The Great Kingdom of Nepal
Trekking the Annapurna Mountains
by Myrna James

One of my fondest memories of Nepal will always be playing cards with a very worn-out deck advertising VB, Australian beer, with my Sherpa porter/guide, Kami, in the candlelight of the last village at the end of our two week trek. We were playing a simple game called "Snap," in which the deck is divided into two parts and each player takes half. Then you each simply turn over one card simultaneously. If the cards are the same, such as two 7's, you shout, "snap!" And whoever says it first wins those cards. We added some rules and used another English word for Kami to learn ("nightmare," which is sometimes a symptom of altitude sickness), and two Nepali words for me to learn, "Macchapucchre," the name of the gorgeous central peak in the region, and "chautaara," which is a stone resting place for porters and trekkers. Five Nepali children surrounded us, including a 2-year old girl who was sitting on the tablecloth right next to the cards, watching intently. They began to shout out the Nepali words at random, creating much excitement and team spirit! It was so cute to hear their sweet high voices, recognizing the two words of their mountain village world.

I spent the month of May in Nepal, trekking in the Annapurna mountain region and rafting and camping. It was amazing, trekking about 6 hours a day for 2 weeks into the mountain villages where there are no roads, only footpaths for the donkey trains and porters to carry everything the villagers need, from huge stones for construction to Coke bottles for tourists. I went to Macchapucchre and Annapurna Base Camps, 4,100 meters high (13,450 feet). For about 4 days in the highest altitudes, we couldn't shower, because it's too cold outside with no heat except in the teahouses where we met for dinner. I hired Kami to guide me and to assist with my pack, and he taught me some of the Nepali language and much about life of the happy tribes of people here.

Preparing for the trek can be complicated and daunting. Some tourists hire companies to do it for them, which is expensive and unnecessary. With a good guide book and the help of returning trekkers, it can be done on your own! I planned with Michael, an American I met at the airport. We shopped, got our trekking permits at the Immigration office, paid our conservation fees, and planned our routes. We also made arrangements for someone to confirm our flights out, which is absolutely necessary in Nepal.

Some fees in these procedures are payable in U.S. dollars and some are not. It is very difficult to get U.S. dollars in Nepal; you must go to the Indian bank that makes this conversion, show your passport and your plane ticket out (not just into India, but out of there as well). I spent a good two hours on this quest, as I was told you must pay for the trekking permit in U.S. dollars. Not true! While it is quoted in dollars at $5/week, it is payable in rupees as well. Many people trek without a Nepali guide or porter, with friends or people they meet along the way. I decided to hire a porter/guide because a wonderful one was recommended to me by people I trusted, and also the new friends with whom I had planned to trek left without me, since I was ill for quite a few days and not ready to go when we had originally planned.

Kami and I had a long first day, taking the Greenline Tours bus from Kathmandu west to Pokhara for eight hours. This is known as a "tourist" bus, meaning that it had air conditioning, though they only utilized this luxury for a few hours. Then they simply said, "It is finished," which means roughly, "Open a window." The road is infamous, as it curves wildly through the foothills. Kami actually got sick due to this, which surprised me very much. At the lunch stop, he ordered what he eats every day, "dal bhat," a sticky rice with lentil soup and curried vegetables, the staple meal in Nepal. We were at a touristy look-out point and lunch was included in the bus ticket, if you liked eggs and bacon! Fine with me, but poor Kami had to pay for his meal, at highly inflated prices. It was the beginning of his indoctrination to trekking with tourists.

We finally arrived in Pokhara and the taxi drivers were waiting... Kami made sure we paid the going rate of 500 rupees ($8.00) to get to the drop-off point at Nayapul, an hour's drive west of town. There we descended from a small road where a few shacks were selling cola and tinned food, to begin the adventure of trekking to Annapurna Base Camp, through hills and valleys to the very center of this range, also called the Annapurna Sanctuary.

I had my daypack and fanny pack, while Kami carried my big black backpack and his tiny purple and yellow one. I never did learn what he deemed important enough to bring along, but there wasn't much in his pack. I was a bit anxious... excited about the mountain views and about meeting some Nepali people, though I honestly didn't know how I was going to keep my mind occupied for two weeks of walking. Of course, this was one of the most important things I learned to do. It was amazing to hear from Tyson, a former Peace Corps volunteer in Africa, how he could wait for hours with no book to read, nothing to do at all, and he learned to enjoy it! I have learned that this ability is the key to creativity, and I have not done enough of it, of allowing my mind to be free, in recent years. This must be due in part to my "Type A" personality, and also to the ostensibly "corporate" American pressure to keep busy, especially the mind, with so many letters, business memos and trade journals to read! Not a moment must be "wasted!"

Rain was a significant factor in my trek. It was the very early beginning of the monsoon season, which runs from May/June until September. I was worried about leeches, not knowing much about them, just knowing I didn't want one attached to my body. As we walked along the path, down the hill and through small shops of dirty t-shirts and trekking supplies, we could not avoid noting the dark clouds overhead. We planned to walk only an hour or so to Birethani, a small cluster of abodes along the river at the first checkpoint for all trekkers, but it was already getting dark at about 4:00. Within minutes the rains came, and we trotted along faster and faster until we could duck under a small tin roof with a few tables and chairs, extending from a tiny shack that turned out to be home for a family of five. Two local boys with bundles bound in just after we did, then an old woman with a large load of grass in her "doko," the woven bamboo basket on her back supported by a "haamlo," the long wide band reaching across the top of her head.

The skies opened and it did feel like a monsoon! It was rapidly getting cold so we put on our jackets and then I had to ask Kami where to "go to the toilet." We were about to get to know one another very well, so I was not the least bit embarrassed. He asked the woman, then pointed to a small shack about 12 meters back. I had no choice. It was getting so dark that I took my tiny torch in my teeth, held Kami's umbrella with both hands, and ran through the wet greenness. I could not even figure out where the door was, much less open it, so I just hid behind the thing and then ran back to shelter.

The regulated pounding of the rain escalated until we saw ice falling from the sky! The stentorian hail was pelting the tin roof, echoing for what seemed like a long time. This was my first lesson in patience, sitting in the noise and cold, sipping warm tea. I regarded Kami's calmness in disbelief, then decided to relax and enjoy the storm, as I had not done since living at home on the farm in Kansas, where hail and lightning are regular occurrences to be relished from the front porch with a knitted blanket. After about an hour, we were allowed into the tiny home to sit at the table. The family was all around us, watching the storm lazily. Kami and I put our heads down in the semi-darkness and took naps. Finally it started to let up, so after about two hours, we covered our bags with plastic and shoved on. It was a great relief to arrive at our first stop, only an hour into the trek. I wrote in my diary that night, "Here the river is huge and loud, intensified by all this rain, providing a nice harmony for the locusts and bugs. I already feel peaceful and lucky..."

We had a very difficult climb on the second day, up an immense amount of steps for a few hours, to the high village of Ulleri. Like most villages, Ulleri is situated on a mountainside, so that you must climb up and down steps from one dwelling to another. Here is where, after studying the menu (which was to be the same standardized fare through most of my trek) I ordered the "local wine," excited to have my own little wine-tasting. I thought I'd let Kami try it too. It looked all right, like a white wine, but it tasted like some sort of sweet whiskey. I'm sure now it was rakshi, a rice "wine" similar to Japanese saki. It is humorous to me now to compare a drink of modern, pretentious Japan to one in rural humble Nepal. Kumla, who ran the teahouse, was lovely with her long black braid and colorful multi-patterned clothes. She admired my fingernail polish, which was the remnant of a Balinese lady's artwork. I had tiny dots of flowers on a few fingers and all my toes, so Kumla went for her bottle of nail polish and we made some more flowers. I don't think she understood where Bali is, but we bonded anyway, communicating in her limited English. Kami even got into the spirit and painted his pinkies bright metallic pink, as boys will do to their pinkies only, even in Nepal!

Above the village of Ghorepani, I had my first taste of the breathtaking views of this region. We climbed to the peak of Poon Hill at 5:00 am, and it seemed to take forever. As we neared the top, we would peer up hopefully only to find more stone steps, or an expanse of field to cover. The sun crept slowly, quietly over the crest of the ever-closer mountain range, as we finally glimpsed the panorama at the top. The clouds obscured some peaks, but were mercifully moving, allowing us views of each of the peaks. Together with the sun, they worked to display the pastels of daybreak, casting shadows then brightly illuminating peaks, one by one. This was my first sweeping view of the high Himalaya, from Dhaulagiri I on the left, stretching across to Nilgiri, Annapurna I, Annapurna South, and Hiunchuli. We whispered and took photos to attempt to capture the essence of being there.

That evening, Tadapani is where I met some of the most wonderful people, all in the same teahouse as if by destiny. Carrie, a Canadian whose knees were not holding out and arrived in tears, and Fabrice, only the second Frenchman I have met in five months of travels, began playing cards during dinner. An Aussie girl and I joined, as did Peter and Marton from Budapest. It was Peter's birthday, and we played "President" for hours. We laughed so hard all night, at Fabrice's accent, at my loud raucous laugh, at our lack of understanding of the game, and at all the funny remarks. We began to tease each other as if we'd known each other for years. During the game, a Danish girl I had met the night before came running in to announce that her friend Rikke had blood running down her leg. I called Kami and he diagnosed the leech wound, but the blood clot was pretty big; they were skeptical. He was right, of course, and the leech had disengaged himself and disappeared, content and full of blood. After walking through a wet forest all day, many people had leech wounds when they arrived, most of them oblivious until they disrobed.

The next morning we had our first clear view of Macchapucchre (pronounced mah-chah-pooch-ray, accent on the pooch). This means "Fishtail" in Nepali, and indeed it looks like a huge fishtail sticking up from a huge frozen sea of snow. It was illuminated in the bright early sunlight and looming so close now. After the usual light breakfast of noodle soup or omelettes (dal bhat for the Nepalis), we all set off in pairs or threes in different directions. I felt the now familiar pang of regret that I couldn't know these fun-loving people better, not now. It's one of the unexpected sadnesses of traveling as I am, though I will always remember that night, and this initial meeting may be the start of life-long friendships with a few of them.

All Sherpas are Buddhist, Kami included, so we talked about his beliefs as we were walking along. One evening we were at the evening's teahouse eating dinner when Rikke came running in. (She trekked with me and Kami for many days to come.) There was a huge spider in her room, so Kami followed her, off to the rescue, as always. He returned to the dining room and I asked to see the spider, hoping to verify its hugeness. Kami unrolled a piece of that ubiquitous pink toilet paper and these black spindly legs were reaching out. I recalled that, as a Buddhist, he would not kill any living thing. Then he flicked it off into a corner of the room. When I looked at him with disbelief and asked why he didn't put it outside, he said with a sheepish grin, but in all sincerity, "It's raining." This is indicative of Kami's nature, and perhaps that of most Nepalis as well.

Kami is nineteen and grew up in Jantaksan, a village in eastern Nepal that is a four-day walk (not a four-hour walk, as I kept thinking) to the main town, which I think is Lukla. He, like all Nepalis, makes this trekking thing look so easy. They scamper up very steep paths of dirt or rock, and wait patiently at the chautaara for us westerners to catch up. Most of the porters we encounter are wearing thin rubber thongs, you know, flip-flops! With all the fuss about wearing the right shoes, it's almost embarrassing, yet westerners must have different standards because we are not used to the altitude, the rigorous demands on our bodies, nor the omnipresent bacteria in all food and water.

Kami is incredibly good-natured and a consummate optimist. When Rikke and I would ask "How much more up?" meaning "When will this level off and allow us some relief?" he would reply with a tolerant grin, "Not so much up!" But he didn't know himself, which sometimes became obvious. (He knows the Everest region well, but has only been on Annapurna a few times before.) And when we would complain about the heat and the sweat pouring down our backs soaking our backpacks, he would say, "Not so much hot!" His learning English in the last few years has allowed him this very good job as a guide in addition to porter. He is taking more classes and will next study to be an actual mountain climber as well, so he can lead expeditions.

Walking along, rock-hopping along creek beds or along stone paths, we were often overtaken by trains of donkeys carrying heavy loads of -- everything, really -- walking faster than we were. We stood aside (to the inside of the mountain just in case of a fall) and let them pass with their bells clanking and the tall red and orange feathers of the leader bouncing proudly. My first leech jumped onto my foot while we were waiting for a donkey train to pass, but I just brushed it off, not fully aware of what it was! Kami said then that leeches follow sound and cannot see. Most of them here are not dangerous.

Except for the leeches, this experience reminded me of home, western Kansas. I saw green corn everywhere, though here it's been terraced for centuries on the hillsides, and at home it's the same rows for as far as the eye can see, flat. I felt like my dad must have felt when he was farming, sweating outside with flies buzzing around my face. My hat kept the sun off but it then got too hot. What a relief to take it off and wipe the dirt and salty moisture off my head, as I have seen my dad do so many times in the heat of summer.

The water taken from the streams or pipes high in the villages is not good to drink, so iodine tablets are used to purify it. Many trekkers put vitamin C tablets in it to make it taste better, or they drink mineral water that must be carted up by the donkeys or porters, only to have the plastic bottles littering the mountainside for a very long time to come. I came to prefer the plain old iodine taste, because the murky-looking but safe water reminded me of that we drank straight from the irrigation pipe at the corn field behind our house. My water bottle, hanging by my side at all times in its hemp-woven home, became my best friend, keeping me hydrated and feeling good.

From Tatapani to Chomrong I am going from farm to farm, jumping stone fences on private property as the trail dictates. This reminded me of "hiking" at Rock Springs Ranch, 4-H Summer Camp for us farm kids in Kansas. Here, there were people out working the land, with two large animals, probably oxen, pulling the plow. They were cutting wood and fixing the water pipes that run from the river. There was hay and animal manure all along the trails and on the ground everywhere. Perhaps they use it for mulch as we did when we planted the windbreak of trees around my parents' home. Here there are sights of cattle and nearly-ripe crops and sounds of locusts' incessant low buzzing and chickens clucking. Eating boiled potatoes for lunch, I used Dad's faded red handkerchief to wash each one. The Nepali's peel the skin off; it's the only time they are more sanitary than we westerners. But I like to eat it and it would be too much work to peel these miniature potatoes.

My nostalgia for home is more intense because I have spent the last seven years in the heart of Chicago, among high-rises and taxi-cabs. The similarities I have found between the Himalayan hill villages and my hometown farm life are not making me wish I were home; I'll be there soon enough. They are making me appreciative of "the good life" of my childhood where people truly lived off the land and bright red roosters provided the wake-up-call. It's a very simple life, not complicated with public transportation or high fashion. In fact, life is not really like that any more in Kansas, but it seemed so to me as a sheltered child. Here, deep in the hills surrounding the great Annapurna mountains, I wondered how long it will take for modern "conveniences" to complicate the lives of the people.

As we walked along comfortably in yet another beautiful day, I felt like Isak Denison in "Out of Africa," wearing my straw hat, which is actually made of hemp, like many things here. I think this feeling came because of the freedom I had to allow my mind to roam, as she often must have done out in the expansive fields of Africa, and because of my writing. Each night I took meticulous notes as my most important discipline, (in addition to staying healthy) looking for insight and understanding of this place where I am and of my life, as she also must have done, alone and introspective.

When we left Chomrong, a friendly authoritative dog joined us on the trail. He was still with us a few days later, waiting patiently when we stopped at the teahouses, so we named him "Scout." He was loyal, never joining other trekkers, just sometimes going ahead to scout out the trail. Often it seemed as if Scout were trotting ahead along narrow river beds, and when it rained I discovered why. We were! We would continue up, wading in the water, attempting to hop from rock to rock. As we continued the climb, waterfalls appeared at most every turn, some distant and some nearby, the natural lovely sight accompanied by the fresh, rushing, constant hiss. We would hesitate, just for a moment slowing the pace, and consider the photo option (usually discarded), knowing it would be impossible to capture the essence of being ensconced by nature and her glory. But I tried.

There was as much diversity on this trek as you could imagine. There were gorgeous staircases of worn, smooth marble slabs, as if approaching the Chateau de Versailles, and sparkly grey, black and white speckled stones catching your eye in the sunshine. Occasionally we had to pull ourselves up the paths where an avalanche had stirred the surface of the earth. As we left Dovan and approached Macchapucchre Base Camp, climbing 1,100 meters in altitude that day, we often walked over frozen snow and ice, taking care to avoid the deep fissures where one could easily fall through into the roaring river below. Kami was taking an alternative route over the snow ahead of Rikke and me, bored for the moment, I think, when he slipped and slid and was for a few moments caught on his back, or rather on my backpack, feet and hands flailing in the air like a poor turtle. While it was a bit nerve-wracking at the time, it was funny very soon after he found his feet safely on the ground! He should have taken better notice of the sign we thought was so funny, "Attention! Beautiful but Dangerous!" I had Rikke take a photo of me with this sign, but this alternative meaning was lost as I hadn't showered in a few days. You guessed it; that photo is not included here!

THE APOGEE OF ANNAPURNA BASE CAMP

We finally reached our "summit," Annapurna Base Camp, just a two-hour climb of 400 meters from where we stayed at Macchapucchre Base Camp. We were careful to allow time to acclimatize, thus avoiding headaches and dizziness. Annapurna South and Macchapucchre loomed just over our heads, so close now. We stayed at Hotel Snowland, with Raju, the owner's son, who's about 30. He was fun, happy, handsome, and short like all Nepalis, and lives at this remote quiet place many months of the year. When the sun was happy and showing her face, I played volleyball at the tattered net with the Nepali boys who worked at the three "hotels." Later in the day, it was colder but cozy in the only room with heat, where we gathered for dinner, me in my new $10 Yaks-wool sweater from Kathmandu. I was feeling like quite the mountain woman, warm and sheltered from the storms of all other life, so far from normal worries, separated from the "real world." Early the next morning, we all climbed the moraine to the edge of where a glacier had left a canyon on the other side. The rising sunlight coming from behind Macchapucchre played with the ever-moving clouds to paint a display of welcome for us on the east face of Annapurna South, illuminating the snow brightly.

Our descent was more relaxed; going down is so much easier, though hard on the knees at times. We went from the top to Dovan, descending 1,300 meters. We stayed in my favorite teahouse of the whole trek, the Tiptop Lodge, both on the way up and down. I am always a sucker for nice people and I'm not too picky about amenities. I suppose this place was about the same as all the other teahouses, except that I adored the woman who ran the place. She was the only one who teased my about my clothes -- I had on a Thai sarong with bright green and red elephants on it, tied into a long skirt to cover my legs, trying to be conservative. But I kept sitting (on a tiny step almost on the ground, mind you) without crossing my legs. She kept laughingly showing me, by uncrossing and recrossing hers, what I should do! This is the place, above a roaring river, where Kami and I played a kind of paddle-ball, with the palm of the hand serving as the paddle, and a ball of socks as the ball. This local entertainment was fun and silly.

And watching me play was the entertainment for the locals! In the lodge, like most of them, the wood planks were nailed up with gaps between and even underneath so you could see, if you wanted to, what was going on all around you, provided it was before 8:00 pm and the sun had not yet gone down.

From Dovan down to Jhino, the walk was about seven hours. I was getting really tired. We had a bit more rain, and I ducked into a small wood shelter ahead of Kami to put protection on my pack. On the way out, I whopped my head hard on the top of the doorway, which was the usual lower height for the average 5'3" Nepali. I was frustrated and embarrassed, so I just charged on out into the rain and kept going, with my head smarting like mad. The rain hid my silent but plentiful tears as I climbed, feeling frustrated and needing to be alone. Kami and Rikke caught up with me about twenty minutes later at the small shop in Chomrong where we could buy Twix, my new comfort food, for only 50 rupees ($.80). (Near the top the price escalated to 120 rupees.) From there it was another hour, steeply down to our next teahouse and stopping place. All along we had heard about the Hot Springs at Jhino. It was to be a welcome treat. When we arrived, Rikke and I put on our swimsuits and brought only shampoo and towels to soak up this well-earned luxury. We followed the sign, walking through a thick forest along a sparse path, heading downhill toward the river until the path disappeared. We debated about the direction and finally turned back after what seemed like an hour of hiking, sweating, wondering. I was more exhausted this day than most, and wanted so much to find this place. As we headed back up through the thick foliage it was raining again.

And it happened! A leech was suddenly on my calf! I flicked it off immediately, then one was on my wrist; I jerked and it was gone. They were on Rikke too. We danced around and screamed and tried to keep walking. Then one on the inside of my arm would not flick off and I knew he was attached. I had carefully put salt in my pack, specifically for this moment, but where was my omnipresent pack? With a pang, I realized that I'd left it in the room! After all, we were only going to the Hot Springs! Rikke had her money belt, grabbed her rock salt, and gave me a chunk. I licked it, and applied it to the squirmy worm trying to suck my blood. Within fifteen seconds he dropped right off and hardly left a mark. By the time we were on the main path again, realizing our error where five huge cows were nonchalantly blocking the way, causing us to take a wrong turn, I just couldn't imagine walking another half hour to get there. I headed back to the teahouse for a cool shower, to nurse my wounds of the day in as much solitude as possible. At the end of my trek, I was headed down the last stretch with Kami and Philipp, a nice German guy who had lived as a student in the U.S. and had interesting opinions of us Americans, and his two Nepali companions. We enjoyed the walk along the same river I had noticed the first night, and arrived back at Nayapul just after noon. It felt so different to be at this starting point with the experience under my belt. We decided to take the local bus into Pokhara, which took almost two hours and cost only 50 rupees ($.80). It was full of people with all kinds of loads. Our Nepali friends happily watched our stuff, so we talked and dozed.

Trekking in the Annapurna region is different from trekking in the Everest region. Everyone knows that Everest is in higher altitudes. This means a greater risk for altitude sickness, but less leeches, since they live below the tree line in the wet areas of the monsoon, which is much more of an occurrence on Annapurna. You don't see yaks on Annapurna, just cattle and donkeys; yaks live in the higher altitudes. And you don't see as many religious shrines on Annapurna, since its people are more Hindu and Everest's are more Buddhist, with their monasteries and strings of prayer flags. However, the most important thing about trekking Annapurna is the views of the immense mountain peaks. More peaks are visible, with the blessing of good weather, than on Everest. And the most beautiful mountain in all of Nepal is Macchapucchre (in my opinion, of course). It was truly amazing to see this peak getting closer and closer each day, with each glimpse, as the Macchapucchre Base Camp was the last stop before going on up to Annapurna Base Camp. This final destination was the highest elevation at 4,100 meters (13,450 feet). The peak of Macchapucchre is 6,997 meters (22,955 feet) compared to Everest, the highest peak in the world, at 8,848 meters (29,029 feet).

Kami works for Wongchu Sherpa, who owns Peak Promotions in Kathmandu. Wongchu and Kami were recommended to me by an American couple I met at Fire and Ice, a pizza and ice cream joint in Thamel. Wongchu is an amazing man. After meeting me for dinner at Rum Doodle, where all successful mountain climbing expeditions celebrate once safely back in Kathmandu, we discussed my trekking plans. I did not want to hire his company to do everything, just to get a reliable good-natured guide/porter. And I wanted a good price, so his profit margin did not warrant the time investment he made in me. However, I appreciated the fact that he saw me to a doctor when I had been ill in Kathmandu for several days. Wongchu is, in fact, enchanting. He is fond of saying, "Not for money, just for fun!" about his business and the schools he has founded in the Everest region so the children don't have to walk for hours each way. When he said this, his sudden smile met my glance and I thought, "He is sincere." And he is obviously happy and passionate about his life.

Wongchu's company produced the recent movies about Mt. Everest, including the new IMAX movie that was released in the U.S. in March. He was along with a select few who attended the World Premier Tour through the U.S. Many people are now aware of the Mt. Everest expeditions because of the tragic storm in May of 1996 when 15 people died, as Jon Krakauer's book "Into Thin Air" describes. (This is the most who have died in one year attempting to summit Everest, and 98 succeeded in summiting that year.) Wongchu was instrumental in that rescue procedure, spending hours on the radio with the Nepalese government, negotiating permission for a helicopter to rescue Beck Weathers, whose teammates had thought to be dead, until he came slowly walking into that high-elevation camp, frozen, blind and with arms outstretched like Frankenstein. This flight was the highest-elevation chopper rescue ever attempted, and Beck is recovering in Texas. The new IMAX movie was filmed that year, with Wongchu's crew summiting shortly after the others had died in the mountaintop storm. He was sirdar, in charge of the entire Base Camp, including labor and supplies for everyone there. He was handling three expeditions at that time. In addition to the IMAX team, he handled a Swedish solo expedition. The leader was Mr. Goran Kropp, who came from his country by cycle, summited Everest, and returned to his country by cycle. The third was a Taiwanese Everest expedition. The leader was Mr. Makalu Gau, who was rescued with Becker in the same helicopter after the summit.

Wongchu is also featured in the new National Geographic book "Mt. Everest: Mountain Without Mercy." He grew up in Chhangba, Tapting-1, the Sherpa region south of Solu Khumbu (Mt. Everest) with seven brothers and three sisters. His mother died when he was six months old, and then his father died when he was twelve. From the age of fourteen, he has worked on those mountains and learned how to deal with climbers and tourists. He is very successful and lives in a beautiful new home in Kathmandu with four young servant boys, where he worships Buddha with his own temple on a rooftop patio.

SITES IN KATHMANDU

Doing my time in Kathmandu, waiting to become well, I had 6 days to prepare for the trek and shop and look around the town. I spent a wonderful day with Peggy Palmer, my friend Chris' mother, who took me around town to some of the most important sites. The most spectacular was easily the Swayambhunath Stupa, the Buddhist shrine high atop a hill overlooking all of Kathmandu valley. The day we went was Jayanti, the celebration of Buddha's birth, enlightenment and nirvana over 2,500 years ago. The air is filled with casual joy as people wander up and down the hill in groups of family and friends to pay their respects by spinning prayer wheels, lighting butter lamps, hanging prayer flags and, as at all festivals, eating. They say that each time the prayer flags flap in the wind, the gods are hearing their prayers. The huge painted familiar face on the stupa looks out in each direction, the eyes representing compassion, the nose unity and the third eye wisdom.

Peggy and I also visited the Reclining Vishnu, a shrine of the Preserver, in the form of a woman surrounded by water. She was barely discernible due to the people clamoring around her on this holiday, and to all the red and yellow flowers used to bless each worshiper when they rub their foreheads on the Vishnu. Children immediately adopted us, one for each, to try to explain the rituals and meanings -- for a tip, of course. But I learned more from the guidebook: "In dreamless sleep, Vishnu as Narayan floated partly submerged in the primeval ocean, like a fetus in its maternal womb. A lotus grew out of his navel, issuing Brahma who then proceeded to create the world. This Indian tale of the world's origin is Hinduism's most famous cosmic myth, a source of great inspiration for artists in the subcontinent. But nowhere else have the sculptors translated it into stone so powerfully and so literally as the Nepali's did at Budhanilkantha, a small hamlet 9 km north of Kathmandu." (Source: Kathmandu Insight City Guides, edited by Hans Hofer)

The other most interesting thing in Kathmandu is living right there in Durbar Square, the center of town. The Living Goddess is a young girl who lives in Kumari Bahal, in what I would consider virtual captivity. She is considered to be the incarnation of the "Virgin Goddess" and cannot be photographed, though her home can. She is chosen of the Sakya clan of Nepali's at the age of four or five and is selected as "flawless" by 32 signs. She is the "Living Goddess" until puberty, or until she is cut and loses blood in any way. At this time, she goes back to live with her family and is free, but it is bad luck for a man to marry a former Goddess, which is said to bring early death! I am not so sure this is an honor I would want for my daughter, believer in personal freedoms that I am.

In Kathmandu and Pokhara, grey cows with their bones protruding wander the streets everywhere. They are the holy animal of Hinduism. As old battered cars traverse along the unpaved street and beep their horns, they are more often than not attempting to get an oblivious cow to slowly move out of the road. Killing a cow is more serious than killing a child. This was a bit shocking for me, coming from a cattle-feeding farm family that loves to eat its beef at nearly every meal! I didn't share this fact with many people.

Nepali's take their religion quite seriously. They celebrate over one hundred religious festivals a year, all of which are national holidays, in addition to Saturdays, the national day of rest. The religion of Nepal is a strange mixture of Hindu and both schools of Buddhism, where you seemingly can take what you like from each and form your own beliefs. Dervla Murphy says in "The Waiting Land," her book about Nepal, "I am consoled by the knowledge that even distinguished scholars go astray in this theological maze and have to end their expositions with a flurry of generalities."

Nepal operates on an entirely different calendar than most of the rest of the world, due to their religion. This year, I believe, is 2055. It is 57 years ahead of our Gregorian calendar, and their months begin in the middle of ours. The time of day is 15 minutes different, not just hours. This is attributed to the exact time at the summit of Gauri Shankar, one of the peaks in the Everest region. One must be careful when arranging dates and times in Nepal! And with their habit of procrastinating everything possible to "boli, boli" (tomorrow), it is a wonder anything gets done, which is why Dervla Murphy titled her book "The Waiting Land."

Myrna left the professional world of national magazine ad sales in Chicago to travel around the world! She sought eternal truths and true beauty, and found them. She left in January 1998, going to Australia, New Zealand, around Asia (Japan, China) then to Thailand and Nepal. The rest of the year was in Europe, mostly Turkey. She returned in December, then left again for five more months to do Habitat for Humanity Global Village in New Zealand and Alaska in 1999. She now resides in Denver, Colorado, near her hometown of Hoxie, Kansas.

You can visit Myrna's web site at www.GoGlobalGirl.com, and email Myrna at mljames@attglobal.net