The Longest Night

Last night in Macermo, I had the first signs of sleep aphnia, which is one of the symptoms of AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness). I'll describe it more later.

Breakfast this morning begins with "Corn Flax" and milk. "Corn Flax" is the Nepalese pronunciation of "Corn Flakes." "Milk", pronounced "milik" is steaming hot powdered milk; poured over cold cereal, it is more than unappetizing--it is noxious! (Did I mention that I have almost completely lost my appetite? Last night, the bowl of soup was all I could force down.) Did I mention that our sherpas wake us each morning at the door of our tent, offering hot tea--but the very last thing offered, long after the breakfast is served and even after the table is cleared, is instant Nescafe coffee. I want my coffee now, please. You can take your stinking Corn Flax and milik and...just give me my morning coffee!!! Politely, I do not say a word, and patiently await for the never-arriving elixor, but John sits across the table, noticing my unspoken misery and laughs. Later, I will have to kill him...after I've had my coffee.

Today we hike along the Dudh Kosh River and Glacier. How can this trip keep becoming more beautiful each day? With each gain in altitude, we lose warmth, and it is now noticeably cold. However, we're dressed for it, and are quite comfortable. The wildness of this river, with its power displayed in frequent waterfalls and constant whitewater is impressive. So is the precarious nature of our footing as we walk along precipitous drops, the river a mere careless step away.

After a long ascent, the trail levels off and we hike the last mile or so alongside turquoise colored lakes, three of them in a row. We have met a few trekkers who in one long trip have gone to Kattipur, Everest Base Camp, and Gokyo. All of them agree that Gokyo is the most beautiful, though for some reason it is the least hiked of the three.

Nevertheless, we find Gokyo campsite to be a slum compared to other places we've camped. Our tents are crammed together in a tiny "yard"--a courtyard of stony dirt, so close together that when we crawl out of the front door, the first thing we do is step off a knee-high stone wall. The bathroom outhouse for the entire lodge is 10 feet from our tents, so we hear--and smell--every time someone from the lodge uses it during the night. It is miserably cold as a constant wind blows off the lake.

Dinner consists of--who cares? I force down the soup and try to ignore the aroma of curry when the entree is presented. I may never desire another bite of anything with curry as an ingredient--that is, with the exception of Corn Flax and hot milik.

Then, the worst and longest night of my life!

In the tent around 7:30, I drift off to sleep pretty quickly, but wake up, gasping for air, at 9:30. From then on, every time I fall asleep, I stop breathing! This is one of the more common effects of altitude, and I had a late-morning touch of it yesterday. But tonight it hits full-force and it hits early in the night.

Here's the repeated pattern for the rest of the night: I awake, completely out of breath, like I've just swum the length of the pool underwater. I take several deep gulps of air, then a few "normal" breaths, then drift off to sleep. Maybe 15-20 seconds later, I awake, completely out of breath. John advises me to inhale deeply through my nose, and exhale through my mouth, making a puff when I do. This actually doesn't help relieve the symptom, but is artificial enough to perhaps keep me awake and break the pattern. I count "puffs", and the most I reach is 20, more likely 7, sometimes as few as 3, then I drift off to sleep. A few seconds later, I awake, gasping for air. Each cycle takes maybe a minute. All of this accompanied by the wildest, most horrible dreams/nightmares imaginable. I learn to discern when a thought turns into a dream--as it becomes a dream, it becomes technicolor and more vivid.

This went on for 9 hours--from 9:30 pm until 6:30 am.

For drinking water while hiking I use as a "canteen" an insulated plastic container called a "Camelback". It has a long tube attached to a 3 liter container, so one can sip from it while walking without having to stop, remove one's pack, get a drink, etc. The last thing I did at the end of each day was fill the Camelback with boiling water, so that the next morning I'd have cool water to drink on the trail. Besides, an insulated Camelback converts into an effective and comforting hot water bottle when place inside the sleeping bag!

Around 4:00 am, I reached down inside my bag, found the tube, and took a sip of still lukewarm water. Without realizing it, I detached the tube from the Camelback container. About a minute later, when I awoke from the next round of gasping for air, I discovered the entire 3 liters of water had emptied into my bag, soaking it completely. I mean, wring-water-out in streams soaked.

Did I mention, it was the longest, most difficult night of my life?

Machermo (Not Macho Mo!)

A short hike today, with an altitude gain of only 600 feet. (Note that I did not write "easy day" as hiking any distance is exhausting.) We make a pact that we will not reveal that we covered maybe 3-4 miles a day distance, yet are completely spent at the end of the day's hike. We are such wimps! I'm more "lung tired" than "leg tired", meaning that I recover quickly when resting; on the other hand, I am immediately panting and tired when we begin to walk again.

This is physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting. It's harder and colder than I'd expected. On the other hand, it is also more beautiful and more exotic than I'd expected. The gazing is unsurpassed in beauty, and today, arriving in camp by 11:30, we have all afternoon for it. Deep, deep blue skies with puffy white clouds gathering. Lots of snow blowing off Cho Oyo, the highest mountain presently in view, producing the long plume at its peak that is the sign of ferocious winds up there. Snow covered mountains in three directions, so glaringly white we can't look at them without sunglasses.

This is definitely not wilderness hiking. Every 1/4-1/2 half mile, we pass a "village", consisting of 2-3 buildings clustered like a single farmhouse with a few out buildings. But each village contains a lodge, granted that status by having a small bunk-house attached (heated by a stove fueled with dried yak dung) and a cafe, so defined by the presence of a glass counter containing half a dozen dust-covered Cokes and 2 kinds of candy bars along with a menu.

We are never alone on the dust-covered trail. At some points, I can count as many as 25 other hikers in view. Every 10 minutes or so, we must step aside and stand quietly to let another team of yaks pass. Still, it is less populated now, after we have separated from the trail that leads to Everest Base Camp. Surprisingly, however, we hardly ever encounter other Americans. Many, many Japanese, lots of Germans, French, Brits, and a significant portion of Aussies and New Zealanders. Americans seem to be the only people in the world who are afraid to travel here. A strange paradox--are we both the most powerful country in the world and at the same time the most fearful?

Seeking the diversion of any entertainment offered, we attend a daily lecture at 3:00 on high altitude issues given by a physician from England. He and his wife, also a physician, have volunteered their services for one month to develop and staff a Mountain Rescue Clinic in Machermo and are clearly having the time of their lives. The lecture is surprisingly engaging; little do we realize how vital the information presented will turn out to be to our group.

Dole, but not dull!

The day's trek begins with a steep 1,000 foot ascent. We will eventually discover that all our campsites are located in valleys, to protec t from the winds, with the result that each day's walk begins with a steep ascent to climb out of the valley. Within 15 minutes of embarking, we are huffing and discouraged, wondering if we can endure the fatigue throughout the day. However, as the pulse rate gets up to speed and we gain our footing, things become bearable.

This one is a challenge, however--the 1,000 foot ascent is followed by a 1,000 foot descent, which is followed by a 3,000 foot ascent. So when our sidhar (lead guide) tells us that we will gain 2,000 feet that day, it actually means 4,000 feet of climbing, as he doesn't bother to count re-gaining anything that we lose during the course of the day! He will rot in hell for that sin!!

We take a long break in a small village at the end of a climb, waiting at least an hour for Don and Paul, our slowest hikers to catch up. At this point the rest of our group begins to place odds on whether these two will actually complete the trip, and none of us would be shocked to hear either or both of them announce that they've decided to turn back. It turns out, however, that they may be slow, but completely undaunted and not finishing has never crossed their minds. In the village, a couple of "crazed yaks" (yes, they actually do exist, and are not merely elements of the old Carnak curses, "May a crazed yak...) lower their heads and charge a couple of people. The kid "leading" them via a rope is clearly not the one in charge of that three-some. When they arrive, Paul and Don report that they had been charged by the same yaks, and their sherpa had immediately thrown himself between the yaks and his clients. How much are we paying these guys?? (Not much, it turns out--the per capita income of rural Nepalese is about $130/year.)

The weather is turning colder as we gain altitude. I'd say it's in the upper 40's when we arrive at Dole (acutally rhymes with "ole!", not with the brand of pineapple.) We discover our tents up and hot tea awaiting us (Horray for sherpas and porters!) when we arrive around 4:00, half an hour before losing the sun behing the western ridge. This doesn't mean sunset and darkness, but it does mean the temperature drops another 15 degrees.

A kerosene lantern gives light and heat to the mess tent, and we are quite comfortable in there, even though we can see our breath. Dinner is impressive, and delicious! All our evening meals begin with a soup; tonight's entre features a "mile high" veggie pizza and mashed potatoes with gravy. But the gravy turns out to be a meaty stew with veggies--the best food item so far. Later, we begin to notice the pizza tasted a lot like yesterday's spring rolls. We don't suspect disguised leftovers, merely a limited number of spices in our cook's repetoire. This is the first hint of what we will soon experience--all our meals are spicy and all are beginning to taste the same. This may be the result of altitude or may be the result of daimox, which we take to combat altitude sickness and is known to affect the sense of taste.

We are such grown-ups, remaining in the mess tent talking and drinking hot tea until at least 7:30 pm, when we crawl into sleeping bags and collapse!

Namche Bazaar

The weather in Namche Bazaar is very pleasantly warm in the day when the sun is out; get-your-attention cool immediately when the sun goes down. I've stayed warm and comfortable round the clock, however. The food is good, but way, way too much of it. Last night: veggie spring rolls, house fried rice, carrots & mixed greens, chicken soup, orange for dessert. This morning: large bowl of oatmeal, veggie omelet, toast. I am eating way too much!

Namche is a small village clinging to the side of a mountain only with the assistance of unseen rapelling ropes and super glue! How else could it not fall into the Dudh Kosh River at the bottom of the valley? Across the valley we can see at least two waterfalls so high that the water appears to disappear, evaporating in the dry mountain air before it can reach the bottom. Magically, however, the stream continues in endless cascades below the falls.

Narrow streets, about the width of a school hallway, and almost as crowded as a hallway during class changes. Not a vehicle in all the village, as the only access to this place is by foot. There was a small landing strip constructed, apparently, but it turned out not to have worked. We speculate on who was the unfortunate soul to make that unhappy discovery!

Today we had our first glimpse of Everest! Got up at 5:30 (to the sherpa knocking on the door with hot tea) and took a 30-minute pre-breakfast walk. That is, 30 minutes steeply and relentlessly uphill! Really got my attention. Returned for breakfast at 9:00, then walked another trail, not so much to see the sights as to gain altitude--the principle is to hike high (during the day) and sleep low, which helps with the acclimatization. This afternoon we all seem to be feeling pretty good. I'm pleased with how I'm adjusting to the altitude.

The prices here are incredibly cheap, even for things you'd buy in the US. Lisa's boots were stolen from her tent the other night, so she bought a pair here, brand name, for around $40. Don replaced a broken hiking/ski pole for around $10; John paid over $100 for a set in the US. The items available are impressive, considering the lack of "shipping" opportunities. We are told that Tibetans smuggle their crafts into Nepal from here, carrying them over the high Himalayan passes. What doesn't sell here is carried on yaks to Kathmandu, where it is put on display in the bazaars there.

We leave tomorrow for Gokyo and won't have internet access for close to a week. Will seem strange to be so out of touch with the rest of the world.

Breathless!

We are staying tonight and tomorrow in Namche Bazaar (You can see pictures by doing a Google on "Namche Bazaar Nepal" and choosing other's journals.) A village that cannot possibly exist without rappelling ropes and super glue! Altitude is 11,000, which means that it takes 2-3 breaths to get one lung-full of oxygen! Last night John and I had a personal visit with the regions' lama (the priest, not the beast of burden) arranged by our sidhar (lead guide) What a fascinating conversation! At the end, he pronounced a blessing upon us, told us we were clearly very holy people for taking this trek and providing income for so many porters, cooks, etc. He then allowed us to pronounce a Christian blessing on him (The traditional "The Lord bless you and keep you..."). Afterwards, he seemed very eager to pose for pictures with John and me--three great holy men in one snapshot!!
Today, while hiking, I taught "Jesus Loves Me" to our sidhar; he taught me a couple of chants. Until, that is, the trail turned uphill.

Lukla

Today we are in Lukla; the flight from Kathmandu over the Himalayas was breathtaking, especially the landing, as the runway seems to be about 100 yards long, on a significant incline--uphill for landing, downhill for taking off. As we waited for the plane to clear off, we were once again stuck on the tarmac for at least a couple of hours. So they kept the door of the plane open, and we wandered around on the tarmac, walking over to the edge of the runway to watch golfers on a course nearby!! Suddenly, a shout, and we raced back to the plane to take off as the fog cleared. Just like Hartsfield \Jackson, right?
We're staying tonight in a very comfortable lodge--the bedrooms are spartan, but the dining room is wood paneled--and warm. It was quite chilly when we arrived, but as the sun broke through, we were soon in short-sleeved shirts. A three-hour warm-up "walk" this afternoon to the guide's grandmother's home in the next village. That seems to be a hallmark of Condor Adventures--getting admission into local's homes and other out-of-the-way places.

Curfew here is 5:30 pm. We guess--and it's only a guess--that the army patrols increase significantly after that time. Thus, I need to sign off - it's almost 5:00, and I have a little walk to return to the lodge.

I think I've heard I can do this again in Namche Bazaar, which we will reach in two days.

Pictures, Sunday - Tuesday

Well, we had hoped to upload a few pictures here, however, the internet service and the actual machines here are extreeeeeeeeeeeemely slow, so, my patience and my rupees force me to try another day for pictures. Here's one for ya...

This is a picture of the approach to the temple where the sacrifices take place.

Up in Flames

The following material may be unsuitable for sensitive people (such as I). Reader descretion advised. I will attempt to describe these events without evaluation--no judgement as to whether this custom is good or bad, just reporting what we saw.

This is a free day; we're on our own. Over breakfast with Buzz and Paula, as John and I discuss going to Pashupatinath, Paula asks if she can join us. We depart via taxi around 8:30.
Pashupatinath is the most important temple in Nepal. All Hindus desire to make a pilgrimmage to this site at least once, as it is the birthplace of Shiva, god of destruction and fertility. Situated on the banks of the Baghur (?) River, which flows directly into the Ganges, it is the most desirable place for a Hindu to be buried. Thus cremations are held there continuously.

We arrive at the beginning of a cremation ceremony. Standing on a walkway above the pyre (a stone platform by the side of the river), we are 12 feet above and no more than 10 feet away from the ceremony. A body is lying atop a carefully lattticed stack of logs, clothed in brightly colored garments. The garments are sheer enough that the person's ankles and feet can clearly be distinguished.
The eldest son, dressed in a white toga, bare from the waist up, circles the body three times, sprinkling small amounts of water around the edge. He is assisted by either other male family members or some kind of funeral directors, we can't tell. He is obviously deeply distressed. Though they are out of sight, we can hear other family members crying below.
Circling the bod again three times, the son comes to the head, which has been uncovered. A piece of sandlewood about the size of a silver dollar is placed in the deceased's open mouth. There are several small orbs of wax around the mouth. Then the son lights the sandlewood! (It is ritually very significant that the fire begins at the mouth.) As the flames build, he quickly rushes to the deceased's feet and falls to his knees, weeping. The three of us, strangers and observers, are holding back tears ourselves. We watch in horror as the deceased's face and hair blaze!
After a minute or so, the face is covered. Bright scarves that have lain on top of the deceased's clothing are removed and tossed into the river. Then straw-like kindling is put on the top, covering everything, and the fire is kindled beneath. A pot of incense smokes at the corner of the platform, covering the air in a thick haze of smoke that joins the smoke of the funeral fire. It will take four hours for the cremation to be completed, and the family remains for the entire duration. At the end, the ashes are swept into the river, to be carried to the Ganges. (BTW, people of Kathmandu do not eat fish that are caught locally.) Another cremation is well underway two platforms down from us.
As our guide, whom we have employed upon arrival, leads us away, we are silent, almost unable to breathe. Prabin, our guide, is a university student of anthropology, with perfect English. He is Hindu, so can describe the meaning of what we are seeing with sensitivity and respect.
Temple, monkey temple, ancient temple. The famous Milk Babba, who is 75 years old and has consumed nothing but cow's milk since he was 24. (Remember cows are sacred here.) Caves of Hindu holy hermits. Yada, yada, yada--we are still walking in a daze.
Then, on a walkway overlooking the entire scene, Prabin reveals that as late as the 1920's, when a man died, his living wife lay on the pyre as it burned, ending her life as well! (I'll re-check the fine print, but I don't think that was in Debbie's and my pre-nup!)
Then we arrive at a hospital begun by Mother Theresa in 1980. The "hospital" receives elderly who are ill and have no family remaining to care for them. It is a filthy brick-floored yard, with cubicles in the walls surrounding the yard. People with horrible deformities sit or walk around. A woman walks, bent double at the waist; a man with legs bent double at his knees, his heels touching his buttocks, sandles strapped to his hands, ambles along. Prabin says that missionary doctors come several times a week to provide free medical care, but no such care is evident while we are there. I'm saying, these people have never heard of a "call button", much less complained when one is not answered.
When we arrive back at our guest house, we are stunned to learn that it is only 10:30 am. All of us are emotionally spent, completely exhausted. We drink. Conceeding that it isn't even lunchtime, the three of us split one beer in silence.
Can we PLEASE leave this town and go to the mountains???

In da House

Tuesday, Oct 11 (or 10th, or 12th--who knows for sure!)
John and I arise between 5:30 and 6:00--something about the effects of an 11 hour time difference perhaps? We go outside our Guest House and hire a pedi-cab, the Nepal version of a bicycle-powered rickshaw. We instruct or driver, Gopall, to take us wherever he wishes for 100 rupees. But first we want coffee, so after a 5-minute ride, we stop in a one room hovel where he orders coffee for each of us. I can see the owner on this local version of a Seven-Eleven preparing the drink by mixing instant coffee with boiled milk. It turns out to be a remarkably complex process that results in a surprisingly delicious sweet drink, somewhat like a latte. Our Starbucks moment over (45 rupees, or 60 cents total tab for John, Gopall, and me) he then drives us to a Buddhist temple where we observe a dozen or so monks intently chanting prayers. After making a small donation, each of us receives a blessing by the local priest, which involves him saying a prayer with his holy book resting on our forehead, a finger bowl of water placed before us from which we cleanse ourselves by placing some on our heads, then the little red dot applied to our forehead.
We are then driven a few more blocks to a local market, which is simply a village turn-about ssquaare, filled with vendors selling beautiful flower arrangements, corn, other fresh produce. Gopall insists that we purchase (and wear) some necklaces made of marigolds and carry a small bouquet of flowers as we proceed. Thus attired we are feeling less than manly as he takes us to another temple, this one Hindu. The crowds around the market and the temples are huge, as this is the next to last day of the 9 day holiest of holidays of the year. Plus, both Hindus and Buddhists begin each day by offering a prayer. At this early hour, once again we are the only foreigners in sight.
Back to the Guest House in time for breakfast. Our official day begins at 9:00 when we are taken to Patan. Patan's central Durbar Square is absolutely packed with temples; it's an architectural feast with far greater concetratin of temples per sq. meter than anywhere in Kahtmandu. We stroll by the local bath, where men and boys are showering, bathing themselves and their shorst at the same time. Older men are scrubbing their feet, exfoliating them by fubbing them on the rough stone. Our group breaks into a private rendition of Y.M.C.A." Across the street, a group of women are doing laundry, scrubbing clothing on the stone floor.
After another Royal Palace and a few more temples (There seem to be a many temples here as Independent Baptist Churches in rural Georgia!) we are invited to our guides' house for coffee. Being a guest in a Nepales home--this should be interesting!
Samvu's house is above the private elementary school run by his wife. (Samvu teaches English and philosophy in a near-by university and guides as a form of moonlighting.) We remove our shoes and enter, bowing our greetings. His living room is about the size of a third bedroom of a typical Duluth home. It is immaculately clean, furnished with padded chairs in a row against two walls, an ancient TV set (No visible remote control, however--unimaginably primitive!). Two small pictures hang high on one wall, probably of Samvu's parents.
His 9-year-old son is all boy, energetic and alternating between shy and then disinterested, then engaging in conversation or sitting on the floor beside his dad, clearly impressed with his father's skills as a business person to host such an important group of guests. Samvu's wife is dressed traditionally in a brightly colored sari. She does not participate in any of the coffee and cookies preparation, as (whispered aside: this is her time of the month) she is forbidden to prepare any food to be eaten by anyone else for 6 days. (The women in our group opine that this is a great custome and should be imported to the U.S.!
His 17-year daughter is wearing designer jeans and a tee-shirt. As the group privately and unanimously agreed afterward, she is a world-class beauty whom we would expect to see on the cover of Seventeen. She would make Brittny Spears look hum-drum. As we have had an earlier discussion with Samvu about his responsibility for arranging the marriage of his daughter in the next 5-7 years, I open negotiations for an arrangement for her to marry my 17 year old Craig, who would be indebted to me forever. Sorry, Craig, but we left without closing the deal.
That evening we are invited to be the guest in the home of Mr. Pisang, the owner of the travel company who handled the arrangements for the trekking portion of our trip. Entering Mr. Pisang's home, we are clearly in the "gated community" economic level of Nepalese living. The gates to Mr. Pisang's home are guarded and opened by a young boy, and we are greeted by three show-quality dogs, though I cannot identify the breeds. His home is immaculately furnished, and relatively spacious, about the size of a three-bedroom ranch home in the U.S. We are offered copious amounts of liquor, which we sip sparingly. To my horror, my glass comes with ice--a commodity we have been absolutely forbidden to use anytime after leaving the airplane! I dare not offend Mr. Pisang, however, and simply trust that at his economic level he uses only bottled water. (No after effects, so I guess I was lucky.)
Our dinner is traditional Nepalese fare, meaning I have no idea what we ate: a vegetable something or other, a beef dish and a chicken dish over rice, accompanied by a red condiment (served on the side, fortunately) which added a not-so-suble flame affect, and kimchee.
By the time our after-dinner conversation is over, all of us are fighting sleep. In bed by 10:00, so tired I am asleep with one foot still on the floor.

On another planet!

We spent today on another planet!! But first I must tell you briefly about last night. John and I had dinner two blocks from the Guest House, and on the walk back were offered hashish twice and once "naked woman dance?" (I told them we were headed back to our room, where John would dance naked--would they like to join us?? For some reason they left immediately!--I can't believe I'm writing this to people in the church. Go ahead and call the presbytery office of pastoral discipline!!)

Breakfast this morning with Buzz, our guide and Paula, the Condor Adventure rep during the trekking portion (and Buzz's main squeeze.) We each ordered the "set breakfast"--two eggs cooked to order, toast, hash browns with tomato, jam, and coffee--for 65 rupees each (approx. 95 cents). I tried to exchange $200 US dollars into rupees at the hotel when we arrived, but the teller insisted that he would only do $100. Now I understand--it would take forever to spend $200 here.

After breakfast we drove an hour + to Kittapatur, a mountain site of great reverence for Hindus. By pure chance the next three days are the final culmanation of their biggest annual holiday. Traffic on the one-lane mountain road was like something from Six Flags, without the safety harnesses. We passed busses filled with 6 to a 2-person seat, along with 40 or so people perched on top.

Arriving, we entered a scene like Times Square on New Years Eve, except with no drinking. This is a family event, parents with children in tow, but packed in like those awaiting for the big peach to drop at midnight. Many of the women dressed in sarongs, but just as many in designer jeans, with the cuffs rolled up in the latest fashion, and Nike accessaries. They are standing in line for hours to enter the temple area, where they have brought flowers and rice to toss onto the altar, but also chickens and goats to be sacrificed. As we perched on some rocks overlooking the ritual, they bring their animals to the center, the man of the family grabs the goat by the back legs while the "priest"--well, does the sacrificing with a very sharp knife. Fortunately the head is out of sight, hidden by a shelf of some sort; chickens did not get the same respect, with the nasty deed done in full view. Soon the floor is covered in blood. (I'm not thinking this will go over very well with the PHPC worship committee.) Meanwhile, 20 feet away, a young woman and an old monk are seated in the lotus position, quietly meditating, while hundreds of others are lighting incense and the clear peal of prayer bells rings out. The animals are then taken home by the families, where they are the entre for a great feast, as this is one of the few times of the year when they eat any meat at all. Does it sound barbaric and gruesome? Indeed it is! The major difference, however, between this and our own Thanksgiving turkey feast is that they know they are eating a real live animal, whereas we don't have to consider that our turkey made the ultimate sacrifice for our holiday festivities.

After awhile, we move on, jostled by the crush of the crowd, constantly losing sight of our guide, who somehow miraculously appears ahead of us every few minutes. In this countless throng, we are the only non-Nepalese in sight. The smell of incense, the crush of the people, the sound of bells, prayers, and crowd control instructions, the countless beggars--we are overwhelmed and breathless as we leave. Whatever scene might be shown in a future Indiana Jones movie will seem tame by comparison.

Yet, the people are in a festive mood, as they are on holiday. Venders along the side of the path sell everything form garlands of flowers, spices, to plastic ray-gun toys. If anyone notices us at all, there is no hostility whatsoever, no apparent resentment that we are intruding their holy ground. On the return trip, we stop in a little village to climb a hill where there is a small temple overlooking Kathmandu Valley. Again, we are the only non-natives in the entire village. The residents take interest in us, mostly smiling with a "Namaste!" word of greeting. Many are gathered along the side of the narrow streets, playing card games with their children. Children look out of their upper story windows, calling "Hello!", then playing hide-and-seek by ducking back in when we turn to look. One little boy is squatting by a large basin on the stoop in front of his house for his morning bath. His hair is completely lathered; when he looks up to see me approaching, he smiles and creates a foamy white beard to match mine. We share a giggle.

They are beautiful people, with cafe au lait skin, coal black hair, high cheek bones, and gorgeous, bottomless brown eyes that look intently into our faces, not a shred of hostility or suspicion in evidence. Somehow, this must be part of what God meant when we are taught to be neighbor to the stranger in our midst. The Nepalese men, however, cannot seem to resist long looks at the two blonde women in our group. This must be part of what is meant by "Blondes have more fun!"

Conversing with our guide, Samvu, during the drive, he realizes that we are far more interested in what his life is like than we are in the description of another temple we are seeing. So when we reach our hotel upon return, he invites us to his home for tea tomorrow. (He has a M.A. degree from the University of Vermont in English Lit, and teaches in a college here.) The one American custom he cannot understand--and disagrees with--is our custom of a guest bringing something as a hostess gift when invited for dinner--a bottle of wine or boquet of flowers. "If friends gather for a "pot luck", that's fine for everyone to bring something, but if I invite you to my home as my guest, you should not bring anything to give me."

I have just read on the Major League Baseball web site about the Braves' loss to Houston. I must go to my room now, and cry.

Kathmandu Street-walking

Recipe for a street in Thamel District of Kathmandu: take the mile of Buford Highway north of I-285; blend with the vistas seen from a Marta train in a warehouse district. Remove all sidewalks and place all buildings at the street's edge. Add height to 3-4 stories.
Now compress in width until one lane wide; compress in length until each storefront is about 6 feet. (Your "sales staff" will, of course, have to stand just oustide the front door. They should greet each potential customer with a warm smile and welcoming, "Namaste").
Replace 3/4 of the SUV's with motorbikes and the remaining SUV's will become compact taxis. Add bicycle-powered rick-shaws. Sprinkle generously with people--mostly tourists--from all over the world. Overhead, cover with countless electric wires--having removed all telephone poles, these wires are stapled to buildings in a tangled nest of confusion.
Sound track: incessant toots from horns, which areused to announce one's presence ("I'm here, don't run into me.") rather than "Get outta my way, dammit!" Bicycle bells. Vendors hawking. Smell of curry, occasional marajuanna.

Or group of 8 had dinner together at The Rum Doodle, a hang-out for climbers bound for or returning from the highest peaks in the world. Plywood sillouettes of large feet are nailed to the walls and ceiling, autographed by climbers who have made successful ascents. (Some, not so successful, as we see Rob Hall's signature created just before his attempt in 1996 in which he was killed, as described in "Into Thin Air") Also Edmund Hillary. My meal of chicken Kabobs cost 385 rupees, including tip, which converts to less than $5.00. John and I had omelette, scone and a pot of coffee for breakfast and the bill for both of us was 250 rupees--around $3.00.

When you're driving in snow, the snowflakes seem to careen towards your windshield, then veer off at the last second, leaving the windshield wipers eligible for unemployment. That's the way traffic is here in Kathmandu. It's unnerving to see vehicles of all sort headed straight for you in an emminent head-on pile-up, then magically they veer off to the side and somehow the ride ends up being a non-contact event! The streets are incredibally crowded--I could reach out from the side window of our vehicle and touch the arm of a person in the vehicle next to us. We're all moving at about 5 mph, horns constantly honking.

John and I have napped after a lunch of Nepali-style chili, which turns out to be not a bowl of soup with beans and meat, but small chunks of chicken, heavily coated with chili powder--very spicy.

Movie showing in the Guest House lobby is the summer release about NYC being flooded by a huge tsunami and other natural disasters. Patrick Swayze is a central character, and tries to appear to take the whole plot seriously, but it's a challenge. Somehow, the scenes in the movie of people wading chest deep trhough the streets of the city are not as entertaining as they might have been before Katrina.



Temps in the 70's and 80's.

Look, Ma, I'm Flying!

Just in case I had any doubts, I now believe in eternity--I have spent it on an airplane! Fourteen hours via Korean Air from Atlanta to Seoul; a 4 hour lay-over in Seoul; another 5 1/2 hours to Bangkok. Arrived at our hotel at 1:00 am, left for final leg of the trip at 7:30 the next morning.

Right now I'm not really lost--just a bit disoriented--in the Thamel district of Kathmandu, in an internet cafe with about 6 very slow computers. I know it's 5:30 p.m. here, and think it's 6:45 am in Atlanta. (The Nepales changed their official time forward by 15 minutes several years ago to emphasize their independence from surrounding countries. "Take that, Tibet!") so I know what time it is; I'm just not certain what day it is. Saturday here, but does that make it Sunday in Atlatna? I know from the Major League baseball web page that the Braves game in Houston starts in a few hours.

Of course, the first thing John and I do upon deplaning in Bangkok is get separated from the group. We were innocently following a crowd down the hall of the airport, when the crowd dispersed into various gates, and suddenly John and I were walking down a hall pretty much alone. Not a word of English in sight, and the first person we asked for help spoke no English. I was certain we should go one direction, John wanted to go the opposite, and I hate to say this but John was right. (Pure luck.) We cleared customs--in and out of Thailand, entering Nepal and no facility for inspecting luggage. They make sure they collect the departure tax ($13), but apparently you can take whatever you want with you as long as it's packed in your luggage!

tonight we are headed for the rum Doodle Restaurant, famous for t\being the climbers' gathering place before embarking on everest and other memorable climbs. John Hall, Doug Breshears, Edmund Hillary--all have their autographed pictures on display. I've read about the place in several books, including "Into Thin Air."

Right now--nap time!

This picture was from a trip John, Jim, and I took in the Tetons in 2003.