In April and May of 1999 my friend Molly and I traveled through Nepal. I've typed in some excerpts from my journal as examples of what the country seemed like to a 22-year old. The entries aren't polished, and aren't supposed to represent finished work. We were there right before a big election. The royal family hadn't been assassinated yet. It was a little tense, but still pretty safe for us to be traveling. Nepal is a wonderful, wonderful country with wonderful, wonderful people. I miss it. April 4, 1999 April 5, 1999 April 13, 1999 The Miracle of Puja April 22, 2056 April 26, 2056 Late April Luxury May Day May 4, 1999 May 12, 1999 May 15, 1999 May 23, 1999 May 25, 1999 Home Again April 4, 1999 Kathmandu. Wow. What an incredible experience. This ain't Disney  World. I don't even know where to begin. We've been in this city for almost six and a half hours (still haven't slept) and I could fill half this journal with observations from those six hours - even the whole journal- if I didn't so desperately need sleep. [I hadn't slept in 30-40 hours by this point] ...I think I have seen every color in existence tonight...I'm still not ready to be here. But I never would have been. back to top April 5, 1999 I woke up when the sun was rising. I still had my eyes shut and was still in my dream enough to know where it was heading and I was looking forward to nestling deeper into my bed and continuing it when I opened my eyes and realized "Oh my God, I'm in Kathmandu- —what in the hell am I doing?" All of a sudden the bed was rock hard (it's just a very thin mattress over wood— like Lancaster, but harder) and I was cold from the fan. I stumbled up and got my fleece, Molly was still asleep. back to top April 13, 1999     I've been sitting at this restaurant for fifteen minutes, nibbling at my danish, realizing how "western" an experience I was having, and hoping some magical words would come to mind, enabling me to make some sweeping introductory statement about my impressions of Nepal. Make the first attention grabbing statement that harpoons the reader's imagination and drags it through the dusty, gravel-ey streets of Kathmandu until their shirt collar is grimey, their throat hurts from exhaust fumes and dust, their nose hairs have bits of garbage strewn among them and their ears still resound the pulses of hammers, the squawk of horns, the yelling of street vendors, motor sounds and more. And once I have their attention, I will open their eyes.     It's cloudy until 8 when the sun burns strongly enough to break through the haze and now it's making the back of my neck sweat.     Traveling requires the ability to adapt. You change. Isn't that why so many people spend the money to go to places where there will be no chance to relax? It's the challenge. "Who can I be? What can I live without? Who am I, what are the things about me that don't change when my environment changes?"     We may change back as soon as we go home, but we will know.     Some people like who they are in other cultures better than who they are in their own. [What does that mean?] My first reaction to Kathmandu was that of the eager traveler, anxious to accept everything around me, wanting to adapt, and making a gallant effort to do so. Thankfully we were ushered right from the airport and into a van and dropped off at our hotel. We were staying in Thamel, the tourist area. Molly's acquaintance Sarah was with us and my one thought was "Don't leave us Sarah!" And I said just that. She was good enough to take us to dinner and help us find our hotel again. I remember sitting at that rooftop restaurant and marveling at the sounds and colors around us. Those same sounds and colors that, without Sarah, made me reluctant to leave the hotel. On our first day venture into the streets of Thamel I remember thinking that it was a trashy kind of place and it would be nice to seek out a quieter, perhaps more orderly– "normal" part of town to stay in.     Funny how a week later after walking around other parts of Kathmandu I was happy to get back to the clean and spacious streets of Thamel. I realized then, that an effort had been made to make it more suitable to Westerners.     I remember Jessica saying that it wasn't until she left that she realized how dirty Nepal was. I'm already used to some of it. Thamel seems clean, there are only little piles of garbage scattered along the street, and there are fewer piles. There aren't gaping holes in the ground.     I would like it better if I had a role. Teacher, student, whatever. I'm a gawker.  My place is to gawk, and take pictures. I want to blend more. Good luck.     I don't like cities. I especially dislike polluted cities. Sometimes I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm heading back to a mentality where I like animals better than humans because I know what to expect. But how boring life would be if you knew what to expect, or would it be? You have to go with the flow here. You have no right to expect things to go as planned.     It's funny, cigarette smoke smells clean to me. back to top April 13, 1999 The Miracle of Puja     I used to think that in order to feel comfortable in a new place, I had to take a shower there. Not only to rinse off hte vbes of the home left behind, but to reassure myself that I could comfortably complete my necessary cleaning tasks in thsi new place. Kind of a rechristening to each new home.     Now I realize I have the American obsession for cleanliness/hygiene, and some places you have to let go of certain habits. Nepal is such a place.     To arrive in Kathmandu from the United States is to be seemingly confronted with a metroplis of grime. I kept wanting to clean off my glasses—refocus the lens— but the dirt was beyond.     There were men carrying large closets (wardrobes?) on their backs. What I've seen these small men carry on their backs is amazing. Unbelievable. It would give any middle-aged American man a bad back just to watch it.     But...dirt. I don't quite know how to describe it. As if every head of every little dust family said "Pack up your things kids, we're moving to Kathmandu." And they were followed by the smog clan, the exhaust—black smoke clan. And then they all got together and burned incense and garbage and honked horns and rang bells. Their dogs barked.     It's a big family reunion of grime.     Because Nepal has a water shortage there is a sign in our bathroom asking guests not to wash their clothes (there is a laundry service twice a day.) So Molly and I try to use as little water as possible. Shower once every three days or so. Mo is better at turning the water off while she's soaping up her face, but I try. So we're getting used to not being "fresh," but it's not gross. So, on the ecological kick, we also try to produce as little garbage as possible. I brought along a lot of bandanas to fulfill multiple needs. They're indispensable when traveling anywhere in teh streets, especially in a motorized vehicle because you have to cover your nose and mouth to avoid inhaling a nauseating amount of...black shit.     The other great uses I've put my bandanas to is as a hair scarf, wash cloth, towel, to wipe vomit off my face, and I have my blue bandana which I now affectionately call "the snot rag."     I picked up a head cold when we were in the Terai (jungle). It got a lot worse during the bus ride back to Kathmandu. Now the snot rag is all crusty and I set aside tonight as the time when I can wash the snot rag with Puja, the wonder soap.     In a country where dirt is so prevalent—where there is perpetual grime under your fingernails—there is a weapon, a secret, that can take it all away. It's the answer to prayers—it's Puja. And it's cheap.     Sarah told us about Puja and I was wary. She said they used it for everything—clothes, shoes, even the dog. The dog? The dog. back to top April 22, 2056     I hope I live to see year 2056 as described by the Christian calendar.     Nepal is closed today. On strike. An unwilling strike for some, but no one is making a fuss. No one ever does in Nepal. We were casually informed of the strike the day we got back from our trek in the Annapurna region. The Maoists called the strike. Our current hostess remarked that it was because they know they won't win the election and they're pissed off. She's American born. The Maosits called the strike so there are no buses or taxis running, no stores open,  though a number are open or partially open here in Pokhara. Restaurants and hotels are open however. There is a distinct line of separation between Nepali citizens and tourists. It is understood that if any business is open today, any bus running, a note will be made and something may or may not happen to that particular business or business person(s)— bombed perhaps...so everything is closed. But local politics never interfere with the tourist trade. A Nepali risks getting killed if he's trekking in the hills, a tourist hears "No problem, no problem, very safe." And I've come to trust that, just as I must trust my life to the bus driver every time I board a bus—even if it seems like I shall die at every turn.     I even rode on top of the bus, practically hanging off the back on the way back from Nayapul. My butt is sore from the metal bars I was sitting on, but it was a thrill. I was sitting next to a 20 year old Nepali who was very talkative for the first part of the ride, quiet in the last. We flew down foothills—mountains to me—through hairpin curves—I held on for dear life. It would have given an insurance person in the States nightmares. It was great fun.     I waved at children and was gawked at a bit, but it was great. Maybe Nepali women never get to ride on the tops of buses. It would be a shame. back to top April 26, 2056     Cramps. Late bare-foot trip to the common bathroom, lit by a headlamp because the light is burned out, stepping over water leaking from somewhere, thinking someone else's thoughts, smelling someone else's smells, looking at someone else's writing, feeling someone else's pain. My confusion. My sleeplessness.     Put too much pressure on myself to write on this trip. How to condense, expand, these experiences creatively on paper. How to sound impressive. Wasn't liking Nepal. Feeling very American. So I stopped writing. Didn't want to, didn't force myself, not even the day to day occurrences.     I'm using Molly's headlamp, but she has a ton of batteries, mine's buried in the heap of material possessions I let explode at the foot of my rented bed. The light is flickering, not turned on high enough. Like the flourescent light that still has faint light coursing through it though the switch is off. Hope it isn't a fire hazard, not that that would surprise me.     The soles of my feet are very dirty. My heels look like they have bits of brown felt on the bottoms as protection, pretty much what it is, best sunscreen around—dirt. Shit! Filth! Dust! Think of the protective possibilities against the harmful UV rays that attack the very clean! Better to roll with the dirt than die with the hygenically approved... blah.     I feel that my impressions of Nepal may evolve in a series of essays. Or maybe I will cease writing completely. But I will have to face a certain number of people who say "So what was Nepal like?" I will come up with some witty two or three sentence reflection that will quell any feigned curiosity in most of my acquaintances— but I feel that I owe the truly interested something more. While I don't buy into the "you're so lucky" bit, I do feel blessed and fortunate to have had this opportunity and if I can pass anything on, if someone thinks they can learn something from my experiences, I would love to try and help. Since I have lost faith in images created by my camera I have only word to work with. I didn't bring a tape recorder so I can't bring back the sounds. I can't, and for a large part don't want to, bring back the smells. The feel is overall of being hot, and words will work satisfactorily there too.     This is: Nepal as experienced and related by a prejudiced, subjective, judgemental person, seeking to be none of those things.     I feel like I should begin where I left off, but I hardly know where that is because even when I was putting words on paper before, I didn't really know anything, and now I know a little.     I will begin with Pokhara. We bought out mini-bus tickets for Pokhara from the nice man I use for e-mail. He gives us a good rate for using the Internet and we both like him, so we go back. Rs 200 for a ride to Pokhara isn't as cheap as it gets, but it's a good deal for a five or so hour bus ride when you're doing your best to stay alive.     There are several stops along the way when we eat or just stop for sodas and on each of these I notice a particularly handsome blonde who keeps to himself. I decide he's European and a tad into himself— or maybe he's just shy. At the lunch stop (which was around ten in the morning—bus left at 7:30), I order fried dal bhat and Molly has regular dal bhat. The blonde has a sandwich. We were going to buy a Twix bar, but they wanted Rs 70. Outrageous.     We've been warned that when we reach Pokhara we'll be set upon by a pack of hoteliers, if that is what they like to call themselves. And taxi drivers. I'm getting used to this so am not concerned. Pokhara is a little worse than usual and I'm hoping to share a taxi to the part of town where more of the decent-ish hotels and guest houses are—Lakeside. I'm near the blonde so I yell—asking him if he's going to Lakeside. He's concentrating on getting his backpack from the guy on the roof of the bus and doesn't seem to hear me. The taxi driver who latched onto me first tells me that he already has a guide. I believe him. So we get our bags down and then the blonde finds me and asks if we want to share a taxi into town. Hell yeah.     So we pile in, disappointing my self-appointed "first taxi you talked to" and head off. Blondie is from Australia, traveling alone.     We get to the guest house affiliated with our particular taxi (there always is one) and after some haggling agree to look at rooms. We decide to give it a go—blonde boy doesn't— so more hassle with the taxi driver and our boy ends up walking. Pity to see him go, but oh well, perhaps we'll see him again, meanwhile, time to shower. It's Hotel Fire On The Mountain. A bit out of central Lakeside, but not too far as we discover later. A decent deal at Rs 200 a night with attached bath. The bus ride was not good for my oncoming cold and the bandana I'd designated as the "snot rag" has gotten so disgusting I decide it's time to buy some Kleenex.     So feeling fresh and relatively clean we set off to explore Pokhara. Up until about halfway to Pokhara on the bus I had harbored some belief of a mythical Western city in Nepal. Each time we were to arrive at a new place I imagined paved streets and store fronts with glass. Something made me think Pokhara would fit this image util my stupidity finally dawned on me. So the wide dusty street lined with temporary looking cubbies crammed with crap didn't alarm me—when we finally arrive at central Lakeside, I wasn't caught still expecting to arrive somewhere else.     We wandered a bit, checked out a different hotel that had been recommended to us (3 Sisters- run by the three Chetri sisters who also run a trekking service for women who want women guides and female porters-they also have a damn good restaurant) and looked at some likely restaurants for dinner.     Were still wandering when we ran into the blonde again. Had been hoping we would. He exceeded my hopes and asked if we had eaten, when we said no, he asked to join us. Well sure! His name was Chris and he had just finished his degree in Chinese medicine with a term in China. He was now traveling for a year and would be climbing a peak in eastern Nepal in May. Not Everest. Something that was around 6000 meters. Molly might remember the name. He was here for the mountains. Didn't have any use for England. Would be meeting his girlfriend (damn) in Thailand to go SCUBA diving and then he was off to Europe and then South America. He had a beautiful face and was happy to talk all evening. I made some offer to look us up in Kathmandu when we would all be around, but it wasn't followed up on, which was fine. We saw him briefly a few more times and last we saw of him was when he passed us on the first day of our trek. I hope his summit attempt goes well.     We were late getting back to our hotel (had watched the sun set over Lake Phewa while eating dinner) and were thinking of possibly starting our trek in the morning. I woke up part way through the night though, to the feeling that I couldn't open my left eye. Mild panic. It was sealed shut with dried, snot-like discharge. I grabbed the nearest water bottle, soaked a bandana—not the snot rag—and blotted my eye 'til it would open. I knew we wouldn't be trekking in the morning. My cold had gotten worse and I felt quite shitty by the time the sun came up. Molly agreed to wait a day. I had woken up before she did and saw the dark silhouette of the Annapurna range out the winder above her bed. Little did I know this was to be the day we had the best view of those mountains. We spent the bulk of the day sitting on a small deck in the hotel reading, writing in Molly's case, and looking at the mountains.     We headed out the next morning after grabbing two still-warm apple streudel at a near-by bakery. Took a taxi to Phedi where we started the long climb (~1000 feet) to Dhampus. I turned down several offers of young boys who wanted to be my porter. I listened to their offers because I wasn't sure of my health and felt a bit dizzy. But being of proud spirit and unsound sense, I said no. So we began, and very, very slowly at that. The initial uphill is hard to negotiate and my dizziness increased as I became easily out of breath. I felt like such a wimp. I, of course, had overpacked, and was hauling enough cold weather gear for a small army, at least that's what it felt like. "Prepping for Gokyo." I did that alright. So up we went. I eventually learned the trekking rule of moving very deliberately and slowly, it helped. By some miracle we eventually reached Dhampus and had lunch. Molly had bought a bamboo stick from a little boy along the trade for Rs 10. Neither of us knew now valuable that thing was going to be. en route to Tolka- 2nd day of trek     Looking back, I can't believe how long we walked that first day. We didn't make it as far as the map or any books thought we ought to, but we were out of shape, and new at this, and I'm damn proud we got as far as we did.     We were hoping for Tolka, but stopped an hour shy at a "guest house" hear BheriKherka, or something like that.     This "lodge" was at the bottom of a large hill and my knees were done in. It was called Sundar something, "Beautiful something" and it was beautiful to me. The art on the preceding pages is by the youngest child of the resident family (he scribbled all over my journal). It was kind of like renting a room at a small farm. The sun was setting. We were the only guests, usual in our case.     The walk in, the walk all day really, was beautiful. Lush forests. I kept taking photos. And we kept walking uphill it seemed. A tree, kind of a Tolkein-like tree, dominates one of my photos.     There's not a lot I can say about our first day of trekking. My health improved, it seemed, with the exercise, but my eye was not better that night. We were exhausted by the time we quit. Had been running into another group, two French guys and a Belgian girl. They went ahead of us and pushed on for Tolka.     We were sitting at two tables positioned under a tarp. Yak crossbreeds kept wandering by and chickens and baby goats wound wander and cavort under our feet. No one there spoke English. The mother spoke very limited words to communicate the essentials, but only understood "yes" and "no" from us. I think her son may have spoken some English, but we gave up a conversation after a while. Mildly frustrating. We had our phrase book out, but under the gun it isn't very useful. We communicated most with the artist toddler. Spirited child. I think most children, especially boys, are spoiled here. They are the golden light of everyone's lives. Makes sense. In this simpler culture, they are the ends, or end. The culmination. The reason for living in a way.     So Sosan played with our pens (ruined Molly's) and water bottles, and even had a bit of fun with my camera, until I stole it back. He was quite strong. And he was nosey. Poking his face into our room unless we had the door barred. We had dal bhat by candlelight that night. There was no electricity. Earlier she had made some chapati which was really naan which was wonderful, best we've had. end fo 2nd day brought us to Ghandruk, home of the famous Gurkha (sp?) soldiers. Extremely orderly town, very friendly people, and I had my first experience with unregulated and expired antibiotics perscribed by the local doctor. They worked- I got better. back to top Late April We were waiting for Misha outside the Patan Museum and two boys, ages (about) 10 and 6 walked up. They sat about three feet away from me. After a few minutes the older one asked me where we were from. This is the typical beginning of an exchange. Sometimes I answer "Canada" if I think the child or person is going to be begging or trying to sell something, but I told him we were from the USA. A couple of other questions followed and then he started asking me questions about US geography and history. He knew more about our presidents than I did. Somehow he said something that indicated he brought his little brother over to practice English with us. I tried talking to him but he was very shy. The older brother asked how I like Nepal, how long we were going to be here etc. I told him all the Nepali I knew and he taught me (us) how to say "I like Nepal" in Nepali. "Malai Nepal manparcha" I think. Then a third little boy joined the group and when he learned we were from America he fished out a handful of foreign currency from various countries and showed us a quarter. Very proud of that quarter. The older boy became the teacher and said it was 25 cents, a quarter of a dollar—and checked with us to be sure he was right—or just to show he knew. I told him that the person on the coin was George Washington and that fact just made the day. "Really?" Amazement as he looked at a face who's name he had mentioned before as "your first president, right?" I told him who was on the sides of other American coins and Molly started digging to see if she had any American currency. She had a dime and perhaps a nickel. After looking closely at these the boys handed them back. Then we showed them some British currency Mo also had. The boy with all the change had coins from Spain, Japan, America, but not Britain, so Molly asked if he wanted to keep the two-pence. Sure! but he made a gift to her of his Japanese yen.     We had become quite the attraction by then and Misha still hadn't shown up. A couple of Nepali men were curiously looking on. The three-foot gap had closed considerably by then, I can't remember exactly how this evolved by I think the elder boy was trying to figure out where California was in comparison to Florida State University. I decided it was time for a geography lesson so I took out a scrap of paper and a pen and sketched an outline of the United States. The remaining gap closed completely and we were in the midst of a swarm of kids.     I drew a crude map and made sure to show where Minnesota was. I'm very ignorant about geography in the northeast US and was a little embarrassed to have to admit it. Misha showed up and talked with the kids a bit. He took our picture with them. I hope it turns out.     Then we parted way with the kids. I gave the map to the older brother with warnings about its inaccuracy. We had the younger brother write his name down in Nepali. I had written it in English above. It was nuts to see this young kid making the letters of a language that remains a complete mystery to me. They found out where we were heading for lunch and warned us that the lassi's weren't very good, so we steered clear of those. back to top April 29 Luxury     Americans lead a life of choices. They lead lives of luxury. We don't need to run around, obsessed by all the little details that obsess us—we choose to.     Molly said that Nepal made her realize how much more to life there was than science. That before this trip she had seen herself as the overly dedicated grad student who's whole life was her science, chained to the lab, now she says she'll explore other things. Being the best doesn't matter as much— you should enjoy yourself.     I was coming to graduate study with a different attitude completely. I wasn't quite ready to devote my life to one area—not quite sure about the rigors and sacrifice required—worth it?     Then we see Nepal and the elemental glory of it. Elemental. Nepal is very elemental. Sister Anna put it as "These people (farmers, rural villagers) don't think about the future. They have no future. The concept of saving money is foreign to them, they're just concerned about today and tomorrow. Putting food on the table for today and tomorrow..." I was mentioning how everyone seemed so happy, so peaceful, and she said that that's where she saw the presence of God. I see it as they don't have this other shit to muck their lives up, but that's over-simplifying it. They don't want or choose to live in poverty. Who would? They would think me absurd to talk of the evils of money. That would be dumb. But I sat that evening in Krishna's kitchen, being fed by his wife. It was Molly and I eating, Krishna and Radika eating and the two present daughters doing dishes and serving food. They were laughing and laughing about something. It was all in Nepali so I couldn't understand it, but I was filled with joy. It was so happy, so beautiful.     If you can be so happy and have so little, why have everything? Sister Anna said she thought Nepal should get better waste water management and basic health care, and then ideally pitch all other Western influence. They're losing their way of life. The simplicity I saw will be going extinct.     So this all goes back to my original argument. I live a life of luxury. I’m glad I was born in the U.S., glad I have the choices I do, but don't think this life is better than one in Nepal—different. But I know that all the shit I put myself through will be by choice and I back to top May 1, 1999  May Day     Faith. Traveling in Nepal has a lot to do with faith. One must hand everything over to faith. One learns to have faith. One learns that all one has is faith.     Faith that your bag will turn up at the same airport as you do. Faith that your bag makes it to the same bus stop as you do. Faith that you won't die if your bus does crash.     You must have faith, because you have no control.     But this is menial, a trivial faith. While in Nepal, if not already a faithful member of a religion, you learn about Faith. back to top May 4, 1999     On our way to Namche we stopped for tea at Achu's suggestion. I said to Molly that I wished I could have each of my friends transported—inhabiting my body for a minute or two, just to experience this beauty and be convinced that it exists. I've been struck with the realization that no matter how many photos I may have been shown, I never would have believed in this place, never would have known it, if I had not been here.     On my walk today as the clouds were drifting there was one cloud nestled in the cleft of a hill, like the mountain was embracing it. It's still hard to believe. I want anyone I know to be able to live this for a least a few moments. Of course—they wouldn't know Nepal after a few moments, but if I chose the right few moments—they might be able to feel the wonder of it.     But no, it took me a month to even get used to Nepal. Even now... but this trip has exceeded all of my expectations. I was satisfied before we even left. Now that I've overcome my initial AMS, a few bouts of stomach problems, a cold, an eye infection—I feel stronger. I may get more bad altitude effects later, but I should get over them. The scenery—oh man. It still can't touch my amazement with the people, but I'm more and more stunned all the time. I hope I can hold on to this elusive peace when I get home. Namche Bazaar back to top May 12, 1999 Nepal is in the eyes of the mountaineer who keeps coming back even though he vows each year is his last visit. It's also in the smile of almost every Nepali. Especially the round, red-cheeked Sherpas. Patience and acceptance. Hardship and sickness and recovery. The inquisitive yak. The shy tiger. The jumping monkey. Rich desolation. The contrast of an air heavy with pollution, soot, smells, dust and trash with an air so thin one can't breathe properly. Stripped of oxygen, no, just deprived.     I feel super-saturated with Nepal and I need out. I need a break. Need to rinse off— re-group. But then this would be another critical time when I'm about to learn something I suppose.     We were supposed to climb Gokyo Ri this morning. Our bag was packed. I took my Diamox so I'd be able to sleep at night. Then Mo woke me up around 3 and asked for my other Diamox. She had a pounding headache. I figured we wouldn't be climbing the peak. I woke up around 5 and it was cloudy. Started snowing around 5:30. I knew there would be no climbing. Mo thought she'd have to head down the mountain her head hurt so much. But after two pots of tea she feels better. So we're here still. I want to buy a different book back to top May 15, 1999 ...I felt like a gurgling cesspool in skin. No internal organs, no muscle, no fat, just bubbly green sloshy stuff that was mildly acidic. Gross. One report was that a Western doctor had said that if you thought you had giardia to take the medication because the bug was worse than the drugs. It was an issue because I would have to take nearly 2 grams of tinidazole twice. That's a lot of drugs. I was feeling a lot sick. I was also stranded at 4800 meters— two days walking at least away from a doctor, and five days and a plane flight from a decent or rather, good, clinic. All warnings about it being a drug to be taken under a doctor's prescription only, went out the window. I was the doctor—I opted for the drugs.     So I downed six 300 mg tablets of the stuff and by the middle of the night I felt remotely human again. Kidneys, large intestine, small intestine— hey! a stomach! And it was hungry! So I took that as confirmation that it was indeed giardia that I had. The next day we took off for Phortse. A terrible day. We left at 8:30 and didn't reach Phortse until 6 pm. It was snowing off and on, fatigue was a side-effect of my medication and my knees were killing me. Achu left us near a stupa with the promise that we were only an hour away from Phortse. That was at 4:15 pm. I swore all the way down the hill. My psychological outlook plummeted and I wanted to pound someone—mainly Achu. At about 5 or 5:15 we hit a town with stone walls that was on the edge of the hill. The fog was thick and I thought it was Phortse. We lost the trail a few times, then wandered through this Shangri-La type place, gorgeous, but it was deserted. Two people, Sherpas, passed in the distance before I could contact them. I stopped to ask a yak for directions. He wasn't very helpful—didn't even swing his head this say or that—just chewed his cud and looked at us. Then we saw a one-horned yak. That was that.     We left the town. I was quite reluctant and declared that if we didn't see Phortse beyond the next bend I was going to crawl up on a rock and go to sleep. I actually felt like sitting down and crying. Next bend—no Phortse. I sat down. Molly was able to get me moving again and then did a very wise thing. She started talking about food from home that we could indulge in soon. Yum. Instant mood lifter. I was still fairly pissy, but better. We kept walking and entered a rhododendron forest that was still blooming. It was gorgeous. Foggy, but gorgeous. Then we ran into a Nepali who assured us we were going in the right direction. We entered the outskirts of Phortse and he kept us going in the right direction. We passed an old woman, "Namaste," and I remembered why I liked this country so much. Then Achu met us on the trail, hotel key in hand, and he was temporarily forgiven. He wad gotten us a room where all of our friends were staying. That was nice. He must have gotten a deal. It was a great room. The food was okay. I was still feeling ill. Okay—I was so fucking tired I didn't care about anything. My word for the evening was "Fuck"—every now and then had the adjective "fucking." I was unhappy. All our buddies were nice though. The view two mornings later of Ama Dablam - which means something along the lines of mother and daughter. The mother is the highest peak, with the daughter to the left. back to top May 23, 1999     Virtually nothing about Nepal can be summarized, folded neatly into one literary package, except one thing. If I had to fit all of Nepal into one facial expression, it would be the smile.     There is a lot to frown or scowl about in Nepal, and I've run into these expressions, but it's rare for them to not change instantly to smiles if smiled at. I've never been so richly rewarded for smiling at someone. There's a warmth that covers the whole nation that has nothing to do with Celsius of Fahrenheit. There's a surrounding trust that weaves its way along the yarns that hold your body and soul together and loosens them a bit, relaxes them. It becomes easier to breathe (despite the polluted air), easier to open your eyes, easier to smile from inside.     I wish I had the skill and perseverance to make certain moments I experienced come alive for you. Every time there was a genuine smile connection between a stranger and myself—I felt like I was blooming from my very core. The people here are direct—the verbal language may fail as a means of communication, but the smiles never do.     And the laughter isn't shaded by any other emotion than joy. There's no malicious laughter.     So, failing to illustrate my one successful summary, let me move on to what cannot be summarized—the many parts of the whole.     Nepal has a tendency to explode at the first time visitor—at least it does for the visitor who has never been to Asia before. It is only after all the little bits have settled down that a sensible pattern arises or the blooming can begin. It is like learning to breathe a medium other than air (and no that is not another dig at air pollution in KTM or lack of oxygen at higher elevations.)     Contrasts and conflicts fill Nepal, yet there is a harmony to it. The only observation I was able to make during my first two whole weeks in Nepal was that there was so much of everything! And yet, Nepal seemed to have nothing. So I made the jazzy statement, "Nepal has everything, and nothing." That too, is too general. Nepal has no money. By Western standards then, it has nothing, for money is everything right? In America at least, money means freedom, or it can mean freedom, it can mean independence, which is nothing to scoff at, but there's so much more.     If wealth was quantified in colors, smells, religions, elevations, or happiness—Nepal would be rich. About the same time I came up with the 'Nepal has everything and nothing' statement, I was being overwhelmed by all the colors. I am convinced that Nepal is home to every color ever seen or created by humans. Every color. Forget the whole rainbow cliche, this goes way beyond rainbows. This goes beyond Crayola. This probably goes beyond LSD, but that is only an assumption. Yellow bananas, green and pink mangos, orange oranges and carrots, purple onions, white cloves of garlic, and that's just a produce stall. Then there are paper lanterns in fuchsia, turquoise, kelly green and linen white, plastic buckets in red and royal blue, aluminum cups and copper urns, every gem set in gold or silver, mauve buildings and orange brick, red and brown temples and white and gold stupas. Everything that has been painted seems to have been painted in order to "brighten it up" with the value put on the number of colors employed.     And every color that has or hasn't been represented somewhere else, will surely be found on a sari, and if not there, on a feather of the national bird.     And after all this description, it's not simply that all colors seem to exist in Nepal, it's that you constantly see every single one of them each time you turn your head. back to top May 25, 1999     This morning Molly and I are sitting in front of the Patan Museum in Durbar Square, watching all of the faithful do their prayers, devotions, whatever. Women are sitting across the brick paved street from us, selling flowers, fruit, greens, (for offerings I assume—at least the flowers are) and seeds for the pigeons. A man has stopped three feet from me and he is watching me write. He's leaving—I wonder if he could read this. Do I make a spectacle? Everyone has been looking at us because we're the only Westerners here. We arrived at 5 am, no, 5:15. It's now 6:04 am. There are thousands of pigeons in the square and a majority of them fly up into the air when someone walks near. Many people are buying the seeds and feeding them. One of the ladies who sells the seeds blesses the money she receives. Does feeding pigeons serve a religious function?     There's one lady across the way who has some bright yellow flower. I tried to take a discrete picture, but would like to walk over and ask to take a close-up, but I probably won't. If I had my big camera maybe.     We're sitting in front of the Hindu temple which still has a family living in it. When someone comes by to pray (only the men do this I think) they put their hands together like a Christian would—pray— then turn a circle to the right. Then continue walking. Something smells bad, like urine.     There was a dog that came to visit us, well, he stood behind us and itched his side with his left hind foot. When he was behind Molly I looked at him and he just sat there with his tongue hanging slightly out. He was carmel colored and actually looked well-fed and not too mangey—except he was scratching a lot.     He had the typical Nepal look of having too long a spine. I don't know why that is—all Nepali dogs have really long backs. Mo just informed me that one of the flower ladies was laughing at us. I guess we are a spectacle. Being laughed at is good though—not like at home where you shrivel up and want to disappear. Being laughed at here makes you want to laugh.     The Hindu temple in front of us is getting very crowded now on the second storey. Back to the carmel colored, long-backed dog. He had a limp. He mostly didn't use his hind left leg at all—he could move remarkably well holding it in the air and hopping quickly on his right hind leg. He moved across the street and stood in front of some of the flower ladies and wagged his tail, looking up expectantly, tongue hanging out. I don't know if he received anything, but he moved down the line and the last time I saw him he had hopped up on the ledge and was wagging his tail again. He had one of those bushy tails which curved up over his back. I don't know if I've seen many dogs wag their tails at all in Nepal. Sister Anna's dog—or adopted dog— but that's perhaps it.     I just realized that to many people walking past, my handwriting looks as foreign to them as Nepali script does to me, especially because I have such bad handwriting.     The sun is hitting the temples now and the sides of buildings down the street. Some type of organ music and clanging of little cymbal-like things is coming from the Hindu temple. Bells are ringing somewhere on my right, and people are talking everywhere.     There is a blind old woman who is making her way down the street. She was sitting across from us and a little to the left earlier. Her clothes are dirty, neutral colors and she has a dirty rag of a scarf and falling-apart boots. She has a parcel wrapped in dirty white plastic tied to her back and a bamboo stick. While she was sitting across from us I didn't realize right away that she was blind and wasn't sure of it until she got up and walked. She is wearing pants, which is unusual for a women (unless she's in Western dress).  Her eyes had a blank stare about them, but I thought it could have been depression or something. She was ignored by all the brightly clothed people around her. (Singing joining the organ music now.) Every time the pigeons flew up in the air she would repeatedly hit the side of the brick ledge she was sitting on, with her cane. To keep them away from her?     A young couple came by and bought seeds for the pigeons. She was in traditional dress and he was in shiny loafers, pressed khaki pants, a thick brown leather belt, a pressed blue oxford shirt and a motorcycle helmet—black with a stylized American flag on it. He kept it on while praying, and while scattering seed for the pigeons. I was amused. Finally he took his helmet off to reveal a matching preppy hair cut (longish on top, shaved bottom) and quite a handsome face. He was saying something amusing to his wife and she was laughing. He was smiling. They looked quite the happy pair and I wondered if their marriage was arranged or it was a love marriage. A Tibetan meal (that Molly and I were sharing mind you). Dal is in the metal bowl (lentils), bhat (the rice) and I'll have to get back to you on the rest bc I can't remember the names. back to top Home Again 6-5-99     When people experience something significant they tend to say "It changed my life," as if "life" was an object like a lump of softish clay that could be moulded by these "significant events" but otherwise stayed pretty much the same. But life is time, and it doesn't really belong to us. It's much easier to feel possessive about a lump of clay, like Play-doh from childhood -- this is my life, it's yellow, with a bit of blue here and an orange ring round the middle and red eyes. But life is time, not clay, and some would say borrowed time at that.     Now, a better expression to use when one encounters something that inspires a feeling of change, is to say "It changed me." You choose your actions so of course, if you have changed, your life is going to be different. But it is just your actions and your thoughts that have changed. Time is still there.     There is a phrase I read in the earlier weeks of my trip to Nepal that, looking back, I can't believe I didn't buy into at first. It was from Stephen Bezrucha's trekking guide, and it goes something like "Nepal is not here to be changed, let Nepal change you". And I didn't think it was going to change me all that much. My mistake. I just got home yesterday, and America is almost alarming. It's like legoland. Plastic. Everything is shiny and new and clean. Like if you run your finger across it, it won't come up with a healthy dusting of life, it will just be clean. Of course I live in idealized America, smiling faces, green grass, new cars, vacuumed carpets, clean pets. Those last two are big ones. I never saw a vacuum cleaner in Nepal. And the animals all have that "dirty fur" feeling. My cat hardly ever sees the inside of the bathtub, but she's pretty darn clean. How can you get dirty, living here?     I wrote in my journal several times that Nepal seemed to covered with a layer of dust and grime; it was like looking through a "dirt" filter on a camera. One that puts dirt there, not one that keeps it out. None of my specific experiences felt "dirty”, it was an overall impression. But now I think perhaps I got it wrong, and the fact is that I live in America looking through the second kind of dirt filter, this time the kind that keeps it out.     Let's say I had two different mirages in front of me. On the left is America, shimmering the way mirages do, and on the right is Nepal, a little dusty in parts. You put your hand up to America and you can pass it right through to the air on the other side. You try the same with Nepal, it's perhaps a little grittier (only in parts), a little more dense, and then you hit something solid. Whump. It's faith.     Or for another attempt at imagery, you have two mothers, each with their toddler. The child returns to his mother after having been playing and she takes some cloth to his face and arms to clean the muck off that he's been playing in. One mother-child set is in America and the other is in Nepal, Kathmandu. The difference will be that the American child was never actually dirty, and the Nepali child never came clean. But don't think of the dirt in such a negative connotation. Could it be something else?     This actually isn't a cultural comparison, it's an economic comparison. I've seen squeaky clean Nepali boys in their private schools, but I haven't been exposed to much poverty in America, and that's my fault. back to top