Sometimes Trekking, Sometimes Rafting
So there is this Nepali guide song that is in Nepali except for the lines "Sometimes trekking, sometimes rafting." And so that's what we did. Apparently Nepal is famous for it's rafting, and so we took a two day trip down the Bhote Khosi. I had never been rafting before and for whatever reason, it never really compelled me. I was pretty indifferent, but I figured if there was ever a time to try, it was here in Nepal. As it turns out I had a blast despite the fact that the rapids were mainly class 2 and 3s due to the drought and the spring time; not the rager it usually is after the monsoon season in the fall. I see rafting as a more physical and exciting version of the water rides I used to do at amusement parks. I know that's probably an oversimplification to say the least, but it was fun. We stayed at this place called the Lost Resort and it was really beautiful and peaceful there.
In our group were these five girls who were spending the year volunteering in remote villages in the Terai of Nepal near India and had gotten two weeks off for vacation. I must say I was really impressed. They were living with host families in separate villages and their lifestyles were like the locals. Dal Bhaat twice a day, sharing a room, latrines, one didn't have electricity, the whole nine yards. They had nothing but our full respect.
Last Days in Kathmandu and Taking off for Tibet
And I was really exhausted when we got back. I thought it was all the rowing, being tired of being in Kathmandu and I felt a little bit itchy to move on. We've been in Nepal for almost six weeks, which is the longest we've been anywhere. But as it turns out I've got a head cold. nargh. But I'm sad to be leaving Nepal. I've gotten used to the craziness of Kathmandu. It seems a shame to leave now that I've mastered walking down the street without getting hit by a rickshaw and make our way back to our guest house despite the fact that there are no street names.
I did some last minute sightseeing (I finally got a glimpse of the Kumari living goddess, an eight year old girl that lives in a temple and is worshipped as a goddess).
We also went to the movies and saw a very western style Indian movie (Being Cyrus) in the movie theater. I was a little disappointed we didn't see some Bollywood, but I must say I was impressed with the theater. Stadium style, assigned seating (e. leven no more pincher move!), huge screen and super clean. They even checked my bag as I walked in to make sure I wasn't smuggling in snacks, smokes or gum.
So we leave at 6 am in a jeep for Tibet. Every tour agency we spoke to told us not to expect very much from the guide or the guesthouses once we cross the border, but we're both psyched to be back in the mountains. More when we get to Lhasa.
By the way, we decided that we needed a little more time to avoid rushing through China, so we're now coming back home at the end of June. Clarence (or anyone else), if you can make it to China before then, let us know.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Random Bits about Nepal
Okay, I was a little tired when I wrote my last post and so there are a few random bits I'd like to add.
Posing with the Maoists
Also, to add one good story, we did encounter the Maoists in Ghorepani on the Annapurna Circuit (as expected) and we were asked to make a "donation" to their cause, of roughly $15. It was a little disappointing in some regards; they look like ordinary Nepalis, unarmed, no uniforms. In fact, I thought they were Nepali trekkers. Anyhoo, we asked for a "group discount", which they readily agreed to, knocking off about 15%. And so we all go went and paid and received receipts for our donations to ensure that we didn't get asked again if we came across their colleagues. I was feeling a bit bitter about being forced to give them money, so I asked if I could take a picture of them writing out the receipts. I was sure that they would say no. Somehow they thought I wanted a picture posing with them, and agreed to do it. So we ended up getting this group photo of all of us waving our receipts in the air with the two Maoists. Of course after we took the picture, they told us that we were not to show the pictures to the Army under any circumstances. Not the smartest people. We suspected they sent their interns since it was snowing outside.
Gurus, Twix and Wine
So I did opt for a three day yoga course at Sadhana Yoga in Pokhara. It's about a 40 minute walk outside of town and on top of this hill with an amazing view of the lake. It was a pretty good deal - paying about $25 a day for room, board and classes. Ashanga, the guru there, was pretty young and had a funny sense of humor. On the first night I wasn't sure what to expect, but he ended up telling us a rather crude joke involving Harleys and women in heaven. The only other student there was a German named Peter who was there for over a month doing a teacher training course.
What I also appreciated about Ashanga was his back sliding ways. All the meals prepared (read dal bhaat) were organic and ayervedic. On my first afternoon, Durga, Ashanga'swife, asked me if I wanted a sweet. I said sure, since I loved her lunch, expecting some kind of homemade sweet. Instead, she comes back with two packages of Twix which she shared with me and her family. Ashanga said he tried Twix a few years ago and it kind of stuck with him. For the record, that was a one shot offer of Twix.
However, on the second night, he had a friend from Kathmandu visiting. This friend was person who inspired and supported him in creating the center eight years ago and he had come to see it for the first time. As a celebration, we had red wine with dinner. Again, not the typical diet of a yogi. Ashanga explained, several years ago he read an article describing a study done on people all around the world who lived to be over 100. Apparently the one common habit they had was having red wine on a regular basis. So he thought to himself, "I really love this life, and I'm willing to try anything that will help me prolong it." I really appreciated the sincerity with which he said this. So he ran out and bought some red wine. (He didn't know how to open the bottle when he first got it, and ended up stuffing the cork down). Now he really enjoys wine and has it every few months. He did confess if he budget would allow him to buy more wine, he would drink it more often.
It was a little bit chaotic at the Ashram, with some visitors there and his one and half year old son closing in on his terrible twos. But it was fun and pretty relaxing. The highlights were Durga's cooking and the yoga classes themselves. Still I don't know if the classes were for everyone. Two complete beginners participated for a day and I think were a little shell shocked. But I thought it was exactly what I needed to move my yoga forward. I guess a private instructor will do that. I do feel like my yoga really improved over the three days. Of course, now the question is how do I keep it up while on the road.
Starfuckers (or rather, DiplomatFuckers) and Simon to the Rescue
So our friend Aimee is in Kathmandu with her mother and they're staying with a friend of her mom's, Mary Kay, who works for the American Embassy here. We met them for coffee on our return from Pokhara. Mary Kay wanted to see her son play in the basketball tournament at the American Embassy's recreational compound down the street and invited us along. Apparently, the Ambassador is quite the baller and was playing in the tournament. I must say, Simon and I were ridicolously impressed with the fact that we got into the compound and were seeing the Ambassador in the flesh. He has been in the news a lot here, making many remarks about the political situation. The tournament was set up with nine teams of executive, security and support staff at the embassy, but it was really the expats that had any skill.
As we were watching, the Ambassador's son got swiped by his own teammate and got a gash above his eye, which started bleeding heavily. Someone came out with a box of medical supplies which was completely disorganized. Simon was annoyed at all the inefficiency as they were trolling about the box and went and got our first aid kit, beautifully arranged to the highest standards. The staff was really excited for the kit and kept asking Simon for swipes, gauze and bandages. (Diane, btw, I believe we used some of the alcohol wipes you gave us in Peru!) Aimee and I found the whole thing really funny and took a few pictures during the treatment with the basketball game going on in the background.
We're probably one of the only people to take photos of both Maoists and the US Ambassador on one roll of film.
The Ambassador's wife was really grateful, as was Mary Kay, who asked if they could repay us in any way. Sadly, my request for Simon to receive citizenship was denied. But hopefully this will go on his record. And they did take us out to dinner to a really nice French restaurant owned by some former member of the Nepali Royalty. There we got to ogle the Nepali glitterati.
Clearly we are unsophisticated Americans who are easily impressed.
Rafting and Tibet
So we're slated to start driving towards to Lhasa, Tibet on Saturday and in the meantime, we're gonna go rafting on the Bhote Khosi, apparently a pretty intense river, mostly Class 4.
Posing with the Maoists
Also, to add one good story, we did encounter the Maoists in Ghorepani on the Annapurna Circuit (as expected) and we were asked to make a "donation" to their cause, of roughly $15. It was a little disappointing in some regards; they look like ordinary Nepalis, unarmed, no uniforms. In fact, I thought they were Nepali trekkers. Anyhoo, we asked for a "group discount", which they readily agreed to, knocking off about 15%. And so we all go went and paid and received receipts for our donations to ensure that we didn't get asked again if we came across their colleagues. I was feeling a bit bitter about being forced to give them money, so I asked if I could take a picture of them writing out the receipts. I was sure that they would say no. Somehow they thought I wanted a picture posing with them, and agreed to do it. So we ended up getting this group photo of all of us waving our receipts in the air with the two Maoists. Of course after we took the picture, they told us that we were not to show the pictures to the Army under any circumstances. Not the smartest people. We suspected they sent their interns since it was snowing outside.
Gurus, Twix and Wine
So I did opt for a three day yoga course at Sadhana Yoga in Pokhara. It's about a 40 minute walk outside of town and on top of this hill with an amazing view of the lake. It was a pretty good deal - paying about $25 a day for room, board and classes. Ashanga, the guru there, was pretty young and had a funny sense of humor. On the first night I wasn't sure what to expect, but he ended up telling us a rather crude joke involving Harleys and women in heaven. The only other student there was a German named Peter who was there for over a month doing a teacher training course.
What I also appreciated about Ashanga was his back sliding ways. All the meals prepared (read dal bhaat) were organic and ayervedic. On my first afternoon, Durga, Ashanga'swife, asked me if I wanted a sweet. I said sure, since I loved her lunch, expecting some kind of homemade sweet. Instead, she comes back with two packages of Twix which she shared with me and her family. Ashanga said he tried Twix a few years ago and it kind of stuck with him. For the record, that was a one shot offer of Twix.
However, on the second night, he had a friend from Kathmandu visiting. This friend was person who inspired and supported him in creating the center eight years ago and he had come to see it for the first time. As a celebration, we had red wine with dinner. Again, not the typical diet of a yogi. Ashanga explained, several years ago he read an article describing a study done on people all around the world who lived to be over 100. Apparently the one common habit they had was having red wine on a regular basis. So he thought to himself, "I really love this life, and I'm willing to try anything that will help me prolong it." I really appreciated the sincerity with which he said this. So he ran out and bought some red wine. (He didn't know how to open the bottle when he first got it, and ended up stuffing the cork down). Now he really enjoys wine and has it every few months. He did confess if he budget would allow him to buy more wine, he would drink it more often.
It was a little bit chaotic at the Ashram, with some visitors there and his one and half year old son closing in on his terrible twos. But it was fun and pretty relaxing. The highlights were Durga's cooking and the yoga classes themselves. Still I don't know if the classes were for everyone. Two complete beginners participated for a day and I think were a little shell shocked. But I thought it was exactly what I needed to move my yoga forward. I guess a private instructor will do that. I do feel like my yoga really improved over the three days. Of course, now the question is how do I keep it up while on the road.
Starfuckers (or rather, DiplomatFuckers) and Simon to the Rescue
So our friend Aimee is in Kathmandu with her mother and they're staying with a friend of her mom's, Mary Kay, who works for the American Embassy here. We met them for coffee on our return from Pokhara. Mary Kay wanted to see her son play in the basketball tournament at the American Embassy's recreational compound down the street and invited us along. Apparently, the Ambassador is quite the baller and was playing in the tournament. I must say, Simon and I were ridicolously impressed with the fact that we got into the compound and were seeing the Ambassador in the flesh. He has been in the news a lot here, making many remarks about the political situation. The tournament was set up with nine teams of executive, security and support staff at the embassy, but it was really the expats that had any skill.
As we were watching, the Ambassador's son got swiped by his own teammate and got a gash above his eye, which started bleeding heavily. Someone came out with a box of medical supplies which was completely disorganized. Simon was annoyed at all the inefficiency as they were trolling about the box and went and got our first aid kit, beautifully arranged to the highest standards. The staff was really excited for the kit and kept asking Simon for swipes, gauze and bandages. (Diane, btw, I believe we used some of the alcohol wipes you gave us in Peru!) Aimee and I found the whole thing really funny and took a few pictures during the treatment with the basketball game going on in the background.
We're probably one of the only people to take photos of both Maoists and the US Ambassador on one roll of film.
The Ambassador's wife was really grateful, as was Mary Kay, who asked if they could repay us in any way. Sadly, my request for Simon to receive citizenship was denied. But hopefully this will go on his record. And they did take us out to dinner to a really nice French restaurant owned by some former member of the Nepali Royalty. There we got to ogle the Nepali glitterati.
Clearly we are unsophisticated Americans who are easily impressed.
Rafting and Tibet
So we're slated to start driving towards to Lhasa, Tibet on Saturday and in the meantime, we're gonna go rafting on the Bhote Khosi, apparently a pretty intense river, mostly Class 4.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Echoing thoughts on Annapurna
So once again, I’ll just elaborate on Simon's blog entry; I wholeheartedly agree with his sentiments. (Still no pictures, but imagine a post card image of the Himalayas and that's what we'd post.)
Creating Memories
It's funny what tricks our memory plays on us. If you ask me now, I would look back on working our way up to the pass and think how cool and exciting it was to do it in the middle of the snow storm. However, I remember distinctly a handful of moments when I was truly scared that I would never be able to catch my breath, that my left arm would freeze off since it was so numb, wondering how the hell we were going to find the trail under all that snow, and wanting to be finished with it. These memories are more like facts in my mind, like the height of the pass itself, but are stripped entirely of the emotion and the physical discomfort that I experienced with them. But I’ll try to tell it like I think it was.
The top of the pass was the hardest thing I've ever done, more specifically the last 45 minutes to the top. As we got higher up, it was getting harder and harder for me to breathe and I literally needed to stop after every 4 steps to catch my breath, which also made me a lot colder and stiffer since I was barely moving. To say the least I was exhausted. And of course the snow and wind grew tougher the higher we got. But I knew that I was not suffering from serious altitude sickness like some of the other trekkers we had seen. I finally had to ask Simon to take some of the weight from my pack for the last 50 meters to ensure I could keep moving. I would have liked to have said that I carried all my weight up the pass, but I knew that it was a safer bet to not be so proud. My confidence was somewhat shot since I had rolled my friggin’ ankle again the day before (once again, on perfectly flat ground.)
But in the end, we did it and I’m psyched. Even though we missed the views at the very top, we had such amazing views all along, truly stunning, that I don’t feel like I missed out.
The Camping Americans
I hate to take comfort in other people’s misery, but we met these two Americans from Arizona who were travelling with an entourage of nine porters and two guides and I can’t believe how thankful I was every time I saw them. It turns out they had signed up to do a trek in the west and off the beaten path, but the company got worried about Maoist activities and changed their itinerary. To say the least this type of expedition is completely unnecessary on the circuit we were on. Nevertheless, they braved on in their tents every night, in the backyard of guesthouses, while their porters stayed in rooms inside. But after a snow storm or two, the started to get a bit cranky and just wanted a hot shower. So while I appreciated my time in the guesthouses, my appreciation increased exponentially when I saw them.
Trekking Fuel
I must say, I enjoyed the food on the most part. Dal Bhaat isn’t nearly as dreary as many others made it sound. There is a surprising amount of variation in the dish – the consistency of the dal lentils, the kind of curry, presence and type of pickle etc. Knowing that you have an unlimited plate of hot food coming to you at lunch or dinner is a great motivator (to continue walking and to order the dal bhaat). The thing that killed me was that we denied ourselves of the noodles, since they were generally ramen noodles and we saw a lot of the packaging ending up in the rivers and streams near the villages. The first thing I did when I got into town was order noodles. And I don’t know how this has come about, but I’ve had, hands down, the best oatmeal (that’s porridge for you brits), ever on this trip. Nepalis make delicious creamy perfectly sweetened oat porridge.
Becoming British
We ended up on the same schedule as four Brits (Will, Nicky, Louise and Curtis) and a Dutch guy (Mark) and it was really great. After trekking on our own for five nights we were ready for some company. We had met other trekkers who were pleasant, but it was nice to be I the company of people you really enjoyed. And playing poker with them.
It was great fun hanging out with everyone, but Simon and I are slowly turning into Brits ourselves after spending so much time with them. We’re starting to pick up their speech patterns. Hopefully, we won’t ended up speaking with half assed accents a la Madonna and will just continue to use the adjective "nice" to describe our food and be pleased with we are served tea with "proper" milk.
Yoga Dreaming
So I’m slated to start a two day yoga retreat tonight. The irony is that I’m a little nervous about it. I don’t know why. It’s something I want to do, though the schedule sounds a bit challenging (getting up at 6 am for meditation and doing things until 8 pm), but I know it will be good. While I’ve seen the center, there is definitely a fear of the unknown here. I’m a little jealous of Simon who will be zen with HBO in our guesthouse.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Kathmandu and the Annapurna Circuit
Now having been in Nepal for almost a month, it’s hard to sum it up in single entry. Blame on three weeks trekking without internet access. Sorry no photos. I’m on another slow connection.
Arrival in Kathmandu
Upon exit from the airport, a fierce pack of taxi drivers descended on us, offering us rides and hotel rooms with an intensity we‘d never seen in S. America. I eventually settled on one of the more demure guys, who, rather than trying to hard sell us, simply asked me what we were planning on doing in his country.
However, as we walked away from the terminal, another taxi driver called out to us, “He not real taxi driver! Bad man!” Vaguely disturbing. But we stuck with him, and, thankfully, he delivered us safely to Mitu, the wife of Asheesh, our Nepali friend we met last fall at Todd and Jacquie’s wedding.
Asheesh, Mitu, and their 1-year old daughter live in Patan, a city just outside Kathmandu. They made us feel extremely welcome, particularly since Asheesh had just gotten home after 6 months in the US. Thanks, guys! You’re welcome anytime you find yourself in El Cerrito, one of America’s great tourist destinations. We have a Macaroni Grill, you know.
Kathmandu Impressions
I now appreciate what people mean when they say, “Total sensory overload.” I’d always chalked that phrase up to hyperbole, but seriously, the city blew my mind. Bikes, smoke belching motorcycles, minibuses, pedestrians, and cars clog the streets. People whose ethnicities span the spectrum from East Asian to South Asian, wear everything from colorful saris to Linkin Park t-shirts. Vendors squeeze into every conceivable corner and alleyway. Ancient brick buildings slowly crumble on themselves, people chop up entire sides of buffalo on the street (blood running into the gutter), beggars slouch on temple steps, dumplings steam pours out of a streetcart, Nepali music blares from every stall, trekkers paw through one knock off North Face jacket after another, bolts of fabric drape from windows above, the guttural hawking and spitting, the smell of roasting peas and curry. We’d dive into alleyways choked with people, then stumble onto a quiet courtyard smelling of incense and pigeons. A yellow haze hangs over the city, blocking the views of the mountains beyond.
Just walking through town felt like an extreme sport. I wanted to stop and stare at everything, but couldn’t for fear of being hit by motorbikes, who push their way through the crowds while blaring their horns.
The place feels really really old, and really really alive. There’s no need for a museum, when history is part of the everyday. In the middle of Patan, people queue up at fresh water springs with tin carafes, just as they have for hundreds of years. Minutes away from the best hospital in the country (where Mitu works) families have never seen a doctor in their lives, treating illnesses with folk remedies. Asheesh showed us through a busy temple, ruled by rats, then brought us to another with throngs of people worshipping in a dozen different ways (paint, smoke, sacrifice, music, money, fire, food, paper, etc.) to a dozen different gods. Just across from the second temple, we stopped by a family friend’s tiny three-room flat in an ancient building. Here, Asheesh dropped off an MP3 player as a gift from the States.
To be honest, all this was unsustainable. The noise, crowds, pollution, and intense foreignness of it all wore us out only after four days, and Jen and I had to escape for the countryside and trekking.
The Annapurna Circuit
Three weeks trekking may sound intense, but the circuit around the Annapurna range is lined with villages and guest houses. It’s less like camping, more of a walk from town to town. You could do the whole thing without a sleeping bag. I’d been expecting to stay in dark bedbug-ridden holes, and was pleasantly surprised to find clean, comfortable mattresses and sunny rooms.
While many trekkers do the circuit with a porter and/or guide, carrying only a daypack, we opted to do the heavy lifting ourselves. We’d been hardened by weeks of trekking in South America, after all, and, frankly, the thought of spending that much time alone with a guide was daunting and potentially oppressive. We’d had our fair share of mediocre guides and couldn’t imagine hanging out with them 24-7 for 3 weeks.
I don’t think we ever regretted this decision, but we definitely suffered more than other trekkers, who moved much more quickly with their light packs. My big toes, about 2 weeks into the trek, were strained, getting increasingly sore every day. Crossing the Thorong Pass at 5400 meters was the hardest thing Jen has ever done. She could barely catch her breath at that altitude and had to hand over some of her weight to me (more on that later). Still, it feels satisfying to have made our own decisions and carried our own weight.
The Standard Discussion on Food
Nepal is not known for its cuisine. The country lives on dal (a thin lentil soup) and baht (steamed white rice). And while many guest houses on the Annapurna Circuit offer noodles, fried rice, and some bastardized forms of Italian and Mexican food, you’re usually pushing your luck if you go beyond the standard dal baht set, which also includes a vegetable curry of some kind. Besides, dal baht is nutritious, easy to cook, and the kitchen is making it for themselves anyway, thereby saving fuel. And it’s all you can eat. The cook would come out, even after we were only half finished, and spoon huge heapings of rice, curry, and lentils onto our plates.
So for the first week we dutifully ate dal baht twice a day. At first, I was game, hungry after hours of walking. But after only a couple of days, I ate with little pleasure, only to refuel. To be fair, the dal baht set did change slightly from guesthouse to guesthouse. Yellow or brown dal; occasionally a papadam; sometimes potato curry, sometimes vegetable curry; hey look, a little pickle on the side! Our morning oatmeal offered blessed relief. We varied our choice of tea in a desperate attempt for diversity.
When we finally met and started hanging out with other trekkers, we were amazed to see them order off the other, more exotic sections of the menu. Enchiladas, macaroni, tomato soup! It’s amazing the things you can do with ketchup! One place (Bob Marley Guest House in Muktinath, one of the more remote spots on the circuit) actually served pesto gnocchi (possibly made with parsley). We quickly fell off the dal baht wagon, cutting back to once a day. This was a good move, or I would have lost even more weight on the trip.
Kumar, one of the guides we met, gushed passionately about a “very good dal baht” in Khathmandu. I thought, “Sure, buddy. I’ve had dal baht every day for the last two weeks and not once have I thought, ‘This is dramatically different than the stuff I had yesterday.’ You expect me to believe there’s some super special dal baht in Kathmandu that will blow my mind?”
Then one day we had lunch at a guesthouse with a noticeably tastier dal baht set. The pickle was more vibrant, the dal more rich, and the curry currier. So that’s what this stuff is supposed to taste like! Kumar later explained that he considers that the best dal baht on the circuit. It’s like I’d been eating Spaghettio’s my whole life, and never tasted fresh pasta. I resolved to track down Kumar’s mythical dal baht.
The Scenery
The Annapurna Circuit is the most popular trek in Nepal, partly because of the diverse scenery which changes as the trail ascends to the Thorong Pass at the northern end of the circuit, then descends once more into more populated areas.
I’d break it down this way:
The first third of the circuit is unimpressive, hot, and littered with donkey shit and candy bar wrappers. The hills are scarred by deforestation and the villages are uninteresting and crummy. Garbage fires burn constantly.
The second third of the circuit blew me away. Snow capped peaks, clear skies, crazy blizzards, empty deserts, prayer flags fluttering over remote monasteries. Twice we walked on fresh snow, with blue skies and towering mountains in every direction. The Himalayas make Argentina’s Fitzroy look quaint. These days made the trek worthwhile for me.
The last third is more mellow, but certainly beautiful in a subtle way. Quiet rice terraces, blooming rhododendron forests, colorful rocks along the riverbeds, ancient well-preserved villages. A nice way to round out the trek.
The Annapurna region is not a wild place. At the top of the Thorong Pass, for example, the most inaccessible point on the trail, people sell tea out of a stone hut during peak trekking season. But the human element, the culture which shifts with the scenery, also adds to the trek’s appeal. I’ve heard, for example, that this area has become more like Tibet than Tibet, ever since the Han Chinese have driven hordes of Tibetans across the border.
Thorong Pass
The Thorong Pass represents the high point, literally, of the circuit, at over 5400 meters. At that altitude, acute mountain sickness (AMS) becomes a serious threat. Trekkers must creep up to the pass slowly, taking rest days at slightly lower elevations. As you ascend, your breath becomes shorter and sleep becomes more difficult. Moving at anything beyond a snail’s pace immediately causes your heart to start racing and your breath to become panicky. Other trekkers we met suffered vertigo, headaches, and nausea. Some had to turn around and walk all the way back past the crappy first third of the circuit. For days before the Thorong Pass, trekkers obsess over it, considering AMS, acclimatization strategies, the weather, clothing, estimated time to get up and down, departure hour.
So it was a huge relief when Jen and I finally set off at 5AM in below freezing temps, ascending the pass to the light of our headlamps. This was magical. Stars overhead, a handful of blinking flashlights on the trail below, no sound but my steady breathing and the slow crunching of my boots. I’d just finished The Snow Leopard, a great book about the Himalayas and Buddhism, and appreciated how the altitude forced me to slow down, calm my breath, and think only about the next step. A funny Zen gift.
As dawn broke, the mountains emerged around us. Other trekkers appeared, smiles on their red faces. We climbed slowly but steadily to the pass across a gray lunar landscape.
Towards the summit, though, the sun, which had failed to break through all morning, disappeared behind a dark cloud. The wind picked up, snow started to fall in steady wet flakes, and the temperature dropped. The snow obscured the path, forcing us to move hesitantly, and I could barely make out the trail markers, ghostly poles every 200 meters. By then, after almost five hours of sustained climbing, Jen was spent, stopping to catch her breath every four steps. Dressed lightly for the climb and waiting for Jen to catch up, I began to feel the panicky edge of hypothermia. Finding our way up the pass would be, at best, a struggle under these conditions. A Swedish-Scottish couple in front of us appeared equally tired, the guy constantly stopping to sit in the snow. Images of getting lost in the storm began creeping into my head.
Thankfully, at that point, a guided trekking group who had been trailing us all morning appeared, and I told Jen, “We need to keep up with these guys!” She transferred a bunch of gear into my pack, and with a lightened load managed to hang with the group. I scrambled after them. Twenty minutes later we reached the summit and people began high-fiving all around. Jen’s huge smile and hug showed her relief.
While the group celebrated, I ducked into the tea hut, a tiny stone building, closed for the season, to put on more clothes and cram in some biscuits. I knew we weren’t out of the woods yet, with a five hour descent still facing us and the storm showing no sign of letting up. Pitch black inside, I stumbled, and looked up to see a haggard bearded face with intense blue eyes staring back at me. The guy, a little dazed, explained in thick Russian accent that he had come up the pass from the other side and would wait out the storm before descending. I looked doubtfully over his ratty backpack, which I had tripped over, and hoped he was prepared to spend a cold cold night. It would be well below freezing even in the hut.
One of the trekking group stumbled inside, struggling to put on his rain gear. Early hypothermia had set in, and he fumbled with his shoe laces and grew combative as his guide tried to assist. “Bloody boots,” he kept saying over and over again. “Well they’re just going to have to wait!”
Things had clearly gotten a little out of hand. It was still dumping. We had to get off this mountain.
The descent went on forever. We slid down icy trails, peered through the mist for trail markers, and traversed steep snow fields, stopping only to eat biscuits and chocolate. Roberto, another trekker we’d met the day before, eventually caught up to us. He’d started late and got a little lost on the pass, suffering some hallucinations in the snow. Fortunately, he’d managed to follow our footsteps down the mountain. When the three of us stopped at a tea hut at the base of the pass to suck down a thermos of hot lemon, we were all soaked, cold, and exhausted.
Finally, ten hours after we started that morning, we walked into the Bob Marley Guesthouse to a hot shower, tomato soup, warm chapattis, and a wood burning stove. The rest of the trekkers had arrived hours ago, and confessed to being seriously worried about us, as we were the last ones over the pass that day (with the exception of one other couple who moved even more slowly than we did).
The snow continued through the next day, shutting down the pass. Everyone spent the next day in the guesthouse, playing cards and drinking tea. (Jen and I found the one poker player in the group. We taught the game to a guide and two other trekkers and proceeded to play seven straight no limit Hold ‘Em tournaments that afternoon. Jen one won, I won two. We would play many more games over the next few days. Poker + Mountains + Thermos of Hot Tea = Heaven.)
The next morning we woke early, looked out of frosted windows to find blue skies, an amphitheater of enormous peaks, and fields of pristine snow everywhere.
The Strike
I won’t bore you with the details of Nepal’s political situation, but Maoist insurgents are currently engaged in an ongoing conflict with the royal government. Every so often, they call a “strike,” preventing all vehicles from traveling on intercity roads. The country grinds to a halt during these strikes.
Sadly, the Maoists announced a strike while we were on the trek, muddying our transport situation from the trailhead back to Pokhara.
Over the last few days of the circuit, we’d heard varying accounts of the situation, but all we could do was walk out to the trailhead and hope for the best. I steadfastly refused to walk another two days on a road into town.
So yesterday morning, we plopped our backpacks down on the road, prepared to wait. Locals came by, trying to convince us that walking two days to Pokhara was our only option. But we knew several other trekkers had managed to scam rides. A burnt frame of a government bus, set aflame by Maoists just three days before, sat by the side of the road, an ominous sign. (We were reassured that the Maoists had let everyone get off the bus before torching it.) A soldier said we’d just missed our chance to hop on an ambulance fifteen minutes ago. One guy offered to bring us on the back of his motorcycle in two trips. Two and a half hours crawled by. We had a cup of milk tea, read our books, and watched the steady parade of walkers to Pokhara.
Suddenly, without warning, a local bus roared around the corner, the conductor yelling at us to hurry and grabbing our bags. Seeing as how this was the only viable transport we’d seen all morning, we shrugged and hopped on. The guy was clearly taking a chance that he wouldn’t run into any Maoists, since the army had appeared in force after the bus torching incident. Everyone aboard, all locals, seemed a little edgy but were glad to pay a premium for the ride to town. Every time the bus would slow to pick up passengers, people would crane their necks to see what was happening. Folks by the side of the road would look up and point at us, apparently surprised to see a bus coming by.
We finally arrived two hours later in Pokhara, and promptly checked into a lux hotel with cable TV, a private bath, and a great view of the lake. Nepal’s political situation has killed tourism, so we were able to negotiate a great $25/night rate in what would normally be a $45 room. Consider that we’d been living on $10/day for the past three weeks, and never paid more that $2 for a room. Hot showers on the circuit were few and far between, electricity spotty at best. So this was a big deal.
Today, all we’ve done is have a big breakfast, laze around, and watch TV. Jen is looking into a yoga retreat, I may go rafting. Life is good.
Arrival in Kathmandu
Upon exit from the airport, a fierce pack of taxi drivers descended on us, offering us rides and hotel rooms with an intensity we‘d never seen in S. America. I eventually settled on one of the more demure guys, who, rather than trying to hard sell us, simply asked me what we were planning on doing in his country.
However, as we walked away from the terminal, another taxi driver called out to us, “He not real taxi driver! Bad man!” Vaguely disturbing. But we stuck with him, and, thankfully, he delivered us safely to Mitu, the wife of Asheesh, our Nepali friend we met last fall at Todd and Jacquie’s wedding.
Asheesh, Mitu, and their 1-year old daughter live in Patan, a city just outside Kathmandu. They made us feel extremely welcome, particularly since Asheesh had just gotten home after 6 months in the US. Thanks, guys! You’re welcome anytime you find yourself in El Cerrito, one of America’s great tourist destinations. We have a Macaroni Grill, you know.
Kathmandu Impressions
I now appreciate what people mean when they say, “Total sensory overload.” I’d always chalked that phrase up to hyperbole, but seriously, the city blew my mind. Bikes, smoke belching motorcycles, minibuses, pedestrians, and cars clog the streets. People whose ethnicities span the spectrum from East Asian to South Asian, wear everything from colorful saris to Linkin Park t-shirts. Vendors squeeze into every conceivable corner and alleyway. Ancient brick buildings slowly crumble on themselves, people chop up entire sides of buffalo on the street (blood running into the gutter), beggars slouch on temple steps, dumplings steam pours out of a streetcart, Nepali music blares from every stall, trekkers paw through one knock off North Face jacket after another, bolts of fabric drape from windows above, the guttural hawking and spitting, the smell of roasting peas and curry. We’d dive into alleyways choked with people, then stumble onto a quiet courtyard smelling of incense and pigeons. A yellow haze hangs over the city, blocking the views of the mountains beyond.
Just walking through town felt like an extreme sport. I wanted to stop and stare at everything, but couldn’t for fear of being hit by motorbikes, who push their way through the crowds while blaring their horns.
The place feels really really old, and really really alive. There’s no need for a museum, when history is part of the everyday. In the middle of Patan, people queue up at fresh water springs with tin carafes, just as they have for hundreds of years. Minutes away from the best hospital in the country (where Mitu works) families have never seen a doctor in their lives, treating illnesses with folk remedies. Asheesh showed us through a busy temple, ruled by rats, then brought us to another with throngs of people worshipping in a dozen different ways (paint, smoke, sacrifice, music, money, fire, food, paper, etc.) to a dozen different gods. Just across from the second temple, we stopped by a family friend’s tiny three-room flat in an ancient building. Here, Asheesh dropped off an MP3 player as a gift from the States.
To be honest, all this was unsustainable. The noise, crowds, pollution, and intense foreignness of it all wore us out only after four days, and Jen and I had to escape for the countryside and trekking.
The Annapurna Circuit
Three weeks trekking may sound intense, but the circuit around the Annapurna range is lined with villages and guest houses. It’s less like camping, more of a walk from town to town. You could do the whole thing without a sleeping bag. I’d been expecting to stay in dark bedbug-ridden holes, and was pleasantly surprised to find clean, comfortable mattresses and sunny rooms.
While many trekkers do the circuit with a porter and/or guide, carrying only a daypack, we opted to do the heavy lifting ourselves. We’d been hardened by weeks of trekking in South America, after all, and, frankly, the thought of spending that much time alone with a guide was daunting and potentially oppressive. We’d had our fair share of mediocre guides and couldn’t imagine hanging out with them 24-7 for 3 weeks.
I don’t think we ever regretted this decision, but we definitely suffered more than other trekkers, who moved much more quickly with their light packs. My big toes, about 2 weeks into the trek, were strained, getting increasingly sore every day. Crossing the Thorong Pass at 5400 meters was the hardest thing Jen has ever done. She could barely catch her breath at that altitude and had to hand over some of her weight to me (more on that later). Still, it feels satisfying to have made our own decisions and carried our own weight.
The Standard Discussion on Food
Nepal is not known for its cuisine. The country lives on dal (a thin lentil soup) and baht (steamed white rice). And while many guest houses on the Annapurna Circuit offer noodles, fried rice, and some bastardized forms of Italian and Mexican food, you’re usually pushing your luck if you go beyond the standard dal baht set, which also includes a vegetable curry of some kind. Besides, dal baht is nutritious, easy to cook, and the kitchen is making it for themselves anyway, thereby saving fuel. And it’s all you can eat. The cook would come out, even after we were only half finished, and spoon huge heapings of rice, curry, and lentils onto our plates.
So for the first week we dutifully ate dal baht twice a day. At first, I was game, hungry after hours of walking. But after only a couple of days, I ate with little pleasure, only to refuel. To be fair, the dal baht set did change slightly from guesthouse to guesthouse. Yellow or brown dal; occasionally a papadam; sometimes potato curry, sometimes vegetable curry; hey look, a little pickle on the side! Our morning oatmeal offered blessed relief. We varied our choice of tea in a desperate attempt for diversity.
When we finally met and started hanging out with other trekkers, we were amazed to see them order off the other, more exotic sections of the menu. Enchiladas, macaroni, tomato soup! It’s amazing the things you can do with ketchup! One place (Bob Marley Guest House in Muktinath, one of the more remote spots on the circuit) actually served pesto gnocchi (possibly made with parsley). We quickly fell off the dal baht wagon, cutting back to once a day. This was a good move, or I would have lost even more weight on the trip.
Kumar, one of the guides we met, gushed passionately about a “very good dal baht” in Khathmandu. I thought, “Sure, buddy. I’ve had dal baht every day for the last two weeks and not once have I thought, ‘This is dramatically different than the stuff I had yesterday.’ You expect me to believe there’s some super special dal baht in Kathmandu that will blow my mind?”
Then one day we had lunch at a guesthouse with a noticeably tastier dal baht set. The pickle was more vibrant, the dal more rich, and the curry currier. So that’s what this stuff is supposed to taste like! Kumar later explained that he considers that the best dal baht on the circuit. It’s like I’d been eating Spaghettio’s my whole life, and never tasted fresh pasta. I resolved to track down Kumar’s mythical dal baht.
The Scenery
The Annapurna Circuit is the most popular trek in Nepal, partly because of the diverse scenery which changes as the trail ascends to the Thorong Pass at the northern end of the circuit, then descends once more into more populated areas.
I’d break it down this way:
The first third of the circuit is unimpressive, hot, and littered with donkey shit and candy bar wrappers. The hills are scarred by deforestation and the villages are uninteresting and crummy. Garbage fires burn constantly.
The second third of the circuit blew me away. Snow capped peaks, clear skies, crazy blizzards, empty deserts, prayer flags fluttering over remote monasteries. Twice we walked on fresh snow, with blue skies and towering mountains in every direction. The Himalayas make Argentina’s Fitzroy look quaint. These days made the trek worthwhile for me.
The last third is more mellow, but certainly beautiful in a subtle way. Quiet rice terraces, blooming rhododendron forests, colorful rocks along the riverbeds, ancient well-preserved villages. A nice way to round out the trek.
The Annapurna region is not a wild place. At the top of the Thorong Pass, for example, the most inaccessible point on the trail, people sell tea out of a stone hut during peak trekking season. But the human element, the culture which shifts with the scenery, also adds to the trek’s appeal. I’ve heard, for example, that this area has become more like Tibet than Tibet, ever since the Han Chinese have driven hordes of Tibetans across the border.
Thorong Pass
The Thorong Pass represents the high point, literally, of the circuit, at over 5400 meters. At that altitude, acute mountain sickness (AMS) becomes a serious threat. Trekkers must creep up to the pass slowly, taking rest days at slightly lower elevations. As you ascend, your breath becomes shorter and sleep becomes more difficult. Moving at anything beyond a snail’s pace immediately causes your heart to start racing and your breath to become panicky. Other trekkers we met suffered vertigo, headaches, and nausea. Some had to turn around and walk all the way back past the crappy first third of the circuit. For days before the Thorong Pass, trekkers obsess over it, considering AMS, acclimatization strategies, the weather, clothing, estimated time to get up and down, departure hour.
So it was a huge relief when Jen and I finally set off at 5AM in below freezing temps, ascending the pass to the light of our headlamps. This was magical. Stars overhead, a handful of blinking flashlights on the trail below, no sound but my steady breathing and the slow crunching of my boots. I’d just finished The Snow Leopard, a great book about the Himalayas and Buddhism, and appreciated how the altitude forced me to slow down, calm my breath, and think only about the next step. A funny Zen gift.
As dawn broke, the mountains emerged around us. Other trekkers appeared, smiles on their red faces. We climbed slowly but steadily to the pass across a gray lunar landscape.
Towards the summit, though, the sun, which had failed to break through all morning, disappeared behind a dark cloud. The wind picked up, snow started to fall in steady wet flakes, and the temperature dropped. The snow obscured the path, forcing us to move hesitantly, and I could barely make out the trail markers, ghostly poles every 200 meters. By then, after almost five hours of sustained climbing, Jen was spent, stopping to catch her breath every four steps. Dressed lightly for the climb and waiting for Jen to catch up, I began to feel the panicky edge of hypothermia. Finding our way up the pass would be, at best, a struggle under these conditions. A Swedish-Scottish couple in front of us appeared equally tired, the guy constantly stopping to sit in the snow. Images of getting lost in the storm began creeping into my head.
Thankfully, at that point, a guided trekking group who had been trailing us all morning appeared, and I told Jen, “We need to keep up with these guys!” She transferred a bunch of gear into my pack, and with a lightened load managed to hang with the group. I scrambled after them. Twenty minutes later we reached the summit and people began high-fiving all around. Jen’s huge smile and hug showed her relief.
While the group celebrated, I ducked into the tea hut, a tiny stone building, closed for the season, to put on more clothes and cram in some biscuits. I knew we weren’t out of the woods yet, with a five hour descent still facing us and the storm showing no sign of letting up. Pitch black inside, I stumbled, and looked up to see a haggard bearded face with intense blue eyes staring back at me. The guy, a little dazed, explained in thick Russian accent that he had come up the pass from the other side and would wait out the storm before descending. I looked doubtfully over his ratty backpack, which I had tripped over, and hoped he was prepared to spend a cold cold night. It would be well below freezing even in the hut.
One of the trekking group stumbled inside, struggling to put on his rain gear. Early hypothermia had set in, and he fumbled with his shoe laces and grew combative as his guide tried to assist. “Bloody boots,” he kept saying over and over again. “Well they’re just going to have to wait!”
Things had clearly gotten a little out of hand. It was still dumping. We had to get off this mountain.
The descent went on forever. We slid down icy trails, peered through the mist for trail markers, and traversed steep snow fields, stopping only to eat biscuits and chocolate. Roberto, another trekker we’d met the day before, eventually caught up to us. He’d started late and got a little lost on the pass, suffering some hallucinations in the snow. Fortunately, he’d managed to follow our footsteps down the mountain. When the three of us stopped at a tea hut at the base of the pass to suck down a thermos of hot lemon, we were all soaked, cold, and exhausted.
Finally, ten hours after we started that morning, we walked into the Bob Marley Guesthouse to a hot shower, tomato soup, warm chapattis, and a wood burning stove. The rest of the trekkers had arrived hours ago, and confessed to being seriously worried about us, as we were the last ones over the pass that day (with the exception of one other couple who moved even more slowly than we did).
The snow continued through the next day, shutting down the pass. Everyone spent the next day in the guesthouse, playing cards and drinking tea. (Jen and I found the one poker player in the group. We taught the game to a guide and two other trekkers and proceeded to play seven straight no limit Hold ‘Em tournaments that afternoon. Jen one won, I won two. We would play many more games over the next few days. Poker + Mountains + Thermos of Hot Tea = Heaven.)
The next morning we woke early, looked out of frosted windows to find blue skies, an amphitheater of enormous peaks, and fields of pristine snow everywhere.
The Strike
I won’t bore you with the details of Nepal’s political situation, but Maoist insurgents are currently engaged in an ongoing conflict with the royal government. Every so often, they call a “strike,” preventing all vehicles from traveling on intercity roads. The country grinds to a halt during these strikes.
Sadly, the Maoists announced a strike while we were on the trek, muddying our transport situation from the trailhead back to Pokhara.
Over the last few days of the circuit, we’d heard varying accounts of the situation, but all we could do was walk out to the trailhead and hope for the best. I steadfastly refused to walk another two days on a road into town.
So yesterday morning, we plopped our backpacks down on the road, prepared to wait. Locals came by, trying to convince us that walking two days to Pokhara was our only option. But we knew several other trekkers had managed to scam rides. A burnt frame of a government bus, set aflame by Maoists just three days before, sat by the side of the road, an ominous sign. (We were reassured that the Maoists had let everyone get off the bus before torching it.) A soldier said we’d just missed our chance to hop on an ambulance fifteen minutes ago. One guy offered to bring us on the back of his motorcycle in two trips. Two and a half hours crawled by. We had a cup of milk tea, read our books, and watched the steady parade of walkers to Pokhara.
Suddenly, without warning, a local bus roared around the corner, the conductor yelling at us to hurry and grabbing our bags. Seeing as how this was the only viable transport we’d seen all morning, we shrugged and hopped on. The guy was clearly taking a chance that he wouldn’t run into any Maoists, since the army had appeared in force after the bus torching incident. Everyone aboard, all locals, seemed a little edgy but were glad to pay a premium for the ride to town. Every time the bus would slow to pick up passengers, people would crane their necks to see what was happening. Folks by the side of the road would look up and point at us, apparently surprised to see a bus coming by.
We finally arrived two hours later in Pokhara, and promptly checked into a lux hotel with cable TV, a private bath, and a great view of the lake. Nepal’s political situation has killed tourism, so we were able to negotiate a great $25/night rate in what would normally be a $45 room. Consider that we’d been living on $10/day for the past three weeks, and never paid more that $2 for a room. Hot showers on the circuit were few and far between, electricity spotty at best. So this was a big deal.
Today, all we’ve done is have a big breakfast, laze around, and watch TV. Jen is looking into a yoga retreat, I may go rafting. Life is good.
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