Nepal

Advice given to travelers is `check out the political situation before you go`.  It`s good advice and all, but I like to let fate work things out.  And as Aug and I laughed about, going to Nepal from India was like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.  We crossed the border into Nepal to discover that I could not go back to India after all.  It was too late to change our minds, Aug had extended his plane ticket and we had traveled an entire day by bus to the border.  Nepal, we found out, was in the midst of a strike ordered by the Maoists that had last 6 days already.  No transportation around the country was allowed and the Maoists threatened to enforce this with violence.  Aug and I were stuck.  We had paid a hefty fee for our bus ticket without knowledge of this situation and our money had been taken happily.  The company basically extorted us for more money saying that they found a driver to take us into Nepal despite the strike.  We spent another day on the bus in a convoy of buses and trucks headed to Pokara and had a military escort.  Trucks of soldiers led and followed the mass of vehicles and a helicopter with soldiers, weapons and all, flew overhead.  We had to stop every ten minutes or so and wait for the upcoming area to be patrolled and deemed safe, then we`d start again and stop again passing villages of thatched roof houses and herds of goats.  The farther we went from India, the more diversity I saw in clothing and in culture.  Some women were wearing saris and some shirts and pants, showing the cultural relaxation in Nepal.  I was so grateful to be away from the caste system and it`s imprisonment of hardworking worthy people.  The desperation was still there, as August and I saw more and more clearly, but there was also a hope and a fire that India had crowded out of it`s people.  Another half day on the bus and August and I finally made it safely to Pokara, a sweet little city nestled into the hills and embracing a huge mountain lake.  We spent two days in Pokara, browsing the shops and tasting Nepali food, resting after three days on a bus, and preparing for a trek in the Annapurna mountains.  We brought all the food we`d need, a tent, and sleeping bags which proved to be wise as the food in the mountains was four times as expensive as in the valley.  It makes sense, we were dropped off where the road ended, the trail head into vast mountains, where villages were days or even weeks away from the nearest road.  Our first day of the trek ended early, a hour`s walk from Gandruk, where we were headed, as we scurried into a lonely guesthouse to avoid the cold drops of water falling from doomish looking clouds.  An hour later, hail was hammering the ground and lightning and thunder danced in the sky.  What if we had camped?!  Our second day, we decided to change our route and head for some hot springs.  We were meant to go to some hot springs on our fourth day, but a Nepali guide told us of another option, peaceful hot springs in the middle of the forest with few people rather than hots pings next to a town and with many people.  It was an easy decision.  The hike to the hot springs took us through Gandruke, a ridge top town of the Gurung people and then down down down across a river on a suspension bridge, and then up up up, I was counting the steps, every fifty I would stop for two breaths, look around, and then press on.  After six hours, we made it to Jinu where we dropped our bags, went down and down and sank into the heavenliest of  warm pools just a few feet from the glacial river.  A Japanese man returning from Annapurna base Camp informed us that he hadn`t showered in ten days!  He was really proud.  In the spirit of Kiva, we jumped into the river and it wasn`t cold at all, I swear.  Monkeys were jumping in the tree branches above and traces of hail hid in the shadows of orchids and rhododendrons.  So magical.  Aug and I had to hike on as long as we could, back up and up.  I was almost delirious when we found a quiet guesthouse and it was for less than a dollar.  Again, the skies clouded and gave us a show, but sleep under heavy woolen blankets overtook me as soon as I lay my head down.  The next day, we went up and up to another ridge, we could see our destination, Tadapani, on the ridge before us, and then down and down and down across another river.  Nepali children scampered down the mountain like gazelle in a meadow asking us `sweets, scoo pencil, rupee?` in the sweetest voices.  My heart melts for them but I don`t give to children, there`s just too many.  Every village, the children would scamper to the path to greet us and ask `sweet, scool pencil, rupee?`  I can`t imagine growing up on those mountainsides, hauling every scrap of supply in for miles from the road, miles from the river, or miles from the hillside.  The teraces stretched along the mountainsides as far as the eye could see, a testimony that these people had been eaking out an existence within these extremes for generations and generations, growing their rice and livestock, climbing the slopes, persevering.  Tadapani was another seven hour destination and the guesthouse we found was bustling.  I fell asleep to the sounds of Nepalese singing and drumming, shadows of dancers cast through our window by candlelight.  The Maoists were in Gurupani, we heard, asking for `donations` from travelers.  Why go to Gurupani?  We had an amazing view of all the major ridges, clear and dazzling in the morning light, snow covered and seen from a ridge with prayer flags and soaring eagles.  True, our bags were getting lighter and lighter as we ate up our food and our bodies were getting stronger and stronger but in the spirit of vacation, we journeyed along the ridge top to Gandruke and retraced our steps to the valley below, grateful for the taste of sacred forest, mountain streams, and Himalaya lingering with us and definitely captured in my camera.  We stopped for the day early, only six hours passed, and swam and fished (pretended to fish anyway) and finally used the tent.  Camped by the riverside and used the last of my fuel for the last of our food.  Another night in Pokara and then off to Kathmandu.  Yep, it`s a city.  I liked Kathmandu a lot and it rang of India but was cleaner and more politically vibrant.  Men loved to hook us into long conversations where they spurted their political ideals.  It was good, but I was quiet from days in seclusion trekking, and the hustle and bustle of shops was a mind trip.  Kathmandu had it`s share of treasures within the narrow alleys; temples and shrines, galleries and cafes, men whispering `channis, opium` and women begging for milk, motorcycles, bicycles, taxis, and rickshaws crisscrossing in a jumble of traffic.  Ahh, just one more day, but no, the flight couldn`t be changed.  Probably for the best as another strike was due to start and rumors of Maoists in the city were fluttering about with the dustiness and haggling.  I couldn`t let myself be stranded within a strike, an easy target for theft with my skin blazing of privilege, though I am sure the time of stalemate would have been intriguing.  So out of Nepal, back to Bangkok and all the sweet familiarity of Thailand.  Pai Thais and cha yens just waiting to nourish my depleted body.  Thailand feels like unnecessary luxury.

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