How Bizarre

April 30, 2010
Tengboche to Khumjung – somewhere around 13,000 feet

The walk up to Tengboche was tough enough. The lodge was crap, and the night that followed, extremely cold. It didn't help that sometime around midnight I discovered my rented sleeping bag was devoid of down filling in the sections between my hips and knees. The smell of sewage from the unclean squat toilet hung in the thin air as a constant reminder of where I was. I tossed and turned most of the night and needless to say, woke up in a rotten mood.

I was cranky because I had been fairly uncomfortable during the night, but also because my time climbing to new heights was over. I would be turning around this morning and heading back down towards Lukla. And, despite my trouble getting a full night's sleep, I felt okay. Sure, my body was tired and sore, but as far as the altitude was concerned, it was not really affecting me. I sat with a San Jose woman at breakfast who was so ill I couldn't believe her guide was pushing her to go higher. I had expected to get sick, and embarked on the trek armed with diamox (a high altitude drug) and a satchel of other remedies. Turns out, at least at almost 13,000 feet, I needed none of them. I wanted to keep going and was disappointed that I couldn't. (Though after one night shivering in my sleeping bag, I kind of knew going higher could result in frostbite.) The walk down would be long; I wanted to eat breakfast and get on with it.

And so less than 16 hours after I'd dragged my ass up the steep pass into Tengboche, I was about face and descending it. My mood continued to drop with the trail, especially since Phurba virtually vanished. He'd just skip along, way ahead of me until he was out of sight, then stop and wait for me at 30 minute intervals.

“Is problem? Knee is paining?” he said when I caught up with him at a natural resting point.

Let's see, I was moving at the pace of an arthritic geriatric patient, wincing with each step, holding up traffic, watching my knee swell - “Yes, Phurba, IT'S PAINING.” While I had told him to go ahead the previous day, no such words had been uttered today. I was scared I might fall and break my leg, and he'd be nowhere in sight. What if I had to be carried down by the smelly porters, or worse, strapped to the back of a yak for the 2 day hike to an airstrip? With these doomsday scenarios whizzing through my head, I gobbled some Advil and got down the pass as quickly as I could.

We were headed to Khumjung, a Sherpa village near Namche Bazaar. Most trekkers visit Khumjung during a rest/acclimatization day on their way up to base camp, but I'd arranged to spend the night on my way back to Lukla. Like Namche, it is a village carved into the mountainside, reminiscent of an ancient Greek amphitheater. We arrived sometime in the early afternoon to the eerie feeling that Phurba and I were the only people in town. Aside from the school kids kicking around a deflated soccer ball (following his ascent of Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary built a school in Khumjung, as well as hospital nearby), I saw nobody. I asked Phurba what was up, and he told me that most of the climbing Sherpa came from Khumjung. The ones lucky enough to land a place on an expedition were high up on Mount Everest working, probably already plotting for the summit. Some, he solemnly remarked, would not return. Where their wives and families were, I wasn't sure.

Aside from climbing Sherpa and Hillary's school, Khumjung has another claim to fame, one of which would take me by surprise. The village houses an old Buddhist monastery, and Phurba (who confessed that he would one day like to land a job as an Everest Sherpa) wanted to visit and ask the Buddha to keep safe his colleagues who were headed up to the death zone. I was more than happy to take a walk over with him; I felt pretty good. The village was not as steep as Namche, and it was an easy and charming walk. Aside from a couple of nuns cleaning the prayer wheels, the only people there were Phurba, a monk who showed us around, and me. As I always do, I put a few rupees in the donation box. The monk came scurrying over to me and took me by the wrist. He led me to a locked cabinet and took out the key. Was he trying to extort more cash? Is that where the “real” donations were kept? I did not know what was going on. Phurba had a shit-eating grin on his face and asked me if I was ready. Confused and a little bit scared, all I could muster was an unsure, “Sure...” Inside the cabinet, resting atop a '50s-style beauty school bust sat the monastery's prized earthly possession: the scalp of a yeti.

Now of course, as luck (and legend) would have it, I had left my camera at the lodge. The innkeeper had electricity behind the counter and was charging my battery. As in life, the yeti is apparently camera shy in death. Nobody was going to believe me. Hell, I could not even believe it myself. I asked the monk if he had seen a live yeti, and with what frequency. He told me that it was very rare now but when he was a boy he would see them often. He did say that weather like today's (cold, foggy, gray) sometimes brought one around this time of year, looking for food. Interesting stuff. I wondered how tall the tales would grow if I'd made a larger donation. I turned a couple prayer wheels and retreated to the warmth of my guest house.

The date was April 30th, one day before the May Day celebrations. We knew this was a national holiday of sorts, and we also knew, via news trickling up and down the trail, that May 2nd was going to be a day of Maoist demonstrations. I was set to fly back to Kathmandu and start volunteer work on May 3rd. All sorts of rumors were flying around, and I was overjoyed when we got back to the tea house to find the soothing sounds of Nepali screaming out of a television set. I ordered a lemon tea and took a seat in next to a couple from Arizona I'd met a few days earlier. Happy to be in the company of Americans, we quickly got to talking. Rumors had been flying and we were trying to discern what was actually going on. It's no secret that Nepal suffers from bouts of political instability. There was chatter up and down the trail; rumors of airports closing, imminent riots, martial law, mass starvation. Up here in Khumjung, the demonstrations in the capitol mattered little. All any of us really wanted to know was would we be stranded in the Himalayas, and for how long. As I don't speak Nepali, watching TV was little comfort. There were shots of the Prime Minister and the Maoist leader, but not one of the 10 Sherpa or porters would translate anything for us.

I kept asking Phurba “so, what is going on? Is the domestic airport going to close? How will we get back to KTM? Will we have to walk (this was a real possibility – and one that would take over a week)?”

Some people speculated that the protests/strike would go on for a month. Problem was, these guys are so used to it, they really didn't seem to give a shit. They also did not want to relay any bad or disappointing news to foreigners, lest we think poorly of their country, so instead all we got was nebulous information. “Maybe will be OK I think,” or “He is Maoist leader, is saying protest tomorrow.” Gee, thanks guys. Informative and reassuring.

As I passed the time talking with my new friends Lisa and Kris about home – turns out the couple had recently been to a wedding at The Brownstone in NJ, where my sister got married; Lisa's family was from NJ and Italian; they had both eaten the spaghetti for lunch and recommended I try it for dinner - some excitement arose from the Sherpa gang, who were all crowding closer to the TV. Excellent, I thought, some news. The scene that we witnessed was so unbelievably bizarre that had I been alone, I'd have assumed I was having high altitude hallucinations. Every Nepali in the room (save for the woman who ran the lodge) had moved his chair close to the TV. The volume was turned way up. As the sun set behind the giant mountains, we, along with probably the only other people in town, settled in for a three hour long session with the WWE. Wrestlemania had reached one of the most remote parts of the world, and carried with it far more weight than something so futile as, oh, a Maoist-imposed national strike!

This was serious business. The thin air suddenly became thick and heavy, as if the Sherpa were high rollers with millions resting on the Kentucky Derby. Having worked in heavy metal, I was embarrassed to admit I knew some of the wrestlers and moreover their theme songs. I was hearing Killswitch Engage at 13,000 feet. I had even met a couple of the wrestlers, news I kept to myself lest a riot break out. The excitement in the room was bananas. At one point, Phurba got so worked up his chair was rattling. I asked if the featured wrestler (I think it was Darren Young) was his favorite. “Oh yes, He is very good player!” and then I was shushed so the match could be watched in silence. It was truly hilarious, and I had not laughed that hard in a long time. Proud of my country's fine entertainment exports, I focused my thoughts on dinner.

I have to admit, I was nervous about ordering the spaghetti. It was on every menu, but I usually thought it best to stick with dal bhat. We had been talking about food all afternoon, and I was sick of dal bhat. My friends assured me that it was good. So after the innkeeper fired up the stove with yak dung, she went to work (sans washing her hands, I should note) chopping up fresh tomatoes, onions and garlic, and I was presented with a giant plate of spaghetti with fresh marinara sauce and a heaping mound of grated yak cheese. And it was actually delicious. I declined to accept Kris's recommendation to sample the “Hot Tang,” (by far the most curious menu item I had seen on the trek) but thought that if I ever started a band, that would be a great name. The afternoon turned into evening, the Wrestlemania marathon carried on long past sunset and my last day high in the Himalayas was a blast.

I was in bed by 8PM, haunted by dreams of being abducted by a spaghetti-eating, tang-drinking, Maoist-wrestling yeti. Bizarre, indeed.

Shangri-La: On My Own

APRIL 29
Namche Bazaar to Tengboche (12,687 ft)
Part 2

I had met a couple of kids from Denver during my two night stay at the Khumbu Lodge in Namche Bazaar. They were “doing research” (whatever that meant) in the region for a few months and had been trekking all around the Khumbu range. While drinking my first altitude headache away (with water) in the dining area one afternoon I started asking them about the trail ahead. I'd had a very hard time getting into Namche on the near vertical incline and wanted to know from a non-Nepali, in no uncertain terms, (Nepalis, like Indians, often lied to foreigners when the news was less than savory, not wanting to disappoint or disrespect) what lay ahead. They both told me that the trek up to Tengboche was one of the most beautiful days on the trail...walking through a storybook of pictures, over the river and through the woods, so to speak. The first half of the day was to be easy breezy, and the second half “would sting a bit,” though it supposedly was not as hard as coming up to Namche. I felt good about it.

The lodge was fairly cozy; I'd had a hot shower (my first in 3 days) and the room, while tiny and shed-like and housing a small population of horse flies, came equipped with an ultra thick and plush blanket. That, on top of my sleeping bag, was enough to keep me very toasty once night fell. Aside from the obligatory bladder call at 2AM (during which one would don a headlamp and shiver in the pitch black down the hallway to the toilet and inevitably wake up half the lodge in doing so), I slept pretty well and woke before my alarm at 6 AM, quickly dressed and packed and was ready to go before Phurba even knocked on my door.

It was cold that morning and the first day I had to wear long underwear as well as gloves and a hat when we hit the trail. Leaving Namche is a serious workout, as it's all uphill. There's no slight upgrade or flat ground to warm up; it's zero to 60 in about 10 paces. My chest was heaving before we even got out of town and I struggled to keep my omelette down. But I had glimpsed our path the previous day, and it looked spectacular. As soon as we hiked out of and above town, we were in a giant mossy green meadow with the sand colored path snaking through it as far as the eye could see. Once the sun peeks out from behind the mountains, the temperature heats up pretty rapidly. The latitude of the region actually lies almost within the tropics and, despite the altitude, it was soon 80 degrees and I was trading my fleece for a sun hat and sweatband. The sky was crystal clear, and I felt like I was on the yellow brick road, inching my way towards the Emerald City - in this case Mount Everest - whose sharp wedge-shaped peak was in plain and glorious view for the better part of an hour. With the trail relatively flat, it was a pleasant morning.

Before we hit a turn, Phurba pointed out a little red roof on the top of a hill that seemed impossibly far away. That, he said, was the monastery at Tengboche, and our destination. Tengboche was about half way to EBC, and as high as I would be going, due to time constraints. I had chosen Tengboche as my turn around point for its famed monastery, the highest and largest (and maybe oldest) Tibetan gompa in the Khumbu region. The monks performed ceremonies twice daily, and I was eager to witness one. Seeing as how the monastery looked to be on an entirely different mountainside, I turned and asked Phurba what was up.

He, in turn, pointed down. “Must walk all the way down to river, then climb up other mountain. Is how path goes.”

It was not long before that pretty, fun morning stroll came to an abrupt end.

As I have mentioned before, it is easier (or rather, less challenging) for me to climb uphill than to go down. Descending is really difficult for me. The path is covered in scree and almost always steeper than I'd like. When you are ascending, if you lose your footing, you usually will fall face first into the path, with your arms or knees to break your fall. If you step unwisely while going down, aside from breaking a leg or twisting an ankle or shattering a few vertebrae, you could gain enough momentum to end up sliding off the trail and plunging 200 feet to your death, possibly taking a yak or fellow trekker with you. With none of these sounding like pleasurable options, and being one who has the tendency to fall while walking on grass, I was taking it painfully slow. I was shit scared of falling, and concentrating on not doing so, when out of nowhere, the pain in my right knee resurfaced. We were on an hour long descent and with each step, it hurt more and more. After a few minutes it was throbbing – a pain I'd never felt before. I'm not sure if this was an injury that was old and had resurfaced (not to look like a whimp and the slowest trekker Phurba had ever guided, this is the story I went with) or if I did something to create a new injury, or if my knees are just weak, but climbing down this hill was the least fun I'd had since the Kumbh Mela. With nobody to talk to (Phurba was so far in front of me, he was mostly out of sight) my mood turned foul pretty quickly.

We finally stopped for lunch in a breathtakingly beautiful hamlet somewhere near the river, and the combination of a good meal and a little shopping (fleece lined hand-knit booties, like my grandmother used to make), my mood was elevated and I was ready to face the uphill battle for Tengboche. I was taking it easy, realizing that this trek was, if nothing else, not a race. It was my vacation and I would go as slow as I needed to. After about 20 minutes into my newly reduced pace, Phurba dropped a bomb. He told me, very matter of factly, that it was possible we might not get a room that night. I stopped dead in my tracks and asked him what the hell he was talking about.

“Tengboche very small. Many people on trail today. You walking very slow. I think maybe rooms full.”

I wanted to scream; Phurba had been on this trail a hundred times and should have known in the morning that there was heavy traffic, and made advance arrangements. He was being paid to guide me and cater exclusively to my needs, and I was pissed. I wanted to bite his head off, but knew it would do no good. After taking a second to calm down, I did the only thing I could do. I made sure that the trail was clearly marked. I took note of the time. I checked that I had enough water. And then I told Phurba to go ahead of me, to run and knock people off the trail if he had to, but to make sure that I had a room to sleep in. I would catch up with him later. So, for the next few hours, I was climbing alone. Of course I wasn't really alone; there were plenty of porters whizzing by me and trekkers heading to the same destination. There were the dzo and yak bells ringing in the distance as a warning to let them pass. There was the occasional helicopter heading up to Everest Base Camp to rescue sick or injured climbers. And with Phurba gone ahead, and nobody to really keep up with, I was able to take my sweet time and enjoy the truly spectacular scenery. I stopped to take photos, to help a couple of trekkers who were really suffering, daydream that friends or family were with me, or just to try and catch my breath in the constantly thinning air. I played mind games with myself like “no water for 15 minutes,” or, “gotta make it to that giant mani stone before a snack,” who knows, I might have even been talking out loud to myself. It was slow going and took a long time, but eventually, after a few hours, huffing and puffing, I rolled into Tengboche with the afternoon clouds.

Tengboche is a picturesque clearing no bigger than 10 or 20 acres. It consists of the giant monastery, about 3 tea houses, a bit of space for camping, and unadulterated views of Nuptse, Lhotse, Thamserku, Ama Dablam and Mount Everest. It is remote and remarkable and cold. I needed my down jacket as soon as I'd changed from my hiking clothes. It's the first place we had been where I got a true taste of high altitude life – the lodge defined rustic, and not in the “charming villa in Provence” kind of way, but in the true sense of the meaning. There was a main common room used for dining, with a wood burning stove in the middle that didn't actually burn wood. We were too high for that, so instead, it used dried yak dung as fuel. Dinner was cooked over an open flame out back, using the same fuel. Attached to the common room was a hallway with about 10 or so rooms. Mine had 2 beds (which were carpet covered wooden planks so close together that my backpack did not fit in between them). The walls were unpainted cheap plywood with a couple of nails for hanging wet clothes, and the drafty window was barely covered by a tattered sheet pinned to a string. The other most noticeable element was the toilet at the end of the hall – it was a squat toilet that was literally overflowing with crap, and its pungent and sickly odor reached the dining room. There was no sink. (I later discovered that the sink was outside. When the temperature reaches -10 and you have to stand in line in a down coat, headlamp and hat to wash your face in water that is almost frozen and then brush your teeth with the contrasting boiled water in your bottle in the dark, well let's just say you learn to appreciate indoor plumbing and Purell. A lot.)

The monastery sits on a sacred site with very clear views of the surrounding sacred mountains. It is the most important monastery in the region to the Sherpa people, and is steeped in rich Tibetan Buddhist history. The site was deemed special by a rimpoche 350 years ago, and currently houses over 40 monks and the presiding lama. The original building was destroyed by an earthquake in the '30s, was rebuilt, and burned down in 1989. All of the ancient murals, scrolls and texts were lost. The giant Buddha inside was salvaged, and the monastery once again rebuilt. Surrounding the building are prayer wheels and giant mani stones, everywhere repeating the mantra “om mani padme hum,” and strands and strands and strands of prayer flags. I had gotten to town too late for the 3PM ceremony, but we found a monk who was willing to unlock the doors and show us around. I turned the prayer wheels and went inside, where I was joined by Phurba and a few trekkers from Kathmandu. The place was stunning, and we were getting a special private tour. I felt like I didn't belong there, and got an eerie feeling as I thought about all the people, monks and sherpas and mountaineers alike who had stood where I was, went up higher and never made it home. The scary paintings of various bodhisattvas didn't help. I turned to leave but the Kathmandu trekkers would not let me. They spoke to Phurba and the monk in heated Nepali and I was sure I had made some fatal culturally insulting mistake and was about to be asked to leave. Phurba translated , and I was floored to learn that they had never met an American before and were requesting a photo shoot. We posed and smiled all over the monastery, unable to talk to each other but all seemingly feeling happy to have met.

We exited the building, and were about to part ways when the cloud cover suddenly lifted, and the setting sun gleamed out from behind the mammoth Thamserku, casting a golden light on the monastery. The dragons and prayer wheels and paintings reflected back, and a giant rainbow stretched across the sky. One by one, all the weary trekkers crawled from their tea houses and tents, along with a few monks and porters to catch a glimpse. I'd reached my goal, and with it, surrounded by prayer flags and strangers, found the fleeting moment of a real life Shangri-La.

Can't You Smell That Smell?

April 29th
Namche Bazaar to Tengboche – Part 1

You would think that being so high in the mountains, the thin air would be crisp and clear, the wind carrying with it scents of pine and earth, wafts of the occasional meal being cooked in the distance drifting your way. And you would be right, for the most part. Except for when you'd be wrong, which is about every 7th or 8th minute on the Everest Base Camp Trek. In addition to all the trekkers bound for EBC or Goyko Lake or Cho La, and the mountaineers en route to tackle Ama Dablam or Island Peak (teams attempting the Everest summit have been in place for two months already) the road is also populated with their gear. This is transported one of two ways: either by yak or human porter.

The yaks, or more often in Nepal the dzos (yak/cow half breeds and the chosen beast of burden up here) have bundles (very heavy and very large bundles) tethered to either side of their backs. They travel in caravans of 3 to 10 or more, and carry everything from bags of rice to giant North Face dry sacks stuffed with expedition gear, to drums of fuel (kerosene, I suppose) to their own food (after 12,000 feet, there is no growth for them to graze on). The animals wear bells so you can usually hear them coming, and are generally accompanied by a herder either leading the pack or bringing up the rear. Since I'm told I had an imaginary yak friend as a child, I harbor a certain affinity for the creatures, and always got excited when we would see the rare and sightly pack of real yaks, standing tall with their unmistakable long hair and giant horns. They are an integral part of the scenery and an absolute necessity for sustaining life in these hills.

The first thing you learn upon encountering a pack of dzos headed your way is to watch out – because they will not be doing the same for you. You get pretty used to prostrating yourself face first against a mountain wall when yaks are lumbering by, considering the alternative is being thrust off the trail or trampled. The second thing you learn is that when animals are present, so is their poop. The entire trail is covered in crap. You're on it long enough, and you start to decipher between purebred yak crap, dzo crap, and donkey crap (the most pungent by far). When you're pushing your exhausted body to climb an endless incline of giant stones, chest heaving in the thinning air, sweat dripping down your back, the last thing you want to be breathing in are the fumes of a hot yak load. Actually, it's the second to last.

This is Sherpa country. Having been part of this hostile environment since the beginning of time, sherpas are physically pre-conditioned to have very little problem adjusting to altitude. They also climb up and down these hills like spiders, most of the time in flip flops and t-shirts. This makes them perfect candidates for porter work, and they outnumber everyone else on the trail. Since I was traveling alone, my Sherpa guide Phurba was also my porter. He carried my pack on his back and his on his front. I packed as light as possible and guessed I'd only given him 10 -15 lbs to haul. Unless they are carrying their own gear (and some extremely physically fit people do), any trekking group of two or more will hire a porter to carry their gear. Mountain expeditions for Everest, among others, already set up in tent cities at 18,000 feet, require constant supplies to be refurbished. Tea houses along the way, especially the ones over 14,000 feet where it is impossible to grow any food, require all of their goods to be carried in on foot. The Sherpa porters haul everything – from tents, crampons, ice axes, sleeping bags to cartons of eggs, cases of Fanta and Mars bars to bushels of hay for the animals to wooden doors, aluminum siding and 2x4s – on baskets strapped to their head. A strap goes across their foreheads and is connected to a giant basket resting on their backs. They cruise up and down the path, stooped over, their necks bearing the brunt of the load; which many times exceeds 100kg. One of the tea houses we stayed in had a pool table inside. I could only wonder how any man could bear its weight, let alone carry it up a mountain.

Most people who live in these parts do not have running water in their homes. There is usually a village tap where washing (of cookware, bedding, clothing and people) is done. The temperature, as you would imagine, is ICE COLD. Bathing is not a regular ritual for these villagers (some folks I talked to say they bathed once a week, if that. And these were people who worked at tea houses and generally stayed put.). And so it is certainly not high on the agenda for the porters, who are hauling more than their weight for miles per day over difficult terrain. And, man, do they stink.

I am not sure these guys bathe, ever. The ones who wear flip flops have so much dirt and crud caked to their feet that toenails are seldom visible. My guess is that clothes are worn, sans washing, until they literally fall apart. As for the ones who do wear socks and shoes – well, try and imagine the pungent odor of months old sweaty, funky, unwashed feet that are used daily for 10 or more hours, and that constant funk growing and seeping into synthetic sneakers that retain it. Couple that with b.o., dirty, greasy, dusty hair, cigarette smoke (somehow, these guys can skip up to 18,000 feet and all chain smoke), bad breath, animal crap, fart, kyu (a porridge that literally smells and tastes like rotting garbage), and you learn to breathe through your mouth when one walks by. Get caught in the slip stream of a multi-porter caravan and you're a goner.

The porters and guides usually all sleep in a common room at the lodges. Sometimes it has beds, sometimes carpet-covered benches in the dining rooms are used as beds. Rarely will a guide get his own room. Never will the porters get one. Phurba was complaining after our second night in Namche that he had not slept well. I thought maybe it was the cold (tough guy had not brought a sleeping bag since we were not going that high). “No,” he said, “forgot face mask. And porter not washing the feet. Room is smelling very bad. Keeping me awake.” I hated to admit it, but I knew what he meant. As all of my gear, including and most importantly, my socks and hiking boots, did not make it to Nepal, I was forced to rely on supplies purchased there. (Thanks, Iceland volcano.) The boots I purchased were heavy, clunky, gave me terrible blisters and stunk to high heaven. The sock choice was equally poor. “Special North Face Coolmax Trekking Sock” turned out to be nothing more than cheap knockoffs of the real thing, made from cotton (which is your enemy in as it retains moisture) and I think cardboard. The first night I removed my boots and socks, half of the sock had remained on my foot (kind of like wet cardboard) and I was almost knocked out by stench. Now I know why Patagonia charges $30 bucks a pair for moisture wicking, anti-bacterial trekking socks and never before had I really needed them. The boots, too, were obviously of the non-breathable variety. After a day or so of this nonsense, I quickly learned the routine of washing my feet in the subzero (and public) water spouts as often as possible, and applying a mixture of Purell, underarm deodorant, medicated powder, and straight up Lysol to my feet each morning to keep the smell down. If the Lysol got past my moleskin blister protectors, the pain was intense, but I knew that 8 hours later, the sting would be worth it.

Back on the trail, those rare moments when the thin air was clear and (almost) filled your lungs with the pure scent of the Himalayas were all the more special.

Heaven Isn't Too Far Away

April 28, 2010
Rest day, Namche Bazaar

The Everest Base Camp trek is relatively well mapped out. Most everyone flies to Lukla, spends a night in Phakding, then moves onto Namche Bazaar for two nights. Because of the extreme gain in elevation, it is essential to spend an extra day acclimitizing in Namche. People who are sensitive to the altitude usually start to exhibit signs of distress at around 3500 meters. Symptoms start with a headache, dizzy spells, nausea, unsound sleep and, if ignored, can progress rapidly to Acute Mountain Sickness. AMS is a life threatening disorder brought on by not giving the body enough time to adjust to the lack of oxygen in the air. HAPE (high altitude pulmonary edema) and the more serious HACE (high altitude cerebral edema), mostly affecting climbers at higher altitudes than I'd be going, can be fatal. The only cure is to go down, period. Hence, the treks are arranged with acclimitization days built in. It's often times the strongest and fittest people who don't allow time to acclimitize and ignore early signs of AMS (such as a headache) that run into trouble higher up. I was feeling okay, but was exhausted from the grueling day before. I was thrilled to have a “rest” day.

Of course, a Nepali rest day is not a rest day at all. Instead, we'd be doing some more trekking. The motto up here is “climb high, sleep low.” Climbing higher, even a few hundred feet, then descending to sleep at a lower altitude helps the body adjust. I knew the walk would be good for me, even though I was very sore. After breakfast at 7AM (no sleeping in here, even on a rest day) we embarked on another uphill climb to the Everest View Hotel. This hotel, supposedly the highest luxury hotel in the world, was built by the Japanese. Rooms are expensive at a couple hundred bucks a night, and it's rarely full. Trekkers certainly are not staying there. I assume the hotel makes its money by the tourists who chopper in for the day (there's a tiny airstrip about a 90 minute hike from the hotel and it might even have its own helipad on top), have lunch, and split before the altitude makes them sick. Phurba told me there was a sitting area where we could take tea and see the mountain. I was excited for this and hoped the weather held.

The day before, after spending an hour at the lodge resting in Namche, and once I was sure my legs would let me stand on them again, I asked Phurba to help me find some trekking poles. During the brutal climb, I had serious thoughts about knocking one incredibly rude German woman off the mountain and stealing her poles. Luckily, Namche is a trekker's outpost. The stuff is mostly overpriced knockoffs, but I did not care. Phurba talked the vendor down to a respectable(ish) price and I hoped my purchase would lend some extra support to my aching limbs. It did. Namche Bazaar is a crescent shaped settlement nestled into the steep curve of a mountainside. It looks a lot like terraced rice paddies, except the terracing holds stone buildings. The entire town is a system of stone steps. And so we left the guest house and immediately started ascending up through Namche. The trekking poles didn't make my agony disappear, but they definitely helped. We got through the town, climbed over a boulder/wall and the trail presented itself. It was a vertical zigzag to the top, and it hurt. When I looked down to see just how steep this climb was, I realized how steep the town of Namche itself is. I've no idea how those buildings were even built, let alone how they don't topple over.

After an hour of tough climbing (think 2 or 3 thousand giant stone steps) we reached a wide open plateau. The trail was visible for miles, a little brown path cutting through the mossy clearing that wound around the side of the mountain and disappeared, only to reappear far off in the distance, on the other side of a gorge. The weather was perfect for the time being with clear blue skies giving me my first glimpse of some really high peaks. To the west was the omnipresent Kongde Ri (6187m) and the holy and unclimbed Khumbila (5761m). They were absolutely giant, covered in snow and ice many thousands of meters up, towering over the shrub covered meadow we were walking through. It was as scenic a place as I'd ever seen. That is, until we turned a bend and the meadow ended. The path hugged the mountain and the first thing I noticed was the gorge you'd plunge to your death in if you took a wrong step. The second thing I noticed was an extremely rude group of French trekkers literally (and dangerously) running down the trail. Nobody runs at this altitude and I started to curse them under my breath, when I noticed the third thing. Behind them, about a 7 day walk away, towering up above the majestic and vast Solkhumbu range, was Mount Everest (8848 m), with its unmistakable plume of “smoke” (there's always a cloud formation blowing around up there) wafting off its angled peak. Right next to it was the mammoth Lhotse (8501m), and closer to us was the utterly recognizable Ama Dablam (6856m) sticking out like a sore thumb. Tawoche (6542m), Kang Taiga (6685m) and I think Chhukhung (5833m) and Thamserku (6808m) rounded out the view. Pink, white and red blossoms of the rhododendron forest peppered the deep valley separating me from the gigantic peaks, and the place where I was standing pretty much marked the end of the evergreens. Higher up was only shrub, then rock, then snow and ice. This was the single most scenic thing I have ever seen. Every agonizing step I'd taken to get there was worth it, and the pain and shortness of breath disappeared for awhile. We walked on further to the lodge, all the while feeling like I was in a dream (or the Sound of Music, or Lord of the Rings) in utter awe of the landscape. I was in disbelief that I was actually seeing the single biggest thing on the planet with my own eyes. The sheer magnitude of the place was heavy; few people ever get to look upon the Himalayas outside of a book and now I was one of them. We had tea (and paid New York City prices for a pot) and I took about a hundred photos. I made sure to linger for as long as possible, and only started the walk back to Namche when the afternoon weather began to cloud Everest and Lhotse from view. I hoped no climbers were up there, and turned to leave.

I discovered during the climb down the rocky and hazardous path that I'm not too good on the descent. Out of nowhere, my right knee started to hurt (and would continue to do so until I got back to Kathmandu), which made the going pretty slow. There was a lot of scree (loose small rocks and pebbles) on the trail which makes sliding and falling a real concern. I've already got one scar in the middle of my face; I'm not trying to get another one. I was obsessively cautious of my footing. On this stretch of the trek in particular, vertigo became an issue for me because we were in a clearing, so our destination far below was visible, as were the thousand places you could fall into and break your neck. I was also starving and Phurba, who, like all Sherpas, is like a spider on these hills, skipping along in flip flops, was far ahead with my bag - which had snacks. It was difficult and I had to let a lot of people pass me by.

We had to go to the Sherpa museums (yes, 2 of them) before going back to the lodge. I had agreed to do this before I knew how deflated I'd be by noon (which is when my body was used to eating lunch). To tell Phurba I didn't want to go would have been bad; I didn't want to insult his heritage. He really wanted to show me both of these museums. They were interesting enough, but my head was starting to pound and they were not exactly next to each other, which meant more walking. My interest was waning, as was the Mt. Everest afterglow. I was feeling weak and just as we were on the outskirts of Namche, I slipped on some scree and fell down a few steps. I used the pole to break my fall, which thankfully wasn't that hard. Phurba was getting on my nerves and his nonchalant, “careful, please” response didn't help matters. I snapped at him that it was 2pm and about time he got me fed. He produced some cookies and didn't talk to me until later.

I wanted to collapse into a giant white bed with lofty down covers and watch reruns of the Simpsons. No such luxuries existed at the Khumbu Lodge, where the main dining room was warm and cozy but the rooms were like sleeping in a barn. When we finally got back there, I was in no better shape than the day before. Phurba forced me to drink a liter of boiling water (his cure for everything), which actually worked to get rid of my headache (if only it did the same at sea level). I had some food and asked the owner where the shower was. He charged me about 5 dollars, then led me to a padlocked room. The clouds had moved in and the air temperature was probably around 30 degrees. After three days of trekking, I badly needed a shower, but could not put my body through the shock of plunging under ten degree water. I was relieved to see an actual heater, and though the pressure wasn't great, the water was steaming. It was the last hot shower I'd have until I got back to Kathmandu, and was certainly a luxury.

I spent the evening hoping my hair would dry and talking to a guy from Norway who had been stuck at the lodge for a week with pneumonia. He had some dried snot in his beard and a curious gurgle in his voice. I wasn't sure whether he was hitting on me or just making conversation, but I wasn't sticking around to find out. Getting sick up here would be crippling. I finished my dahl baat (lentils, rice, vegetables – a Nepali staple), highly recommended the shower to him and retired to my sleeping bag. I bundled up in my nighttime gear of hat, headlamp, fleece pants and slippers and quickly passed out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I Want to Take You Higher

April 27, 2010
Phakding (8573 feet) to Namche Bazaar (12,303 feet)

On my first morning in the Himalayas, I once again awoke with the sun at 5AM. I didn't have to get up until 6:15 but still found it impossible to fall back to sleep. I've never been one for sleeping bags, and my cozy rental was of the cocoon fashion, which I found rather uncomfortable for morning lounging. I dawdled as long as possible, then unzipped myself into a cold room and stepped into an even colder hallway. The lodges up here (none of them heated) have thin walls and rarely offer private bathrooms, so you are humbly forced to share toilets, see fellow trekkers in their long underwear, listen to their ailments during the night, and wash your face with the coldest water you have ever felt in front of strangers. After hearing someone have diarrhea a mere 12 inches from where I was brushing my teeth, I was thinking this has got to be the rudest way to wake up in the morning, when Phurba Sherpa knocked on my door. I was still in pajamas and glasses and was packing up my stuff at the time, with a good 10 minutes to go before breakfast. (Up here, you order your breakfast and pick a time to eat it before you go to bed. This affords the kitchen staff, usually one woman cooking over an open fire, time to prepare breakfast for all the guests.) At dinner the night before, I ate with a tour group of Aussies and Kiwis. As I was the only person not part of their group, I was there when their guide described their morning wake up call. The porters were to knock on their doors around 6 am with bowls of hot water for washing up. I thought maybe Phurba was knocking on my door with such a luxury. I thought wrong. Instead, he came into my room empty handed and just kind of hung out. My cheeks were still burning from the icy water I'd splashed on them, I wasn't dressed, I was having trouble fitting my sleeping bag into its stuff sack, and my sherpa guide had just walked into my bedroom at 6:30 in the morning empty handed. This was the rudest way to wake up. I don't know why Phurba was uncomfortably hovering over me, but I wasted no time in telling him to get lost so I could finish getting ready. Ten minutes later, packed and suited up, I unlocked my door to find Phurba still standing there, as if he was ready to raise a fist and start knocking. He grabbed my big pack, followed me downstairs and sat next to me in silence as I ate my yak cheese omelette. (Said he'd already eaten.) It was weird.

Lukla to Phakding, while up and down, is actually all down since Phakding is at a slightly lower elevation than Lukla. My first day of trekking was a relatively pleasant 3-4 hour walk through lush valleys and scenic passes. I knew today would be different. We had a hard day of climbing ahead; we'd be ascending almost 3300 feet in altitude, and trekking mostly uphill for at least 5-6 hours. What I didn't know was just how hard it would be.

We were on the road, so to speak, by 7:30ish. Starting later is not an option this time of year, because the weather patterns dictate that at around 1pm every day, thick clouds roll in and carry with them rain or snow. It's best to be at your tea house by that time. Since there's absolutely nothing to do once the sun goes down, and your body is usually drained, going to bed at 8PM is not uncommon, nor is waking at 5 or 6. Hence, the morning walk was relatively pleasant. There were a few steep inclines, and lots of stairs, but in general the steps (which were giant rocks worn or formed into a crude staircase over time) would lead to a natural resting point, where you could stop for 5 minutes, have some water, take in the scenery. Often times stairs led to bridges or villages. We stopped for tea sometime around 9 and continued onward. The trail was broken up quite nicely, winding up and down the mountains. I was getting a workout, but it wasn't anything to complain about. Certainly beat sitting in a spinning class. I saw my first snow capped peak, which was awesome in the true sense of the word. I asked Phurba its name and he said it did not have one. In this part of the world, where the mountains are the tallest on earth, peaks under 6000 meters are not even named. Yet another of Phurba's intimidating facts, since I knew to view the really high peaks, we'd have to actually walk really high.

Just before lunch, we crossed into Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park. This was an exciting landmark for me. It is the gateway to the Khumbu region and meant that I really was in the presence of the largest things on earth. I've read countless books on the area, and it was startling to think that I'd actually figured out a way to get here and see it with my own eyes. While Phurba dealt with my trekking permit, I checked out a little tourist room with maps and a model of the entire region, which provided a mini overview of the path we were waking and gave a real scope of the vastness of the Khumbu. I was headed towards Everest Base Camp, but there were so many other routes – towards Gokyo Lake, Island Peak, Thame and Tibet, Ama Dablam. It's a giant park. I thought of all the people, from inexperienced trekkers like myself to famous mountaineers, who had passed this way en route to something bigger, many of them never to return. There were teams assembled right now at Everest Base Camp, having been there since March, waiting for the weather to give them a window to attempt a summit bid as it usually does every May. There were novice climbers taking a stab at Island Peak, hoping their newly learned ice axe skills would guide them to the top. There were high and scary winds atop Ama Dablam, making summit attempts dangerous that morning. It was an exciting time to be in this part of the world, even if the next few hours would prove to be utter misery for me. As I walked through the park entrance, I felt very privileged to be there.

Around 11, after being slightly delayed by yet another passing yak caravan, we walked into a small village called Monjo and sat down for lunch. The temperature had more than doubled since morning and I was happy to shed some layers and sit down for a bit. I gulitlessly ordered a giant platter of fried potatoes and vegetables. It's a rare occasion that I could feel good about eating such a meal, but it's rarer that I burn as many calories as I was. I knew the afternoon would be tough and I needed the energy. There is some meat on the menus here, but I've seen the porters carrying leg of yak around for days in the blazing sun, which can get to over 90 degrees. Better to get your protein from eggs, and otherwise stick with what's local, which are potatoes, spinach, carrots, cabbage, all grown in the restaurants' back yards and all delicious.

When was the last time you had a six hour workout? Can't pinpoint it? That's because only people who are training for marathons, or the Olympics, or to summit an 8,000 meter peak do that regularly. I was doing it daily for the next week by choice, just to spend time in this fabled land and to get a view of the mammoth peaks. So it began after lunch, where we once again crossed the Dudkhosi River (or “milk water,” because it moves so fast it's always milky white) and were on its rocky banks, where we walked on nice, flat ground for the better part of a half hour. It was good to be on the ground, looking up at the mountains and level eyed at the river, rather than glancing down from above. It was possible to momentarily forget how high you were, except for the slightly labored breathing. I say momentarily because after only about 20 minutes, an extremely long and high prayer flag-covered hanging bridge came into view, and with it, some steps disappearing into the hill. On the other side of that bridge was a dark mountain that I couldn't see past, though I knew we'd be climbing up and over it. And then, just as quickly as I was sizing up my surroundings with anticipation, I was at the foot of a staircase that did not stop for the next three hours.

We climbed up a good 30 minutes before crossing the bridge, which I did with trepidation. It was almost littered with prayer flags and khatas (scarves) there were so many, and was long and crowded. We swung over the river at a rate that was a little too fast and when I saw the row of heavily burdened yaks coming from the other side, I hoped the bridge would hold. Following in Phurba's stead, I threw myself face first against the chain link fence and tried to will my body to be as skinny as possible to let the beasts pass without incident. They stop for no one, as I would come to learn in future close encounters. I felt uneasy as I stared into the river, noting to myself that it really did look like gallons of rapidly flowing milk.

From there onto Namche, it was agony. The path zigzagged at steep (sometimes very steep) angles across and up that massive hill. Some places were a sand-like dirt, making a hard climb harder to gain footing on. Some places were thigh-high stone steps that ascended into oblivion. It was endless, and here that I realized I might have bitten off more than I could chew. I'd spent the last three weeks sitting on my ass eating paneer and chapati in India, and the week before that sitting on the beach in Malaysia. I wasn't exactly in great shape, and endurance has never been my thing regardless. I am also 5 foot 2 inches tall at best, which means that for every one step a 6 foot tall German takes, I'm taking two. It basically takes twice the effort for my legs to carry me. After awhile, I was in so much pain, and also so dizzy from the altitude that I had to rest and breathe every 4 or 5 steps. I felt like I might topple over. I kept telling myself one foot in front of the other, mind over matter, all the while my heart nearly beating out of my chest to compensate for the loss of oxygen. This hike would have been a bitch anywhere. Add the near 1000 meter gain in altitude to the equation, and it could have been a recipe for disaster. Each step made it harder and harder to catch my breath. My lungs hurt and my chest heaved. I was getting a headache and was light headed. If I'd still been a smoker I would not have made it. I felt every ounce I was carrying in my stuffed pack, and realized just how heavy my cheap boots were (thanks again, volcano). It was very slow going.

Phurba kept asking me what was wrong, and I kept telling him that I was dizzy and tired. He didn't offer too much by means of moral support. What he did offer, just when I literally was not sure I could take another step and was on the verge of a mental and physical collapse, was a glimmer of hope. Far in the distance, was a little speck of blue. He pointed out the corner of a building that was barely visible. It was still 30 minutes away for a strong walker, but Namche Bazaar was within eyeshot. Within earshot was some low talking and congregating. We had come upon a tiny tea post. I was too weak to even walk inside, and dropped my bag on the side of the trail and leaned against the stone wall with the other weary trekkers, all too tired to talk to one another. I breathed heavily and wondered if I would have to spend the night out there. Phurba got me black tea with extra sugar, which helped to bring me back to life a little. I remembered the chocolate I'd bought in Kathmandu for such an occasion, and broke off a few pieces. It gave me the energy, however low, that I needed to push on through to Namche Bazaar, the highest trading post in the world. We got to our lodge at around 3:30 in the afternoon, just as heavy clouds were rolling in. Two liters of boiling water and one cup of ginger tea later, and I was feeling human again. We sat in the heated dining room and watched through the picture windows as a violent thunderstorm covered the town in blackness.

Movin' on Up

April 26, 2010
Kathmandu (4,593) feet to Lukla (9,380) feet

I awoke at 4 AM, well before my alarm went off, after a night of very restless sleep. It was in large part due to anticipation, but also in no small part due to the fact that my room faced a courtyard, which I initially thought would be nice. The courtyard turned out to be an amphitheater of screaming children and hollering men well into the night. It also turned out to be a halal butcher center. Sometime before daybreak the families were up saying their prayers, then they went straight to work. Waking to the deranged symphony of Arabic being screamed over bleating goats and squawking chickens doesn't exactly make for a glorious morning. I looked out of my window at an inopportune moment and, following the initial revulsion of seeing a goat get his throat sliced as my first sight of the day, I decided to just get up. The sun was barely starting to rise, and it shed some light into my room, but the power was out. I set my headlamp on the bedside stand, angled it at the bathroom, and took what would be my last shower for three days in the dark. At least the water was hot.

In an entirely uncharacteristic moment, I was downstairs early, at 6AM, a full half hour before Phurba was to arrive. Our flight was at 7:30, so I was a bit concerned, but I knew the airport was close and having seen the handwritten tickets, I figured we'd be okay. The only flights that were departing out of the domestic airport were carrying tourists, off to Lukla, in the Everest region where I was headed, or to Jomsom in the Annapurna range. The planes were all tiny, 10-20 seat propeller planes, and looked to be a bit old for my taste. I wasn't crazy about the idea of boarding one of these flights; they do crash. My only other choice would be to hike to Lukla, a five day trek from a place called Jiri near the Kathmandu valley. It is rumored to be a hard walk, a constant of peaks and valleys. During the civil war here ('96-'06) and for some years following, the Maoists were known to extort cash from tourists trekking this route, so it has decreased in popularity and is somewhat of a ghost town. Did not sound too appealing, and I didn't have the time anyway. So after a rather unsettling security check, [“You have matches?” “No, no matches.” (I did have waterproof strike anywhere matches, but figured I could take my chances with a lie here.) “You smoke?” “No, I don't smoke. No cigarettes, no lighters.” (I don't smoke anymore, so this was not a lie.)] I walked through an unplugged metal detector and boarded the bus that would take us over to the runway. As I noticed the giant UN and army rescue helicopters that I was sure got good use this time of year, Phurba chipperly pointed out the wreckage of one. “Crash in Everest base camp 3 years ago. No rescue, all die. Part helicopter brought back to airport.” That news was less than settling. I also wondered about Phurba's credibility – there is no way that wreckage was hauled down from 18,000 feet.

A few minutes later we boarded our Sita Air flight and were taking off for Tenzing-Hillary Airport in Lukla, reported to be one of the scariest airports on earth, due to the fact that the runway ends with a sheer drop off the side of a mountain. I was surprised to see an actual flight attendant and wondered what purpose she would serve. I knew that tray she was fiddling with would not be used for a beverage service. In lieu of peanuts, we were handed a hard candy and cotton wads. The cabin is not pressurized, so the hard candy would help your ears. The cotton would help with the noise, as it was deafening. Unfortunately they had no remedy for the feeling you got in your gut when the plane hit an air pocket and dropped or shook uncontrollably. I kept my eyes closed until the giant snow capped peaks came into view, then was again filled with dread, realizing what I'd signed up for – which was a long and hard walk in their direction. I hoped my body would be able to cope with what I was about to put it through. Just when I was about to turn around and ask Phurba if we were supposed to be flying so close to the mountains, I felt the wheels come down and we were on the ground, landing on an airstrip that materialized out of nowhere. It's a tiny little bit of pavement and it is on an incline for take off, a decline for landing. Made me feel like we were going to crash right into the stone terminal. Luckily, the breaks worked. As I stared in awe at the pilot, who jumped out of the plane and lit up a cigarette on the runway, inches from where the plane's fuel tank was being opened for a refill, Phurba surfaced with our bags and we were on our way.

We walked out of the airport, grabbed a quick breakfast in Lukla, and hit the trail. The weather was perfect; skies were clear and blue and the air was clean and smelled of pine. And the scenery, well it was spectacular. The high peaks are out of view here, but it matters little. As soon as you leave Lukla the trail heads downhill, bringing into view a village on the edge of a hillside that disappears into a deep gorge. The homes and lodges are all made of stone, with roofs and window panes painted blue or green. The villages are lined with prayer flags tied to impossibly tall evergreen trees, the mountainsides peppered with terraced potato and spinach gardens. A swarm of schoolgirls in their white and navy uniforms ran past us as we reached the first turn and another valley came into view. 20 minutes on the trail and I was instantly walking through the pages of every photo book I've ever seen of Nepal. This is why people flock here time and time again. I think I walked all the way to Phakding with a smile on my face.

These Boots Are Made For Walking

April 24
Kathmandu, Nepal

I was scheduled to start volunteer work at an orphanage in Kathmandu on May 3rd. This left me with precious little time to do what I really wanted, which was attempt to trek to Mount Everest Base Camp. It is an arduous but extremely popular trek. However, including both distance and acclimitization time, it takes about 15 days, which I did not have. I could have done other, easier treks in different areas of the Himalayas, such as the Langtang or Annapurna ranges. Several people had actually recommended I fly to altitude and do some easy day treks. But I've read too much about the Khumbu region, and wanted to have a Sagarmatha (Everest) National Park trekking permit as a souvenir. So I spent part of the day before I left Delhi doing some research on reputable trekking companies, and settled on one that is popular with women traveling solo. It is entirely possible (not to mention a fraction of the price) to do the trek without hiring a tour company or even a guide. Some folks grab a map, hire a porter to carry their stuff and just hit the trail. Had I been with people who knew what they were doing, I might have opted for that choice. But since I was on my own, and definitely out of shape and practice, I arranged for a custom built trek that would fit both my schedule and ability, along with a guide/porter who was trained in high altitude medicine. Puru, the man who runs the company, picked me up at the airport and took me straight to his office to arrange things.

It's a good thing I booked the trek, because Kathmandu immediately presented itself as low on the list of favorite places I've visited. In fact, it might be at the bottom. I had gotten a window seat on the left side of the plane so that I could have a view of the mountains when flying into town. I kept looking and anticipating, along with everyone else on the flight, for that first glimpse of the snow capped Himalayas. We waited and looked at first out the windows, then around at each other. The mountains never came into view. That's how smoggy and polluted Kathmandu is - it sits in a bowl of dust and smoke and exhaust that totally clouds any view of the surrounding mountains. It made the view you get flying into LA seem crystal clear. As we made our way through town, I was less impressed. What I saw was dirtier and dustier than India, if you can imagine that. I got an instant headache and what's worse, felt like I was back in Laos. My lungs hurt and I developed an immediate cough. I don't know what scientific instruments measure air quality, but that of Kathmandu has to tip the scales. We got to Thamel, the main tourist district and area where I was staying, to learn that the electricity was out until 9pm. The government somewhat regulates their power cuts in that at least citizens generally know in advance how many hours they will be without power (in India the power would just go off without warning), but that also means 4-6 hour blocks, sometimes two per day, without electricity. Thamel was tight and crowded with lots of dirty burnout hippie types, as well as backpackers. I was not impressed, and was glad to be getting out.

I had planned on having my gear (boots, long underwear, good socks, down jacket, etc.) meet me in Nepal rather than lug it around for 3 months. Thanks to the volcanic ash cloud over Europe, I could not count on any of it to arrive in Kathmandu before I started my trek, so I canceled the shipment. This meant that I would be buying or renting everything from gloves to a sleeping bag, and it unfortunately included boots. You can get pretty much any kind of trekking (and to some extent mountaineering) gear you need in Thamel; tourism is Nepal's biggest industry and they come in droves in the spring and fall to trek in the mountains. The one thing that all books, message boards and people will tell you is the exception: you can't get good boots in Nepal. Of course they are the one thing you rely on most when doing a trek. Of course you would not want to break in a brand spanking new pair of boots during the trek of a lifetime. And of course, that's exactly what I would be doing. All of the gear is knock off stuff, and so long as a down parka keeps me warm at 14000 feet, I don't care if it says "Mountain Hardware" or in my rental case, "Everest Hardware." Most of the gear I got was just fine, but the boots left something to be desired. They were actual leather, but they were heavy and clunky and they made me nervous. I suspected they would give me trouble down (or rather, up) the road, but my only other choice was to not trek. My tropical weather footwear consisted of a pair of slip on pumas and a Nepali-made (read: short shelf life) pair of flip flops. (My good flip flops were stolen by the security woman at the Delhi airport; she and her partner gave me an extremely hard time and a brutal frisk, and only when I was boarding the plane did I realize that my stylin' Reefs had gone missing. I hope she steps in a lot of cow shit with them). Neither of those would be a good choice to walk in for the next 9 days, so my only option was to buy the clunkers and deal with any problems later. How I'd be cursing the volcano somewhere around 13,000 feet.

After we got my gear, I met my guide/porter, Phurba Sherpa. I was glad he was a Sherpa, as where we were headed was his home terrain, and he seemed like a nice enough guy. He showed me my plane ticket from Kathmandu to Lukla (one of the scariest airports on the planet), walked me to my guest house, and told me to pack light. He would be there at 6 AM in two days to pick me up. I requested a room on the 5th floor and walked up and down the stairs as often as possible for the next 36 hours, not entirely sure what I'd signed up for.

Lap of Luxury

April 23, 2010
New Delhi, India

On the night of April 22nd, Stacy and I set off from Udaipur on our last overnight train ride in India. She would be going to London the next day (if the Icelandic ash cloud allowed it, and if our train was not horrendously late), then home to the States. I would be spending the night in Delhi alone, and then continuing on to Kathmandu the following morning.

We traveled second class sleeper A/C on overnight trains. In this class, there are four berths on one side of the corridor, separated by a curtain, and two berths on top of one another against the other side of the train, running lengthwise. Upon showing your ticket, you were handed a sealed brown paper package containing two sheets, a blanket, towel and pillow. (I always got excited when receiving this package, as if I expected something different to be inside the brown paper. Maybe I just liked the clean linen scent I got after tearing open the wrapping – it was one of the few things in India I could count on to be properly laundered.) On every prior trip, we had shared the four bunk compartment with strangers, but it never mattered much. I liked the fact that we were separated by curtains instead of trapped in a locked room, as it was in first class. Curtains lent a bit of privacy, but allowed for a quick escape if you woke up with some creep putting his hand down your shirt (which never happened, but I had read that it was not unheard of). Earplugs or iPod and an ambien drowned out the noise most of the time, and people actually sleep on these trains.

For this trip, we were stuck one of top of another in the lengthwise side sleeper for the first time. From the outside, they look just fine, identical in price and size to the larger 4-berth compartments we had grown accustomed to. These side bunks are like mini-coffins. They are narrower and have fewer amenities (such as a power outlet or fan) than the ones across the aisle. They are claustrophobic and kind of a bummer. I crawled up to my top bunk, giving Stacy the bottom one since she'd be traveling for 30 or so hours, and tried to get some sleep. There was a massive altercation one curtain over, which of course 12 people got involved in. After the noise became so loud it was drowning out my music, I even screamed for them to shut the hell up through my curtain. I think they actually listened, though I half expected someone to swing back my curtain and move the fight to my bunk. I was cranky and uncomfortable, and had my diatribe prepared for them. Thankfully, I didn't have to use it. During the night, some woman got on with her extremely loud toddler who she refrained from telling to shut up. This kid whined and talked and sang at the top of his lungs all night long. It took all my willpower to not get up and give the mother a good tongue lashing on her shit parenting skills as the child was well within the age of being able to understand “shut your mouth, people are sleeping. ” That directive never came so the whole car had to suffer. I felt bad for the two business men sharing the compartment with the kid; they would obviously be unrested for their morning meetings in Delhi. But as this is India, nobody says a word about such things. Just an aggravating head waggle. It was not the best train journey we had.

One of the major flaws with train travel in India, in addition to the delays (and trains are almost always delayed) is that station stops are not announced,ever. You simply have to know what and when and where your stop is. For regulars who know the route, this is obviously no problem. For foreigners and natives alike who don't take these trains often, it can present a huge problem. Sleep is never sound since you are always worried about missing your stop. This trip was a prime example. We were set to to arrive in Delhi at 6:15 AM, and know our train left on time. So we set our alarms and woke up groggy and early, hearing the requisite deep voice chanting, “Chaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee” over and over, so we knew it was morning (the chai-wallahs always materialized on the train at dawn, no matter if we'd stopped at a station or not. I think they jump on and off from their villages, like in the movies.) Then you get up to use the toilet and lug your bottle of water and toothbrush along, brush your teeth as some dude clad only in a lunghi and flip flops is hanging out the side of the train catching some air (err, dust) and take in the morning spectacle of every villager in India having their morning crap on the train tracks. In this case, I asked one of the train workers (conductor I could not find, but this was a car overseer guy) when we would be arriving in Delhi. His English was not happening, so I carefully examined his head waggle and could only gather that we'd be late. I went back to my bunk and fell asleep again.

I awoke from a dream to some guy pulling my curtain open. Stacy was up and frantically gathering her belongings. We were the last two people in our car, along with Stacy's new friends, the luggage porters who had jumped on the train as soon as it pulled into the station, and aggressively made their way to the white girls. Stacy decided to hire them, which was fine with me. I didn't want to carry my heavy bag any more than she did. We were escorted to one of their pals, a taxi driver, who wanted to way overcharge us for his cab. In my half awake and annoyed early morning state, I started arguing with him. When he learned our destination, the Oberoi New Delhi (a birthday present from my parents), this guy had the gall to tell me that I was going to a five star hotel and should not be arguing with him over 100 rupees. My response was short and the only time I've lost my temper in India (not a cool move), “What I pay for my hotel room is none of your business, asshole. I know how much it costs to get there so stop trying to rip me off.” He walked away, and I wasn't sure whether I'd won or lost that one. We had the option of about three hundred rickshaw drivers to choose from, but I could not fathom rolling up to the Oberoi in a rickshaw. I doubt they even allow them on the property. My giant backpack was enough to turn heads. We luckily found another black Ambassador cab, and got to our destination within an acceptable rupee level.

By sheer luck, Stacy's plane was scheduled to leave for London that day. After several days of zero flights from India to anywhere in Europe, coupled with virtually zero news coverage due to the developing cricket scandal, this was great news. We had some tea and caught the end of a terrible Sharukh Kahn film on TV before she headed off to the airport. And just like that, I was on my own again. I settled in for the day and night with a survey of my surroundings. I was in New Delhi, which I had not seen a lot of. I had only gone to one Ghandi Museum (there are two), and had not gone with my friends when they went to the India Gate. There was an interesting art exhibit at one of the modern galleries, and I did not spend nearly enough time or money at the Ghandi Khati cloth store. But all of that held little appeal. Despite the fact that I'd been on a train for about 14 hours, I had not really been slumming in the past week. I did, however, decide to take full advantage of my luxury hotel room and not leave the grounds until I had to, which was not until check out the following day.

As far as luxury hotels go, the Oberoi was nice, but the room and the amenities could have been better. I think I got spoiled having stayed in one of the best hotels on earth in Hong Kong, but if I'm at a hotel that claims to be five star, I do not expect to see anything (like wallpaper) older than 10 years. I expect combs, razors, shaving cream, loofahs, mouthwash and any other toiletry I desire to be there already. About this, I've already informed the management. Everything else, especially the service, was excellent. I discovered a wasp in my room (I am deathly afraid of wasps, bees, hornets) and called downstairs to have it removed. At first the man hesitated, but then he killed it. Poor guy, it was probably totally against his religion. I tipped him well, I think. Then it was off to the pool, which was so cleverly landscaped you might think it was part of the lawn if the sun was shining the wrong way. My room had a view of the pool, which I initially noticed was dirty and looked old (as the day went on there was an army of people out vacuuming it). Turns out my view was only of the show pool; the real one was hidden far from view. I had an assigned cabana boy, who brought me cold water every 30 minutes, a refrigerated rose water spritzer for my face, cool washcloths for my neck, and a wide array of complimentary sunscreen. As I've said before, India does luxury well.

Part of the reason I chose the Oberoi Delhi was for their award winning Italian restaurant. I had eaten pizza once since February, and was slowly dying from macaroni withdrawal. The menu looked good, and so I made a reservation for one, put on a dress and headed downstairs. I was greeted by the matrie'd who was a real live Italian from Calabria. He had a poor man's Valentino look, though minus the orange tan. He liked me instantly, and sold me on an appetizer of San Danielle prosciutto and Indian melon with mint (you'd think it wouldn't work, but it did. And well.) followed by linguine with fresh blue crab and white wine sauce, the blue crab having been flown in that morning from Kerala (a province in the south). I liked the mix of local ingredients with traditional Italian preparations, and the food was great. So were the two glasses of wine, the white table cloth, the leavened bread, the silverware... I savored it all. It was nice to be able to throw in an upscale meal amidst the 2 dollar thalis every now and then. I was full and happy and only wanted an after dinner drink. Unfortunately, Amaretto nor Grand Manier were available in Delhi due to import export problems. Valentino told me that Amaretto was not allowed in the country. I corrected him; I'd had a glass after dinner at the Oberoi restaurant in Udaipur, so he should recheck the laws as well as with his employer. Clearly offended, he insisted “it would be his honor” to get me a glass of limoncello, which in my book translates to “on the house.” I don't drink limoncello often because it makes me instantly drunk and has none of the digistive properties of its less toxic cousins. But what the hell, it's not like I had anywhere to go except upstairs. I was also reluctantly sold on dessert, which I didn't need or want but ate anyway (I have got to make cinnamon ice cream when I get home, it was tasty). A large group of Indian business men walked in sometime between my ordering the dessert and limoncello, and I waited a bit too long for both. I ate and drank them quickly, paid my bill (which included the ridiculously priced drink), said goodnight to the staff who were all my friends by dinner's end (guess they don't see too many white women with elephant tattoos dining alone) and promptly ran up to my room and threw up violently. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the crab, maybe my body had become more accustomed to daal than I thought, but my nice Italian dinner did not want to stay down.

And that's how I spent my last night in India – alone and puking. It was the first time I had thrown up during my entire trip. At least it was into a sparkling clean and private porcelian bowl, and only a few times. It was not on a train, or on the street, or in some dingy guest house toilet. I'd managed to escape India without catching food poisoning or dysentery, or worse. Not a bad run.

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

April 22, 2010
Udaipur, India

Udaipur is, like much of Rajasthan, a land of riches. The home to the famed Mewar empire, it has no fewer than four visible palaces, with the gigantic City Palace complex serving as part museum, part fort, part luxury hotel and part home to the living Maharaja (a cool looking cat who I really wanted to meet, but to no such avail. We got busted when we sneaked onto the grounds as non-guests and were asked to leave). The city's most romantic and notable landmark is the famed Lake Palace, once also a home to royalty, now a Taj hotel likely housing visiting royalty and other people who can afford its starting price of 800 bucks a night. It sits in the center of the man made (king made, actually) Lake Pichola and even though the lake is low in this pre-monsoon season, it is still scenic. Parts of Octopussy were filmed there, and I was disappointed to learn that following the Mumbai bombings in 2008, non-guests are no longer allowed to visit. I had big plans to go to dinner there impersonating a Bond girl. There's another palace, Jag Mandir (that I think still functions) to the south of the Lake Palace where Shah Jahan once hid out from his father before he built the Taj Mahal. High on a hill of the western shore sits the Monsoon Palace, the best place in town to catch the sun dip behind the mountains for the night. Down below is the recently built Oberoi hotel (though not a real palace, but with the same floor plan and some palatial name), more expensive than the Lake Palace and with each suite boasting its own swimming pool. We had dinner there one night and it was pretty special. Having to make reservations in advance to be allowed on the premises, we were announced and escorted basically everywhere we went, including the bathroom. There was a man hiding in the servant's closet in the ladies' room, who was there cleaning up after me before I was finished (in yet another fine example of India's extreme sexism, they don't even hire women to clean the women's rooms. But more on that later.) Dinner was excellent as expected, and while I felt a bit weird sipping 15 dollar cocktails while there were people on the street who did not earn 15 dollars in a month, it was nice to experience India's famed hotel hospitality. Hyatt should take a cue from these folks. When it comes to real luxury, Indians know best, despite my unwanted bathroom attendant.

And that's basically how we passed our time in Udaipur, palace hopping as it were. After we were palaced and shopped and massaged out, we had one last day to kill before the overnight train back to Delhi. What better way to spend it than to learn how to cook some of the wonderful food we'd been eating for the past three weeks? Stacy found a woman named Shashi who ran a cooking school from her home, and we booked a class with her. What we would take away would be more than recepies.

Shashi's cooking school turned out to be only a few paces from our hotel, but it was worlds away from the opulence and riches we'd been touring in Rajasthan. As soon as we climbed the steep stone steps, I knew this was going to be unlike any cooking class I'd ever taken. Most classes I've attended have had 5 or 6 students and a fully equipped kitchen where each student had his own burner, all ingredients prepped for you by a line cook, etc. Most were actually restaurants that offered classes during off hours. This was something entirely different. There were no prep cooks. There were no prep tables. There were no burners for us. There was only Shashi's modest two room home in which we'd be cooking for the next five hours.

The stairs led straight into the small, windowless living room, which housed a double bed, two chairs, a TV and a coffee table. Next to the living room was the kitchen which consisted of two burners attached to a gas tank, a stone counter top and shelves which held spices and dishes. There was a small outdoor “terrace” adjacent to the kitchen, where Shashi's illegal turtle pets lived and where some water (in a bucket) and extra grain was kept. The supplies for the class, including mostly vegetables, were sitting on the bed, still in their plastic bags from the market that morning. I noted that in addition to there not being a bathroom (Shashi and her two sons used the toilet one level up, which also belonged to the rooftop restaurant. Where they bathed, I don't know.), there was no running water and no refrigerator.

She invited us to sit down and immediately began to tell us her story. Her face was honest and sweet, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that said “nothing gets past me,” yet those eyes were also tired and worn, with premature wrinkles around them. She was once, (and still was as far as I was concerned, though no longer by Indian standards) a very beautiful woman. She wanted us to guess her age, and we tried to avoid that because I knew she looked older than she was and did not want to offend. Turns out she was 41, and I might have guessed closer to 50.

Shashi comes from the Brahmin, or priest caste. It is the highest caste in India, and a wealthy one. Their rules for food, family and faith are extremely strict. The Brahmins do not eat meat, fish or even eggs, only vegetables, legumes and paneer (cheese) or curd (yogurt). She was married young (we guessed 15) to an older man by way of arranged marriage. Her husband was allowed to see her photograph prior to their wedding date, but she did not see her groom until the day they were married. She moved into the house of her husband's family, as is custom in India, and bore two sons. She preformed her duties, in joining her sister in laws in preparing the daily meals for the entire family. (She jokingly called them beasts when recalling how sometimes she would have to hand make over 100 chapatis per meal. We rolled out and cooked 10 or so and I thought that was excessive.) When her sons were still young (I think she said 6 or 8?) her husband was murdered by his friend over a financial grapple. Neighbors and friends who she might have counted on to right the wrong kept their mouths shut. The murderer bribed the police and spent only one year in prison.

As Brahmin customs are strong in life, they are equally harsh in death. Shashi fasted for over 40 days following her husband's death. She was only allowed some chai (tea brewed in milk) and a bit of bread in the morning, then she would sit in the corner of a room and weep for the rest of the day. Following that initial mourning period, she was not allowed to leave the house for an entire year. According to the rules of her caste, she will never be allowed to remarry. To attempt to do so would leave her outcast by society. Even in 2010, tradition of this sort just is not broken. It would be a disgrace.

Now, one would think that being of a high caste, she would be looked after following her husband's murder. One would think she would be given money, or taken in, along with her sons, by a relative. One would be wrong. Her parents were both dead, so she could not go back to them. Her one brother was not to be called on either, because if he helped her, it would not only cause tension with his wife, but would also cause jealousy amongst her five sisters (who, incidentally, were all married and had men to provide for them). They would expect something from the brother as well. Her husband's family, with whom she lived, stopped talking to Shashi and her sons following his death. They still shared a house, but all communication and finances were cut off, down to the most minute detail. If she cooked bread, used a bucket of water, fed her sons a glass of milk, she was charged by her in-laws for not only the food, but the gas to light the fire, the oil to cook the food, the usage of their pots and pans until she could buy her own. She was crippled with grief, without a means to provide for her children and well on the road to becoming destitute. May I point out again that she is a Brahmin.

One of her sons, who dropped out of school for the time being to try and earn some money, got a lowly job at a hotel. He helped his mother by convincing a few of the guests at the hotel to let her wash their laundry, and this is how Shashi started to get her life on track. One of the tourists whose laundry she did stopped by to pick it up while Shashi was cooking. He smelled the food, must have tasted some (her cooking is superb), heard her story, and suggested she start a cooking school.

This was less than three years ago. Up to that point, Shashi spoke not a word of English. She was in her late '30s. Her boys were approaching university age. She had to find the money to get them an education. Shashi's Cooking Classes were born. With the help of tourists and her sons, Shashi has learned English, translated her menu from Hindi to English, German, French and Italian, has gotten herself mentioned in the 2009 Lonely Planet India book, and is now making (from what I can figure) a pretty decent living. A woman once dependent on her husband is now an entrepreneur, not from desire for something of her own (women's lib ain't exactly a big movement in India), but from an urgent need to feed her children. A lesser woman would have ended up a beggar on the street. A man in her position would have received all the help of his family and friends, been pitied and praised as a widower and quickly found another wife to cook and care for his sons. Abandoned by everyone she knew and left to her own devices, it was sink or swim. Thankfully for Shashi (and for us, that food we cooked was outstanding!), she is a quick study in high seas.

During our five hour class (note: our class was 500 rupees and lasted 5 hours. Most cooking school classes cost double that and lasted half the time.) we learned how to make everything from chai to paneer to pakhoras to naan to the masala base for any kind of curry to the single best thing I tasted in India: sweet coconut pharatha (a fried bread in which the dough, sugar and coconut are folded with layers of ghee, same concept as a croissant). We made chutneys with well water, about which I was nervous eating, but the mango chutney was one of the best things I've ever tasted and Shashi assured me I would not get sick. I did not get sick; I just craved more. We washed the vegetables in basins of water brought in by her sons. We cooked as the boys came home from their jobs/school and watched TV with the neighbors who dropped by to say hello and also watch TV – at one point there were 5 people sitting on the bed around the television as we fried bread in the kitchen. Stacy mentioned that it was like a sitcom, and it was. The random cast of characters that revolve around the building – the cooking school, Shashi's family, the restaurant upstairs, and the jewelry cart dude from across the street, along with 2 foreigners, always with Shashi's wit, humor and cunning at the forefront, would make a great storyline. (Maybe that's my new job; I certainly have the time to write a pilot).

The hours we spent at Shashi's made for a remarkable, enlightening and memorable experience. Not only was this one of the top three meals I've had in India (the other two being leftovers cooked by Sam and Laura's housekeeper in Calcutta, and the Bengali restaurant they took us to), it was one of the only experiences I had involving real family life. Shashi's story, while tragic, has a somewhat happy ending. She should be featured in Bust Magazine (and if any of my editor friends want to help me turn this blog into a submittable article, I'll take you up on it). What struck me most, though, was that Shashi stands out from the millions of women who do not have a happy ending. If your husband dies in India and you are of a lower caste, you are thrown out and will live your remaining days on the street as a beggar. You might sell your children to slavery or prostitution. You might, if you're in a small and remote village, commit sati (the act of a woman throwing herself on top of her husband's funeral pyre, to die with him. It's illegal in India, but still does happen in some rural villages). You will always be thought of as a lesser being than a man, regardless of caste or status. Interesting that practices from the middle ages are still commonplace in a country that in other ways, is far beyond my own. India elected its first and only female prime minister, Indira Ghandi, for four terms. She served as the leader of a billion people for fifteen years before her murder. Keran Bedhi was India's top cop before her retirement and is now a social activist for prison reformation and child welfare. This woman single handedly turned around India's largest and toughest prison full of murderers, rapists, child molesters by forcing the incarcerated to do yoga every morning and treating them with a slight bit of dignity. The prison currently has very few incidents of internal violence. Ruchira Gupta, the founder of Apne Aap Women Worldwide, was just honored by the Bill Clinton foundation in 2009 for her work to end sex trafficking of women and children in India and beyond. Here's a woman who was sold into prostitution at a young age, chained and raped every day for a month before she was forced to work as a prostitute for many years, and has gone on to buy her freedom from her brothel madame, found an award winning NGO, make several documentary films on the subject, and continue outreach arcoss the globe.

It is no secret that India is a giant paradox, full of unfathomable injustices. This particular situation struck a chord, considering all I really have to complain about is that my paychecks are (well, were) less than a man would receive for the same job. And I live in a country where if I scream about it loud enough, someone might even listen. Hopefully Shashi's business continues to thrive and lends some inspiration to other Indian women who desperately need it.