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:
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 4th 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...
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.
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 4th 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.
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.
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.
