Feeding Frenzy

Singapore
May 5-7

I had strategically planned to stop in Singapore after spending a good chunk of time in India and Nepal, both amazing countries yet neither exactly noted for their cleanliness or hygiene. Singapore has been labeled by some as sterile, stuffy, bland, spotless. It’s rumored that you can get a fine for chewing gum or spitting on the street. After squatting in the most fetid toilets one could ever imagine (think Trainspotting, but 100 times worse), that was just fine with me. It’s exactly what I wanted.

I had scored a window seat on the plane and arrived at night. The first thing I noticed was that the ships anchored in the harbor were actually arranged in neat little rows. There were no haphazard floating vessels that one is used to seeing. Rather, it was more like flying over Port Newark, with all the cars and trailers parked in their assigned spots. I felt the need to brush the Kathmandu dust off my pants and make myself presentable just to set foot into the airport.

And, my, what an airport. Changi International Airport is not just an airport, of course. It’s an actual destination, with its own tourist brochures and guides. If you have longer than a two hour layover, the airport will give you a free tour of the city. Need a shower? No problem. Those are located in the orange wing. Tired? There’s a nap center with actual beds. Traveling with a family of young children? Well, just follow the signs to the family rooms, where you can sit down on the comfort of plush couches, pop in a Disney DVD and rest up until your connecting flight is ready to board. Terminal 1 has a Bali-inspired swimming pool.

We deplaned and were greeted by a fleet of airport staff telling us in the most perfect English where immigration was, how long the wait was, and how many windows were open to foreigners. The wait was less than five minutes. At the counter sat several bowls of candy to choose from, labeled “Thank you for visiting Singapore. Changi International Welcomes You.” The immigration official expressed his disappointment that I would only be staying in his fine country for a few days, and urged me to stay longer if at all possible. I made my way to the baggage carousel and waited. For the first time in my entire trip, my pack didn’t surface. Before I had a chance to look around for the lost luggage room, a Changi employee was already at my side and on the case. A red light started flashing, an alarm started to sound, and an army of people flocked my way. That kind of alarm at JFK means you’d better drop to your knees and put your hands above your head, because the drug sniffing dogs are coming to tear you apart. In Singapore, it was a disgrace to mishandle my filthy backpack. Walkie talkies were fervently used, and I was assured and reassured that my baggage would be found no matter what. I was cool, though a little nervous that if the bag had not made it out of the KTM airport, I’d never see it again. Less than 3 minutes later, a sweaty, frazzled man literally rode through the flaps of the baggage carousel on his knees, clutching my luggage for dear life. He presented it to me with the utmost apologies for the (10 minute) delay, and was then subsequently chewed out by his supervisor in a language I couldn’t understand. I heard the word “embarrassment” uttered a few times, told them that really, it was no big deal, thanked them profusely, and made my way to the taxi line. It was a fine welcome to the country.

Though centrally located, my guest house was slightly difficult to find, and the taxi driver actually knocked money off the fare for the extra 10 minutes we spent driving around in circles. The accommodation had been recommended to me by a few bands I know who’ve played Singapore, as well as got high marks on Tripadvisor. At 60 bucks/night (more than double what I’d paid for any rooms that were not luxury hotels), I was looking forward to a glorified guest house. It was pretty spartan -- there was no window which is always a downer - and smelled horribly of mildew. The lofty down comforter, plush mattress and neverending piping hot water in the spotless shower made up for the fact that they did not have any other private rooms available. So did the laundry room and the great breakfast buffet. I slept like a rock, but woke up feeling like hell. Guess my body doesn’t like mildew, or toxic black mold, or whatever was growing in there because for the third time on this trip, I was sick with some kind of nasty cold. No problem, though. This being Singapore, the land of exquisite and serious street food, I set out for something spicy to clear my sinuses.

I’d already had breakfast, but that wasn’t going to stop me from sampling as much food as possible from this culinary wonderland. As one orders cacio e pepe as a first meal in Rome, one must immediately eat the national dish, chicken rice, in Singapore. I asked the desk staff where the nearest place was. They laughed at me. “Chicken rice on every corner in Singapore...try this place down the road, and also this place and that place and...” Armed with four chicken rice joints in a 3 block radius, I made my way to the nearest one, an open-air stall on the corner. Chicken rice is basically chicken poached in broth served over rice that is also cooked in the broth. It’s accompanied by condiments -- some sort of sticky soy sauce, hot sauce, hot peppers. Sounds simple, and maybe the preparation is, but the resulting dish is far from. The flavors are complex and deep - still a spice mix I can’t put my finger on - and everyone has a different way to eat it. Singaporeans are extremely serious about their food and they are not shy about telling you so. One person told me to drink the broth first. Another told me only to add soy to the chicken, but to eat the rice separately. Someone else offered a way to mix everything together, but save the (not crispy) skin for last. It didn’t really matter how I ate it, though. It would have been delicious in any one of their recommended combinations.

In addition to being military clean and orderly, Singapore is famous for something else: its shopping malls. In fact, there is an entire boulevard spanning several miles that is all shopping malls, one next to the other, multi-leveled behemoths dedicated to taking your money. Following a mild temptation to throw in the towel in Kuala Lumpur and blow the rest of my budget on a Vuitton bag, I had not been anywhere close to luxury shopping. It was not what I was interested in experiencing on this trip, but seeing as I’d be heading to Bali in a few days, I hit the mall strip in search of a new bathing suit. After perusing a few stores and realizing quickly that I would end up a medical tourist in search of cheap lyposuction if I continued looking here (every salesperson was handing me extra large bathing suits and exclaiming how I was a fat American. Asians are decidedly built a little more svelte than me.) I decided to stick with my ratty American-size medium bikini and head to the food court.

In America, the thought of eating at a mall food court is not exactly appetizing or glamorous. They are mostly loaded with unhealthy fast food chains, greasy cheeseburgers or 3000 calorie burritos. “Fast food” does not have good connotations. In Asia, especially in Singapore, food courts are called hawker centers and they are where the locals take their meals. And they could not be farther in selection, quality, and pride from their US counterparts. In the hawker center I visited, I stopped counting after about 20 different stalls, offering everything from Indian curries with fresh made naan to noodle stalls to dumpling carts to sushi, and of course the ubiquitous chicken rice. One stall in particular caught my eye...made to order hand cut noodles with your choice of meat, prepared how you wanted them. It was a sight to see the man rolling out the dough and using something akin to a rustic string instrument to cut the noodles with flawless precision - in a stall no bigger than a hot dog cart. Next to him was the meat man, who has probably cooked nothing but meat his whole life, cutting up perfectly lacquered poultry with the biggest cleaver I’ve ever seen at break-neck speed. As I was still feeling sickly, I opted for the duck noodle soup. I was presented with a heaping bowl of steaming, dark broth piled high with noodles, draped with an entire fanned out duck breast. The noodles were among the best I’ve ever had: fresh, chewy, toothsome. They stood up to the strong broth (and subsequent hot sauce I doused them with) with their own delicate eggy flavor, and the duck, a perfect medium rare, was expertly infused with just the right amount of ginger and coriander. It was a dish that sang in harmony, something you’d pay upwards of $25 dollars for in New York. I paid a whopping $3, and slurped it down in a shopping mall.

Feeling much better, I did some sightseeing. Walked down to the water, checked out the famed Raffles hotel, and found myself standing under the Singapore Flyer, a giant ferris wheel that mirrors the London Eye. I hate ferris wheels, but was of course sucked into the shopping mall surrounding the entrance. I was not yet hungry, but certainly took a spin through the food stalls and stores. A foot massage place appeared in between two ice cream stands, and I thought that would be a nice way to kill an hour and catch some much needed air conditioning relief.

It was called the Fish Foot Spa. When I walked in, following the initial welcome blast of high octane air conditioning, I was hit with an unpleasant feety odor. This being Asia, though, it was impossible to leave. Once the proprietor of the spa locked eyes with me, escape became a fantasy. At first I thought I was in a waiting room with koi fish ponds. I quickly realized this was not the case. Sitting around the pools were a few people, pants rolled up, feet soaking in the water. I was overcome with a momentary bought of nausea. It turns out the next thing on the menu would be, well...ME.

I had read about fish spas. I’d even seen a documentary on one based in Turkey. I thought they were things confined to central Asia, but I guess it’s a new rage throughout the continent. Basically, pools of water are stocked with Doctor Fish (small fish a few inches in length). They have an appetite for dead human flesh. You dip your feet into the pool and the fish go to town, feasting on the dead skin on your feet and legs. I wasn’t too keen on the idea. The “being eaten alive” factor wasn’t exactly the relaxing foot massage I was looking for, but I did not have much of a choice. So it was off with the flip flops and into the feeding frenzy. And frenzy it was. These seemingly docile doctor fish hang around spread out at the bottom of the pool, looking relatively harmless. Once their lunch plunges into the water, they all rush for the flesh, giant sharp teeth exposed, some fighting each other off to get a prime bite. I must have had 60 fish dining on my tasty toes. I’m ticklish by nature and had to gnaw on the back of my hand for the first two or three minutes just to be able to stand it. It was a strange sensation, not exactly pleasant, but not intolerable. About halfway into my 30 minute eaten-alive session, I was told by the spamaster that it was time to relocate. Not sure what that meant, I got up and was led to another pool, this one with MUCH BIGGER FISH. These suckers were 6-7 inches in length and fat as sardines. And suck, bite, claw they did. They looked like mini moray eels and they hurt. I reasoned that I was providing an especially hearty meal due to walking around India in flip flops then trekking in the Himalayas, and my feet must have had an inch of dead skin on them. And I have to say, when all was said and done, I’d never had a better pedicure. The result were a pair of soft and supple feet, albeit bleeding and a little raw in some spots.

Back out in the midday heat, it was most definitely time for a snack. I found a gelato stand and ordered a large hazelnut, hoping the fat would settle in the places south of my ankles.

We Sit Here Stranded But We're All Doing Our Best To Deny It - PART 2

May 4-5, 2010
Kathmandu, Nepal

DAY 2

I tried to sleep but didn’t do much besides toss and turn that night. The streets were somewhat quieter than before, but sounds of angry mobs and propaganda shouted through bullhorns cut through the silence from time to time. I awoke again at some ungodly hour of first light, only to see that the two places selling bottled water the day before had been padlocked shut. My guest house unfortunately did not have a restaurant, so I was out of luck for any kind of food. I found a man with a banana cart hiding under a tarp. At first I thought he was closed up for business, but then noticed the two sandal-clad feet next to the wheels. My English pleas of, “BANANA PLEASE I’M HUNGRY SIR PLEASE SIR” must have been a dead giveaway that I was not a baseball bat -wielding Maoist, and the man crept out from under his tarp and sold me a small bushel of baby bananas. That, along with my dwindling supply of trail mix and half a chocolate bar, would be my nourishment for the next two days. Luckily, I still had water purification tablets, so I filled my bottle from the tap and took my chances. By some small miracle, I was able to bribe a kid to score me a sim card for my phone, which is illegal in Nepal for foreigners (terror concerns, I guess) and managed to get a few texts out to friends back home. With internet and phones down, that was my only means of finding out anything about where my airline office was located. (Thanks, Ayana. You came through big time with that.)

I was feeling pretty lost and the man who ran my guest house must have noticed. He asked to see my plane ticket, which had a scheduled departure date of 6 weeks from the day. That obviously would not do. He hipped me to a little secret: I was on Silk Air, which is owned by Singapore Airlines. The main office of Singapore Airlines never closes during strikes. He would have called, but his cell phone was not working and I was scared to let him know I had an illegal cell phone, lest he be a government or Maoist sympathizer and have me thrown in prison. So, my only option was to take to the streets and walk to the airline office. He took out a tourist map (note: not to scale), drew some arrows, and sent me on my way with instructions to bribe the riot police that would surely be outside the building, and make sure they took me around back, where I’d be able to scream up to an open window.

Funny thing about being alone and desperate...survival mode kicks in. I think mine kicked into overdrive, and I left more determined than ever to get where I was going. Out into the streets I walked, one of the few white folks (and certainly the only solo white female) around. There were long stretches of empty boulevard that led to random demonstrations of hundreds of screaming people dressed in red. Men were wrapped in hammer & sickle flags, people had baseball bats and bottles; I saw a molotov cocktail get shot into the street for no reason, but I was fearless. I was hungry, hot, and pissed off and I wanted to be on a plane and out of the country. Sure enough, about 4 miles away, was a little strip with all the airline offices. Everything unfolded as I was told it would. Bribes paid and padlocks opened, I found myself knocking on the door of Singapore Airlines. I was greeted by a young Singaporean man with a smile who offered me a chair and a bottle of water and simply said, “When would you like to leave?” I could have hugged him but I was too amped up to offer any emotion. “Today, please.” Sadly, there was no flight today. Next flight out was 6PM tomorrow. So, I was stuck in Kathmandu for another night, but would be on my way to Singapore in one day’s time. That was the best that could be done, and I accepted it.

New plane ticket securely protected inside my money belt, I ventured back out into the streets. The nearest demonstration was growing as was the tension in the air. I saw an old man on a bicycle and thought that’d be a nice way to get around town - until I saw a teenager throw a stick into his spokes and knock him down. Apparently, when the Maoists say “no vehicles,” they really mean no vehicles of any kind. This was my first real inkling that shit was gonna turn ugly, and soon. I was angry that I was stranded, angry that an old man just got hurt, angry that I was hungry, angry that I could have still been in the mountains avoiding this mess, and angry that I would not be doing my volunteer work. Harboring anger is rarely good, but on this afternoon it was what I needed. I was alone on the other side of the world at a volatile and potentially dangerous time, but I am sure I had a look on my face that said “stay the hell away from me.” If anybody approached me I would have clawed their eyes out without thinking twice. A couple of beggar kids got a little bit too close, and when one of them touched my pant leg I grabbed his wrist so hard I almost broke it. I threw him aside and he hit the ground, upon which I spit. (At this moment I realized, maybe it’s a good thing I wouldn’t be working with children in the immediate future.)

I was full of venom. I wanted an ice cold beer and a good meal. I wanted to be able to get in touch with friends and family back home. I wanted a newspaper in English. I had a headache from not really eating for two days, and my remaining banana was in my room, a few miles away. I smelled something that made my head swoon...and thought I was hallucinating. Lo and behold, a woman was squatting at the corner over an open flame, popping corn on the street. She was far enough away from the closest demonstration to remain undetected long enough to make a quick buck. I started to salivate and my stomach started to roar. I HAD to get some. I was obviously not alone in this sentiment, as a ravenous crowd quickly grew around her. I did the only thing I could do. I pulled the white card. I’d done it a couple of times in India and hated doing it - but I was desperate. I cut the line in front of 20 Nepalis with a US dollar bill in my hand. I got my newspaper cone full of popcorn (and a new following of about 8 beggar kids) thanks to George Washington and the color of my skin, moments before the cops came over and shut the woman’s little operation down. It was not my proudest moment. Turns out there was so much chili powder on the popcorn that I started choking. Instant karma got me right in the throat.

Night two proved to be more difficult than night one. Since the demonstrators had gone around to the stores/restaurants that had opened between the sanctioned 6-8pm hours the night before with threats of fire, beatings and death, nobody opened. There we were, hundreds of hungry westerners lining up outside restaurants and pubs at 5:30 and come 6PM, none of them were opening up. I saw one dreadlocked woman panic and run off screaming down the street. I talked to a couple from New Zealand who had managed to buy some beer right before the strike and they invited me back to their place to get tanked. (I declined). I walked around in the fading light weak and hungry and just tried to listen. Finally around 7PM I heard whispers of a momo (dumpling) place that was open and still had fresh vegetables. I followed a couple of british dudes who were clearly not wanting to give up the secret location lest it become mobbed (luckily the streets were so dark, and I so stealth, they never noticed me trailing them). Sure enough, the restaurant was open. They were, however, out of momos. But, they did have internet, electricity, and dal bhat. They charged me triple the normal price for both, but I didn’t care. I was able to secure a hotel room in Singapore and get some nourishment. I was lucky; a lot of people went hungry that night, Nepalis and Westerners alike.

My last day in Kathmandu was one of total frustration. While I’d had Phurba help me negotiate a bus to Thamel, today I had to get to the airport on my own. Though my flight was not till that evening, there were thousands of people trying to get out of town and who knows how many more thousands at the airport. The buses were supposedly only allowing passengers with paper tickets on (I kept my last hundred dollar bill at the ready just to be sure). Rumors were floating around about pick up stops. I’d scoped out a few the day before, but the problem was they kept changing. Nothing was definite. I had figured that the 10 am bus would be a good target time. Even if it was 2 hours late, that would leave me 6 hours to make my flight. I had hoped to hire a rickshaw to take me and my heavy bags the 20 blocks or so to the bus pick up point. The rickshaw dudes must have been spooked too, because today they were nowhere to be found. I thought about asking the quasimodo bellhop kid from my guest house, but he a) might have crippled under the weight of my bags and b) was nowhere to be found either. So I suited up and painfully walked to the bus stop alone and very slowly. Of course, it was packed with panicky and pissed off travelers. I knew it would be a fight to get on, and after an hour wait, it was. The ugly side of humanity really shows itself in times of trouble and I was shoved, almost toppled over, even kicked. I kicked that bitch back so hard she didn’t make it on the bus. She also got the meanest middle finger I’ve ever given anyone. I hope she and her filthy, smelly boyfriend are still stranded there - and with herpes. I pushed my way onto the bus, one of the last ones to get on. It was standing room only.

Just as I’d resigned to the fact that if we got into an accident, I would surely die, I felt a warm, slimy hand take mine. A tourist police officer was seated in the front row (said seat designed for one) and he pulled me down next to (and virtually on top of) him. If this happened in New York, I’d have every newspaper, the ACLU, the mayor’s office and my congresswoman trying to get his badge. But, considering the circumstances, I turned on the charm and flirted with him, enduring his blinding breath and creepy advances all the way to the airport. While batting my left eye in his direction, my right eye was firmly planted on what was going on outside. Up to that point, the demonstrations remained “peaceful.” Our bus repeatedly had to stop to circumvent random protests, and as we drove past each one, without fail, we were chased by men with baseball bats, beating the outside of the bus. Bottles were thrown (thankfully none exploded) and what might normally be a very loud group of travelers thrilled to be getting out of dodge was totally silent with fear. I knew a violent outbreak was imminent. (Subsequently, the demonstrations turned violent the next day, with several protesters and police officers killed.)

I bid a fond adieu to my would-be Nepali police lover, gave him a fake email address and tossed his number in the trash as soon as he was out of sight, then took my place in the painfully long cue to enter the terminal. Once inside, I stood in another painfully long line to check into my flight. Naturally, they still had my reservations for a June departure and I had to fight tooth and nail to get on the plane. Finally someone from another airline suggested the idiot behind the counter just call the airline (apparently my suggestions for him to do the same did not carry the same weight) and after two hours, I had my ticket out of Nepal. I was wary of the man on the same flight as me checking drums of what appeared to be fuel as luggage, but when I mentioned it to security they laughed at me. Guess the motto “if you see something, say something” gets lost in translation in places with compromised security. Hoping there was to be no bomb on my flight, I headed for the gate.

Our takeoff and ascent to altitude was horrendous and turned the entire cabin into white knuckled flyers. Once we leveled off, though, the turbulence stopped and I was able to see the Himalayan range at sunset in the distance...and was glad to be leaving it. Mealtime rolled around and I ordered a tea. The Australian woman next to me shrieked in horror, “Oh dear, don’t you know that Silk Air has the worst tea in the sky?” I admitted that I was unaware of this fact. She suggested I join her in some wine. Not too many people on the flight were drinking, so the flight attendant gave us the bottle. We drank it fast and hard, and after not drinking for 3 weeks, I was bombed after a couple of glasses. I said good riddance to Kathmandu and passed out in the afterglow of a cheap Australian Sauvignon Blanc, very happy to be headed to Singapore, a country so clean gum was said to be illegal.

We Sit Here Stranded, But We're All Doing Our Best to Deny It - PART ONE

May 3, 2010
Kathmandu, Nepal
PART ONE

The last two days I was in the Himalays were sort of a blur. We basically retraced our steps through Phakding and back to Lukla, where we spent our last night. I struggled on the downhill runs, lingered in the shadow of the 8000 meter goliaths, and burned the living shit out of my hands. I was still taking malaria medicine which produced the side effect of extreme sensitivity to sunlight. I had sunscreen, but my hands somehow didn't take to it. My thumb and forefinger on each hand were constantly exposed to the sun (from gripping my poles) and as a result burned badly. Bandages were impossible to find and gloves were of no use because they were black and attracted heat. Band aids just slid off. The pain was so great one night in Phakding that I had to sleep with only my fingers poking out of my hooded sleeping bag. Because of my body heat inside the bag, I literally felt like my hands were on fire if I kept them in. It was far too cold to sleep with my arms or hands outside of the bag, so I had to poke my fingers out of the hooded bag somewhere in the region around my chin. Obviously, this was an uncomfortable position which prevented sleep. But the searing pain I was in outweighed the contorted sleeping position and I had to resort to taking half a percocet in order to get some rest. I kept thinking about what it must feel like to be burned alive. Considering the severe discomfort I was in, it was pretty unfathomable. I would have blistered burns on my hands for the following six weeks.

After 4 days without a shower, I was at least looking forward to forking over the equivalent cost of 3 rooms to stand under some hot water and wash off the grime. Our lodge in Phakding offered a “hot solar powered” shower. I stripped down in the fading daylight and let the water run for a few minutes as instructed. Unfortunately for me, it had been cloudy that day. Instead of the soothing cleanse I was looking forward to, the icy water felt more like electric shock treatment, and I could only stand a few short bursts. I emerged half-clean and shivering.

For those last few days, we waited and fumbled and watched the news in a language I couldn't understand, and finally got the first flight back to Kathmandu in the early morning of May 3rd. It was an anti-climactic and uncertain end to an amazing trek. As our rickety propeller plane took off into the abyss, I had no idea what I was in for.

The plan was to land in Kathmandu, get back to my guest house, pick up my things and catch a taxi to the Umbrella Foundation headquarters, where I was set to spend the next 6 weeks volunteering at one of their orphanages. This is the sole reason I booked a private trek, as all of the group treks had set dates that conflicted with my volunteer arrangements. I did not want to compromise my volunteer work, which I'd committed to in January, so I instead compromised my trekking time, making Everest Base Camp an impossibility. I had a feeling that my plans would be foiled beyond my control as soon as we landed at the airport.

Kathmandu’s domestic and international airports are connected; and as you would imagine, they are not very big nor are they very modern. As this was prime trekking season, tourists from around the globe were flocking to Nepal. My first impression of the strike was that the airport was mobbed with people. Lines literally ringed around the terminals, stranded travelers slept on their backpacks, rows of weary bodies stretched into the parking lot, all hoping for the miracle of getting on one of the few overbooked flights out of the country.

We did not enter the terminal, rather were picked up on the tarmac and deposited at an outdoor baggage carousel near the exit parking lot. Buses marked “Tourist” and “Tourist Police” filled the lot, and, it was not in the Himalayas, but there and then on the crowded tarmac that Phurba Sherpa really earned his keep. Had I been by myself, I'd have been lost. The tourist police were running the only vehicles into town, buses for the white people to the Thamel district. Only tourists were allowed to ride them and it was utter chaos. Bus drivers didn't speak English, police didn't speak much more, and nobody was getting a straight answer. Travelers with organized tour companies or guests of the very expensive Yak and Yeti hotel got preferential treatment, which is to say they were herded onto the buses first. A solo traveler like me was both the last person anybody wanted to pay attention to, and the first person they wanted to extort money from. One guy told me I'd have to pay 20 bucks to board a bus. That's about 20 times the price it should cost, and I was out of rupees as I had already tipped Phurba, and there are no ATMs up in the Khumbu region. Since we were not allowed into the terminal, I would have to wait to get into town to get any cash at all. It was unclear where exactly the buses were headed, and I didn't know where the hell I was going anyway. I had found my first 2 days in Kathmandu difficult; it was crowded, loud, polluted, ugly. I hired a guide to take me by car everywhere I went, and got lost the one time I went out on my own. Needless to say, it was the first city I'd been in where I did not get my geographical bearings. Phurba, who by this time was looking to me much like a valiant knight in shining armor, got me onto the bus, handled my fare and I'm sure greased the palm of a cop to be allowed to ride with me. Uncharacteristically, I assumed the role of frightened and confused white girl, which wasn't really too far from the truth at that point. Phurba was not sure they were going to allow him to ride back to the airport, which was close to his home. He may have to walk, he said, and I felt terrible about that. But I was very glad to have him by my side, the both of us squashed into a bus seat for one, feeling the weight of a hundred bodies and their luggage pushed against us.

It took a couple of hours for the bus to finally leave the airport. I was plastered against the window (literally) and felt my spirits drop a little more as we cruised through the usually bustling, heavily trafficked streets of Kathmandu. There were no horns. No exhaust fumes. Nobody screaming in Nepali. The streets were empty and the city silent. I didn't like it. At all. As we approached the Thamel district, I started to notice first the Maoist check points. The police were out in full riot gear. Both they and the Maoists were armed with machine guns. We drove through a couple of demonstrations that seemed peaceful, but my unease was growing. All it takes is one trigger happy guard in the midst of thousands of demonstrators to start a riot. These thoughts of dread were rising in my mind when the bus tried to pull into Thamel, onto a narrow road off of a major boulevard. Thamel is old and the streets are barely wide enough for a car. An oversized bus, barely chugging along due to its being stuffed to 3 times its legal weight (if indeed there was a legal limit here in Nepal, which there isn't) turning onto one of these tiny lanes is a feat for the best of drivers. Today, our child driver was not at his best. We almost literally toppled over onto our side. I felt the tire underneath me lift from the ground, and was calm enough to know that if we went over, at least I was on the side of the bus that would land on top. I'd be crushing people to death beneath me, but I'd probably be able to break a window and live. Luggage and men came falling down from the roof of the bus and in a miraculous slow motion moment, it somehow it righted itself. The driver threw the gears into reverse and slowly got us back out to the main road. We plowed through a demonstration, and were herded off the bus in front of the royal palace (the site of the 2008 royal family massacre, now a museum). I was dazed and confused.

Phurba negotiated the return of our packs from deep within the bowels of the bus, and off we walked through the desolate streets into the windy lanes of Thamel. If it was confusing to get around in the bustling daytime, trying to negotiate this area with all the store fronts and guest houses locked up, metal grates pulled down and padlocked was like stepping onto the moon. Phurba first walked me to the new KTM hotel, where Puru, our trek organizer and the man who had just relieved me of a nice chunk of money was holding court in the lobby. They had electricity, English TV and internet and they were booked solid. I asked how long this would last and was met with grim responses. I was so tired, filthy and frustrated, all I could do was give Puru my rented gear, tell him I would not pay a day more for it, and asked Phurba to get me out of there, back to my modest accommodation. This entailed banging on the door of the Dolphin Guest House for 20 minutes, whereby the Quasimodo-like kid who worked for the proprietor surfaced, grabbed my bag, and showed me to my room. I bid Phurba a teary farewell and retired to my spotless yet spartan quarters, where I proceeded to take a 45 minute shower. (So much grime came off my body that I subsequently had to wipe down the entire bathroom.) I hand washed my clothes in batches, since the laundry service I was hoping to visit was forcibly closed. Bathed and refreshed, electricity out and phone lines down, I sat on my bed with absolutely nothing to do. It was only noon.

Everything -and I mean everything – was closed. The Maoists, who had a main goal of forcing the Prime Minister into resignation, used age old tactics to paralyze the country. Unbeknownst to me, up in the glory and bliss of Everest National Park, the Maoists had been shipping the country's uneducated poor into Kathmandu from its remotest regions, outfitting them with communist flags and other propaganda, and setting them loose on the streets to demonstrate and terrorize anyone objecting to the cause. Store and restaurant proprietors were initially allowed to open only between 6 and 8 PM. All vehicles, save for military police, ambulances and Maoists were prohibited from running. This included taxis and buses. This also included food trucks. Electricity, usually spotty in Nepal, was only turned on for a couple of hours a day. The streets of Thamel were lined with weary and hungry travelers. I thought about trying my American Embassy, with which I was registered, and thus believed would be there in such a time of need. I envisioned rolling up to its iron gates to be met with the warm smiles of other Americans greeting me with news of escape, hot dogs and coca-cola. I was met with the news that The American Embassy WAS CLOSED. (Huffington Post may still hear from me on this one). Strike one.

That first afternoon, I had some leftover trail mix and chocolate for lunch. I was still in shock that everything was closed – somehow my western brain could not fathom the fact that all sources of food were actually totally and completely off limits. I tried to nap, tried to write, tried to read, tried to figure out how the hell I was going to get out of there. Phones were down, so I couldn’t call the Umbrella Foundation. I had no idea where it was, nor would I have been able to walk the potential 10 miles to the orphanage with a 40 lb pack on my back. I was feeling terrible about not showing up for the volunteer work – and managed to get online for a few minutes to skype my folks and tell them I was stranded, and send an email to the Umbrella folks telling them I was stuck.

‘Round about 5:30, the streets started to come alive. Starving and frustrated white people were flocking onto the roads near any restaurant. I targeted one that advertised free wi-fi and decent food. Since I'd had food poisoning the last time I was in Kathmandu from stupidly ordering a chicken burger, I kept it vegetarian and ate within an hour – hoping to use that 2nd hour of allotted “store open” time to buy some souvenirs, get to a phone, get to a working ATM (I had to go to 4 until I found one with money, and only was allowed inside after promising to give the armed cop outside 100 rupees), and get to a bar to meet friends I’d traveled with in India to figure out what the fuck we were going to do. What ensued was my not being allowed to leave the restaurant. I was being held hostage. They had pulled down the metal grate and locked us inside. I was furious and unsure what was happening, as there was no sense of panic inside the cafe. The gate was pulled down to my knees, and when the owner wasn’t looking, I got down on the floor, raised it a few inches, and rolled out from under it, Indiana Jones style. What I saw in the streets made me almost lose my dinner, and was only the second time on this entire trip that I was truly scared and sensed danger (the other time being at the Khumba Mela in India). There were mobs of Maoists with lit torches and baseball bats running through the streets, banging on doors and threatening any business operator who was open. It was medieval. They cut the street lights, and I was without my headlamp, so I kind of had to feel my way back to my guest house in the dark. Luckily I have a pretty decent sense of direction, but the angry mobs wielding fire left me spooked. I knew right then that the strikes would not end anytime soon, and that I'd have to find a way to get out.