Golphu Bhanjyang to Chisopani to Kathmandu

December 2, 2010

With dead limbs and through still shut eyes, I registered my husband waking up, quietly gathering a book and the computer, and tip-toeing out the door. I kept sleeping.

A couple hours later, I sat up and took stock. I felt slightly fuzzy, but the rip-roaring headache was gone. I got dressed and went in search of Joshua.

I found him in the guest house restaurant. Sipping a cup of tea and taping business cards and tickets into his journal. He smiled and let me finish the tea. I asked him how long he'd been up and what time it was; it was eight, and he'd been up since six thirty. He's an early bird, and five weeks on trail have formed a habit I suspect he won't shake for some time.

We chat about the day and decide to spend it doing approximately nothing. Joshua wants to eat, and I want to work on my application for the University of Minnesota School of Social Work.

We set off for our favorite German bakery, and once we've ordered, Joshua kicks my butt in a couple hands of Rummy. When breakfast comes, Joshua cracks a crooked smile and confesses, 'this may or may not be my second breakfast today.'

Afterwards, Joshua writes a few e-mails while I work my way through the end of Holy Cow. This book is interesting and entertaining, and yet, it makes me glad that we truncated our second trip to India. Kathmandu is tame by comparison.

From the bakery, we stroll to the bookshop. Joshua trades in our books for Plainsong and Papillon, and we walk to another cafe. Somehow, Joshua is still hungry, so he orders another meal of stuffed tomatoes and naan, and I ordered a large pot of lemongrass tea. Back out on the street, my headache crept up on me again, and as I type, it gets worse and worse. Joshua begins his new book while I try to articulate why I want to be a Social Worker, what I think a Social Worker is, and why I think I would be good at it. I spend a few hours wading through my experiences in New Orleans, because ultimately, this is where my answers lie. In the end, I have something that works, but it's still 700 words short.

With my ripping headache running at full tilt, I close the computer and tell Joshua that I need a change of pace. He agrees, and we walk out the door to run some top-secret errands that you can't know anything about, including two last gifts and a couple little gifts for me. In a shawl shop, I sift through a hundred different shawls while a sweet, rotund Nepali man explains the difference in quality. With a lighter, he burns the fringe of one, snuffs out the melt between his forefinger and thumb, and then motions me to smell. It's rich and earthy, and it smells a bit like burnt dung or wood. This is the sign of a better Pashmina.

Real or not, I'm put off by the price, and I haven't really found something that captures my fancy anyway. Then he pulls out an orangey-red number of middling quality, and I'm ready to bargain. From 950, I drive him down to 700 rupees, and he smiles. He didn't fight that hard, but he tells me that he's sold these pashminas for over 3000 rupees before. 'But you are a teacher, I know,' he says, 'you're young and no make much money.'

It's cold in the street, so before we make our way to another cafe, I browse through some knit hats. Settling on a green one with no puffs or balls or frills, we bargain the man down from 450 to 250. It's still too much, but I'm cold and I don't feel like looking for more. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a little knit pin. It's a red rose for 25 rupees. I pin it on my hat, and I have an ensemble for 14 dollars. Not bad.

In Tashi Delek, we sit down in a dark corner and order chips chilly, vegetable pakoda, potato momos, tongba, and a big pot of hot lemon-honey-ginger tea. By now, my headache has evolved into a creature of mythical proportions. I tuck my cool fingers into the cups of my eyes and press hard. Even the candle light hurts.

Though I've told him it won't help, Joshua goes to the shop next store to buy me some extra-strength Ibuprofen. When he comes back, I reluctantly take it. Our food comes, and for the moment, my headache lessens in an appreciation of chilies and fried things. It resumes full stop when I am done.

I try to read, and eventually, I can. Apparently, the drugs did help. We both read for a while, Joshua finishing his fermented millet and me sipping lemon-honey-ginger goodness. When I finish my book, we head to the internet cafe.

December 1, 2010

We wake up on our last morning with sore backs. This was the hardest bed yet, but at least it was a double. I was warm all night because my husband expells heat as if he were a bonfire.

Once we pack up, we head downstairs for pancakes. They arrive on-time, and once we're finished, we head out on the road. At the Shivapuri National Park Office, we pay our 250 rupee entry fee, and then we walk in the direction of Kathmandu.

I have a bone to pick with Lonely Planet. They've served us well, and good knows I've sung their praises, but somehow, the bastards let us down in the last inning. For miles, when there was nothing but a narrow valley and one trail, the descriptions were detailed and precise. We knew when we had to turn, how many guest houses there would be, and which views were where. Now, in the last stretch, the description is simply 'follow the first half of the Helambu trek backwards.'

This wouldn't be a problem if there was only one trail with signs, but it's not. There are side trails everywhere, and only a few have shallow arrows that have been carved in the dirt. After a bit of dithering, we find the right trail and head up.

Before the crest of our last hill, we turn around to look at the stretch of mountains for the last time. This place is beautiful.

On the other side, we begin to make our way down. I get a headache, and we take a couple brakes for me to close my eyes.

After a couple of hours, the sun comes out, and we shed our layers. We keep walking, and eventually, we hit a road and a village. We get a bit lost again, but a man redirects us, and we make our way down a thousand stairs, watching women washing their hair with hoses, families eat dal bhaat in the sun with their hands, and new-born goats test out their wayward limbs.

Near the bottom, Joshua bestows his trekking poles upon a sweaty pair of uphill hikers, and we get lost again.

Wandering around next to a rushing river that quenches the thirst of Kathmandu, I swear and curse Lonely Planet. I just want a shower and a decent meal. A chance to get off of my feet and nurse my aching head would be nice too.

We eventually find our way, and for the last 30 minutes of our trek, we greet a hundred women carrying heavy loads up the stairs. The grin and sing-song Namaste.

When we hit Sundarijal, it's a sudden transportation to a place with cars and horns, shops with Lays potato chips and cable TV. A bus hustler hustles us, and we end up paying 200 rupees more than the local price. I sit in the front seat, close my eyes, and don't care.

The hour long busride into Kathmandu is tame compared to any other. We start and stop and let people on and off. I doze. Joshua and I split a Snickers bar.

In Ratna bus station, near the Annapurna Permit Office, we disembark and walk back through Kathmandu to Thamel and Packnajol. At the Tibet Peace Guest House, we snag one of the last double rooms and retrieve our bags from the dark, dusty storage room.

I take a hot shower. There's a smelly dookie in the toilet right next to me, but otherwise, the shower's hot, and the water never runs out. Soaped and shaved, I'm a happy woman.

Back in the room, I help trim the goatee you'll never see. We both agree it's no great loss. Joshua quotes Shakespeare, 'I want a man who can grow a beard, but doesn't.' I agree.

Once Joshua is clean and fresh-faced (and cute!), we head out on the town. In a little cafe, we order two pizzas and a beer, and when it comes, we chow down. Opening my computer, we flip through pictures and make slideshows of the best ones. It's nice, and it feels like we're closing out our journey with good memories.

Afterwards, we go to an internet cafe and catch up on e-mails. I research Masters of Social Work programs and discover that although Augsburg and St. Thomas offer degrees, they're much more expensive than the University of Minnesota. It takes me nearly two hours to search through their websites and find their tuition rates, and by the end, I'm deeply frustrated. I don't know if I can respect an institution that isn't upfront about their costs. The University of Minnesota proudly displays their price under one of their first headings, and they have far more opportunities for scholarships. It seems I'm destined to be a gopher, after all.

My headache finally gets the best of me, and we walk back to the guest house so I can put a shawl over my eyes and fall asleep. The room is warm, and Joshua lays next to me. It's good to be back in Kathmandu.

November 30, 2010

For breakfast, we eat pancakes. It's still early in the morning when we set off, and we're in hats and mittens to ward off the chill.

Up above the village, we stop for a wee and to admire the view. From here, we can see a panorama stretching from the Annapurna to the Khumbu, and it's spectacular. It's an uninterrupted Himalaya horizon.

The day is full of climbs and descents, and although we gain another 1000 meters, we descend 1000, too. In Chipling Bazaar, we see a cute little guest house and wish that we could stay. It has a dining room of windows and orange trim.

On the other side, we enter rice terraces and guess which path is ours. Luckily, we choose the right ones, and we see a couple of trekkers heading in the opposite direction. They stop, puff, and ask us how much further to the next village. We mercilessly tell them it's a long way up.

It gets warmer, so we shed our layers. The sky is blue, and the terraces are bright green, even after harvest. Baby goats sleep and gallop through the grasses near the trails, and tall stands of bamboo provide shade at regular intervals. It's a beautiful day.

In a little village nestled between two hills, we stop for lunch. With little more than a table and a couple of benches sticking out into the road, it's not much. The woman who takes our order repeats it back slowly with emphatic gestures. We nod our head, not quite sure what will arrive on our plates.

As we play cards, the woman chats to her neighbors as she peels potatoes. We suspect our meal may a long time coming, but thankfully, there's someone else in the kitchen, and our food arrives within the half hour.

After we eat, we pay and head back on trail. We cross a road and both a bus hustler and sadhu offer us things we don't want. We continue on, and when we turn off on a badly washed out dirt path, we're followed by a yellow dog with a sneezing problem.

The path climbs and climbs. The air cools, and behind us, we can see the path we've traveled, and behind that, the Himalaya stretch from one end of the horizon to the other.

Before we know it, we've arrived in Chisopani, an odd hobble of guest houses on a 4WD/ATV track. Most of the tall, cement lodges look the same, and we settle on one the color of bubble gum, with a room on the fourth floor, a glorious balcony, and plenty of windows. It even has an attached bathroom. The only drawback is that it reminded us of the set from Children of God, the one where Armageddon has come and no more children are born. It's like a circus hall of mirrors, except there are no mirrors. Tarps hang from mysterious doorways, and there's a water drainage problem. It smells of mold.

We hole up in our room and read, watching the sunlight play across the mountain tops and drinking tea with coconut cookies. At dinner time, we wander downstairs for a mediocre encore of dal bhat. Flipping through pictures on my computer, we accumulate an audience. Afterwards, we dart through the spooky stairs and corridors to our room, where we safely lock ourselves in.

Even though I've been battling a headache and general achiness all day, I read until late. Like a good hubby, Joshua cracks his eyelid, squints against the glare of a bare light bulb, and asks me if I shouldn't go to bed. I snarl and get squirrelly, and then I apologize. He's right. I turn off the lights, but I can't sleep. I poke Joshua, and we stay up even later talking. We finally fall asleep with my face pressed up against his warm back. I'm the luckiest person in the world to be doing all of this with my best friend.