Here is the complete story of how Rupesh and I met during my journey along the Annapurna Circuit. Read it completely, or jump in anywhere. Either way I'm sure you'll get a sense for the kind of person Rupesh is, and why I want so very badly to help him.
Should You Find Yourself...
Should you find yourself with a worsening stomach condition within the first 20 km of the Annapurna Circuit i recommend you take the road between Kudi and Bhulbhule in the morning (slowly). Among the smiling schoolchildren headed south along the river you may run into Hari. He will be a slightly-rounded man of about 40. He will be smiling. He will approach you and extend his hand warmly. He will ask you how you're feeling, maybe because he asks this of all trekkers along the road or maybe because you look like hell, but you'll know from the way he asks that he's genuinely concerned.
When you tell him that you're having a rough go of it, that your stomach is tied in knots, that you haven't slept in two days because of it he'll give you a look, your hand still in his, that says: "Worry no more, my friend. You're in good hands." He'll give you very simple directions to a small village on the other side of the river between Bhulbhule and Bahundanda called Ngadi. There you will find a small lodge with a pleasant, grass-covered courtyard and just three rooms. "What you need is rest," he will tell you. "A swim in the river perhaps. Sleep." He will be returning in the evening from Besi Sahar. With Watermelon. "Watermelon is good for health," he'll say.
You'll be suspicious, of course. You know how many lodges there are along the trail (your Lonely Planet told you). And competition is the name of the game. Maybe his interest in your health is a bit truer to the health of his wallet, you'll think. Travel-tested cynic you are, (Nepal was not your first stop, after all) you'll thank him and move to leave, at which point he'll beam at you and tell you that his son, his daughter, his wife—they will take good care of you. "We are brothers. Take some rest." He'll wave and go and you'll head north, (there is no other way). You'll pass Buhlebuhle and get your first checkpoint stamp.
About an hour later, just after a 60 meter waterfall on the right and a rock with white-painting on it that says, "Way to Manang," you'll come into (depending on the season) fields of peaceful cornstalks on both sides of a bamboo-fenced path. Dodge politely the touts in the first couple lodges. They're more aggressive here than in the previous villages. They have to be. Ngadi is a tiny village, and too close to the dry-season trailhead at Bhulbhule to be considered for anything more than a late breakfast, really. (In the wet season, when the road is impassable by bus, the trailhead starts further south at Besi Sahar. But you knew that. That's where you started. Because you start where the trail begins, not where the bus can reach. You did come here to walk, after all). You'll forgive these people their hard-sell and find yourself in a picturesque valley surrounded by green, tropical-looking mountains covered in terraced rice-paddies. When the river is just far enough off the trail to hear its sweep but not its roar you'll see a sign on the right for the Hotel Hil Ton. One look will tell you it is not affiliated. You'll be glad for it. You'll find this place is just far enough off the reach of the grid to be unspoiled. Standing there white-washing the bamboo fence will be Rupesh, Hari's son. He'll be short of stature, strongly-built, and his heart will shine through his face. He'll offer you lunch or a rest. You'll tell him Hari on the road told you about the place. Rupesh will beam excitedly: "You met my father?!" And then you will be brothers.
Take the tea he offers, and some basic food. Banana porridge, perhaps. Something to help digest the bag of medicine you bought from the pharmacy in Kudi. There's a lot of pills to swallow, at least one of which you'll recognize—Cypro (antibiotic)—and you'll want something in your stomach to ease the healing. If you've got any sense at all you'll ignore the urge, after eating, to continue on your way. But even if you don't, Rupesh will advise as a trusted friend now that it's best to stay. Take rest. He'll promise that later, if you're feeling better, he'll take you to a waterfall off the trail for a shower. You'll feel better. "So many trek the circuit," he'll say. "Few see the culture." He'll be right. On all counts. Pat him on the shoulder. Tell him you'll stay. Let him show you to a room. Drop the pack. Hit the bed. He'll close the tin door behind you. With any luck, you'll sleep. Finally.
When you emerge Rupesh will gleam his big-heart smile. "Feeling better?" You will be. Follow him to Kalai Rua. There will be banana trees, bamboo groves hanging over the hillsides, maybe monkeys in the trees. There will be children swimming in the pool at the base of a 10 meter waterfall. "Come! Swimming!" They will shout. Then they'll giggle. Listen to them. They'll love you instantly. The water will soothe your soul. Take the soap Rupesh hands you. Clean yourself off. If you want, have him show you how to clean your shirt on a rock. Begin to feel stronger. Renewed. Walk with him to Tarang Che, the village where the local lodge owners of Ngadi actually live. Smile at everyone. They will smile at you. As you leave, stop along the rock wall for a picture. You'll be hard-pressed to find a prettier Villa Incognito anywhere.
If, on the way back, Rupesh asks if it would be okay if he scales a tree barefoot for some food for his goat say, "Absolutely." Help him gather what he drops. Then snap a picture of him walking across the suspension bridge. Be pleased with yourself for capturing an image you will cherish for years as representing the pure vitality of the simple life.
Have dinner. Go for the curry or the dal bhat, your stomach can handle it now. Sit by candlelight as the mountain silhouettes get fainter and fainter. Smoke a simple joint. Listen to Rupesh's stories about treks he's taken in the direction you're heading. Sit astonished as he describes his first time atop Thorung La, the highest mountain pass in the world (17, 750 ft) in January, after the Ukrainian girls he was portering 50 lb bags for jumped a jeep to Naypul and left the 15 year-old Rupesh with no water, no food, and no choice but to turn around and head for home in snow up to his waist. Then realize how common this scenario is on the Annapurna. How common it is for clueless poor kids from villages in the valley trying to make something for their families to hump packs weighed down by hair-dryers and laptops for westerners with no care for common decency. A few die every year. Ponder this while he says he'd be willing to go up with you, if you wanted a hand. It's okay to laugh, if you must, at the suggestion that you'd let someone else tote your pack up a mountain, or anywhere for that matter, while you walked beside him. Thank him deeply. Touch your chest for emphasis, but tell him he's not a camel.
"I understand." He'll say, a little dejected. Just enough that if you're paying attention you'll realize that you missed the boat. That in places of limited opportunity you grab what you can get. That portering is respectable business around these parts. And that carrying the burden of someone else's bags may be the only thing saving him from having to emigrate to the city for a stitching job in a sweatshop. Feel the sting of shame, briefly. (You are new here). Apologize, but tell him you simply couldn't allow someone to carry the crap you brought while you walked free and clear. If he suggests then, a bit sheepishly, that he could maybe be your guide, sit back and assess the situation: The Annapurna is so heavily-traveled and well-marked that a guide is a necessary expense only for the rich, the old, the grossly inexperienced, and the lazy. There's a good chance, if you're here already, you're none of these. Perhaps it's even your preference to hike alone. In fact, maybe the reason you got out at Besi Sahar wasn't only because it's the official start, but also to ditch the Israelis you'd make quick friends with on the bus to ensure you wouldn't inadvertently wind up in a group. Maybe you want to help Rupesh out. But maybe you also get that one half-trip following clueless Ukrainians into the Himalayas does not a trained guide make. Tell him you'll think about it and adjourn for the night. Sleep will be needed. There will be many kilometers to cover tomorrow by one of you. Bet that it's likely you.
Sometime around 3am it may begin to rain. If it begins to rain it may begin to pour. And if it pours (again, depending on the season) it will likely deluge so hard you'll swear the tin roof getting slammed above you will cave in at any second. You won't be able to sleep with noise like that so, alone in bed, you'll begin to think. You'll remember what the Lonely Planet and a dozen websites told you about the monsoon season here. How relentless it is, how indescribably, unmercifully wet it is. How close it is to the time you're there (should you have decided to trek in May). You may regret, at that time, that you took seven days in Kathmandu to get yourself together before you set out, which only pushed you closer to the inevitable onset of rain. You'll perhaps make the connection that the current onslaught may be only a taste of what's in store for you. You may think that no amount of rainproof gear could stand up to this. If i'm not sleeping now..., you'll think, how will it be when any crack, loose stitch, or tiny hole in my bivy sack is ripped open by flood waters pooling by my pillow?
Quickly on the heels of this thought will be leeches. Everything you will have read or heard by then, maybe even from Rupesh himself, will have told you they're EVERYWHERE. When the rain comes the leeches come. You can't feel them, you know. Upon attaching themselves they inject a novocain-like numbing agent. You won't know they're there until, satisfied of the feast of your flesh, they drop off of you. Or you get lucky and happen across a mole the size of your thumb you didn't know you had on the back of your neck. Or face. Or lower. If you can pull yourself off of that thought your mind may then hypothesize a couple scenarios. One: the leeches find you alone. Two: they find you with a local who's dealt with them. Both horrible, to be sure. But one definitely preferable to the other. This may lead you to a consideration of health in general. How your has been shaky recently. How you felt so absolutely, hopelessly uncomfortable and alone last night in Kudi that you may actually have even shed a tear or two. You may remember that even though you're living the experience of your life, if you're completely honest with yourself, you've been a bit lonely lately. Your girl's back home (or guy, depending) and maybe it hasn't been the same without her (or him, whatever). There's a chance you'll even think that despite your fierce independence and uncompromising need for alone time, you're actually kind of a people person who only moonlights as a hermit for different reasons (depending on the season, of course). Ultimately you'll likely get to thinking: perhaps a compromise can be found.
Emerge in the morning for breakfast. Rupesh will be awake, chasing his one year-old daughter around. He will smile. He will cook. Take porridge if it suits you. When the meal is through and your pills are down, sit with Rupesh over tea and tell him what's up:
Look, i don't need a guide and i don't want a porter. What i could use is a friend. But here's my problem: in my country we don't pay our friends to hike with us. However, if you have more money than your friend, it's acceptable to pay his way. So i'll pay for your room and food and we'll walk together. If i've got something left over at the end i'll give it to you for your family. Deal?
He'll likely smile broadly and say something like: "Yes. This is very good." But don't stop there. Lay out all the stipulations so no one's surprised later:
Ok. You don't walk ahead of me like a guide and you don't walk behind me like a porter. Do not call me "sir" (or ma'am) and if someone at a lodge offers that you can sleep for free on a floor or something because you're a local you tell 'em "no". You're either with me or not with me. My friend doesn't sleep on the floor while i sleep in a bed. Got it?
If he smiles like sun through clouds and nods that he agrees, extend your hand to shake on it. He'll hug you instead but that's fine, the deal is made. If his mom comes over and invites you to his brother's wedding in two weeks, accept and adjust your trekking schedule. Cut the trek short if need be, to accommodate for your next likely-once-in-a-lifetime experience (because you never know what's coming; always better to flow like a river than stagnate like a pond) but most importantly: to get the brother of the groom to the church on time.
We set off on a partly cloudy morning from Ngadi with a prayer from Hari and an unripened apple. "For good luck," he insisted. He really meant it. He had tears in his eyes. We didn't eat it. Partly because after the hell my stomach had been through i was afraid to eat any piece of fruit that hadn't been peeled; partly because we needed every rabbit's foot we could carry. We had exactly as many days as we'd need to get to Thorung La, acclimatize, cross the pass, and be at the Jomsom airstrip to catch a morning flight, then an afternoon bus, then hike through the evening to make Rupesh' brother's wedding at five the following morning. Yeah, 5 am. In Nepal weddings are celebrated across several venues in the same day. Or several days, depending. No one really knows. You start at the groom's house, organized and polished. Then head over like a circus with no ring-leader to the bride's place. Then stumble back like drunken monkeys to the groom's pad for the start of the real depravity. This could, and was well known to take days. The bride's house, in this case, was in Kathmandu, seven hours by bus from Ngadi. This trip would be taken twice, which meant the wedding had to begin ungodly early, and end obscenely late. After 12 days in a row of climbing 10-15 uphill kilometers per day, topped-off with a 10 hour travel day, Rupesh and i would have to hold each other up at the altar. No worries. i had faith that part would take care of itself. We just had to get there.
Myself, i like to up an ante. A chance to test my fire, fitness, endurance, and timing only increases the pot. Add a real chance to possibly ruin a wedding? i'm all in. Injecting a deadline into an otherwise frivolous endeavor always calls out the hero in me. Though i'm probably the only one who remembers it, one time when i hadn't been home for four months i decided to surprise my family by showing up unannounced at my brother's college basketball game. i had less than 48 hours to make it from Minneapolis to Boston. i drove headlong into a blizzard that moved east with me the whole way. I pulled into the parking lot with six inches of ice frozen to the grill and slipped into the stands unnoticed behind my parents just seconds before tip-off. After my brother grabbed a rebound and a put-back i tapped my father from behind and said, "Hey. That kid's got a future."
Not recognizing me in the long hair and beard i'd grown he said, shining with pride, "That's my son."
"You don't say."
This one would be different. If i didn't make a b-ball game, no harm, no foul. If Rupesh didn't make his only brother's wedding, he could probably start packing he and his wife out of the Hotel Hilton. We covered every angle. Took every precaution. i made him pack in front of me to make sure he had everything. He had pretty far from everything. He had two pairs of shoes, both borrowed. The first was a pair of running sneakers at least 25 years old and four sizes too big. The second were a pair of boots. The designed function of which was never clear to me. They weren't hikers. They weren't construction boots either. You wouldn't wear them out on the town. The label said "Caterpillar," but the other label, "Made in Nepal" implied they probably weren't. Most of the lace-holes were torn out, so the strings that barely held them together were erratic, making the shoes looked pissed at each other. They were solidly—this is not a joke—ten sizes too big for his feet.
"They're my dad's," he said with pride. Hari is a man of taller than average stature for a Nepali. 5'7" maybe. So you might say Rupesh inherited his mother's genes for length. But his mother, at 5'3" also towers over him. If my life were the wager i wouldn't put Rupesh one centimeter over 4'11". Where once-fitting toes had creased the front of the boots, Rupesh' tiny feet ended.
"I bring them in case of snow," he added with the confidence of a man who'd been there, done that. He would not get stuck again, his look assured me. But how he would maneuver his feet at all in those ridiculous clown shoes his face did not let on.
He had three plaid, button-down, flannel shirts, too thick for the lowlands, too thin for the highlands; one pair jeans, impractical and heavy; two pair socks, also borrowed (from where, no one knows; in Ngadi everyone's first and last pair of shoes are flip-flops); one jacket that scored fashion points for the two tractor-trailer-mud-flap chicks on the chest but was far too thin to be of any use at high altitude. His sunglasses, "goggles" he called them, were so big you could practically by-pass his ears entirely and just hook the two stems together behind his head.
i ran my hand over my head. "Dios mio, bro."
So it was that with Hari's apple, which i stuffed into the top of my pack, (Rupesh' tiny bag being so stuffed with uselessness that we had to fly the ginormous boots off the back) we left the Hotel Hilton on May 1st. Mayday. Ancient holiday of rejuvenation and sacred harbinger of summer weather on its way. We would need it. It rained each of the three nights i spent in Ngadi. Hard. An early monsoon would slow us down. No hold-up of any kind could be tolerated. This was of course ridiculous considering we would climb over 4,000 meters to an altitude just under 18,000 feet at Thorung Pass, a place where snow can arrive not by the inch but by the foot on any day of the year. Snow renders the trail impossible to follow, which renders the pass impassible.
As if the altitude alone wouldn't be challenging enough. Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) and High Altitude Pulmonary and Cerebral Edemas (HAPE) and (HACE) respectively, can end anyone's day and had in fact ended peoples' lives. The problem is simple: there's no air up there. When the brain doesn't get enough oxygen it begins to swell. This causes a headache that can cut stone. Water, rest, and a return to lower altitude usually relieves the pressure. Those that press on don't typically find their way down but by air evac. And only few of them get to argue the bill. Just two weeks before, two guys had died before the pass. They hustled too hard, ignored the signs of sickness and ended up in comas they never woke up from. So as a final precaution i made sure we had enough Diamox for the both of us so when we got above 3,000 meters we'd have every advantage modern medicine can afford. How Diamox actually works is Greek hoodoo to this armchair doctor, but i gathered from others that it enables the blood to carry more oxygen which keeps the brain from busting out of its box. Which is a good thing. It's not recommended for long-term use, but we'd only need it for five or six days. The only side effect, the only noticeable one, was intense tingling in the hands during the day, and an even worse case of pins and needles in the feet at night. Rupesh complained after a couple days that it was keeping him up at night.
Small price to pay, big man. We had no choice. If one of us got a headache we would have to stop. If it persisted we'd have to turn around. No trek is worth your life. But making the wedding would then be impossible. We'd reach 4,000 meters, the danger zone, only four days before the wedding. If we had to turn around the trip back down from there would take at least six. No airplane. No bus. No bouquet toss. No cake cut. No forgiveness. If we didn't make the wedding, we might as well stay in the woods.
Capitalism won. It always does. The "invisible hand" of the free market system has massaged its way up the spine of the most rigid egalitarian endeavors. The Soviet Union succumbed to poor buying power more than the fall of the Wall. China, which buys America's debt by the billion and sells its cheap crap to the entire world can hardly call itself a Communist state. Nepal's story isn't much different. The Maoist revolution of 2006 that dethroned the king has so far failed to deliver on its promise of socialist reform. The people are poor as ever. The government is corrupt as ever, grabbing for every dime the people provide. In the end, it would seem, the dollar still rules the day.
Rupesh and i didn't fight it. He tried to explain it all before we left, the morning after i delivered my "don't walk in front of me, don't walk behind me, walk next to me" manifesto. It took me till our first night's stay at a lodge to figure it out for myself. Guides and porters are given food and lodging for free because they bring the lodge-owners tourist dollars. So they're given incentives to return to the same lodge on their next circuit. i had it dead wrong. From all i'd read i thought that guides and porters were treated like second-class citizens. They were provided the dregs of lodge hospitality begrudgingly—smoke-filled rooms, no sheets, cold leftovers—and ate in the kitchens because they weren't allowed in the dining areas. Come to find out, actually, they eat in the kitchens because that's where the fire is. It's warmest in there. They're surrounded by people who speak their language, often old friends they haven't seen in awhile. And that's where the second helpings of dal bhat come first, warm and fresh. (Dal bhat is the Nepalese national dish. It's rice, lentils, curried potatoes and pickled greens. If you order it, extra helpings are not only free, they're forced on you).
Granted, the guides and porters sleep in dormitory-style rooms. But the beds in there are the same as in the singles and doubles, there's just more of them. And more often than not, these rooms turn into makeshift card rooms by six in the evening. It takes only one guide, one porter, and a lodge-owner as a third to get a game going. Soon the roksi (local wine made from millet) starts flowing and the porters get their chance to win back some of the money the guides hold out on them. They aren't just making due; they've created a thriving guide/porter sub-culture. A lodge Underground.
Many an unsuspecting tourist is "guided" to shabby accommodation by their paid familiar in the name of a game or a bottle. Owing, i believe, to Rupesh' good nature i was never steered wrong. To him one place was almost always as good as the next. But it became clearly apparent by the first night that in spite of my left-wing lean we'd both do better to just follow the status quo. With him getting his room and board for free it would cost me less to pay him a daily wage than it would to pay his way as a friend. And getting paid meant he had something in his pocket to bring home to his family. Or to bet on card games. i never asked. Though my idealism took a hit, everyone was happier.
The worst insult, in my mind, is the "Nepali Price." When Rupesh needed to buy something he never paid more than a third what i'd be charged for the same good. Call it an oversimplification—it is—but in America both rich and poor are jacked the same outrageous price for the same cup of coffee. Color, creed, language, or traveling status play no hand in it. But in Nepal, Maoist equality only applies to those with brown skin. Having grown up in America where the hustle was, if not invented, at least honed to a fine art form, i flipped that scheme on its head straightaway: when i needed something i sent Rupesh.
It became an odd mix-up where you couldn't tell who was screwing who. i had limited funds. And those funds, tightly as they were budgeted, had been recently halved by an unexpected hire. This was offset by the fact that the wedding's close date would also halve the trek. Still, these funds could not just be replenished a-la urban convenience. We were in the Himilayas. Despite the dollar's dominance in the world, there remain walls in far reaches its arms do not stretch long enough to hand money through. The nearest ATM was by the airstrip in Jomsom. If we were going to make it i had to manage my money like a Nepali without the advantage of being one. Did it insult my sense of fairness or justice when i, a citizen of the richest country in the world, haggled my room rate with a citizen of one of the poorest from 150 rupees down to 50? ($2 down to 75 cents) Not a bit. i had no room for guilt, but just about everywhere i went, they had one for 50.
---
Though i was reluctant about our new arrangement both because it based our relationship on money and because i'd inadvertently become, in my mind at least, "one of those" who'd hired a guide, there was no Love lost between me and Rupesh. Though on paper we may have been dollars and cents, in practice we were peas and carrots. True comrades. A couple of old Bolsheviks.
No matter where we were, if Rupesh was out of sight, i needed only to shout into the air, "Rupesh!"
"Yes brother!" Would come the immediate response. Like a "Yes, Sargent" without the division of rank.
We were brothers. We looked after each other. i made sure he was drinking enough water, taking his Diamox on schedule, and had a steady supply of TP to pack the toes of his boots with. He made sure my tea was boiled long enough, i took no unnecessary uphill steps, and i was photographed well.
When we had a thought we'd discuss it. When we didn't, we didn't force it. We'd let the scenery wash over us like a couple of stones in a river. i, who prefer to walk alone for the peace of mind, was reminded how nice it is to have somebody to say things like, "hey, check out that eagle" or, "see that waterfall?" i'm not sure if McCandless was right that "happiness is only real when shared." But having a buddy sure helps you smile.
Sometimes Rupesh'd just hang back a bit, let me lead, and he'd sing a song. Sometimes in Nepali. Sometimes in English. Sometimes he'd sing it in one language and then the other trying to entertain and teach at the same time. There was one Nepali song in particular he kept coming back to. It went something like:
See the beautiful winter season very cold,
see her cheek so red and wrinkling...
That's about as far as he'd ever get with it. But he liked it enough to repeat it daily. He said he Loved Pearl Jam, but he only knew one song, their cover of "Last Kiss". We exhausted the hell out of the one verse we could both remember. He'd always preface his singing with: "I'll sing it now, okay?" Like it was up to me. Like he didn't want to risk offending. But the kid had a great voice. Range bass to falsetto that he'd pull off without a hint of satire or self-deprecation. And when he sang he would look directly at me, glancing down only occasionally not out of embarrassment or discomfort, but to check the path ahead for rocks we might trip over. Rupesh meant everything that left his lips. He knew nothing of sarcasm, nothing of the playful jab. It's fair to say i've never met a purer or less corrupted soul.
One night at the lodge in Chame, sitting by the fire waiting for our dinner in the darkened dining room, Rupesh looked really sad. He stared down into the fire and without looking up he said: "You know, our time here is really short." Whether he meant together, or on the trek, or on this earth was unclear. i didn't prod. i just accepted the universal truth of it and looked at him in a way that said, "You're my boy, Blue. i'm not gonna forget you."
One afternoon he asked me if he could sing the new Nepali national anthem.
"The new one?"
"Since the Maoists took over we have a new one. It's really beautiful. i'll sing it now, okay?"
i nodded. He sang some, then translated. It was all grandiose, people-power themes. We are all Nepal. We are marching on. Things like that. i lost most of it because i started hearing America's anthem over it. Rupesh must've picked up on my distraction because he trailed off and asked me about it. i told him the story of Francis Scott Key and the Battle for McHenry. By the time he asked me to sing it i was so choked up i could only shake my head and look away.
Goddamned flags and fences. Only ever dividing. i despise them all. But for some reason i just can't shake the Love i have for my country.
"Anyway. Our new song is better than the old one," Rupesh said finally. "That one was just about the king and his hat."
---
That night at the lodge i sat next to Rupesh so i wouldn't have to keep craning my neck for a look at the first TV i'd seen in a week. Noticing that i'd ordered poorly, a dish that could only fill half a belly, and knowing that money was too tight to order twice, Rupesh snuck me bite after bite of his bottomless dal bhat, spoon-feeding me himself so the lodge-owner wouldn't catch me eating off his plate. The lodge-owner's daughter was flipping through channels to cartoons when i caught an unmistakable headline in bold letters on the news channel: "Osama Bin Laden Dead."
i asked her to flip back and watched for maybe ten minutes while the Indian news pundits speculated about the story's validity, its relevance, its repercussions. They cut to clips of the celebration in Times Square. The little girl flipped back to cartoons.
"He was a very bad man, no?" Asked Rupesh.
"So they say." i told him. It was one of those rare moments when so many emotions come at once that the feeling you're left with is one of numb confusion. i excused myself and lied, saying i was tired. i thanked him for the food and split. "Good lookin-out, bro," i said. He smiled nervously, thrown off by the slang. i'd need to explain in the morning. i went up to my room and wrote this:
As an American i feel responsible to say something brief about the death of Osama bin Laden. It brings me no joy to hear of any human being's death. In the words of John Donne: "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in Mankind." i think the bastard had a point to make but misjudged by using violence to be heard. And in this lies the greatest tragedy: because so many suffered no one cared to know his reason; because so many suffered no one cared to know why we went to war; because so many suffered we suffer still.
It saddens me to see they were dancing and drinking in New York. As it saddened me the day they celebrated in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Palestine while the Twin Towers burned. Praising an assassination displays the ugliest impulses of society. Exhibiting relief publicly in this way only shows how successful is the aim of terror.
Though few realize, bin Laden failed in his stated goals. American military bases remain in Saudi Arabia. Israel occupies more of Palestine today than it did in 2001. Modernity moves across the globe with more religious zeal than fundamentalism will ever match. Ultimately, he was successful only in this: bin Laden scared the shit out of America.
Others have taken note. When the next attack comes will we then try to understand what motivates others to hate us so deeply?
i doubt it.
It's possible i may have overstated the danger we faced on the trail. The Annapurna Circuit is more the trepid tourist's tea-house trek than it is any kind of expeditionary endeavor. Rupesh and i never walked more than two hours without reaching some outpost of humanity. And however basic the amenities, each and every one was equipped enough to offer us yak-wool scarves and singing bowls.
Point of fact, it was the "same, same, but different" uniformity of the whole thing that eventually wore on me and drove me down out of the mountains. i began to feel like a mark. Even in the highest range in the world i couldn't shake being treated like a tourist. All of us were following roughly the same schedule along the same route described in the guidebooks. Same lodge, different name; same tourists, different village; same deep-fried-dough roll, different candy bar rolled into it. Same overhearing where people had traveled from and where they were headed to next—India, Thailand, Vietnam. Laos was the hot tip. "Like Thailand 30 years ago," i heard repeated so many times it had to have been written in the Lonely Planet. It began to feel like the Annapurna Circuit was a computer program running in a Western-tourist-trap mainframe.
Western tourists created this dynamic by arriving in droves over decades. Whatever was here that brought us in the first place had been covered over years ago by shops hocking cheap bracelets, cheap t-shirts, trinkets, and lattes. It begged the question: did we ask for this stuff so the locals provided it, or did they provide it and we accepted it? And more importantly: is this really as good as it gets? Doesn't anyone travel to places that don't have the western-stamp-of-approval kiosks of crap? Does it occur to anyone that the same photo slideshow playing to bored parents in London is also playing in Sydney, Beijing, and LA? i wanted to be a virus in the database. The deus ex-machina of the Banana Pancake Trail. Instead i bought a crappy t-shirt and a bracelet, and took photos from angles i convinced myself were unique.
But there was no real danger. There was the possibility of rock-slides in different areas.
You could get kicked off a cliff-side by getting too close to a mule train.
And i heard that up to five years ago Maoist guerrillas roamed the trail looking for tribute from western wayfarers. With nearly 100,000 people making the trek every year, you could hardly blame them for wanting in on the action. (Kathmandu got its money from the permit process, the Maoists got theirs from running toll-roads.)
But you'd have to be way out of shape or have your head firmly planted between your own ass-cheeks to not make it out of these woods. That being said, hardly a day went by that two or three defeated-looking white folks didn't pass us going the other way. A couple quick words with the porters lugging their packs and Rupesh would relate the story, always the same: "Sick. Bad headache. Going down." i'd be lying if i said these encounters didn't make us a bit anxious about what we'd gotten ourselves into, which was likely responsible for the insomnia i experienced nightly. But in the end i was more concerned with bedbugs and blisters than falling boulders or the effects of elevation. Actually, it became a running joke in the lodges at night. If somebody farted they blamed it on altitude. Somebody had too many beers and struggled to tuck their chair back in, their buddies would grab him, shout: "He's got the HAPE!! Get him down now!" And stumble, laughing, off to bed.
i grew tired of these scenes quickly and sought out lodges where Rupesh and i were the only guests. He never minded. He got his food and bed for free wherever. i preferred to watch the sun go down through the window than i did share the day's highlights with anybody or skim the next day's prescribed agenda in the guidebook. i didn't need clues for what to look for. If we came across a waterfall i'd look at it. And if i missed the langur monkeys flipping through the trees because i missed the note on them then to hell with langur monkeys. We were walking through paradise and what was meant to draw my attention would.
---
There was a distinctly Buddhist tone to it all. Nepal is the land of Buddha's birth after all, and his influence is everywhere. Temples and monasteries dot the hillsides.
Rows of spinning prayer wheels line the archways at the entrance to each village.
Piles of carved and painted rocks bear prayer mantras. The grass around them bears the hardened tread-marks where generations of villagers have passed reverently clockwise around them.
Dis-attachment was the rule of our wandering. Villages would come and go. People came and went. You never doubled back. You kept your eyes on the step in front of you. Every so often a break for water would allow a moment's view of the surrounding peaks or a mountainside falls, the sound of the river roaring, or a stream trickling below. You didn't try to hold them. Another vista was around the mountain. Another glacier, another icefall. Another eagle more majestic than the one you'd just seen. And mountains. Mountains that climbed halfway up the sky. Mountains you mistake for clouds till you realize how much lower the clouds are than the peaks! The land melted from jungle into pine forest, high alpine into tundra scrub. It's no wonder so many trek the Annapurna region. The entire world is in it.
i liked to walk in silence and to hear the woods around me. Rupesh' humming meshed so well with the surroundings that to me he was just another bird with a particularly unique song. i can't understand those that plug their ears with headphones, put their heads down and truck it down the line. We'd run into them sometimes in the lodges or in the village. "How long'd it take you to make Manang?" they'd demand. To each their own, i guess. Some folks are more concerned with trophy stacking than the scent of a rose. They say it takes all kinds. So consider me a tortoise with acute olfactory urges.
Around 2500 meters the air and the trees began to feel like a tailored suit. This is the terrain, the climate that rhymes best with my soul. You know it's right when you don't have to think about it. You lift your head up all of a sudden and you're just there. Tall canyon walls rising up both sides of a deep valley. Wind waving the fields of wheat around. A horse out to pasture in a rocky field. A creek speaking in an indoor voice. Apple blooms in the high orchards attracting butterflies so big they nearly weigh down the bows they come to rest upon.
i suppose by now that it's natural in a scene like that—it's happened so many times before—to start thinking about how to make it work. How can i live the life i want? How can i maintain my own peace, surrounded by a scene like this, do something constructive, and please the people i Love?
There's no way. Something's got to give. It won't be something meaningless either—an apartment i felt particularly comfortable in, or a neighbor i'd formed a good relationship with. It would be worse, something shattering, a deal-breaker. My family, separated from me by thousands of miles; a job i could see myself taking on as a career that won't be available where i'm going; the Love of a lifetime who won't follow me. i'm aware it's more complicated, but i've always broken the world up into two groups of people: those who Love what they do and will go anywhere to do it; and those who Love where they live and will do anything to stay there. In lieu of an all-encompassing purpose which has yet to find me, and a deep affinity with the place that i never had to question, it's safe to say i'm in the second camp, and my home is in the Pacific Northwest. The redwoods of Northern California. The ponderosa groves of Oregon. The fir rain forests of Washington.
Standing in that valley, surrounded by a landscape that reminded me so much of the land i Love, i forgot for a moment all the complications that came with Loving it. My family, my friends, my future. i let my mind spin itself a pretty dream:
i could get a loan. Get a piece of land. Put a couple yurts on it. Invite folks to stay. i could make it work. Charge a minimal amount. Never be a rich man, just enough to live off the land. i could make it work for me instead of working for it. i could make it happen. The deep woods. A view of the sea. Split wood. Barbecue. Write haiku. Out there, surrounded by the world i choose, the world that chooses me, i could make it work. i could be happy...i could be Happy...i could be Free.
---
"Hatterie Putali!" (Oh my God, a butterfly!) i gasped, huffing it into the cow pasture. Nikki was leaning on her newly-acquired walking stick talking with the Saras. There were two of them. They were young, athletic, quick-witted, and Canadian (though i didn't hold it against them). One was small and brown-haired. The other was long and blonde. Rupesh and i had run across them at a tea-stop and talked hockey trash. We liked each other from jump. The three of them were smiling and wore the air of contentment. As far as i was concerned the air was damn thin. We were only two days from the pass and the stairs between the lower and upper villages of Pisang were an ass-kicker to my unacclimatized lungs. Nikki said they were headed up to the gumpa (temple) on top.
"Lead the way," i said on empty. A hundred yards more and i lost my wind again. "You guys go ahead. i'm gonna chill a minute." The girls followed Rupesh out of view and i collapsed on a stone stoop. The valley stared back as i caught my breath. It was the first time in my life i'd had to throw in the towel to my own wind and i was pissed. Take it however you will, but weakness is not a feeling i'm accustomed to. My muscles were in spasm from too much work with too little oxygen. My mind was casting stones at my pride. Getting off the trail again, back into self-doubt and pity. Back on the girl.
Nikki brought an unwelcome distraction to the flow i'd been in. We'd met two days before at lunchtime when she'd invited me to join her. She was independent. 25. Also Canadian. With a devil-may-care, I-do-what-I-want kind of attitude that reminded me of Cait. i told her so. We ate together during stops for the next couple days and became quick friends. No lines were crossed. Not even approached. We just hit it off. But she provoked a stream of thought that pulled my mind from the forest and turned it back on itself.
Hanging out with a girl broke the streak of haughty independence i'd been riding. it was a space of pure confidence. What i couldn't provide for myself i didn't need. i was the wood-cutter. The hermit. The cabin-dweller. Rupesh had been stealing away to the kitchens for his meals and i'd been content without him. When Nikki filled in and we started eating together it made the few times we didn't feel like labor. Then at night, in fits of relentless insomnia, i realized how accustomed i'd become to having someone in bed next to me. i didn't like it. It kicked off a bout of fierce desire to have Cait with me that i'd been keeping pretty well at bay. And like i knew i would feel at this time even before Cait and i left for Egypt, like i knew i would feel after we parted in Israel, i started thinking about canning the rest of the trip and booking a ticket home.
Where was all the independence? All the fire i'd felt? The "damn the torpedoes"? The with-or-without her? The big man and his big plans? i started to feel like a fraud. Self-realization of a dependence never comes lightly. Take alcoholism, it can take years just to accept you have a problem, never mind dealing with it. But up in the clear, thin air where i was, everything felt sped-up. Thoughts came like an avalanche. Is Love a dependence i can't live without? If so, does fear of losing Love influence the decisions i make about my own life? Christ. Am i living my life completely in fear? The questions echoed off the walls of my mind, like i screamed across the valley and the sound was bouncing back.
---
The next night in Manang, Kit was a mess. Relationship trouble had her out of her self and she couldn't reign it in. She and her boyfriend of 11 years, and traveling partner for the past two, had split ways in Pokhara. He'd come to Annapurna on a mountain bike to do the circuit, and unable to cut it off cleanly, she'd come following. After the free altitude talk in the village that she, Nikki, and the two Saras had come away from convinced they were going to start hemorrhaging, Kit was stuck on the idea that her man would be traveling too fast on his bike to acclimatize correctly. She was scared the man she'd tried to leave was going to accidentally kill himself, and couldn't stop crying about it. She was talking about heading down.
To that point Kit had been an inspiration. Rupesh and i had passed her in a half dozen villages, only to be passed by her later in the day. She was trekking it alone. Really alone. No guide, no porter. Not even a map. She was 38, cut from steel, dirty blonde with a mouth to match. She was from London and had a Cockney accent that bit when she spoke. She was a hero. The cover of an adventure woman's magazine. Now, in the dining hall of the Yak Lodge, she was a pile of wrinkled tissues soaking up a busted dam.
Christ, i thought. Love's ripping the balls off of everybody.
"We got a rest day tomorrow," i told her. "Think it over. You came this far. It'd be a damn shame to turn around now."
My usual insomnia was bad that night. About 4:30 i gave up, got up, and walked out. Three times sleepless agitation had provided me a pre-dawn village all to myself. That morning in Manang i was the worst shape yet. i walked to the edge of the village and sat above the river with the valley spread out before me to the south. The rising sun was hidden behind the mountains to the east, its rays sneaking to touch just the tips of the highest peaks to the west. i needed to quiet my mind. Get back to basics. But trying to "clear the mind" as they say, is virtually impossible. A truly quiet mind is the realm of the Bodhisattva, not the Bostonian.
i tried another tactic. On the crappy t-shirt i'd bought in Kathmandu there was printed a mantra i'd seen up and down the trail. Sometimes it was painted on trees, sometimes carved in stone. "Om Mani Padme Hum" (behold the jewel in the lotus).
The lotus is an important symbol in both Buddhist and Hindu cultures because of the way it grows. The lotus seed, laying beneath the muck at the bottom of the pond, in a literal cocoon of darkness somehow knows to send its shoot up toward the sun. No matter how deep the pond, the lotus won't stop till it reaches the top. Once breaking the surface of the murky water it unfurls a flower so perfectly symmetrical and expressive it practically produces its own light. Thus, the lotus is the physical manifestation of the spiritual process of "en-light-enment". Being one who believes in the power of prayer, or collective thought, (whatever you want to call it) i figured if that mantra had been repeated as many times i i'd heard it, and written as many times as i'd seen it, there had to be something to it.
i started to say it, over and over in my mind. Repeating the words, letting the sounds take the shapes they wanted to. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." Then i tried to articulate them. "Ohhm Maaahni Paadme Huuum...Ohhmm Maaahni Paaadme Huuum..." The sounds soothed the idle chatter in my head. "Om" became the bass, the "O" giving way to the "M" like a tree limb bending to accommodate a breeze. "Om Mani Padme Hum..." The repeated double-syllable sounds of "Mani" and "Padme" followed like rhythmic raindrops hitting a puddle. "Om Mani Padme Hum..." "Hum" pronounced with a long "U" like "zoom", the "M" reminiscent of the sound of "Om" bringing the mantra back around to the beginning in a continuous, resounding swirl of sound. i chanted it again and again. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." Repeated it until it was no longer my voice, but the voices of a thousand monks chanting at once, each in a different tone, blending the sounds into one universal harmony. "Om Mani Padme Hum..." My eyes closed. "Om Mani Padme Hum..." My head began to sway to the rhythm. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." My breath and my heartbeat keeping time. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." Soon there was nothing else. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." And everything, now nothing. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." This moment, now forever. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum..." So inward, so outward, all in one. "Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme—"
Suddenly the sun, peering out over the top of the mountains hit my face with a burst of heat and light that sent a charge down my spine, back up and out the top of my head. i opened my eyes to find the valley flooded in sunlight. Crows flew all around me. i smiled. There was a tall stupa on the mountainside to the south. Its white face reflecting the sunshine in the middle of the dark pine grove like a bright star in the night sky. Om Mani Padme Hum. Behold the jewel in the lotus.
i headed toward it. i crossed the river and headed uphill. i was alone. Not another soul passed up or down. i chanted and walked like in a dream, pacing the steps to the breath. Time went away. i climbed 2500 feet in a moment, circled the stupa three times, climbed a staircase suffused with prayer flags.
There was a small gumpa. An old woman who did not speak served me tea. The caretaker showed me in. i removed my boots and knelt before a statue of Milarepa, a Buddhist saint who it is said, could transport himself through the air by his mind, and once convinced a hunter who'd wandered into his cave to swear off killing, and leave his bow behind. i thanked the caretaker and placed a donation in the box. He tied a golden thread around my neck.
"For good luck."
i turned the prayer wheel three times on my way out, walked clockwise around the stupa and resolved with clearest intent to begin to heal. To heal myself so i could heal others. To abolish my ego. To Love with full heart. To Love until there was nothing left of me. To begin immediately. To help however i could, wherever i was shown.
---
At dinner Nikki and i convinced Kit to continue on. Backed by the Saras we all promised to cross the pass together. None would be left behind. Tomorrow would work itself out when it came. If it came at all.
The next morning Kit and the three Canucks set out while Rupesh and i stayed behind to look after a porter who'd gotten sick from altitude. We took him to the doctor who ordered him down off the mountain immediately. We saw him off, wished him well and headed the other way. On the way out of town we stopped at the top of the hill above Manang and turned around for a look. A rainbow arched high across the sky over the valley.
Without even a hint of rain.
Maybe one of us was saved. Maybe not.
In the afternoon we sat exhausted in the warm, wood lodge in Thorung Phedi, the last tea house before the Pass. Tucked inside high granite walls, with no signs of humanity beyond the snow-covered trails that lumbered distantly over unnamed passes to God-knows-where, the teahouse felt like it was at the very center of the world, or isolated out beyond the edge of it. My cohort of Rupesh, Kit, the two Saras, Nicki, and Nicki's porter, Lama, were in various states of rest—sipping teas, eating sweet Snickers rolls, and generally huddling under blankets—while i sat on a wooden bench with a view of the window whittling a butterfly into Nicki's walking stick. In my left ear the lodge-owner was lazily strumming an acoustic guitar. In my right ear was a honeymooning Israeli couple, Nitzan and Marin, who'd recently learned the philosophy and sport of Tantric sex. They were anxiously expounding all the benefits of Tantric sex both as a cure-all for battered relationships and a damned fun thing to do. They were very happy with their new-found skills. They were happy all the time now. They encouraged me to go to India and learn. They were very convincing. When i was done whittling i thanked them and called it a night, leaving them to watch the sun set across each other's face. i left Nicki's walking stick leaning in the corner with a crudely carved but well-intentioned butterfly on it. While Nicki slept in the far bed Kit and i stayed awake for hours in our sleeping bags trying to solve the world's problems or damn it to hell. We may have gotten close on both counts, but inevitably, with the effort of the day's hike hanging heavily on our eyelids, we mustered just enough energy to proclaim our comradeship for all-time, then fell asleep.
A few short hours later, with the stars still high above us, we stumbled out into the cold in every layer we had to start our voyage to the pass before the winds came. We took some tea, settled our bills, and plodded step by step across gravelly switchbacks, up the mountainside until the lodge was well out of sight. By the time the sun was full up over the range to the east my honeymooning friends were on the ropes. Something to do with Nitzan insisting—in spite of the experienced porter's suggestion—that he knew the best way to cross a glacier. The porter had apparently taken a scary slip that had literally set Marin off. On her own. In short time she put enough distance between her and Nitzan that it was doubtful Tantra, a practice based in focused touch and breath, could be used to bring her back.
Breathing was the hardest thing to do. 17,000 feet above sea level the air is thin. It felt like a troll was trapped in my chest with his back against my sternum, his feet pressed into my lungs. Everything felt heavy. Everything looked heavy. The two Saras were dragging heavily. It was little Sara's birthday and the small green balloon we hung from her pack even looked heavy. i considered cutting it off to relieve her of the burden of it. i envisioned it hitting the ground with a thud. i was putting one foot in front of the other just trying to keep it together. Like the tattered Tantric couple, my own group had come unglued over a porter issue. During an impromptu trail-side tampon change Lama had apparently spied too long at little Sara incurring the girls' wrath. Reasonably. Lama then claimed they were "bad luck," and set off ahead with all of Nicki's stuff on his back, dragging Rupesh along for sympathy.
i handled damage-control. To chase Lama was out of the question. i didn't even have enough wind to tell him to stop. i didn't worry though. With all the unnecessary crap Nicki had packed in her bag Lama wouldn't get far. i gave hardy looks of reassurance to the girls and set my sites on marriage-mending. Marin would march out ahead full of piss and steam, then quickly lose her wind. i'd catch up and pass, each time dropping a little nugget of advice in her ear. At first she'd had it with Nitzan. Then she loved him. Then she cried. Then she smiled like a moment of clairvoyance had come over her (or a lack of air) and she said she knew what needed to be done; some fundamental things needed to change and change for good. She was done living for others. From now on it was Marin for Marin, first and last. And if Nitzan, or anyone else couldn't handle that, she'd leave them on the mountain. "Thank you, Annapurna!" She cried to the sky, shaking her fists.
They crossed the pass together, Nitzan and Marin. i caught up to Rupesh just before the top and held him up to give Nicki and the Saras time to catch us. Kit, who'd had the toughest time of all, hauling baggage mostly of the emotional sort, walked arm-in-arm with me up to the signpost: "Thorung La - 5416 meters. Congratulations!" Happy birthday. Happy honeymoon.
It was a helluva bright moment to share. If just for a moment. i was filled with a feeling of pure freedom, higher than air itself in a perfectly isolated ring of glacier-covered peaks on the roof of the insane world. i was standing in a place that made no sense. Unless you were going to or bringing goods to a destination that could only be reached by this pass, why would anyone ever come this way?! It was a funny thought: my being here makes absolutely no sense! i began to chuckle to myself. Then i laughed. Then i howled. What boss would hire a person who does this? What office could wrap its corporate mind around this memo? Whimsical freedom! Pointless, delirious freedom! The feeling was enlarged by the people i'd gathered around me. What a rag-tag, random and beautiful alliance we were! We'd found each other by chance, and for whatever reason, however ridiculous, we'd decided to stick by each other. Like all pilgrims, we'd come seeking something. Adventure. Escape. Independence. Peace of mind. Salvation—that was it, wasn't it? Something to save us from our ordinary lives, from our patterns, habits, and pitfalls. Something to save us from the stunted feeling of suspended animation—the constantly making plans, the setting goals, the process of producing, the never going anywhere, the mediocre and mundane. To give ourselves a chance to break out! To do something that at least seems bigger than the boxes we've built around ourselves. Up there, at that moment, it was easy to feel that we had. "Thank you, Annapurna!" She cried. Then she made the pass. And the moment passed with her.
Maybe saved. Maybe not.
---
The ATM in Jomsom was broke; likely still is. Update your guidebook. Highlight it. If you're like me then despite all your research you still under-budgeted for the trek. If you were hoping to pull money from a wall this high in the Himalayas, don't count on it. But don't despair. There's a teahouse that offers advances on a credit card if you've got one. There's a 10% surcharge, which hurts a lot worse than the ATM fee would. So much that it begs the question: does the teahouse owner pay the banker to keep the ATM out of order? There's no evidence besides opportunity that says it's so. In fact a sheisty scheme like that goes against everything i know about the people of Nepal; in my experience the Nepalese are pretty straight shooters. Coming from the Egypt where every shop owner's quoted price was four times the actual worth maybe i expected the worst and the Nepalese are only moderately honest. But i don't think so; the Nepalese have something Egyptians don't, the law of karma. Nepal is the birthplace of the Buddha after all, and Jomsom is in Mustang District. Whereas the Chinese have mostly engrossed the culture of Tibet, Mustang remains the way it was in medieval times, the final frontier of ancient Buddhist culture in the world. North of Kagbeni, the northernmost village on the Annapurna Circuit, (and the furthest north tourists can travel without a $600 permit) and there's nothing but huts, mountains and monasteries. No roads even. It's a tourist terminus.
Smack dab between India and Tibet, Nepal is the meeting place of Buddhism and Hinduism. Maybe it's because the two religions share some beliefs, karma among them, that the old ways have retained such strength here. Like how to treat a guest for example. Here they have a saying: "Atithi debo bhawa" (the service of the guest is the service of God). It's repeated time and again and it's not lip service, it comes through in small ways: the way they serve food, smile and bow, look you in the eye and hand things to you with both hands. In the way Rupesh would never let an hour pass without putting his hand on my shoulder: "You feeling good?"
"Tiksa cha, brother." (Feeling good). What was there to feel bad about? Nepal is a poor man's paradise. i never saw anyone raise a voice nor a hand. According to Rupesh, there's not even a word for "so-so", so the only way to answer "how are you?" is "tiksa" (good). Rainbows pop out of the sky when you need a good omen, the view is unparalleled anywhere in the world, and we were hiking high on life because we'd crossed the pass. We had a day and a half to catch a flight out of Jomsom to reach Rupesh' brother's wedding. It would be a beautiful, victorious flight overlooking snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas on our way to the celebration of a lifetime.
But the ATM was broke. There was the cash advance, but i thought i remembered reading something in the 20-page credit card rules about a 25% "convenience fee." There had to be some other way. There wasn't. Even the girls, each of the four of them, were broke, down to their last few hundred rupees. i crossed the dusty street to the teahouse prepared to take the hit when a wedding shut the entire village down. Every teahouse emptied out, every restaurant shuttered its windows. i pounded on the door. A young girl, maybe twelve, came to the door and opened it. i tried desperately to explain my situation to the girl in slow, broken English so she could understand. All she offered was a shrug, an apologetic gesture,and pointed out the window at the people gathering for the wedding. It was absolutely no use. No one was leaving Jomsom. A woman, large and round burst through the door in an obvious hurry, passing through the front room and hustling back into the kitchen. The little girl perked up and smiled. The lodge owner! Hope! My lungs filled with air again as i waited for her to reappear. When she did the little girl jumped up and began speaking very quickly to the woman who looked completely disinterested. She shook her head, tossed her hand up, and motioned out the window at the gathering people in the street, then pushed open the door and joined them. It was the first time in Nepal i had been dismissed and the effect was shattering. Weddings are apparently quite a big deal in Nepal. If Rupesh didn't make it to his only brother's, i was sure he would be disowned.
i wandered out into the dirt street to wait for the proverbial door of opportunity to open elsewhere. Kit walked off into one of the ticket offices and came back smiling broadly. There was an evening bus, she said. It would take 12 hours to reach Beni, four to Pokhara, four more to Besi Sahar, 90 minutes to Bhulbhule and 45 minutes to hike to Rupesh' house in Ngadi. It would cost as much as i had in my pocket, nothing left for food or water, we'd cut it close, but with a little luck we'd make it. i pulled Kit in to hug her when a Dutchmen sitting on the curb with his buddy said there was a strike in Beni tomorrow. No buses to Pokhara. No one was leaving Jomsom.
i plopped down on the curbstone, head in my hands. It was only three days prior i'd been talking up the power of the strike with Kit as we hiked from Yak Karkha to Thorung Phedi. She's heavily involved in the Labor and Anti-globalization movements in London and we were trading our favorite police brutality memories when i had said that only a strike, a nationwide strike had the power to move a government to act in the interests of the people. The universe never misses a chance at irony.
i eyed the hundreds of motorbikes that came and went down the street with two and even three passengers on the backs. Couldn't we pack tiny Rupesh onto the back of one of these rigs for 900 rupees? Doubtful one of the mini-bikes could make a 100 km ride on the gallon of gas it could hold. Where would they fill up out here? Anyway the strike in Beni was over fuel shortages. Could we hire a mule to take him back over the pass the way we'd come? A fucking hang-glider?! If Rupesh didn't make his brother's wedding it would be my fault. i tried not to see it that way. Free will, i told myself. i didn't force him to come. He decided to go for the money, push it and cut it close. i did the best i could with the knowledge and resources i had. i was lying to myself of course. Our destinies had become entwined the second i accepted his help. After the bond that we'd built, the trial and triumph, it was hard to be beaten by money.
The solution was less epic than you'd expect. Nicki and the Saras pooled most of the money they had left and handed it to me. Together we had just enough to get Rupesh on a plane out the next morning, bus fare to his village, and maybe a bag of peanuts to tide him over. It wasn't sexy. No one ran into a burning building. It wouldn't make the news. It was a simple, karmic act, the kind that keeps Love conquering hate, and keeps the fight worth fighting. As for Kit, she paired her Nepali rupees with some Indian rupees she got on loan from the Dutchmen, and grabbed the seat next to Rupesh. Public transportation in Nepal was a crapshoot at best. He would he make it back in time if everything went off without a hitch; his chance was slim. Kit had flown her share and been to Pokhara. Rupesh had done neither. She'd give him the best shot. Rupesh was heart-broken that i couldn't go with him, but what could i do? Convincing the poor kid that there was only enough dough for one of us to make it out and that that person was going to be him was like the closing scene in Casablanca. (Just substitute Bogey and Ingrid Bergman for dipshit, broke-ass erik and his five-foot Nepali guide in boots he could fit over his head).
"But you said—"
"Look, we said a great many things across this trek and they all add up to one thing: you getting on that plane...The problems of a tourist-trekker and his trail guide don't amount to a hill of beans out here in the Himilayas..." and so on like that. For our final act the little bodhisattva, knowing all the cash i had was now in his pocket, spoon-fed me his free dal-bhat on the sly so i wouldn't go hungry.
The next morning Sara, Sara, Nicki and i saw Kit and Rupesh off at the airstrip, then returned to the lodge for breakfast. i had visions of shedding a single tear over an apple pancake as i watched Rupesh' plane climb into the sky. But the innkeeper, who'd nickel and dimed us despite our situation and had generally been a bitch since we'd arrived, was out of apples. Having settled up the night before—she'd insisted on that—we decided to split without breakfast. She stopped us at the door to our room. "Breakfast already cooking," she said, her arm across the doorway. "That's okay," said Nicki, "we're already leaving." And pushed past the bitch and was gone. Disgusted, the innkeeper turned and stormed away. i reached into my pack and pulled from it the apple Hari had given us when Rupesh and i set out. Battered and bruised but still edible, i left it on the pillow and closed the door behind me.
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We got the money. Surcharge be damned. Conspiracy be damned if there was one. (Money's like a river, it's meant to flow. When it sits in one place it stagnates, grows mosquitoes and such). We hiked a couple days a happy foursome, then split up so i could find an old cave a day's hike off the trail and they could get to the hot springs at Tatopani. After the cave, meeting back up with the main trail was a drag. They've built a road from the south all the way to Muktinath to accommodate the hordes of religious pilgrims who travel there. From what i hear, the whole circuit will soon be road. The trucks and buses constantly passing, bleating their maniacal horns and kicking up dust that seems to hang in the air, choking the throat and muddying the eyes. At Larjung i caught a 10-seat jeep with 22 people packed in and over it to Tatopani. i hooked up with the girls there. We spent a couple easy days together, soaking in the hot springs and eating preposterous sweets. Eventually though, despite the distance i had had from it, the world came back to me. The lack of thrill maybe, the descending action that follows the climax of any story. Seems i had a lot on my mind, a lot about the future i was uncertain about, thoughts i couldn't hold off any longer. And without Rupesh, let's face it, it just wasn't as fun.
i decided i was going to split on my way out of Tatopani. i woke earlier than the girls and got out ahead of them. We were back in the lowlands and it was damned hot. i was in a nice rhythm though, uphill all the way to Gorepani. Buckets of sweat poured off me and i had nothing but the sounds around me, my own breath and beating heart. i passed a jeep stuck in knee-high mud, its occupants scattered about the road and backseat looking miserable in the heat. i kept telling myself i would stop for water but something kept pushing me over the next rise, around the next bend. Happy not to stop maybe; content to be riding my own cadence. Finally, at a bend in the trail adjacent to a hilltop teahouse i found my spot in the shade of a Pipal tree. A Bodi tree some call it. i sipped the water, more warm than cool, and let my mind go. Looking out over the terraced rice paddies and the banana trees hanging over the edges of them, my mind played a song. Satchmo.
I see trees of green, red roses too...
i pulled out my notebook and wrote this:
why walk?
The villagers strewn across backseat and roadside
think me a fool
tromping by them in the muck.
But where the jeep is stuck,
i am not...
So that i am not where the jeep is stuck.
i said goodbye to the girls the next day after a dawn hike up to Poon Hill. It was the capstone vista of the trek and a helluva parting shot. By the Buddha-eyes stone in the Gorepani square, surrounded by the trinket and paperback shops i sang them a song they'd been asking to hear, then headed down the trail for Naya Pul.
There had to be 100,000 stone steps leading south off that mountain. i walked each one consciously. Breathing it in. Letting it come to me. Dedicating the steps as i went:
1,000 steps for Kit and our insomnia-tic meditations on Love and its cost, the world and its worth, the righteous fight and the end of days. i hope she finds her guy, and finds a way to make him appreciate her, or i hope she leaves the bastard. How DID you pay those Dutchmen, Kit? Go on with your anarchist, anti-Christ self! 1,000 steps for each Sara. Sweethearts. Hearts that big should be able to express themselves without trepidation, without hesitation. Though the world is often cruel toward what it doesn't understand, there's no better representatives for true Love than those two bad-ass independent chicks with their hearts of gold. 1,000 steps for Nicki, our Putali. Thanks for what you showed me. Fear's got no place in Love. You gotta be right with you before anyone else will be. 1,000 steps for Nitzan and Marin, the Tantric honeymooners. Don't give in so fast, kids. Love is meant to last. To err is human, to forgive divine—but to hit it for three hours without coming?—that just sounds cruel. Thanks anyway for the tip; meditation of some sort could do me some good. Maybe India? 10,000 steps for my boy Rupesh. Don't worry so much, bro. Money comes in many ways. The kind of rich you got is like the silver moon. Get some boots that fit and get out on some other trails. i want to do Mustang next time and i don't carry dead weight. You got sunshine that could light up the world. Guide on, bro. Guide on.
The rest of the steps i took for me. Om Mani Padme Hum...Om Mani Padme Hum... Just when you think you're all alone. i guess it's the irony that keeps it interesting—the coincidences (if i believed in coincidence), and the luck (if i believed in luck). Keep your karma clean. Stay on your own team. Try not to get attached. Live and Love wide open. These thoughts i let come freely. Washing over me. Each step another prayer. i read once a Buddhist saying that if the only prayer you ever say is "thank you" you've said enough. i walked a lot of steps. After 21 days i came down out of the mountains. i caught a bus to Pokhara, land of the giant Bodi tree. It was May 17th—Vaishakh Poornima—the day of Buddha's birth.
Right hand clenched to the roof rack, left foot wedged under luggage, a dent in my ass from the rocks and potholes of the past hour, i can finally relax as the bus pulls to a stop in Bhulbhule in the mid-afternoon. i climb down the ladder through a cloud of dust onto the dirt road. i help the three French girls get their packs down, grab a Snickers from the roadside hut and head into the checkpoint to explain why i don't have a trekking permit. There's no one posted outside, i could walk right by. i go for honesty and instantly regret it. The clerk isn't buying it. He wants me to leave my passport. i leave my passport with no man, i don't even take it out of my pocket to sleep. After much circular huff-and-puff we compromise on my bed roll as collateral and i, Sabine, Collette and Ines cross the river and trek the trail toward Ngadi.
An hour of conversation exhausts all of the French i learned in middle school. What i gather is that these girls have been working a farm in the north for the past three months and just earned enough time off to tackle the Annapurna. Awful late to be starting out but since i don't know the French word for "leech" and am not in the habit of discouraging the dreams of others i say, "Bon chance!" (good luck) and hand my camera to Collette. "When we get to that place there, start snapping." i point to the Hotel Hil-ton.
"Where's my boy?" i ask Shanti, Rupesh' wife.
"In Besi Sahar. He is working. He works with wood!" Her English is not as good as Rupesh', but i take it to mean my little bro has landed a construction job.
"I...I..." Rupesh' mother knows almost no English. She holds her finger up to tell me to wait and grabs a cell phone from inside. She points to it smiling eagerly. She calls Rupesh and tells him in Nepali to hustle home. Then in English: "Erik is here! Erik is here!"
The wait for Rupesh gives me a chance to meet Ganesh, Rupesh' older brother, the recent groom. i apologize for missing his big day and explain why it was impossible. i ask him about the wedding.
"It went on for three days," he says. "I kept falling asleep and people kept waking me up and making me drink and dance."
"And Rupesh?"
"He was so tired when he got home! He only slept for three hours as people arrived. He also was awake for three days. After, we slept for three days more!" We all sit down for lunch, the girls taking dhal bat for strength. i'm introduced to Ganesh's new wife and her parents. i guess in Nepal when you're freshly married the bride's parents come to stay in the groom's home for a week to help her adjust, to make sure she hasn't married a creep. They don't speak any English at all, but genuine smiles are universal. Warm feeling all around. "You know," says Ganesh, "I didn't think you would return. 'Many tourists come and go,' I told Rupesh. 'Do not get your hopes up.' But he was certain you would come."
When Rupesh returns i drop my spoon and run to him. My tiny friend hugs me like i'm back from the dead. An embrace of relief more than joy and i wonder if he doubted what he told his brother. His mother smiles and cries. "Where's my boy, he said...Where's my boy."
We wave goodbye to Collette, Ines and Sabine and watch them down the path as they disappear around the corn. The sun is setting and they won't get further than the next village. Hari offered them a room but they declined. Better. If they heard the rain that comes through here at night they'd likely turn around. Rupesh and i sit outside and watch the sun subside behind the mountains. He rolls a joint and catches me up. He confirms what i had suspected, he didn't know if i would show. It had only been two weeks since we split ways at Jomsom, but things had been rough on him. After recovering from the wedding he went out to look for work. Tourists were getting scarce with monsoon season coming and he needed to hustle to make money before it set in and there would be no work for three months. After a few days he'd gotten a job on a construction site lugging wood and pushing wheelbarrows of concrete. Not easy work, but lucky to have it. Lucky to be making a few dollars a day. i pull out my wallet and pay him the balance i owe him, and throw in an extra 40% to show him that it's pointless to doubt. His relief is palpable.
"I wish I could come to America. Then I could study. There is so much pressure here. My wife, my daughter...It's really hard." i wish i knew a senator, someone high up the chain. But i don't. If he goes through proper channels he's just a number, one of a billion hands knocking on the door. i'd vouch everything i have on this kid being a contributor and model citizen, the kind of immigrant the Dream is dreamed for. i'm trying to get out while everyone else in the world wants in. But is it for America, or for the money? And is there a difference? How long could my romanticism last having to live on rice in the lean months? How long would his working nine to five at a car wash?
A few days loafing around Ngadi and it's time to move on. i think i could spend my whole life between the river and the hammock. i could survive, hell, i could guide. Imagine the kind of money i could get as a white, English-speaking American guiding westerners up the scary mountain. That i'd be hired before Rupesh makes me sick. But everyone trusts what they know. Hard to fault them, i guess. But the world never expands that way, the walls of the box just get tighter. i couldn't take money that should go to Nepalis anyway. But then, i'm an American. i can afford to. Ganesh's new in-laws are going back to Kathmandu and Hari will go, too. He explains that i'm family now to both sides, either home is my home, i can stay as long as i like while i figure out a plan. But i have my plan. i'll go to India.
The whole family gathers in the morning to say goodbye. i hug Rupesh' mother. She says she's my Nepali mother. His sister kisses me and slips a necklace of flowers over my head. "We will miss you." Shanti gives me a heartfelt hug and hands me a necklace she made. "For your girlfriend," she says. Rupesh smiles regretfully. Our time here is really short. i'd carry him on my back if i could.
"Get out on those trails, man. i'll be back soon. i'll need a guide."
"Yes, brother."
We pose for a Pariyar family portrait:
