Nepal: Day 6 | Kathmadu to Lukla

The outskirts of Kathmandu drift below in the late afternoon. Like my arrival 5 days before, Nepal from high up makes me think of Shangri La. Terraced gardens and patchwork crops pass by in every color of green imaginable. The valley gives way to the foothills of the Himalayas. Villages of flat roofed buildings tuck against hillsides. Lush, sharp ridges grow as we fly onward and snow capped peaks play hide and seek behind spotty cloud cover as rays of late day sun point the way to our destination. We are finally on our way, and, even after 5 days, I have to remind myself where I am. Nepal? Can’t be.

The day began, again, clear and bright and we arrive at the domestic airport early for day 3’s highly anticipated take off. After the usual pushing and shoving with Germans through security (the officers don’t really seem to look at anything and wave everyone through), we are ushered to the restaurant by Gnima for tea (why didn’t this happen yesterday, I think?). We wait for our highly valued boarding passes on a different airline to get us to the mountains with anxious anticipation. The previous days frustration has passed though Chris and I are wary. But we reach a new step when our golden tickets finally arrive. We pass through more security and enter into the departure area at roughly 8:30am for a 10am flight. So we sit. Our butts are over it. The people watching is still good though. The saris are still colorful. Travelers rush to their gates as if the plane will leave without them. Chris writes in his journal which seems to be a fascination for the locals. Although I guess that people do not understand what he is writing they peer over his shoulder or slow down as they walk by as if they’ve never seen such a thing. But as the day chugs along we begin to wonder. Parked by our gate, each flight number but our own is called. When the airline rep shows up we stand. When the flight is not ours, we sit. We stand. We sit. Gnima circles the room in his customary aimlessness and occasionally stops by to offer tea. We know there is a cut off time for the day that is fast approaching and begin see another night at the Annapurna in our future.

Did I hear that right? Our flight number is being called? Can you believe it? So we position ourselves to pass through the gate to get on a bus to take us the 50 feet to our plane. I instruct Chris that we have to sit on the left side of the plane for the best views. Our plane is a double engine prop with a single row on each side that seats about 18. The cockpit is open in front of all passengers. As we board, there is a young, pretty flight attendant in somewhat traditional garments to greet us all, palms pressed with a “namaste” and a slight bow (or is she just bent over because the ceiling is low?). We share our flight with a group of excited and rowdy Brits just as anxious as Chris and I to get to Lukla. The attendant offers us a wad of cotton for our ears and a piece of candy (“Lacto Fun!” it is named) as I watch the bright red propellers loudly begin their revolutions. The plane taxis for position then zooms up into the sky. Our 10:30am flight finally takes off a bit after 4pm (welcome to third world scheduling). Last flight out to Lukla that day.

Deemed “one of the worlds most dangerous airports,” as I’ve read (uncomfortably) in my guidebook and online, Lukla Airport is an experience in and of itself. The village of Lukla is the starting and stopping point for all treks in the Everest region as well as for delivery of all goods, supplies, etc. It literally sits on a mountain ledge. The runway is roughly 2 to 3 New York City blocks long—or 1 block in mid-town. The beginning/end of the runway is a sheer drop off. Oh, and the runway is at an angle (landing uphill, taking off downhill). With all these factors, both landings and takeoffs are quite dramatic. As we make our approach to land in-between mountains that rose up on both sides of the plane, I could see the airstrip fast approaching through the cockpit window. Immediately, as we landed, our pilot hit the brakes and we all braced ourselves so as not to smack our face against the seat in front. The parking area for all planes and helicopters is about the size of your local gas station and as we hurtled to the end of the runway (and a stone wall) we make a fast right turn and stop with a jolt. We then are hurried off our plane with a quick “namaste” so the next load could pile in for the day’s final flight.

Gnima gathers our luggage and we find, and meet for the first time, our porter, Subaas (sp? pronounced Soo-boss. Shoebox is how I remember his name in the beginning), standing in the middle of the village trail in flip flops. Subaas is classically handsome and quiet with us since he speaks little English and we little Sherpa. He and Gnima tie our luggage together and, after a quick cup of tea, we’re off. We head off down the trail in the dimming light wanting to slow down and take in what we can barely see and sometimes only hear as twilight turns to dark. Waterfalls and ringing bells. Porters with heavy loads and trekkers reaching the end of their journey. But the trail is uneven and rocky in spots and I focus on my footing so as not to break an ankle on my first day. I wonder if Subaas, luggage strap braced against his forehead, is planning on carrying our bags all the way to Everest base camp in flip flops?

At full dark with a bright crescent moon we reach our first lodge at Chheplung—the Everest Trekkers Lodge. I have my first taste of Sherpa Stew. A tasty and hearty combo of a vegetable or chicken broth with carrots, onions, garlic, cauliflower, rice and noodles. And the ever present apple pie which occurs on every menu in the Khumbu (Everest) region. Then, finally, tea. Lemon this time which is basically lemon Tang mixed into black tea. As we discover with all of our lodges on the trek, the rooms are basic plywood boxes with two cots on either side, no heat and, if there is electricity, a bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. Bathrooms are down the hall or outside, and are, more often than not, squat toilets with a bucket of water for flushing. A, um, new experience. In total darkness by flashlight, we throw ourselves into the experience and settle into our cots with the realization of finally reaching the starting point of the reason for this adventure to the top of the world.

Thus the trek officially begins.

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.

O Xmas Tree

I have been lying awake listening to my parents make their numerous trips up and down the stairs from their bedroom to the Christmas tree presumably with gifts they’ve been hiding in the closet. I eventually drift off, but, at 3am on Christmas morning, I’m awake. In a half sleep, I sneak out to the living room to see what kind of load Santa has dropped off on his annual rounds. The room smells of sweet pine and is pitch black until I tip toe over and flip the switch to light the tree. A soft glow illuminates the room and I stand alone in the quiet in my cozy flannel pj’s and look up all the way to the top. To the angel that sits above it all, shiny and sparkling. I reach out and lightly pull a branch and feel the cool, prickly needles against my hand and I see myself red, reflected in an ornament. I hear creaking upstairs and realize my mother knows I’m up. She comes down to find me hiding under the dining room table and shoos me back to bed.

It was generally my fathers job to hunt down the tree. As December began and Christmas day approached, I would check the garage anxiously and daily for it’s arrival. Dad was employed at Bonneville Dam up the Columbia River Gorge in daily operations. He rotated doing shift work: Graveyard, day, and swing. The gorge on the Oregon side of the river was all pine forest, so as the holidays approached, Dad would hike up to the power lines while on graveyard and cut one down. Since it was the middle of the night, I’m guessing all he had was a flash light to guide him and make his tree choice. The result was often wacky with multiple tops, large branches shooting way off to one side or just a big hole. I’m surprised there was never a family of squirrels ready to jump onto our faces as we strung the lights or an owl glowering down from where the angel should be.

The tree, traditionally parked in the front window, was decorated with a mishmash of ornaments. Reflective vintage types from the 40’s and 50’s with stripes and flocking, round or bell shaped. A set, beaded and satin, constructed by my grandfather that we always had to hang or else he’d get pissed. A handful of plaster figures hand painted by me and mom. A garland of shiny tinsel or popcorn and cranberries and sometimes the silvery icicles that we would find in the carpet year round. Finally, the lights. The multicolored large bulb kind that were hot to the touch that would give the room that rosy luminescence.

The custom of erecting a Christmas Tree can be historically traced to 15th century Livonia (present-day Estonia and Latvia) and 16th century Northern Germany. According to the first documented uses of a Christmas tree in Estonia, in 1441, 1442, and 1514, the Brotherhood of the Blackheads erected a tree for the holidays in their brotherhood house in Reval (now Tallinn). At the last night of the celebrations leading up to the holidays, the tree was taken to the Town Hall Square where the members of the brotherhood danced around it. In 1584, the pastor and chronicler Balthasar Russow wrote of an established tradition of setting up a decorated spruce at the market square where the young men “went with a flock of maidens and women, first sang and danced there and then set the tree aflame”. In that period, the guilds started erecting Christmas trees in front of their guildhalls: Ingeborg Weber-Kellermann (Marburg professor of European ethnology) found a Bremen guild chronicle of 1570 which reports how a small tree was decorated with "apples, nuts, dates, pretzels and paper flowers" and erected in the guild-house, for the benefit of the guild members' children, who collected the dainties on Christmas Day. (Wikipedia...learn more)

In spite of its drawbacks—commercialization, stress, over spending, overeating, hangovers—there is much I like about Christmas. But my favorite ingredient of the season is the Christmas tree. In spite of their shape, size or ornamentation, there is something magical about o tannenbaum. The warmth of the lights, the smell of pine that fills the room, the pile of gifts underneath. And ultimately how it makes me feel the kid again. Whether Charlie Brown or decorated within an inch of life, I never feel there is such a thing as one too hideous. As I stroll the sidewalks of New York after Thanksgiving, I make a point of passing by every tree seller in the neighborhood just to catch a clean fresh whiff of forest and reach out for quick feel of soft green needles to remind myself that the world is not all concrete and brick.

I try to have a tree every year and have had all shapes and sizes. When I lived in an apartment with 15 foot ceilings I had 12 foot trees—even if I didn’t have the decorations to cover it. I once lived in a tiny studio apartment that was crammed full of stuff. So I had a tiny tree that perched at the end of a dresser. My friend Robert came by on Christmas day and we smoked a joint and stared at the tree, unmoving and mesmerized, for 3 hours. The lights were SO PRETTY. And just last year, my partner Chris had a tree delivered to me at mom’s house in Oregon which made me feel less lonely. This year, the tree is small and living so we can have it year round in the roof garden once the holiday is over and done. The small white lights twinkle within its branches and inexpensive small red balls dress it up. It’s a “bad economy” tree but beautiful all the same.

The prerequisite, if possible, is that the tree be taller than myself so that I will feel little and young. I still stand and stare at it in the dark (sans joint). I reach out and grab a branch to feel the cool prickly branches so that my hand will smell of pine. As beautiful as it is, I feel a bit sad. Believing in Santa gave way to jobs, relationships, grown up responsibilities and worldly worries. Life speeds by faster and faster, Christmases come and go. The next one sneaks up before you’re ready and is gone before you enjoy it. But there is a moment. A brief moment as I stand staring in the stillness and quiet. I forget the world but remember the sweet, earthy scent of pine, the soft glow of the lights, and the shiny, sparkling ornaments that I see while hiding under the dining room table in my cozy flannel pj’s before my mother sends me back to bed.

Nepal: Days 4-5 | Kathmadu and the Domestic Airport

Gnima (pronounced Neema) greets us in the hotel lobby with his customary “namaste” with palms pressed and a slight bow. We like Gnima—he is gentle and quiet. And, as we eventually find out, very smart and not particularly assertive. We pile into a rickety taxi with our duffles packed (no more that 15 kg each please) piled on top and head for the domestic airport. We are excited with anticipation at finally making it to the mountains and get a move on. Like Kathmandu traffic, the domestic airport is a scene of chaos. It is packed and noisy with people sitting on the floor or on their luggage, maneuvering for position when an airline rep shows up at the oversized lemonade stands that are airline counters. We shove our way through security to find that flights have been delayed due to weather. Ok, fine. All dressed up and no place to trek, we sit, as Gnima encourages us to do, and wait.

The Kathamandu domestic airport is great for people watching. The room is full of native travelers and foreign trekkers, piles of luggage and cups of milk tea. Birds roost in the rafters and florescent light fixtures and fly about the room. Women seem to be dressed in their finest saris for their journey. Bright reds and yellows, lavenders and greens, pinks and oranges. Two small, young Nepali boys find Chris of interest —being a muscly black man I suppose — as he peruses his “Birds of Nepal” book. They happily bring us cookies and chocolate and giggle off across the room. Too cute for words. But finally, sadly we are sent home early with the rest of the disappointed trekkers. All flights are cancelled for the day and we make our way back to the Annapurna.

Durbar Square is a medieval area of more beautiful and ornate palaces and temples. Since we have an unexpected afternoon, Chris and I have checked the map to find a seemingly easy route to this destination and venture out. By map, a street crosses at an angle and ends up at the entrance to the square. But we discover that our angled street is the shopping and social center of Kathmandu. Pashmina scarves to copper cookware to flip flops are on sale. Sidewalks are piled with unidentifiable clothing items being sold at a frenzied bargain. Being a single lane wide the street is wall to wall with people. Not just people but motorcycles and cars as well all jockeying to get ahead. And lets not forget the incessant honking. We are overwhelmed but keep moving forward, flowing with the slow steady, noisy stream. We squeeze and weave our way between cars and motorbikes. The shopping looked good but neither of us wants to stop. Not being a fan of crowds, it’s way over the top for me and I resist the urge to back myself up to a wall and freeze—anything to get out of the middle of it all. Let’s just get to Durbar Square before I lose it, I think.

Having made it to the square without being trampled, we wander more easily. More drag queen holy men look for paid photo ops from the tourists. A large cow stands motionless and dazed among the temples as if drugged. More cheap souvenirs sellers pop out of shadows or from behind statues. We are followed by wannabe tour guides who don’t take no for an answer. They don’t leave us alone as they ramble on about deities and history even as we turn our backs and walk away. We make our escape to a rooftop cafe to discover a different world above the chaos of Kathmandu street life. Roof gardens mingle with ancient rooftops as Chris and I chow down on dal bhat and rice with vegetables. With the outline of the Himalayas silhouetted against a yellow sky, I sip my lemon soda and watch the many kites flown by youngsters high above along with, coincidentally, kites (birds) circling even higher in the late afternoon sunny haze. But, sadly, we have to leave and psyche ourselves up to wade into the melee of the angled street. We are fully and completely done at this point with crowds and look forward to an evening hiding out behind the guarded gates of the Annapurna.

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Chris and I find our perch at the domestic airport and settle in for another wait for a flight to Lukla. Like the day before, we push our way through security and find the volume on the chaos cranked even higher. Because of the previous days flight cancellations there is a back-up to get out. Luggage is now piled shoulder high in places and the floor is covered with lounging travelers. Our airline’s lemonade stand is crowded with pushy trekkers and guides. We had been hopeful when we woke since the day was obviously clear and bright. Not a cloud in the sky. So we sat parked, attentive and anxious as trekkers filtered out to their flights. I will spare you the dull details, but, again, we do not get on a flight. Again, we make our way back to the Annapurna fairly disgruntled and frayed from 8 hours of waiting with little food except a milk tea and a couple biscuits. It was on this day that we discover Gnima’s non-assertive tendencies as he seemed to circle the airport waiting area aimlessly as we watch the other guides jockeying for flights. We ultimately express our frustration with our trekking agency. We are encouraged to be very buddhist about the situation, “it is how it was meant to be,” we are essentially told. As we see our trekking days shrink, this doesn’t sit well with two agitated New Yorkers. But patience is asked of us, and weather permitting, we will get on a flight the next day.

Photos from this trip can be viewed here.