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?

Journal Entry 6

September 13 Thursday

Grey and drizzly skies are once again upon us as we set out for our next day enroute for the village of Dharapani. Chandra is waiting patiently for us outside his home and urges us to wait a few moments and runs into his home and brings out a bamboo walking stick. He looks at the stick then looks at Tony and then taking out a knife he shortens the stick to a height more suited for Tony. His wife takes a good look at the stick as well and makes Chandra sand off the jagged edges before he gives it to us. He makes a motion to his waist and says, “Water, here.” His announcement worries me as I look down the path trying to figure out what exactly we are heading to. I stray down the path while Tony exchanges addresses and says his good-byes. Chandra’s daughter follows me and asks for a pen and I give her three trying to tell her to keep them for herself so I don’t get mobbed by other children. Unfortunately like most children in the world she probably ran back into the village excitedly holding the pens in the air in front of all the other children saying, “Look what I got!” It didn’t take long for at least five or six other kids to catch up with me begging for pens which I didn’t have for all of them. Tony eventually reaches me proudly sporting his brand new walking stick and tells me that Chandra and his family were very happy to have met us and will be praying for us as we continue on our journey. I hope that we will be able to keep in touch when we return home and if not I hope that if we are ever to return to Jagat he will remember us.
We continue to follow the Marsyangdi northward and signs of our accent are beginning to show as the valley gets steeper on both sides so much so that the grey muddy trail is like walking along the edge of a cliff. Small huts cling to the steep hills and I wonder how they ever managed to get up there because below them are jagged cliffs and steep walls of mud that continue to erode and fall into the river below. Behind me I can hear the faint sound of bells ringing which could only signal that a herd of mules will pass me shortly. Our path turns sharply up a steep and forested trail that zigzags several times to a location that I can not predict through the green dampness. As usual I take my time on the accent stopping every few minutes to catch my breath. The mules have finally arrived forcing me aside bobbing their heads up and down in a synchronized rhythm with bells resonating a tribal beat. There must be at least thirty or forty of them in the group because I can just barely hear the mule driver whistling and yelling in the distance behind me. I am forced to stop completely because the mules have also decided to stop and the trail is not wide enough to pass them. Looking up the incline I see mules zigzagging back and forth up the trail all of which have now resorted into eating vegetation along the trail. I cannot even see Tony and AB they were some ways ahead of me and have since vanished in the green. All I can do is lean on my walking stick and stare at the ass of a mule and hope he does not decide to kick me. Standing still in the humid climate is not the best thing either because it will make it easier for the leeches to crawl on me. Paranoid I continue to check my legs and my clothes only finding one little leech inching his way up the side of my boot. The walking stick becomes a handy tool in getting the leeches off which I use to scrape them off and dump them at a distance that comforts me. Two men come up from behind me whistling and hooting as they take bamboo sticks and jab them hastily into the back sides of the mules. They acknowledge me briefly with a smile and hurry on up the zigzagging trail against stumbling mules.
After what seemed like hours the mules begin to clamor up the hill and I try to move quickly but the incline wears me out and I find myself continuously stepping aside letting mules walk past me. By the time I make it to Tony and AB all the mules have long since disappeared and I finally get to meet what was holding up the mule traffic. A waterfall cuts steeply down the hill and separates the trail by about fifteen feet across. There is no bridge and the water is not exactly running as a gentle spring. Various logs and branches have been laid along the waterfall in an attempt to make a safe crossing, but the current is pushing them hard against the few trees and shrubs that cling before the next decent and I do not care to balance on them. I look uncomfortably at Tony and AB. “Well, only one way across.” AB says as he steps into the level part of the fall. I grasp the walking stick and step in behind them. The water goes just above our knees but because it is falling so strongly we are all completely soaked in a few seconds. I am clinging to a rock face because I feel the water falling hard against my backpack almost forcing me into the current and down the rest of the falls. We all take careful steps testing with one foot for stable ground, AB almost loses it taking a step that is deeper than he suspected. He investigates the last five feet of the stream where the current is the strongest and deepest. There is a narrow log braced between some rocks in the steam and connecting to the mud soaked trail, however there is nothing to hold onto and there is a steep drop down to the river. AB and Tony do what could be compared to tight rope walking with arms spread from side to side and hurry across the log before they loose their balance. I am still clinging to the rock face and when I turn to approach the log bridge I am nearly tossed into the river by the strong current. The water is adding so much weight on my back that I can not find my balance enough to step onto the log. I look at Tony and AB in panic and say, “I cannot do this!” They both cry back over the noise of the falls, “Yes you can you have to, there is no where else to go!” I put one foot on the log wobbling horribly from side to side grabbing onto tree branches that are much too small to support me. I want to crawl across it because I cannot see myself being able to balance my backpack, but the log is just too narrow. “I’m scared, and the rushing water is making me dizzy!” I cry again. AB slips off is backpack and steps out onto the log and reaches his hand out to me. I lean with all my might scared to death that I will fall and grab him. He takes my other hand and walking backwards he guides me across the bridge. My feet slide onto the other side of the muddy trail and I thank AB a thousand times, there is no way I could have made it without his help.
The waterfall ordeal was enough to deal with, however as we recollect ourselves and continue our mission to Dharapani we find that our soaking clothes and shoes cause the most uncomfortable sensation. My shoes are as wet as they could get and all day of the rest of the hike I am slopping in my boots. I make an attempt to change socks, but the new ones become just as wet after a few minutes of walking. We reach Dharapani just before sunset and we are all chaffed and chilled to the bone. I peel my clothes off like I’m peeling a banana and do my usual leech check. All I can think about is warmth, warm clothes, a hot pot of tea, and a warm dinner, that is all that matters to me.

Dharapani

We sit in the dinning room of our hostel and get to know some of the other people who have been hiking the same trail. Jack and Trisha are a couple from Los Angeles who are traveling around the world, before Nepal they were in Bali. They have one porter and one guide with them both of whom are very friendly and spend most of their time talking with the innkeepers. Jack tells us they are going to climb Pisang Peak which is a mountain just off of the Annupurna trek before completing the entire route. We also meet a quiet Austrian woman and her guide who is also extremely quiet and shy. We try a new dish called mo-mo’s which is sort of like what we think as spring rolls stuffed with spicy veggies and sometimes meat. Tony falls in love with the dish, saying he is going to try to make them when we get back home. I have a coke with dinner, but am still craving a hot pot of tea. I look over the menu and see Tibetan tea which sounds delicious. A little girl serves me the pot proudly saying, “Your Tibetan tea” and sets it before me. I pour the tea seeing a delicious creamy tea steam into Tony’s and my cup and I take sip. My taste buds are immediately filled with a very harsh salty taste, like I just took in a mouthful of ocean. “Oh my god, that’s disgusting” I say with teeth nashed together. Tony looks equally displeased by the taste and we both stare into our full cups and the full pot still on the table. I try to keep sipping hoping I might get used to it, but every swallow burns down my throat and into my stomach. I have to chase each sip with a shot of AB’s water to get any of it down. The little girl passes through smiling saying, “You like Tibetan tea?” Of course I shake my head up and down, “Yes, it is very good” thinking to myself how am I going to get rid of it without insulting her and her family. AB once again comes to my rescue sampling the tea and not exactly liking it, but continues to drink it so that it at least looks like we all enjoyed it. We pass the pot around to the other trekkers each having a taste. Their only comments are “Mmm, interesting” with a frown.

Tibetan tea: A tea brewed from salt and yak butter.
Yak: a cow that grows a long shaggy coat and can live in very cold climates at high altitudes.

In the morning we rise early and it is the first time I notice painted above the window in our room in bright yellow letters, “Free Tibet”. At breakfast our innkeeper sits in the room with us holding his one year old son who tries to grab anything on the table that he can. The innkeeper talks about Nepal, the Maoist, and about King Mahendra who was murdered three months before we arrived in Nepal by his own son. “These are bad times for Nepalese,” he explains. “When the king was still alive he would come out to the villages pretending to be a porter so that he could see his people as they really lived and that is because he loved his people and his country.” The innkeeper looks uneasily at the floor, “Now, everyone is afraid because of the Maoist and the new king comes to the village in disguise and they trick us asking us which side we are on.” “We don’t know what to answer, “If we say Maoist and it is really the government asking us we could be arrested, but if we say we are for the king and they are Maoist then they could kill us for not supporting them.” We shake are heads sadly by the news he is giving us. “The Nepalese do not like the new king because he is not a descendent of the god-line, like King Mahendra who was the incarnation of Lord Vishnu.” “And the Maoist, all they want is money; they come to the village and force us to give them money.” “Neither cares about us, what we need now is a new government, parliament based.” He nods. “This is our only hope, with the god-line destroyed and the violence of the Maoist it is time for Nepal to change, it is the only way to make the people happy.”

Journal Entry 5

September 12, Wednesday


I awake to roosters crowing and rain falling softly on the tin roof above us and the family already up sweeping floors and clanging pots and pans beneath us. It is about six o’clock in the morning, but with all the commotion below us as well as outside it seems like afternoon. We slept in the loft of a barn, no glass windows and no insulation only gaping two by fours separated us from the elements. We did have electricity, a crude fixture with a dim light bulb protruding from a wall decorated with aged and yellowed news papers. Unfortunately, we were unable to leave the light on too long because of all the moths it attracted from the outside, and not to mention all the wolf spiders we were able to see made having the light off more comforting. As humid as it was I forced myself to sleep with my sleeping bag zipped up over my head for fear of some vicious spider or insect crawling on my face in the night.
AB who is looking much better is stretching outside our door with a liter of water in hand. He says he is going to force himself to drink as much water as he can so he won’t sweat himself to death like he almost did yesterday. Our clothes that we hung to dry in the night are still wet from our perspiration. It is almost impossible to have dry clothing and shoes in such a humid environment and as gross as it feels putting them on that seems to be the only way to get them to dry. We climb down from the loft and are greeted by the warm cheerful smile of our innkeeper. Tony stops and looks at a poster on the wall that features the Hindu god, Hanuman the monkey headed deity. The innkeeper notices Tony gazing at the image and proudly pats the poster and humbly says, “That’s my god.” We sit at a picnic table and order our breakfast of Tibetan bread and eggs with yak cheese. As we sip our tea and coffee I can see the family hard at work in the kitchen preparing our food. A woman is kneading the dough for my Tibetan bread on a blackened tree stump, while a dark stove glows with a wood fire and eggs sizzling on the surface. To the left of our table a young girl goes to a small alter covered in red wax and rings a small bell and lights some incense. It all is so simple, a morning prayer, preparing food, playing with children, and working together for survival as a family and as a community. Back home we start our days alone by rushing to work or school sometimes barely eating breakfast if we eat any at all. We leave our children with strangers and we go someplace we would rather not be, but cannot survive without. We go to work dreading the day until our paychecks come and we can spend it on things that entertain us only for a short time and then we bury them in a closet or we yearn for them for another two weeks until we are paid again. These people are not distracted by a commercial world and are in no need of it because they have each other and are surrounded by a harmony and a cultural tradition that makes them who they are. We have lost our traditions to a materialistic and industrialized world, but although some of us do not realize it we are constantly searching for it when we absorb ourselves in the toys, clothes, gadjets, vehicles, and vacations we buy every day, every month, and every year. It reminds me of something the Buddha teaches, “The gift of truth conquers all gifts, the taste of truth conquers all sweetness, the joy of truth conquers all pleasures and the loss of desires conquers all sorrows.”
The rain is still falling steadily as we pack up for another long day on the trail. We wrap our belongings in plastic bags and then stuff them in our packs so we can be sure that we have dry clothing to change into in the night and also a dry sleeping bag to crawl into. We pay our friendly innkeeper and I leave one of his children with an ink pen which is a highly prized item in the mountains where a pen helps kids learn to write easier than chalk. We shuffle onto the trail with other children who are on their way to school. They wear blue uniforms if they are available or affordable because some kids do not wear them but still attend school. They pass us in the rain with umbrellas or plastic bags over their heads some looking up at us shyly while others mostly the real little ones try their hardest to avoid being noticed by us. There were times yesterday when we would be walking along the trail and off in the distance we would hear someone shout, “Hello, hello!” or “Hey Namaste!” and up on a hillside we would see several children dressed in blue waving at us from their school yard. The children here are full of smiles and generally not scared to approach strangers. If we were stopped for a short rest the children will come to us and touch our packs or clothing or in my case the tattoo on my arm. They whisper little things to each other and giggle and test their English skills on you by asking for treats or pens. “ Sweet?” Have pen?” Unfortunately giving out candy is not recommended because there isn’t any kind of dental care here not even toothpaste so giving candy out increases their chances of having tooth decay. I read a report from the Everest region that so many tourists pass through there and give out treats to the kids that there is a real problem with tooth decay and a dental clinic actually needed to be put in the village of Namche Bazaar, the last big village before Everest.

5:00PM Jagat

It rained all day, the air was nice and cool but after walking long hours in wet shoes and water dripping down my neck and the sleeves of my rain jacket I wanted the hot weather to return. We were introduced to another native of Nepal, leeches. Disgusting slimy worms that suck onto your flesh until they are bloated with blood and then fall back to the ground leaving you a bloody mess from the anti-clotting agent they release into the blood. The worst part about them is that most of the time you never notice that they were on you, but you find the wound they left behind bleeding terribly. You wonder how they manage to climb on your boot and under the cuff of your pants and lastly up your leg without ever being seen or felt, that really gives me the creeps. When we got to our room for the night Tony slipped off his shoes and had four of them on his foot, two of which were practically on top of each other trying to get the perfect vein. To remove them the best thing to do is take your thumb and scoot it under the leeches sucker then pick it off quickly before it tries to reattach itself to your hand. Supposedly using a lighter or match will work as well, but when we tried it hurt us more than the leech.
Changing from my wet clothes to dry clothes I notice my body starting to show wear and tear from my backpack. I have sores on my shoulders and on my hips and a nasty blister forming in the center of my back. We made ourselves a first aid kit before we left the states full of band aids, tape, mole skin, ointments, and sports wraps since good sterile medical care is not available here in the mountains. I take a few snips of the mole skin and apply it to my hips and my shoulders, hopefully it will get me through the many miles ahead I still have to hike through.
There still is enough daylight left in the village after we are settled in so we decide to walk to the end of the village and hopefully get a chance to meet local people. The rain has stopped, but a heavy gray mist lingers over the surrounding hillsides and the sky itself is thick with dark clouds. Despite the weather everyone in the village is live and happy and children are playing on the pathway. There are still a few lingering trekkers coming into the village for the night asking us where we are staying and if the rooms are nice others continue on trying to find the last inn at the end of the village so that they can get to a quick start in the morning. I have Tony carry the camera and as he snaps a few shots he meets a little girl probably about seven years old and asks to photograph her. She immediately shimmers with happiness and beckons Tony to follow her to her house at the end of the village. She calls for her father and mother and excitedly yells, “Picture, Picture!!” From inside the tiny thatched roof shack comes a young man and woman maybe the age of twenty-five or twenty-eight carrying two babies, one a newborn and the other close to twelve months. They welcome Tony into their home showing him the kitchen and pictures they have received from other western travelers. I had also brought pictures from home of friends and family and my two cats of course and passed them around to the many children that have gathered around the house. It is amazing how well these pictures worked as a way of communicating with each other, because while the Nepalese do know a little English it is still a challenge to try to have a conversation based on a few words. They looked at the pictures of my cats and reacted to them by saying, “Meow, Meow!” One little girl ran home and brought back a kitten to show us. I also had a picture of me with my mother and they would hold their hands around their face in an up and down motion and say, “Look the same.” and point to me.

We have the family pose for the picture and are also asked to get into a picture with them with promises to send them the photographs when we return home. We give the father who we find out is named, Chandra a picture of Tony with our friend Eric in Times Square which he fell in love with, actually kissing it as he hung it on the wall in his house repeatedly saying, “This is very good, very funny, very good.” The picture is rather comical showing the two of them in a stance like they were models or a couple of gangster rappers in the middle of New York City. It is funny how Chandra not knowing Tony or Eric could somehow pick up on the humor of the photograph even with the cultural barrier.
Darkness was beginning to set in and our innkeeper catches up to us and asks it we could return so he could prepare dinner for us. We say our good nights and tell Chrandra we will stop back on our way out tomorrow morning. What a great experience to be able to meet local people who simply wanted to connect with us out of the curiosity and kindness of their hearts. It breaks the wall down of feeling like a nosey foreigner. Some people go places simply to check it off of their great list of accomplishments and to brag to friends back home, “Been there, done that.” However, in order to truly live you have to open up your heart to everything and every person that surrounds you and let them experience you just as you experience them. Photographing your experiences is great, but sometimes you have to remove yourself from behind the camera and not worry about what there will be to show for it when you leave. You just need to enjoy the moment for what it is because sometimes that camera can prohibit you from connecting with people. Tonight we were lucky and it did help us, but I am noticing that the site of the camera can also make people very nervous and more likely to hide.
The three of us end up being the only guests staying at our inn that evening and because of this we are treated royally by the family running it. We seat ourselves at a picnic table and order a round of dal bhat sets while white moths flutter around the burning lamp above our heads. Our food comes and we realize that we might be in a constant battle with the moths to keep them from diving into our food and drink. At one point a moth nose dives into AB’s bean soup and while we were not certain one of the girls attending to us let out a shout that sounded like, “Shit!” as she grabbed for the insect. I know it seems silly to report the incident, but the only reason it is funny is because she really didn’t speak any English and hearing that burst from her lips out of nowhere took us by surprise. Shit is probably not what she was saying, but it did give us quite a laugh. The innkeeper attempts to play a radio for us, but is having trouble getting any stations to come through. He is so determined to get the radio to work that he labors over it for a good forty-five minutes. Unfortunately we were all pretty tired and had long since finished our meal and after waiting out of kindness for him to try to play us some music we finally had to urge him to stop. Bless his heart for trying to make us comfortable while we stayed, but we felt bad having them run a generator only for us just to give us some light and music. The people are wonderful here.

Journal Entry 4

September 11, Tuesday

We wake to a beautiful morning, clear sky, green everywhere , and our first site of snow capped peaks way, way off in the distance. AB has the biggest grin on his face and he says to me and Tony, “ Oh yeah, now I remember, this is what I came here for.” It feels good to be out of Kathmandu in the fresh open air, away from people hasseling us on the streets, away from the traffic, away from a way of life that we have grown up with and yet they are trying to become. It scares me to think how western the entire world is becoming and I wonder if in the future if anyone will value their traditions or will we all be eating at McDonalds and wearing jeans. I already hear that in certain parts of the world different languages are dying out and being replaced by what is more well known, like English. Is it evolution or is our modernization taking over, making everyone unacculturated, making them loose their own song or their own sense of being. I know that I wish I knew more about my ancestors, where they lived, what they believed in, and what was the song in their hearts before Christianity and their coming to America blended them in with everyone else.

We get to a late start, because we awoke the latest of all the other trekkers. They are all packed up and enjoying their last sips of black tea by the time we get a table. Jeremy left at six in the morning skipping breakfast altogether, probably because he didn’t want to spend anymore money than he absolutely had to. After breakfast we strap ourselves into our backpacks which we will carry everyday for the next fifteen to sixteen days through rain and shine. Walking onto a rocky trail which acts more like a small babbling brook we leave behind the pothole ridden road that ends at the base of the Annapurna foothills. From hear we will follow the Marsyangdi River until we reach the height of our journey the pass of Thorung La at 17,769 ft. I hope I can handle this journey, because there is no easy and comfortable way to get out of the mountains and if I have problems it will be a bitter experience for me. My pack is heavy and I have a liter of water swinging at my side, but I manage to glide over worn rocks in my brown hiking boots and long skirt. Skirt? Yes, I am wearing a skirt which for those who don’t know me is a rare occasion, but here in Nepal it is more respectful to wear a long dress or skirt than pants and especially shorts. People don’t show a lot of skin here, and in their culture a pair of pants actually shows way too much of a lady’s figure for their liking. Those who do choose to wear shorts, tank tops or tight clothes will be stared at by both men and women. I want to leave as little impression on these people as possible and I certainly want it to be a positive interaction so I will be as respectful of their beliefs as I possibly can.

AB walks ahead of us and it doesn’t take him long to be what seems miles ahead of us. After a couple of hours Tony and I are clumsy on the water filled trail, delicately trying to keep our feet dry and I mistake a patch of grass for solid ground and end up sliding off the side of the trail onto the a joining rice terrace which sits three feet lower than the actual trail. My pack makes the clumsiness worse because the slightest stumble pushes all my weight in it’s direction and as I am clinging onto this one rock trying to clamor back up on the trail the weight on my back is pushing me and the rock further backwards. I can already feel the burning of a scrape on my leg as a curse my way back onto the trail in the grasp of Tony’s hand. Tony gently rubs my shoulder and asks if I am okay and I reply yes even though I am really hating myself because I feel like a complete idiot. Here I am all concerned about the people and the respect of their environment and then I go and fall on their rice paddy, now how’s that for a tourist!

We bend forward as we cross a bamboo bridge which consists of a bundle of bamboo sticks tied together with wire and rope. The railing sits low almost on what you would call the floor of the bridge and each step you take you feel the bridge bouncing to your rhythm. Heavy loads are carried over this bridge everyday and I assume that the low railing supports the weight of the cargo being carried on a person’s back. I cross the bridge with no problems although I will admit that the rushing water beneath it makes me dizzy. Over a small ridge I can hear the rumbling of our true water source the Marsyangdi a grey river constantly rushing and churning its way out of the mountains. It is the late monsoon and the river is at it’s highest level and it’s performance heeds warning to those who would dare try to cross it; For this is a river that would surely break you and swallow you whole.
People are busy at work all along the trail, transporting goods, controlling a herd of pack mules loaded with supplies, and building and repairing parts of the trail. Some people greet us with friendly smiles and shake our hands. They ask if we like Nepal with big shining smiles and when we say yes they put their hands together and say, “Oh, very good, Namaste!” Sometimes we pass women who will hide their faces from us, probably fearful that we will take their picture or shy and maybe even afraid of Tony and AB. The Annapurna sees loads of tourists every year and at the height of the trekking season two hundred trekkers a day could pass through a single village. It is no wonder why these women would hide from us because I am sure there are people who come here with no respect for privacy and snap pictures without asking. However, you also have to be amazed with the friendliness of these people having to deal with this all of the time. I know if my front yard was a tourist attraction I would be very bitter and edgy all of the time. Perhaps they can live with this because they know that these treks bring in money which allows them to live high up in these mountains without having to move to a larger city for work. Sharecropping is income for some, but the majority here are working the tourist circuit, transporting goods, running inns, cooking food, keeping the trail cleared, checking permits, and selling those essential items like toothpaste or a dry pair of socks that we run out of on these sorts of trips.


We stop for lunch just after noon and our taste buds jump with enthusiasm when we find out they have ice cold coca-cola and sprite to drink. Apparently we can or we should be able to get soft drinks and beer at almost every village we stay in. AB calls it the Coca-Cola trail and I am amazed that people would carry these glass bottles in and out of the circuit just to make us feel more “at home”. It is nice to get that sugar fix after hiking in the hot tropical heat all day, but it does take away from that feeling of being in a far off place that time forgot. We run into the other trekkers who are just getting ready to hit the trail again. Jeremy is with them and he chats with us briefly asking us what village we are going to stay at for the night and how we are handling the trip so far. Other than sweating a rain storm, especially AB we are all doing fine, but my feet are soaked after walking in water for most of the day. Taking my boots off is great, but in about forty-five minutes I will have to put them back on again and that will feel worse. All three of us order a plate of fried potatoes glazed in curry sauce. During the course of our trip we will all order the same meal, not that it has to be potatoes, but whatever we pick to eat we each have to have the same thing. This is because it is easier for the people to cook, since they only work out of a small kitchen and there is usually only one or two people making the food. Full of carbohydrates we suit up for the trail which steadily climbs higher above the Marsyangdi.

6:00PM

The sun will sent in about another hour and we are still hiking looking for the village of Bahundanda where we are supposed to sleep. We keep passing people and have asked them how much further to Bahundanda and they say thirty minutes, but I can tell you we have passed thirty minutes over four hours ago. Nepalese walking time is measured on a different scale compared to out of shape western tourist hiking time. Worst of all is that the tropical heat and endless hours of hiking has taken its toll on AB who has slowed up a great deal behind me and Tony compared to when we started in the morning. Tony and me stop to take a rest near a small farm house and wait for AB and it takes him a good twenty minutes to come in site of us. I am worried that it will be dark before we reach the village so I go on ahead while Tony stays behind with AB. I am amazed by the great burst of energy I’ve received and I can suddenly skip over large rocks on a steep incline. I almost feel like I am running, perhaps my adrenaline has kicked in from being so worried about getting where we need to be. I’m getting pretty far ahead and I still don’t see any signs of a village, only a few small farms. I stop for another rest and wait on the boys and with in fifteen minutes I see Tony rushing up the trail.
“AB is in bad shape, his legs are cramping up and he is having trouble walking!”
“What should we do, I still don’t see a village.” I say.
“Give me the rest of your water, because AB is almost out and I’m afraid he will pass out from dehydration.” Tony explains.
“You go back with AB and I will try to find the village or the next house and get some help.”
Again I am back in my sprint up the mountain hoping that the next bend will bring me to a village. After another twenty minutes of speed hiking I come face to face with a hotel and two trekkers having dinner at a picnic table. I am out of breathe and the both look at me with concern. Out of the darkness of the kitchen a man comes towards me and he is glowing with joy from ear to ear. He claps his hands together and says, “Room, yes?” I barely make out a yes from my heavy panting and it takes great effort for me to explain that there are two more coming with me. He simply grins at me and says, “No problem, plenty of room for you and food too, yes.” He shows me to the rooms and without even really looking at them I say, “Great!” and throw down my pack. My only concern right now is finding AB and Tony but relieved that I have finally reached Bahundanda in the little light that is left outside. I tell the two trekkers my situation and they are immediately concerned offering to come down the trail with me and carry AB. Luckily I peak over the railing and I can see Tony and AB slowly making there way up. I rush down the trail after them and both of them look at me with distressed faces. “Did you find anything, yet?” asks Tony. “Yes, your almost there it is just around the bend I got rooms and everything.” Every step AB takes is followed by a moan of pain and he continues to grab at his calf muscles while sweat pores from his body. I feel bad because there is nothing I can do, but watch and urge them on. I offer to carry AB’s backpack, but he won’t let me, saying it is too heavy. I know he just wants to get there and stopping would just be more torture for him to endure. I am relieved that his journey will be over in just a few more steps.

Journal Entry 3

September 10, Monday

We awake early today because we have to catch a bus out of town to a village northwest of Kathmandu called Besishar where the Annapurna trail begins. We are once again overwhelmed by people at the bus station who want to help us find the right bus, carry our backpacks, or do something for some money.
“Where are you going?” “What country you come from?” “You go trekking, yes?” -they all shout as they circle the three of us. Everything is written in Sanskrit so AB just walks to a random ticket window and is pointed to another window which we can see has our bus number written on a sign. We cross a dusty parking lot stinking of diesel and board a rainbow colored bus with various images of Shiva and Om symbols painted on it. There are only a few people on it, all of which are Nepali and they stare at us curiously from head to toe. We sit quietly and stare out at the chaos of the bus station. People are just hanging out and it makes me nervous. What if we get robbed or something, I think. I am putting all my security in the driver of this bus to get me where I need to go and to keep us safe, but he can't even talk to us. I jump out of my fearful daydream when I am suddenly taped on the shoulder by another westerner who asks me how much my ticket was. I hear an accent in his voice, but can’t pin point where he is from. He is very tall with dark eyes and semi-long dark hair, he is definitely European. He stands at the doors of the bus arguing with the attendants which he towers in height about the ticket price. He reluctantly pays the fee and boards the bus shaking his head in annoyance and greets us as he passes for the back of the bus. My eyes are taken back out the window as I watch two cows nibble on small patches of grass that grow between parked buses. Then before my eyes pink flowers fall from my head onto my lap and I look up to find a smiling wrinkly old man dressed in orange sprinkling flowers and planting a red thumb print on my head. He says , “Ah, yes this is very good, yes.” He does the same to Tony and then holds out his hand, “Bakeesh, bakeesh, yes.” Tony looks at the sadhu puzzled and I whisper, “He wants to be paid for doing this I guess.” Tony gets out some rupies and the sadhu kindly says, “Fifty rupies please.” We give him twenty which he seems happy enough with and he moves on down the aisle. Hopefully this sadhu is true to his faith and not someone out for money and his blessing will protect us from driving off a cliff or getting caught in a landslide, which apparently happens a lot in this country.

Sadhu, a holy man who devotes his life to the Hindu god Shiva. He gives up all possessions which sometimes may even include his clothing. They usually congregate near any sacred site related to Shiva. They are pilgrim’s always on the move.

4 hours later-
Okay, if you ever decide to take a long bus trip through Nepal avoid “video coach.” I still have two or three more hours on this bus and I have been reluctantly watching this never ending Bollywood movie with the volume cranked so high that it is distorted through the two tiny speakers that happen to be right over me and Tony’s head. How can I describe this wonderful film that we have been subjected to,,, well, it contains everything you could ever want in a movie, drama, action, murder, comedy, romance, musicals, foreign language, and war. They are definitely influenced by western films, but the only problem is that they crowd everything into one five hour film which I couldn’t tell you what is going on because one minute two people are killing each other and the next minute there is a music video going on. The language is funny also, because they will be speaking a bunch of lines in Hindi and then there will be one English word or a sentence thrown in. Despite my confusion and annoyance with the whole thing the people that surround us are loving every minute of it. We are in the second row of the bus and people are sitting in the aisles and on my arm rest to watch the film which is on one small television at the front of the bus. I find it funny to have people pile almost on my lap to watch the film because personal space is very different here. AB had some Nepalese man sleeping with his head on his lap. He just shrugged and kept reading his Nepal guidebook.
As the bus winds around the corners of the lush green Himalayan foot hills I begin to see the real Nepal. Thatched roof huts surrounded by rice terraces where women with bent backs wash pots and pans in the street and naked children run behind our bus waving and shouting Namaste. Every once in awhile we will stop in road side villages to pick up or drop off people and as we wait to move on villagers come to our windows selling bananas, and cucumbers. There is a young boy on this bus that has been with us ever since we departed from Kathmandu. I’m not sure if he works for the bus or if he is just a passenger who loves to help out. He seems too young to work, maybe only seven or eight years old, but he hangs his head out the window with the other two crew members directing traffic and yelling at pedestrians who get in the way. He has the brightest face that I have ever seen on a child, especially a child who wears dirty brown clothes and crumbling yellow flip-flops. He is so happy and carefree on this long crowded bus ride like a kid on Christmas day. At some point on our ride Tony notices the boy looking at us and waves at him and the boy immediately darts towards us and grins, saying “Hallo.” He asks us where we live and offers us some banana flavored chewing gum. “What caste are you in?” he asks me which I find humorous because westerners don’t have castes which is strictly a Hindu thing, but I guess the tikka markings on our foreheads might be throwing him off. I say I don’t have a caste and he just smiles and points to me and Tony, “ You married?” Tony tries to ask him how old he is but the boy doesn’t understand the question and just sort of shrugs at us and asks if we are going trekking. He sits with us for awhile absorbed in the movie resting his head and arm on my side with finger tips dancing on top of my knee. I smile when I hear his little giggle at the movie. Later towards the end of our journey we notice that the boy is missing and I find myself a little heart broken because I wanted to at least say goodbye to the little fellow.

-Besishar
At last we made it after seven and a half hours we can finally stretch our legs and be rid of the stinking diesel fumes that plagued the buses path. The tall dark haired fellow I mentioned back in the bus park introduces himself to us when we get off the bus. His name is Jeremy and he is from France, but he jokes with us because we thought he might be from Israel because of his dark complexion. The bus is surrounded by villagers who again shove business cards of their hostels in our faces hoping we will follow one of them. There is only four of us who are here to trek from the bus which out numbers the twenty innkeepers begging for our business. Jeremy asks if AB would like to split a room since most rooms only offer two beds it would keep them from being by themselves and save some money as well. We agree to stay with one of the innkeepers who claims that his place is the closest to the trail head..
Unpacking my things I find everything is wet from being on the top of the bus and the occasional down pours we drove through. I doubt that any of it will dry by tomorrow because the air itself feels very damp and cool. Luckily my sleeping bag is dry and that is the most important thing to me.
At dinner I begin to notice that Jeremy is on a tight budget. He constantly complains about prices, like he did at the bus park and he orders the cheapest item on the menu. I guess I would be watching my expenses also if I had been traveling for over three months in Asia and India, but I do get a kick out of it because everything is dirt cheap compared to America. My huge portion of curry potatoes ended up working in Jeremy’s favor because I could not finish it and he offered to eat the rest; you could tell he was really hungry.