After breakfast, Gokyo Ri was the order of the day. The challenge was more than I’d anticipated for two reasons: 1) the aforementioned snow; and 2) the intensity of solar radiation. The snow and ice were no picnic, but nothing compared to the heat. The days’ haze and thin cloud cover intensified the ultraviolet energy. Slow, steady movements mitigated overheating potential. Pants were a mistake. I wouldn’t have been uncomfortable in a speedo (only ashamed). Such a maneuver would’ve required gobs and gobs of sun cream. The temp on the mountain might well have topped 60℉ (15℃)…
The beginning wasn’t so auspicious for Double Rich. The snow led to deviations, but the valley narrows as you progress, forcing even the most moronic of morons in the right direction. It was swell to have a partner in ineptitude for a change. Other Rich did enough worrying for both of us. The weather was beautiful, the scenery epic. I relaxed somewhat, knowing if the shit hit the fan, at least we had each other.
Other Rich was super friendly and personable. He was also about as exciting as a dry donut. I believe exhaustion and dehydration…
You can’t actually see Mt. Everest from Everest Base Camp. Kala Pattar is the designated viewpoint, though it’s not ideal either. Anybody who’s somebody goes there for their panoramic fix. I’m somebody, right? Yes, yes, I am.
See the sunrise. See that fucking sunrise, ya heard? Everywhere you go, the sunrise is king. See it or else. It's cloudy? You're sick? Nuclear winter? Doesn't matter. Don’t be an asshole. Behold the sunrise. Notwithstanding brilliant matutinal reflections…
My expectations concerning EBC weren’t grandiose. I'd heard mixed reviews. The Lonely Planet recommended doing Kala Pattar or EBC, warning both might be too much for most. I considered skipping base camp in favor of a longer stay on Kala Pattar and the immediate area. I sensed a tourist trap in EBC, a trip undertaken only to obtain the signature rubber stamp of “been there, done that” feel good emotion about standing at the gateway to the highest mountain on earth. Many people do it for the sake of doing it, but, as I learned over and over, don’t believe everything you read and “many people” are often idiots…
I can’t deny it. Going it alone made me nervous. It also adrenalized the shit out of me. Would I get lost? Be eaten by a yeti? Hit by a meteorite? Those were the obvious risks, but my trepidation centered on the mundane—altitude sickness, broken ankle, cuts, scrapes, tooth decay, painful gas, etc. In tandem with a fellow adventurer, the risk was mitigated, but alone, a minor obstacle could turn deadly, especially if I were the only person to cross that day. It’s wise to bring a buddy. Really. I had no buddy. Me, myself, and I. Would I prefer a compadre and/or guide? You bet your ass. But we work with what we have…
Back at the guesthouse, the sunroom was overrun by mature Irish tourists who looked as if someone had just mowed them down with a submachine gun. They were shattered. All appeared to be passed out. First time in the Himalayas? The day before, it was a Japanese entourage enjoying the valley views from the sun room’s relative comfort. When they departed, I noticed a man being carried on the back of the Japanese liaison/guide they'd brought from Japan. Yes, stereotypes are offensive, but for the love of everything holy! That’s so “Japanese tourist” trope, it’s almost beyond belief. Almost.
What dreams may come? Mine were bonkerballs bananas…
Back at my lodge, I experienced what was to become a familiar sentiment from guides along the trail. There’s an undercurrent of resentment toward lone wolves hitting the trail without a guide who choose to carry their belongings. They view it as depriving a Nepali guide or porter of much-needed income while leeching off the well-tread paths established by years of Sherpa diligence. There’s merit to this, which is why I made every effort to hire a guide before leaving Kathmandu, visiting a dizzying number of trekking agencies.
No one would consider my needs, damn it. (Therapy, anyone?) They were all hell-bent on standard itineraries with zero room…
A funny thing happened en route to Tengboche, something difficult to describe. I think it only happens when you’re alone and somewhat unguarded. Per usual, I took a less-traveled route, which led back to the Hotel Everest View and then along a ridge that was more of a yak trail than a trekking path. I was struck by an odd awareness, a presence that gripped hold and wouldn’t let go.
It’s safe to say there’s an underlying energy or force pervading the universe and everything in it. The source. The terminus. The beginning. The end. It has a thousand different names ascribed by a thousand different peoples…
People celebrate by dousing one another with water and plastering friends and strangers alike with a shitload of colored powders, especially red—a massive water fight in Technicolor. It lasts for a night and a day, beginning on the last full moon during the Hindu calendar’s lunar month at winter’s end. Thamel’s streets were jovial chaos on the 1st of March.
I had no clue and hadn’t bothered to check for upcoming festivals. I only learned of the impending celebrations after a bag of water narrowly missed my noggin on a casual stroll the evening before everything kicked off. The assassins attacked from a nearby balcony. I was not amused…
Dumbo was a no-show. We did, however, meet some wild bison (gaur). Weighing in at around 2,500 lbs, they’re not to be trifled with. The two we saw were angry, but not with us. Mating issue? Territorial dispute? Both? There was a moment of tension when, as we passed the area where they'd entered the tall grass, we heard a sudden crash and scream (a cross between a pissed-off wookie and a cow in heat) of a fast-moving beast. Not knowing their destination, we hauled ass toward a nearby hill. I nearly soiled myself but had to laugh when I spotted Denis halfway up a tree. They proceeded in the opposite direction and were content with kicking each other’s asses…
So, Chandu (seasoned guide), Denis (personable assistant), and I (inept Caucasian) boarded a dugout canoe and shoved off. Patches of human activity soon faded behind us. Birdlife abounded. Denizens included Siberian ducks (a.k.a common eider… I think?). Chandu claimed these ducks inhabit the plains of the Terai to escape bitter Siberian winters. They mate for life and are often found in pairs… allegedly. He also said when a mate dies, the other commits suicide. Romeo and Juliet ain't got shit on these birds. I can confirm none of this and believe Chandu was pulling stories from his ass. By 9 a.m., he was drunk, so this wasn’t unthinkable. The question “how do ducks commit suicide” is right up there with…
My strident aim was to avoid the Disneyland package tour everyone and their mother was hell-bent on participating in, a three-day/two-night extravaganza with a cursory jungle walk and an elephant ride. I wasn’t against riding elephants in theory, assuming they’re cared for, but it would feel less asshole-ish if it was a necessity rather than a tourist dalliance. In Thailand, I gave Dumbo a spin. Admittedly, it was fun, but every time I rest on the memory, I have an uncontrollable desire to kick my own ass.
I’d read the pachyderm express was ideal for circumnavigating the freakishly tall and surprisingly sharp elephant grass covering areas of Chitwan.
Magnificence multiplied with elevation. The trees disappeared, revealing a rocky, shrub-strewn expanse spotted with snow and ice. By the time I reached Laurebina La Pass (4610 m, 15213 ft), I was e2—exhausted and exhilarated. The wind bit my face, the moonscape watered my eyes. I was cold, tired, and dreaming of lemon tea and dal bhat. And yet, I lingered. No more ascent. Thank ya, Jee-sus. The Gosainkund region is known for its frozen lakes and desolate allure. It does not disappoint. The short time I stood on the pass made it impossible to regret…
Bad press is better than no press? Don’t think so. Slaughtering a couple hundred thousand animals in the name of religion is going to turn a few heads, along with more than a few stomachs.
I’ve read the numbers dropped drastically in 2014, but, again, sources are questionable at best. Organizers insisted only about 5,000 animals were sacrificed. Humane Society International (HSI) reported 30,000. BBC reported over 200,000. In 2015, Motilal Prasad (secretary of the Gadhimai Temple Trust) touted an indefinite ban on animal sacrifice. Ram Chandra Shah (temple chairman) said no such agreement had been made…
According to Miss Manners, visiting random strangers in lockup without bearing gifts is bullshit. We went with old faithful—Marlboro Reds. At check-in, all are required to surrender cameras, cell phones, and just about everything else. Then, it’s a quick pat-down followed by a short stroll to a room containing a list of foreign inmates. Malaysia, China, Holland, France, Germany, Poland, and America made the cut. Offenses included fraud, murder, rape, immigration violations (passport, visa, etc.), and drug possession. Pick name. Start party.
Yes, the situation was downright surreal. Inmates as a tourist attraction? There’s a lot wrong there. Was I ambivalent? You bet your ass I was…
Nine days without a wash left me marinating in my own juice. And then there was Ghami village—the promised land. When I learned gas-powered hot water was available at the guesthouse, I considered smooching the women in charge. Sublime. That’s how I’d describe my shower experience. I nearly dissolved.
On day nine, I confronted Mustang’s version of a traffic jam. Herds of sheep, pack horses, and seasonal migrants hindered progress on a narrow stretch of uphill climb. Speed wasn’t the issue, it was the clouds of dust that left those in its wake subject to mild asphyxiation. And the incessant whistling and grunting of shepherds can needle one psychologically after about hour three…
Nothing like horsey-pretend time and a spelunking diversion to build an appetite for body and soul. As luck would have it, lunch in a nearby village would nourish both. I dined in what I believe was a private residence and served a repast in the host’s prayer room, a mini-monastery. Not long after we arrived, an elderly gentleman entered and sat cross-legged on a padded bench. A young male I presumed to be his grandson informed us it was prayer day. He apologized for the interruption and offered to relocate us to another room. I did what you might expect, I told them to get the fuck out posthaste. Well, no. Apologize for engaging in sacred acts in one’s own home? Seriously?…
Companions are good. We should have them. I left for Indonesia solo and remained so, more or less, for most of the sojourn. Until Mustang, I’d had travel chums a few days here, a week there with a romantic interlude thrown in for good measure. Maybe what I needed on the sun-drenched dusty Tibetan plateau wasn’t a companion, but the right companion. (If nothing else, a partner would’ve offset the organizational burden.) I wonder if we need witnesses along the way to validate life’s beauty, its overarching magnificence. Maybe we need a notary to consecrate our internal musings and jubilations in the face of natural incomprehensibility. Or should we hog a discrete portion for ourselves?…
I remember skies so goddamn blue, it’s like an amateur filmmaker went hog-wild with the color grading, though I suspect altitude plus landscape-contrast heightened the effect. Without the dynamic range of the human eye, no camera could do it justice. I was in awe and, looking back, compare it to a psilocybin flashback. I wanted to stare into the firmament until going blind, appreciate the shit out of everything without letting it slip through my fingers… but it always does.
Imagine a northern Arizona Grand Canyon-ish scenario, throw in a Himalayan backdrop, add the crisp coolness of an upstate New York autumn, sprinkle in sporadic donkey bells…
The region didn’t open to tourism until 1992. Access doesn’t come cheap and there’s an annual quota of a thousand visitors. A permit runs $500 a person but requires at least two per permit. Otherwise, it’s a cool grand for solo endeavors. (Sadly, locals see little of this money.) This explains my dawdling in Thamel an extra week. I was waiting for an elder German couple to arrive for a permit ménage à trois. No one gave them a heads up on the third-wheel scenario. Hansel and Gretel were none too pleased Team America would be joining their love adventure.
Was I willing to drop a $1000? Rationally, no, but I was light years from rational. The seed had been planted. No way to reign in my giddiness…
Wrestling (or is it steering?) was an issue. I couldn’t do it. It pulled to one side. It had a bit of a pulling problem. Rotate pedals. Sheer left… hard. Struggle. Swear. Repeat. One rotation sent me to the curb where I narrowly missed knocking over a parked motorcycle. Nepali word for “douchebag,” anyone? Steering was hard. Breaking was harder. I couldn’t do that either. People stared. Horns honked. Heart pounded. My co-pilot kept a palm on the handlebars and one on the break, forestalling tragedy.
After too much adrenaline and too many close calls, I relented. My respect for the craft ballooned exponentially. I took my rightful place in the rear… for about twenty seconds. My struggle ended where his began—at a slight incline…
Armid took us to his favorite hangout, a distinctly male vibe. Local women work in such places (waitstaff and performers) but cultural norms discourage similar cavorting. Instead of stock music stored on a computer with a TV for follow along, it was a staff of musicians and singers operating synthesized instruments and providing vocals. Fill out a slip. Wait your turn. Participants come prepared, memorizing words and beats beforehand. (This feeds my single-track theory.)
You haven’t lived until you’ve spent a night watching sloshed Nepali males sing and dance their hearts out. It was an ebb and flow of energy ending only between songs, long songs…
Day One was an easy float to our first campsite, Night One an inauspicious drunk fest fueled by not-so-premium liquor. Darkness fell. Mayhem ensued. I had zero wish to start hungover, so I forbore after a few drinks, retiring to the sand for a snooze beneath a spectacular night sky peppered with stars, painted by the Milky Way. The outfit provided tents, but I slept al fresco. Initially, I had company, but Ashrak the kayaker coaxed Kirstin to his tent. Ah, well, all’s fair in love and war on the waterfront. No smoochie-grabass por moi.
The events following my dismissal were the subject of vigorous debate. No one had all the pieces. The Brothers England and Sonkor deemed shit-faced skinny dipping a worthy pursuit…
I met Gopal (my guide) in the morning. We hopped in a car from Kathmandu to the trailhead in Sundarijal and set out for the day’s goal—Chisapani. At a reasonable pace, you can reach it in a few hours or less. We took over half a day. Gopal was an amiable, laid-back fella with serious motivation issues, a “stop and smell the roses” type. And by “smell the roses,” I mean “smoke the pot.” A lot of pot. He was unpleasantly surprised to discover I was more interested in the journey than a slo-mo marijuana-infused jaunt. Previous hikers set a precedent. He assumed a young-ish American would be on board. His disappointment was palpable. Lunch was a two-hour affair cooked from scratch. Slow season? Dunno, but the holdup was borderline excruciating. I was ready to forge ahead solo…
Upon arrival, two things became abundantly clear: I was going to like it there; I would probably go bankrupt. What happens when two planes of Gore-Tex toting tourists disembark simultaneously? You wait two hours for a visa. This did not dampen my fervor. That was impossible. Namaste and all that shit, ya know? Though I was itching to get the party started, I tempered my enthusiasm in the interest of prudence. Rest, relaxation, investigation, and invigoration. So, I took a few personal days.
Kathmandu is barely controlled chaos in a sprawling cityscape of brick and concrete multi-storied buildings rising and falling like an ill-conceived Lego megalopolis. Not so pretty to look at and air pollution doesn’t quite gel with the Himalayan flavor…
1768 - Gurkha ruler Prithvi Narayan Shah conquers Kathmandu and lays foundations for unified kingdom.
1792 - Nepalese expansion halted by defeat at hands of Chinese in Tibet.
1814-16 - Anglo-Nepalese War; culminates in treaty which establishes Nepal's current boundaries.
1846 - Nepal falls under sway of hereditary chief ministers known as Ranas, who dominate the monarchy and cut off country from outside world.
1923 - Treaty with Britain affirms Nepal's sovereignty.
Absolute monarchy
1950 - Anti-Rana forces based in India form alliance with monarch.
And we (as in two rangers carrying AKs and a guide) were off. No one spoke English, only a tribal dialect and French. I was told the weapons were in case we encountered elephants. Uh-huh. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the other species of guerrilla. After two hours of hiking through the jungle, we found our target, a gorilla gang presided over by a single silverback.
Two words: F***ing. Amazing. Just me, the guide, and gentle giants. This group was habituated, so they paid us little mind…