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.

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.