Comfortable with (a little) Chaos

Tags

adrenaline, chaos, solo travel, Weekly Photo Challenge

Chaos sometimes happens when I travel and in retrospect, it has created many of my most powerful trip memories. Life at home is rarely chaotic; it follows a fairly predictable rhythm and most days I’m a slightly boring creature of habit. Drop me into a foreign locale, though, and I’m usually (strangely) OK with all hell breaking loose after a few days of acclimation.

Kathmandu has to be the all-time winner for daily bedlam. On first arrival, the sensory assault here was overwhelming in an almost frightening way. As I left the airport late at night, alone, I wondered if my days of solo female travel needed to finally come to an end. A good sleep later, I was feeling intrigued by the cows in the street; a few days into it, I was charmed by the jumble of vendors jammed into alleys; and two weeks later, I was truly, madly in love with this colorfully outrageous and unruly city, even when an electrical box exploded a few feet away, sending me and dozens of Nepalis running for cover.

Athens – in full summer, blazing in 100-degree heat, and polluted by thousands of belching vehicles jam-packed into an overpopulated metropolis – ranks a close second. The chaos here was mostly car-based: the sharp and constant cacophony of horns, the shouting of drivers at one another, the parking on the sidewalks, and once, the abrupt and spontaneous gathering of four men to pick up and move, in a fit of pique, one of said cars parked on the sidewalk.

A skinny street in Istanbul, approaching Taksim Square, seemed placid enough – until we rounded a corner and came face to face with the beginnings of a protest. Waving signs and chanting mobs thickened in minutes, and the sudden crackle of firecrackers set my heart pounding, my head panicking, and my feet beating a retreat.

Egg-throwing mobs similarly interrupted a pleasant morning stroll in Buenos Aires, and hurtling rickshaws threatened to cut us down as we tried in vain to cross a main street in Lhasa. Sweaty clumps of young men pressed (a little more than necessarily) close to my college girlfriends and me on a morning ride to class on Madrid’s metro years ago, trapping us and blocking our ability to get off at our station. Perhaps most frightening of all, a dense crowd at Sydney’s Y2K New Year’s celebration caused us to lose our 12-year-old for almost an hour as we were sucked into its vortex at the end of the fireworks show.

We could play it safe. We could skip the crowds and the bigger cities. We could leave the kids at home. I could travel with others to some of the exotic but underdeveloped places I like to experience. Some of the chaos has been simply unpleasant, some horribly frustrating. A few situations have been potentially dangerous, and one or two downright scary. But when push comes to shove (literally!), the deepest imprints of my trips have often been the unexpectedly crazy moments that started the adrenaline pumping and the opening of the veins that take in the lifeblood of a place.

Love at Second Sight: An Attitude in Transition

Tags

attitude shift, Kathmandu, Nepal, transition, Weekly Photo Challenge

I arrived in Kathmandu, Nepal, late at night, dazed and exhausted after a journey of several days and many delays. Propelled by a human wave toward the immigration counters, I was then spit out into the baggage claim area where an ancient carousel slowly emptied with no sign of my belongings. Suddenly there was an unintelligible announcement and a mass movement to another conveyor where, miraculously, my duffel tumbled down the chute and onto the sputtering belt. I pushed into a jumble of men to retrieve it. There were very few women at all on my flight from Abu Dhabi and there were certainly no women traveling alone; for one of the first times in my life, I felt a bit intimidated as I heaved my bag onto my back and prepared to leave the hectic airport.

Walking as purposefully as possible out into the dark, I was immediately swarmed by dozens of men trying to take my bags and put me into their cars.  I kept shaking my head NO and searching for the driver I’d arranged to pick me up, but the airport police insisted that I move on, rushing me past all the men with signs. I never saw my driver and he did not identify me – how, I don’t know; I’m sure I was the only foreign-looking single female in the entire airport. Finally, after wandering a shadowy parking lot with cars backing up and jerking forward chaotically, I defied the traffic police and went back through the line of people with signs and found my driver.

The airport had been a mere warm-up; the ride into town was my true baptism into the reality of Kathmandu. I’d heard the city was dirty, but it was the filthiest place I’d ever seen. Apocalyptic was the word – all rubble and dust and smoky haze in the air, dogs roaming everywhere, garbage strewn everywhere, dogs eating garbage everywhere.

Electric lines converged in snarly tangles overhead, and the acrid smoke of small fires singed my throat while their eerie light cast a sickly orange glow over the wasteland. The car jounced and rattled over potholes on the good streets; on the bad ones there was no pavement, potholed or otherwise, to speak of. Staggering into my lodging half an hour later, I located my nearly subterranean room with a rock hard bed, badly stained carpet, dribbles of water from a calcified faucet, and a powerful aroma of mildew.

Morning and daylight did not illuminate any formerly unseen beauty; in fact, a slight feeling of jet-lagged queasiness quickly grew to full-fledged nausea. The city broke over me like a rogue wave; every time I came up for air, another sound or smell or sight seemed to knock me to the ground. I jumped out of my skin every time a noisy motorcycle swerved past me, and I shrank to avoid touching their hot exhaust pipes as they brushed against my bare legs. Gaps in the gridlocked human mass revealed cow flanks and tails, swaying sassily like Hindu royalty down their red (or asphalt) carpets.

Today – a special Hindu slaughter day – blood pooled in small rivers in the streets as goats were led bleating to their sacrificial deaths. Dusty simians at Swayambhunath, the monkey temple, scratched lewdly at their private parts as we walked up the stairs, and the view from the top was a jumble of poorly constructed buildings as far as the eye could see in the smog-infested valley below.

As the afternoon faded, I became wholly unable to escape the smells and sights of animals, garbage, and pollution. I had met the first city on earth that I might truly hate.

***

Two weeks later, I returned to Kathmandu after a blissful and invigorating trek in the Himalaya. After weeks of unheated mountain lodges and cold showers, the same Kathmandu hotel suddenly seemed like a retreat, my first surprise. I lucked into a clean room on the top floor with a view out over a pond, gardens, and a Hitchcockian gathering of pigeons and crows each afternoon.

On the streets, the assault of exhaust, beasts and their dung, the incessant horn honking, and tightly-packed crowds were still there, but I found myself embracing the bedlam this time around, surrendering to the entropy of Kathmandu. Even the smells seemed tamer; in Thamel, pot smoke wafted and mixed with saffron and cumin and garam masala. The Asan Tole market cows bumped my legs, but this time my nose perceived sweet hay over dung. Suddenly and inexplicably, I found myself beguiled instead of repulsed.

With my fellow trekkers, I settled into tiny cafes for momos and Ghorka beers. We roamed Little Tibet, where the largest stupa in the world sits like a pacific Buddha in a bustling square of Tibetan shops, homes, and restaurants. Visibly cleaner, quieter, and calmer than any other part of Kathmandu, Little Tibet was literally a breath of fresh air. Even a morning at Pashupatinath, a temple and series of cremation sites along the Bagmati River, could not faze me now. It was still disturbing to watch as bodies burned on their pyres on the ghats, the ashes swept into the holy river that flows from the Ganges, and to see the super-weird sadhus, holy men with long white beards and painted a ghostly white color. The sadhus seemed lost in some higher mental realm; in fact, many of them were high in a more worldly way – pretty much stoned according to our local guides – and I smiled at their lassitude rather than shrinking from their freakish appearance.

Kathmandu in my final two days was more than tolerable; it was fun! I accepted the disorder and wandered for hours out in the streets that were a human and animal mosh pit.  My senses were still flooded, but they were no longer overwhelmed or shocked as they were in those first days here. Walking among people, cattle, dogs, and honking vehicles was becoming routine, and my newly serene attitude opened me up to more interactions with the local shopkeepers and vendors. One afternoon I settled in with a friend and an especially friendly jewelry seller for a cup of chai; he sold me more than I planned to buy (including the endless knot medallion I use as the gravatar for my blogs), and I remember that relaxing chat as one of the best memories of my time in Kathmandu.

On my final walk back to the hotel, I saw a sparking electrical box on a pole and just as I beat a hasty retreat to get behind a corner wall, the thing exploded and sent sparks and smoke throughout the entire block. A sign that it was time to leave the Danté-esque landscape of Kathmandu, I thought, but not enough to keep me from going back. I fell in love with that crazy city when I gave it a second chance, and I have every intention of returning.

***

Have you ever changed your tune on a place? (I could write another whole post on the hate-to-love transition I experienced with Lima, Peru!)

Click here to see other interpretations of Transitions.

Music Makes the World Go ‘Round

Tags

music, sense memory

Sense memories are often the source of some powerful post-trip nostalgia, at least for me. Most of these are tied directly to the place where they were experienced, like the tinkling of cowbells in an alpine meadow, the aroma of grilled souvlaki meat in a Greek taverna, or the low hum of chanting monks in Tibet. But I have also formed random associations of certain pieces of music with particular places that are just as potent as these more intrinsic sounds and smells.

I have a short and whimsical playlist I associate with almost every trip I have taken and more often than not, it makes no sense thematically or chronologically. When I hear certain songs or artists, I am transported back to the strangest places – cities and countries that have no inherent connection to the music in question. One of the most recent examples is Daft Punk’s summer of 2013 hit song “Get Lucky,” which instantaneously evokes a warm summer day in Ljubljana, Slovenia, every time I hear it. This one, at least, fits its timeframe; I was there that summer, and every restaurant and bar along the Ljubljanica River seemed to be playing the catchy tune as we strolled the streets of this incredibly lovely little town. The light, peppy beat perfectly reflected the bright, energetic summer vibe of the city, and I (now annoyingly) contact my travel buddy K every time I hear the song and think of our happy time there.

Lucky to be in lovely Ljubljana

A more unlikely combo is R.E.M. and the twisting, turning roads of the Arcadia region of Greece’s Peloponnese. The track I remember most, “Losing My Religion” was released in 1991, but this trip was many years later, and there was little about those dusty roads and small villages that seemed connected to the haunting, mandolin-heavy melody of this song. Nevertheless, R.E.M. is now forever linked to that road trip of shimmering hot days, with seven people packed into a van on the way to an ancestral village and home. The memory works both ways; I hear the tune whenever I look at the village photos, and I think of the mountain drive every time R.E.M. comes on.

Winding through the Peloponnese with R.E.M.

Some parts of the world, whether through geographic or cultural isolation, are decades behind in the radio music scene. Two anachronisms still make me smile. One was listening to The Doors in remote Namche Bazaar, Nepal, on the trail to Everest Base Camp just a few years ago. On a dismal, rainy night, two of my fellow trekkers and I escaped our freezing lodge for a beer and some popcorn in a tiny bar warmed by a potbellied stove. We sat for hours, listening to the rain pinging against the metal roof and the strains of some very dated ‘60s and ‘70s songs, most notably a medley of The Doors. I may have thought about “The End” and “Riders on the Storm” at Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris, but I certainly did not expect to hear his memorable voice deep in the Khumbu in Nepal!

The Doors play Namche Bazaar, Nepal

Do you associate somber, serious Russia with bouncy Boy George? On the day of my arrival, I tried to make sense (while seriously jetlagged, no less) of the incongruous juxtaposition of “Karma Chameleon” and the austere architecture I was viewing out my sleet-covered cab window one January day. I would be hard pressed to think of a song less evocative of Soviet Russia than this, but it’s fixed now: St. Petersburg’s outskirts and Culture Club, together forever.

Culture Club or culture shock? on the gloomy drive in from Pulkovo Airport, St Petersburg, Russia

Aside from these random associations, there are also the songs that were playing on my own iPod on different occasions, either on purpose or arbitrarily. Pitbull took my mind off my panting on the way up the last set of steps and hills to Dead Woman’s Pass on the Inca Trail, The Fray have shut out any number of people snoring in nearby tents, and Kacey Musgraves’ country twang accompanied us on a drive all over Iceland’s country roads last summer.

Above The Fray in Paine Grande Camp, Chile

Chilling out to Kacey Musgraves on the Ring Road, Iceland

Last but not least, there was one unforgettable trip on which we provided the “music” ourselves. We had grown very attached to our adorable, charming guide in Tibet after spending over a week with him in Lhasa and the Tibetan countryside. As we drove back from our expedition to Everest North Base Camp, we grew silly and sentimental about leaving him and decided to sing along to many of his favorite western artists, including Michael Bolton (had to hum that one!), Back Street Boys, and Céline Dion. I will never hear “My Heart Will Go On” again without a mental picture of a tiny Tibetan guy crooning his heart out on the Friendship Highway!

Back Street Boys enliven the Friendship Highway, Tibet

Off-roading to Celine Dion in Tibet

Do you have an internal soundtrack from each trip you’ve taken? Stay tuned for another post some day on all the books I associate with each trip!

Ama Dablam

Tags

Ama Dablam, Everest Base Camp trail, Everest Summit Lodges, Nepal

Have you always wanted to hike the trail to Mount Everest but have neither the time nor the stamina? Consider a fantastic alternative: walk part of the very same trail and make your personal summit the base camp of Ama Dablam, arguably the most beautiful peak in the Himalaya anyway. (Sneak preview …)

In the early days of this trek, you will be on the path with the Everest hikers, both trekkers and climbers, if the season is right. The scenery is also best on the first five days of the Everest trail; as the elevation increases later, the vegetation diminishes and the views of Everest and Lhotse actually get worse or disappear altogether. The very first challenge of this trek is the scary plane ride that takes you into the Khumbu region. I have written about this flight before, so I’ll jump right to the first day’s hike, the day after flying in from Kathmandu to Lukla.

Lukla to Monjo

Today’s trek is gorgeous and a perfect way to begin the journey to Ama Dablam. Leaving Lukla, you descend gradually to the Dudh Kosi, or Milk River, so called for its whitish, glacial lake color. The walk winds through Appalachian-like trails, filled with rhododendron and the smell of pine needles underfoot, but the presence of lumbering yaks and rickety swinging bridges quickly disaffirms any comparison to U.S. forests. You pass through a number of small villages, where the children invariably greet you with a big smile and ‘Namaste’ and there is even a small family-run restaurant in a village (Phakding) along the trail, where you can sit outside in the fresh air and sun.

The afternoon brings more of a climb. Many of the segments involve long, steep sets of stone stairs, and you must cross and re-cross the Dudh Kosi multiple times on the swinging metal bridges with slats that open to the tumbling, in some cases raging, river below. On our final crossing, we had to wait before starting because our sharp-eyed Nepali leader spied a group of 18 mules getting ready to clump the other way. You do not want to share quarters on those bridges with yaks, mules, or even porters with huge loads, as the bridges are very narrow and it’s nearly impossible to squeeze by each other, especially if the others have long sharp horns.

By mid-afternoon, you arrive in Monjo, a village perched on a hillside at 9317’. There is a pretty lodge* here, with a profusion of flowers softening the stony climb to the patio. All in all, day one is a pleasant traipse and quite manageable, covering about 8 miles and taking about 6 hours to walk the route.

Monjo to Namche Bazaar

Today’s hike is short but intense. Setting out, the path allows for a gradual wake-up before depositing you at the base of the infamous Namche Hill, a 2000-foot rise via short switchbacks. A slow and steady pace is best here as the route is very steep and the elevation is starting its assault on the lungs. You can sneak in a much-needed break on occasion by graciously letting a herd of yaks pass, and you can look forward to the reward of a first glimpse of Everest about three-quarters of the way up.

If you’ve gotten a reasonable start in the morning, you will arrive (perhaps panting), at the entrance to Namche Bazaar (11,286’) – the unofficial capital of the Khumbu region – around mid-day. Don’t relax yet, though! For many lodges or teahouses, you will still have to climb up the hillside to reach your lodging and lunch. Today is a day to carbo-load. That hill beats most people up, and the days ahead will continue to burn up glycogen, so grab a solid lunch of momos, French fries, bread, and pasta (yep, I ate all that), and then take it easy this afternoon.

If you want to keep moving (which of course I did), you can explore Namche in the afternoon. At the top level of this terraced amphitheater of a town, there is a monastery where you can do the kora (circumambulation), turning every prayer wheel the whole way around to stockpile some good karma for the rest of the trip. This may also be your last good shopping opportunity, so check your battery supply, load up on energy bars, or complete your hiking outfit at one of the many gear shops crammed into this tiny village. If souvenirs are your thing, take a look at the yak bells; Namche has one of the best selections of these that I saw anywhere in Nepal. Almost every spot in the town has a great vista of the crenelated edges of the hanging glacier, Kwangde (20,293’), while the street-level view includes a parade of shops and internet cafes, as well as great meandering herds of yaks and cows, seemingly without owners or herders. They are quite docile, however, and can be easily diverted if you lightly push their horns or even so much as point them aside.

Today’s walk is only about 3 miles and will take you anywhere from 3 to 4 ½ hours, depending on how fast you like to walk interminably uphill. Some people spend an extra night here to acclimatize.

Namche Bazaar to Tashinga

Leaving Namche today, you can hike back up to the monastery and then continue up for several hours to the very top of a high ridge, with Kwangde in full view much of the time.

Over the ridge, the trail undulates all the way to Kunde, where the Hillary Hospital is located. Its setting is stunning – in a field of potato patches all delineated by stone walls and a jaw-dropping view of Everest, Lhotse, and Ama Dablam. (This is not the most direct route today, but the views and the Hillary facilities make for a nice deviation from the main trail.)

As you leave Kunde, you wind through the charming village and then head steeply downhill to Khumjung, home of the Hillary School for grades 1-10. A bit later, there is a most incongruous German bakery along the trail where you can get some coffee and pastries, cinnamon rolls, or apple strudel. It’s a cozy diversion, but the treats are mediocre at best (or maybe we are already losing our appetites in the higher altitude).

Post-baked goods, you head steeply downhill for a while, then the trail flattens out and floats through a nice deciduous woodland. The Tashinga mountain lodge* is beyond the town, so it’s possible to cut off on a narrow trail that bypasses Tashinga and leads to a lodge at 11,800’.

Approaching Tashinga Lodge

It’s getting cold by now, folks! The lodge rooms on the trail are not heated, but the dining rooms have stoves and, like moths to a flame, everyone soon emerges from their chambers for tea and a warm spot to read or write. Today’s walk is also not terribly long – about 6 miles. You are still acclimatizing as well as resting up for a bear of a day tomorrow.

Tashinga to Pangboche

The Namche Hill is billed as the worst climb on the trail, but for my money, today’s morning hike surpasses that day’s misery. Today you ascend from about 11,000’ to over 12,600’ before lunch. The trail is gorgeous as always and it’s helpful to focus on the beauty rather than the inevitable panting and quad burning that go on for an annoyingly long time this morning. The total elevation gain is not that bad, but many of the steps up and down seem made for a giant, so the legs are begging for mercy this morning.

A natural lunch stop is at Tengboche (12,680’), the famous and important monastery where Everest climbers ask to be blessed by the Rimpoche of Tengboche. Rest up a bit and take the time to walk the grounds and tour the monastery; the lunch options here are abysmal, so if you haven’t packed in your food, you might as well get some spiritual if not nutritional sustenance!

View from Tengboche Monastery – Lhotse, Mount Everest, and Ama Dablam

After lunch, it is only about two more hours to Pangboche. As you rise from a ramble along the Imja Khola river, the three peaks of Everest, Lhotse, and Ama Dablam become strikingly visible. It is almost hard to keep an eye on the ground with these dazzling ladies looming off in the (nearer and nearer) distance. Before you know it, you are walking into the collection of buildings known as Pangboche.

As you go deeper and deeper into the Khumbu, the lodging becomes less and less appealing. Although the Pangboche mountain lodge* (13,107’) is better than most here, it is still very cold and spartan. My basement room smells of mildew, the shower dribbles a lukewarm, septic stream, and the temperature hovers in the 30s, and that’s indoors. Whining does not seem fitting, though, because this place has a sunroom/library upstairs with incredible views of Ama Dablam. A book, a journal, and multiple cups of hot tea with that vista absolutely redeem this place.

View from Pangboche Lodge: Sunset and moonrise

Pangboche to Ama Dablam Base Camp

Today is the big day, and you will want to be up early for this long day of trekking. The route starts with a brief descent to cross the Imja Khola River (are these river crossings beginning to sound familiar?), after which you will do the steepest climb yet, at the highest elevation yet, all before you are fully awake. Zig-zagging endlessly up a loose-dirt path with a near vertical pitch and a lack of firm footholds make for a very tough early-morning task. Even our young Nepalese guide is not looking good when we finally scramble over the lip of a huge plateau after an hour or so, and his proceeding to throw up gives all of us pause. This is a great rest spot, though, with 360-degree views of some Himalayan giants – Dobuche, Everest, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, and an assembly of lesser-known but equally impressive peaks.

You gain over 1000’ in that short first stretch and another 1000’ in the next three hours. The views all the way up are spectacular and when the path flattens out for the last 45 minutes, you can fully take your eyes off your boots and the boring tundra landscape and really look around. With an early enough start, you should arrive at base camp (at 15,100’) in the late morning. If it is climbing season (it was in October when I was there), base camp is a colorful array of tents and yaks and climbers. It is quite large, and the setting is much nicer than Everest north base camp in Tibet and the south base camp here in Nepal. There is a spongy, almost grassy field, which looks softer and less severe than the dirty glacial ice and rock at the higher elevation base camps.

If you are lucky, you will see a few climbers high on the ridgeline leading up to the summit face, or on the triangular face itself, in the last stages of their ascent to the summit at 22,493’.

Cold and wind are an inevitable presence at 15,000’, so it is wise to warm up with a drink and a snack and then think about going back down. You may find yourself pulling out every layer in your pack; on my trip, I started this descent in a t-shirt, long-sleeved shirt, light jacket, down jacket, and wind jacket on top, pants and liners on the bottom, and a hat and warm gloves on the extremities. It does get warmer as you descend, so you’ll keep busy stripping this all back off on the way down. The difference in the ability to breathe is marked; imagine finding 13-14,000’ oxygen-rich!

All told, it takes about four hours to get up and only two to get down. While you wait out the day before heading on to Everest or back down to Lukla, you can visit the old Pangboche village, built up high on the hill around the oldest gompa (temple) in the Khumbu. If you are lucky, the lama will be there and you’ll be able to go inside.

The Return 

If you are continuing on to Everest Base Camp, you have about 3-4 more days of walking ahead of you – on through Dingboche, Lobuje, and Gorak Shep before reaching EBC. If you are turning back, the return to Lukla takes only three days.

You can simply retrace the original trail (you will have to at some points), but to start out there is a lovely alternative out of Pangboche. It’s a longer route, but particularly beautiful and serene in parts. You will start going down to the bridge that led to Ama Dablam, but then turn right and follow the river back.

There is a wobbly plank bridge to cross, and an area where you must pick your way through a sea of boulders and rocks. After that, this trail to Tengboche is relaxing and beautiful, with rhododendron everywhere, musk deer hiding in the trees, a series of rock walls enclosing yak pastures, and some old stone buildings. Surrounding this idyllic landscape is a ring of Himalayan peaks, and the aroma of a profusion of incense plants fills the air.

The next two days are a reverse walk through Namche Bazaar (no need for an acclimatization stop here on the way back) and Monjo. There are some excellent views of Everest where it is not dominated by Lhotse, and Ama Dablam still commands attention off to the right. (If you really want a break in Namche, you can visit the Sagarmatha National Park Conservation Memorial up above the town.) Leaving Namche, you have the killer hill in reverse, a couple of hours of quad- and knee-burning downhill steps and hills.

 After a night in Monjo, you will execute the Dudh Kosi dip and climb yet again, and coming back to 9000’ in Lukla will feel like being on a veritable oxygen tank. As the planes only fly out of Lukla in the morning, you will spend one final night in the clear skies of the peaceful Khumbu before heading back to Kathmandu and its chaos and smog.

* Note: Everest Summit Lodges are some of the nicest accommodations on the EBC trail. All rooms are unheated, but hot water bottles are often provided. Warm dining areas provide a cozy spot to eat, read, write, and talk. I highly recommend them.

 

 

 

 

The World’s Most Dangerous Airport

Tags

Ama Dablam, Khumbu region, Lukla, Nepal, world's most dangerous airport

Back to the archives … in 2012, I traveled to Nepal on my own to meet a small group of trekkers for several weeks of hiking in the Khumbu region.

I rose in Kathmandu today at 4:15 am in order to leave at 5 for our flight to Lukla’s Tenzing-Hillary Airport, a tiny landing strip at 9200 feet in the Nepal Himalaya. I had been filled with trepidation about this flight. It is by far the fastest way into the Khumbu region, where we would begin our trek to Ama Dablam base camp, but look up Lukla Airport and every header you’ll see says something like “world’s most dangerous/most extreme/scariest/pick-your-frightening-superlative-adjective airport.” And like a gawker at an accident scene, I had not been able to resist watching video after video to prepare (terrify?) myself before the flight.

Our group was quiet, although a few decided a little morbid humor might help stave off our nervousness. Our guide, Stéphane, demonstratively crossed himself, while fellow hiker Ellen took a photo as we were bussed to our plane, noting that at least someone would find the camera with the black box and see our group photo.

After a hectic free-for-all in the small, domestic Kathmandu airport, we drove onto the tarmac where two shiny Yeti Airlines planes were being washed and polished. Between them sat a decrepit Tara Airlines prop plane, with filthy windows, dented metal on the tail wing, and grime and cobwebs all over the struts and wings. No, no, say it ain’t so … but yes, this was where our duffel bags seemed to be heading. My heart sank as I looked longingly at the Yeti planes on either side.

We filed into the 15-seat plane and sat with our packs on our laps and our bodies touching our seatmates. The seats were threadbare, just metal supports covered in a thin, ratty fabric. I perked up when the lone flight attendant came around with a little basket, but it was, disappointingly, just filled with cotton balls for our ears and a hard candy to suck on when the pressure of takeoff and landing grew strong.

Takeoff was uneventful (except for a little spinning on a patch of ice – yikes) and the 35-minute ride was pretty and smooth. Near the end, we passed precariously close to the ground at a pass (75 feet of clearance, estimated by Rick, a doctor in the group who is also a pilot) and to mountains on both sides of us as we slipped into a ring of peaks.

Suddenly, the sun was gone and we felt ourselves descending. As we dropped, we saw our 1700-ft-long, 65-ft-wide runway appear; the runway starts at the edge of a cliff and ends at a mountain face – clearly no maneuverability for a go-around or an aborted landing!

Rick said later we needed to come in quickly at about a 45-degree angle in order to hit the front end of the runway. Right before we touched down, the stall alarm sounded as the pilot deliberately killed the engine. We slowed as we braked and coasted up the 12.5 % incline of the ramped runway, a necessity in order to stop the plane before it hits the fence and mountain face at the far end.

In minutes, we were off the plane, in an outdoor Arrivals area where we met our local guide. We also learned and saw later that most planes unload and reload in anywhere from 90 seconds to 4 minutes, then they are back in the air for the return flight.

This flight sounds scarier than it is, and the pilots are really pros. We gathered our wits and our belongings, walked a few minutes to our Lukla lodge, and had a hearty celebratory breakfast before the real adventure began.

(See A Sense of the World for more notes on this trek.)

 

Here’s to Beer

Tags

Beer

My recent Friday Photo of some Guinness kegs in Dublin got me thinking about beer. The nectar of the gods is always a big part of my travel enjoyment. Before you think me a sot, let me say that I am simply an enthusiastic social drinker who particularly relishes a cold beer after a long day of trekking, sightseeing, or laboring.One of my fondest beer memories is from a trip we took to the Monteverde cloud forest area in Costa Rica. Our family joined a larger group to work for nine days in Santa Elena, CR, where we mixed concrete by hand, dug trenches, hauled concrete blocks, and built bookshelves, among other duties. At the end of each long, hot day, we were filthy and exhausted. When we arrived back at our humble hostel each night, the dilemma was what to do first: quench our thirst and relax our aching bodies with a drink, or clean ourselves up? As the days passed, the original binary choice of Beer or Shower morphed into a multivariable quandary expressed as Beer-Shower-Beer? or Shower-Beer-Beer? or Beer-Beer-Shower? or (screw the shower!) Beer-Beer-Beer! Imperial was definitely the ale of choice here, regardless of whether it was consumed before or after the bathing.

A good, local beer after a long day of trekking is also a marvelous reward. At dusk in the Great Rift Valley in Tanzania, we enjoyed many a Safari, Tusker, or Kilimanjaro outside our tents.

On the Inca Trail in Peru, we became quite partial to Cusqueña Dark, while in Glacier National Park in northern Montana and Canada, we consistently grabbed a Moose Drool out of the cooler. Asia is not a high point for beer, but once we had acclimatized in the Himalayas in Nepal, we enjoyed a Gorkha or Everest most evenings after a day on the Khumbu trails. And a cold and rainy Mount Fitz Roy climb in Argentina was blissfully followed by two delicious home-brewed dark and blonde beers at cozy La Cervecería in the tiny town of El Chaltén.

Even a casual sightseeing day is enhanced by a good beer during or after. The light and dark Sarajevska brews in Bosnia & Herzegovina were both excellent at the end of a travel day, and in Düsseldorf, Germany, we drank our way through a day-long layover at the Braueries Uerige and Zum Schlüssel, both famous for their altbiers.

In Iceland, we happily whiled away several afternoons in Reykjavik with some Brios, Gulls, and Egils, and we tamed our post-trek PTSD after a particularly daunting mountain hike with a good Borg Úlfur draft.

And then there’s Ireland, oh Ireland! A real Guinness Draught the minute we arrived in Dublin at 10:30 am and a weekend full of Murphy’s Irish Stout, Harp Lager, and so many more rich and creamy Irish ales. A “beer from the roof of the world,” a Lhasa, perked up a lunch at 11,000+ feet in Tibet, an Ožujsko welcomed us to Dubrovnik, Croatia, and we lingered over a luscious Laško in Ljubljana, Slovenia.

 

Another dark beauty, a Książęce, bid us farewell on our last night in Krakow, Poland … and on that note, I’m off to the fridge! Cheers!

Friday Photos: Circles of Life

Tags

Beijing, Boudhanath, Canggu Nunnery, China, Kathmandu, Lhasa, Nepal, Tibet

Circles of life …

At Canggu Nunnery, Lhasa, Tibet

At Boudhanath Temple, Little Tibet, Kathmandu, Nepal

Market in Beijing, China

Facing Fears

Tags

Conquering fear, Lukla, travel dangers, world's most dangerous airport

I am not a total chicken, but I don’t consider myself the bravest person around either. (Some people in my family might, possibly, even argue I’m a bit of a worrier, maybe.) Travel has presented me with some good challenges, and there have definitely been times I was not at all sure I was up for them. The existence of this post means I have somehow survived all these real and perceived dangers, but the memory of a few of them can still make my hair stand on end years later.

When it comes to nerves on the road, it doesn’t have to be bungee jumping or whitewater rafting to produce a good adrenaline rush sometimes; believe me, I’ve frozen up before my share of foreign subway ticket machines while my train is leaving the station, and it can be daunting just trying to get directions or pump gas in a country where I can’t even read the alphabet!

But danger to life and limb is a different story. The first time I remember really feeling physically shaky was on a zip line in Costa Rica. The zipping itself was a blast, and standing on the platforms between zips was manageable, but there were three platforms from which we had to rappel instead of glide. The idea of that backward step D-O-W-N (that’s 140 feet down!) and the initial drop freaked me out; I was not at all sure using my hand as a brake was really going to slow me down and I pictured quite a splat at the bottom when it didn’t work. It did.

Tight spots and closed-in spaces are another great fear inducer for me. I once got talked into going down into some cenotes in the Yucatan peninsula and swimming down an underground river; to this day, the thought of being in that watery underground cavern makes me shiver. Likewise, crawling through stone tunnels – twice – in Peru made my blood pound as I tried to inch forward, feeling both my back and stomach scraping rock and knowing all too well that I could never turn around if I had to. Just the thought of being closed in gives me nightmares, and being in these claustrophobic situations in real life made me feel sick. I was sure I would be the first person to become paralyzed or trapped inside all those dark tunnels. I wasn’t.

Scary vehicle stories abound in my travels and many others’. From the bouncing, out-of-control rickshaw in Lhasa traffic, to the bus careening around mountain curves in the Balkans, to the Athenian driver who … well, ALL the Athenian drivers … , traveling under someone else’s control can be quite frightening. By far the greatest example of transportation trepidation was a flight from Kathmandu into Lukla, Nepal – the gateway to the hiking trail to Everest.

In the weeks before traveling, I watched way too many Youtube videos of this harrowing flight and by the time I boarded the aging, cramped prop plane, I was terrified out of my mind. For once, everyone on board shared my nervousness and a few morbid jokes took the edge off for the first few minutes. Both take-off and the flight into the Himalaya were smooth enough, but the landing was a big gulp. Trying to hit a 1700-foot long, 65-foot wide runway that starts at the edge of a cliff and slants uphill toward a mountain face at the other end, the pilot deliberately cuts the engine just before touchdown (stall alarm screaming) and slams on the brakes to mercifully end the flight. Before the trip, I had recurring visions of dying on this landing just as a planeload of passengers had a few weeks before. Luckily, I didn’t.

Heights and narrow ledges are another test of my mental strength. I know I am sure-footed and rarely worry that I will misstep, so my fear here is not always a physical one. No, I’m afraid that others will slip and either bump me or make me watch their own flailing deathfalls. On a narrow trail in New Zealand’s Dart River area, with a huge ravine on one side, I was petrified watching my son walk in (what I perceived to be) a careless way through the woods. I kept picturing him tripping and falling off but, of course, he didn’t. At Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, I did question my own footwork and had the additional fear that one of the heavy chains I was grasping to stay on the ledges might suddenly pull out of the rock. Somehow, it stayed intact this one more time!

If I had to pick my poison? Well, I think I’d take heights and rickety ledges and scary vehicles over anything cramped or subterranean. An avid spelunker or diver I will never be. I’d rather fall off a cliff than get stuck deep in the sea or an extended passageway underground. Just reading articles – heck, just typing these words – about cavers trapped in rain-filled tunnels or deep-sea divers whose ropes get tangled on coral makes me sweat and breathe faster.

Fording fast rivers in Chile. Exiting a chaotic airport in the middle of the night in Kathmandu. Eating a singed guinea pig in Peru. They’ve all required a gut check of some kind or another, but I’ve made it through all of them and learned a little about needless worrying, maybe. “Always do what you are afraid to do,” said Ralph Waldo Emerson. I’m trying to take him up on that challenge as often as possible.

[Photo of Xcaret cenote from hellomagazine.com]

Friday Photos: Color, Color Everywhere

Tags

Beijing, Bosnia & Herzogovina, China, Mostar, Nepal, Pashupatinath, Tianenmen Square

Favorite day …  favorite photos!

Tianenmen Square columns, National Day, 2009 (PRC’s 60th anniversary)

 

Tika powders for sale at the entrance to Pashupatinath temple, Nepal

Stari Most (Old Bridge) in Mostar, Bosnia & Herzegovina

 

Mountain Mama

Tags

avalanche, Himalayas, Mount Everest, mountains, Nepal, Sherpas

I wrote this little meditation on mountains a few days ago, and then a terrible avalanche made yesterday the deadliest day ever on Mount Everest …

(CLICK ON PHOTOS if you want to see them full-size)

Mountains move me. They speak to me, embrace me, and have a hold on me that won’t let go. Sometimes I fear their rocky faces, and I frequently curse my wheezing breath as I climb them. The great ones are far away, expensive and time-consuming to reach. I will never achieve the summits of the “eight-thousanders,” or even much lesser peaks, and yet they call me to come close, to play along their flanks, to lean into their sides for a few weeks at a time. A few let me reach their crests, and my exhilaration knows no bounds.

For many years, I loved the ocean and thought there was nowhere I’d rather be than by the shores of a crashing sea. But the mountains were a part of me from the beginning and as time went on, their clutch tightened. I grew up in the Appalachians and took for granted a Sunday hike up through a pine grove to a stony knob overlooking the western Pennsylvania countryside. I spent early summers in the Blue Ridge mountains, and later came to know and love the Colorado Rockies, but it was not until I started hiking around the world that I really grasped the grip that high altitude had on me.

My memories are filled with mountain scenes. A cup of tea by a frosted window in Namche Bazaar, Nepal. A soft call of “jambo jambo” to rouse me from my tent in the Great Rift Valley of Tanzania. The last of the evening sun on the cuernos in Paine Grande National Park in Chile. A tinkling of cowbells in a wildflowery meadow in the Alps. The shiny, worn, ancient stone paths of the Inca Trail in the Peruvian Andes. And the absolute awe of being face-to-face with the most famous face of all, the North Face of Mount Everest on a cold June evening.

Long story short: As John Muir said, “the mountains are calling and I must go.”

… Today, I’m feeling almost a little guilty about my mountain obsession in light of the number of Sherpas killed yesterday on Everest. For me and many first-world adventurers, mountains seem like mere playgrounds when we think about the fact that they serve not only as home but as livelihood to those who are doing our grunt work on their slopes. Rest in peace, Sherpa heroes.

Please read this: http://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adventure/climbing/mountaineering/The-Value-of-A-Sherpa-Life.html

Friday Photos: Sun, Moon and Water

Tags

Ama Dablam, Krakow, Lake Bled, Nepal, Pangboche, Poland, Slovenia

Once again, a lazy Friday post of pictures only … a few more favorites from around the world.

New Jewish Cemetery (1800s) in Krakow, Poland

Sunset and moonrise in Pangboche, Nepal

Lake Bled island in Bled, Slovenia

 

A Sense of the World

Tags

Ama Dablam, Himalayas, Kathmandu, Nepal

I breathe in the Nepalese Himalaya, from the earthly to the sublime. In Kathmandu, I snort, trying to rid my nostrils of the olfactory assault on the streets. Rotting garbage, small fires, burning rubber, dogs, sweat, incense, hot, sticky blood that pools in small rivers on this special slaughter day of Dashain. In Thamel, reefer wafts and mixes with saffron and cumin and garam masala and dirty dreadlocks. Asan Tole market cows bump my legs and leave their sweet hay-dung smell, an instant memory of fresh mown fields and summer days.

A stomach-lurching flight later, I inhale the freshest air I’ve ever breathed. The crisp blue air smells of ancient glaciers and fallen snow not yet touched by living feet or polluted clouds. There are hints of fresh earth and grass and water, mountain flowers and rhododendron leaves, and the dusty oxygenated smell that rises off a sidewalk after a long-awaited spring shower.

Eyes shut as I pull the alpine freshness into my lungs, my ears engage. Yak bells jingle and dzo bells jangle, prayer wheels chime and temple horns bleat. Monks chant and nuns murmur, brooms whisk and fires crackle. The Dudh Kosi swishes and tumbles, gathers strength and roars over the river rocks. Hanging bridges creak on their cables, and feet – both human and beast – clump and clop across from bank to bank.

Senses blur further on the trail. I feel the steep climb in my calves; they shriek with tension that is soon relieved by the soft squish of pine needles on loose earth. At higher elevations I curse my ragged breath rasping through my airways; my lungs burn and my throat tightens and my head throbs. And then I am fairly skipping downhill, fresh-headed and light on my feet, bouncing and floating from boulder to boulder, root to root, humming a song, thinking of childhood happiness in the woods.

My eyes focus sharply when I’m not fighting to climb and breathe. A close examination of a tiny red spindly flower growing right out of a rock, an open-mouthed awe at the layering of myriad mountains in the distance – from the tiny to the vast, my vision is rewarded over and over again. We pass through vibrant Sherpa villages whose colors are an illumination of the Buddhist soul. Grounded by black, richened by red, blue, purple and green, heightened and lightened by sunny yellow and crisp white, their houses and temples insist that man lives here in the farthest reaches of the earth.

As the days progress, brown and green trails lead to gray rocks and gravel, barren escarpments and pale lichens. As we climb ever higher, color weakens; the sky fades from cerulean to lightest blue. The tundra changes to a more frozen, snow-covered zone. In the calm and almost featureless landscape at our feet, the peaks grow ever more impressive. They knife toward the sky, their serrated ridges jagged against the heavens. They are massive from this close – huge blocks of granite and limestone hulking into the atmosphere. The thinness of the air clears the mind of all but this sight. There is nothing to smell at this altitude, and any noises seem dampened and muffled inside my headband and hat and fuzzy head. I still feel an exertion, but I am on autopilot now. I plant one foot in front of the other and just see. I watch the narrow path, the boots of the hiker in front of me, the tiny holes made by his poles, the slight kick of wispy dust or dandelion snow. When I can, I raise my gaze to the giants and simultaneously shrink from their stony faces and lean into their mother-earth embraces.

At base camp near the top of the world, we collapse and succumb to a final sensation. Our sherpas pour sweet hot chocolate from steaming thermoses into cups we clasp in clumsy, gloved hands. We fall silent as our salivary glands engage and the rich, sweet aroma fills our noses. The wind swirls, a rock ledge digs into my back, the multi-colored tents at base camp glow in the late afternoon sun. My senses are filled …life is good.

Friday Photos: Queens of their Domains

Tags

Nepal, Peru, Tanzania, Tibet, Travel Himalayas

I have so many photos to share, and I can’t imagine I will write a post about each and every one of them.  I thought I’d pick a few favorites each Friday and post them with simple captions only.

Ama Dablam, from Everest Base Camp trail, Nepal

Serengeti, Tanzania

Peruvian woman, Chinchero, Peru