Archive for category Around the World

Around the World 10

Posted by Christopher in Around the World on February 28, 1999

Day 31
Location-Nepal, Beni
Temp-50 C Altitude-7500ft Weather-Sunny
City population-550 Wittness-2

“Our way is just our way.”

Our long hike nears its end as we walk down the narrow valley out of the Himalayas. The weather is incredible, even our porter has a spring to his step. We have been following the same river ever since our turning around at Johmsom. Not only has the river increased in size but it has slowly become feral in its appearance. It washes around corners, under cutting the bank, causing large landsides and rolls monstrous boulders down the river causing us to jump at the strange grinding sounds. It also surges; sometimes moving many feet up the riverbank, threatening to capture anyone foolish enough to stand too close. At times, just the sound of the rapids makes talking an impossible effort. As we round a corner, Kauncha tells us that we are almost to Beni. Tamara and I accelerate our pace, energized to be so near civilization.

Beni is a small town in the back country of Nepal, just a few valleys over from where we started our hike. It’s less of a town and more of a mid-way point for travel from other towns to Kathmandu. Yet, it has something that draws us to it like a moth to a light bulb, it has a road. Roads are what turn villages into towns. Just last year the Nepali government was able to extend a road to Beni, causing it to grow rapidly. I have heard that it is a town best avoided but by catching a bus there, back to Pokhara, it will save us at least three days of walking.

As we approach Beni, the trail progressively becomes larger until it is a small road. Gradually more and more locals join us on the road carrying sacks of potatoes, dirty faced children and dented pots. At a twist in the road, a large landslide has comedown and covered most of the road. A crude footpath around the slide is the only way past. As we stumble over the recently formed trail, we pass 5 men repairing the road with shovels and picks. In the middle of the road is a massive rock with a diameter of over 5 feet, it must weigh tons. A large muscled man with a ten pound hammer strikes a chisel held sheepishly by another smaller man. Small flakes of rock fly off adding to the pile of rock chips already at their feet. I am sure that I have seen this scene in a painting of the Hindu Hell; A man hammering at an impossible rock.

An hour later a 30 year old Chinese economy car rumbles past us, every panel has been damaged and crudely pounded back in to shape. Kauncha say, “Five years ago the road was far from here, but now it moves farther into the valley. In twenty years the road will reach all the way to Johmsom. The road is good but it steals smiles as it moves.” That seams like a strange thing to say about a road but I must admit that the people that we pass here are not as friendly as the ones we met in the mountains. The women give the impression of being tight jawed and walk sternly in their long thick skirts and half the men appear to suffer from various stages of intoxication. Right on queue a drunken man stops in the middle of the road in front of us and starts to bellow at his even drunker friend. They start to wrestle and almost knock Tamara and me over as we pass. Back to Civilization, why did I want to return?

Kauncha leads our ragtag expedition up the final hill to a three story hotel that advertises “Hot Water”. I negotiate a room from a creepy thin man behind the counter; his thick yellow fingernails are the longest I have ever seen on a man. He leads us to our room and our bags are dropped by our exceedingly happy porter. Tamara rushes for the shower as I buy a Coke for Kauncha and our porter. Sitting on the large balcony we look over the dirty town and talk about various parts of the trek; the sand storm, the unfriendly cow-creature and the mountains. I take this opportunity to pay the porter for his hard work. I pay him the amount we agreed on plus an extra day and a halves wage. His face displays disappointment and he complains to Kauncha in Nepali. Kauncha tells me that he wants his help to cheat me out of some money in a scheme of some sort. I ask Kauncha “Am I being fair in the amount of money I am paying?” “Yes” he says, “this sort of man is never happy, he is greedy.” With that the porter figures out that Kauncha has told me his plan, and says something else in a wicked tone. Kauncha become furious and takes the porters Coke, kicks and pushes him down the stairs, out the hotel and out the main gate that protects the grounds. When Kauncha returns he won’t tell me what the porter said. He tells me, “Forget that man, he is evil.”

That night Tamara and I can’t sleep. Our legs feel as though they are still moving, left right, left right. I can’t believe all the events that have happened in only a few weeks. Also, I am troubled as to how I should have handled the situation with the porter. We agreed on a more than fair price but I was made to feel I was being unjust. I think long and hard about if I was in his place how I would have liked to have been treated, yet I can’t find grounds for the porter’s attitude. Also I worry about the porter’s attitude and its sudden change. This whole town has my skin crawling. There seams to be an air of subdued violence.

At night, hotels like this one let their dogs out to roam the gated grounds. Since the dogs sleep during the day they fight and play all night. One such dog, sits under my window barking at the exceptionally large moon. It is not really a bark but more of a vomit of sound. The sound starts deep and low in the animal, gathering strength and weight as it moves up, finally being expelled thick and vile. If the dog didn’t instill such predatorial fear in me, I would open the window and throw a rock at it.

A collection of Roosters inform us that morning has arrived. Their insistent update drives us out of bed and into the overly bright morning. The dirty town of Beni has a dozen urban blocks with real concrete two-three story buildings. Huge Russian bus’s that look like long thin tanks, grumble past us in a cloud of diesel fumes. The “morning people” are up and shopping at vegetable carts or stocking their stores with lentils, newly made blankets and plastic hand bags. A couple of apples serve us as breakfast and we splurge on a Coke. The storekeeper dumps the Coke into a new plastic bag, ties a knot in the top and sticks a small straw in it. If we wanted the bottle it would cost 5 times as much, as the bottles are expensive. We have been off of Coke for so long that just a half of Coke affects our senses. With our Coke buzz, we find a small restaurant and take a seat outside. Sipping on tea we watch the commotion of the town flow back and forth. Its funny, but we have to get used to the chaos. Beni is like a mid-west town in America. You get the feeling that people never say exactly what they think and they seem to stare just a little too long, never looking directly in to your face. Even when they laugh they don’t blink. Speaking of creepy people, I spot our ex-porter hiding behind a bread cart spying on us. Just then a gigantic dump truck filled with river gravel pulls up in between us. Tamara and I take the opportunity to leave the area. I don’t like that guy!

We find the bus station area of Beni and look for a bus headed to Pokhara. The cost will be 45 Rupees ($0.85) each, for the 6 hour bus ride. We are told to be here early as there may be no seats available later in the day, even if we have a ticket. The greasy man behind the counter says “But sir, you are from a rich country! You have no need of riding with the people of the fields. We have a Land Rover and it only takes 2 hours to reach Pokhara!” Tamara and I really want to take the Land Rover but the cost is $30 each. That may not seam like a lot but we could live for a week here on that money. “The bus it is!” I tell the man as I hand him a 100 rupee bill. He looks disappointed but provides us with two tickets without looking in my eyes. He waves his hand for me to leave and motions for the person behind me to step up. I block that person and ask the man for my change. “You get no change!” He yells as he tries to reach the person behind me. We bicker back and forth for a minute until he realizes that I am not going anywhere with out my 10 Rupee note. He smiles as though it was a game and produces the 10 Rupee note from inside his pants pocket. It smells of diesel. The man behind me laughs and slaps me on the back in a gesture of approval. In fact, all the people in the line behind me smile at us as we leave the bus station. I guess it was a game after all. I wish someone would let me in on the rules!

Back at the Hotel, Kauncha says that he will find his own way back to Pokhara later in the week. We will meet at our hotel in Pokhara on the coming weekend. After gathering all our things we rush and board the ancient school bus. Our luggage is thrown on top of the bus along with sacks of grain, baskets of apples and I wonder if we will ever see our packs again. After an hour of thinking about it, it bothers me so bad that I climb up on to the roof to lock our bags up. After waking a boy that is sleeping on our packs, I padlocked them to the railing. Only after I did that, did the local men around me start to notice the packs. Before my locking the packs they were ignoring them. I think that next time I won’t make such a big deal out of our luggage.

The back of the bus smells of vomit but we are able to find a seat up at the front where it only smells like urine. For that reason I hang my head out the window, watching the wondrous scene of a frontier third world town; A large Tibetan woman herding her pack of small children down the street like a mother duck, Two men struggling over a shiny new shovel, A dump truck driver trying to un-snag a telephone line from the top of his truck. Over the next hour the bus fills up and soon there are three people to a seat with more standing in the isles. A hairy Mongoloid looking man climbs on to the bus and looks around for a seat. There are none so he plops himself next Tamara. He stares at me with blood shot eyes and says “Nan band shun may” which to me means “bla bla bla”. I shake my head telling him that I don’t understand Nepali, so he clears his nose in disgust, looks to the floor and immediately falls asleep. Normally I would sit in the middle to isolate Tamara from such unpleasantries but the window is all that will spare me from six hours of non-stop puking. Tamara knows of my extreme motion sickness so she says, “I’m tough! I can handle it, no big deal.”

Just when the bus is about ready to leave, two farmers and their wives knock on the side of the bus. The driver tells them that there is no room, but they yell and cry and in the end join the mass of humans in our bus. As we leave, a 12 year old boy climbs down from the roof and in the front door. He chats with the driver for a while then starts to collect tickets. There is no way he can fit though the completely packed isle so Tamara and I wonder aloud how he will proceed. Without a thought, he hops up on the back of the seats and climbs over the tops of the seats gathering tickets. Smelling of goats, he kicks and bruises people as he swims his way to the back of the bus collecting tickets. Then when he reaches the back of the bus he climbs out a window up to the top of the bus to continue his nap on my backpack.

Our ride is very uncomfortable to say the least. The road is horrible and the driver is fanatical in his passion for speed. He enjoys trying to pass any and every auto he can. Yet, every time he tries, he has to slam on the brakes and get behind the auto, only to try again and fail. The man next to Tamara sleeps though the abortive attempts, in fact he snuggles up on her shoulder. As I am about to move his head off Tamara’s shoulder, Tamara informs that she can handle it. Her strategy is; Every time the man starts to fall asleep and his head starts to lean over toward her, she will suddenly have to stretch causing him to wake up. Over the next hour they have a “cold war” of “accidental” elbows and unexpected pushing. The twists and turns of the road make almost half of the people in the bus sick. Most of the small children use the windows to revisit their breakfast, I know because I am out here too. I wonder what it looks like to have the bus lined with bobbing head sticking out the windows. Tamara and my legs, beaten to a pulp for the past few weeks, scream with every bump of the road. Our necks ache as the driver, also known as “the madman”, stomps the accelerator and then the brake with the beat of the wailing Hindi music being played over the radio. Tamara smiles and says that she had no idea that she could be this uncomfortable. She sincerely, I think, thanks me for expanding her horizons

Seven hours later we arrive back to Pokhara. We marvel at the restaurants that have wood and not dirt floors. The well dressed school children. It is amazing the luxuries that you can live without, yet are so happy to have available. Running water, flushing toilets and electricity keep us entertained for hours.

Kiran, our Jehovah Witness friend that helped us set up our hike, somehow “hears” that we are in town and comes over to see how everything turned out. With a smile he listens to our stories of the hike, even though he had probably heard them a million times before from other clients.

Tamara and I spend the next few days just relaxing and mending our resentful feet and legs. We lost more than a few pounds on our hike and so spurge on nice dinners of pasta, fresh baked bread and Yak. During the day we ride bikes around the town, take out a row boat in the lake or explore the country side by foot. The country side is made up of small homes surrounded by rice patties. At a tailor next to our hotel we have light weight pants made. While we were there waiting, Tamara draws a logo for our trip, a big bright sun flower with the world in the middle. The tailor sees it and somehow turns it into embroidery pattern and makes us some custom tee-shirts with the logo. More stuff to ship home.

Of course, I have to get my mandatory “third world shave and haircut”. There is nothing like getting a 65 minute shave, hair cut and neck massage from a true professional. With all the straight razors, hot towels and face tonics, I feel like a million dollars when I leave and only spend $.90 including tip. At night we climb up on the roof and watch the sun set on the gigantic mountain range. The air is so clear; we would be able to see someone climbing on the mountain if they were allowed too. The Annapurna Mountains are restricted from climbing for religions reasons. In situations like this I usually wonder that is on the other side of the mountains, in this case I guess we both know what is on the other side; A unfriendly cow.The three Tasmanian kids, the ones that we met in Kathmandu and then again on the trail, find us one night in a restaurant. It is nice to visit and have dinner with them. They tell us that their guide would get drunk every night and they think that he may have stole money from them. We are very happy with our guide, he did an excellent job. It was nice of Kauncha and Kiran to take care of us like they did.

Kiran finds time every day to come over and visit with us. He is the manager of the Fish Tail Lodge, a hotel named after the predominant mountain of the area here (Machupucuara, 5980 meters) that looks like a fish’s tail. More than once, he takes us to his two room home to have dinner. Kiran’s family lives in a cement apartment building that houses a number of large families. One room is where his three children sleep but in the other is the Kitchen, study and parents bedroom. There is one bathroom for the entire building that doubles as cloths wash room, bathroom and shower.

Tamara and I sit on the parent’s bed and talk to Kiran who is seated on a small stool. His wife turns on the propane to a small burner unit and in no time makes us the rice, vegetables and chicken that make up Dal Bhat. Kiran is 34 and has been baptized for 3 years now. The power flickers and he says that when he was 15 he remembers when Pokhara first got electricity. It was only one hour a week but in a few years it was two hours a day. Now they have electricity every day but Wednesday. He asks if we have electricity every day where we live.

After dinner he takes us next door to visit another Jehovah Witness family. The young couple has just gotten married. They both are pioneers, which means that they dedicate 90 hours a month to proselytizing, but lately the brother’s health has degraded. We visit for a while about being married and the changes it brings. When we head back to eat dinner, Kiran says “We don’t think that He will be alive for much longer. The doctors say that he has a large lump on his kidney but the operation to remove it will cost 650,000 rupees. That is quite a sum especially for a pioneer. ” Back at Kiran’s home we chat well into the night about life in Oregon, Nepal and our hopeful life in the future Paradise.The meetings are fun but they are starting to become boring as we only know about 20 words in Nepali. We are able to answer in English but only a few of the Brothers and Sisters know what we say. The small kingdom hall is very clean; it seats about 45 people on hard metal fold up chairs. The bible they use is a large King James Version, as they don’t have a New World Translation in their language yet. Everyone is incredibly nice to us, as nice as they can be and not speak the same language. We practice our few words of Nepali as they fumble with English. They are all drawn to my pictures of home but soon they and we lose their novelty.

Strangely, the men and women rarely sit by one another, even when they are married. In fact the men almost never stand and talk with women, even in groups. I ask Kiran why, although he sits with his wife, and he thinks for a long time. In the end all he can come up with is “Our way is just our way.” These social differences are entertaining at times. As an example, the Nepali men, Jehovah Witness or not, will hold hands and express friendship with other men much more readily then the women do with other women. Being an American male, it takes me a while to become comfortable walking arm in arm with other men.

On our last day in Pokhara we get up super early and climb up a 600 meter hill to watch the sunrise. We spend a few hours drawing the scenes around us with pencil in our sketchbooks. Our drawings seam to get better all the time. Soon the morning is gone and we hurry back to town as we are catching the bus to the southern part of Nepal. The Jungle town of Chitwan, famous for their wild Tigers and Rhinos, is our next destination.

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Around the World 9

Posted by Christopher in Around the World on February 28, 1999

Day 26
Location-Nepal, Kingdom of Mustang, Johmsom (North of the Himalayas)
Temp-36 C Altitude-9500ft Weather-Cold with 35 mph wind
City population-92 Wittness-3

“We have a Buffalo Problem!”

We have finally passed threw the Himalayas to the other side but in some ways it seams that the mountains have only just started. The land behind the Himalayan Mountains is folded, crumpled and looks more like an unmade bed than a place where people raise children and grow food. The steep hills really start to wear us out and the thin air slows our progress even more. We feel stronger physically but we look more haggard than I have ever seen us look before. Deep circles have invaded our eyes. Scrapes, cuts and bruises cover us from head to toe. Our knees and hip sockets refuse to work when ever we stop walking. Tamara and I talk about the people who live in the area and that have to walk this far all the time. They can walk for weeks and be no worse for wear.

Tamara and I feel like weak invalids compared to the locals that we see walking at a steady strong pace. We see them in the far distance behind us and before we know it they pass us with a quiet “Namista.” They carry nothing on their backs. The men walk with their hands clasp behind their backs, looking at the ground. The women walk with their arms folded in front of them looking at the sky or river.

I have no doubt that if we kept walking for a few more weeks we could adjust to the simple lifestyle. That is something that I have been thinking allot about for the past few days. How people really don’t need much to have a happy life. I remember when I first traveled to a third world country, Peru. There we saw children playing without shoes. For a while it bothered me that they could not afford shoes. I asked one of the children if he had shoes. He told me in Spanish that “Shoes are expensive and not for playing. Feet are from God. Feet are free and for everything.” After a while of thinking about this, I came up with the personal conclusion that the quality of life is not dependant on the amount of luxuries. It sounds so obvious but it was a revelation to me. Three years later I am still working on that concept, refining and polishing it into something I can believe in. I understand the idea, but deep in my heart I still think that a million dollars will make me just a little happier. Simplicity is an elusive faith. Example; right now I want a car to finish the drive to Mustang. Yet would I, with a car, enjoy talking with the local people? Would I spend hours looking the incredible scene around me? Would a car be a luxury or a burden? These are the thoughts that travel forces upon me.

The next day we leave the comfort of the pine forested hills and enter the dry Kingdom of Mustang. On each side of us sits large quiet treeless mountains. They slope down steeply, forming a large flat riverbed. The ancient riverbed is over a mile wide but the river itself is only ten feet across. The river we have been following has slowly decreased to the point that we could wade across it if necessary. Kauncha says that it may be necessary. It is nice to no longer be climbing up and down hills, but the air here is very dry and thin. I seam to be closer to the sky than ever before. We stumble across the rocky riverbed and Kauncha tells us that once every year a flash flood comes and fills the entire area. It boggles the mind to think of that much water coming through here.There is no real path across the gravel, so we end up following a train of small donkeys. The small animals wear headdresses of bright feathers and small bells. On the neck of each donkey is a large bell that rings out loudly and can be heard from miles away. Two woven sacks, filled with potatoes or apples, are carried by each animal. I ask Kauncha where the mule train driver is and he tells us the driver walks many hours behind the mule train. “The Mules know the way”, he says.
runs ahead to eat some grass.
As the morning changes into day, the wind picks up. Suddenly a dust cloud, a hundred feet high, rises up and washes over us. The wind whips at our faces and our stumbling slows to a crawl. More than a few times we each fall, completely blinded by the wind and grit. Mule trains wait for no man and so quickly fades away into the distance. We stagger on stiff ankles and squint with blinded eyes for three hours. When the wind finally stops assaulting us we shake the sand from our hair and look around. We have veered off course but are still going in the right direction. In the distance a small town awaits our arrival.

A few more hours finds us near the small town. The low dusty buildings are made of stacks of thin rocks for walls and covered by flat wood roofs coated by mud. The outside walls are painted white. Over the road, the hidden inhabitants have hung faded prayer flags. Following Kauncha, we enter a small door with a painting of a comical dancing yak on the side of the building. Inside is a large cold common room with ten small private rooms around the perimeter. We rent a room and dump off our dusty packs. Kauncha quietly leaves and then reappears minutes later, followed by a smiling thin man. Kauncha brings the man over and the man says, “Namista, bie!” His name is Tiran and he is a Jehovah Witness that works as a tour guide. He lives in Pokhara but has to spend most of his time leading westerners around the Himalayas for employment. He speaks German and French but little English. Yet, we manage to exchange stories and talk of our families.

Tiran leaves, taking away a smile as large as our own. How strange to find a brother in such an isolated place. I wish he could have stayed and visited longer but he had to take care of his charges.

I ask the large woman, who acts like she owns the place, what we can have for dinner. She answers me with one word “Dinner!” So we ordered two “dinners”. Our meal consists of two steaming bowls of onions and tomatoes in a spicy broth, greasy fried bread and a small bowl of stale popcorn. We sit at a large central table that is six feet wide and ten feet long. Under the table is a deep hole with a metal bucket filled with ashes. Before I can figure out what the bucket is for a young woman comes in the room carrying a metal bucket filled with red-hot coals. An older woman follows her, all the time harshly yelling at her in Nepali. The cold bucket is replaced with the new bucket and warm air comes rushing from under the table. Now that feels good!

After warming up and eating our “dinner”, we finally feel good enough to look around. There is another couple sitting across from us. They look completely exhausted. The young man looks at me and says something in European. I crinkle my face and he switches to English. “You look exhausted!” he says. We talk for a while. They are from Norway and are on a two-month holiday. He asks me if I have tried a “Mustang coffee”? I say that I hadn’t and so he orders one for me. When he orders the drink, all of the Nepali men look up from their Dal Bhat and turn their heads towards me. I am told that it is the local drink of the people in this area. The large coffee cup emerges and is gently placed in front of me. The entire room watches me tentatively sip my first taste of Mustang coffee. It consists of coffee, apple brandy, spices and curry sauce. I’ll leave the description of the taste to your imagination.

The young mother comes back in the room followed by two young children. I go to our rented room and pull out my sketchpad and color pencils. Bringing them back to the table, I motion to the children to come and see what I am doing. I set up the sketchpad so that we all three can all draw at the same time. For half an hour we draw in the book. The two little girls draw flowers and strange animals. When I finally finish my Mustang coffee, the old woman comes in and sends the girls to bed with an abrupt clap of her hands. The small girls smile and say unknown but kind words to me.

Tamara and I retire to our small room and talk about the rest of the trip. We are mentality drained and physically wiped out. However, a larger problem has appeared. We have left most of our money in Pokhara. Even though the cost of hiking is very little, we only have enough for another week or two. The next town is called Johmsom. Johmsom, a 150-person town, has the last airport this side of Tibet. After talking about it, we decide to call an end to our hike and return by plane to Pokhara. It saddens us to quit the hike early yet we are ready to head back.
Now that the decision to head back has been made, our outlook quickly changes. We now talk about getting back to civilization, sleeping in a room with electricity and washing our cloths in a sink instead of the river. Gone is the feeling of adventure and excitement. Comfort cries out.

Morning comes much too soon and we start what will be the last day of walking. We are happy that today will end the twisting of our ankles and knees in the endless riverbed. The scenery is incredible yet our minds and bodies are just over whelmed by the demands we have placed on them.

When we finally make to the small town of Johmsom we are greeted with a rare sight, a gas driven vehicle. A small tractor drives down the only street, scaring the horses as it roars its way out of town. The large arch that protects the entrance to the town is filled with large brass prayer wheels hundreds of years old. Bright lines of prayer flags stretch from home to home. The thought of being in a real bed soon overwhelms us and we head strait to the airport.

The Johmsom airport is a small three-room building. Three angry men with large greasy guns protect the front door. They yell something at us and Kauncha says that the airport is closed for today. It is late and starting to get dark so we head off to find a room.

Our small hotel has a smoky common room where everyone meets for meals and visiting with other hikers. We order two Dal Bhat’s and splurge on a Coke. I strike up a conversation with a tall English girl. Her face is heavily worn with deep lines around her eyes. Thick muscled arms and legs protrude from her paper-thin hiking cloths. We talk about traveling in Asia and the challenges it brings. She says in a heavy English accent, “Fir exsample, I’ve bin waitin’ here fer tree daze. If tat bugger of a plane don’t show up morrow, I’m hoof’n it outta here!” She has been hiking for a few months and is now haggard in more ways than just physically.

At 6AM, the next morning we arrive at the dirty building that holds the sign “Airport” over the door. Kauncha bribes the dirty guards at the front of the building, so we can be allowed inside to buy our tickets. “We have to make money to feed our children!” a guard tells me as we step inside. The next thirty minutes are a blur of; weighing our luggage, buying luggage stamps, a fat man with rice on the front of his shirt ripping our stamps and complaining we need a exit stamp, going back and getting the exit stamp, same fat man ripping exit stamps complaining we need luggage stamps, showing fat man our ripped luggage stamps, him telling us that we need luggage stamps that are not ripped, me laughing at fat man, fat man not laughing, Kauncha giving money to fat man to let us though. The joys of a third world airport are so vast and varied.

We finally get into the waiting room of the airport. The small concrete room is dark and smells wet Yak. In the back of the room a small child holds a puppy. Urine runs down the front of the child’s jacket until the dog is finally dropped to the concrete floor. Three French hikers stand in the corner making fun of the locals, all the while smoking wet cigarettes and smelling worse than the dog. Tamara and I find a bench and look out the window at the chilly windswept morning.

Then something unimaginable happens. Two tall, bleached blond, American women come bursting into the room, complaining that they didn’t have time to put all their makeup on. The whole room is bewildered at the spectacle of the finely clad models, wearing brand new shinny hiking boots. Long painted fingernails point to the dog and they both scream, “That dog is peeing!” Tamara and I move as far from them as possible. We start to speak Spanish, hoping that we don’t look too American. Apparently, they are airline stewardess on a two-day leave. From their overly loud conversation, I deduce that they just flew into Johmsom yesterday, looked around, slept on hard beds, ate “Yucky” food and must now return to Kathmandu to catch their flight back to somewhere in American.

Over the last week or so, I have developed some sort of admiration and pride that Tamara and I have been able to reach this point in the Himalayas. The obnoxious laughing of these girls seams to taint all that, leaving me with a strange feeling of disgust for all Westerners.

The French people in the corner start to chatter and point out the window. In the distance a plane snakes its way down the valley, rocking back and forth like a child’s swing. The 12-person plane is blasted with wind gusts from every direction. Only the locals are not surprised and disappointed when the plane flies over the runway and returns down the narrow valley without stopping
Kauncha appears and quietly says that all flights are cancelled for today because of the weather. “Maybe tomorrow”, he says with a shrug. The Stewardess’s detonate upon hearing the news. “I want that plane back here NOW!” one screams. “I will lose my job if I am not back today!” the other sobs. Kauncha quickly leads us out of the building and says, “People like that gather trouble to themselves.”

Sitting on the front steps of our hotel we convene a “war counsel”. Kauncha will not express an opinion, so Tamara and I decide to walk out. Yet, when we decide on “hoof’n it outta here!” our attention is drawn to the 27 kilograms of nylon and junk that makes up our packs. The thought of lifting them up and caring them 120 kilometers back the way we came doesn’t inspire enthusiasm. Kauncha says, “Have you thought about hiring a porter?” What two weeks ago seamed like a repugnant idea, becomes a first-rate plan.

Kauncha gathers a few dirty men and I interview them by looking into their eyes and asking their names. I feel like Luke Skywalker in Star Wars looking at Droids. In the end, we find a short young man with huge shoulders to carry both of our packs for $4.35 a day not including lodging or food. We leave immediately, back across the endless riverbed.

Our journey over the difficult terrain starts out bad. A large windstorm springs to life. The wind picks up and stings our faces with sand and dirt. At one point, the wind picks up to over 50 kilometers an hour and we hide behind a large rock for almost an hour. It feels like a tornado. We could not open our eyes or hear anything and could just barely breath. Tamara and I giggle at the misery of the situation. We laughed and laughed hiding behind the rock. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. We traveled over 20 miles that day.

The second day of hiking begins pleasantly. Being unburdened from our packs, we are able to look around and see the marvels around us. Bamboo, seven stories high, line our path as we walk by a waterfall that is so high that the water never hits the ground. As we are looking at the waterfall a bird with a wingspan of ten feet, flies past, leaving us doubting our eyes. All the time the Himalayas act as a canvas for this wondrous painting. This country is wild and so much bigger than us. That night we pull our sleeping bags on the roof of our small room and watch falling stars. I’ve never seen the night sky so clear.

The next day, the sun wakes us up and encourages us to get up early. Tamara and I walk ahead of the rest of our party, enjoying the morning. Our stone path is glued to the side of a steep raven. On the left or “upside” of the path, about 15 feet up, a small village watches over the river far below. Tamara and I talk about how we are finally becoming comfortable as travelers. We seam to have become more adept with dealing with the many strange situations that develop. Rolling with the waves, not imposing our form upon the environment we visit. At least that is how we feel today, being followed by a Porter and a Guide.

Just then, we approach a group of cows. Big cows. There is about 5 of them standing on the trail, blocking the way. I don’t think that there will be a problem because we have successfully crossed Yak, buffalo, lizards, crazy old men, naked children, horses, sheep, goats, donkeys as small as dogs, and dogs as large as donkeys. I pull a small stick off of a bush and wave it in the air yelling, “Move cow, move!” Unfortunately one particular cow, the largest one with horns over three feet long, decided that we were not going to give him any lip. It makes a frightfully deep and menacing sound and starts to walk right at us, all the time slobbering and thinking bad things at us. We are so startled that for a second we freeze. I announce to no one in particular, “We have a Buffalo problem!” To our right is a very steep cliff down to the river and so we start to climb up the steep bank on our left. One problem with our ingenious plan, we can’t climb up more than 2-3 feet and now the cow creature is too close for us to run back down the trail. Here is where it gets interesting.

A strange sense of destiny rushes over me. A monster has backed me into a corner with my wife behind me. There is no doubt in my mind that death or great injury will come to the demon cow or me in the next 30 seconds. Tamara will only be injured over my injured body.

The outside worlds slows down to a snails pace as a manic smile tiptoes onto my face. I can literally see the slobber drip from the bovine’s mouth in slow motion. A master plan springs to my mind; when the cow gets a little closer I can jump over it’s large horns and grab it by the neck. There, I will use my Judo skills I learned from Bruce Lee’s movies and let fate decide who will survive. The Bull can sense my Judo skills and so locks its eyes on me. I think to myself, “Well, it was a good life” and prepare for the inevitable.

Just as I am ready to jump over the 3000-LB bull, Tamara does something that only a woman would think of. She screams! “Namista!” she yells at the top of her lungs. Namista is the standard form of greeting in Nepal. Both the bull and me look at her wondering why she would do that. Just then a very old man sticks his head over the cliff above us. The old man yells something at the cow and it takes one last look at me and walks off, back to his awaiting harem. I start to shake as I think about what just happened; I don’t think my TV Judo would have worked. I am really glad that I didn’t have to die today. Who would have thought of yelling for help? I guess that is what Wives are for, finding better solutions to situations.

After a few hours we link up with the rest of our party and laugh about what would forever be known as the “Buffalo Problem”. When it starts to get dark we stop at a small village and find a restaurant. It is a Buddhist restaurant and so provides “Wader Buffaloe” on the menu. “Take this Cow,” I say to myself as I take a big bite of steak. It tastes more like a dark textile than meat but cow never tasted better.

I like being in top of the food chain.

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Around the World 8

Posted by Christopher in Around the World on February 28, 1999

Day 21
Location-Nepal, Somewhere in the Himalayas
Temp-42 C Altitude-7500ft Weather-Chilly with strong wind
City population-25-30 Wittness-2 (Tamara and Christopher)

“Please, help my baby.”

We leave the small town of Tatopani and follow the river up into the mountains. We actually aren’t traveling on the mountains, just between them following the ever-shrinking river. The land that makes up the mountains is brittle and seams to always be moving. Earthquakes are an every week occurrence. As we move further into the mountains they are no longer visible. The giant monoliths hide behind the clouds, even though we are right next to them. The vegetation has become scarcer and more desert like in appearance.

I am not sure where we are on the map; I just know that we are on the same trail that heads to Tibet. As long as we stay on this trail we can’t get lost. Yet, the trail has become difficult to follow at times. With the all the landslides, we have to pick our way around many unstable areas. Sometimes the canyon becomes impossible to follow on one side and so we must cross to the other side on long wire bridges.

The bridges are built out of steel cable and wood planks. The Nepali government and even foreign governments pay for the materials to build the bridges. The bridges are well built, yet the maintenance is very poor. Every bridge we have crossed has had cracked or broken planks. To fix the holes in the bridge, the locals set flat rocks over the holes. At times the wind will pick up and causes the bridge to rock back and forth. So the process of crossing a bridge is complex, you try to step around the weak areas of the bridge while trying to fight the wind but you must not touch the steel cables as they have sharp steel slivers. It makes for a memorable 5 minutes, each time you attempt a crossing.

Here it is, a few days later and we are feeling much better physically. Our bodies have become used to the effort of hiking up and down hills. Also, we are getting used to listening to our bodies when they tell us to do or not to do something.

Tatopani was the last real town that we have seen. At night we stop at small collections of homes that are glued into a small pocket of the canyon. At these homes we eat a dozen different types of soup, but only one type of bread, Tibetan bread. Tibetan bread is a thick and heavy wheat patty that is boiled in animal fat of some sort. With full bellies and tired legs we sleep well under the provided thick wool blanket.

Thin tin roofs cover the stone and wood homes. Newspapers and wool rags are stuffed in every crack, to keep out the intensely cold nights. Outside of each home there is a dog. They are rarely visible in the daytime; in fact I think the owners keep them locked up. But when the sun sets, the dogs are loosed. When we started the hike the dogs were small and so didn’t notice them. However, as we have been traveling the dogs have increased in size and fierceness. The dogs are now to a size that I am fearful to leave the home after nighttime.

We are seeing less and less hikers as we progress toward Tibet. Today we haven’t seen one westerner the whole time. Kauncha says that most hikers turn back after a few days. I don’t blame them but Tamara and I really want to make it to the other side of the mountains and into the Kingdom of Mustang.

The trail we are following has just stopped at a large landslide. The thin trail is completely obliterated. The landslide looks like it happened ten or twenty years ago. It was so large of a slide that the “British Geographic Society” built a 120-foot steel cable bridge to the other side. For the last half-hour we have been waiting for our turn to cross. We are waiting because; on the other side of the bridge is one of the largest collections of sheep I have ever seen. The sheep have stopped at their side of the bridge. We would cross but there is now were to go, the sheep fill the trail for as far as I can see. They are everywhere, except for on the bridge. I understand their hesitation; the bridge looks to be a particularly scary one. Some of the wood slates are broken; leaving gaping holes that look down, a 150 feet, to the wild river below.

A man comes into view on the other side, fighting his way to the front. He kicks and beats the sheep to clear a path to the front. As he claws his way to the front of the line, one sheep behind him almost falls off of the cliff; it panics and pushes its way back onto the trail and into the flock. This action causes a visible wave of pushing and shifting that runs upstream and downstream of the wool river of sheep. When the wave hits the man, he is almost knocked off of the trail too. He yells and curses as he finally makes it to the front of the line. After he rests for a minute, he grabs one of the first sheep by its extra long horns. The kicking animal is dragged screaming across the bridge. Slowly, one then two sheep cross the bridge following the frantic long horn sheep. Then the spell is broken, a flood of sheep pour across the now undulating wire bridge. The entire pack of short white sheep starts to surge forward.

There is a small village of three to four homes on this side of the river, tucked between the river and the trail. Children and their mothers have come out of their homes to watch the migration of mutton. Tamara and I sit down by the locals and watch the sheepherder pass us, dragging his sheep. He lets go and the sheep tries to run back across the bridge. The man looses all of his composure and tries to beat the stupid animal with a slender stick. A few old farmers join our seated audience, and we all start laughing as the sheep out maneuvers the herder and runs ahead to eat some grass.

Just then, back on the bridge, a sheep gets its horn caught in the wire cables and stops. The unstoppable force of sheep behind him doesn’t stop moving. Some sheep try to jump over him but something bad is going to happen. I can tell because the entire group of people watching it, all make the same sound, “Oooohhh!” The stuck sheep busts free but the damage has been done. The build up of sheep causes one of them to fall threw one of the many holes in the bridge. We all, including the herder, yell as the sheep falls 150 feet into the churning water. The rest of the sheep merrily keep crossing the bridge as the humans’ watch the one lost sheep resurface and swim to the opposite shore. The entire audience cheers with relief! It climbs onto the shore and runs up the bank 50 feet and then stops. It just sits there; not believing it survived such a drop. Another herder appears on the other side and starts to climb down the bank, towards the sheep. By the time he and another herder get to the one lost sheep, the entire herd has crossed the bridge and is resting on our side of the river.

We should cross now while we have the chance. Nevertheless, we stay and watch the show. The audience cheers for the injured and scared sheep as he out maneuver his way around the two herders. The now angry men trap the sheep in a corner and move in to capture it. Our side of the bank explodes with shouts and cheers as the sheep again escapes. “Yaaaa!” rumbles down the valley. I look over to Tamara and she, along with everyone else, has tears in her eyes from laughing so hard.

Carefully we continue on our journey across the bridge and on down the path. We are used to the altitude now, although we are still climbing. The nights are getting colder and colder but the daytime weather is very pleasant. To help fight the cold, I buy a scarf from a local weaving woman. The dark blue scarf is beautifully made with soft wool of some kind. In Kathmandu, Tamara and I both purchased sweaters made of prickly Yak wool. These sweaters now serve us well in the hills. When the wind blows we put on our light rain jackets over the sweater and we become immune to the chill.

Small lizards sit on rocks sunning themselves as we walk. Tamara keeps trying to sneak up on one of the lizards and take a close up picture. The lizards have other ideas, so she runs from rock to rock with her camera in hand, chasing the quick reptiles. Kauncha quietly laughs at her and says that she acts like a “Newar”. I ask what a Newar is and he says that it is a caste of people that is very interested in nature and art. This whole caste thing is very interesting to me. Being from America, I pretend that there is no such thing as a caste system. But in this part of Asia, they live and die by the caste system. Instead of feeling trapped by their caste, most people feel protected by it. To better understand the caste system, Kauncha and I talk about it for a long time.Nepal’s population is around 21 million. It is growing at an incredible rate of 2.3% a year. All those people fit into about 60 ethnic groups and each group has their own language. The Nepali language is used to communicate between the different groups.

In places like Kathmandu, it was hard to tell the difference between the castes. However, as we have been traveling through the hills, we have passed though many identifiable ethnic pockets. Usually I can identify them by their hats or cloths. Here are the major castes that I know about. I have gathered most of this data from talking to locals about their and other castes.

Brahmans are the largest caste and look the most “Nepali”. They are the Hindu priest caste. They are always Hindu in religion, but have the most modern dress and mannerisms of all the castes. I find that they act slightly proud when dealing with other castes. Brahmans own most of the businesses in Nepal.

Chhetris is the other major Hindu group. They are the warrior caste, but are usually farmers. By having the highest social, political and ritual status they hold most of the powerful positions in Nepal. The Royal family, the Ranas, is of this caste, as is most of the army Generals. Chhetris have lighter skin, are taller and walk in a manner that makes themselves known as Chhetris. Head high and nose even higher.

The Newars are the original inhabitants of the Kathmandu valley. They can be Hindu or Buddhists. Of the few Christians in Nepal, most I met were Newars. They are known as very intelligent and quick witted. They are likely to hold very important jobs because of their high intelligence. Interestingly, most artists are Newars. Navin and his family belong to this caste.

Tibetans are the easiest for me to spot. Their eyes are very bright and their faces are wide, slightly Mongoloid. They are very friendly and always speak good English. In fact, they usually don’t know Nepali. They value education very highly. Somewhere around every large town in Nepal, there is a Tibetan refugee camp. When the Chinese killed the government and took over the country in the 50’s, they outlawed the Buddhism religion. Many Tibetans left the country to escape death or imprisonment. Even still, Tibetans flee Tibet using this very same road. The Dalai Lama is the most famous Tibetan.

The Tamangs are the largest hill group. They live outside towns and usually stay away from civilization. Their name means, “horse soldier”, as their ancestors came over the mountains with Genghis Khan, as his cavalry. Their faces are very Mongoloid like. Most of the “Sherpas” are actually of this caste. The real Sherpa people make up only a very small percentage of Nepal’s population. In the 1920’s, adventurers from England came to the Himalayas to climb the mountains. Nepal at that time was a closed country and fiercely protected its borders from outsiders. So the mountain climbers would travel into Tibet and China to climb the other side of these mountains. To get there, they would travel through the valley of the Sherpa people. Since that time, the name “Sherpa” has become more of a buzzword. Even though they have a reputation known worldwide as being nice and proud people, the truth is much different. Their small valley, by Mount Everest, has become so westernized that it severely affects their morality and attitude. Sherpa economy has become totally dependent on touristism to the point that they have no other skills or trades. A common joke in Nepal is that white people think Sherpa’s are everywhere and friendly, when in fact they are nowhere and always want something from everyone, except a job.

Then there are the Gurkhas. The Gurkhas are not a caste but more of a job. A Gurkha is someone of any caste that joins the British, Nepali or Indian army. Many Gurkha families live off of their fathers or husbands army wages. Back two hundred years ago the British needed some people to fight their wars. So they developed a specialized unit called the Gurkha. There is even a British recruitment center in Kathmandu and Pokhara. I remember during the war between Britain and Argentina over the Falkland Islands an incident involving the Gurkhas. Gurkha units have a well-deserved reputation of being vicious and of never retreating. Because of this reputation, a whole division of Argentines retreated off of an island because of a rumor that a Gurkha unit was about to land.

The other group that I know about is the Manangis. They are a strange, isolated people that live on the other side of the Himalayas. They came from Tibet centuries ago and now live in their own Kingdom. The Kingdom of Mustang is tucked between Tibet and the Tibetan side of the Himalayas. The Chinese have tried to take the land but it is so small and the people so fierce that it remains free from Chinese control. Nepal has taken a diplomatic route and bribed the King of Mustang with money and a General position in the Nepali army. We are traveling to their ancient capital, a city called Muhtinath. It is the closest that we can travel to Political Tibet, even though we will be in geographic Tibet. The political Tibet, or China as it is now called, is 4 hours walk from Muhtinath. I am excited to be traveling to the Kingdom of Mustang.

The area we are traveling though just keeps changing. I find it strange how quickly the land can move here. Maybe if I explain about the Geography of Nepal you can better understand what it looks like.

Nepal is a small land locked country, only 500 miles long and 125 miles deep. It is maybe the size of the top half of Oregon. Even though it is very small, it has some incredible variation in Geography. The far south of Nepal is hot and humid jungle. The elevation there is only 400-500 feet above sea level. As you move north, 30,000-foot mountain ranges rise up out of nowhere. Just behind the Himalayas, is a huge 15,000-foot plateau. This plateau is called the “roof of the world, or as most people know it “Tibet”. Most rivers in Asia start in Tibet and travel around the mountains to the east or west. However, a few rivers flow through deep gorges in between the Himalayan Mountains. These rivers are actually older than the mountains that they flow threw. How is that possible?

Imagine that India does not exist. Tibet is beachfront property on the Mediterranean Sea. This is how it was 6 million years ago. The landmass that makes up India and Australian moved up from the south and hit the Tibetan land mass. As the Indo-Australian plate continues its push, it slides under the Eurasian plate. This causes the Eurasian plate to buckle and fold in the form of the Himalayan Mountains. Mountains like Mt Everest rise an inch every 8-10 months. Think of the energy it would take to raise Mt. Everest an inch!

So back to the river story. This river, that we are following, was flowing here before India hit Tibet. But, now it just has further to travel until it finds the sea. Tamara has even found some fossils of seashells on our walk. It is strange to think of this area, thousands of miles from the sea as once being a beach.

We have passed the half waypoint of our hike and are now leaving the mountains. They rise up on both sides of us like 15,000-foot cliffs. As we wind our way up out of the mountains we enter a different type of weather. The land is becoming drier and the sun always shines. It is slowly looking more and more like the pictures I have seen of Tibet.

During a rest stop I find a large rock that has an obvious seashell fossil in it. Tamara points out that it is very cool, but basically it is a large heavy rock. Our packs are already heavy and the addition of this rock could break me in half. So for the next 30 minutes I dig around looking for a fossil small enough to take home. I end up finding two, one I will give to my brother in law.The sun starts its decent and so we pick up the pace. In the distance we can see a small town on a hill. The town is made of stone homes with flat roofs of wood slats. On top of every home is a year supply of chopped wood, ready to be brought in and burned in barrel stoves. The trail leads up, out of the riverbed and into the quiet town.

A stone paved road divides the town. In front of every home, is a post provided for tying up your horse. At a small store a couple of horses are tied up in front of a building and I look around for the cowboys. It looks just like a cowboy movie. The only difference is that in this area, everyone is Buddhist. Being a Buddhist town, a large arch protects the entrance to the town. Inside the arch is a collection of prayer wheels on each side. As a thin man enters the arch behind us, he spins each wheel.

A prayer wheel is a metal cylinder that has a prayer engraved on it. When people walk by it they spin the cylinder and so say their prayers.

Kauncha halts our ragged train at a small teahouse and we drag our stuff inside. The polite Tibetan woman, who is the owner, invites us to stay. Kauncha says his goodbyes and again disappears.

The location looks so strange that, Tamara and I spend a long time just looking around the seemingly forgotten town. At a small home, we see a sign that offers garlic soup. Inside the stone and wood home sits three tables and a cooking fire, burning in the far corner. Up the stairs I can see two small boys playing with a ball made of a part of some animal. We visit with the owner, a Tibetan woman. She is polite but is concerned about her small daughter. She says that about a week ago, a hot bowl was dropped and the little girl burned her arm. She asks if I can look at the burn. I tell her that I am not a doctor, but she shakes her head and says that I can fix it. The little girl is so sweet maybe a year old.

The burn on the little girls arm looks like it is healing well. As I am looking at the burn, the mother whispers, “Please, help my baby.” I check our backpack but Tamara and I don’t have anything to help the burn heal any faster. I explain to the mother that the wound is not infected and is healing very quickly. The best thing to do is to keep it clean. The woman looks deeply into my eyes and then to my bag. “Please give medicine and make it better. She is small.” My insides tie into a knot as I again tell her that I don’t have anything to help. She turns away disappointed. I feel really strange about not being able to live up the expectations of the four-foot woman.

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