...pay for tea

View from Landruk

On the first day of our trek we stopped in a little mountainside village called Landruk. We sat down after many long hours of trekking and it felt good, ordered some hot lemon tea and began stripping off anything wet or muddy. We indulged in that wonderfully simple pleasure of taking off your shoes after being in them all day. And then we took off our socks in euphoria. What a sweet truth in life it is that putting on clean socks feels so gratifying, and taking them off does too. There were quite a few young Nepali girls who waited on us, with coconut skin and vanilla bean hair. They flitted around, working, half-playing, watching the strangers that come into their home day after day. They find my inability in Nepali to be a grand comedy and as we get ready to leave the next day in the pouring rain, they chuckle behind veiling hands when I learn how to say "I'm crazy."

But we have an evening in front of us, nestled in the slowly disappearing mountains. A young Dutchman approached us looking for company and we couldn't help but like him and we invited him to join us for the tea that was brewing. We sat and shared stories of home and of culture and of trekking. Nathan's agnostic, we're Christian, and so our conversation even touched on religion and life, as it does often in the non-Western world. We're loud Americans; he's actually Czech, but was raised in the Netherlands. He told us that in the Netherlands people are "cheap" and never pay for one another. Even if you are invited over to eat, be prepared to pay something to help cover the cost. We balked at this, said good-night and he went to his own lodging. He didn't pay for tea. How Dutch.

In the morning we looked for our Dutczech friend, but sadly had to go before he woke up. The torrential downpour was a bit hard to navigate through, anyway. It was here, looking down the face of the mountain, when I said “I’m crazy.” But eventually we got moving. However, we came to discover that what follows is typical. Almost a week later two of us were on our way to dinner in Pokhara and spotted a hairy-faced, v-neck and flat-cap wearing oaf. We laughed and embraced and invited Nathan to eat with us. He accepted, but only for a drink, he said. 

photo cred: Bonnie Cohee

At Shiva's Tea House we shared even more stories and traded pictures of mountains, but as we waited for our food Nathan dove back into questions of religion and faith and life and morality. Nathan is one of the best question-askers I've ever met, and his blunt honesty is why. He ordered a beer and drank it and when we couldn't finish all the momos, he gladly accepted our leftovers. We parted ways again, smiling and satisfied. We bought the food, he bought the beer.

A week later, after we'd arrived back in Kathmandu, we decided it was time to go get some good lattes. Himalayan Java is the Starbucks of Nepal and so we rolled up, bleary-eyed and annoyed by the urban cacophony for some real espresso. We ascended the stairs, turned to sit and were staring directly at a smiling Dutchman. A chorus of love and reunion erupted between hugs and laughter and short stories. We coined the term/hashtag "smc" for "small world connection" and immediately set to posting pictures to Instagram (simonwskold). We all ordered something caffeinated and spent our time sipping in the pleasure of this serial relationship. 

photo cred: Bonnie Cohee

We expressed our growing fondness for each other, exchanged information and gave open invitations to our homes and cities and when Nathan departed in a flurry of smiles and hugs and ‘Namaste’s’, we set about our own business. We even mentioned to one another how much we were blessed and impacted by Nathan’s friendship.

And after an hour or so, we went to leave and asked for the bill. The man behind the counter, however, looked funny and said "that man before paid for you all." Our jaws dropped. We couldn't help but comment (loudly, of course) on how sweet Nathan really is, how much we really do love him and how un-Dutch he'd become.

photo cred: Bonnie Cohee

...celebrate friendship

A couple of days ago it was the worldwide celebration of friendship. I didn't wake up knowing this; it was too early. Before I could know much of anything I was flying into Lakeside (the touristy part of Pokhara next to Phewa Lake) to meet my dear friend Raaz for a bike ride. We had planned to go on a substantial ride together with one of his friends, Sudess. So we met up, strapped up and were off before the shops were opening. Later that morning a couple of texts came in to phones handled by sweaty, tired Nepalis who informed me that, apparently, it was Friendship Day. 

Those hands were sweaty and tired because the three of us were biking in Nepal, which never goes as flat as one would hope it would go. No, instead we spent a solid 4 hours climbing Himalayan foothills on bike. It was exhausting.

There is a place high above Lakeside from where the paragliders leap and soar. This is a big tourist attraction and brings in substantial monies for the Nepali. You can see them up in the sky, like great colorful birds enjoying the breeze, like a swarm circling, searching for prey below. And yet, on our bikes we looked down on them. I kept saying, "We're crazy."

But you have to be a bit crazy to bike around in Nepal. I thanked God every time I successfully made it through a certain intersection on my way between where I was staying and Lakeside. I grew quickly thankful for horns because drivers would use them as they approached and at least then I knew to glide as far left as possible. Yes, left, they drive on the left here. 

Yet, however crazy, it was a friendship day well-spent. We reveled in it once the climb was over. We hit pavement again and went downhill. For six solid minutes. That doesn't sound too impressive, but watch the clock and see how long just one minute is, and then realize we were flying downhill for six of them. I wondered if I'd get altitude sickness, but we stopped before we even reached the bottom. Sudess took us up a side road and then down through the thicket where the sound of rushing water rose. We had made it to the swimming spot, a gorgeous, clean river descending down from Macchupucchre, the holy mountain also known as Fishtail Mountain.

We stripped down to our underwear and left our sweaty clothes out to dry in the intense heat (which made our climb that much more enjoyable, actually). And for over a half-hour we sat in the refreshing current, allowed the stampede to massage our body and the purity to take away all our grime. We spent some time just laughing. "This is like Paradise," said Raaz who initially wasn't going to get in until he saw the change in us, the pleasure that relaxed our faces, when we submerged ourselves. 

Indeed, it was a friendship day well-spent. When the ride was over we ate a couple helpings of Dal Bhat--no, we eagerly ate a couple helpings of Dal Bhat. And then I hopped onto the bike, which is also a friend's, and rode over to her house. And that night I went home to where I was staying: the spacious blue home of another friend. 

But the friendships all had to take another form, for Bonnie and I had to leave Pokhara for Kathmandu where we would fly elsewhere. We decided we wanted some more time with our friends and less time on a bumpy, hot, annoying, strangely-tiring, seven-hour bus ride. So we bought plane tickets and were there in twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes. It cost sixty-four dollars and when we landed in twenty-five minutes--did I mention that yet?--I decided that it was the best sixty-four dollars I ever spent. 

And though Kathmandu is the worst place to have to be after Pokhara, even if it took just twenty-five minutes y'all--twenty-five!--we fortunately found ourselves in an area not so afflicted with all those diseases of Kathmandu. The afternoon--which we had because we took a plane that lasted only twenty-five minutes(!!)--was spent at a children's home that is run by the family of our good friend Paul. The twenty-something children and teenagers that live there sang for us, introduced themselves, and let us peek into their lives. Most of them were studying for exams, though, so we left them to their studies and had a delicious meal instead. It was a lovely time, and had not some parcels of luggage been in Thamel waiting for us, we might have just stayed. 

We sat on the roof in a sweet breeze from atop the lime green boys' house and looked around at all the great cake-houses of Kathmandu. These crazy colors would only fly in certain neighborhoods in the States, but here yellows, pinks, blues and purples all sit side by side, like a row in Cake Boss' display. It is a farther cry from the Middle East, where the local stones cover every building.

Here in Amman, it is uniform, and I like it that way, for it is just like Palestine. The cakes people live in color Nepal; here the Earth they walk on rises and shelters. And so my thoughts tumble backwards to those friends I have said "see you" to, and forward to those friends I have said "I'm coming" to.

And in the aloneness of Amman, they keep me company.

...piqué interest

The foothills are something even pictures cannot grasp, and my words certainly hold little power to contain them. Shrouded in mist they play hide and seek, with great, strong bodies that house intricate arteries of rivers and ribboning, dancing falls. They are a deep, untouched green, and they metamorphose into heavenly beasts; covered in eyes they always look at me. As I humbly place each one of my strides on their bones, I find gratitude in the muscle of Earth below me, and below the mountain, and below that. And how they launch me into the Heavens.

There is power here; the river rages and surges with it, the mountain quietly keeps it, the air pulls, passes and pours it. I am so small, and as I cross a wooden bridge or come face to face with a leaping cliff, I am reminded of it with clarity. 

And step-by-step we climb, passing the humble homes of mountain dwellers who hike briskly in flip-flops and rubber boots. Cows and water buffalo moo in the uncomfortable rain, chickens peck pathetically, pausing to shake the water from their feathers and ruffle and re-ruffle themselves. A dog joins us, walking ahead and waiting, watching, perhaps protecting and caring for these bipedal strangers. Four children send warning shrieks from under their umbrellas to ward off the monkeys from their family's maturing corn. Three older, wrinkled, calloused, tanned men and women crush rocks with a small hammer. A bare-breasted woman with suckling child sit on their porch we so invasively pass, and many men and women of all ages carry baskets of greens on their backs, supported by a cloth strap that rests on their crown like a bandanna. To each of these we greet with our hands held together in prayer, Namaste, and they return it. From under their plastic coverings some of the friendlier ones say 'Pani! Pani!' with a smile on their face. Pani means water and they chuckle at our sopping state. I agree with them through tone. Yes, Pani. Tons of it. 

It is monsoon season in Nepal; I have never been so soaked for so long. Some of the best gear is defeated by this onslaught. Wet to the core, we continue to climb to keep warm, and we make good time for it. The real enemy are those slimy suckers that come with the rain. Perched on leaves, trees, rocks leeches attach themselves to passing flesh. When we finally take off our shoes we have endlessly leaking wounds to attend to. A cheesecloth-covered ball of salt is our weapon in removing them as we climb, but some make it through all our defenses. When I finally remove one and kill it, I watch it bleed my own blood. How audacious. 

But we finally make it to Hotel Milan high up in Ghandruk. If the clouds clear we will see the glorious snows of the Annapurna Himalayan Mountain Range. Those are the real beauties. In another season we could climb to the top, but monsoon season makes for snow-storms that are not to be reckoned with too audaciously--we wouldn't want the mountains to make us bleed our own blood, so we tread humbly. For now, we hope just for a peek. 

As we dry and tend to wounds and eat a large lunch the mist and clouds pass and dissipate and we become more and more excited, anticipating what lies behind them. Across the valley a lonely structure manifests and I wonder what it could be, with nothing around it, the closest village half a cliff away, who lives there? What do they eat? How do they even get there? The mysteries of the Himalayas continue on...

And then, in the light of morning, when the clouds haven't yet had time to cover the hills, we finally see behind the veil, and oh!--what a change! Suddenly I'm even smaller. Those mountaintops I was so moved by, whose height I was so impressed with, and breadth in awe of--they become, well, hills. Monstrous, gorgeous, green and white--pure white--peaks have been towering above us all this whole time. So quickly my perspective changes. In just a small space between the creeping clouds I see the rising thrust of Fishtail and my hike, my view, my very self, have all shrunk. In the presence of giants we see ourselves as we ought.

But the sight is short lived. From over the hilltops comes the covering. It hugs the mountainside like a woolen blanket. Like a fleece is sits and contours to the shape of the rolling, jutting earth. Within minutes we can't even see the tops of the hills, our horizon is blurred out, and we are back to a world only meters wide and long. But I'm no bigger; I know now, and I cannot forget what greatness lies all around me: the peaks of the Annapurna.