Journal Entry 10

September 17 Monday

It’s a calm sunny morning and Tony and I take a walk to Braga village in hopes of getting to visit the monastery. On our way to the village we stop at a gift shop and purchase prayer flags and I find a beautiful mala necklace made out of yak bone. A mala is basically what we would call a rosary, only it’s for Buddhists. We will hang the prayer flags later today as we had promised, to honor the victims of the terrorists attacks back home.


Braga is quiet and seems like a ghost town. We climb through a maze of alley ways without seeing a single soul and make it to the top where the monastery sits. The doors are shut and it doesn’t seem like anyone will welcome us. We climb onto the roof and look out over the mountains across the dwindling Marsyangdi River. I tell Tony that maybe we should just sit and wait for a bit. Maybe we are just too early. I sketch the mountain scene into my journal while Tony quietly watches me. The lama appears on the neighboring rooftop and makes a puja of burning sage. A puja is an offering. The sage smokes and crackles in the wind while the lama quietly chants with hands clasped together in prayer. I am hoping he will notice us and let us into the monastery, but it doesn’t look like it is going to happen. He does approach us, but only to observe what I am doing in my journal. He pauses over us for a moment and studies my drawing, but does not say a word to either of us. Then he is gone and that is the last we see of him. If only we could speak Tibetan, then perhaps we could have made some progress, but maybe it was not a good time to visit the monastery. So, we head back to Manang and as we exit Braga we hear children singing behind us. It is two girls and a little boy holding each others hands on their way to school. They meet up with us full of giggles and brimming with curiosity. Tony’s watch fascinates them and they press every button on it. I tease Tony telling him he will never get his watch to work right again. The tattoo on my arm also gets attention and they talk excitedly about it as they trace each line with their fingertips. Surprisingly they grab us by the hands forcing us to skip along to school with them while they sing a playful tune. Tony and I take the boy by the hands and swing him up in the air. He laughs with excitement and now everyone wants a turn. One of the little girls sees the mala necklace I had purchased and starts rubbing her fingers together saying, “Mani, mani, mani, mani.” At first I misunderstand what she is saying and think she is asking me for money. I keep saying to her, “No, I don’t have any money.” Tony laughs at me and says, “No Robyn, your necklace!” She is saying, “Mani, like to pray!” I forgot that Buddhists chant mantras with their malas by counting each bead as a chant. That is what the little girl was doing with her fingers. When we reach the gates of the school the children say goodbye to us waving all the way until they go inside the classroom. It is little moments like those that stay in your heart forever, even if they don’t have any meaning at all. It was a nice moment that made up for not getting to go inside the monastery. I think it was meant to happen on purpose.

We had heard about a lama living in a cave above the village of Manang and decided to make the uncertain journey to see him. We were going on word of mouth as nothing was said about him in our guidebooks. The village had painted a sign of different hikes to do while staying in Manang and the only thing it had in the direction of the lama was some hand painted yellow letters spelling, Praken Gompa. Gompa is another word for a Buddhist monastery, but I was under the impression that we were going to a very small cave to visit a lone hermit. So we followed little yellow painted arrows through the narrow alleys of the town until we ended up on top of a ridge overlooking the rooftops of the village. Satellite dishes sprinkled with blowing prayer flags and cooking fires sprung up all around us. There was still a wall of mountains ahead of us but it looked like we would be crossing through a few hilly fields before we reached the steep wall of rock. The yellow arrows became few and far between, but a well worn path guided us to somewhere so we carried on. We came upon a mare and her colt munching on grasses. They took notice of us for a few moments and then the mother returned to her grazing. Tony cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a very loud, "Naaaay!" The colt took a few steps forward and nayed right back at Tony bobbing it's little head. I told Tony he was officially a horse whisperer now. We debated for a moment on going closer to the horses, but decided that it might not be wise to interfere with some ones property. There wasn't anyone we could see watching the horses, but we could have been being watched and I also didn't want to scare the horses if we went to them. Not all horses are happy to be approached by people as it usually means they have to do some work.
We crossed the small field and reached a set of large stones stacked up a hill with overgrown grasses bending and blowing in the breeze all around. The stones acted as steps for us to clammer on and millions of little wolf spiders scattered on each step we took. At the top we saw a weather worn stupa and there a man and a woman stood waiting for us. They were on a small ledge that overlooked the entire Manang valley. Manang was almost invisible from where we stood as it blended in so well with the land. Had it not been for the prayer flags we would probably not even know a village was there. The woman was very old and little but she was very excited to see us and quickly waved at us to come with her. The old man disappeared into an opening in the rock which actually had a few openings one of which, I could see a cooking fire billowing out of. The woman lead us to where the old man had went and as we passed where the food was cooking 3 children of various ages peered out at us curious and smiling. Inside the cave the man was seated on the floor behind a small alter. Behind him hung a large thangka painting of the Buddha that was very dirty and weather worn. To the man's right he had a cabinet with a huge display of photographs from the many different travelers that had visited him with a mix of buddhist relics and pictures of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. He sat behind the alter smiling at us wearing a red and gold pointed hat and a red robe with mala beads around his neck. On the alter a small candle was burning with an ornate little brass watering pitcher sitting to his right. The woman sat beside us and for a moment we all looked at each other not quite knowing how to speak to each other. It was clear we had somewhat of a language barrier, but we started out by telling them our names and then where we were from. The lama understood USA and they both shook their heads up and down excitedly when we said it. I took out the photographs I had stored in my money pouch that showed images of family and home. The woman was very happy to look at these pictures and especially liked the photograph of me with my mother. She called to the children in the kitchen to come and look at the photographs and they chattered amongst themselves at each picture they looked at. I wondered what they were saying, but they seemed to be really interested and nodding in approval over what they saw. We took one of our photos of the two of us with AB when we visited him in Yellowstone and gave it to the lama to add to his collection of photographs on the cabinet. We did our best to explain to them that AB was also on the trip with us, but I'm not sure if they understood. The lama then pointed out the entrance and said, "Thorang La?" and made a motion of walking with his fingers. We said, Yes, tomorrow Thorang La. He nodded in approval and then asked me to come and sit in front of him at the alter. He took my right hand and with the brass watering can he poured a small amount of saffron oil into my palm and made the motion for me to drink it and rub some of it on my forehead. He gently took his hands and held my head at the sides and began to chant. He then took a colorful band of braided string and tied it around my neck, touched my forehead and then took a book bound with sacred text and gently set it on top of my head still continuing to chant. He lowered the book and said, "Good." He motioned for Tony to take my place at the alter and repeated the blessing. He was sending us off with blessings for a safe climb through the Thorang La pass. I didn't know what to expect in coming here, but luckily he was very used to having visitor request this service from him. It was a very unique experience and it's something I will never forget even if it's something that everyone does when they pass through Manang.
We took a few photographs with the lama, who I later learned is known as Lama Geshe and the woman was happy to pose in pictures as well. She was very cute when we were taking pictures, putting her thumbs up and smiling brightly with missing teeth saying, "Okay, okay!!" as the camera flashed. We gave them rupees for the blessings and returned back down the hill. They stood at the cliff's edge for a moment watching us walk down and then we rounded the bend to where the horses were and they disappeared.
This was at best the highlight of our journey so far. We walked back down to Manang with the sunshine and wind blowing over the valley, turning the grasses in all different directions, We talked about organized religions and why I have problems committing to one set of beliefs. The words and actions of people like Jesus or Buddha are incredible and beautiful, but when people start making temples and organizations in honor of these people they have a tendency to loose the compassion that made the people their following who they are. I see nothing but greed, wealth, and narrow-mindedness when churches and temples are made. My idea of compassion is simple, you just love and respect all beings and treat them as you would treat yourself. Mistakes are part of life and it's not hard to understand the difference between what is wrong and what is right as we grow.


Lama Geshe lives a simple life, opening his home to all visitors without needing too much. It makes me want to follow in his lead and change how I live my life. I want a simple life of happiness.

Journal Entry 9

September 16 Sunday

Sometimes I think that I was born at the wrong time. I should have been born when human life made little impact on the world, when we were just small communities living without so many needs. Perhaps it is my yearning to find my culture, but I feel so unhappy sometimes back at home over what I see around me every day. People are closed up, paranoid, and look at life and death from a pessimistic point of view. Life is never fully satisfying because we can’t seem to accomplish all the things that would make it perfect and death is some dark place that we must try to avoid as long as possible. Death is something to be defeated and the longer we can keep a terminally ill person alive with machines the better it is because we have conquered death and are one step closer to avoiding it. Coming to Nepal I see these small mountain villages where everyone knows everyone, life expectancy is shorter, and people live with less and yet they are happier than we could ever be. They are so much closer to death because they do not have the healthcare that we get and the environment they live in has many dangers like landslides, floods, and harsh winters. You would think that they would be miserable and terrified of death, but they are not. Why is this? Is it because they know that life is part of death and death is part of life? That there is a harmony and a code to be followed where those that pass will return to the earth to feed those that will be given life whether it is a blade of grass, a deer, or a child? Do we know this when we loose someone, or are we more concerned with the achievements this person made in life that will secure them in the rightful place in the next level of paradise. What is paradise, or heaven anyway? What is this other worldly place that this planet was not good enough for. I don’t understand it, because most religions specify this planet as a doomed place and we have to follow certain rules to get to this better place. These rules are so common sense too. Everyone knows that being a good person and treating other people like you would want to be treated yourself is the right way. Everyone knows that stealing, fighting and murdering have a negative effect because you can sense it in the pit of your own stomach. You don’t need some higher power to tell you this because you should already know this. Is it instinct? If you choose to act badly then you will be outcaste by your family, your friends, and your community. This is true for any creature on this planet. I just don’t see the point in giving up on this world because there is this other world where all is perfect. What is it in heaven that will be any different from what we have now? Does heaven grant us permission to break the rules that we are supposed to follow here?
Whether we are Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, or another faith I think if we had some understanding of our connection with this Earth like those who actually live close to Earth we would treat the world with more care and have little concern for what each other does with their beliefs. When you survive in a small community you understand the importance of your connection with animal, plant, sky and mineral. If you try to separate yourself from it the earth will eventually fail for all living beings.



My last view of Pisang vanishes as we walk through a pine forest where each needle sparkles from the morning dew. This morning was bitterly cold when we awoke at the hotel, but now with the sun shining in the deep blue sky. I find myself shedding all the extra clothes I put on. The mountains are all around us now, and I can see Annapurna I, II, III, IV, and Pisang Peak. They are a magnificent site, massive and steep and I cannot image anyone climbing them, but people do it. Jack and Trisha the couple we met from Los Angeles are pausing here to climb Pisang peak. When we last saw them they were with their guide looking for a place to print prayer flags to hang from on top of the mountain. Hanging prayer flags in high places insures a blessing for all beings. Just like when you spin the prayer wheels on the mani wall the flags blowing in the wind spread compassion to all those in the winds path. People say the flags sound like a horse galloping when the wind races through them. There are even flags with a horse printed on them to symbolize this, calling her the wind horse carrying the three jewels (The Buddha, the Sangha, and the Dharma) on her back.

The valley gently climbs higher than the village of Pisang and walking through a lovely scented pine forest we come to yet another beautiful view. It is like standing on an overlook. The mountains welcome us by pushing to each side of the valley and leaving a flat open path all the way to Manang. All of the trekkers stop and sit for a moment mesmerized by the perfectly composed scenery. If they were going to make a brochure to lure tourists to the Annapurna Circuit, then this area would be on the front cover. Onward we walk, fully motivated to get to Manang now that we have for the first time been able to see what is ahead of us. The trail is busy with not just trekkers, but also locals loaded down with supplies. One man carries aluminum planks for a roof and another is carrying crates of soda. All of these items held securely by a single rag fastened about the head. They carry a load of about 5 of my backpacks! I see a chubby horse on the trail and I attempt to talk to him, but he is not amused and munches happily on his grass. AB and Tony approach and try to feed the horse by hand, but the horse won’t have anything to do with us. He probably thinks we are going to saddle him up and nervously gallops away to a safe distance.

Manang approaches and it feels like we are in Tibet. We pass the mountain side village of Braga where a 500 year old monastery sits at the top painted white with red trimmed windows. We walk along side two very long mani walls. One wall is lined with ornate carvings of different Buddha’s and Bodhisattva’s and the other wall has piles of stones with OM MANI PADME HUM carved into them. Manang is like a fortress. The path is lined by stone walls and then you pass through a gate that is closed each and every night. Once inside you are in an unexpected modern looking village. It isn’t modern in a sense that people are driving around in cars and enjoying McDonald’s, but for being so isolated they do have more than what some of the previous villages have. Apparently our guide book tells us that the Manang villagers have special permission the travel out of Nepal and trade goods. They were given this special treatment because they were once an independent kingdom using trade to bring in supplies that are hard to obtain in this region. Now they make frequent trips to Bangkok and Hong Kong to buy western clothing and electronic equipment to resell in Nepal. The guesthouses are large and all look neat and new. The place we are staying has a private bathroom for each room and plenty of hot water. Hot water! Oh, it has been a long time since I’ve felt hot water. I even get excited about the toilets which are western style flushing toilets. I must sound absurd, because one moment I am yearning for simplicity and now I am gleefully enjoying the comforts of modern living. I cannot win.

Journal Entry 8

September 15 Saturday

In the morning we all try to figure out what the best thing to do is. It is obvious we do not want to turn back because we are practically in the middle of the mountains and returning back on foot from which we came would not bring us back any faster than continuing on. I am not even sure we could get a flight out of Kathmandu if we attempted it; perhaps the States are under lock down or in complete panic. We find out that Chame actually has a phone line that can call out of the country and decide that the best thing we can do is contact our families and let them know we are okay as well as find out if they are okay. The phone is sort of primitive in that it is complete with its own operator at a switchboard. You walk up to the window of this little shack and tell the operator you want to call the United States. Give him a few rupees and he starts working the switchboard and speaking in Nepali to another operator. After a few minutes he hands you the phone. I try to call my sister first but her phone is under some kind of blocker that doesn’t allow foreign calls to get through. Next I try my mother, but again the answering machine picks up and I cannot get through to tell her anything. Tony does contact his parents and lets them know we are okay. He tells them not to worry we are very safe in Nepal and will be home as scheduled on the 27th. Hopefully they will pass on the information to my family so they don’t worry, until I can find a way to speak with them.

So, the journey continues I look up at the white mountain which glows almost as bright as the sun against the deep clear blue sky and take that as a sign of hope that everything will be fine. The morning is incredibly beautiful, it is crisp, cool, and silent, but for the sound of a stream on it’s way to the river. We pass a long wall of prayer wheels and drag our hands down the row, perhaps we can spread some compassion on to those that are suffering back home. At that moment I have an idea of getting some prayer flags to hang high on a mountain side to honor the ones that were lost in the attacks. I wonder where we can get prayer flags; hopefully one of the villages we stay in will have them.

We begin the day crossing wide open valleys; some covered with pink flowers which I was told was buckwheat. Cedar trees are abundant and many of the men are cutting the timber and shaping them into boards with hand tools. I watch two men holding one of those long saws, pulling back and forth cutting into a huge trunk, while others trot at a fast pace with long two by fours dragging on the path. They shout, “Namaste!” or even “Namaste, madam!!” and run on by back to their villages. There are apple orchards too, we all stop to admire the trees and in the distance women and children are waving hello to us. It is amazing how hard these people are working but how laid back it all seems compared to home. I could not imagine seeing anything quite like this back home. I find myself humming the Led Zeppelin tune, The Battle of Evermore, the song based off JRR Tolkien’s book, The Hobbit.

"The apples of the valley hold the seeds of happiness, The ground is rich from tender care, which they do not forget, No, No! Dance in the dark night, sing to the morning light!"
Here on my own adventure I will admit that I am feeling very much like a hobbit clutching my walking stick watching the people around me going about their work in almost a merry sort of way. Only the coming days will tell if my own quest will be fulfilled and I am sure that years afterward I will look back on this journey,,, what will I have learned from it?

The sky begins to cloud up as we begin to make the accent up and out of the valley into Pisang. Rain drops start falling steady and then change to a good down pour. I suppose that the sky wanted to remind us of how much we love having wet feet before we climb up and into rain shadow. I have to take off my pack and dig the rain gear out and then worm my way back into the backpack while tediously balancing myself on a steep hillside. The rain makes everything quiet or maybe it really just drowns every other thing out, but I find it very peaceful to walk through the cypress forest as the rain falls. It is a long uphill hike and I slip into my usual pattern of walk a few steps then rest, walk a few steps then rest, and walk a few steps and rest. I pass by porters leaning heavily on thin walking sticks with loads that tower above their heads. I come around a bend and through the rising mist I can see a huge expanse of a rock face that is not quite like any other mountain side that I have seen. It has a smooth flat surface and rises to unknown heights in the mist. It is Paungda Danda the mountain of heaven which rises 1500m from the valley floor. It is said that this is where the dead go to reach the heavens. I am awe struck by this massive wall of granite, and a little disappointed that the mist and clouds are blocking my view of the top. Maybe heaven really is up there.

The top of the climb is like walking into another world. The mist and rain shrink back down the hill and a wonderful blue sky with big puffy clouds over a green tree dotted pasture opens up before us. At last we have climbed high enough in altitude to be in the rain shadow. No more leeches, no more soaking wet shoes, and no more mud! All along the trail we find trekkers shedding their packs and rain gear lounging on the grasses taking in the warm sunshine and incredible surroundings. Ponies walk freely in this vast area munching on grasses without any worry of a fence or a thief. Small ponds dot here and there reflecting the great blue sky with snow capped mountains shrouded in swirling mists. It is difficult for me to remember that people are suffering back home and again my sister fills my thoughts. I hope she is okay.

Pisang

Scanning the mountain sides I can see the tiny fluttering of red, white, yellow, green and blue prayer flags on flat rooftops of buildings that match their gray and brown surroundings so well that I would hardly notice them if not for the flags. AB says that is Upper Pisang where the majority of the villagers live, since Lower Pisang has become more for the tourists with its many hotels lining the broad path. We walk to the last hotel at the edge of town, a large place with only a few other tourists staying there. I am craving a shower not really because I feel dirty but, a good hot shower sounds like the perfect remedy for muscles that have grown tight. We check into our large cedar constructed room with its two twin beds and a huge window looking out towards Upper Pisang. I grab my towel and shower stuff and walk down the hall to the shower and toilet. The bathroom is just about as large as our room except it is completely made of concrete giving it a jail cell type feel. I push the wide wooden door shut like I am closing a bank vault and slide the metal latch into locking position, it echoes with a “CLACK”. The room is cold and dark, but looks remarkably clean, even the squat toilet looks inviting for once. I undress and examine my body which shows all the battle scars I’ve received from this journey. Leech wounds dot my legs, my hips and my shoulders are rubbed raw showing broken sheets of blistered skin, and though I cannot see it I can feel the huge broken blister in the center of my back that Tony accidentally scratched when he was giving me a massage. We both forgot that I had such a monster of a blister until I winced in pain as he scratched over my t-shirt and I felt the wetness of blood and puss ooze down my spine. Perhaps I chose the wrong kind of backpack for my body or my pampered life has kept me from really knowing what it is to be a human in the elements. On the positive side of things my arms and face are sporting an excellent tan. If only I could get this tan on the rest of my body, but the modesty of the people does not stretch that far and I would cause quite uproar if I walked outside in just a bikini. I turn on the water and it sprouts out of the shower head in one thick stream that can only compare with the way water comes out of a garden hose. It is horribly cold and I bow my body outward to keep from feeling the chilled splatters that bounce off my hands. I keep turning the knobs but no matter how much I turn the temperature stays the same and the pressure stays the same. So much for a hot shower to relax the muscles, now I’ve just made everything even tenser. I now dread the shower though I feel I might as well wash up since I’m already standing there naked. I turn the water off and proceed to soap up and rinse one limb at a time. It is so awfully cold that I can’t even put my arm under the water to rinse it. I have to cup my hands with water and spill it over my soapy arms and legs. Washing my hair takes some skills as I bend my head forward and stare at my toes while the cold water wets my hair. I cannot avoid having a few drops roll down my back and I grit my teeth at this. “Oh, fuck its cold!!! I keep saying over and over again like I am chanting a mantra.

Shivering my way back to the room I make for my sleeping bag to try to heat my body back up again, but Tony wants to walk around the town so I am forced to tremble my way back into clothes. We head for Upper Pisang hoping to get some good photos of the mountains and the surrounding village. The path up hill surprisingly takes our breathe away and it seems strange because we are without backpacks. Could this be our first encounter with high altitude? We laugh at our troubles wondering what it will be like when we get to Thorang La which is quite a ways higher than Pisang. At the top villagers are working hard building a monastery and a prayer wall. There is a lama overseeing the work and many people digging a trench for the wall. The lama proudly smiles at us and points up to the monastery and says, “G-O-M-P-A”. Men carrying small L-shaped platforms on their backs which have rocks stacked up on them come from down the hill and continuously dump the stones in a pile for the wall. Tony and I crouch down at the edge of the path to watch them work and a few of the workers join us with their platforms still strapped onto their backs. Their hands and feet are encrusted with gray powder and their knobby knees look worn and bruised, but shiny grins still protrude from their faces. A worker makes a motion to his back expressing at how tiring the work is. All we can do is nod and exchange smiles. He says something in Nepali to his coworkers and they all chuckle and look at us. I wonder what he is saying or if he wants something from us. This is the frustrating part about being a foreigner, not knowing the language and looking different. I do not always want to look like a tourist because I worry that some people might see something negative in a westerner. An annoying attitude, a careless litter bug, or the disrespecting photographer are often the words that describe a tourist from Europe, the US, and Australia. There is nothing that can really be done to erase the scars of those that had come before us. You can only hope that your impact is positive and perhaps will encourage a change of heart. Could you set yourself apart from a tourist and be like them? Can you live without Coca-Cola? Can you eat dhal bhat three times a day for everyday? Can you survive without toilet paper? Can you sleep in a room with a chicken or a water buffalo?

Journal Entry 7

September 14 Friday

We walk under a peaceful white sky and are eyes are opened wide by the beauty of our surroundings as we carry on. Beautiful fields of pink flowers stretch out over rolling hills which run into steep cliffs where several waterfalls spill from crevasses down into the Marsyangdi. People are busy tending apple orchards and when they see us pass they call out their famous greeting, “Namaste!” which literally means, I honor the god that resides with in you. The wonderful smell of cedar trees tells us that we are climbing ever higher towards the climate of the Tibetan people.
We pass through many small villages and I notice at one point that a boy of maybe fourteen is following us as we exit his village. He walks with us for a long while and at first I think that maybe he just happens to be going on to the next village or perhaps he wants to assist us in some way, but after passing village after village he still walks behind us. He never speaks to us, but it is clear he is curious about us because whenever we would stop for a rest he too would stop and remain close by. I feel a warning in my heart when we are all climbing up a muddy hill and I am falling behind from the weight of my pack and Tony and AB are far ahead of me almost out of site. The boy is walking so close behind me that we are practically toe to heal to each other. Each pause I take to catch my breathe he lags behind with me until I stagger forward. I think to myself, “Okay I am going to get robbed any minute now, I’m the weakest one and once Tony and AB are out of view he will make his move. They are just about to edge over the incline when I yell “Wait!” The boy followed us for about an hour keeping so close behind us until AB finally forced him to walk in front of us. Maybe he was trying to pickpocket or maybe just curious about all the strangers that pass through his land day after day. He did not appear menacing, but actually quite scrawny. Eventually he broke away from us only making off with one peanut butter flavored Power Bar which Tony gave to him.
We dodge our way through what seems to be endless stretch of fecal matter from either a mule, water buffalo, or cow. Navigating your way can be tricky because at times huge puddles of water surrounded on all sides by deep squishy mud from the thousands of pack animals the trudge through each day block your way. You have to shut your eyes and take that leap of faith and hope you don’t end up sinking to your ankles in the mixture of mud and shit. There were quite a few times where all three of us were slipping and sliding our way through the valley while nimble footed Nepalese chuckled and laughed at us.
A bright eyed boy approaches Tony as we walk on a nicely stone paved trail through the village of Lattemarang and asks him, “What country.” Tony and I both say, “USA”. A sudden look of dread comes over the boys face and he shakes his head from left to right and says, “No, USA not good now.” We look at him puzzled and he raises his arms above his head and says, “ Many dead, many Americans dead.” I don’t know how to react my immediate feeling is that there has been an earthquake or maybe a plane crash, but here we are way up in the Himalayas and this boy has such a grave expression on his face that I feel it has to be something of really alarming proportions to have made the news up here. We try to have him explain what has happened but he can only tell us that many people are dead. It is hard for me to image that anything bad could be happening in the world let alone my own country. Things are going so well for the three of us and we are having the time of our lives which makes tragedy hard to soak in when you are a million miles away and surrounded by a towering wall of mountains. I see Jack and Trisha and ask them if they have heard of something bad going on in the United States. They both say yes but that they’re unclear of what exactly has happened. They think a plane has crashed, but the numbers of the dead don’t add up. Someone told them over 10,000 people have been killed. “10,000!” I think unless the plane has crashed into a stadium full of people then I don’t know what could cause such a huge number. My thoughts are on my sister who is a flight attendant. God, I hope it is not her.
A blue mist rolls in as evening approaches and we arrive in Chame. A beautiful snow covered mountain looms above us before it is smothered by the clouds. It is our first view of a snow covered peak since we left Besisahar four days ago. There are trekkers every where from all different countries chatting outside the inns and it is here that we finally here the news. One plane has crashed into the Pentagon, two planes have crashed into both the World Trade Center towers in New York City, and as if it couldn’t get any worse a fourth plane has crashed in Pennsylvania. All four planes went down on the same day of September 11 the very day when we were sitting in the sun looking at far off snowy mountains and getting ready to take our first steps on the Annapurna Circuit.

The world suddenly seems huge and dangerous as I stand looking up at the mountains from the trenches of this deep valley. I feel if I could manage to peer over the mountains I would see the lands beyond burning and thousands screaming in torture. I shiver in my fleece as laughing children race by pushing there way through the hordes of backpackers playing an innocent game of tag. A sigh of relief that I am here, protected and safe. I don’t want to leave.

Our lodge, The Everest Guest House has a television, it has a blown speaker and the picture dances rapidly up and down the screen, but it is enough to make out a little of what is happening. A BBC reporter fizzles through the speaker and images of the World Trade Center towers smoking appear along with what looks like a road paved with photographs of people young and old who have been killed. There is a man being interviewed, I cannot understand what he is saying but it is clear that he is crying and crying hard as he speaks. I feel my heart skipping beats and my throat feels swollen like it is being hallowed out. Tony, AB and I all stare blankly at each other, the room seems frozen with everyone staring wide eyed at the television trying to scratch away the blur and static on screen. I young Israeli girl dressed in oversized pants and a baggy sweatshirt stands over the head of our table. She says, “You are Americans?” We nod and she leans down closer to us. “I am so sorry, this is terrible. In my country, Israel we have much destruction like this and I am very sorry it came to you.” We all try to smile back at her, but each one of our minds are somewhere else and all we can do is nod at her as she slips back into the crowd.
The food that I was so hungry for when I hiked into the village now doesn’t look so appetizing. I force myself to eat anyway while the dining room flickers with the glow of the television and the shadows of many astonished backpackers. I feel helpless and haunted, where is my family and are they wondering about me?