Wycieczka

I’ve walked down, out of the Himalayas, and landed back in Kathmandu, sore legs and all. I’ve had eight days away from technology, hot showers, and electricity. I’m kind of wishing I were back up on a mountaintop, chewing on shrubs, or something. I’m trying to update the software on my laptop and the status bar is telling me I have 300 days and 3 hours remaining until the download is complete. In a year I’ll be all up to date. I’m looking forward to that. I uploaded seven photos to Facebook yesterday and it only took me three hours. I think it’s better to not know what is actually possible in situations like these. When dial-up came out I would patiently wait hours to download one song, but now that I know what I’m trying to do in the span of hours can be accomplished in seconds my inner dialog becomes the narrative of a berzerk maniac.

STEPAWAYFROMTHECOMPUTER.HEADFORTHEMOUNTAINS.

On the last day of our trek we passed rice fields that were being harvested. For the first time in my life I actually saw how rice grows. I had never even considered it before. Actually, that’s not true. Two months before I left I was hanging out with these guys and one asked the other what rice was made of, and the other said, “I think it’s made of rice.” That was the first time I considered it. Then I saw this harvest and the rice ingredient mystery was solved; the tiny kernels of rice are packaged inside small clusters, covered in leaves, and also inside a shell that you have to crack off. I was like dang. Someone was soooo hungry that they figured out if you take the time to peel and crack these tiny dots out of all this inedible stuff you’ll eventually have dinner. They have machines to do the work now, but can you imagine how the first guy would feel about spending six hours to husk an ounce of rice if he knew there was another way? I think he’d be a little pissed. That’s how hungry I am for your attention. I’m willing to go back in time, to the days when it took a year to update your software, and only a mere week to share your photos, just so you’ll tell me you like me. You like me, right? Thank you. I like you too.

For the last week I’ve had Jane’s Addiction’s Mountain Song playing on a loop in my head, because that’s what I’ve been doing; coming down the mountain. Well, first we went up, up, up, and then we came down some and went up again, and then up and down, up and down, and finally all the way down. We got off to an adventurous start on the first morning of the trip. I teamed up with one of my friends from the Tibet tour for the trek, Iván from Spain. Iván likes to say things like, “We are not in a hurry.” And I like to say things like, “Are you ready to go?” So, as I was trying to rush us through breakfast he was thinking about the snack shopping he wanted to squeeze in before catching the bus. I was getting a little antsy, but did my best to act all chill, until it was time to pay the bill at our guesthouse, then all the chill evaporated.

No matter what you do in Nepal, there’s always some story, and the story always changes in weird ways that you would never anticipate, and still have trouble believing even after the fact. Like when I booked a room online and once we arrived they told us we couldn’t have it because the people from the day before needed to leave their bags there while they went to the airport, but we could have a smaller room with two beds less for the same price, because it was a “better” room. Or like yesterday, I found a guesthouse and told the guy working I’d be back in an hour to check in. I came back with my stuff and he told me the room wasn’t ready, even though he had showed it to me, clean and empty. I mentioned this. He said it needed to be vacuumed; maybe I should go have breakfast and come back. It would be done in half an hour. I already had breakfast. I’ll just wait in the lobby. OK, fine, so he sat and chatted with me in the lobby for twenty minutes. I asked if he thought the room was ready yet. No. OK, why don’t I just go put my stuff in the room and they can vacuum it whenever. OK, but don’t open your bag, madam, leave the bag closed, madam. OK, no problem. I put my bag in the room, left it closed, and decided to sit on the patio that looks into the room until they finished cleaning. He got me a little worried about leaving the bag alone. Ten minutes later I go to ask him the password for the Internet and I see him cleaning another room. Hmm. Twenty minutes later he comes to my floor and cleans the room across the hall. Five minutes later he goes into my room, sweeps the rug, and then tells me the room is ready, madam. Does logic dictate that instead of chatting with me and cleaning two vacant rooms for about an hour he could have gone and swept my rug in five minutes and been done with it, or am I just being too American here? And, was he frightened that if I opened the bag he would be obligated to take something from it? These are questions I would love to have the answers to, but after awhile I just stop asking the questions because the answers leave me in a state of confusion much deeper than I was in when the questions remained unanswered.

Back at the other guesthouse, on the morning of our departure, after shopping for Iván’s snacks, the story was changing, only this time it was less baffling because it was about wanting more money, a common story. The price seemed to have gone up since we originally discussed it. When all is said and done, we were arguing over a couple of bucks, but when you’re consistently overcharged because you’re from out of town you get a little pissy about this kind of thing, it’s no longer about the money, it’s the principle. My friend Michelle, also a blond, said her Tibetan tour guide told her that blonds are pretty much screwed. It’s so obvious that you’re a westerner, and assumed that you’re wealthy, so prices go way up, and often vendors are unwilling to do the customary bargaining routine. This happened to me so often I had to start having the boys do the talking for me because the prices people were giving me were higher than what you would pay in The States.

So, we were sitting there arguing over a couple of dollars, which ultimately I believe was just a misunderstanding due to the language difference, while the minutes we had to get to the last bus of the day were ticking away. This is why I’m always annoyingly early; one time out of twenty things go crazy and your well-laid plans get junked. We found a cab, negotiated a price, and unknowingly allowed him to drop us off at the wrong bus station. We waded around between painted buses and through throngs of people, trying to understand what the order of the place was, until finally we managed to figure out we were in the wrong place, then ran, ran, ran to the right place. Amazingly we found our unmarked bus on a side street, blocks away from the second bus station we went to, just moments before it left. As late as we were, the only seats left were on the roof of the bus.

So thus began the start of our trek. We weren’t in a hurry, until we were, and then we were on the roof of the bus, leaning against a giant bag of rice, pressed tight against our fellow bus riders, and very near to an oily sack of something that smelled of old fish. Although I’m a maniac when it comes to being late, this was a fortuitous event; the roof of the bus was amazing.

We quickly understood that we had to watch the sky, as we were often getting smacked in the face by passing leaves and branches. The views were incredible, and the air was cool. I did not at all envy the passengers packed inside, probably at least thirty people over capacity. There were regular check points where we all had to get down and walk for a few minutes until the bus came to pick us up, away from the eyes of the police, not that it wasn’t obvious what was going on (more questions not to be asked). Getting down was a hassle at first, but became a welcome event as the eight-hour trip stretched on. We were sitting on a roof rack with our legs hooked over the edge. This was only mildly uncomfortable at first, but at about the seventh hour we were on a bit of road composed mainly of boulders. Those of us on top were crashing all over each other and coming down hard on the metal bars, staring wide eyed at the cliff’s edge below our feet. When we bought our tickets the travel agent decided to tell us that a few days earlier a bus had toppled over the edge of a cliff, killing forty-one people. It was difficult not to consider this while pounding over the dirt road, but as you already know, we made it safely, bruised butts at worst. Someone puked, of course. It seems to be a mandatory part of the bus experience in Asia.

For the remainder of the week the views were even more incredible, and the pain was a slower burn, less bumpy. I didn’t start to feel my tired legs until the fourth day when we began going down, after almost 3,000 meters of trudging up into thin air that gets you short on breath from adjusting your covers while lying in bed. While I slept I was mercilessly eaten by bed bugs, but sore legs and bug bites are a small price to pay. Nearly every morning we woke to roosters crowing, noodle breakfasts in crooked wooden lodges, and snow capped mountains peering at us through the windows. There was never a shortage of giggly children in the villages we passed through, laughing at us, laughing with us, asking for sweets, and drawing pictures with Iván.

We didn’t, but most people hire guides and porters for the trek. They get paid about $10 a day (before the agency takes their cut) to carry people’s stuff and show them the way. We saw a lot of porters hiking up the rocky hills in flip-flops, with three backpacker’s packs strapped to them. It’s amazing what these guys can do, and they’re all faster and more agile than any of the visiting trekkers, even those of us carrying only one small bag.

We ended up trekking at about the same speed as another group, two girls and one guy from Israel. They were hiking with a guide. This was fortunate for us. At the beginning of the trek it was clear where the path led, but on the last two days all kinds of options started popping up, and on many occasions we almost chose wrong, before being redirected. Their guide kept reminding us, “Shanti, shanti.” Indian for, “Slowly, slowly.” I thought this was pretty funny as it was a starting point for how I met Iván…

We were staying in the same hostel in Chengdu, China. A bunch of people were going to a bar and they invited me. I was feeling more like reading in bed than drinking, but I cracked under the pressure of the ideal that as a traveler you’re suppose to be extra sociable. I reluctantly packed away my book and went outside to meet the others. They were standing in a group discussing where to catch a taxi. The idea of getting into a cab made me feel even less enthusiastic, but I dismissed it. An older guy, maybe in his fifties or sixties, started wondering out loud about logistics, and a younger twenty-something Spanish girl, with a freshly shaven head and traditional hippy traveler’s uniform (draping scarf, poofy linen pants, sandals, arm bangles) spoke up to advise him, “In India we say shanti, shanti. Relax, relax!” Oh man. Before I had time to think about it I was telling them I was going to go in and go to bed. Weeks later I brought this up in front of Iván and he said “That’s why you left!” He told me that after I went inside they agreed that I’m a “weird girl.” Iván also said I was mean. On this point I’ll have to respectfully disagree. Weird I’m fine with.

So let’s wrap this up… The moral of the story is; whether you like to shanti, shanti, or hurry, hurry you gotta do what feels right for you even if people think you’re weird, and regardless, you’ll still end up on top… of the bus, and I saw some monkeys in the mountains and they didn’t want to be my friend, but I’m not giving up on the dream, and I’m having yak cheese for dinner tonight and possibly a kit-kat for dessert. THE END.