We are now in Luang Prabang, the Santa Fe of Southeast Asia. It is a jewel of a town -- an expensive jewel (by southeast asian standards) but a jewel nonetheless. The town sits on a pennisula shaped like a finger, all of which has been designated world heritage. One side of the pennisula is the Mekong and on the other a tributary called the Nam Khan. Both are lazy rivers which, in combination with the palms and bamboo gently swaying in the light breeze, lend the town an intoxicatingly, soporific air. Like Chiang Mai, the town is studded with Buddhists temples, and the old, french colonial buildings and villas, the little cafes along the streets and tree-lined lanes, and the easy-going and friendly Lao people create an atmosphere conducive to what we were looking for: relaxation. We hope to spend at least a few days here.
Unfortunately the longboat trip from Chiang Mai to Luang Prabang has become a well-beaten path. The stampeding herd are mostly europeans (and some americans) in their early twenties traveling on the super-highway that is the southeast asian circuit. Over the past few years small parts of Laos have been coopted by the young and the brash in hot pursuit of yet another exoctic, untouched location where they can imbibe mass quantities of alcohol and smoke gonj and opium with impunity. I'm sounding like an old man.
The longboat trip was really a two-day booze cruise for the young runts. With their crates of BeerLao, they coelesced at the front of the boat, led by a couple of ragged californians with a guitar and a harmonica, neither of whom could play a chord in tune, and composed a host of campfire-like sing-alongs that seemed to last as long as a Grateful Dead set. We were treated to stellar renditions of Stand By Me and Hotel California on both days. A group of drunken Thais got into the action late on the second day and played their own Thai rendition of Hotel California. Very poignant.
Despite the sideshow, the boat trip was well worth it. The muddy, roiling Mekong cuts through jungle-clad hills sprinkled with small, remote villages of bamboo and thatch huts. Fisherman wander down to the elegantly-straited sand beaches on the banks of the river to check their nets that are tied onto the ends of bamboo poles set into the cracks of rocks the color of pewter and plum and that rise from the water like the barnacled heads of humback whales or the grinning snouts of a pod of porpoises coming to the surface for a sneak peek at terra firma.
One the second day I saw a fisherman wearing a conical "non la" hat crouched like a tiger on the aft deck of a longboat pulling up a net near the bank of the river. As we passed by -- the prow of our boat cleaving the turbid waters and sending a wave towards shore which the man rode out like a gentleman bullrider -- as we passed by, he looked up and stared at us quizically - a boat load of tourists, many of us snapping photographs, others brandishing a bottle of beer and yodling at the tops of their lungs. I was in a reverie at the time, having already consumed a lukewarm BeerLao myself, and thought that while I was only 20 yards away from the crouching man our lives were worlds apart. I was just passing through, a voyeur, a spectator, nothing more, watching, like a movie reel, a snippet of a the day in the life of a man whose simple-but-hard means of subsistence, which at times I naively admire and sometimes envy, was inscrutable, incomprehensible, illegible. It was no different in Nepal or Georgia or Armenia. I sometimes mistakenly paint their lives with a patina, probably because many of their villages are so ridiculously idyllic in setting it makes you want to cry. Or maybe I ascribe to every one of them the same words once uttered to me by my soft-spoken guide, Portfilio, in Boliva. I stupidly asked him if he would ever like to go to New York City. He said in his very broken spanish, while pointing at the snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera Real: "No. Que tranquilo! Que linda!" But I've learned that not everyone living in a beautiful village in a developing country feels that way. Alot of them are outwardly happy, most of the kids are laughing in the sun, riding on their dad's backs, rolling down sand dunes on the banks of the Mekong. I'm sure some if not most of them are quite content where they are. Others want to come to the USA-- we've been tod as much. I wondered as I passed the crouching tiger if he envied us -- if he wanted what we had.
Sorry, this is getting long and trite.
We'll be in Luang Prabang for a few more days. I'll blog again once we see more of it.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
A Tree-hugging Trekkers Dilemma and Toilets in Nepal
As we flew out of Kathmandu a few days ago we were treated to a parting view of the central and eastern Himalayas- the mountains rose far above the clouds and sparkled in the afternoon sun, truly heavenly bodies. I couldn't help but cry a little. I am prone to get a little emotional (this is Erin by the way), its true, but our experience in Nepal was so many adjectives- hard, spectacular, meditative, clarifying, frustrating, disgusting, heartbreaking, uplifting... it was hard not to feel so grateful for such a profound experience.
Our pilgrimage to the biggest mountains in the world was a dream come true. Like any experience though, I felt a tremendous amount of contradiction and internal conflict because of the undeniable impact that we tourist pilgrims have on the massive and yet fragile environment of the Himalaya. I can't help but wonder why it is that we go to such great discomfort and expense to experience the places that we dream about, only to ruin them by being there?
The reality that we all need water, energy, food and shelter and we create waste, has led to the enormous "yak trains," pit toilets draining directly to rivers, and impromptu garbage dumps along the sides of mountain cliffs and streams. In the month of October alone, the Everest area saw over 10,000 visitors, the majority of whom flew there, consumed huge amounts of products that were imported over great distance by yak or human back and left a bunch of waste in an environment where poop and plastic does not break down quickly.
In a place where there is literally water everywhere it all must be purified (for westerner consumption anyway) because there is always someone or some creature higher than you polluting the water source. I suspect that the people living there must suffer constantly from GI issues because they have no choice but to drink the water. While I did learn that Nepal is almost entirely supplied by hydro-power, (the small scale versions in the mountains are cool because they can serve an entire village) they are plagued by"load shedding" which is basically a rolling black-out for hours at a time because the supply can't meet the demand.
In both the Everest and Annapurna regions they are building roads into places that have only been served by trail forever and are so precarious that they cause huge landslides, rock falls and scars on the mountain sides that you can see from far away. But are the roads bad? Is it fair for me to say that the villagers who have historically had to walk for days or weeks to get supplies to feed their families should not have a road because it is bad for the environment? In both regions we were told that many of the villagers really want the roads. Bottled water and bags of chips may be easier to come by due to the roads but they have also destroyed the tea house business in some of the places; trekkers don't want to walk on a road.
And yet tourism is the main economic engine in Nepal. Without us traipsing around their country the Nepali people would theoretically be in financial straits and conditions might be worse for the people than they currently are. And the people of Nepal are so wonderful with their quick and easy smiles, its impossible to imagine not wanting to help them with our tourist dollars.
Needless to say my inner-tree hugger and urban planner spent many hours on the trail duking it out about whether or not I should even be there. My ideas about "sustainable development" just don't match up with the reality in Nepal, or many other developing countries for that matter. I wish that I could say that I've resolved the issue or figured out the answer to the world's problems but I haven't- darn! I'll keep working on it :)
Asian Toilets- an aside
I also wanted to address the issue of the merits and detractors of the Asian Toilet as Nepal was the first place that I've experienced this foreign form of water closet. If toilet talk bothers you please stop reading now. If you know me, you know that I can be passionate about toilets (1.28 gallons per flush pressure assisted models are my current fave!) mainly because we flush billions of gallons of clean drinkable water into the sewers unnecessarily everyday and efficient toilets can do a lot to prevent this. My work in the green building industry has made me long for the day when waterless composting toilets become the norm in our houses and commercial buildings, saving the precious resource that we will someday fight wars over, but I digress.
You can usually smell it before you see it, the Asian Toilet is a porcelain fixture with grip pads on either side for your feet and a hole in the back that presumably leads to a sewer (wishful thinking on my part). The toilet is set directly into the ground and there is no flushing mechanism. Next to the toilet there is a bucket of water with a dipper in it that you use to flush down the waste. You squat over the toilet to use it and, while I don't exactly understand the mechanics of it, Nepalis use the water bucket and their hand to wipe. You will never find toilet paper supplied in this type of toilet, its BYO TP. Dave W. thanks for the tip on traveling with TP. In touristy places they will have a waste bucket for used TP, otherwise, well it can be tough, I will leave it at that.
As I see it there are some benefits to this type of toilet. Mainly that they require a lesser quantity of water for flushing and the user can vary the amount of water as appropriate. They take up less space than a western toilet and I imagine that they are cheaper to install. In nicer establishments there is often a hose instead of the bucket which may have some hygenic benefits and eliminating the use of toilet paper would make trees rejoice around the world (or at least in my twisted little mind). Paul also believes that there are some health benefits to these toilets, we met another westerner who swears that they eliminate constipation. Hmm...
Detractors of the Asian Toilet abound. The acridic smell can be very overwhelming, particularly when already suffering from GI issues. If you can't squat due to knee/hip or other issues, you are pretty much "s%#t out of luck." I personally found the myth of the local hand-wiping technique to be very disturbing, especially when considering that these are the same people that are preparing your food. Gross.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Chiang Mai
Chiang Mai is a lovely city, well worth the visit. The old city, hemmed in by a square brick wall, is dotted with Buddhist temples glittering in the sultry sunlight. The temples and stupas here are very different than the humble gompas and stupas in northern Nepal. Here they are much more grandiose, the heads of dragons and other mythical beasts bedecked in sparkling silver, red, blue and green glass, the woodwork around the windowsills and doorways carved in intricate patterns and painted in gold enamel, the jade and gold and ivory Buddhas sitting erect -- all Buddha-like -- on their pillowed seats in hallowed, golden halls. It would reek of kitschy, Disney-worldesque pastiche if it wasn't so holy and if didn't move me in some ineffable way.
Monks wander the streets and alleyways of Chiang Mai swadled in orange robes and old western men cruise the nightclubs under the stars, like sharks patrolling a reef, in depraved pursuit of female companionship (to put it delicately). There is an indolence here that is contagious -- it makes one want to sit at one of the streetside cafes and sip on a cold beverage and read a good book.
The food is a dream come true. On more than one occassion I've said, in the middle of a savory Thai feast at home and at the peak of giddiness brought on by a mouthful of pad thai, that I could eat Thai food every meal for the rest of my life. I can now say without a shred of doubt, after having eaten about 7 exquisite, cheap Thai meals in row, that I wasn't lying. I could bath in a broth of Thai chilis, in all their sweet, mesquite, voluptuous heat, and rinse in a stew of coconut milk and green and red and yellow curries. The food is insanely good -- I expected nothing less.
Tomorrow we leave for the Thai/Laos Border. We have to spend a night there, then the next day we get a longboat down the Mekong to Luang Prabang in Laos. The boat trip is two days -- we apparently spend the night in a small, sleepy town on the banks of the river. If Luang Prabang is all that I hope it is we may spend awhile there.
Erin and I want to wish everyone a belated Happy Thanksgiving and to let everyone who may have felt sorry for us for having missed out on a Thanksgiving feast that, while we didn't have turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes, we had pumpkin pie for desert and it was delicious.
Hope all is well.
Monks wander the streets and alleyways of Chiang Mai swadled in orange robes and old western men cruise the nightclubs under the stars, like sharks patrolling a reef, in depraved pursuit of female companionship (to put it delicately). There is an indolence here that is contagious -- it makes one want to sit at one of the streetside cafes and sip on a cold beverage and read a good book.
The food is a dream come true. On more than one occassion I've said, in the middle of a savory Thai feast at home and at the peak of giddiness brought on by a mouthful of pad thai, that I could eat Thai food every meal for the rest of my life. I can now say without a shred of doubt, after having eaten about 7 exquisite, cheap Thai meals in row, that I wasn't lying. I could bath in a broth of Thai chilis, in all their sweet, mesquite, voluptuous heat, and rinse in a stew of coconut milk and green and red and yellow curries. The food is insanely good -- I expected nothing less.
Tomorrow we leave for the Thai/Laos Border. We have to spend a night there, then the next day we get a longboat down the Mekong to Luang Prabang in Laos. The boat trip is two days -- we apparently spend the night in a small, sleepy town on the banks of the river. If Luang Prabang is all that I hope it is we may spend awhile there.
Erin and I want to wish everyone a belated Happy Thanksgiving and to let everyone who may have felt sorry for us for having missed out on a Thanksgiving feast that, while we didn't have turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes, we had pumpkin pie for desert and it was delicious.
Hope all is well.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Bangkok -- Part II
Today we got our Vietnam visas -- at no small expense. While we were waiting for the ornery folks at the embassy to process our visa applications we strolled around Siam Square, an area of town near the embassies littered with modern malls, high rises, and western kitsch and glitz. Out of morbid curiousity we walked into a high-end mall where plasma tvs, cameras, cell-phones, Gucci purses, and calvin klein dresses were on display, whetting the appetites of the neophyte Thai consumers, a giant christmas tree decorated with gold bulbs and strung with twinkling lights lifted its fake bluish-green needles to the sunlight spilling through the glass ceiling panels of the circular atrium, and christmas music played softly over the strategically located speakers in the main corridors. I felt overwhelmed with Christmas spirit -- I was glowing red and green.
The streets are lined with food vendors of every sort. Most of them sell sizzling meats, many resembling the common hot-dog. I, as a general rule, do not eat street meat but today I was tempted. The glistening of the meat, and its tubular shapes, was very hard to resist.
We decided not to go to a Thai island tonight. Instead we are headed north, by red-eye bus, to Chiang Mai, then into Laos, then into Vietnam. We'll check in from Chiang Mai. Hope all is well.
The streets are lined with food vendors of every sort. Most of them sell sizzling meats, many resembling the common hot-dog. I, as a general rule, do not eat street meat but today I was tempted. The glistening of the meat, and its tubular shapes, was very hard to resist.
We decided not to go to a Thai island tonight. Instead we are headed north, by red-eye bus, to Chiang Mai, then into Laos, then into Vietnam. We'll check in from Chiang Mai. Hope all is well.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Bangkok
We're safely in Bangkok. Just had an incredibly spicey spread of mouth-watering Thai dishes -- we've been craving that for a quite awhile. Bangkok is a giantic city. I think we'll save most of it for late January before we fly out. We're trying to figure what to do next. I think we're leaning towards taking a break and spending some time on a quite island off the Andamar coast in southern Thailand. Probably leaving tomorrow night on the red-eye bus.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Everest -- Part IV
The day before we left for the Everest Region a local Nepali named Bijay -- a kind man who spent a number of years in New Mexico getting his degree - drove us around Kathmandu to see some of the more far-flung sites. We are deeply indebted to him for taking the time to show us parts of Kathmandu we wouldn't have otherwise seen. One memorable place was Pashupatinath, a sacred Hindu temple on the outskirts of the city where the Hindu god Shiva is worshipped. It stands on the banks of the holy Bagmati River. Troops of rabid monkeys abound and sadhus (Hindu ascetics who renounce all material things and wander the subcontinent in spiritual devotion and who are fed in large part by the coffers of the Nepali and Indian governments) sit crosslegged on the ghats near the river.
Neither Erin nor I had any idea where we were going when we got out of the car. As we walked towards the complex we thought we were visiting just another Hindu temple. Then I smelled burning hair. We turned the corner and there on the bank of the river was a funeral pyre -- a man being cremated in full view. The temple Bijay took us too, as it turned out, was one of the holiest Hindu temples on the subcontinent. Hindus from all over flock there to worship Shiva. Others have their loved ones cremated there. When the cremation is complete (while we were there, we saw three cremations take place) the remains, including body parts that haven't fully combusted into ash, are pushed into the river, where woman stand up to their knees washing clothes. It is a minature Varanasi. The whole scene was fascinating, disturbing, and eerie, the flames of the pyre sending up a thick smoke that hung above the proceedings. The bodies being prepared for cremation lie alongside the bank of the river, while the Brahmins in ceremonial garb conduct the funeral rituals and the families, also dressed in ceremonial garb, surround the body, mourning the death of their loved ones. Surreal is an oft-overused word; it applied in this case.
Neither Erin nor I had any idea where we were going when we got out of the car. As we walked towards the complex we thought we were visiting just another Hindu temple. Then I smelled burning hair. We turned the corner and there on the bank of the river was a funeral pyre -- a man being cremated in full view. The temple Bijay took us too, as it turned out, was one of the holiest Hindu temples on the subcontinent. Hindus from all over flock there to worship Shiva. Others have their loved ones cremated there. When the cremation is complete (while we were there, we saw three cremations take place) the remains, including body parts that haven't fully combusted into ash, are pushed into the river, where woman stand up to their knees washing clothes. It is a minature Varanasi. The whole scene was fascinating, disturbing, and eerie, the flames of the pyre sending up a thick smoke that hung above the proceedings. The bodies being prepared for cremation lie alongside the bank of the river, while the Brahmins in ceremonial garb conduct the funeral rituals and the families, also dressed in ceremonial garb, surround the body, mourning the death of their loved ones. Surreal is an oft-overused word; it applied in this case.
Everest -- Part III
The bus ride from hell:
We boarded the bus in Bhandar at 6:00 in the morning. It was the local chicken bus deluxe. Probably 30 years old, worn and jalopy. Marigolds strung across the windshield. Crammed to the gills, the human spillover splayed on bags on the roof of the bus. All locals headed to Kathmandu, except for Erin, myself, two dudes from Belgium and one from England. Indian music eerily similar to Alvin and the Chipmonks Sing Christmas Carols at Rockfeller Center blaring on the fuzzy stero system. We were in the second to last row. The dude in front of us must of just finished rolling around in yak shit. Everyone else emanated an odor reminiscent of the New York subway tunnels in the summertime, including ourselves -- the collective fetor was akin to the miasma wafting off a Mumbai cesspool. A little after 6:00 am the bus driver started the engine and put it into gear. 10 yards later we were stuck in a mud bog. Villagers tried to help push us out but to no avail. Not making any progress, the driver put the bus in reverse without alerting the villagers and at least one that I could see nearly got run over as the tires broke free and the bus charged backwards. Free of the first mud bog, the bus trundled down the muddied road for another 1/4 mile, jostling us about, at which point we hit another mud bog on a steep incline, this one much worse then the first. The driver gunned it twice, trying to power through, throwing all of us a foot or two out of our seats, Erin banging her head on the collapsing overhead compartment. Passengers started getting off the bus. Erin and I got up too. I was out of the bus before I realized Erin didn't make it out in time -- the bus driver firmly told her to stay put. Before I knew it the bus was backing up again for another attempt, Erin staring out the window with abject horror written across her face. The driver gunned it again, barreling through the mud, but yet again the bus lurched into the massive hole and came to a screeching halt, tossing the passengers about like rag dolls. Erin and the other passengers were able to get off the bus while the driver and his twelve-year mate assessed the problem. The solution: a rope tied to the front bumper with all the passengers tugging with all their might. After a half hour later, everyone muddy up to their elbows, the bus finally broke free and we were on our way -- much to our chagrin.
The road between Bhandar and Jiri is about 10-miles and is a rough, pot-holed, muddy, four-wheel drive road, only as wide as the wheel-base of the bus. It winds and hairpins on steep mountain slopes with 3000-foot drop-offs. It took us 6 hours to negotiate this stretch alone. It was, in all honesty, the most terrifying 6 hours I've ever experienced. I once road a bus on the so-called world's most dangerous road in Boliva. That road doesn't hold a candle to the road between Bhandar and Jiri. It was unrelenting in its scary moments. At one point we tilted so far towards the chasm below the passengers were trying to use their weight to make sure it didn't flip over and tumble down the mountain. At that point we had come to a dead stop. Erin and I were begging to be left off the bus. Most of the Sherpas on board -- a people who are completely unphased by any hardship, who can suffer the utmost travail or burden with an equanimity I find totally incomprehensible -- looked a little concerned. When we came to a stop I turned around and looked quizically at Ram who was sitting behind me, still wearing a smile on his face -- probably one of three or four of us on the bus who was still in a good mood. His grin grew and said: "Someone fell off the bus." I turned around and looked out the back window. One of the fifteen or so locals perched on the roof was slowly peeling himself off the ground. He then grabbed hold of the rear ladder and climbed back on top of the bus.
It was 6 hours of staring down at the depths of fiery doom, the bus lilting from one side to another, dangerously balancing on the edge of the road, the driver's devil horns glinting with sunlight, Erin and I grasping with white knuckles at anything nearby to keep ourselves in our seats. She cut her thumb in her efforts. The guy behind us, totally unprepared for the jarring bump that sent him flying out of his seat, slammed his head into the overhead compartment, cutting it open, blood spilling down his forehead. At one point I had resigned myself to serious injury or death and became calm -- then the next hazard, the next evil lurking along the road, presented itself and I freaked yet again. By the time we got to Jiri Erin and I were utterly spent, nerves completely frayed, breathless.
It turns out we could have walked to Jiri from Bhandar on a trail in the same amount of time it took us to drive that hellish road.
But that was not the end of our little bus ride. We still had 9 hours to go, all on a single-lane paved (but pot-holed) road on steep precipitous mountain slopes, back to Kathmandu. Climb tortuously up, go tortuously down. At about hour 8 we got a flat tire. Every so often we'd come flying around the corner only to find another bus or truck coming the other way. The driver would slam on the brakes, sending us all flying into the seats in front of us, and then pull over to the side of the cliff, half the tires hanging over the edge, to let the other bus or truck get by.
There was one pit stop the entire 15 hours. It was at a shit-hole on the side of the road where they served dal bhat grool en masse, all the locals slopping it up with their dirty hands. The whole scene was vomit-inducing, the toilets even worse. We bought a can of pringles from a vendor and that's all we ate the entire day. We rolled into Kathmandu at 9:00 pm and spent the next hour walking from one guesthouse to another trying to find a room. We were both completely out of our minds but thankful to be alive.
We're now back to a relatively peaceful place -- as peaceful of a place one can inhabit in Kathmandu -- the city of absolute chaos. To those of you who care about our welfare -- we are ok and we promise not to willingly board another death bus.
We boarded the bus in Bhandar at 6:00 in the morning. It was the local chicken bus deluxe. Probably 30 years old, worn and jalopy. Marigolds strung across the windshield. Crammed to the gills, the human spillover splayed on bags on the roof of the bus. All locals headed to Kathmandu, except for Erin, myself, two dudes from Belgium and one from England. Indian music eerily similar to Alvin and the Chipmonks Sing Christmas Carols at Rockfeller Center blaring on the fuzzy stero system. We were in the second to last row. The dude in front of us must of just finished rolling around in yak shit. Everyone else emanated an odor reminiscent of the New York subway tunnels in the summertime, including ourselves -- the collective fetor was akin to the miasma wafting off a Mumbai cesspool. A little after 6:00 am the bus driver started the engine and put it into gear. 10 yards later we were stuck in a mud bog. Villagers tried to help push us out but to no avail. Not making any progress, the driver put the bus in reverse without alerting the villagers and at least one that I could see nearly got run over as the tires broke free and the bus charged backwards. Free of the first mud bog, the bus trundled down the muddied road for another 1/4 mile, jostling us about, at which point we hit another mud bog on a steep incline, this one much worse then the first. The driver gunned it twice, trying to power through, throwing all of us a foot or two out of our seats, Erin banging her head on the collapsing overhead compartment. Passengers started getting off the bus. Erin and I got up too. I was out of the bus before I realized Erin didn't make it out in time -- the bus driver firmly told her to stay put. Before I knew it the bus was backing up again for another attempt, Erin staring out the window with abject horror written across her face. The driver gunned it again, barreling through the mud, but yet again the bus lurched into the massive hole and came to a screeching halt, tossing the passengers about like rag dolls. Erin and the other passengers were able to get off the bus while the driver and his twelve-year mate assessed the problem. The solution: a rope tied to the front bumper with all the passengers tugging with all their might. After a half hour later, everyone muddy up to their elbows, the bus finally broke free and we were on our way -- much to our chagrin.
The road between Bhandar and Jiri is about 10-miles and is a rough, pot-holed, muddy, four-wheel drive road, only as wide as the wheel-base of the bus. It winds and hairpins on steep mountain slopes with 3000-foot drop-offs. It took us 6 hours to negotiate this stretch alone. It was, in all honesty, the most terrifying 6 hours I've ever experienced. I once road a bus on the so-called world's most dangerous road in Boliva. That road doesn't hold a candle to the road between Bhandar and Jiri. It was unrelenting in its scary moments. At one point we tilted so far towards the chasm below the passengers were trying to use their weight to make sure it didn't flip over and tumble down the mountain. At that point we had come to a dead stop. Erin and I were begging to be left off the bus. Most of the Sherpas on board -- a people who are completely unphased by any hardship, who can suffer the utmost travail or burden with an equanimity I find totally incomprehensible -- looked a little concerned. When we came to a stop I turned around and looked quizically at Ram who was sitting behind me, still wearing a smile on his face -- probably one of three or four of us on the bus who was still in a good mood. His grin grew and said: "Someone fell off the bus." I turned around and looked out the back window. One of the fifteen or so locals perched on the roof was slowly peeling himself off the ground. He then grabbed hold of the rear ladder and climbed back on top of the bus.
It was 6 hours of staring down at the depths of fiery doom, the bus lilting from one side to another, dangerously balancing on the edge of the road, the driver's devil horns glinting with sunlight, Erin and I grasping with white knuckles at anything nearby to keep ourselves in our seats. She cut her thumb in her efforts. The guy behind us, totally unprepared for the jarring bump that sent him flying out of his seat, slammed his head into the overhead compartment, cutting it open, blood spilling down his forehead. At one point I had resigned myself to serious injury or death and became calm -- then the next hazard, the next evil lurking along the road, presented itself and I freaked yet again. By the time we got to Jiri Erin and I were utterly spent, nerves completely frayed, breathless.
It turns out we could have walked to Jiri from Bhandar on a trail in the same amount of time it took us to drive that hellish road.
But that was not the end of our little bus ride. We still had 9 hours to go, all on a single-lane paved (but pot-holed) road on steep precipitous mountain slopes, back to Kathmandu. Climb tortuously up, go tortuously down. At about hour 8 we got a flat tire. Every so often we'd come flying around the corner only to find another bus or truck coming the other way. The driver would slam on the brakes, sending us all flying into the seats in front of us, and then pull over to the side of the cliff, half the tires hanging over the edge, to let the other bus or truck get by.
There was one pit stop the entire 15 hours. It was at a shit-hole on the side of the road where they served dal bhat grool en masse, all the locals slopping it up with their dirty hands. The whole scene was vomit-inducing, the toilets even worse. We bought a can of pringles from a vendor and that's all we ate the entire day. We rolled into Kathmandu at 9:00 pm and spent the next hour walking from one guesthouse to another trying to find a room. We were both completely out of our minds but thankful to be alive.
We're now back to a relatively peaceful place -- as peaceful of a place one can inhabit in Kathmandu -- the city of absolute chaos. To those of you who care about our welfare -- we are ok and we promise not to willingly board another death bus.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Everest - Part II
It turns out Erin and I weren't the only ones who wanted to see Everest. Thousands of other tourists did too. The place is swarming. The place is an amusement park.
The ride begins on the rollercoaster flight to Lukla. The airport at Lukla has been called the most dangerous airport in the world by some dolt who ranks things like that. He or she is probably right -- it is entirely deserving of this dubious distinction. The airstrip is about 200 yards long and perched on the steep southern-facing slope of a 6000-meter mountain. It's gradient is somewhere around 20 degrees. One end of the strip is a wall of mountain, the other is a three-thousand foot drop to the bottom of the valley. The airport is rarely open due to fog and wind. If a plane misses the strip -- and apparently it's happened quite often in the past -- there is no possible way to recover. In fact we've been told (after we were safely in Lukla) that there is youtube video of a plane crashing at Lukla.
In the air the views of the Himalayas are mind-blowing -- we were able to see the entire rampart of giants rising out of the earth, dazzling in the early afternoon sunlight, rising like stone and ice behemoths from some other world, all the way into Tibet. The plane flew at a low altitude skimming the tops of lesser mountains, the big mountains looming to the north, the jungled foothills and plains stretching out to the south. Then as it flew over the last pass into the Lukla valley the plane all of the sudden dropped, diving towards the strip which, thanks to no curtain between the cabin and cockpit, we were able to see through the cockpit window. I remember thinking there is absolutely no way in hell we were about to land on what appeared to be a driveway to someone's upscale cabin in the mountains. As we descended into the valley, at uncomfortably high speeds, the mountains towered all around us. I stopped looking at the strip. Erin had taken a pill and she was surprisingly collected, though slightly adrift. Then all of the sudden we slammed into the runway. I looked out the cockpit window and the wall of mountain approached fast and furious. The plane literally had about 100 hundred yards to stop and turn. It did this time. One plane -- still parked at Lukla, its nose smashed in -- didn't a couple weeks ago. It couldn't stop in time and crashed into the wall of rock at the end of the runway. No one was hurt apparently. 20 or so tourists on another flight a month ago didn't share the same fate. The plane was unable to land because of fog, got lost on its way back to Kathmandu and crashed into the side of a mountain. All were lost.
The Lukla flight has become the preferred mode of transportation for nearly all trekkers visiting the Everest region. It wasn't always like that. The airport was built 15 years ago; the runway paved only 10 years ago. Before the airport you had to walk in from Jiri, a village in the foothills. The walk from Jiri to Lukla is brutal, going up and over 4 passes, never flat, always rising and falling. It historically served as quality control -- you had to be fit and determined to get to the Everest region. Not so anymore. Now anyone with money and a camera can board a Lukla-bound flight and try their luck at walking to basecamp. And the unfit come in droves. It's quite shocking. The age of the average trekker in the Everest region is about 50, their experience in the mountains virtually nil, and their determination to reach basecamp despite clear symptoms of altitude sickness is indominatable. I have untold amounts of respect for those folks in their 50s and 60s and 70s walking up Kala Patar (a viewpoint of Everest near basecamp). We met a 72 year old canadian woman who spent 29 days in the Everest region, hiked to 5500 meters, and had a ball. What is irritating and irresponsible are those who show a complete and utter disregard for the risks of altitude. As I mentioned before, helicopters fly up and down the Khumba valley all day long, at great risks to the pilots, to save ailing trekkers suffering from high altitude sickness or to carry dead ones out in body bags. Same in the Annapurna region. One guy died at Muktinath the day we were there. We heard from an American couple that another woman died at Tengboche in the Everest region after ignoring protracted symptoms of high-altitude sickness. And another dreadful story -- while we were on the trail a helicopter crashed trying to save a group of climbers on Ama Dablam, killing the pilot and one of the climbers. In sum, the irresponsibility of some trekkers visiting the Everest region (and the Annapurna region as well, but not to the same extent) is astounding.
The amount of trekkers in the Everest region is astounding as well. They come in big groups. Very few carry their own stuff. The big groups, because they have so much stuff (and most of whom carry everything they would bring along on a trip to Aspen), need yaks to carry their bags. Yaks are insufferably slow on the trail, and they steadfastly refuse to walk in a line. They have big horns. If you are behind them it is impossible to pass them. If they are coming towards you it can be risky business letting them pass. I nearly got gored several times; at least twice I was smashed between a boulder and yak blithely swerving too and fro on the trail.
If not gored or pushed off the trail by a yak (or its less handsome and less hairy hybrid cousin the "dzo") then there is the constant risk of being trampled under foot by a herd of Frenchmen or Koreans or being thumped up against the side of the head by a 15-foot long telephoto lens being carelessly brandished by a giddy Japanese tourist taking photos of rocks on the side of the trail.
If you are getting the impression that our time in Everest wasn't enjoyable you would be half right. It was frustrating. At the risk of sounding corny, when I visit the mountains -- rather when I make pilgrimages to mountains -- I do so mainly to scrub off the distractions of everyday life; to strip life down to the bare essentials. It's a cathartic place for me. There was nothing cathartic about the everest trek. The teahouses are swarming, the trails are like clogged arteries, the helicopters are constantly buzzing overheard, the mountain flights for wealthy tourists soar above the peaks -- its an amusement park with no respect for what it is.
Having said all that, Erin and I did have a sublime moment. It was on the day when our dysentary was in check, near the village of Khumjung. We traversed a set of hills off the beaten path, sat down in a tuft of soft tundra, skies a perfect blue, and stared in awe at the mountain panoramic of Everest and Lhotse at the end of the valley, Ama Dablam across the valley, and host of other 6000 meter peaks surrounding us. Erin and I have since queried whether that moment was worth it all. I think it probably was. Ama Dablam has got to be the most handsome peak on the planet. It is worth a google. Lhotse looked like the head of a gorgon engulfed in white flames. Unfortunately the view of Everest was not all that impressive from our vantage point. The Lhotse Wall and Nuptse (another wee peak standing some 7500 meters high) eclipse the base of Sagarmatha (the Nepali name for Everest), so the only part of it we could see was the top 1000 to 2000 meters of the south face, which is all rock. Nonetheless I could sense, from where we sat, what draws trekkers and climbers alike to the tallest mountain on the planet. It has a magnetism. The mountains of the Everest region (including Lhotse and Nuptse) are the realm of the gods -- at least according to the Sherpas. For me they appeared to stand with a cool indifference or outright defiance to the heavens, I can't say which. Or perhaps it is a humble supplication. In any event they are bewilderingly massive and I can see what attracts thousands of people every trekking season to gape in awe at their altar.
I also had some really special moments on the hike out (between Lukla and Jiri) on the stretch of trail that has now become desolate of tourists due to the Lukla flights. It was difficult, yes, largely because we were moving over up-and-down terrain at break-neck speed -- but that didn't detract from the enjoyment of the hike; in fact it added to it -- the slog and exhaustion induced in me a meditative state I'd long been craving. The pastoral Sherpa villages we passed through were nestled in idyllic nooks, among the tiered millet fields and orchards of orange and banana trees and rhodendron groves, the universal smells of third-world village life wafting on the breeze -- the sweet, foul and acrid -- the small, dirty children standing in the doorways of small huts with their hands pressed together chirping "Namaste" (which means "I salute you" in Nepali), the women in the fields harvesting their crops and carrying infants on their thick backs, the men at work weaving mats or hauling firewood, radishes and cabbage and carrots and potatoes drying in flat baskets on the slate rooftoops. While the big mountains certainly hold an allure, the village life in the foothills is really intoxicating -- and for me probably the best part of our treks.
What also made the trek out so enjoyable was the caravan of folks we were traveling with. As I mentioned before we had hired Ram in Lukla to carry a bag. He, like every Nepali we've met, was delightful to be around, sporting a hearty laugh. And he, like every other Sherpa we spoke to or heard about on our travels, had interesting life experiences. Ram is a marathon runner -- he took 2nd last year in the annual Everest base camp to Namche marathon. Another sherpa we met is the son of the ice doctor -- the dude that puts up all the ladders and fixed ropes on everest. Most other sherpas have either climbed everest anywhere from 1 to 10 times or want to climb everest. Unfortunately a famous sherpa who had climbed everest 20 times (19 officially since on one successful summit bid he did not have permission to be on the mountain) died on a lesser peak while we were in Annapurna under a deluge of avalanche snow. But I digress -- back to our caravan -- before we set out we stopped in Ram's village so he could get his things, say goodbye to his wife, and pick up his sister who wanted to go to Kathmandu. Then on the second day Ram ran into a friend of his (who happened to be an upstart photographer who had amazing photos of snow leopards in the wild) and he joined us. That same day we also picked up 2 other sherpas heading to Kathmandu. By the last day we were 7 in all. We took our rests breaks together, eating oranges on stone walls alongside the trail, and ate dal bhat in a small hovel by the warm, buzzing glow of a kerosene lamp. We also road the bus together. That is for another blog. This one is long enough.
The ride begins on the rollercoaster flight to Lukla. The airport at Lukla has been called the most dangerous airport in the world by some dolt who ranks things like that. He or she is probably right -- it is entirely deserving of this dubious distinction. The airstrip is about 200 yards long and perched on the steep southern-facing slope of a 6000-meter mountain. It's gradient is somewhere around 20 degrees. One end of the strip is a wall of mountain, the other is a three-thousand foot drop to the bottom of the valley. The airport is rarely open due to fog and wind. If a plane misses the strip -- and apparently it's happened quite often in the past -- there is no possible way to recover. In fact we've been told (after we were safely in Lukla) that there is youtube video of a plane crashing at Lukla.
In the air the views of the Himalayas are mind-blowing -- we were able to see the entire rampart of giants rising out of the earth, dazzling in the early afternoon sunlight, rising like stone and ice behemoths from some other world, all the way into Tibet. The plane flew at a low altitude skimming the tops of lesser mountains, the big mountains looming to the north, the jungled foothills and plains stretching out to the south. Then as it flew over the last pass into the Lukla valley the plane all of the sudden dropped, diving towards the strip which, thanks to no curtain between the cabin and cockpit, we were able to see through the cockpit window. I remember thinking there is absolutely no way in hell we were about to land on what appeared to be a driveway to someone's upscale cabin in the mountains. As we descended into the valley, at uncomfortably high speeds, the mountains towered all around us. I stopped looking at the strip. Erin had taken a pill and she was surprisingly collected, though slightly adrift. Then all of the sudden we slammed into the runway. I looked out the cockpit window and the wall of mountain approached fast and furious. The plane literally had about 100 hundred yards to stop and turn. It did this time. One plane -- still parked at Lukla, its nose smashed in -- didn't a couple weeks ago. It couldn't stop in time and crashed into the wall of rock at the end of the runway. No one was hurt apparently. 20 or so tourists on another flight a month ago didn't share the same fate. The plane was unable to land because of fog, got lost on its way back to Kathmandu and crashed into the side of a mountain. All were lost.
The Lukla flight has become the preferred mode of transportation for nearly all trekkers visiting the Everest region. It wasn't always like that. The airport was built 15 years ago; the runway paved only 10 years ago. Before the airport you had to walk in from Jiri, a village in the foothills. The walk from Jiri to Lukla is brutal, going up and over 4 passes, never flat, always rising and falling. It historically served as quality control -- you had to be fit and determined to get to the Everest region. Not so anymore. Now anyone with money and a camera can board a Lukla-bound flight and try their luck at walking to basecamp. And the unfit come in droves. It's quite shocking. The age of the average trekker in the Everest region is about 50, their experience in the mountains virtually nil, and their determination to reach basecamp despite clear symptoms of altitude sickness is indominatable. I have untold amounts of respect for those folks in their 50s and 60s and 70s walking up Kala Patar (a viewpoint of Everest near basecamp). We met a 72 year old canadian woman who spent 29 days in the Everest region, hiked to 5500 meters, and had a ball. What is irritating and irresponsible are those who show a complete and utter disregard for the risks of altitude. As I mentioned before, helicopters fly up and down the Khumba valley all day long, at great risks to the pilots, to save ailing trekkers suffering from high altitude sickness or to carry dead ones out in body bags. Same in the Annapurna region. One guy died at Muktinath the day we were there. We heard from an American couple that another woman died at Tengboche in the Everest region after ignoring protracted symptoms of high-altitude sickness. And another dreadful story -- while we were on the trail a helicopter crashed trying to save a group of climbers on Ama Dablam, killing the pilot and one of the climbers. In sum, the irresponsibility of some trekkers visiting the Everest region (and the Annapurna region as well, but not to the same extent) is astounding.
The amount of trekkers in the Everest region is astounding as well. They come in big groups. Very few carry their own stuff. The big groups, because they have so much stuff (and most of whom carry everything they would bring along on a trip to Aspen), need yaks to carry their bags. Yaks are insufferably slow on the trail, and they steadfastly refuse to walk in a line. They have big horns. If you are behind them it is impossible to pass them. If they are coming towards you it can be risky business letting them pass. I nearly got gored several times; at least twice I was smashed between a boulder and yak blithely swerving too and fro on the trail.
If not gored or pushed off the trail by a yak (or its less handsome and less hairy hybrid cousin the "dzo") then there is the constant risk of being trampled under foot by a herd of Frenchmen or Koreans or being thumped up against the side of the head by a 15-foot long telephoto lens being carelessly brandished by a giddy Japanese tourist taking photos of rocks on the side of the trail.
If you are getting the impression that our time in Everest wasn't enjoyable you would be half right. It was frustrating. At the risk of sounding corny, when I visit the mountains -- rather when I make pilgrimages to mountains -- I do so mainly to scrub off the distractions of everyday life; to strip life down to the bare essentials. It's a cathartic place for me. There was nothing cathartic about the everest trek. The teahouses are swarming, the trails are like clogged arteries, the helicopters are constantly buzzing overheard, the mountain flights for wealthy tourists soar above the peaks -- its an amusement park with no respect for what it is.
Having said all that, Erin and I did have a sublime moment. It was on the day when our dysentary was in check, near the village of Khumjung. We traversed a set of hills off the beaten path, sat down in a tuft of soft tundra, skies a perfect blue, and stared in awe at the mountain panoramic of Everest and Lhotse at the end of the valley, Ama Dablam across the valley, and host of other 6000 meter peaks surrounding us. Erin and I have since queried whether that moment was worth it all. I think it probably was. Ama Dablam has got to be the most handsome peak on the planet. It is worth a google. Lhotse looked like the head of a gorgon engulfed in white flames. Unfortunately the view of Everest was not all that impressive from our vantage point. The Lhotse Wall and Nuptse (another wee peak standing some 7500 meters high) eclipse the base of Sagarmatha (the Nepali name for Everest), so the only part of it we could see was the top 1000 to 2000 meters of the south face, which is all rock. Nonetheless I could sense, from where we sat, what draws trekkers and climbers alike to the tallest mountain on the planet. It has a magnetism. The mountains of the Everest region (including Lhotse and Nuptse) are the realm of the gods -- at least according to the Sherpas. For me they appeared to stand with a cool indifference or outright defiance to the heavens, I can't say which. Or perhaps it is a humble supplication. In any event they are bewilderingly massive and I can see what attracts thousands of people every trekking season to gape in awe at their altar.
I also had some really special moments on the hike out (between Lukla and Jiri) on the stretch of trail that has now become desolate of tourists due to the Lukla flights. It was difficult, yes, largely because we were moving over up-and-down terrain at break-neck speed -- but that didn't detract from the enjoyment of the hike; in fact it added to it -- the slog and exhaustion induced in me a meditative state I'd long been craving. The pastoral Sherpa villages we passed through were nestled in idyllic nooks, among the tiered millet fields and orchards of orange and banana trees and rhodendron groves, the universal smells of third-world village life wafting on the breeze -- the sweet, foul and acrid -- the small, dirty children standing in the doorways of small huts with their hands pressed together chirping "Namaste" (which means "I salute you" in Nepali), the women in the fields harvesting their crops and carrying infants on their thick backs, the men at work weaving mats or hauling firewood, radishes and cabbage and carrots and potatoes drying in flat baskets on the slate rooftoops. While the big mountains certainly hold an allure, the village life in the foothills is really intoxicating -- and for me probably the best part of our treks.
What also made the trek out so enjoyable was the caravan of folks we were traveling with. As I mentioned before we had hired Ram in Lukla to carry a bag. He, like every Nepali we've met, was delightful to be around, sporting a hearty laugh. And he, like every other Sherpa we spoke to or heard about on our travels, had interesting life experiences. Ram is a marathon runner -- he took 2nd last year in the annual Everest base camp to Namche marathon. Another sherpa we met is the son of the ice doctor -- the dude that puts up all the ladders and fixed ropes on everest. Most other sherpas have either climbed everest anywhere from 1 to 10 times or want to climb everest. Unfortunately a famous sherpa who had climbed everest 20 times (19 officially since on one successful summit bid he did not have permission to be on the mountain) died on a lesser peak while we were in Annapurna under a deluge of avalanche snow. But I digress -- back to our caravan -- before we set out we stopped in Ram's village so he could get his things, say goodbye to his wife, and pick up his sister who wanted to go to Kathmandu. Then on the second day Ram ran into a friend of his (who happened to be an upstart photographer who had amazing photos of snow leopards in the wild) and he joined us. That same day we also picked up 2 other sherpas heading to Kathmandu. By the last day we were 7 in all. We took our rests breaks together, eating oranges on stone walls alongside the trail, and ate dal bhat in a small hovel by the warm, buzzing glow of a kerosene lamp. We also road the bus together. That is for another blog. This one is long enough.
Everest - Part I
A quick summary of the last two weeks:
We're back from our sojourn to the Everest Region. Unfortunately it didn't go off as planned. We intended to fly to Lukla and then over the course of 15 days hike to the Gokyo Sacred Lakes and back (via the same route or over the Cho La Pass). We got to Lukla miraculously (more on the Lukla flight in a later blog) and hiked to Phakding on the first day. That night we both ate dal bhat and the next morning we were both nauseous. We walked for a few hours and collapsed in a bed before the step ascent to Namche Bazaar. After a rough night, we felt slightly better the next day so we hiked to Namche. Our constitutions seemingly improving in Namce, we hiked to Kyangjuma the following day and spent a delightful day in the Sherpa village of Khumjung (more on that in a later blog). That night, however, our food-borne illness struck again -- I will spare you the gory details. It is enough to say that that night was not pleasant. The next day we made the executive decision to not go any higher (we were already at close to 4000 meters) but regretfully to go back down as neither one of us could hold down any food. We didn't want find ourselves in one of the 6 helicopters that fly up the Khumba valley daily air-lifting trekkers suffering from altitude sickness or already zipped comfortably in a body-bag back to Kathmandu. So we walked back to Lukla hoping to catch a flight back to Kathmandu -- but that was not in the cards. Lukla was fogged in and all flights were canceled. We waited two days but there was no change in the weather. (The weather is still bad. Apparently near a thousand trekkers are still stranded there and can't get back to Kathmandu). On the second day of waiting we started feeling better (though at that point not completely healthy) and made the decision to hike to Jiri where we could catch a bus back to Kathmandu (more on the hike in a later blog). We knew it'd be rough going if we had to carry all our stuff (still being sick and all) so we hired a porter in Lukla (Ram Sherpa -- more on him in a later blog) and started hoofing it. On the way Ram found out that there was a bus from Bhandar (a village 6 hours shy of Jiri) that left daily and was direct to Kathmandu. In 3 long grueling days we made it to Bhandar and the next morning boarded the bus. 15 hours of indescribable hell later we arrived in Kathmandu (more on the bus-ride-from-hell in a later blog). We are relieved to be here alive and well. Yesterday Bob Seger's lyrics rang loud and true.
We were supposed to fly to Bangkok on the 26th -- which would have meant 8 more days in Kathmandu -- but we were able to change our flight to the 22nd. So we have a couple more days here and then on to the next stage of our trip. I hope to blog a few more times before we leave -- specifically about the Everest hike and the region, the bus ride which will go down as the worst travel day in my life (and Erin's), and our visit to a Hindu temple the day preceding our Everest trip and about which I did not get a chance to blog before we left.
Hope all is well and go blue!
We're back from our sojourn to the Everest Region. Unfortunately it didn't go off as planned. We intended to fly to Lukla and then over the course of 15 days hike to the Gokyo Sacred Lakes and back (via the same route or over the Cho La Pass). We got to Lukla miraculously (more on the Lukla flight in a later blog) and hiked to Phakding on the first day. That night we both ate dal bhat and the next morning we were both nauseous. We walked for a few hours and collapsed in a bed before the step ascent to Namche Bazaar. After a rough night, we felt slightly better the next day so we hiked to Namche. Our constitutions seemingly improving in Namce, we hiked to Kyangjuma the following day and spent a delightful day in the Sherpa village of Khumjung (more on that in a later blog). That night, however, our food-borne illness struck again -- I will spare you the gory details. It is enough to say that that night was not pleasant. The next day we made the executive decision to not go any higher (we were already at close to 4000 meters) but regretfully to go back down as neither one of us could hold down any food. We didn't want find ourselves in one of the 6 helicopters that fly up the Khumba valley daily air-lifting trekkers suffering from altitude sickness or already zipped comfortably in a body-bag back to Kathmandu. So we walked back to Lukla hoping to catch a flight back to Kathmandu -- but that was not in the cards. Lukla was fogged in and all flights were canceled. We waited two days but there was no change in the weather. (The weather is still bad. Apparently near a thousand trekkers are still stranded there and can't get back to Kathmandu). On the second day of waiting we started feeling better (though at that point not completely healthy) and made the decision to hike to Jiri where we could catch a bus back to Kathmandu (more on the hike in a later blog). We knew it'd be rough going if we had to carry all our stuff (still being sick and all) so we hired a porter in Lukla (Ram Sherpa -- more on him in a later blog) and started hoofing it. On the way Ram found out that there was a bus from Bhandar (a village 6 hours shy of Jiri) that left daily and was direct to Kathmandu. In 3 long grueling days we made it to Bhandar and the next morning boarded the bus. 15 hours of indescribable hell later we arrived in Kathmandu (more on the bus-ride-from-hell in a later blog). We are relieved to be here alive and well. Yesterday Bob Seger's lyrics rang loud and true.
We were supposed to fly to Bangkok on the 26th -- which would have meant 8 more days in Kathmandu -- but we were able to change our flight to the 22nd. So we have a couple more days here and then on to the next stage of our trip. I hope to blog a few more times before we leave -- specifically about the Everest hike and the region, the bus ride which will go down as the worst travel day in my life (and Erin's), and our visit to a Hindu temple the day preceding our Everest trip and about which I did not get a chance to blog before we left.
Hope all is well and go blue!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tihar
Tihar is in full swing. It is a Hindu festival but everyone celebrates it (including the Buddhists). On each day a different animal is celebrated -- the first day is the crow, the second the dog, and the third the cow, and so on. Yesterday the Hindus also worshipped the goddess Laxmi, the goddess of wealth, by making little round altars of colorful sands, flowers, legumes (i.e., lentils and beans), and candles on the street and painting a red path from the altar leading into their shops or homes. Small children continue to extort money from anyone willing or unwilling to donate to their cause -- whatever in the world that cause may be. I think they take the money and run straight to the candy store. It may be more efficient to dress them up in darth vader and holly hobby costumes and just give them snicker bars and milk duds.
Post-mortem on Pokhara -- It served its purpose. We needed rest and that is what we did -- rested. After a couple of days it wore on us a bit. While the views of the Annapurna range are stunning from Pokhara, the town itself is not of much interest -- a town that caters to hungry tourists coming off of long treks. I never thought I 'd say this but I'm glad to be in Kathmandu, getting ready for our next trek.
Kiera H. -- if you're out there, have a great trip down under. Erin told me you were going to make the trip up the east coast -- if you do, make sure to go to the Whitsunday Islands, specifically Whitehaven beach -- it'll blow your mind.
Post-mortem on Pokhara -- It served its purpose. We needed rest and that is what we did -- rested. After a couple of days it wore on us a bit. While the views of the Annapurna range are stunning from Pokhara, the town itself is not of much interest -- a town that caters to hungry tourists coming off of long treks. I never thought I 'd say this but I'm glad to be in Kathmandu, getting ready for our next trek.
Kiera H. -- if you're out there, have a great trip down under. Erin told me you were going to make the trip up the east coast -- if you do, make sure to go to the Whitsunday Islands, specifically Whitehaven beach -- it'll blow your mind.
Porters and Buses
We just arrived in Kathmandu -- after a spine-crushing 7-hour bus ride. 7 hours to travel 100 miles -- no joke. We of course had seats in the back of the bus where the smells are lovely and the bone-rattling bumps are magnified 10-fold. We may need a day to lick our wounds.
The buses here are deserving of a short write up. They are invariably painted or decaled in garrish greens and reds, and the front-windshield is almost always festooned with tassels. Right now, because there is another 4-day festival in full swing -- Tihar -- all the buses are strung with marigolds and other tacky objects. Little statutettes of Shiva or Vishnu or Buddha sit or recline or lay supine on the dashboards. The horns of the buses sound like music played at a carnival. People are crammed into the buses like clowns in a volkswagon. When there is no more room inside, the people sit on top of the bus. When there is no more room on the top of the bus, the people hang onto the sides of the bus. And when there is no more room on the sides of the bus the people grab hold of the people who are hanging on the side of the bus. On the way to Besi Sahar -- the town at the beginning of the Annapurna Circuit -- we saw a bus where you literally could not see the bus; it was a jumbled mass of Nepali's rolling on wheels.
The buses are local in every sense of the word. They stop anywhere and for anything. A guy I was sitting next to today told me that on his bus to Besi Sahar the bus driver was stopped by an angry man standing in the middle of the road. It turned out the bus driver owed the angry man a substantial sum of money. Apparently, everyone sat in the bus for 2 hours while the the debtor and creditor negotiated a settlement, with a local policeman acting as the impartial mediator.
Porters -- Unlike the porters in the Andes, who carry their massive bundles on their back with ropes tied around their chests, the porters here carry their massive bundles by means of a strap over their foreheads. It's a tried and tested tradition. And, of course, the bundles they carry are insanely heavy. We saw one guy carrying a mid-size fridge; another guy we talked to said he was carrying 65 kilos. I don't know what that is in pounds but it is more than I can bench-press (but that is not saying much since I've never really been the swarthy type.) Apparently porters in the Himalayas have been carrying bundles with their heads for a long-time. Maurice Herzog, in his great book called "Annapurna" reported that porters back in the 30s were hauling loads with forhead straps. (BTW, if any you are so inclined, I recommend picking up Herzog's book -- it's a great read. It all takes place in the area we just hiked. It's the story of the first successful ascent of an 8000 meter peak. What makes it entertaining is that it's not just about the ascent, it's also about the members of the expedition trying to locate the peak so they could climb it.)
In Manang, we watched 50-year old woman haulding 50-lb boulders on their back, one at a time, carrying them from the river-bed below up to the Manang plateau where a family was building a stone house. The climb had to have been 300-400 feet. They started work at sunrise and didn't stop until sunset. Tough, hardy Tibetan women.
The festival of Tihar. As far as I can tell the sole purpose of the festival is to give little kids an excuse to run rampant, singing the same songs all over town and extorting money from shopowners. Part of the reason the bus ride took 7 hours is because we got stopped a half dozen times by packs of pre-pubescent children trying to wring some money out of the bus drivers.
We've decided to go to the Everest region. We happened to snag an early flight to Lukla on the 8th. We just couldn't pass up the opportunity to get that panoramic of Everest, Makalu, Cho Oyo, and Lhotse from the top of Gokyo Ri. It'll be a 12-15 day trek to the Gokyo sacred lakes, the same trek we tried to do when we first arrived in Nepal. I hope to report from Namche Bazaar -- our second stop on the trek where there is supposed to be a great view of Everest.
Hope all is well.
The buses here are deserving of a short write up. They are invariably painted or decaled in garrish greens and reds, and the front-windshield is almost always festooned with tassels. Right now, because there is another 4-day festival in full swing -- Tihar -- all the buses are strung with marigolds and other tacky objects. Little statutettes of Shiva or Vishnu or Buddha sit or recline or lay supine on the dashboards. The horns of the buses sound like music played at a carnival. People are crammed into the buses like clowns in a volkswagon. When there is no more room inside, the people sit on top of the bus. When there is no more room on the top of the bus, the people hang onto the sides of the bus. And when there is no more room on the sides of the bus the people grab hold of the people who are hanging on the side of the bus. On the way to Besi Sahar -- the town at the beginning of the Annapurna Circuit -- we saw a bus where you literally could not see the bus; it was a jumbled mass of Nepali's rolling on wheels.
The buses are local in every sense of the word. They stop anywhere and for anything. A guy I was sitting next to today told me that on his bus to Besi Sahar the bus driver was stopped by an angry man standing in the middle of the road. It turned out the bus driver owed the angry man a substantial sum of money. Apparently, everyone sat in the bus for 2 hours while the the debtor and creditor negotiated a settlement, with a local policeman acting as the impartial mediator.
Porters -- Unlike the porters in the Andes, who carry their massive bundles on their back with ropes tied around their chests, the porters here carry their massive bundles by means of a strap over their foreheads. It's a tried and tested tradition. And, of course, the bundles they carry are insanely heavy. We saw one guy carrying a mid-size fridge; another guy we talked to said he was carrying 65 kilos. I don't know what that is in pounds but it is more than I can bench-press (but that is not saying much since I've never really been the swarthy type.) Apparently porters in the Himalayas have been carrying bundles with their heads for a long-time. Maurice Herzog, in his great book called "Annapurna" reported that porters back in the 30s were hauling loads with forhead straps. (BTW, if any you are so inclined, I recommend picking up Herzog's book -- it's a great read. It all takes place in the area we just hiked. It's the story of the first successful ascent of an 8000 meter peak. What makes it entertaining is that it's not just about the ascent, it's also about the members of the expedition trying to locate the peak so they could climb it.)
In Manang, we watched 50-year old woman haulding 50-lb boulders on their back, one at a time, carrying them from the river-bed below up to the Manang plateau where a family was building a stone house. The climb had to have been 300-400 feet. They started work at sunrise and didn't stop until sunset. Tough, hardy Tibetan women.
The festival of Tihar. As far as I can tell the sole purpose of the festival is to give little kids an excuse to run rampant, singing the same songs all over town and extorting money from shopowners. Part of the reason the bus ride took 7 hours is because we got stopped a half dozen times by packs of pre-pubescent children trying to wring some money out of the bus drivers.
We've decided to go to the Everest region. We happened to snag an early flight to Lukla on the 8th. We just couldn't pass up the opportunity to get that panoramic of Everest, Makalu, Cho Oyo, and Lhotse from the top of Gokyo Ri. It'll be a 12-15 day trek to the Gokyo sacred lakes, the same trek we tried to do when we first arrived in Nepal. I hope to report from Namche Bazaar -- our second stop on the trek where there is supposed to be a great view of Everest.
Hope all is well.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Trekking Guides
Erin and I spoke at length about the merits of hiring a guide for a trek in the Himalayas. I thought it deserved a separate blog.
We initially hired the guide for the Gokyo trek because we thought it prudent for that trek -- then when we switched to the Annapurna circuit at the last minute we took Nurbu because we had already paid for him. In hindsight, I think Erin and I agree that for the circuit, while it was great having Nurbu and Karma along (and having learned a lot from them), a guide was far from necessary and that it would have been preferable to do the trek without a guide. (Many trekkers who've been here before were on their own.) The problem with a guide is that they have their own agendas, their costly, and you lose your independence. The loss of independence was a big thing for us.
There are alot of treks where you'd be stupid to not hire a guide (e.g., around Manaslu, Upper Dolpo, Makalu base camp, Upper Mustang, etc.) For those treks you also need a train of porters to carry food and camping equipment. It gets really expensive. All of them are 20 days or more, traveling through remote villages, trails spiderwebbing in every direction. Like I said you'd be stupid to not hire a guide. You don't get lost and you help out the local community.
But for the circuit, where it was impossible to get lost, it would have been nice to wake up in the morning and decide not to move on, without having to convince our guide, who had other thoughts, to stay put.
We initially hired the guide for the Gokyo trek because we thought it prudent for that trek -- then when we switched to the Annapurna circuit at the last minute we took Nurbu because we had already paid for him. In hindsight, I think Erin and I agree that for the circuit, while it was great having Nurbu and Karma along (and having learned a lot from them), a guide was far from necessary and that it would have been preferable to do the trek without a guide. (Many trekkers who've been here before were on their own.) The problem with a guide is that they have their own agendas, their costly, and you lose your independence. The loss of independence was a big thing for us.
There are alot of treks where you'd be stupid to not hire a guide (e.g., around Manaslu, Upper Dolpo, Makalu base camp, Upper Mustang, etc.) For those treks you also need a train of porters to carry food and camping equipment. It gets really expensive. All of them are 20 days or more, traveling through remote villages, trails spiderwebbing in every direction. Like I said you'd be stupid to not hire a guide. You don't get lost and you help out the local community.
But for the circuit, where it was impossible to get lost, it would have been nice to wake up in the morning and decide not to move on, without having to convince our guide, who had other thoughts, to stay put.
Dal Bhat
Every Nepali eats Dal Bhat every lunch and dinner. They eat it with their hands (which is somewhat disconcerting since they also wipe their ass with their hand - they don't believe in toilet paper). It's delicious and deserves its own blog.
Dal Bhat is served on a a silver platter. On the platter is a mound of white rice and a silver bowl which holds the Dal. The Dal is a soupy concoction, usually made of lentils but also of beans. Also on the plate, separated from the rice, is a curry concoction, almost always containing potatoes and some other vegetable, usually spinach. And finally, also separated from the rice, is a pickled vegetable, usually very spicey. You can eat it any way you want but most folks usually mix it all up at the start. I like to mix a little at a time so the rice doesn't go soggy. The Dal and the Bhat are better at lower elevations (as Nurbu astutely pointed out). No matter where you go, if you order Dal Bhat, it is all you can eat. And if you don't tell them to stop bringing the rice and the curry and the dal they will keep filling your plate. It is perfect trekking food. And I'm tired of it. Tomorrow I won't be.
Dal Bhat is served on a a silver platter. On the platter is a mound of white rice and a silver bowl which holds the Dal. The Dal is a soupy concoction, usually made of lentils but also of beans. Also on the plate, separated from the rice, is a curry concoction, almost always containing potatoes and some other vegetable, usually spinach. And finally, also separated from the rice, is a pickled vegetable, usually very spicey. You can eat it any way you want but most folks usually mix it all up at the start. I like to mix a little at a time so the rice doesn't go soggy. The Dal and the Bhat are better at lower elevations (as Nurbu astutely pointed out). No matter where you go, if you order Dal Bhat, it is all you can eat. And if you don't tell them to stop bringing the rice and the curry and the dal they will keep filling your plate. It is perfect trekking food. And I'm tired of it. Tomorrow I won't be.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Annapurna Circut
We're now in Pokhara, an indolent city (by Nepali standards) nestled at the bottom of a lush valley and on the shore of a lake. The Annapurna massif looms to the north, and Macchupuchhre (Mt. Fishtail) stands sentinel. Fishtail is small by Himalayan standards (standing only a mere 6993 meters) but it has panache. I recommend goggling a photo of it.
I have an awful lot to talk about but I will spare you all most of the details. We've experienced so much in the past two weeks and it's impossible to write about it all but here is a quick summary. I apologize for its length.
There is very good reason why the Annapurna circuit was and probably still is one of the world's great treks. The trek is a giant loop, beginning at a town called Besi Sahar at around 700 meters and following the Marsyangdi River up to its source, slowly climbing up to 5416 meters at the Thorung La Pass, and then slowly descending to its terminus at at town called Naya Pul sitting at 1000 meters. The trek circles the Annapurna Himal which includes a bunch of monstrous peaks -- Annapurna I (8091 meters), Annapurna II (7937 m), Annapurna III (7555 m), Annapurna IV (7525 m), Annapurna South (7219 m), Gangapurna (7454 m) and many more about 7000 and 6000 meters. To the east of the circuit, and always in view during the first 8 days of the trek, is the Manaslu massif which includes a bunch of big peaks but most prominently Manaslu (8126 m). To the west of the circuit, and coming into view once you cross the pass, is the Daulagiri Himal which includes a bevy of big mountians but most prominently Daulagiri (8126 m -- the exact same elevation as Manaslu). So no matter where you are on the circuit you're looking up at astoundingly enormous peaks, heavily glaciated, and appearing both terrible and awe-inspiring at the same time.
What makes the Annapurna circuit special is the transition -- both in landscape and culture -- as you ascend towards the pass. You begin in the foothills which are clothed in lush tropical rainforest. The trail then ascends through sun-splashed fields of rice paddies, millet and barley, tiered on the steep slopes of the verdant valley, and the river below a torrent of melted snow, terrifingly powerful, and everywhere ridiculously, towering waterfalls plunging from up high (500 feet registering on the ho-hum side of the scale). Down low the people are predominantly Hindu. Then as you climb further up the scenery slowly begins to change and so do the people. Further up are predominantly Tibetan Buddhists, gompas and stupas in every village you pass, prayer flags flapping in the cold Himalayan wind. The forest transistions to rhododendran and bambo, then eventually pine. You're no longer staring at big peaks in the distance, you're now standing at their feet. The variety of monkeys change too. Lower down are predominantly rhesus macaques, a troop of which we watched on day 3 or 4 on the side of the cliff, some haphazardly throwing themselves off only to catch themselves at the last moment on the branch of a rhododendron tree 30 feet below, others languidly searching for lice in the fur of their mates. Further up are the slender common langurs with grey fur and black faces. We caught a glimspse of three langurs at around 3000 meters in a mixed rhododendron, pine forest. I was atwitter with joy as usual. I like monkeys.
Then at around day 7 the forest subsidies and the vegetation becomes sparse, mostly tundra. The slopes of the valley are littered with yaks (which apparently only live at higher elevations, probably mostly owing to their thick fur) and Himalayan mountain goat. The views of the big peaks become utterly staggering -- you're completely surrounded by the monstrosities. The air becomes frigid, the cold wind blowing off the Annapurna and Gangapurna glaciers. Then you cross the pass, a moonscape devoid of vegetation, just rock and ice, and catch your first glimpse of the other side where Daulagiri rises violently to the west, and the desert hills of Mustang roll off to the north. You descend to a village called Muktinath which has a Buddhist and Hindu temple, but its the Hindu temple that attracts thousands of Hindu pilgrims every year to worship. Which is why, I've concluded, the Nepali government decided to build a road all the way to Muktinath (essentially following, and in many places gobbling up, the second part of the circuit trail) -- so the wealthy Indian pilgrims could get there without having to hike. For reasons I won't get into (but largely because we didn't want to have to pay our guide additional money) we decided to take advantage of the road and take a jeep to a town called Ghasa, essentially skipping about a 1/4 of the circuit. We were supposed to take a bus even further (to a town called Tatopani) but we felt guilty about it so we told our guide (who wasn't pleased with our decision) that we wanted to walk to Tatopani. From Tatopani you walk up a brutally steep hill (Nepalis consider a 4000 meter mountain a hill, and a 6000 meter peak a "small mountain") some 1600 meters to get a titillating view of the Daulgiri and Annapurna Himals, and then descend back down to 1000 meters through rhododendron forest, then tiered rice fields, then lust tropical rain forest.
While the entire trek was special some moments stood out:
1. I asked our guide -- Nurbu Sherpa -- before we started hiking when we'd see the big mountains. Both Erin and I were eager to catch a glimpse of one since we'd been in Nepal for 6 days and still hadn't seen one. I think he misunderstood my question and said it would be a few days. The next day -- Day 1 of our trek -- we were walking alongside the river and rounded a corner. Erin saw it before I did but she didn't say anything. There standing at the end of the valley was Manaslu and Lamsung. I nearly shit myself. I turned around to point it out to Erin and she was crying I think. We were both speechless. It is impossible to put into words what I thought that very moment; and it's impossible to describe what I saw. As I said before I had seen nothing in my life -- including the Andes, the Alaska Range, the Greater Caucuses, the Rockies -- to prepare me for that moment. The scale is all together other worldly. The mountains were 30 kilometers away but it felt like you could reach out and scoop up a handful of snow from their flanks. It was an emotional moment I will never forget.
2. Rounding the corner on Day 3 or 4 and seeing Annapurna II for the first time. We were literally at its feet, around 2800 meters. Annapurna II stands almost 8000 meters high. I couldn't peel my eyes from its fluted east face. My toes ached that night from stumbling over a legion of rocks and roots and my neck hurt from staring towards the heavens all day.
3. Hanging out in Manang. Manang is a Tibetan Buddhist village at 3500 meters. Most trekkers spend a couple of days there acclimitizing. We spent 3 because both of us fell ill and didn't have the strenght to move on. I'm glad we did. And in hindsight I wished we had spent a few more days there. The views of Annapurna II and Gangapurna were absolutely mind-blowing. At night the yaks exchanged plaintive bugles, and the bells tied around the necks of the Himalayan goats tinkled under our windowsill. From our room we stared at the north faces of Annapurna II and Gangapurna for hours, captivated, inspecting each crevice and fold of snow, wondering where the next avalanche would plummet down its terrible flank.
4. Crossing the Thorung La Pass. Nurbu insisted that we wake at 4:00 in the morning at Thorung Phedi (the village at the foot of the pass) to begin our 1000 meter ascent so that we'd avoid the heavy cold winds that often blow across the moonscape of dirt, boulders and ice. We started at 4:45 in pitch black. Other trekkers had the same idea but many got started earlier, so when we looked up the imposing slope we could see a train of headlamps angling towards the nightsky, zig-zagging up the switchbacks. I was slightly ahead of Erin and Nurbu, stopping occassionaly to make sure she was doing fine (any misgiving I had -- mostly due to the fact that we were both still fighting off a cold -- was quickly dispelled the day before when we did a day hike to 4900 meters and she made it look a walk in the park), my toes turning to stone and my snot freezing into icicles in my beard. About 200 feet from the pass, the prayers flags whipping in the wind, I stopped to wait for Erin so that we could walk over it together and watched the sun raise its firey crown over the top of Chulu East. I had another squishy moment. They say at elevation it is easy to sucumb to very powerful emotions. Well, to be quite frank, I did. I thought of my mother and father who are no longer here but whose spirits I swore swirled above. Perhaps the prayer flags beckoned them. And I thought about how grateful I am to them for having given me the opportunity to be where I was at that moment, watching the sun come up over the Himalayas, ice-bound peaks all around emanating an ethereal glow.
5. Descending through the ancient rhododendron forest below Ghorepani. Coincidentally the day before I had pondered whether there were any pristine primary growth forests in Nepal -- most of the forests in Nepal have already been denuded for farming. I was soon to know the answer. We left the village of Ghorepani which sat on a saddle of about 2800 meters and immediately descended into a forest of myth and magic -- primeval rhodedendron trees with gnarled twisting limbs, and trunks laden with moss and epiphytes and strangled with vines. The sunlight mottled the forest floor, the leaves of the epiphytes glowing phospherent green. I felt like Frodo Baggins wandering through Fangorn, with Treebeard murmuring to his Ent-hordes and elves prancing on light feet in the shadows. I told Erin that the ancient wood may have been the highlight of the trip for me and she thought I had smoked some of it. I like forests (as much as I like monkeys -- you put them together and I can't hold my bladder). And this one was unlike any forest I had every seen.
6. Nurbu's son and our porter, Karma Sherpa. He's 18 years old. He spent 8 years in a Buddhist monastery. He thought he wanted to be a lama. He found out that he didn't. He has a heart and soul as innocent and pure as I've ever witnessed. He's shy and docile. His smile could light up the east face of Gangapurna. He wants to become a mountaineering guide (he also wants to reunite with his little lover in his sherpa village in the Makalu province, in the shadow of Makalu (another 8000 meter peak)). Erin and I are thinking of ways to help him. I don't think I've ever met someone who I barely knew that I wanted to help out more than Karma. The kid has nothing materially -- he lives in the same room with mom and dad and sisters and brothers in Kathmandu -- but he has the spiritual stuff to be a shining beacon. He just needs a little help.
I would be remiss to not talk about the bad things about the trek. Trekker traffic has got to be #1. Trekkers come in droves from all over the world (but mostly from France). It turns out the French like the circuit so much because it was a Frenchman who first ascended Annapurna I. A French couple told me that -- overflowing with arrogant pride. I think they were surprised and maybe a little miffed when I merely nodded my head in approbation -- I think maybe they expected me to say something like "yes, of course it was a Frenchman, how could it have been any one else. We Wee." Sorry for the francophobic comment -- its just that we've been surrounded by them for two weeks and the overwhelming majority of them have not been friendly. There were exceptions but they were few.
As a result of the high trekker traffic more teahouses are being built, resulting in further denuding of the conservation area's already unhealthy forest. And because of the high volume of trekkers, most of whom aren't very friendly and have little to no trail etiquette, it is nearly impossible to pass large groups on the trail without endangering your life -- as they have absolutely no compulsion to stop and move over to let you by.
Lastly the road building -- on both sides of the Annapurna massif -- is going to eventually destroy the trek. It has already tainted the second part of it. The Nepali government is now planning to build the road on the first part all the way to Manang which would be a shame. With roads come trucks and motorcycles and cars. Nurbu pointed out that since the road was built along the second part of the circuit the economy of the villages in between have nearly collapsed since most trekkers prefer to take a jeep -- after all who wants to walk on a dusty road. The road building, which is not to any standard of construction whatsoever, has also resulted in massive landslides, causing huge amounts of earth and rock to crash into the rivers below. It is quite sad to see.
Notwithstanding the bad things, it's still an amazing trek and I would recommend it to anyone.
So today we rest and probably tomorrow and the day after and maybe the day after that. Erin's looking into a yoga retreat in the foothills. Eventually we'll make our way back to Kathmandu and see about volunteer opportunities. It's been frustrating on that front since all the organizations want us to pay to work for free. I think we might have to wait until Laos (where there is at least one organization that will allow us to teach some Buddhist monks english for a week without paying a fee). If we don't volunteer here I think we'll do another trek -- this time to the Langtang region which is north of Kathmandu. Smaller mountains (7200 meters being the tallest) but less crowds.
Hope everyone is well and again I apologize for being wordy.
I have an awful lot to talk about but I will spare you all most of the details. We've experienced so much in the past two weeks and it's impossible to write about it all but here is a quick summary. I apologize for its length.
There is very good reason why the Annapurna circuit was and probably still is one of the world's great treks. The trek is a giant loop, beginning at a town called Besi Sahar at around 700 meters and following the Marsyangdi River up to its source, slowly climbing up to 5416 meters at the Thorung La Pass, and then slowly descending to its terminus at at town called Naya Pul sitting at 1000 meters. The trek circles the Annapurna Himal which includes a bunch of monstrous peaks -- Annapurna I (8091 meters), Annapurna II (7937 m), Annapurna III (7555 m), Annapurna IV (7525 m), Annapurna South (7219 m), Gangapurna (7454 m) and many more about 7000 and 6000 meters. To the east of the circuit, and always in view during the first 8 days of the trek, is the Manaslu massif which includes a bunch of big peaks but most prominently Manaslu (8126 m). To the west of the circuit, and coming into view once you cross the pass, is the Daulagiri Himal which includes a bevy of big mountians but most prominently Daulagiri (8126 m -- the exact same elevation as Manaslu). So no matter where you are on the circuit you're looking up at astoundingly enormous peaks, heavily glaciated, and appearing both terrible and awe-inspiring at the same time.
What makes the Annapurna circuit special is the transition -- both in landscape and culture -- as you ascend towards the pass. You begin in the foothills which are clothed in lush tropical rainforest. The trail then ascends through sun-splashed fields of rice paddies, millet and barley, tiered on the steep slopes of the verdant valley, and the river below a torrent of melted snow, terrifingly powerful, and everywhere ridiculously, towering waterfalls plunging from up high (500 feet registering on the ho-hum side of the scale). Down low the people are predominantly Hindu. Then as you climb further up the scenery slowly begins to change and so do the people. Further up are predominantly Tibetan Buddhists, gompas and stupas in every village you pass, prayer flags flapping in the cold Himalayan wind. The forest transistions to rhododendran and bambo, then eventually pine. You're no longer staring at big peaks in the distance, you're now standing at their feet. The variety of monkeys change too. Lower down are predominantly rhesus macaques, a troop of which we watched on day 3 or 4 on the side of the cliff, some haphazardly throwing themselves off only to catch themselves at the last moment on the branch of a rhododendron tree 30 feet below, others languidly searching for lice in the fur of their mates. Further up are the slender common langurs with grey fur and black faces. We caught a glimspse of three langurs at around 3000 meters in a mixed rhododendron, pine forest. I was atwitter with joy as usual. I like monkeys.
Then at around day 7 the forest subsidies and the vegetation becomes sparse, mostly tundra. The slopes of the valley are littered with yaks (which apparently only live at higher elevations, probably mostly owing to their thick fur) and Himalayan mountain goat. The views of the big peaks become utterly staggering -- you're completely surrounded by the monstrosities. The air becomes frigid, the cold wind blowing off the Annapurna and Gangapurna glaciers. Then you cross the pass, a moonscape devoid of vegetation, just rock and ice, and catch your first glimpse of the other side where Daulagiri rises violently to the west, and the desert hills of Mustang roll off to the north. You descend to a village called Muktinath which has a Buddhist and Hindu temple, but its the Hindu temple that attracts thousands of Hindu pilgrims every year to worship. Which is why, I've concluded, the Nepali government decided to build a road all the way to Muktinath (essentially following, and in many places gobbling up, the second part of the circuit trail) -- so the wealthy Indian pilgrims could get there without having to hike. For reasons I won't get into (but largely because we didn't want to have to pay our guide additional money) we decided to take advantage of the road and take a jeep to a town called Ghasa, essentially skipping about a 1/4 of the circuit. We were supposed to take a bus even further (to a town called Tatopani) but we felt guilty about it so we told our guide (who wasn't pleased with our decision) that we wanted to walk to Tatopani. From Tatopani you walk up a brutally steep hill (Nepalis consider a 4000 meter mountain a hill, and a 6000 meter peak a "small mountain") some 1600 meters to get a titillating view of the Daulgiri and Annapurna Himals, and then descend back down to 1000 meters through rhododendron forest, then tiered rice fields, then lust tropical rain forest.
While the entire trek was special some moments stood out:
1. I asked our guide -- Nurbu Sherpa -- before we started hiking when we'd see the big mountains. Both Erin and I were eager to catch a glimpse of one since we'd been in Nepal for 6 days and still hadn't seen one. I think he misunderstood my question and said it would be a few days. The next day -- Day 1 of our trek -- we were walking alongside the river and rounded a corner. Erin saw it before I did but she didn't say anything. There standing at the end of the valley was Manaslu and Lamsung. I nearly shit myself. I turned around to point it out to Erin and she was crying I think. We were both speechless. It is impossible to put into words what I thought that very moment; and it's impossible to describe what I saw. As I said before I had seen nothing in my life -- including the Andes, the Alaska Range, the Greater Caucuses, the Rockies -- to prepare me for that moment. The scale is all together other worldly. The mountains were 30 kilometers away but it felt like you could reach out and scoop up a handful of snow from their flanks. It was an emotional moment I will never forget.
2. Rounding the corner on Day 3 or 4 and seeing Annapurna II for the first time. We were literally at its feet, around 2800 meters. Annapurna II stands almost 8000 meters high. I couldn't peel my eyes from its fluted east face. My toes ached that night from stumbling over a legion of rocks and roots and my neck hurt from staring towards the heavens all day.
3. Hanging out in Manang. Manang is a Tibetan Buddhist village at 3500 meters. Most trekkers spend a couple of days there acclimitizing. We spent 3 because both of us fell ill and didn't have the strenght to move on. I'm glad we did. And in hindsight I wished we had spent a few more days there. The views of Annapurna II and Gangapurna were absolutely mind-blowing. At night the yaks exchanged plaintive bugles, and the bells tied around the necks of the Himalayan goats tinkled under our windowsill. From our room we stared at the north faces of Annapurna II and Gangapurna for hours, captivated, inspecting each crevice and fold of snow, wondering where the next avalanche would plummet down its terrible flank.
4. Crossing the Thorung La Pass. Nurbu insisted that we wake at 4:00 in the morning at Thorung Phedi (the village at the foot of the pass) to begin our 1000 meter ascent so that we'd avoid the heavy cold winds that often blow across the moonscape of dirt, boulders and ice. We started at 4:45 in pitch black. Other trekkers had the same idea but many got started earlier, so when we looked up the imposing slope we could see a train of headlamps angling towards the nightsky, zig-zagging up the switchbacks. I was slightly ahead of Erin and Nurbu, stopping occassionaly to make sure she was doing fine (any misgiving I had -- mostly due to the fact that we were both still fighting off a cold -- was quickly dispelled the day before when we did a day hike to 4900 meters and she made it look a walk in the park), my toes turning to stone and my snot freezing into icicles in my beard. About 200 feet from the pass, the prayers flags whipping in the wind, I stopped to wait for Erin so that we could walk over it together and watched the sun raise its firey crown over the top of Chulu East. I had another squishy moment. They say at elevation it is easy to sucumb to very powerful emotions. Well, to be quite frank, I did. I thought of my mother and father who are no longer here but whose spirits I swore swirled above. Perhaps the prayer flags beckoned them. And I thought about how grateful I am to them for having given me the opportunity to be where I was at that moment, watching the sun come up over the Himalayas, ice-bound peaks all around emanating an ethereal glow.
5. Descending through the ancient rhododendron forest below Ghorepani. Coincidentally the day before I had pondered whether there were any pristine primary growth forests in Nepal -- most of the forests in Nepal have already been denuded for farming. I was soon to know the answer. We left the village of Ghorepani which sat on a saddle of about 2800 meters and immediately descended into a forest of myth and magic -- primeval rhodedendron trees with gnarled twisting limbs, and trunks laden with moss and epiphytes and strangled with vines. The sunlight mottled the forest floor, the leaves of the epiphytes glowing phospherent green. I felt like Frodo Baggins wandering through Fangorn, with Treebeard murmuring to his Ent-hordes and elves prancing on light feet in the shadows. I told Erin that the ancient wood may have been the highlight of the trip for me and she thought I had smoked some of it. I like forests (as much as I like monkeys -- you put them together and I can't hold my bladder). And this one was unlike any forest I had every seen.
6. Nurbu's son and our porter, Karma Sherpa. He's 18 years old. He spent 8 years in a Buddhist monastery. He thought he wanted to be a lama. He found out that he didn't. He has a heart and soul as innocent and pure as I've ever witnessed. He's shy and docile. His smile could light up the east face of Gangapurna. He wants to become a mountaineering guide (he also wants to reunite with his little lover in his sherpa village in the Makalu province, in the shadow of Makalu (another 8000 meter peak)). Erin and I are thinking of ways to help him. I don't think I've ever met someone who I barely knew that I wanted to help out more than Karma. The kid has nothing materially -- he lives in the same room with mom and dad and sisters and brothers in Kathmandu -- but he has the spiritual stuff to be a shining beacon. He just needs a little help.
I would be remiss to not talk about the bad things about the trek. Trekker traffic has got to be #1. Trekkers come in droves from all over the world (but mostly from France). It turns out the French like the circuit so much because it was a Frenchman who first ascended Annapurna I. A French couple told me that -- overflowing with arrogant pride. I think they were surprised and maybe a little miffed when I merely nodded my head in approbation -- I think maybe they expected me to say something like "yes, of course it was a Frenchman, how could it have been any one else. We Wee." Sorry for the francophobic comment -- its just that we've been surrounded by them for two weeks and the overwhelming majority of them have not been friendly. There were exceptions but they were few.
As a result of the high trekker traffic more teahouses are being built, resulting in further denuding of the conservation area's already unhealthy forest. And because of the high volume of trekkers, most of whom aren't very friendly and have little to no trail etiquette, it is nearly impossible to pass large groups on the trail without endangering your life -- as they have absolutely no compulsion to stop and move over to let you by.
Lastly the road building -- on both sides of the Annapurna massif -- is going to eventually destroy the trek. It has already tainted the second part of it. The Nepali government is now planning to build the road on the first part all the way to Manang which would be a shame. With roads come trucks and motorcycles and cars. Nurbu pointed out that since the road was built along the second part of the circuit the economy of the villages in between have nearly collapsed since most trekkers prefer to take a jeep -- after all who wants to walk on a dusty road. The road building, which is not to any standard of construction whatsoever, has also resulted in massive landslides, causing huge amounts of earth and rock to crash into the rivers below. It is quite sad to see.
Notwithstanding the bad things, it's still an amazing trek and I would recommend it to anyone.
So today we rest and probably tomorrow and the day after and maybe the day after that. Erin's looking into a yoga retreat in the foothills. Eventually we'll make our way back to Kathmandu and see about volunteer opportunities. It's been frustrating on that front since all the organizations want us to pay to work for free. I think we might have to wait until Laos (where there is at least one organization that will allow us to teach some Buddhist monks english for a week without paying a fee). If we don't volunteer here I think we'll do another trek -- this time to the Langtang region which is north of Kathmandu. Smaller mountains (7200 meters being the tallest) but less crowds.
Hope everyone is well and again I apologize for being wordy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)