Reinterpretation of Fast Food

Ever since I moved in, I have been excited to write this post. To understand some differences in Nepali culture, it is essential that you know how mealtimes work, and why I dread them.

My neighborhood

Firstly, in Nepal they do not have the breakfast, lunch, and dinner system. Upon waking up each day I am brought hot tea (with enough sugar to rot our iron gate or reduce the Great Pyramids to rubble), and a few biscuits (don’t let the fancy British term fool you, these are like very plain packaged cookies). This is morning snack, and many Nepalis skip this in favor a quick cup of tea on their way out the door.

Around 11am the family sits down to the first dal bhat meal of the day. Dal Bhat is the traditional Nepali meal; the entire country eats it twice a day, everyday. Dal is Nepali for lentil, and bhat means cooked rice. It is exactly as it sounds: a plate with an Everest sized mound of white rice, and a tiny bowl with some soupy-lentil-thing. Next to the rice is always a small mound of spicy curried vegetables - usually potatoes and beans, but on special occasions, spinach or extremely chewy mushrooms. It is quite remarkable when you think about it; this is the only country I have ever seen where the rich and poor, old and young, rural and urban, fat and skinny, all eat the same exact meal two times a day. What a unifying ritual!

I must admit here that the west has spoiled me: we are so accustomed to choices (frequently we’ll whine “but I had Mexican last night!”) that even though I started out loving dal bhat, I am downright sick of it. This is worse than 3^rd grade and the legendary Breyer’s blueberry fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt phase, where I had that everyday for school lunch.

Dal bhat with spinach curry

After our morning dal bhat meal in the kitchen, instead of lunch there is a small “snack” between 2:00-5:00 of homemade ramen noodle soup, which we take in the living room or wherever we happen to be when Ama finishes cooking it. Each time, I am brought my noodles first, and I thank the heavens that we eat this steaming concoction with a spoon. Then around 8:00pm we have our second meal of dal bhat in the kitchen. Shortly after, if we happen to have electricity, we’ll usually squeeze in an episode of India’s Got Talent on youtube before retiring to bed.

Despite the lack of variety, this sounds like a pretty sweet deal, right? Three home-cooked meals where all you have to do is show up, eat, and leave. This privilege (like so many others) exists at the cost of someone else. Ama spends hours each day preparing food; it takes up the majority of her days. Twice a day she makes fresh batches of rice, lentil stew (dal), and fresh vegetable curry all from scratch. And in between she makes noodle soup! Sometimes I wake up around 6:30am to her already chopping the garlic.

Now that I’ve outlined our schedule, let me explain why our mealtimes are causing me to develop stress ulcers. Each meal, when Ama is finished she calls us all into the kitchen and we wash our hands starting with me, then Milan, and so on down the line of familial importance. It is important to wash our hands before and after every meal since we do not use utensils. Then we sit down to the 5 plates that have already been proportioned out for us by Ama.

Ama making sweet roti for Tihar Festival

Ama does not join us at any of the meals since it is tradition that someone, usually the mother, act as the server while the rest of the family eats. Basically her job is to refill our water and our plates - whether we like it or not. And since I am the guest, hospitality dictates that Ama start with me every time, even though my bowl of lentils is half full and my vegetables look like they haven’t been touched; she generously lobs more and more onto my plate with a big toothy grin. Protesting proves futile. Even covering one’s food will only force her to knock your hand out of the way. There is no escaping these refills.

The proper way to eat dal bhat is to cup your right hand (never use your left since they use that in lieu of toilet paper) in the same shape one uses when performing the chicken dance (and a little bit of this and a little bit of that and shake your butt!). First you pour some lentil stew over the rice and then use your cupped right hand to mix in the curried vegetables, tossing the whole thing around with your fingers until well blended into a kind of wet, flavored-rice mixture dotted with the occasional bean or potato wedge. Next you start quickly shoveling this mixture into your mouth in aggressive handfuls. It is nothing like the long leisurely family dinners back home. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the soft slurping of rice. We get in and out of the kitchen in about eleven minutes flat (I actually timed it once).

Meal times are always extremely stressful for me because I haven’t quite mastered the speed (or the quantity) part, so every meal feels like a race against the clock. There is so much food, and they eat it so quickly; I am constantly falling behind and worried that I will throw up before I finish. I sometimes cheat and don’t break up the sticky white rice but shove the whole rice cluster in my mouth to save time from having to break it up and then pick it back up in its soupy dripping liquid form. However, this tactic is sometimes spotted and met with a frown.

Fancy Dashain Festival meal!

As you can imagine, in a third world country such as Nepal, it is considered rude and wasteful to leave rice, or any food, behind. So of course I do my best never to offend. The result is that every meal there is this moment where I look up from my plate, which I’ve been intensely focused on -shoveling rice away and swallowing without even chewing- and I see that the entire family has not only finished their plates, but they have wiped them bare. There is not a single grain of rice or streak of curry sauce left behind. You could put their plates back in the cabinets, or buy them in a department store, and nobody would be able to tell they’d ever been used (I still have no idea how they do this, but my Vavoo who lived through the Great Depression used to do the same thing so I suspect it has to do with personally understanding scarcity).

At this point in the meal I begin to panic; they are all empty-plated and looking at me, waiting. Nobody speaks. They just watch me. At this point the blood starts pumping cortisol through my veins. I kick it into overdrive, swallowing whole clumps of rice and potatoes and breathing solely through my nose. After the mad rush of rice is gone I quickly and victoriously chug my glass of water in one loud gulp and slam it down on the table to finish. Twice a day, everyday.

Once I am done with my meal (I’m sweating from all the food and stress, and my nose is running from all the chili) they all get up. We leave our plates at the table for Siema to wash, and someone turns on the sink and waits for me to jump up and use it first so the others may follow. At this point, I am overcome with relief that I have survived another meal, and all I can think is I need a drink.

Full House

A lot of people have been asking me what it is like living with a Nepali family. I've been so lucky; my family are lovely, generous, and welcoming people. They are nothing like my real family. (Kidding! I have the best family in the world, you can wikipedia it).

Ama (mother), Milan, Siema, Suman, & Ba (father) celebrating Dashain

Here's the skinny on my Nepali family: Milan, the oldest son, is anywhere between 27 and 33 if I had to guess. I tried asking him how old he was once (on my birthday after he asked my age) and I was informed that in Nepal it is rude to ask a man his age. I apologized, but also thought this was funny for some reason, and tried to explain that in America it is the women who are most sensitive about revealing their age because they want to seem young or mysterious and therefore more attractive to men. Nobody thought this was funny. I played off my laughter as a cough and tried to recover. 

That was one of many instances where I realized my humor does not translate internationally. Another reminder was last week as we were going down a small path towards the infamous Mahendra cave. There was a giant sign about 7 feet high that read in enormous people-sized letters “WAY TO CAVE” with a massive sumo-wrestler sized arrow pointing along the path. I paused in front of it and said to Milan and our guide “so, which way do you think the cave is?” Instead of chuckling, they both pointed repeatedly down the path and assured me it was “Right this way! Right this way!”. I took the loss, nodded, and followed. Not only am I not funny in Nepal, but based off their reaction, they must think I am an idiot.

Milan

But I digress. Milan is the oldest son, and is currently working for the NGO on a number of projects, including acting as a liason for the BPW microfinance project I am undertaking. Milan regularly hosts trainees in his home to help develop his global network (and for added cash). He is an extremely idealistic and patriotic man with refined tastes. In addition to his job at the NGO, he is currently launching his own travel company and dreams of one day being a politician and gozhal writer, which is a kind of traditional Nepali song/poem.

Since Milan is the breadwinner for the house, he is in the most powerful familial position and enjoys special privileges such as being served first (after me!) and having his own room. It is clear that this is no longer his parents' house. Milan has the final say in all decisions and his opinions generally go unopposed. It probably goes without saying that Milan is also the most educated; he is the only one who can speak English. When he is not around, I do a lot of smiling, head nodding, and gesticulating - pretty much everything short of dropping it like its hot.

Father "Ba" (left) in our neighborhood square in Patan

Milan’s mother (I call her Ama, which is Nepali for mama), is a housewife and does all the cooking and cleaning. Milan's father, Ba, is a retired schoolteacher who has not worked since they immigrated from the village to Kathmandu city about 6 years ago. In Nepal, retirement is seen as a very honorable and sacred time for a man; it is a time for spirituality and self reflection. Conversely, tradition dictates that the mother does not “retire” her duties of managing the household until her eldest son marries, and his wife moves in to take over these responsibilities. For Ama's sake, I've taken to regularly humming the the Little Mermaid song "la-la-la-la-la-la don't be shy you've got to give it a try you've got to kiss ze girl!" in hopes that Milan will be subliminally overcome to take a wife. So don't say I'm not trying to help these women. 

Next there is the middle son, 20 year old Suman, who is still a student. Suman looks closer to 16 if I had to guess, and he’s so quiet and shy around me that I cannot recall as I write this, what his voice even sounds like. I suspect my subliminal humming frightens him.

Bathroom/ Laundry day

The youngest daughter is named Siema and she is 16 years old. Siema is in highschool and is a classic teenage girl: she’s sweet, both innocent and naughty, and extremely giggly. She loves to play with my hair and ask me questions that I can’t understand, and she stares at me openly and adoringly during mealtimes. Just outright stares. At first I found this flattering and would smile back, but she is so unrelenting that I actually get uncomfortable (it's how I imagine most celebrities feel... such is our lot). Even when I do look up and make eye contact she just goes on staring into my eyes without even blinking! After a few seconds of locked eye-gazing, I usually squirm and return focus to my plate. 

In terms of infrastructure, their “house” is actually a rented ground floor of a house that's been sectioned off into 3 apartments (one per floor). Our apartment has 5 rooms and a concrete hallway connecting them: a kitchen, a bathroom, and 3 bedrooms. The house itself is extremely basic by western standards, though in Nepal they are among the middle class. There is no heat, no A/C, no hot water (and very limited running water in general), no refrigerator, no oven, no stove (they use those camping stoves you can buy with the propane tanks), no tv, no couch, and no “toilet” – instead they have a hole in the ground of their bathroom, as pictured above.

My beautiful room

There is one bedroom for me, one bedroom for Milan, and one room with a giant bed and a bench. The last room is where the rest of the family sleeps, though this room also houses the computer (which leverages youtube to function like a tv), and during the day we treat this as the family room. At night, Ama (the mother), the father, and the 16 year old daughter Siema all share the bed, while 20 year old Suman sleeps curled up on the bench (this is not an exaggeration - it is actually a bench).

These arrangements make me feel horrible. I constantly get overcome with guilt and have to remind myself that not only is this the way they have always lived, but also that I am paying their entire rent by being here. Even if I insisted on sharing with Siema, they would never hear of it. You see, within the house there is a very clear and obvious pecking order, and as their guest I occupy the position of utmost honor, while Siema is at the bottom (It's a bit funny since my pigmentation and inability to communicate or stomach the drinking water makes me the Most Vulnerable Person... MVP!). This familial pecking order is at the crux of virtually everything we do, and would be obvious to anyone who spent a day or even a meal with us. It goes: me, Milan, father, Suman, Ama (mother), and Siema. 

Tihar Festival decorations in the "living room"/main bedroom

While I truly respect and care for my loving Nepali family, I hate that Ama and Siema will always be lowest on the totem pole despite everything they do for the family. I get a pit in my stomach just thinking about the way it all works against them, as women, from the moment they’re born. 

Nepal is always showing me how much I used to take for granted. For instance, I just love that in America, in our little melting pot of cultures and traditions, there’s no telling how we’ll each run our families: who will be served first, or whose opinion will be well-received. In the Swanson house, it depends entirely on who gets to the table first (though we'll occasionally do the ladies first thing when we have company), or whose point of view is most rational and well thought out. Without realizing it we’ve gravitated towards a kind of familial meritocracy mirroring the premise of our government: equal opportunity. You get as much respect as you earn. These constitutional values of individual freedom have trickled down into widely held personal values as well. This freedom, openness, and lack of determinism (both familial and otherwise) is something we scarcely acknowledge, but we should be so proud and grateful for it. It is so rare to be able to carve out your own place in the world, and this mentality begins at the family level, among our own parents and siblings. And this is a gift.

To quote Downton Abbey (yep, I went for it...), it is "very American" to embrace such lack of structure. What a crazy, beautiful, country we have, and how fortunate we are that we can live in such freedom and peace - and not even understand how lucky we are!

Happy Thanksgiving to all you lucky ducks back home!

PS - I spy with my little eye... Jagermeister.

Nature or Nurture?

There is a part of me that is really ugly (and no, I’m not talking about my feet, though I do despise those wide set boat-looking stubs). I hate sharing. I hate sharing and I blame those who love me most. The problem is that on a trek like Everest, where there are such limited supplies, you have to share. It is the only way to make friends and to survive the trip.

First, I tried to avoid sharing by being charming. I thought if I could charm the pants off everyone in the trek (metaphorically of course, this was an all women’s expedition), then they wouldn’t notice my lack of generosity. After a few days I realized this was not going to fly. You see, every snack break we would all perch on a stone wall and someone would open a chocolate bar or bag of peanuts and then offer it to every single other person. While I did not partake in this, the others did, breaking off a piece of Twix or taking a handful of nuts, until the original owner had nothing more than a tiny morsel! And everyone seemed fine with this! No - more than fine – happy!

The problem is that, when I packed, I packed enough snacks and protein bars for only me, not for me and 6 other people. I turned to my next option: prioritizing. I could share my Qivana Nitrate Oxide powders, and my Coca tea! Not only did I have plenty, but those things were not near and dear to my heart. I passed them around the group generously, with smug satisfaction; I was sharing and I didn’t even mind it! Yes! But this still did not address the issue of snack time.

Again I assessed my options: I could sit there awkwardly and horde the bars, or I could break off 1/6^th of the bar and then pass it on. While the protein bars were easy to say goodbye to, I had brought with me 2 Snickers bars as well. I had planned to enjoy them over the course of the 2 week trek, and slowly savor them – maybe even have one with a victory beer at the bottom. You see, one of the few flaws I have (I know, hard to believe) is that I do not share chocolate. I just don’t. I will offer you a sip of my drink or a bite of my sandwich – even half of my slice of pumpkin pie – but I do not share chocolate. I’m pretty sure the Supreme court is on the verge of calling forced Snickers sharing cruel and unusual punishment, because I wouldn’t even wish that on Ayman al-Zawahiri. Water board me first.

But then, one night after dinner, I came up with a brilliant alternative. I could eat the Snickers alone, in stolen moments, and speak of my supply to no one (and no, I decided the bathroom wouldn’t count as a stolen moment). I excused myself from the table under the guise that I wanted to read in bed (not entirely a lie) and left the main dining hall, where everyone spends their time. In these lodges the dining hall is usually heated by a wood furnace, and it is the only heated room  in the entire compound. Everyone – cooks, owners, trekkers, guides, porters – spends all their time hanging out in these lodges until the moment they crawl inside their sleeping bags to go to sleep because everywhere else is just too cold. Everywhere else is utterly deserted.

Shortly after 7:30 I reached our cold dark room, alone at last. For those of you environmentalists, you’ll find it inspiring to hear that most tea houses in Nepal are powered completely by solar energy – they have these huge mirrored structures in the backyard that look like the inside of giant halved disco balls, and they point them at the sun all day long. The coolest part about my solar energy experience was that when you went back to your room after dark, or got up before sunrise and needed to turn on the light because it was pitch black outside… you couldn’t. You see, the electricity only worked during the hours of 7am-7pm, when you already had sunlight to illuminate your crap. Brilliant. At this point I’d like to give a warm shout out to Jonny and Grace for buying me an adorable little blue flashlight that proved invaluable during those middle-of-the-night bathroom trips (and after drinking 4 liters of water per day, I had quite a few…). But I digress.

Back in my room I fumbled around until I was in my thermals, inside my down sleeping bag with a hot water bottle at my feet and a tiny flashlight stuck inside my winter hat (thanks for the used smelly green hat, Matt!). Then I pulled the sleeping bag and liner far over my head and took the following inside the sleeping bag: the novel Memoirs of a Geisha, my camera and iphone to keep them warm and protect their battery life, and a snickers bar. Those of you who knew me as a child, or those who are lucky enough to truly know my nerdy side (so mostly nuclear family members who wouldn’t be foolish enough to talk) know that chocolate and a good book is the closest I’ve ever come to a religious experience. I believe the Buddhists refer to it as nirvana. Although, I felt both elated and guilt ridden since this moment was achieved as a product of pure selfishness. Look at me! I thought. I am a monster (copyright CHC).

But I don’t think it is my fault that I am a selfish hoarder, and I had about 9 hours of silent trekking the following day to mull this over and find a scapegoat. Dearest mother, I blame you for passing your hording genetic makeup down to me. Just throw the polly pockets out already! And Matt, thanks for picking your nose and shamelessly eating it all those years, regardless of setting or audience. It was around then that I believe I ceased sharing my toys with you. And I now find myself, at the tender age of 24, a victim of nature and nurture, and a complete creep eating Snickers and reading under the covers. But all of you kind hearted sharers out there can rest assured. I got mine in the end.

The thing about chocolate is that it inevitably crumbles a bit. The thing about those crumbs is that when they are on the inside of a heated sleeping bag, they melt… and smear. The thing about my fancy sleeping bag liner is that it is made of a white silk so thin it is almost sheer. Since I was secretive about my chocolate consumption, nobody else knew I even possessed any chocolate. As you can imagine, there was an uncomfortable moment the following morning, when all my bunk mates and I were packing and I extrapolated my white silk liner from the bag and held it up at full length to the window’s light so that I could fold it, revealing several long brown streaks.

Well played karma… well played.

I shared the second bar. 

Everest Made Me a Pill Popper

With about 2 days left until Base Camp, I began to feel a slight tightness in the middle of my forehead. Although I was alarmed, I'd recently read Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain and learned that the car goes where the eyes go, or in other words, you manifest your own destiny. Acknowledging the headache would only make it true. I refused to give the pain any mental attention. I drank 2 liters of water in one sitting and slowed my pace to be safe, but the pounding only intensified. While I could’ve probably forced myself to stick it out another few days, the issue was the altitude – I still had another 3,750 feet to climb and I already felt like my brain had bought a steel-toe boot and was trying to bust out of my skull by kicking a hole through my forehead.

As many of you know, I do not normally take what I jokingly refer to as “Western medicine” for minor discomforts. To clarify, almost anything that is painful but endurable is classified as minor. For instance, got a headache? Lay down and turn the off the lights. Cramps? Lay down and use a heating pad. Broken heart? Lay down, listen to King of Wishful Thinking, and eat your body weight in peanut M&Ms. Runny Nose? Get up and catch it! (Har har har – I suck). You get the point…I’m not an extremist; I support any medications where real treatment is necessary. Just so long as we are treating the root cause and not just the symptom (copyrights to CEB!). But I’ve gotten off-track - the point is that my regular policy is to tough it out, and maybe do some theraputic whining on the phone to an indulgent grandparent.

I tried to walk on. That’s when I realized I could barely stand upright. The pain was searing and beginning to make me dizzy and nauseous. What’s worse is that it seemed to have gone from 0-60 in 20 minutes and was only worsening! When it was clear I couldn’t ignore it, I tried reasoning with myself. I said to my body, you stupid traitor, I fed you organic vegan gluten free protein bars the whole trek - you’re supposed to be healthy. Now do your damn job: oxygenate me! And when that didn’t work (shockingly), I did what many desperate souls do: I turned to drugs. I decided that I would make it to Base Camp even if I had to be doped up and crawling on all fours. With that I popped a Paracetamol. And another (the recommended dose). And within minutes - miracle of all miracles – I felt fine. Modern medicine is remarkable! I understood why it was easy to make a habit of this sort of thing, though I vowed it was only a mountaineering phase of mine (much like my rhinestone phase of ‘02).

A few hours later the tightness returned and I took another Paracetamol. I was turning into quite the little hypocrite! And then the next day, at the direction of a volunteer doctor and our guide, my fellow trekker and I began taking half a dose of Diamox each day, a “real drug” prescribed to me by the travel clinic (but available over the counter all over Nepal nowadays) before I left that helps your body breathe more efficiently to intake more oxygen and prevent altitude sickness (note: there is still only one treatment, and that is to get down - Diamox is only preventative). After just half a pill, I felt fantastic! And yet totally demoralized. What did I stand for?

But I had bigger fish to fry. The headaches were gone but the altitude was still making me feel faint. I was weak and short of breath those last few days, and the final stretch to the base camp was a fight for every step. My heart was racing even at rest as if I were in an all out sprint, and my breathing sounded like I was having a panic attack. I could barely control where my feet went as I tripped and scrambled over boulders, and all I wanted was to lie down and be relieved of my own verticality. I can only thank L.L. Bean for making such sturdy ankle support boots because I felt like Gumby (remember him??) as I stumbled almost drunkenly over rocks and ice. And all this was happening in slow motion; we walked at the same pace as a bridal procession. But eventually, stone after glacial stone, I made it. Upon arriving, a feeling of gratitude fused energy into my veins – how much help I’d gotten! How lucky I was! How proud!

The funny thing about most epiphanies is that they're usually things that we already "know" on a surface level but never really understood, swallowed, and internalized. Only after we put ourselves through something, does this shallow knowledge become real to us. At that moment, standing in the cold wind with Everest stretched out before me and the glacial remains engulfing the camp, I realized (for probably the hundredth time in my young life) that we are so fortunate. We live in a society that is at the cutting edge of pretty much everything, and at the same time have access to the internet, public libraries, and infinite sources of information. Yet we are so busy craving more that we don’t often stop to celebrate the progress we’ve made and the tools we’ve created to set ourselves up for success. Unlike the Nepalis or other trekkers from the third world, I had advantages the whole way: high quality boots, a hefty down jacket, an attentive native guide, plenty of drinking water (which got quite expensive at the top) and effective affordable drugs.

I must confess that I sometimes get frustrated with the Western world; for all our fortune we can be so petty, so envious, so spoiled (me included, and one of the guiltiest). Compared to the rest of the world we are uniquely comfortable, and we never let ourselves feel hunger or pain or sadness. We pop pills, see specialists, and feel sorry for ourselves. I’m not suggesting we should suffer unnecessarily, but rather recognize that we are lucky and blessed to have the option to comfort ourselves in just about any situation (if only we could apply a bit more discretion as to which situations are worthwhile, and which can be easily endured with a bit of grit). 

I realized, perched upon a rock at Everest Base Camp, that we have given ourselves the tools to do anything, to overcome anything. Globalization has opened up new avenues of obtaining knowledge (such as the wisdom of the Sherpas and their garlic), and modern science has produced potent yet simple, cheap pills that can actually help the body breathe better. All we have to do now is combine our vast resources with old-fashioned judgment and determination, and there is no end to what we might solve. As long as we remember to practice the art of patience and tolerance. As leaders of the first world, we are so fortunate, so well-equipped! Screw garlic, we have Diamox. 

Literally Into Thin Air

I must admit, I was not fully prepared for what happened on our Everest trek. I am still scratching my head wondering how I got by, (was it luck or fate? God? Scientology?). All I know is that I underestimated how dangerous the Everest Base Camp trip was.

The trek started smoothly enough: hard wooden beds, early breakfasts with steaming cups of milk tea, and long slow days of trekking for about 8-9 hours along scenic mountain ledge. Ah, alone at last with my thoughts! To say it was peaceful is an understatement. It was like someone hooked a Hoover vacuum hose up to my ear and sucked out all the worry and angst.

However, on the second day my fellow trekkers began to report slight constant headaches. This was not a matter of them being out of shape; one had hiked many mountains, including Kilimanjaro, and the other was a marathon runner scheduled to complete in the NYC marathon in 3 weeks. Actually, you might say that out of the three of us, I was the least physically prepared for the trek (but if you don’t have anything nice to say…). I was confused that I felt fine. I kept asking myself am I sure I don’t have a headache? Why do I feel so good? Did I accidentally do LSD again…?

We recognized the symptoms from the numerous cautioning hand-painted posters: Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) or “altitude sickness” as it is referred to among trekkers, occurs when the air is thin and the oxygen molecules are spread out so that your body cannot intake enough oxygen to sustain itself. It is one of the most unpredictable illnesses – nobody knows why some people can quickly make enough red blood cells to compensate and some cannot. All we know is that the only way to cure it is to get down, fast.

While there is no other cure except getting to a lower altitude (or finding an oxygen mask – good luck in a Himalayan village!), there are plenty of preventative measures you can take to increase your oxygen levels - and we did them all. 1. Drink at least 4 liters of water a day, and get really creative about what you consider to be a bathroom. 2. We started each day with 2 cups of Coca herbal tea that Kelly smuggled back from Peru (I won’t say how or where…). This tea is derived from a plant proven to help with the altitude (and get you higher than a kite! …I kid). 3. Lastly, we ate garlic soup at least once a day, which officially ruined my chances of making out with a Sherpa.

It turns out, garlic is the Sherpa’s secret weapon against the altitude. It contains high amounts of sulfur and has 9 different agents that act as natural blood thinners (watch out Aspirin!). On almost every menu in the villages is a simple “garlic soup” made of crushed garlic boiled with some water, flour (to thicken), and oil. I’m not sure if I truly enjoyed it or if I was just always really hungry, but I never met a bowl of garlic soup I didn’t like.

After setting out on the third day, we started to see groups retreating down the paths and helping along weak trekkers. As we got higher up, the illnesses became more severe. People were vomiting on the side of the trails, laying down beside the paths unable to move, getting carried down by sherpas on impromptu mattress-stretchers, slumped on top of rescue yaks, and even the occasional rescue helicopter was summoned. Two days later a tri-athlete had “pushed himself too hard” and was found dead in his bed. On day 10 we began heading back down the mountain, and I encountered the worst case of all. Around sunset we met a friendly Cambodian man who had fallen ill and was making his way back down the mountain on horseback with his guide. He seemed tired, but cheerful. We exchanged pleasantries and wished him luck, and then watched him gallop off on the trail in front of us. A few hours later we arrived at the lodge, plopped down to order some hot tea, and learned that he was dead.

Our own progress seemed to take a turn for the worse in a village called Dengboche (14,550 ft). When we woke up on day 6, one of my fellow trekkers (the Swedish marathon runner) slowly opened her eyes and mumbled from beneath her down sleeping bag, “I’m not going to make it”. She was nauseous, suffering from severe headaches, and she could not eat, sleep, or walk uphill. After breakfast, we watched as she and one other guide turned around and slowly descended down the fog-induced trail back the way we had come.

We all agreed it was the smartest decision; she needed to return while she could still walk. Yet there was an unshakable feeling of sadness, of surrender. Our friend, who had been dreaming about seeing Everest since she was a little girl, and had been planning and reading and researching and training for this trip for over 8 years, was the one who had to turn back. “How senseless!” we said to one another at lunch over mounds of rice, “she was the fittest and most prepared of us all. Life can be so unfair, so cruel.” It was true of course, but then we were all adult enough to understand that- even as we said it -life, by nature, is not fair.

And yet, in the end she showed us that while life is not fair, it is also wonderfully mutable. We are not given a choice in which hand we are dealt, but we are free to play those cards however we want. Four days later, when we reunited in Namche village on our way back down the mountain, she was healthy and glowing with joy. There was no mention of her sadness and no complaints of the unfairness of it all. She enthusiastically asked us questions, and recounted how the illness was a wonderful opportunity to get to know our shy assistant guide better. She had filled her days planning off-the-beaten-path day treks to a few Mt. Everest view points, that way she could still fill her camera with pictures of Everest without having to make it to Base Camp.

Seeing her sitting there, smiling and recounting her days, was a reminder of the power of attitude, and a testament to her determination to live out her dreams (corny, but true). And I don’t just mean her dream to see Everest, but her desire to be happy. She showed us that happiness, as elusive and complex as it can seem, is simple. It is a choice. It isn’t easy, but it is within each of us- and all we have to do sometimes, is choose it. Now, when I start to get upset about something, I remember I have a choice; I plan another route, and I try to take the opportunity to get to know the assistant guide. 

Getting There is Half the Fun

I would like to start by thanking Dan Dodson for reminding me that my blog “must be broken” since there have been no updates in 2 weeks (I would also like to thank Kelly Wright, whose alluring hand me downs I wore up and down the mountains). Dan, in small villages in the Himalayas, where the population does not exceed 150 and there are no cars or trains, the only way to possess anything is to either grow it (much like the gentle process you use for cultivating unruly facial hair) or to put it on the back of a human or animal and lug it for 10+ days uphill. There's no wifi. Unless I were to send my blog via telepathy (which I’m NOT doing with you again), you’d have to wait patiently for me to return to the Kathmandu valley.

As luck would have it I actually did return to Kathmandu a few days ago, but fell ill in the way that makes you clutch at pillows and wish for your childhood bed, as outside gangs of street dogs fight in the night. But thanks to modern medicine I am feeling better, eating solid foods again, and typing up some of my journal entries! I will do this in installments so as not to overwhelm:

After landing in Kathmandu I spent an exhausting day and a half in Thamel, the city’s bustling old shopping center, gathering all kinds of gear. Truthfully, I’d forgotten how much fun it is to bring money into a developing nation – a bran new fleece set me back about $4.50 and the same exact silk sleeping bag liner that I’d been eyeing in REI a few weeks ago for $70 was a whopping $12 at Shona’s gear shop. This is when I decided that being rich must be really, really fun.

The following morning at 5am, my guide and trekking group assembled and went through the most laidback airport security I’ve ever experienced. There were no liquid checks, no removing of shoes or coats, and no bag scans. Instead, we sectioned into two lines, males and females, and were pat down (felt up?) by a same-gender guard to ensure we were not carrying weapons (...is that a rifle in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?). Then we were shown to the "aircraft".

The puddle-jumper plane from Kathmandu to Lukla sits about 18 people, plus two pilots and a
stewardess who handed out cotton balls. I didn’t quite understand the cotton balls until they revved up the engine and the deafening roar set in – the kind that makes you shout to someone right beside you. As Kathmndu disappeared below us the landscape changed drastically from an urban valley into undulating hilltops and lush green rice paddies. The incredible thing about the Himalayas is that the mountains are so high that planes fly through instead of over them. On either side we were surrounded by jagged white mountaintops, glowing soft pink from the morning sun.

After about 30 scenic minutes we approached the tiny mountain village of Lukla. As it turns out, Lukla is famous among pilots for being the 4^th most dangerous airport on earth. After seeing it, I believe airports 1, 2 and 3 must have moats made of biohazardous waste surrounded by low-security insane asylums. Or they must be located on the top of overdue volcanoes guarded by heavily armed Rodents Of Unusual Size (Princess Bride, anyone?). But I digress...

As you can see from my photo of the airport (below), the runway drops off onto a cliff and the other side faces the mountain’s side. One of the trekkers, who is also a pilot, later explained to me that this means the landing basically has to be perfect every time; if you touch down a few feet earlier, you miss the runway and crash into the cliff, and if you touch down a few feet later than you should, you run out of runway space and go careening into the mountainside. If there are any clouds, the landing becomes virtually impossible.

Being seated in the first row I watched out the front of the plane as we approached rapidly. We were still about 50 feet short of the cliff and the runway, hovering over open air with the ground invisible below, when the plane shuddered to let down its clunky wheels, and I began to panic. It seemed we were too early and too low, and we were going to miss the runway entirely! But what I didn’t realize was that the runway slightly slopes up, and before this thought could even take hold in my mind we brushed lightly past the cliff’s edge and I felt the familiar clash and bounce of the plane’s tires hitting pavement.

The plane decelerated forcefully, causing us to fall forward in our seats. As we slowed to a controllable speed and it became clear we were not going to crash, the cabin erupted in applause. Sighs were audible and strangers began shaking hands and cheering. I turned to see our guide Nirma seated diagonally behind me, who gave me a quick wink.

Later as we got to know one another, Nirma would do her best to explain to me that Nepalis have a different way of seeing the world: they acknowledge only what is possible and what is positive, and ignore the rest (please note that this is a generalization and like every generalization there are exceptions - but this is the case for the vast majority). I find it both beautiful and humbling every time I encounter it; they conjure a kind of strength through optimism that I've never seen a community possess. They carry on, good humored and determined, as if negativity that goes unacknowledged will cease to exist. For instance, if Nepalis say the trail is gradual, they mean it is very steep but still possible to manage, when they say the shower water is hot they mean it is still in a liquid state, and when they say they are doing well they mean that they are alive and the rest will follow suit, but for now that is enough. Even when they don't say it, they smile this attitude at you and it comes out of their eyes. Looking back, I like to think Nirma was starting to teach me some of this at that very moment. Even the frightening near-miss landing could be made into something of amusement. There was a  knowingness about the look she gave me, as well as a playfulness. It was as if she was saying welcome, this is a Nepali cup of coffee. 

I think I'm going to Kathmandu...

That's really really where I'm going to. If I ever get out of here, that's what I'm gonna do.  K-k-k-k-kathmandu! (You youngsters reading this have no idea what I'm talking about, while you old farts are annoyed I got another bad Bob Seger song stuck in your heads). My apologies to all generations...

Just thought I would kick off the blog once again since tomorrow marks my departure date for my move to Nepal!

For those who aren't up to speed, here's the plan: after over 2 days of air travel, I'll arrive in Kathmandu on Monday dead-eyed, dehydrated, and well-versed on the entire Ken Follett series.  I'll spend the next day and a half at a hostel in the center of Thamel bartering for rental sleeping bags and used gloves (not everyone can travel in style like this), and then fly up to Lukla on the 10th to begin my 13 day trek to the Mt. Everest Base Camp. According to my research (wikipedia), Everest's Base Camp sits at a whopping 19,900 feet above sea level, which is about 600 feet higher than the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Claiming I've stuck to my training plan is about as truthful as Bill's 'I did not have sexual relations' speech. If you are in any way religious, please keep me in your prayers. (Mom, if you are reading this, that was a joke... I've been training everyday with professionals for many hours and will be absolutely fine. I love you!).

Upon my descent I'll return to Lalitpur, a suburb about 10 minutes outside of Kathmandu. There I'll spend a week living in a Nepali home and celebrating Dashain with my lovely host, Milan, and his kind and generous family.

After a week of homemade sweets and culture shock, my micro finance training program will commence in Kathmandu. The official curriculum runs from October 28th to December 31st, and aims to execute micro lending practices and micro loans in rural villages for women (mostly widows) hoping to start small businesses. This is the main focus and purpose of my time in Nepal, and will occupy the majority of the blog entries, so if you don't like women or money then you should probably close out of your browser right now.

From there I am both embarrassed and elated to admit I have plans to flee mountainous Nepal just as winter sets in, and spend a month travelling around Southeast Asia. The next leg of my travels is not yet finalized, but includes destinations like Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, India, and Indonesia. Rather than explain myself, I'm going to leave you all in suspense - breathing heavily, at the edge of your seats, having had the uncomfortable urge, for hours, to go to the bathroom, but unable to tear your eyes away from the gripping blog before you. Consider the open-endedness a cliff hanger (practice for my first novel).

One last thing: why am I writing this blog? What's the goal? To be honest, I'm not sure. Logistically, I want to keep everyone updated on my whereabouts/assured I have a pulse. But more importantly, I am hoping to maybe pass on a some smidge of something. I'm not sure what it will be yet, but something that makes you take notice - if even for just a millisecond - of something you've never dwelled on before. When someone is placed this far out of their comfort zone, growth, good or bad, has to occur, right? It is not just the food and dress code that make Nepal different from the US, and I'll do my best to pass on whatever I gain from working through those differences and tensions, in the least preachy bullshitty way I know how.

Thank you to everyone for all your support. I have been overwhelmed with the show of love, faith, and compassion from all corners and I don't know how else to say it: thank you. Thank you so much. Namaste!