling ducks and goats and chickens. Our path meandered and spiraled out from there: Mangal Bazaar, the old Royal Palace, Krishna Mandir (my favorite), Hiranya Varna Mahivihara (The Golden Temple), Sundhara, Mahabuddha, Uku Bahal, and many others. The gray stone architecture of Krishna Mandir was especially impressive, with its three tiers of wraparound walking areas plus standing areas that rhythmically jutted in and out around its perimeters. Only Hindus were allowed inside, as is the case at some other sites, but basically everything could be seen by peering in from different vantage points.

The Golden Temple was also impressive in its ornamentation and compact density of nuances and hidden details. The site contains a working monastery, which we walked through to see the monks doing their daily routine. It has also been well preserved over the centuries by donations from trade merchants, so its good condition is somewhat atypical. The inner courtyard is filled with gold gilded metalwork, deity statues, prayer wheels, huge mice crawling everywhere eating offerings left by the devout, and even three tortoises slowly walking around their strange habitat. Young boys with shaven heads light butter candles, and elderly women walk clockwise around the courtyard turning prayer wheels and reciting repetitive prayers.

We then took off into neighborhoods packed with people. Finding Uku Bahal, we walked around all of the fantastical mythic creatures there, ferociously baring white fangs and sharpened claws. Back roads and the help of a small boy led us to the unappetizingly named Patan Industrial Estate. Among the maze of decaying utilitarian buildings are occasional shops of finely crafted products. I bought a beautiful carved wood table with bronze inlays. The dilapidated buildings, weed-infested roads, and vacant buildings gave it the look of post-nuclear gang ghetto America, where few would tread. But here, it was just a part of the exploration.

That evening was spent back in Kathmandu with a delicious meal in the garden courtyard of Helena’s Restaurant, listening to live American-style folksy tunes come over the wall from the restaurant next door. I wandered the streets for a while as Karen napped; she has not been feeling tip top since a suspicious meal served several days ago. I found a place that served good homemade Italian ice cream, then found a bakery for a good jam Danish. The streets bustled, and I bustled around them.

 

Monday October 18, 1999

Well, well. My last full day in Nepal for this trip. It seems strange and time seems distant. Soon after entering Nepal, I quickly lost a sense of work, Washington, and the day-to-day rituals of home. If I was told that this two weeks or five weeks, I’d probably believe either. And America is definitely a different world from here, great to go back to but also very interesting to leave and experience the alternatives, if only briefly.

Today was a relaxed, wind-down day for Karen and me. We spent time together discussing the trip past, the future, and stuff around town. We also ran some errands in wrapping things up, mostly with the airlines and hotel and a little basic shopping. Breakfast became brunch, and it was all leisurely paced. We then explored side streets, neighborhoods, busy bazaars, and temples of Kathmandu.

We coordinated with Julie and Leah to see a Nepali/French movie called “Caravan”, which had English subtitles. The basic story was about the tensions and resolution between leaders of a small mountain village that herded yaks each year. Having been through the country and those villages made a huge difference in understanding the visual elements, human interrelationships, and patterns of life in the movie. Seeing it at home without having come to Nepal first would have lost at least half the movie’s meaning and history.

The movie was playing at the city’s premier movie theater, though it was very different from American movie theaters: once screen, bare concrete floor, exposed fans whirring along the walls to move the air, small boxy wooden seats, different ticket prices for better or worse seats, and even an intermissions to encourage snack sales from the tiny snack desk in the lobby.

Our gang walked back to Thamel, first with the purpose of eating ice cream, second to buy a hand-woven duffel bag for me to bring back unneeded items from Karen and Julie, and third to eat good eats at Brezel Restaurant. Everyone enjoyed their meals, and we stayed up late talking and enjoying each other’s company.

 

Tuesday October 19, 1999

Today was another day of transition, moving even further away from alien Nepal to much more Westernized Thailand. Upon entering Bangkok several weeks ago, I had first thought that Thailand was rather un-modern and very different from The West. After having traveled through Nepal, I can now see that the differences are there but not nearly as prominent or important in Bangkok. The city’s highways, tollways, skyscrapers, fancy cars, McDonald’s, and 7-11s all seem much closer to Portland than to Kathmandu now.

After getting up very early and saying my goodbyes to Karen, I left in the rain for the airport. Karen said Nepal was crying since I was leaving. Bangkok greeted me with its wide highways and air conditioned taxis, and for simplicity I returned to the same hotel we stayed in before (The Welcome Sawasdee Inn, $6/night with a.c. and shared common bathroom). After unpacking and re-energizing in my room’s air conditioning, away from Bangkok’s sticky humidity, I ventured out into the city streets for a wander.

Then the Westernized transition truly began. I went on a snacking spree, enjoying the stuff from back home: a 7-11 Slurpee, a Dunkin Donuts doughnut, a Dairy Queen Oreo Blizzard, and chocolate milk. I came across many American-based things on my walk: Pizza hut, McDonald’s, KFC, Swensen’s, Mister Donut, movies, CDs, celebrity pictures, brand name clothes, etc. It was an interesting counterpoint to the earlier Thai neighborhood explorations we had done, and reinforced the global reach of American business and mass culture. Even in the remote mountains of Nepal, an occasional porter wore a T-shirt imaged with Kurt Cobain, the Titanic movie, an American city, or a football team.

I also relaxed for a long time in a nice wooden restaurant, reading a book and later checking e-mail. I could not remember the last time I had several hours of uninterrupted reading time that wasn’t due to a forced situation like sitting on an airplane. Maybe years?

 

Epilogue

The flight back unexpectedly moved me into a surreal state, where everything felt distant in both space and time. I was traveling in a bubble not connected to reality. I wasn’t on vacation, I wasn’t at home, I wasn’t at work, and the darkness outside gave no clues. I was passing between worlds.

Portland seemed familiar enough upon arrival, but the air and light was different than I remembered. The contrasts to Nepal, which were hidden and unobtrusive before, stuck out in glowing neon across the landscape.

For about a week, my condo’s bedroom was disorienting at night: upon waking, I would look around in a mental fog and be amazed at how fancy my room was in Nepal. There were different interpretations each time. I was in a fancy Kathmandu hotel. I had bought a place there. Or I just didn’t know exactly where I was, but it was always somewhere in Nepal.

Jet lag was more noticeable this time than on my initial trip over, but still not bad. However, my sleep patterns took strange twists and turns, generally waking numerous times during the night but always being in a very deep sleep when the alarm blared in the morning. With the sun up and alarm on, I was always quickly grounded to my Vancouver home. With a dark room and fitful sleep, I was in Nepal. Even all of my dreams were in Nepal.

The trip was wonderful, no doubt. I learned a lot, expanded my understanding of places alien to the US, and saw forms of beauty not available here. It was physically tough because of the vicious spiral caused by my overlapping illnesses, which actually followed me back home with an incubating miserable bout with viral spinal meningitis that put me in a hospital emergency room, quarantined with a swelling brain. But, it was all more than worth it. The world seems much bigger now, and much more real.

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