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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.
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