To Be Continued...

I am currently holed up at the Radisson next to the Delhi airport. I was intending on working on the blog until my flight back to the States tomorrow evening, but the hotel's 10 dollar hourly charge for Internet usage has effectively cancelled those plans. (Guess I'll just have to work on my tan instead.)

Maybe I have been living on the cheap in Asia for too long, but I think I am making the correct move in holding off on the blog updates until I return home. Frankly, that price is outrageous. In order to make amends for the delay, I assure you that the last few posts will approach a level of perfection. (Well, probably not, but I'll try.)

See you back in the good ol' US of A.

The Camel and the Cross-Dresser

Wow, you've come back for more of my drivel. (That was, obviously, yet another stab at self-deprecation. I am confident that my writing is more coherent than drivel. Whether you agree is of no concern to me.) Surely you've returned because of the cliffhanging conclusion to my last post...or you've completely run out of ideas to entertain yourself. As I detailed in my previous entry, I was feeling somewhere between miserable and suicidal when we landed in Jodhpur. My chest was throbbing, my throat was nearly swollen shut, and I was being deep-fried in what is apparently the hottest city in India. Yipee.

But there was no time for self-pity. After taking a "nap" of sorts, consuming a plethora of drugs, and stopping off for some vegetarian refueling at the hotel's rooftop restaurant, I joined the group in piling into a jeep bound for the Ossian Desert. Although our driver tried his damndest to make good time, rush hour traffic greatly retarded our progress. And by rush hour traffic...I mean cows. As you might know, the cow in Hindu society is traditionally identified as a caretaker and a maternal figure, and Hindu society honors the cow as a symbol of unselfish giving. Because of cows' elevated social status, their slaughter is legally banned in almost all states of India. As such, they are everywhere. Cows in the road, cows on the sidewalk, cows in the driveway (Jesus, I sound like Dr. Seuss). Furthermore, bovines are not the fleetest creatures and are painfully deliberate in their movements (read: they will always take their sweet time moving out of your way). See the images below to understand the severity of India's cow-caused traffic congestion.


After navigating our way through the cows, we finally made it to the Camel Camp (pictured below). Operated by a local tribal family, the facility offers tourists the unique opportunity to experience daily life in the arid desert region...and you get to ride a camel. (I know that you want to find out if I fell off a camel. Sorry to disappoint, but I didn't do a face plant into a sand dune. Stop here if that was the only reason you were reading in the first place.)


After settling in a bit, we strapped on our walking boots (not really) and marched up the sand dunes to take in the sunset. We engaged in friendly banter with some local children (one of whom would not stop badgering us for a pen...except when his cell phone rang) and took a couple snapshots as the sun descended towards the desert vista. Soon thereafter, we headed back to camp for a traditional Rajasthani meal. Cooked over an open fire (the hardworking chef can be seen above) and consumed on rugs set upon the dirt floor, the meal was a vast improvement over the filth that I had choked down back at the Delhi train station. Nan, rice, lentils, several curries; the local cuisine was much appreciated as I tried to rebound from my "viral."


Although the food was delectable, it was not the highlight of the evening. Following the completion of dinner, we assembled in front of a small campfire and prepared ourselves for a tribal song and dance extravaganza. For the most part, the program went as expected: a local band played the music, we didn't understand any of the words, and the performers repeatedly grabbed each of us to awkwardly join them in the dance party. However, the strangest part of the show was the woman who was the primary dancer. She was in a veil so we couldn't see her face, but I was a tad confused given her rather large hands and strong grip on my skinny wrist. (Well, skinnier than usual. I was a sick man.)


Although the group briefly debated the issue at the end of the evening, it wasn't confirmed until the next morning that the woman was actually a "woman." (For my slower readers: she was a he.) Why was a slender man in a dress dancing semi-lewdly in the middle of the Ossian Desert? Your guess is as good as mine. I fail to believe that there wasn't an actual woman who could have done the dancing. However, I can thankfully check off "dance with a cross-dressing Rajasthani in the middle of the desert" from my ever-expanding bucket list. (I don't know why I am bitching about this. If it had been a woman, I wouldn't have had anything to write besides: "We watched a dance show. It was fun." People barely read this stuff; I think that only my parents would read monotonous trip reports like that. And they would do so only out of love.) Anyway, you be the judge. Can you tell that the lanky figure in the photos above and below is a gent?


Enough with the impromptu game of "Guess the Tribal Dancer's Gender." We awoke the next morning before first light and saddled up on the backs of our enormous escorts. David (one fourth of the quartet of Brits that comprised my fellow volunteers) and I traversed the sand dunes while holding onto the weathered hump of Hera, our divinely named camel. (I'm sure that most of you don't care about the name of my assigned camel, but I like to think that my family appreciates these details. Pictured below is the load-carrying member of our group. Indeed, a face only a mother could love.)


Anyway, I managed to hold it together on the bumpy ride; loosely translated, this means that I did not accidentally trigger a camel stampede. (I briefly considered yanking on the reins so that I might goad Hera into popping a wheelie, but thought better of it as I was unsure of whether my health insurance policy covered camel-related accidents. Opportunity lost.) Besides that great success, I was treated to a beautiful sunrise and a sumptuous breakfast upon our return. (Despite my rather sullen expression in the third photograph, I did enjoy the morning feeding. And I also had the chance to photographically document my unintentional attempt at perfecting the Ace Ventura coiffure.)


After the camel caravan adventure, we headed for more densely populated pastures. Upon returning to Jodhpur, we visited the two principal tourist sights in town and (surprise, surprise) I snapped a few photographs. Below is an image-based tour around Jodhpur, known as "The Blue City." (The inspiration for the moniker should be obvious from the first photo.) I think that we can all agree that my photos provide sufficient insight into the Jodhpur experience. In fact, I think you could safely skip the city on your next India vacation because you've "seen it all" in this triumvirate of snapshots. You're welcome. (For those who are unamused by my feeble attempt at humor, the first shot is a cityscape and the bottom two are Fort Mehrangarh.)


Upon completing our tour of Jodhpur, we proceeded to the bus station (or, rather, the designated clearing beside the road) for our overnight transfer to Udaipur. After the disaster of an overnight train ride that I had experienced two nights prior, I didn't envision myself enjoying the ride. Fighting off an overwhelming sense of anxiety, I trudged onto the coach, wedged into my window seat, and tried to ignore the booming volume of the Bollywood film playing on the screen that was fastened to the back of the creaky door separating the passenger and driver compartments. (The Indians love their movie sound effects. In fact, they are used so often that it is not difficult to loosely follow the plot of a film without knowing a single word of Hindi. Every furrow of a brow, twitch of an eyelash, and flare of a nostril is accompanied by a screeching sound that elucidates the mood and motivations of the characters.)

Despite my disquiet, I managed to doze periodically throughout the 7-hour trip. Interrupted only for a "bathroom break" (which in India means that you get off the bus and the driver points to the side of the building that has been designated as a urine depository), I did not have any health issues during the evening. For once, my trepidation was unwarranted. After a mildly restful ride, we rumbled into Udaipur around 5 A.M., collected our belongings, and made our way to the volunteer apartment for some additional slumber. Our weeklong whirlwind through northern India was complete. Now came the hard part: living, teaching, and sleeping in 100 degree temperatures with no running water and unreliable electricity.

NB: I apologize for the delay in getting my India reports posted. The volunteer organization recently moved to a new apartment (with running water!) and my Internet access was cut off for nearly a week. In the interest of keeping you abreast of my current activities and whereabouts, I will try to post again as soon as possible about my teaching experience in Udaipur. I leave for another week of traveling tonight (a tiger safari and the Taj Mahal are on the itinerary...as well as two more overnight train rides) and am unsure of the availability of Internet access at our various destinations. In short, stay tuned and I'll try my best.

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