Entering India

Remember when I complained about how cold I was on the Everest trail? You know, when it was so frigid that I wasn't sure if my fingers and toes were still attached to my body? Yeah, neither do I.

India. The name alone conjures many images: teeming, overcrowded cities, blisteringly hot temperatures, widespread poverty, unceasing chaos in the desperate daily lives of many of its inhabitants. (Oh, did I mention that it's really hot?)

Although it should be fairly obvious from the preceding bad-authory paragraph, I made it to India. After spending nearly a week in Kathmandu (and its abominable air), I jumped on my Jet Airways chariot, suffered through the first thirty minutes of Four Christmases (a Vince Vaughn-Reese Witherspoon effort that appeared well on its way to being a train wreck), and somehow convinced the Indian immigration authorities that I wasn't a terrorist. In other words, I flew to Delhi last Monday.

I must admit that I was a tad apprehensive about venturing to India when I initially constructed my itinerary back in January. I know it sounds crass, but India just seemed a lot "scarier" than Thailand and Nepal. I was 99.9% sure that I would either contract a life-threatening disease or be held hostage in some sort of India-Pakistan missile standoff. (My pessimism rears its ugly head once again. For those concerned, I have avoided both illness and imprisonment...so far.) Despite my self-calculated .1% chance of a debacle-free trip, I went ahead and signed up for four weeks of vegetarianism and 90 degree days. (By the way, I am suffering most from the lack of red meat in my diet. At this point, I anticipate eating steak or cheeseburgers for 27 consecutive meals when I return home.)

After arriving in Delhi, I was shuttled to the hostel that would be housing us for the first evening. Despite my fairly extensive travels, this was my first overnight stay at a youth hostel. (In the past, I have always opted for crummy "hotels" over hostels.) My mother is well-versed in the hostel circuit, having meandered through Europe in the 1960s with little money, and I recall her telling me that they were loads of fun because they allowed you to meet other young travelers. To her credit, youth hostels do allow one to converse with new contemporaries...unless you are rooming with five middle-aged Indian men and a German fellow who may be dead. (I eventually confirmed that the man from Deutschland was alive. He wasn't doing much besides lying face down on his bed, but he was breathing. Which was good because I don't think I would particularly enjoy sharing a room with a corpse.)

I won't elaborate on the restless night that I spent within the dank confines of the International Youth Hostel. All you need to know is that the low point was at 3 A.M. when a particularly foul-smelling gentleman lofted himself onto the upper level of our rickety set of bunk beds and I feared being crushed in a heap of wood, rusty nails, and my new roommate's pudgy torso. (Needless to say, I have determined that this will be my first and last foray into the wonderful world of youth hostels.)

After dining with two other volunteers at Side Wok (a too cleverly named Japanese restaurant that evidently was the only dining option within walking distance of the hostel), our group convened the next morning for a long day of sightseeing in the Indian capital. Cruising through the heavily congested streets in our "air-conditioned" taxi, we visited India Gate, Red Fort, Humayun's Tomb, and the Lotus Temple. For your viewing pleasure, a photo of each sight can be seen below. (Gallery note: The third and fourth photos are both from Humayun's Tomb. The third image is the actual tomb of Humayun, the Mughal Emperor, and the fourth image is the resting place of Ali Isa Khan Niyazi, a Mughal noble in the court of Sher Shah. Just in case you were really curious.)


The streets of Delhi were smelly, dirty, and brimming with people who spoke just a bit too much English. Touts (the sidewalk patrollers who claim to sell pretty much anything) in Kathmandu only knew enough of my native jive to engage me momentarily, but the Delhi hustlers were more persistent in their hawking. For example, I was everyone's "friend." "Come friend," "Hello friend," "Over here friend," "Just a look friend; good price." Although the fawning was incredibly flattering, my "friendships" ended as abruptly as they had begun when I refused to purchase their wares. "No, I don't need a drum." "No, I don't need a cigarette holder." "No, I don't need a used hair trimmer." "Why the hell would I need a badminton racket?"


After an exhausting day of touring Delhi and sidestepping merchants, we made our way to the Old Delhi Train Station for an overnight journey to Jodhpur. Although I was fairly certain that the ride would be lengthy, pungent, and uncomfortable, I was excited to witness the unique chaos of Indian public transportation. Since merely walking down the street provided many an absurd scene, I reasoned that a 12-hour train ride had to be even more ridiculous. And more debilitating to my overall health. (I was decidedly less excited about the latter.)


We boarded our assigned fleet of sleeper cars after a late dinner at a station restaurant that may or may not have been inspected for health code violations during the last century. (That's the slightly anal, Purell-using American talking; for all I know, this particular dining establishment may have been in line with India's health code. India's health code. To me, that's like the minimum SAT score needed to attend a big-time Division I school on a basketball scholarship. Just because you met the baseline requirement doesn't mean you should be trusted blindly. I think this makes sense, but I'm not positive. Let's just move on.)


As I lugged my bulging rucksack onto the train with the eyes of many an Indian focused squarely on my sweaty face, I was more conscious of the staring that has become fairly routine during my time in Asia. Now, I am used to being ogled (just ask the ladi...sorry, I'll stop), but I became slightly unsettled when a portly fellow, who appeared to only contribute burps to the conversation he was having with his seatmates, entered hour two of his attempt to stare at me for the entire evening. To alleviate my discomfort, I scampered up the first two levels of the fold-down bunks and tried to get some sleep. In retrospect, my decision to take the top cot was not a wise one. The perch offered little in the way of air movement or head space and I was slightly worried about breaking several bones should I tumble off my elevated resting place during the night.


Little did I know that the slim possibility of me falling out of bed would be the least of my concerns. Despite the stuffiness of my upper deck sleeping quarter, I managed to pass out for a while. A few hours later, I woke up with a sharp, unpleasant twinge in my chest. As you might remember, I suffered discomfort in the same area of my body while doggedly pursuing the summit of Kala Pattar. You also might remember that KP was a towering mountain. However, I was now having more excruciating pain...while reclining on a train. (I know that my incessant complaining gives the impression that I have the pain tolerance of five-year old girl, but this was one of the worst pains-and there have been a few-that I've ever experienced. In fact, I would have told a doctor that, on a 1 to 10 scale, the pain was an 11. So there.)

After a few minutes of futilely trying to temper the sharp pang in my upper torso, I became somewhat disconcerted about the situation at hand. I was lying in the sticky sleeper compartment of a rickety boxcar. I was 3 hours into an overnight jaunt through the barren Indian desert. My chest felt like it might cave in. Sleep was an impossibility. Oh, and I was also having difficulty breathing.

My troubles began in Nepal when I picked up a slight bout of "Kathmandu cough." Despite its cute little nickname, it's a nasty condition that is caused by inhaling the Nepali capital's disgusting smog for extended periods of time. Ohhh, so that's why everyone wears surgical masks all day. When I boarded the crowded train in Delhi, I thought that my cough would be merely an annoyance during the night. Not so. After 15 minutes of lying in agony and listening to the shrill cries of "Chai!" as the tea man made his rounds, I was fairly confident that one of my lungs had collapsed. (Such an overreaction shouldn't come as a surprise since I think that I have contracted mononucleosis any time my throat hurts.) In fact, my pathetic wheezing probably could have landed me a starring role in the next Vicks VapoRub commercial. (I'll keep you posted if anything develops on that front.) Since I've whined enough about my chest pain, I offer this brief summary of the next nine hours: My breathing sounded like that of an emphysema patient and I slept for approximately 27 minutes during that time period. Fantastic.

When our posse arrived in Jodhpur, I managed to stumble off the train without being overwhelmed by my massive backpack and kept the whimpering to a minimum. (Way to go, me.) The sun was shining, the long trip was over, and we were on our way to rest up at a local hotel. Things weren't that bad. (The previous was, of course, meant to be sarcastic. Things were actually pretty awful. However, I did have some cause for optimism since I managed to avoid dying within the decrepit confines of an Indian sleeper car. As I've mentioned before, merely surviving journeys on public transportation in Asia is reason enough for a rose-colored worldview.)

After several rickshaw drivers nearly came to blows during a spat over who would get our precious rupees, we collapsed at our lodgings for some much-needed rest. A doctor was summoned and, after looking me over for a mere thirty seconds, he diagnosed me with a "viral." Although he was unsure of which specific "viral" had invaded my body, he assured me that I was not terminal and shouldn't worry about arranging a final Skype call to my family. Crisis averted. (I was dubious of his assessment. Of course.) Anyway, he told me to purchase the whole right side of the pharmacy (read: 4 different pills and a bottle of cough syrup) and, lo and behold, I felt better the next day. Well, a little better. Despite my improvement, I know that he didn't recommend riding a camel around the Ossian desert...

Everest

Like Ling Wong the giant panda's pregnancy...this is a big one. (I shouldn't have to clarify, but that was an Anchorman reference.) In fact, it's so big that I have included some "large" photos to complement the usual array of "medium" ones. The text, images, and videos in this post chronicle the two weeks that I recently took out of my "busy" schedule to scramble to the foot of the highest mountain in the world. I didn't fall off a cliff and my head didn't explode from AMS (altitude sickness, but the acronym stands for acute mountain sickness in case you're playing at home). I successfully managed to arrive at Everest Base Camp (standing up) and the summit of Kala Pattar (not standing up). Below is my best attempt at recapping the 14-day trekking bonanza.

The trek to Mount Everest was the most physically and psychologically draining task I've ever undertaken (choking down the ants was a close second). Although I've always been an athlete (albeit of the oft-injured variety) and have physically exerted myself during countless squash matches and soccer games, as well as mentally extended myself during many all-night study sessions (well, a few, anyway), I have never felt so totally depleted as I did at several points along the trail. Frequent gasps for air, piercing headaches, slightly delusional comments; this was my existence during our 3-day stay at 5,000 meters (16,404 feet) and above. Everest, or Sagarmatha to Nepalis, is humbling both in its awe-inspiring massiveness and the heavy toll that it takes on your body.

Before I delve into my tales from the trail, I want to extend my gratitude to my friend Erika. Initially, I had planned on doing this trek solo because A: I only know a few people in Nepal and all of them were still enlisted in their respective volunteer programs and B: I assumed that I would meet fellow trekkers in the tea houses and lodges along the way.

Erika and I met while teaching and living together in Thailand. She's a nice, intelligent young woman from Australia who was often a calming voice of reason in the occasionally chaotic Ao Luk GVI house. In fact, I thought she was one of the most thoughtful and rational people that I'd met during my time in Asia.

Then she decided to tramp through the Himalayas with me and my neuroses. I guess it was a momentary lapse in judgment on her part, but I was thankful that she elected to tag along, particularly in light of the fact that neither our guides nor our fellow lodge-dwellers were ideal conversational partners. (Our guide and porter, named Bale and Asman, respectively, were great guys, but spoke limited English. In the lodges we just met a lot of people who weren't interested in speaking to us. And lots of French people.) Erika was always upbeat and able to keep my complaining to a minimum.

In good times...


and bad times...


So thank you Erika for tolerating my altitude-induced mood swings with the grace of a trekking veteran...and for not strangling me in my sleep.

Enough with the niceties; let's get to the trip report. We awoke before dawn and took a taxi to the airport. Our flight wasn't until 6:15, but we wanted to arrive early in case any issues arose with tickets, bags, etc. In most countries, this would be a logical course of action. However, in Nepal one is hamstrung by the fact that the airport opens when someone feels like it. Thus we ended up watching the sunrise from the Tribhuvan International Airport parking lot while waiting for whomever had the key (and motivation) to unlock the main entrance to the terminal. Our flight was at 6:15; the airport finally opened at ten minutes to 6. (Only in Nepal.)


After finally gaining admittance to the airport, we checked our bags and boarded our flight to Lukla via Yeti Airlines. (By the way, I have yet to come across a sweeter name for an airline than one named after the Abominable Snowman.) Despite what you might think based on the photo above, the flight to Lukla was surprisingly smooth, our pilot managed to steer us clear of those inconveniently placed mountains, and we landed in Lukla thirty minutes later. (I use such a flippant tone. The reality is that the Lukla airport is a notoriously difficult runway to navigate. I'm no aviation expert, but I would guess that it has something to with the fact that the airstrip is carved into the side of a mountain and is so short in length that an incline is required to slow each plane down to prevent it from crashing into the onlooking porter hopefuls. Hopefully the pictures below will provide further illumination.)


We were greeted by our guide Bale (Asman would join us later in the day) and started down the trail. Bale was a jovial fellow who insisted on shouldering both of our backpacks and referring to me as "sir." After a day or two of this nonsense, I implored him not to call me "sir." He said it was a traditional sign of deference in the client-guide relationship. According to him, I was the "big boss man." I assured him that even though I was the "big boss man," I should not be afforded such a level of respect. And that being referred to as "sir" makes me feel old. We ended up settling on a rotation of "Alex" and "bai" (Nepali word for little brother).

On the other hand, Erika was always referred to as "bini" (Nepali word for little sister) and was usually an afterthought when either Bale or Asman would ask us a question about the trek, meals, etc. Despite some progress in the gender equality department, Nepal is still a very male-dominated society. Within the scope of a trek, this translates into the man (that would be me) always deciding how far to trek, when to eat, etc. Additionally, Bale always handed me the bill before leaving each hotel (even though he was well aware that we were each paying for our own expenses). This manifested into somewhat of a running joke as we went along the trail since it was abundantly clear that neither of our trail leaders could wrap their heads around the fact that Erika and I were not a couple. They were equally perplexed that I routinely asked her opinion (well, once in a while, I am the "big boss man") when daily plans were being bandied about. Cultural exchange can indeed be hilarious! (The four of us are pictured below with Bale on the left and Asman on the right. Oh, and I'm in red and Erika is the girl.)


After walking for a few hours we arrived in the village of Phakding, where we would be hunkering down for the evening. The availability of lodges that provide beds, hot meals and even hot showers amazed me. Whenever I've gone "trekking" in the past, it has usually involved sweat, mosquitoes, and the ground. I was living large! (What I failed to realize at the time was that the beds would grow increasingly uncomfortable, the meals would become harder to digest and the showers would become a non-factor because they required you to remove your clothing. The photo below should help you understand. Do I look like I would want to disrobe so that I might bathe myself? I think not.)


After the first night in Phakding, we headed to Namche Bazaar (pictured above), which is the regional center of the Khumbu region (meaning it had Internet and a bakery). This was the longest and warmest day of the trek. (I certainly didn't need to worry about being hot again for many days after that.) We spent an extra day in Namche since we had ascended 800 meters from Phakding and needed to acclimatize. This additional downtime allowed us to mingle with some of the other trekkers in our hotel's dining room. We met some nice people and some indifferent people, but one family stood out (and not for good reasons). Naturally, they were French. The young (although not that young) son and daughter would start screaming at each other no later than 7 A.M. and the boy would often end up ordering three dishes at dinner as he decided he didn't like each one. (I have seen a lot of bratty behavior in my time; theirs would rank near the top.)

I'm not going to recount all the instances that they were rude to me, Erika, or simply everyone within earshot, but I will confirm that the mother and daughter used the common room as a grooming area. To clarify, they took showers, ambled out to the room where Erika and I were writing, and began brushing their manes. For the next twenty minutes, they were successful in covering the floor, table, and chairs (the latter two were used for eating) with a thin layer of their matted hair as the daughter whined to her mother in a grating tone of francais. After I stifled the urge to stab myself in the eye with my pen, it was time to move on to the next stop, Khumjung. (We didn't really leave right after I suppressed said urge to stab myself. It just seemed like a way out of the story.)


The next four days followed a similar pattern. We woke up early, ate breakfast, and walked...up (shocking, I know). Over that period, we hiked from Namche Bazaar to Duglha with overnight stays in Khumjung, Tengboche, and Dingboche. (If you're curious about the route we took, I have attached a map at the bottom of the post. Duglha is missing, but it is located between Dingboche and Lobuje. The heights listed might be slightly different than my notes- as you know, nothing is easy in Nepal- but it was the only small map I could find for this entry. If you really want to know, just Google it.)

The night we spent in Duglha is when I began to derail. Duglha was where I lost the urge to consume solid food. Duglha was where I began having Advil-proof headaches. Duglha was where I started feeling bad for Erika that she had to tolerate my presence. Suffice to say, I won't be returning to Duglha anytime soon. Thankfully the poster pictured below, which was prominently displayed in the lodge's dining room, gave me the strength I needed to continue walking up the trail.


Although I never doubted my ability to keep putting one foot in front of the other, I was beginning to think that my chances of making it to Base Camp waffled between poor and very poor. As we proceeded to Lobuje, my mindset had changed dramatically from the first day when I bombed up the hillside as fast as my legs (and lungs) could manage. I was now in endurance mode; my goals had shrunk to lesser ones like "Get out of bed" and "Don't die." For the next three days, I was at the mercy of the mountain. My breathing began to resemble that of a Biggest Loser contestant following a grueling 2-minute treadmill session. My headache pain had peaks and valleys (seems like an appropriate metaphor), but my nausea and generally unpleasant demeanor never waned. (In fact, my sulky manner would probably have reminded my parents of 1997. To clarify, that was my 13th year on Earth, during which I uttered 12 words and approximately 55,000 grunts in response to their attempts at conversation. Ah, puberty.)

Despite the pity party that I was focused on throwing myself, I did manage to find the energy to haul out my camera and shoot the following yak train video. Soul Train it is not, but who doesn't love a good yak train? (We passed multiple caravans everyday. In case you happen to run into one, always get to the high side of the trail. Yaks are bigger than you and will think nothing of knocking you off a cliff.)



AMS is not fun and can gnaw at you in a variety of ways. In particular, I suffered from a total loss of appetite and relied on an all-liquid diet while we were in the (really) highlands. I would not advise this strategy to even my worst enemies. When one is climbing a mountain, they need nourishment from hearty, nutritious food. I relied on soup and tea. My reluctance to choke down solid food stemmed from both my nausea/loss of appetite and my deduction that I couldn't eat and breathe at the same time. (Breathing trumps eating. Always.) As I sat in Gorak Shep (a mere 2 hours from Base Camp) lamenting the 50% oxygen levels, it was clear that I needed some food. But I can't eat and breathe at the same time....I'll just sit here and drink tea between gasps.


It was also in Gorak Shep that Erika completed her memorable string of altitude-influenced quotes. As we ascended and less oxygen was getting to each of our brains, my trail partner started spouting out increasingly nonsensical things. The higher she went, the funnier she got. (In my case, the increased elevation just made me more sullen and irritable. Go figure.) As any good travel companion should do, I took it upon myself to jot them down. In ascending order of awesomeness:

"My brain hurts." - mumbled during our first day at a higher elevation in Phakding

"My face smells like a baby's ass." - said during one of her first baby wipe sessions (baby wipes are popular along the trail since there is often no running water at the lodges)

"I want to go hug that yak." - said while staring longingly out the window at one of the smelly beasts

"I'm going to go baby wipe myself." - said on multiple occasions

"At least you can say you've been in my pants." - uttered nonchalantly while handing me her spare pair of fleece pants so I wouldn't freeze during the night.

"You nearly got yakked." - said after I almost got speared by the headgear of a yak

"I have an icicle in my eye." - said on Kala Pattar

Let's move on to more serious matters (or just move on). Below is a video I shot from Lobuje, a small village located at the foot of the Khumbu Glacier (which you are looking at as the clip starts) and one of our final stops before making a run at Base Camp. Hopefully this will give you an idea of how cold and windy it was up there.



After choking down some soup and my 200th cup of black tea (of the trip, not the day; the latter would be some sort of record), we departed from Gorak Shep and made the final push to Base Camp. Thankfully, we had gorgeous weather and strolled into the rather desolate summit expedition launching point in just over two hours. Standing at 5,357 meters (17,575 feet) surrounded by snow, ice and 8,000 meter peaks, I was in awe. We made it. I'm not going to be eloquent here so just take a look at the clip below. (Directors note: I don't know how Bale misunderstood me when I asked him what kind of man he thought I was. He had literally been telling me everyday that I was a "very lucky man" because of all the good views we were seeing. I knew it wasn't for any other reason.)



After putting our collective footprint in the Base Camp snow, we descended back down to Gorak Shep for the night. It was cold, I didn't eat or sleep, and we left the following morning at 5 o'clock. (So it was everything I imagined!) The reason we rose at such an early hour was to tackle Kala Pattar (5,545 meters/18,192 feet). Meaning "black rock," KP (I just made that nickname up) left me with no feeling in my fingers, minimal feeling in my toes, and a new appreciation for the acrobatic qualities of snot. (When it's too cold to get out a tissue, the wind is blowing at 50 mph, and you can't breathe, a runny nose seems rather insignificant.)

As I approached the summit, the temperature was probably hovering around 10 degrees Fahrenheit (-25 degrees Celsius) with the windchill making it feel much colder. I also started having slight chest pains. At this point, a rational person would turn around because A: it's Kala Pattar, not Everest and B: nobody cares except you if you make it to the top. But it should be abundantly clear by now that I was sometimes not a rational person during this trek. This was one of those times. (And dammit, this was the highest point I'll probably ever reach in my life so I was not stopping.) An indicator of how little brain activity was going on inside my head can be derived from the following internal conversation that I was having with myself:

Alex 1

"Who's going to make it to the top?"

Alex 2

"This guy."

Alex 1

"You know what's waiting up there for you?"

Alex 2

"Yes. There is a stack of Wendy's junior bacon cheeseburgers, Marisa Miller in a bathtub, and an oxygen tank."

So there you go. I was encouraging myself with the promise of fast food (despite having no appetite, I thought greasy grub would be a useful motivator; I am sooo American), naked supermodels, and air more to my liking. Not surprisingly, none of these things was waiting for me when I lumbered up to the summit like a drunken brontosaurus. However, the video below (and the first photo in this post) should give you an idea of the views that were waiting for me. (Directors note: The slurred speech near the end of the clip is amusingly Blair Witch-esque, but parents should be advised that my contorted face may scare young children.)



As you can see from the clip, I was not in great shape. But dammit, I stood atop an 18,192 foot peak. I'm sorry, but I really can't overstate how exhilarting those few minutes were. I know it's uncharacteristic of me to get excited about something like a 5-year-old child does about candy, but this was one of the coolest things I've done in my life. Standing on top of that mountain made me realize how fortunate I was; both to have made it to the top and to have the opportunity to be in Nepal in the first place. (Sorry, I'll simmer down now.)

When I started really worrying about frostbite, I began quickly walking/rolling down the peak. Thankfully, Bale was there to hold me up a few times (he had stayed down the mountainside with Erika) and I managed not to break my neck on the descent (that would have put a damper on the whole trek). We packed up our gear at Gorak Shep and started walking down the trail at brisk clip. Oxygen awaited us and we had a wonderful reunion with it at Pangboche, Namche, and eventually Lukla. Our original flight out of Lukla was cancelled because of poor visibility ("poor visibility" meaning the entire town was lodged within the confines of a cloud), but we sucessfully arrived in Kathmandu the following day. (Who doesn't want to spend an extra day in Lukla?)

The last photograph of our trip was taken solely to satisfy my sophomoric sense of humor. While waiting in the airport with our fingers crossed in the hopes that a giant cloud wouldn't suddenly envelope the airport, my (and Erika's) day brightened...

She appeared to be from Germany, but was not speaking German. She appeared to not have the desire to dance, but she danced (at the gate upon seeing our plane arrive). She appeared to be a relatively sane individual, but she willingly walked around sporting one of the most grotesque mullets I have ever laid eyes upon.

And.

It.

Was.

Awesome.

I survived Everest and saw one hell of a mullet. Mission accomplished.

NB: The link to the complete trek photo album is in the upper-right hand corner, as usual. Take a gander if you so desire.

NB: I'm off to India tomorrow after 7 weeks in Nepal. I am unsure of what awaits me there (other than 1.1 billion people). However, I looked up the temperature in Udaipur, which is where I'll be living. 100 degrees Fahrenheit (37 degrees Celsius). And I've heard there's a bit of a water shortage problem. Pray for me.

Pictured above is a close second in the juvenile humor photo contest. In order to clearly denote its runner-up status, I've displayed it in a slightly smaller form.

Day
1. Kathmandu-Lukla-Phakding
2. Phakding-Namche Bazaar
3. Namche Bazaar (Rest Day)
4. Namche Bazaar-Khumjung
5. Khumjung-Tengboche
6. Tengboche-Dingboche
7. Dingboche-Duglha (not on the map)
8. Duglha-Lobuje
9. Lobujue-Gorak Shep-Everest Base Camp-Gorak Shep
10. Gorak Shep-Kalapattar-Pangboche
11. Pangboche-Namche Bazaar
12. Namche Bazaar-Lukla
13. Lukla (Snow day at the airport)
14. Lukla-Kathmandu

Yours truly with Everest (the peak with the snow blowing off of it) in the background.

Base Camp: (from left) Asman, Erika, me, Bale

Welcome to Trisuli

I just reread my last post. Jesus, that's just downright depressing. Foremost, it's probably making my mother cry (or so I'd like to think), and I'm sure that you don't want to read such morose prose. I apologize wholeheartedly. (Additionally, it's ridiculous that I wrote that the Bhaktapur incident had "been confined to the pages of my notebook until now..." Who the hell am I? Am I writing lead-ins for Dateline NBC now? You're hardly reading the long-lost memoirs of an important and interesting celebrity or historical figure. Or those of Steven Seagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, or Nicolas Cage.)

After surviving Bhaktapur, I felt ready for anything. Things could only improve for both my body and my psyche. And, amazingly, they did (well, for my psyche anyway). As we boarded the bus to take us westward out of Kathmandu, I couldn't help but wonder what my living arrangement would be like. At this point, I had received minimal information regarding my housing and had just spent a miserable night in Bhaktapur. Needless to say, I was growing increasingly dubious about both my desire and physical ability to happily reside in the Nepalese countryside for three weeks. As for my accommodations, I kept envisioning a collection of dilapidated huts. (Ever the optimist. At least I didn't picture said huts being made out of yak dung. I must be making psychological progress.) I am fully aware that such a notion is ridiculous, but after the previous night (from hell), I was a wee bit jaded.

As the bus pulled to the side of the road after a three-hour journey, I was unsure as to whether this was my stop. Once it was confirmed as such (mainly because nobody else made a move for the exit), I took stock of my new home. Christened Trisuli Center (most likely because it is situated next to the Trisuli River), the village serves as an entry point for the many rafting trips that Himalayan Encounters (GVI's partner organization that oversees the volunteer program) operates year-round. The town and rafting center (on the right side of the picture below) are connected to the other side of the river by a long bridge suspended approximately 100 feet above the lazily flowing water. The bridge is stable, but it still takes a few trips before one feels totally at ease traversing it.


My spartan bedroom provided no frills, but it did protect me from the elements (which is always good). It also served the secondary purpose of being a breeding ground for bed bugs (or udus, as the Nepalis call them). As such, our place of slumber was relocated to an open-air balcony. While offering desirable seclusion, the nook did not prove to be all that comfortable (wooden floors usually aren't). Both of my sleeping quarters can be seen below. I highly doubt that any of you are jealous.


My adopted home was a charming little hamlet that relies on the frequent influx of tourist rupees while granting them beautiful scenery and friendly smiles in return. I realize that last sentence was overwhelmingly hokey, but I've never met friendlier people than the Nepalese. Despite their hardscrabble daily life, Nepalis (particularly those with whom I lived) never stop smiling. In particular, the neighborhood kids that I taught/mentored/served as a punching bag for were some of the warmest and most carefree individuals that I've ever encountered.

In the interest of brevity, I will summarize the formal teaching element of my Nepalese experience as limited. This was for two reasons: holy days and academic exams. These two disruptive forces combined to limit my teaching duties to three days (over the course of three weeks). As I mentioned in previous posts, disorganization is a hallmark of basically everything in Nepal. As such, the country is both endearing and exasperating, depending on the day.

Although my "formal" teaching duties at the government primary school were limited by the various academic breaks, I grew closest with the village children who participated in Trisuli Young Leaders, which is a youth club of sorts that we ran each afternoon to practice English, do community projects, play sports, etc. And by play sports I mean participate in a game of beach rugby where the primary objective for everyone other than me is to rip off my extremities. The boys loved having my (relatively) oversized frame in the game because they could tee off on my arms, legs, ankles, neck, etc. I survived the first Saturday on the gridiron without suffering any catastrophic injuries, but was slightly apprehensive about trudging down to the beach the next weekend. Nevertheless, I powered through the soreness for a second session of rugby with a rabid pack of 13-year-olds. (I use such gravitas. My tone would be more appropriate if I had written something more impressive, like "gutted out a marathon" or "broke the world record in the bench press.") Anyway, most of my rugby crew is seen in the picture below, which was taken on the morning of Holi.


Ah yes, Holi. Known as the Festival of Colors, it is the popular Hindu celebration that takes place each spring and primarily consists of people throwing colored powder and water balloons at each other. (In my experience, as well as that of my fellow teacher Ellie, motor oil and eggs were also thrown into the mix.) I won't go into the religious significance, specific rituals, etc. because I think the photos above and below give a fuller understanding of what it feels like to experience Holi. In short, it is absolute chaos (in good way, not like being folded into a minivan in Kathmandu) and everybody, and I mean everybody, goes insane for the entire day. In short, Holi = awesomeness. (By the way, the last photograph is not my head shot for a possible Apocalypse Now remake. But I think I'd get the part.)


As memorable as Holi was, my most vivid recollection of living in rural Nepal is...the buses. Understand this about bus travel in Nepal: The best place to look is your lap so as not to witness the 87 possible accidents that you narrowly avoid along the way. In particular, I recall an afternoon trip that Ellie and I took to the quaint hillside village of Bandipur. As the bus lurched down the winding highway, horn honking constantly, panic-stricken expressions on our faces (or at least mine), I was unsure of whether I was actually going make it back from Bandipur. (Side note: I specify my uncertainty about making it "back from Bandipur" because we were taking a "local" bus for the return trip. There is an important distinction to be made between "local" buses and "tourist" buses. If you are interested in safety and a reasonably competent driver, stick with the tourist buses. However, these coaches run less frequently and are more expensive. If you are interested in getting to your destination expeditiously and are amenable to accepting the increased risk that you might die in one of Nepal's daily "road mishaps," which is a phrase used by the newspaper to describe any automobile accident regardless of how many people perished, then hop onto a local bus. In addition to being death traps, local buses might require you to share your seat with livestock. There I go again with my parenthetical notes spilling into parenthetical paragraphs.)

Anyway, as we hurtled along the highway back to Trisuli, I looked to Ellie for guidance. Ellie, who had been living in Nepal for a few months, was immune to the fear caused by Nepalese drivers' total disregard of defensive driving principles. I quickly deduced that all drivers' strategy is to maintain a steady horn attack because, in stark contrast to America, where a horn usually means "stop" or "get out of my way", a screeching horn in Nepal means "keep doing what you're doing" and "stay where you are." Even with this "system," I put my chances of survival at 50/50. (Interestingly, each truck also seems to have its own custom horn, many of which play a tune for up to five seconds. Apparently, ringtones are to Americans what automobile horns are to Nepalis.)

After 2 1/2 weeks, I went back to Kathmandu. Why, you might ask? Two words: bowel infection. Warning: the following is disgusting. Stop reading if you do not want to learn about bowel infections.

I had had a pain in the side of my stomach for almost three weeks. I was far too familiar with the toilet and had um, "disposed" of far more food than I had consumed (I told you this was going to be disgusting). After whatever I had eaten exacted its revenge on my digestive system for the umpteenth time, I decided that it was time to pack it in and consult a physician in Kathmandu. (Additionally, I don't think I could have looked more unattractive, gaunt, sickly, etc. See the picture below for proof and ladies, please try to control yourselves.) After saying goodbye to Ellie and my students, I rode back to the capital without incident (I was on a tourist bus, of course) and visited a local medical facility. Since vexatious hospital visits are turning into somewhat of a theme on my journey, I prepared myself for the worst.


But it didn't happen. I met with a knowledgeable, English-speaking doctor and her visiting American resident. After a series of tests, I was diagnosed with a bowel infection and prescribed a 5-day antibiotic regimen. And lo and behold, I felt perfectly fine by the end of the week. "Perfectly fine" enough to attempt the Everest Base Camp trek...

NB: I have linked all the photos from Kathmandu, Bhaktapur, Trisuli, etc. in the upper right-hand corner of the page. You should know the drill by now.