Belly of the Whale

So I am continuing the story I started yesterday. . .

After growling and frowning at the groggy doorman, I hopped in a cab and wizzed through the deserted and hauntingly quiet streets of Pokhara. When I arrived, the airport was still abandoned and locked by a gate at the street. I ate breakfast: a loaf of bread/cake and waited. All went to plan, and I boarded a small plane. We took off within three minutes of sitting down. Incredible.

This flight on a crisp morning like this, offered an overhead view of Daulagiri and Annapurna. It was breathtaking. I looked through the door to the cockpit (I could throw paper airplanes at the pilots if I'd liked). Daulagiri dominated the entire windshield. My photographic/tourist ethics would not allow me to take a picture from an airplane, but I regret it now. This time of year - those were the best looks I would get at the tall mountains.

The flight was only twenty minutes of eye-drowling scenery. I landed in Jomoson at, I forget, 7:30 let,s say. I stepped out of the airport, the size of a good Exxon station, into a street that seemed like it was perpetually abandoned, like a ghost town, a mix of old Mexico and the high-Andes. It was arid and cool, not yet windy, empty, and awaking it seemed. No one was too talkitive, or even moving around that much.

My luggage was on my back. I bought, for $7 a fake Lowe Alpine pack, small and flat. I couldn't fit a small watermelon in it, though, its orange color reminds me a little bit of a watermelon's color. So it was tiny, light, and orange. Here were it's contents: two pair of socks, windbreaker, first aid (thanks Anne) w/ toothbrush and paste, a superlight fleece sleeping bag, some snacks, glasses, hat, and my camera. One extra shirt too, I forgot. The point is that I was light, very. I was quite pleased with myself on this point. I love going light. I also had some sunscreen, iodine, a water bottle, and my Moroccan scarf, which I wear under my hat now adays to protect my neck and ears. This is my style and I imagine it is quite funny, to see an American wearing light sneakers with dirty black gators, long pants, long shirt, in the heat, with a hat, scarf underneath, and sun glasses. I don't care; actually, I like it - it is damn efficient.

The road out of town comprises the trail. They don't have cars this far in the mountains. The roads are used by the people carrying great loads in baskets on their backs, strapped around their foreheads. The Indians around the Great Lakes carried things this way, called them wannigans. Also, everyone has a horse, or a train of them. Small horses, unhappy horses. They are the UPS of the Himalaya. Some regions use Yaks. So I look south and start walking down the cobbles and out of town.

What first struck me was how much like the Atlas Moutains (Morocco) the landscape looked. The land was brown, more beige, arid, and vast. The river valley was broad, more than any I have ever seen. I walked on alone, not seeing many people, no tourists at all. The trail could not have been more easy to follow. Again, it was literally a road. It connected the various villages that ran along the river. I have no idea what the name of the river is unfortunately. Running south, it cuts between Annapurna and Daulagiri, eroding what they call, and what is likely true, the deepest gorge in the world. I walk on in tranquility. I let the landscape have its effect on me. I just took it in quietly, peacefully, not asking any more from it than what it would show me.

I appreciated the morning air, the lack of direct sunlight. Sunlight really wears on me. I prefer the shade and there was not going to be any. The land was without trees. This was the Mustang, the southern part of that land doesn't see the monsoon or much else. The permit to go north of here is $700 for ten days. So it is not regularly visited.

For the coming days, I would be walking down this valley, through its villages, eating its dal vat, and waving at its children. The miles passed quickly, easy downhill miles. The topography was mild here, still wide and barren. As the morning moved into the day, the sun rose up behind me, the valley narrowed and steepened. The river bottom remained wide, grey now with great gravel fields. The river was a braided stream, weaving in and out amongst itself. I've seen pictures of rivers in Alaska that resemble it, but I have never seen one like it. It felt old in a way that the Colorado or the Clark Fork don't. The water was milkshake grey, grey-brown. It spoke of turbulence, not pollution, also glaciers and snows.

As I glanced up at the encroaching peaks, the rock saddened me. It was the sort of rock that I have come to expect of arid lands - a crumbly, eroding sandstone; soft, flaking shales and silts; the mountains crumbling like drying sand castles on the beach in the sun. I would pull on it and it would fall away in my hands. No good for climbing; what a shame.

Light clouds whisped around and a breeze greeted my face. Every hour or so I would pass through a village or settlement. There were many guesthouses and restaraunts. I was making too much time, too fast. Today was Thursday. I had realized that it would not be too much to do the trek in three days. I then would be able to catch a bus Sunday morning and get into Kathmandu that night. I wouldn't have to fly. So over lunch I wrote the story about the man I met in the airport. We had talked about Milton, Shakespeare, Donne - it was the sort of conversation you would never, never expect from a Nepali. It was delightful. This would be the last of writing for most of the trip, a little philosophy maybe. The only book I carried was "The Myth of Sisiphus," a philosophy book by Albert Camus. I like it but I never read any on the trip. In a little village I saw a book shop. I was intriqued at what I might find way out here. To my supprise it was much of the same - and the prices were great. A book caught my eye that I have long wanted to read. It is the story of the Everest Tragety, but not told by Krakauer, but by Anatoli Bourkrieve. I don't know how to spell. He is a hero and was a great mountaineer. Krakauer made him out as some sort of villain, or so it has been said. But Anatoli is world renown for being what Krakauer is not - a great, one of the greatest, alpinist of his generation. In the tragedy, everyone, including Kraukauer, was so exhaused by the climb, that noone would attempt to rescue those who had been caught in the storm. That is, everyone but Bourkrieve. In all, he left base camp six times to go out on the mountain to rescue climbers; he saved three. His is the story I wanted to read.

Through these mountains as I walked I would stop and read. It was fast and captivating. I found that I share many of the same opinions about the mountains and modern day commersial mountaineering.


Again, I will have to stop here for the day. At least I have made some progress. Time here is flying by. At the request of students, I am starting to teach another class tomorrow. It is a little bigger than my class of six - it is thirty. Wow. What will I do? Tenzing has been more aggressive about getting me to spend time at the monastery. He offered for me to come and eat any or all of my meals with them. This is great, but the food isn't quite the sweet and sour chicken I have been enjoying for the past few weeks. Three weeks gone in a blink. Wendy I miss you. Have a safe trip home.

And as for post cards - I still have no idea were the post office is. I may not send any. I wrote Libby one. I will try to figure it all out, but I am not sure if I will go through to much effort on this.