Kathmandu - Part One

I arrived by bus to a different place than I'd expected, apparently in the far North end of Kathmandu. Since I was on a tourist bus, I expected to be at Thamel or nearby, but alas, no. Of course, I was greeted by the hotel touts and cab drivers, trying to overcharge the new arrivals. I tried to orientate myself so I could walk to Freak Street, where I planned to find my room, nothing in Kathmandu is too far away, but I didn't even know where I was; I was forced to take the pricey taxi. He took me to Freak Street, which is the original hangout of all the old hippies who flocked to Nepal in the sixties. At one time, it was the center of the action, with ridiculously cheap rooms and food, only a few feet south of Durbar Square, the main tourist attraction of central Kathmandu. Now, the flocks head to Thamel, where after my one night a month and half ago, I vowed to never return, unless absolutely necessary. Freak Street was now a quiet area with a few hotels, all quite cheap still. The restaurants are cheaper than in Thamel and still draw some old hippies, but the locals seemed to have reclaimed the neighborhood, which was fine by me. A guy greeted me with a business card the second I opened my door.

"You need room?"

"Nah, I'll find one myself." Typically, the people pushing rooms will get a commission; the traveler getting a higher rate.

"It's a good room, quiet."

"How much?"

"200."

"Ok, where is it." I decided to follow the man. I doubted I'd find much cheaper. He lead me away from Freak Street, down a winding street, past a market square and into an alley. He was right about the quiet part. The whole way there, he kept trying to sell me on the place until I finally burst out. "Hey man, I'm walking with you ain't I? I'll see the place."

Right before we entered the hotel, he pulled a bag of hash and a bag of weed out of his pocket, "You like to smoke?"

"No thanks!"

The room was very nice, clean, with a great view of the city. I had my own private bathroom and a running lukewarm shower. For 200 rupees in the center of a major city, this was a steal. It was out of the tourist area, but only five minutes from Freak Street and Durbar Square, so if I wanted internet or western food, I was set.

It was evening on my arrival, so I merely checked my email, orientated myself a bit and had a meal of momos and the world's tiniest chicken burger, burned into a crunchy brown wafer on a giant bun (Where the beef, I mean, chicken?). My bed was comfortable and the room was quiet, until 6:00am when the roosters woke me up. A person has to love being the middle of city of 5 million people, yet still hear roosters at dawn.

I ventured to the hilltop temple of Swayambhunath, nicknamed the "Monkey Temple" for its difficulty of pronunciation and the large population of rhesus macaques that dwell on the grounds. When I arrived at the east stairs, I was shocked by the lack of monkeys; I feared I wouldn't see any. My fears were quickly alleviated when I came across a sole monkey, sitting next to gorgeous golden Buddha statue. It was a beautiful climb up the hill, past many smalls stupas, through some woods. These were nothing compared the great stupa at the top. It was massive, towering over the whole city, prayer flags ribboning in four directions form the center, with monkey hanging from every point, ignorant of the religious significance or beauty. I wandered the grounds, the great eyes of Buddha watching me at every point. The monkey which I'd hoped so much to see were quickly becoming irritating, fighting at my feet, blocking paths with much intimidation, sliding down the hand rails, the alphas, protecting their territory with wild shrieking. Although cute in zoos, wild monkeys are aggressive, dirty, carriers of rabies. They are still a little cute. I tried my best unsuccessfully to keep my distance. The temple was quite stunning itself, but the monkeys gave it its own special ambiance.

I walked back to my hotel through Thamel, glad I wasn't staying there. I did stop for a glass of real Himalayan coffee, which was quite the treat after drinking so much instant coffee. Honestly, the instant coffee is not so bad, especially when made with hot milk, but nothing beats the real deal.

The worst part of Thamel is the street workers. Always feigning friendship, the walk, engaging conversation, telling stories, sometimes they stick for ten minutes and just when it seems as if you've made a new friend, they offer to sell you hash, only to disappear after turning them down. Walking South, I passed many hidden temples everywhere. Kathmandu is one of the great wandering cities. Getting lost in the many alleys and side streets is one of the joys of the city. Every odd corner has something interesting, a stupa, a small shrine or temple. Walking through Kathmandu is equally frustrating. The streets are so narrow, there is barely enough room for a single car, much less the droves of foot traffic and endless motorbikes. The best way is to stick to the left and trust the vehicles won't run down.

My next day was dedicated to Kathmandu's Durbar square. The Kathmandu valley was the home to various small kingdoms and the old palace lies in the square. The government doesn't operate from there anymore, but it still stands as a concentrated collection of old architecture from the 16th and 17th centuries. The temples are quite neat and the Durbar Square is a good way to observe the religious customs and intricate carvings without seeming too imposing. There are enough tourists doing the same. IF one looks closely enough, many of the roof's carvings are quite erotic, showing scenes of a typical missionary position, next to threesomes, next to threesomes involving a horse. Hinduism seems like one crazy religion! The most extravagent is the great pagoda style temple that towers over the square. It is the tallest building in town.

I wandered, people watched, and studied the buildings up close for a few hours. Since it was a holiday, everyday seems to be, the inner square was closed, leaving me with more time for the day. I figured I'd go to Thamel, find a book and a map of Langtang National Park so I could plan my upcoming trek. I saw a narrow inviting arcade, so I ventured in, finding the office for The Last Resort, owners of the giant bungee. I actually wanted to visit the place anyway; the bungee was tantalizing. I was just rounding a corner when a familiar voice called me.

Chitwan National Park: Part 2

That night, we walked to the neighboring resort to watch a Tharu culture show. Most featured stick dancing, where they dance in a circle to drums and bang sticks together in time with the music. It bordered on a martial art, each person hitting sticks with their two neighbors. First, there was a single long stick, followed by dancing with two shorter sticks, which was more spectacular. The performance was interesting if unprofessional. In the hands of more skilled dancers, this could be an impressive feat of coordination. As it was, it was still impressive and interesting. For the final dance, they invited people from the crowd to join, and I was one of them of course. As if I would just sit and watch. This dance however, thankfully, did not feature sticks. It was still a workout and quite fun to join a dance I didn't know. I just followed the man in front of me and mimicked his movements as much as possible. I guess watching foreigners embarrassingly stumble through this is part of the charm.

My next morning started with an elephant ride. I was disappointing to learn that breakfast was after the ride. But after it started, I realized this was for the better; riding an elephant is not a smooth, comfortable ride, each step rocking the platform on their backs around. We loaded on from a laddered platform, though the driver who sits on the more peaceful next, had an elevator up. He taped the elephants head, cuing it lower its trunk and lift him to the back.

The ride was not actually in the nation park, but in a community forest on the outskirts. These forests still have ample wildlife. I was a bit annoyed by the trip. I imagined a peaceful stroll through the morning jungle, riding on a moving raised platform. Instead, I shared my ride with a Nepali couple who talked the whole time, oblivious to the concept of natural serenity. These are always the same types of people who complain about never seeing any wildlife. Alas, we were still able to see a few barking deer, sleeping under trees. When they noticed us, they did not flee, seeming more confused by the random people on the elephant instead of scared. I must admit that the ride was still pleasant. Plus, I can't think I'd bee riding anymore elephants much in my life.

I was not impressed by the treatment of the elephants. The drivers all had bamboo sticks which they tapped on the sides of the elephant's heads to steer them. Sometimes, when they reacted too slowly, our driver would slap the elephant very hardly, prompting an uncomfortable scream in pain. I don't much agree with whipping animals, especially when they are not being noncompliant. This would not be the most uncomfortable moment of the day.

That afternoon, my guide defied the wishes of his boss, taking me to his home instead of the original "authentic" Tharu village tour from the package. Along the way, we bumped into his brother, home for a few weeks from his gas pumping job in Dubai. Like his younger brother, he worked as a park guide for a while. We all sat down for a chat at the school yard.

His brother was dressed in a designer t-shirt with fashionable jeans, his hair carefully styled. When he walked, he strutted like a mafioso.

"So, I have a question." he asked in the shade of a lonely sal tree.

"Ok."

"So, how much you make in the USA?"

"Oh, well, I am a waiter, so I don't make too much."

"How much, one day?"

Whenever a Nepali asked about my income, I had to fight a strong desire to lie. "Maybe 7000 rupees one day."

"You know how much money my little brother make?"

I shook my head. Bhutwan sat quietly, shyly.

"He make 4000 rupees."

"Ok."

"In one month!"

I sat agape. Bhutwan worked nearly every day, sometimes for the whole day and only made $50 a month. "Wow. That's no good."

"No good, my friend."

I tried not to think that I had three months of his wages sitting in my wallet, maybe enough money for me to live for the next ten day in Nepal.

"In Dubai, much better. I make 20,000 rupees in one month, maybe more with tips. Now I can save much money. Some I send to my family."

While speaking, three of the village children ran up to him, smiling. He looked back and opened his wallet, giving five rupees to each child. They immediately ran away.

"I remember my older brother, he work in Australia for one year. I was a child. HE came back for a festival and gave me 150 rupees. I was rich! So now, I make the children happy."

A minute later, the more children, hearing of his benevolent charity came to him, expecting money.

"Many people in village, they go to USA, they go to Quatar, Dubai to work. My brother have good jobs. Others in village, they work on farm, they make 1000 rupees in a month." This was my daily allowance, an easy hour of work for me back at home.

"How much can you save in one month, in USA?"

Another question I was uncomfortable answering. Though I have a reletively low paying job by US standards, I have a particular knack for saving money. I delicately explained my lack of materialism, my extremely modest lifestyle and how I can save $1000 am month with little difficulty.

"See, I want to work in other country one year, two years, and save a lot of money, then build a hotel. I have land from my grandpa already, so not too difficult. Can I save $5000 in USA in one year?"

"This is possible, but you have to live simple life, no TV, no cigarettes, only a little beer. You have to cook your own food."

"This is ok." Three more kids broke the short silence and he gave them 20 rupees, instructing them to share.

After they left. "Australia is better for saving money dude. Life is cheaper, you can find better pay, but the work is often very hard." I explained. "Plus, it's closer, the flights are less."

"How much can I save?"

Halfway through the details, an American hip-hop songs started playing and he removed his fancy phone, though not an internet phone (it was still more advanced than mine at home)and answered. He put on his little headphones and waved goodbye.

Bhutwan who had said not a word the whole time, finally spoke, "money is too important for my brother. Money is not so important."

"As long as you have food, a place to sleep, and good people in your life, money is nothing."

"With family, you are more rich. So, we go to my home, we have raksi and dal bhat from my mother."

His home was only a short walk away. We entered a dirt yard, crowded with ducks and chickens. I was beckoned to sit on a bench in front, with a bamboo mat reserved for company.

"Now my mother she make dal bhat."

We sat, watching the birds, every few moments, an uncle, brother, or other family member would pass in their work, harvesting the rice, trying to finish as much as possible before the looming darkness set.

"You like my home?" Bhutwan asked.

I looked around the humble, bare yard. There wasn't too much there but the feeling of lingering peace that only a happy family can create. "Yeah, it's nice. Very relaxing."

"Yes, I think it is good too." He said, beaming.

It was then that his mother, appearing much younger than her 48 years of age, came out and invited us inside for dinner. The inside was even more humble than the yard. We moved the bamboo mat to the ground inside and sat cross-legged upon it. The kitchen was a small gas stove in the back right corner. Five beds were placed around the house, which in total,the size of my living room back home.

"Which is your bed?" I asked.

"Ah, this one." he said, patting the one right behind us. Two others, one behind and one at its foot were all cluttered together in a big mas. There was a small partition on the opposite side of the room with a curtain, separating the stove from the two other beds.

"So your sister and your mother sleep there?" I pointed to the separate "room".

"Yes, women there."

His mother came in scooping a giant mount of rice onto a plate and gave it to me with a bowl of dal. Next was a pitcher of water and a tray over which we washed our hands. Finally a large helping of cooked leafy vegetables, saag, was scooped on top of the rice. There was of course no silverware. I was glad I'd already broken into hand eating two nights before.

"I'm not so good at eating with my hands."

"No, you do good."

A pile of rice was forming on my lap and on the ground around me. There was no table to lift the food closer to my mouth.

"I'm making a bad mess."

"It is ok."

The food was good, but simple, the main seasoning was simple salt. After an extra helping of dal and saag, I was getting very full. Also, it was the type of meal that gets more difficult to choke down with each successive bite. Good, but bland food at some point always get rejected by my body. I was unable to finish my plate.

"I can't finish my plate."

"It is ok."

"But I feel bad. I want to finish. I don't want to be impolite to your mother."

"It is ok."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

His mother cleared our plates and poured me a giant glass of her homemade raksi. It was delicious, some of the best I'd had, but hard, almost more of a spirit than a wine. There was only one glass.

"Aren't you having any?" I asked.

"My mother doesn't know I drink. She don't drink either, so I no tell her I drink."

"She makes one hell of a raksi for somebody who does't drink."

"You like?" Bhutwan asked.

"Yeah, it's great. Strong, but delicious."

I sat there and sipped on the raksi, getting a little buzzed while silently listening to the Nepali music on the radio. I looked around, hearing the sad love songs, and realized the radio was the nicest thing they owned. I had many similar radios wasting away in my closet. The family did seem happy with the literal nothing material they owned. The was decorated with an old broken plow. The dirt floor was immaculately swept, except for the pile of rice on the ground before me.

"You are very quiet. What are you thinking?" Bhutwan broke the silence.

"Oh nothing specific. I'm always thinking about something." I figured I should offer something to her mother for her hospitality. For this family, offering me a meal was quite the charity. "Should I offer your mother money for the food?"

"Oh no! It is ok."

"You sure."

"It is ok."

I left humbled. How could I in my life ever again think I had nothing? My backpack had more luxuries than this entire family of six. To think if I gave only $15 to a person in this village, I would double their income. I vowed to stop thinking so much about my own money, because by the world's standards, I was quite wealthy.

We walked back to the hotel where I had a second dinner waiting for me; it was included in my package. I forced it down guiltily. My plate had more variety than the locals get throughout the year. While eating, the manager sat down with me to discuss the next day.

"Tomorrow, you go back to Kathmandu?

"That was my plan."

"The bus leaves at 9:30 and will cost 500 rupees."

"Oh, my bus to Kathmandu is included."

"No, it's separate."

"The agent in Lumbini told me it was included."

"No, you have to buy."

"Ok, sir, when he told me the price, which was high."

"Oh, price is not so high."

"No, this tour is no better than any of the many others offered by the hotels here. I talk to people. I do my research. Some people pay 5000 rupees. I even found a package for 4000. When the guy in Lumbini told me 6000 rupees, I said it was too high, so he included transport back to Kathmandu in my package."

"Impossible. You have to pay 500 rupees." This was a rippoff, I knew.

"Fine then. If I have to pay, then I'll take the local bus."

He was taken aback by my shift by countered, "Local bus is no good, so crowded."

"I like the local bus, I've taken it many times. You meet people and have fun. Tourist buses are overpriced and boring. I just go from Tandi bazaar then I can find a bus back to Kathmandu, it's very simple."

"Jeep to Tandi is 400 rupees."

"400 rupees?"

"Yes."

It is difficult to not get angry when someone is looking you in the eyes and blatantly telling a lie,but then I remembered my vow from earlier in the evening and remained calm. The tourist bus would only be a few dollars more, so I let it go.

"Fine then, I'll take the tourist bus."

I left with Bhutwan towards the village for some raksi. He had heard most of our conversation. "How much did he charge you for bus?"

"500."

"500! The bus only cost maybe 300 maximum. He overcharge. I do not like this man. Alway cheating cheating."

"I knew he was lying, but it's only a little money."

"Money is too important for him, always cheating."

"I could have gotten angry and yell, but this makes me a bad man, like him. I stay calm, everything shanti shanti; you know. I will not be the bad man. Him, if he want to be bad, then he have bad karma you know. I want good karma."

"Yes."

We stopped by a little restaurant that sold raksi for 50 a bottle. The raksi was ok and we drank it with some fried buffalo choela. With us was a young British tattoo artist who was traveling around Nepal, offering her services to various parlors in exchange for food and lodging. She wasn't bad from the photos she showed. I played some Radiohead, who we both shared as our favorite band, while playing with the didi's child. It was a happy night until I got the bill. By bottle, the woman meant a small glass. The wine and the meat cost a total of 350 rupees, enough for a great meal at a high end restaurant.

"I can't believe she charge 350!" said Bhutwan after leaving.

"Yeah, that's ridiculous! It wasn't even very good."

We complained to each other about the price the whole way back to hotel.

Chitwan National Park: Part 1

Nepal boasts two great jungle parks, the popular Chitwan and the more secluded Bardia, in the far west. My plan was to visit Bardia, since Chiwan seemed more commodified. Bardia, since it is less popular, is also a little more expensive. I made some inquiries and did some internet research, but most hotels seemed bent on selling expensive package tours that I could not afford. A person can just go there and buy what they want, but it is more difficult. Public transportation will only go to Ambassa, about seven miles from the park's accommodation, so special transport would be needed for the park. I emailed one budget place and tried to make a booking, but I received no reply. Buses from Lumbini take about 12 hours to get to the park, so barring a trip on the infamously deadly night buses, it would be impossible to arrive during the day and there are few traveling experiences more intimidating than arriving at a strange place at night without a booking. Therefore, I abandoned my hopes for Bardia; I was stuck with the jungle Disneyland of Chitwan.

A plus of Chitwan is the ease of visiting. So many visitors come through, all inclusive packages can run quite cheap. These packages are pretty interchangeable, they include food lodging, a canoe ride, a short jungle walk, an elephant ride, bird watching, and a culture show, featuring the intriguingly named "stick dancing". I didn't want all these things, only a full day guided jungle hike and an elephant ride and if I have some time, see what a stick dance is all about. I made the mistake of visiting a tour agents to arrange a self designed package. The man could only assure me a half day walk, which was three more hours than most packages, a jeep ride, which was nice because it would take me deeper into the park than walks, and the essential elephant ride. The package was a bit pricey, but after getting the man to include transport back to Kathmandu, I agreed in a moment of weakness. This was my mistake.

I don't wish to imply that the packages are a bad choice per se: they have the ease of not having to walk around an unknown place, trying to arrange all the activities, but they take away freedom, cost too much, and put the customer onto the assembly line; and since they already have your money, you are at their mercy.

I took a series of local buses to get to Tandi, a few miles from the park settlement at Sauraha. I was pleased to see a jeep awaiting my arrival. Within minutes of dropping my bags, my young trainee guide Bhutwan, took me for a short walk to the river, where a one-horned rhino, the poster animal of the park, was spotted. It was great, I got to tick one animal off the list so quickly. At least I knew I wouldn't be skunked.

After that, we walked to the bank of the main river to watch the sunset. This marked the border of the park; ferries are essential to visit. The sunset over the jungle was quite nice; the Terai skies seem unable to develop many clouds, at least in this time of the year, so the sun just dropped as a small orange orb, sinking into the sal trees. My guide and I sat and chatted, absorbing the river, watching the tour groups emerge from the forest to catch their ferry. Even though there were people everywhere, it was still relaxing to hear the jungle awaken as the light vanished.

We returned to the hotel for some dal bhat and chicken curry, which were quite nice. A beautiful young Israeli woman in Tansen told me of her experience with eating dal bhat with her hands. I decided to add this experience to the list that night. Numerous times I'd watched Nepali's eat with their right hand, mixing a little dal into the rice, stirring it a bit, then add a chunk of potato or other random vegetable from the tarkari, mixing it all up with a twisting motion. The tube that emerges is scooped up and pressed into a little ball and tossed into the mouth, without dropping any rice. Some people think that chopsticks are complicated! It was more difficult than I ever imagined it to be. Too much dal and it become a soupy mess, too little and it has no flavor. My first few bites were pathetic, dropping food, messing up my face. When I'd put food in my mouth, my thumb was in the way. Finally, I figured how to use my four main fingers as a scoop, then push the food into my fingers with the thumb. i then had to tuck the thumb back before bringing the food into my mouth; it not only kept out of the way, but then I could carefully drag my thumb across my fingers, pushing the food into my mouth. This method worked great and it seemed to impress the hotel staff who had already started calling me "Nepali guy" because of the Dhaka topi. I put a note in my head to practice this skill. I would be in hand eating countries for a while longer; impressing potential families with my great hand eating skills when invited to their home would be great. This prospect also seemed nice, since it is quite fun to eat with the hands.

The head guide sat down with me after I finished my food. "How did you enjoy the Tharu village tour?" He asked wide eyed, as if I'd just seen a tiger.

"I haven't taken any village tour."

"Did you go to the river?"

"Yeah."

"Ok," he pulled out a brochure for the resort. "That was Tharu village tour." He pointed to the heading on the brochure and crossed it off with his index finger. I didn't remember a village, but I didn't expect a tour anyway. "Tomorrow, you wake up, 6 o'clock, eat breakfast, then canoe ride. You come back here, eat lunch, then jungle walk."

"Oh, how long is the jungle walk?"

"Maybe one and one half hour."

"I was told it was longer, a half day tour."

"No, only one and one half hour."

"Then next day, wake up, elephant ride, then after that, bird watching."

"No jeep?"

"No, jeep is 4 day package." he explained.

"My package had a jeep ride, and a long jungle walk, but no bird watching. I really don't care about bird watching."

"No, this is the package."

"I paid extra money for a special package. Didn't anyone tell you?"

"It's ok, it's ok. I call agency." It was good to know everyone was communicating so well. After a phone call, it was all worked out and I was getting what I ordered. After dinner, my guide and I walked around the tourist area, then stopped at a local bar for some lokal, which is the same as raksi.

The next morning was the part of my visit I most anticipated, a four hour walk through the rhino and tiger infested jungle. I was very fortunate, my walk was just my guide and me. Most groups were a bit large, which is more likely to scare away the wildlife. We passed a couple of guides who were surprised by our small group sized. One said, "Ah, very dangerous, two people. Are you scared?" I wasn't. I must have a faulty amygdala, because I rarely have the fear response of most people in "dangerous" situations. Truthfully, the chances of anything happening are quite low, just seeing animals is a lucky break, but there is a danger of being killed. Ultimately, the main goal of all the jungle activities is to spot the elusive Bengal tiger. The irony is that if a person does have the fortune of seeing the great king of the jungle, the only goal is then to find a way to get away from it. Rhinos when angry can kill with ease. Also to be feared is the sloth bear, an anteater like bear that has an affinity for attacking the face and genitals. Before entering the jungle, my guide explained the best ways to avoid dying. And if all else fails, he had a heavy bamboo stick.

Sadly, I needed none of his tips. The only animals from which I could possibly defend myself were birds, wild chickens, and the docilely deadly spotted dear. Seeing lots of harmful animals does not determine the quality of the walk. Chitwan's jungle is gorgeous and relaxing and merely being there made the hike worthwhile.

That afternoon, I took a jeep safari deep into the jungle. The only jeep that has any chance of seeing anything is the first and we were that jeep. We didn't see too much though. During this time of year, the grasses are nearly ten feet high, providing much cover; in one month, the villagers will cut most of the grass, making it the best time to visit. We saw two wild boar rummaging through the ground of a small settlement before we reached the gharial breeding center.

Gharial are river dwelling members of the crocodile family. They differ primarily in their mouth shape, which is a long tube, almost like sticks coming out of their heads, sharp toothed sticks. The increase of people in the terai and Northern India have threatened the species. The center has been doing a great job of raising the populations, shipping them throughout the subcontinent. It wasn't really nature watching, but it was neat to see such odd creatures.

As we left the center, we heard of a rhino sighting nearby. We walked a little while, then caught the jeep for another minute until we reached the rhino. It stood, munching on the tall grass in big mouthfuls, indifferent to our presence. After five minutes, it started to walk towards us, coming within ten feet. The one-horned rhino is like a giant steel cow with a big horn. Their weight much be incredible; it just looked like a dense creature. It then eyed us and came closer, marking our cue to depart. The sighting was quite special and finally quieted the annoying Chinese girl in our jeep who before was asking incessantly, "Where are all the animals?"

A kilometer down the road, we saw another, but it ran off into the grasses when we arrived. We spotted some barking deer, but they were but a flash of brown in the thicket. I stood up in the back, head above the cab, watching the jungle fly by, while ducking under low branches and high grasses. The jeep ride turned out to be great, overcoming my skepticism.

My Dhaka Topi

I've never been one for souvenieers. In my younger years of travels, I collected many things, bought trinkets like a small chunk of the Berlin wall or shell necklaces from Hawaii, but I found those things just spent their lives in unmarked boxes in my parents' garage. There is one exception to this, hats.

For some reason, I like to collect hats. On of my last days of work after five years at UDS, I asked for one souvenieer, a chef's hat. In Australia, I returned with no boomerang, no whooping spinning thing on a string, no didgereedoo, only an acubra, the bushman's hat. My on item I wanted in remembrance of my grandfather was his styling stetson hat. I rarely wear such items. I once wore the stetson to work and was mocked by my coworkers, until my manager emerged with a sombrero. (which reminds me, I don't have one of those!). My acubra is my lawnmowing hat. The chef's hat, well it lives in an unmarked box in parents' garage, but it is still dear to my heart.

The only hat in China I wanted was a tiny white hat that was only worn by the Chinese muslims. I didn't search one out because I wasn't sure if there was any religious significance (I'm sure it means they went to Mecca or something along those lines). Tibet had some great hats, but these were reserved for elder monks and would not fit, undamaged into my backpack.

The Dhaka topi, the traditional hat of Nepal is fantastic! There are colorful oranges, blues, reds, greens, woven in repeated patterns, resembling a quilted leopard. They are not patchwork, but they have such an appearance. Mostly elder men wear them, rolling the extra fabric on top to give it a triangular peak. I really wanted one, but I was intimidated to buy one.

Finally in Tansen, I saw a row of shops selling them and knew this was my chance. I tried a couple, but then just picked one randomly. Mine was small, lacking the excess fabric to roll the top, but it still looked nice enough, almost like a fez. (hmm, that can go on the list too)

At first, I was afraid to wear it around. Since it was only worn by elders, I feared it may be a sign of wisdom and respect or a symbol of fatherhood. I looked at myself in the hotel mirror, thinking that it was a stylish hat, but I still couldn't muster the gumption to leave. Finally, the time came when I went to the store across the street for a snack. The storekeeper gave me a smile, but offered no adverse reaction, so I gained some courage and wore it the rest of the day, much to the amusement of the locals.

I was affectionately given the title, "Nepali guy." and everyone, no matter where I went with hat called me that.

At first, a person would say, "Hey Nepali guy!" and laugh a little. This laugh would always change to a kind of respect, realizing that on my head, I was wearing an outward interest in Nepali culture. They would then engage me in conversation, always asking me what I liked so much about Nepal. (And of course the answer was, "The hats!")

It is sometimes a little embarrassing, especially with young men, with backwards baseball caps, themselves are crowned with their interest in my own culture. Maybe they were confused as to why I chose to have the fashion of an old man. I like my hat though and I wear it proudly as my souvenieer from this wonderful country.

History of the Buddha: Part One

Many years ago, 563 BC to be exact, there lived a great princess from the the kingdom of Deulha, named Maya Devi. She was the wife of the great Suddhodana. As often happens with married couples, Maya Devi became pregnant. One day while heavily pregnant, she was traveling between her and her husbands kingdoms and was feeling a bit hot. Fetuses have the tendency to create such feelings. She saw a peaceful pond near a sal forest near the road.

"What a lovely place for a dip!" She thought, exclamation included, and went to bathe. Suddenly, while in the pool, her water broke and she went into labor. "Oh," she said. "I think I'm having my baby now!" but the labor hit her so strongly, she only had enough time to walk 25 steps to a sal tree before she grabbed a branch and popped out the child.

"Never mind, I already had it. "She told her companions who watched the whole scene dumbfounded by the ease of the birth. "Gosh, my mother said having a baby was painful and hard, this must have the been the most peaceful birth ever." And it probably was. The baby sat there quietly and relaxed, his famous disposition already showing.

The next day, she presented the child to her husband.

"So this is our child?" asked Suddhodana

"This is our son."

"Oh goody! A son! I knew you were good for something!"

"You are a very lucky, husband, that I am still quite tired from the birth. Have your ever read Andy Cap? Cause I'd envelop you in a cloud of dust immediately!" Maya Devi was not one to messed with.

"I think we should name him.....Samir!"

"Samir Gautama?" she glared at him.

"Ok, how about.....Hank?"

"We'll call him Siddhartha."

"I like the sound of that name, it kinda just rolls off the tongue."

Maya Devi looked down upon her child. "I've got a good feeling about this one."

"Me too! A son! My little Hank..erm Siddhartha."

"He will be great, maybe a king or a wise teacher."

"A king! I feel it too! He'll be a great king of kings, like this Jesus guy I'm always hearing about.

"I've never heard of such a man," Maya Devi replied. This was, of course, because Suddhodana had a great reputation for anachronism.

"He will be a king, and like all great kings, the best way to prepare him for a successful rule over his people is to shelter him completely from them." said the king.

And so Suddhodana did shelter his son in the palace at Kapilauastu for 29 years. Maya Devi died shortly after her son's birth. Siddhartha married, had a son and lived a rich life. But the life did not breed contentment in the young prince.

"Father, ya know, life here in the palace is pretty bitchin'and all that, but what is it like outside?"

"Son, outside is only suffering. I have gone to great lengths to ensure you do not know suffering."

"What is suffering?"

"Ah! Then that shows that I have done a great job as a father. Ho ho."

"But I want to know."

"Ok son, I'll tell you what is out there. Outside the palace are old people and sick people and poor people and the worst, the worst are the dead people. These are the types of things that cause existential crises. It's just better to never think of these things."

This, however, was not good enough for the young Siddhartha. So he left the palace one day and went into the world outside. Just outside the gates, he met an old man sitting on the ground.

"Hey, what's up with your face?"

"What do you mean, kind prince?"

"You've got lines across your face, like a sultana."

"I'm old."

"What's that?"

"When years pass, living in the hot sun, your face withers until you're an ugly wretch like myself."

"Hmmm, interesting." Siddhartha merrily walked on and saw a man lying on the ground coughing. "Hey, why are you coughing so much?"

"I'm sick, I've been coughing for many years."

"Why don't you just suck on a nice lozenge, I quite partial to the honey lemon flavor, myself. What's your favorite?"

"I'm not a prince. I don't have any lozenges. In fact, I don't even know what a lozenge is."

"I thought everyone had lozenges?"

"Nope, just you."

"Hmmm. Interesting." He was astounded by all the realities in front of him. This did not discourage him from continuing though. Down the road he came across a dirty man in tattered clothes, a portrait of poverty. "Why are your clothes so frayed and torn?"

"I'm poor."

"Poor?"

"I ain't got no money."

"Just go to the tailor, he'll make some good clothes" He held out his shirt fabric for the man to feel. "See this shirt. It's lycra, feel the fabric."

The poor man just looked back at him blankly, making no move to feel this lycra.

Siddhartha was not vexed by the man's rudeness and cheerfully continued, "Well anyway, it's very soft and comfortable. Here, I'll give you the card of my tailor. He's very good and not too expensive if you haggle with just right.."

"Are you daft or deaf?" I ain't got no money. I can't go the tailor. I can't wear lycra. Hell, I don't even know what lyrcra is. Now get, you git!"

Siddhartha was struck by the man's outburst and left confused by the idea that there are people who didn't have the money for even a tailor. He pressed on, maintaining his typically happy demeanor, but he was afraid of what else this outside world had to offer him. On the ground was a man sleeping, but since Siddhartha was a social soul, he gently kicked him on the side with his foot.

"Nameste!" greeted Siddhartha merrily.

"...." replied the man.

He kicked him a little harder. "Namaste sleeping man! How are you today?"

"...." replied the man.

Siddhartha stared. "How rude he thought. Why won't he wake up?" He then slapped the man hard across the face, something sure to wake people from even the deepest of sleeps. "Wake up man! It's a beautiful morning! Surely not the type of day to sleep away."

"....." replied the man.

"He can't wake up." Siddhartha thought. "Why won't you wake up?" he said.

"Why don't you grow a brain you idiot!" The poor man from earlier was standing behind him, obviously annoyed to have crossed his path again.

"He won't wake up."

"He's dead you idiot!"

"Dead?"

"The man is no more. He has ceased to be. He's expired and gone to meet his maker. He's a stiff, bereft of life, he rests in peace. His metabolic processes are now history. He's off the twig. He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleeding choir invisibile! This is an ex-person!"

Siddhartha laughed. "You're a funny man, you should join a theater troupe."

"You're a stupid man and I should kick you in shins. Don't laugh in the presence of this, he probably lived a hard life and had a hard death."

"Oh, that's no good."

"I hope the rock you slept under was nice."

"Oh no, I don't sleep under a rock. I have a lovely bedroom, well four actually, where I sleep. Quite nice, I must say."

"I am going to walk in this direction and I am praying to Brahman that I never see you again!"

"Nameste!" Siddhartha yelled, but the man did not reply. He was exhausted by his day so far and sat down under the nearest tree. In the shade, he began to process all he saw. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he was sad. He stared at the sky for a moment, trying to admire the beauty of the clouds, the way the sun was an orange ball above the endless plains and forests, but couldn't: he was too discontented.. Why did he have so much, when everyone else had so little? Did he deserve such fortune? Why did the one man hate him so much? Was he not polite and friendly to him? If he wasn't greeted with so anger, he wouldn't invited him for a big feast. Most of, he wondered why we were here on this planet?

"Oh dear!" He said aloud. "Is this what my father meant when said I'd have an existential crisis?"

Lumbini

Since I was so close, I decided to make a stop at Lumbini, even though it wasn't on my original plan, and neither was Tansen now I think of it. Lumbini is one of the most important places in human history. Much like Bethleham, one of the most influential people of all time was born there. For those who haven't guessed, Lumbini is the birthplace of Siddhartha Gautma, the man who would become the Buddha. If I was in Israel, I'd check out the home of Jesus.

It was four hours to Lumbini from Tansen, but I needed to take three separate buses. After my first shot trying the Indian breakfast, which was some fried bread, similar to a corn tortilla, and some potato curry, I left for my first bus of the day. I changed over in Butwal then caught a small packed bus, on which I needed to stand, or rather crouch because of the short ceilings. I didn't see anything for the one hour to Bhairawa. The final bus was the best, for the first time on my trip, I was allowed to ride on the top! Technically, this is illegal, so most buses won't let people on top unless the bus is completely full, which is a shame, since it's the best seat. You get a full view of the surrounds as the wind blows through your hair, so much room, you can sprawl. Now, it can get dusty up there and really, it's not the safest place to ride, but if the bus swerves off the road over an embankment, which is a real risk in Nepal, I'll put my bets on the survival of the top riders. Plus, I'd like to think that if Buddha rode a bus, he'd totally sit on top.

The scenery was not so great. After a month in the great Himalay, to see the vast empty plains of the Terai was a bit of disappointment. It confounded me that more than 20 million people live in Nepal, yet only four million in the Kathmandu valley. The mountains and hills are all rural. I quickly found out that all the population of Nepal was hiding in the Terai, which seemed like an endless expanse of towns that blur one into the other.

Lumbini was actually quite nice. Much of the area was a giant wetland with cranes and other birds hanging about. The village revolved around the Lumbini Development Zone, a sprawling park of temples on monasteries stretching North from the Maya Devi temple, built upon the exact spot of Siddhartha Gautma's birth. This has been confirmed in 1896 by the discovery of a pillar erected in 249BC by King Ashoka, the great emperor who spread Buddhism throughout the subcontinent. There seems to be a cycle to things at Lumbini. Near the Maya Devi temple are various monasteries that had been built but fell to ruin. Hopefully, this current settlement will actually stick.

The plan is to have a giant flooded area, with many temples and monasteries scattered as islands which can only be reached by boat. The Nepali government recently pours millions into the project, which will include a giant 300ft high statue of the Buddha. The complex feels like a work in progress, temples being half built, construction everywhere. The complex is an international project by many countries, including Thailand, India, and Germany, to encourage world peace. Most are contributing temples, showcasing architecturally their own spin on Buddhism. It was a great cultural experience to see so many different types of temples for a single religion in such a small place. I can't wait until it is finished.

Tansen

Tansen is a relaxed town set in the hills, just north of the terai. At one time, it was the center of an important kingdom that rivaled Kathmandu, but its fortunes fell and it became a trading town between India and Tibet.

The town does not attract quite the masses of Pokhara and Kathmandu, so foreigners are little novel, though not uncommon. Lonely Planet hypes it quite a bit, which will always draw some people, though not being Kathmandu, Pokhara, or Chitwan, but close to all three, most seem to pass by, which was fine by me.

I was still quite sick my first day there, so my one day stop become two and my first day was spent mostly in town. I hiked to the top of a small hill behind the town, Shreenagear, which had a couple of statues and lookout to the mountains. It shows the great height of the peaks, to be so far south and still seem so close, so towering.

After that, I napped for four hours. It was sad to think that only a few days earlier, I was walking up mountains with a big pack and now I couldn't even climb up a small hill unladen. After my nap I had my cheapest lunch in Nepal. For a grand total of 40 cents, I ate two samosas, two other things that were the same as samoas, but smaller and another deep fried sweet thing. At home a samosa can cost two dollars, at this price here, if I wanted, I could buy about 30!

I went for a short walk in search of an internet cafe, but found none that were open. In the process, I got lost. The town was a maze. You pick a place out on the map, memorize the route, then find yourself in some weird random place. Then, as you try to find the way back to where you started, you end up where you meant to go in the first place. This led to some cool temples and other discoveries. I saw the palace, which was getting rebuilt after being destroyed in the civil war. This was enough for my energy again, so I headed back to the hotel for some lemon tea. I waited for nearly a hour for my tea before I left for another restaurant. I walked until I saw a dark concrete place with no sign, but some tables and people eating, so I stopped for some food.

"Do you have a menu?" I asked.

"No, just dal bhat and tea."

"How much?"

"70 rupees."

I thought for a moment, was one dollar worth it for a big meal and a cup of tea? "Ok." So in one day, I had the cheapest dinner and lunch I've ever had in Nepal. The random place had dal bhat that was significantly better than the tasteless crap at the hotel. It was just what I needed for another restless coughfest that night.

Then next day, I was feeling a bit better, so I risked the seven kilometer hike to Ranighat, which is known as Nepal's Taj Mahal and is the main tourist draw of Tansen. The map was ineffective and the accompanying directions didn't match the map. I walked for a while until I saw a painted arrow with "Ranighat" written under it. It's direction differed both from the map and the directions. I asked the locals who didn't speak English how to get there by pointing in a random direction and saying "Ranighat?". They'd either agree or point someplace else. Eventually, I met a school teacher who was walking to his school near there.

"Your map. It is bad. It is wrong."

"I know that! I have to ask everyone the way."

The route was actually quite simple, it was mostly one path twisting down through a valley. The hike was pleasant and all downhill, which meant the way back would be all up. I was probably too sick for the seven hour jaunt out there, but after days spent in bed, I was itching to do something.

Ranighat's appearance surprised me, because I was expecting something bigger. A building dubbed as Nepal's Taj, implied a level of grandeur. It was actually the lack of grandeur that was its appeal. Built by Khadga Shamsher Rana in 1896 for his dead wife, it now lays in ruin along the Kali Gandaki, one of Nepal's holy rivers. Khadga Shamsher Rama was a rich politician who was exiled to Tansen after trying to overthrow the prime minister. His fortune was gone after his second attempt and his grand palace was abandoned.

The grounds and stone carvings are all weathered away, the outbuildings are collapsed, yet the mansion's outside is strangely up-kept. The blue and white paint was fresh even though the inside is completely empty. Like most abandoned buildings in the states, this was now a local hangout for the area's teenagers, who find it a great place to smoke bongs all day. Ranighat was neat, but I'm not sure it was worth the trouble getting there. Thankfully, the hike itself was nice.

Climbing back to Tansen tested my strength, but my tiny village dal bhat helped. The woman filled the curry after each bite until I had to shoo her away because I was too stuffed to even finish what I already had on my plate. Close to Tansen, I hitched a ride on a tractor, which may have even taken me farther from my destination, but I was fine with it: there are not too many times when I figured I'd get to hitchhike on a Nepali tractor.

That night, I stopped at the fancy restaurant in town, the Nanglo West, which specializes in Newari food. I ordered a Newari snack platter since it had nothing I'd heard of on it. There was a big bed of chewra, a crunchy, flat rice that was the perfect texture compliment for the other dishes. With it was a cold potato yogurt salad, a legume curry, buffalo choela, which was covered in chilis, spices, large chunks of ginger and garlic, and bhatamas, a dish of spicy, oily soybeans. The last two dishes I had tried in Pokhara already. Delicious!

Escape from Pokhara

Tourist towns like Pokhara suck people in and make it difficult to leave. Everything is easy, accessible and within short walking distance. I had a good deal going on too, my simple room was only 200 rupees or $3 a night, practically a steal in Pokhara. There was only a cold shower and the two rooms in the place offered nothing for a social scene which was fine when spending the day in bed sick. I awoke on the third day of my cold, still pretty weak, too weak to do much anyway. I went to use the toliet, but found the water was not running. There was nobody to tell; the people running the place had left me alone in the hotel for the past couple of days, while they visited family for the festival. After breakfast, I searched out a new hotel, but the cheapest I could find was twice the price of my current locale. I returned to my hotel and after being angered by the fact I couldn't even brush my teeth, I figured I had enough energy to sit on a bus.

When my packing was finished, I walked towards the local bus stand, but gave up halfway and took and overpriced taxi. Getting a bus was easy. I still can't figure out why foreigners avoid local buses at all costs, and also why local try to sway me to take a tourist bus. The tourist bus is twice the price, just as slow and not significantly more comfortable. Now, I did have to share half of my seat with a ten year old boy; the only one who didn't mind was the mother who was only charged for the one seat, but it was tolerable.

My plan for a simple non-stenuous day was foiled when the bus took me to the village of Bartung, almost a mile downhill from my destination of Tansen. I walked along the road with all my things, hoping for a ride from a bus or taxi, but I had no luck, so up the hill on the footpath I went. After an hour, many rests and few uncontrollable coughing fits, I reached Tansen, but I had no clue where I was. Lonely Planet's map was useless. Slowly, I wandered around, looking for something on the map, but since it was still during the festival, all the stores were closed. Finally I spotted them, white people!

"Excuse me, do you know where the tourist information office or a hotel or anything is? Can you find us on a map?"

"Well, we're heading back to our hotel now. We can take you." One said.

It was the Hotel White Lake, which was on the map!

"How much for a room?" I asked reception.

"We have many kinds."

"The cheapest."

"Our rooms with shared bathroom is 500 rupees."

"500! That's insane!"

"They are nice rooms."

"The most I've ever seen anywhere charge for a room with a shared toilet is 250. For 500 anywhere else, I can get my own bathroom en suite."

"I can go 400."

"I met some people who only pay 300 for their room at another hotel." The classic haggling lie. The "some people" was Lonely Planet.

"You can pay 300 at other places, but they don't have so good water."

"So what! I just want a bed. Come on, 300!"

"You can go other place with bad water for 300 ok. Here we have best water. In Tansen, there is not so good water, at White Lake Hotel, you know you have hot and cold water."

He was lucky I was too tired to go someplace else. "Fine, 400."

He showed me the room, which was ok, defiantly a rip-off for the price. I was so pissed I was too sick to go someplace else. Two seconds after shutting the door, I used my last bit of energy to take off my shoes and collapse onto the bed. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't move for another hour. A shower, early dinner, even some reading for me was out of reach.

Pokhara during Deepwali

I spent a few more days in Pokhara, which seemed like a nice enough town. I didn't do too much outside of read, write, visit internet cafes, and people watch at the various cafes, in general, the greatest pastime in Pokhara. The lakeside district is filled with cute cafes, restaurants, and bars, most are pretty interchangeable, but pleasant. This was especially fun because I arrived during the festival of lights, the second biggest in Nepal. Builds were strung with lights on the houses and candles were burned in line on the walks so the god of wealth would be able to find his way. The children particularly seem to love it, dancing costumed in the streets to loud sound systems, pumping music every few feet. Many kids group together, singing this one song, which is more like a chant, until the store patrons or restaurant owners give them money or food with incense as a offer to the gods.

I saw lots of dancing since I relocated to the far North end of Lakeside, away from the all the people. Since the restaurants and particularly the internet cafes were a ten minute walk away through more residential areas, I saw many a reveler.

Somehow, I managed to spend an inconceivable amount of money in a few short days, so I needed to go to more places that didn't involve much internet or computer time. On the plus side, I was able to upload all of my China photos and updated my blog to the start of the hike, though typing my hiking blog will be a long process.

I planned to leave Sunday morning, main celebratory day of the festival, for Tansen, about five hours south, but the buses were rumored to be sporadic and the nagging cough I'd had for a week finally evolved into a real nasty cold. Instead, I napped and read most of the day, made one afternoon excursion and tried to get my rest amongst a city that was in full party mode.

The Final Day: Naundanda to Pokhara 18km (329km total)

I woke up somewhat excited and somewhat sad. It was certain that this was the last day of the trek. Turning around and hearding to the mountains again seemed like a good option, but the leering Pokhara and the novel idea of luxury was so close. Cheap food, affordable beer, meat and dairy,and most importantly the internet were all filling my mind. Actually, I wanted some paneer butter masala with meat naan from the Kebab King. I could almost taste it. My vow ws to eat nothing dal bhat related. No tarkari, no rice, and defiantly no lentils!

The first part of the walk was so easy, I was in shock. It was along a dirt road, mostly level with a slight downhill lsop. I was covering a kilometer in ten minutes. Passersby were shocked by my speed. Where were the unexpected 300m jumps in elevation? I really saw how used to struggling I had become.

As civilization crept, growing denser and denser, I was disconcerted by the people, the houses. My morning coffee birthed a need to urinate, but there were always people around. I wanted to blow my nose, but I didn't want the women to see me just shoot it to the ground, and my toilet paper was buried deep in my pack.

I climbed a hill near Sarangkot and saw how far and how quickly I'd walked from the mountains in just two days. The thought made me too sad to go to the famous viewpoint nearby. I just had a cup of masala tea at a slightly lower restaurant.

I could see Lakeside below and knew I was only an hour or two from the real world. There was a trail going directly there, down steep step straight down the hill. Even this close to the city, there were still pastoral lives, harvesting millet for the winter like everyone else. People would still greet me, but all asked me for money. One child was angry at me because I had no chocolate to give him; he almost ripped my cloth bag out of my hand to look. Friendly conversations with locals quickly turned to begging. It was just as poor as the truly rural places, but they lived so close to the city, they were corrupted by the envy for a more complicated existence. It may be the worst state in the world, to live the subsistence lifestyle, but without the ignorance. It was amazing to see that suburban Nepal was as depressing as suburban USA.

I walked down a manmade canal for the monsoon runoff the rest of the way to Pokhara. It was a good day for the thermals, because a troop of paragliders filled the sky. Every few seconds, the sun would disappear as one flew directly overhead.

Although my heart was set on the paneer butter masala, when I saw the cheap meat prices at a lovely restaurant in North Lakeside, right on the shore, I knew this would be my celebratory lunch joint. I ordered buffalo momos, a cheese-rum steak and veggies, with a big, ice-cold beer to wash it all down. Meat was fantastic, though I saw how unessential it is with a diet of of high protein legumes. But wow, meat is good.

I didn't consider that I still had a couple of miles left to my hotel when I decided to stuff myself with the carnivorous beer diet, so the walk was hot and slow. (Still worth it)

That night, I knew I'd treat myself to a little party. After a great shave and shower, I used the net a while, sent birthday wishes to those who'd aged on my hike, learned surprisingly that the Giants beat the Rangers in the World Series, the Vikings traded for Randy Moss then fired him, and the tea party began their crusade to destroy the planet. Fun times. I wanted the mountains back.

Once again, I met Christine. My first time was in Xining, China, then again in Ledar. I talked for a while then immediately left on quick notice, there was not time to explain that I'd had a craving for many days that could not wait any longer. I needed my Paneer Butter Masala. It did not disappoint. The chef was quite pleased that one of his dishes was the center of my desires. I stood and watched as he baked the naan in the tandoor, as I discussed with him the inferiority of naan from a conventional oven. My extensive cooking background created many chances for me to connect with restaurateurs. Though in the villages of the mountain, the cooks are confused by my fascination; cooking is a womanly ordeal. I was feeling like Anthony Bourdain. The hike engaged my four main passions, traveling, hiking, food and writing. I was sad that Mr. Bourdain already had the show that I was born to make. And worst of all, I find myself doing the same things, embracing the same experiences, though Mr. Bourdain doesn't seem like much of a hiker.

Like Anthony, I respected the need for a night on the town. Now again, my food budget already pushed my 1000 rupee a day limit, so a few beers were justified. My first stop after the internet cafe was a smoky jazz club that was an unexpected surprise in Nepal. The live band was quite good, a international collection of travelers based in Kathmandu. The rhythm section was especially phenomenal. The drummer seemed like a showboat, but during the ballads, he showed he could just sit back and groove. I wrote some postcards under a tinted light until I bumped into Thomas and Ada, a Canadian/Polish couple I met on the Sacntuary trek, probably the best friend I'd made on the whole hike. We discussed the jazz scene in Montreal and Minneapolis while drooling over the poster of Jaco Patorious, Tony Williams, and Herbie Hancock composing together. The club owner told me they made an album, which I needed to find.

The high prices drove us to the nearby Busy Bee, hottest bar in town. The band there w3as mediocre, with a singer that wouldn't even pass at a karaoke bar. The beer just as expensive, but the place had a good vibe and was packed. I played a horrible game of pool before heading back to my hotel alone. It was hard to find after dark, being up a nondescript side street of the main drag. All the stores I used as landmarks were closed. I even walked passed my hotel twice without noticing it. The gate was locked and I drunkenly climbed over the stone fence.

As I sat in my underwear, listening to my mp3 playing, realizing I was up four hours later than my latest night on the trek, I had the realization that tomorrow, I had nowhere to walk. For eight hours a day for the nearly a month, I was hiking along, my day planned, my next day planned as well. This was the saddest prospect of my whole return, I had nothing but stifling freedom ahead of me.

Since I was a child, Nepal has been on my list, standing as the one place I most wanted to see before I died. This evolved into the strong desire for a long trek in the Himalaya. I didn't even plan much outside of this and rushed to the mountain right after arriving to fulfill my destiny. Actually completing a big goal is more empty that failing. Failing has the prospect of another try, but reaching a goal is just not the same. I collapsed onto my bed, defeated by my success.

I was living an existence not so different than those from the outskirts of Pokhara. Trekking for a long time involves a strong amount of detachment from the world. The ignorance I had to develop to successfully hike outside of the world was shattered quickly by the bombardment of society and I didn't know how to reconcile with the world. Now my life was thrust into a world in which I felt like I did not belong anymore. The more access I had to the opportunities of the modern civilization, the more I realized how empty it all way. Hiking is a warm blanket. You walk then stop, then eat then sleep. Repeat. Now there is time to fill, stores with everything. I wanted so many things now, but needed none. On the trail, my only needs were progress, food and sleep. Wants were pointless; they couldn't be met. Now the wants became the world because need involve no work. Dinner is five feet away instead of five miles. I guess one can muse for a longtime under a Bohdi tree, to find the answers of true happiness, but life is too short. I have places to see.

Day 23: Landruk to Naudanda 14km (311km total)

I awoke to find Landruk was right next to Annapurna South, which was obscured by the previous evening's rain clouds. My day was short, so I left late. The first half was a hard climb up to Pitham. The steep trail caused a bottleneck of middle aged French tourists., resting every twenty meters.

By the time I reached Pothana, I need food, even though the taste of breakfast was still in my mouth. I sat with a man guiding a large group of teenage girls fro five days. I didn't envy his job. The guide was quite educated and spoke fluent English. We swapped favorite movies and writers. He was a cool guy.

The mysteriously named Australian Camp was a very short walk and was very pleasant seeming, with great views of Pokhara and the mountains just to the north, or at least that's what the postcards I bought showed. My personal view was of clouds and the bitumen just an hour away. I didn't stay long enough to find out why it was called the Australian Camp.

The hard surface road came quickly after a steep decline. I had to touch it with my hand just to see if it was real. To get away from traffic, I took every side trail I could find; I still walked on the road most of the way to Naudanda.

My map showed no more guest houses between Naudanda and Pokhara, which I seriously doubted was true, but I figured I should bank on the sure thing, so I stopped. The guest house was dingy, which I found odd since the road was sure to bring the resources to build a better hotel. I had an afternoon snack (I loved my new financial security) of banana fritters, which were simply tempura banana slices. I decline the offer for some ketchup. For dinner I ate more dal bhat with some curd. The lure of dairy was nice, but I wasn't ready for meat yet. That would be saved for the next day in Pokhara as a celebratory meal. My room was full of mildew and mold, but I slept fine.

Day 22: Bamboo to Landruk 13km (297km total)

The rain was but a memory on the wet ground that morning. I threw on my damp clothing which dried quickly after walking. I was glad to walk the great section between Bamboo and Sinewa in better conditions. The morning jungle was eerily quiet. It was as if the rain had washed more than just the dirt from the leaves, it seemed to wash the life too. There was a special beauty in this, which was odd, since the jungle's beauty comes from it being so alive. The moss, trees, everything glistened in the sun.

Sinewa was not a place I wanted to reach, not only because it marked the transition from jungle to exposed hillside, it was the start of the stairs. First, they went down to the river, then back up nearly as high to Chhomrong.I stopped at the same hotel as a few nights earlier for some masala tea and biscuits to rest before the endless stone stairs to Jhinujanda. They stretched even beyond Jhinu down to the river. Thankfully the climb to New Bridge had few stairs.

After New Bridge was another river crossing. The bridge resembled its namesake in no way; it was an old rickety wooden thing that was the first bridge in the whole trip that I was nervous to cross. It held up. The trail began its final climb to Landruk, where I spent the night.

I only gave the Maya Guest House a quick glance; my sights were set for a nice looking place higher up the hill. However, I was beckoned by a large didi with an even larger smile. At that point, I was the only tenant. By my estimates, I had only two more nights before Pokhara. My cash supply was at a safe point, barring an emergency extra night, so I decided to treat myself. I ordered a late lunch of an onion and tomato pizza, which was tasty, but not really a pizza. Basically, it was a chapati bread with a ketchup sauce, baked with tomato and onion slices and yak cheese. I found it a bit sweet, but the bottle of habenero sauce fixed this. The dal bhat was good, with some excellent pickles. Even after eating it for days, my love affair with dal bhat was still as strong as when I started. Every time I shovel it into my mouth hurriedly, with almost the ferocity of the Nepalis, who just scoop it in with their hands, I felt a speiccal kind of happiness. Maybe I should start eating with my hands.

The innkeepers were so fantastic. After three big glasses of warm homemade raksi, I really noticed how much these family run guest houses enhance the experiences of these hikes. They work so hard, waking up early to prepare breakfast for the trekkers itching to leave. After checkout, they have to clean the rooms and bathrooms, harvest vegetables or maintain the garden, just in time for the trekkers stopping in for lunch or a quick tea. From evening on, they slave in the kitchen to prepare countless meals for the hungry walkers and their guides and porters. Their dinner comes late, after the dishes are done and the guests head to bed. After a short sleep, the process begins again. The whole day of every day during the season is working. And considering how much they work, they don't charge too much, despite how much people seem to complain about the prices.

Day 21: Deurali to Annapurna Base Camp to Bamboo 17km (280km total)

The sky was clear that morning, so I made an early start into the sanctuary. The Annapurna Sanctuary is an open shelf at the top of the Modi Khola valley. IT is surrounded on all side by massive peaks including Annapurna South, Khangsar Khang, Tare Khang, Gangapurna, Gandharwa Chuli, Machhapuchhre, and of course Annapurna I, the tenth highest mountain in the world. I was glad I decided to come back on a clear day, because it was a different world from the prior day. What was only a big rock the day before became a red wedge between two glacial canyons. The poking peak of Machhapuchhre towered from the top of the valley's steep walls.

After the Machhapuchhre Base Camp, the real sanctuary began. The ground is a sea of tan shrubs, little globes that cover the ground, with large rocks sticking out. Bhara Chuli got closer with each meter in. The walls rose so quick, I got vertigo looking up at them, which was a new experience. The stroll to Annapurna Base Camp was an easy walk. The most difficult part was looking forward and not at the scenery.

From the ABC, the trail ended, but a rock forest continued on up to the South Annapurna glacier. I stopped for some biscuits on top of a ridge looking to the morraine and up to Annapurna I, which wasn't all that beautiful honestly. After three weeks of viewing such amazing peaks, the flat ridge of the 10th highest mountain was not so special. It is hard to believe that this was the world's deadliest mountain. Looking at the topographic map though, I didn't really see any way up that didn't involve scaling glaciers.

The clouds were slowly closing in, obscuring the views. Annapurna South was gone completely and barely got to glimpse the Northern peaks. Machhapuchhre was still clear, making the walk down even more spectacular than the way up. The beauty of the sanctuary is indescribable, photos look nice, but the feeling of being surrounded on all sides by 7000m peaks, rising right from where you stand is an experience well worth the work.

I wanted to linger longer, but I needed to head down and the weather was changing for the worse. I snapped countless photos, hoping a couple would do the place some justice.

I was sad heading down; this was the final "destination" of my trek. The rest was just returning to Pokhara, which I assume is still beautiful, but this was an end of sorts. I stopped for some noodle soup in Deurali and picked up my backpack, then headed for my goal of Bamboo.

The hike back to Himalaya was as bad as the way up, being stone steps nearly the whole way. The clouds were getting dark after Himalaya and a little later, it started to mist. Dovan was empty when I got there. I told myself that'd I'd stop in Dovan if it was empty. Since it is an easy, week-long trek from Pokhara, which only reaches to a maximum altitude of 4200m, the trek to the sanctuary is a common destination for the organized groups. All the groups seemed to move in large masses, stopping at the same villages, leaving the others empty. I figured that since Dovan was empty, Bamboo would certainly be full. I ignored my own advice and moved on, figuring it was too early to stop for the day.

After Dovan, the mist grew to a steady rain, mkaing the hour to Bamboo a slippery, muddy affair. My rain jacket was soaked after the hour. As I predicted, every lodge in Bamboo was full. It was an hour and half to Sinuwa and I would reach there right after dark, but I detest rain. This trek was reminding more and more of the Overland Track in Tasmania, not just in scenery, but all with the rain. Once of the lodges offered me a spot in the dining room, my first such experience. I figured no tea house trek would be complete without one night in a dining room, so I took it.

The hotel housed a group of ten from England and Colorado who were all friends somehow. The dal bhat was lackluster; the tarkari was mostly cabbage, which after a month hiking in Nepal, I learned to at least tolerate.

It was warm and the dining room was surprisingly comfortable. I shared it with the guides and porters, some even slept on the floor even though there was still some bench room left. The whole place, though, woke up at 4AM when the kitchen staff started prepping for breakfast. My dreams centered around chopping vegetables for the last 45 minutes of light sleep.

Day 20: Deurali to Machhacpuchhre Base Camp to Deurali 4km (263km total)

The morning greeted me with clouds. After eating my egg with toast and free jam, I asked the innkeeper. "Hey man, you think it's gonna clear up today?"

"Yep! I think so."

That set it. I climbed an hour and a half to Machhapuchhre Base Camp in hope that when I reached higher up, the late morning sun would break up the clouds. When I reached the top, the clouds were even thicker. I decided to wait a bit before hiking higher up to Annapurna Base Camp.

I shared a pot of tea and some biscuits with a Dutch woman. By 11:30, it was clear that the weather wouldn't improve. I therefore went back down to Deurali where my bag was waiting and read Dickens all day. This ruined my plans of hiking up, then going down a village or two, then stop the next day at the Jhinu hot springs. Since my cash was low, I could only add one extra day instead of two. I chose to give the extra day to the scenery instead of the springs.

There were some neat people at the lodge, which was full the second night, so I actually didn't read too much of my Dickens. I also got to have more of that great dal bhat. I had to share a room that night with six others, which was fine, but a bit noisy. The sunset was lovely, bursting with purples and oranges coming up through the small V of the gorge below.

Day 19: Chhomrong to Deurali 13km (259km total)

I woke up sore, but ready to go. To push my budget, I devised a great breakfast. Order toast with eggs, eat one piece with the egg, then cake the other with jelly from the jar sitting on the table. It is a good amount of calories for a dollar.

The day began with a long set of stairs going down, which of course were followed by an even longer set of stairs going up, all the way seemingly to Sinuwa. From Sinuwa onto Bamboo, the trail passed through some of the most gorgeous jungle of the whole hike. Higher up, the jungle continued with a succession of spectacular waterfalls shooting off the steep walls of the gorge. Machhapuchhre would pop out between the trees. The last stretch from Himalaya camp was a tough slog up a few tall steep hills.

It was crazy to think I climbed 1000m throughout the day. The trail was not very steep, just a pleasant uphill hike.

For some odd reason, everyone filled up all the lodges in town but the Panorama Hotel. There were only four of us the whole place. The guy running it was cool; he spent the afternoon sitting out front in shadow of the mountains, strumming away on his guitar while smoking cigarettes. They served what way have been the best dal bhat of the trip. When I saw the hotol empty, I asked the man with the guitar. "Why is it so empty here?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders. "It's normally full."

"You'd better have good dal bhat!"

"We have very good dal bhat here."

"Best in Nepal?"

"Of course!"

I was glad he didn't lie to me. The tarkari was thick and full of medly of veggies, potatoes, green beans, soy beans, another unidentified bean, and these delicious mushrooms that I at first thought was chicken.

"Hey man!" I yelled to the innkeeper. "This meat-like stuff in the tarkari, is it a mushroom?"

"Yep!"

Great day bhat that night. I had three beds all to myself.

Day 18: Ghorepani to Chhomrong 16km (246km total)

I awoke with a cold. For days, I symptoms, but I just blamed them on walking upon a dusty road. Now it was official.

The morning started with another long stretch of stairs. Barring my time at the hotel, I climbed stairs for nine hours straight. Once I passed the Deurali Pass, I then went straight down, then up again, then down. This wasn't so bad; going up continuously used the same muscles again and again, but going up then down gives the different groups rest, plus it is not so tedious. Until Tadapani, the day was a pleasant stroll through nice quiet jungle. Of course by quiet, I mean that all I heard was the deafening roar of jungle.

Tadapani was one of the prettiest towns so far. From the village, Machhapuchhre, the Fish Tail, loomed above with Annapurna South to the left. They were so close, I could almost touch them; in a little over 24 hours, I literally would be able to touch them. After Tadapani, the trail dipped down to enter the gorge carved by the Modi Khola. When I reached the outside of Chhomrong, I was beat.

I knew that Chhomrong stretched down a hill, so I pushed myself to the bottom so I wouldn't have to do it in the morning. The stairs wend down nearly vertically and never seemed to end. Down I went. I found it odd the town went so far down. My knees started giving out. My ankles were aching. Finally, I reached a hotel at the bottom.

While I waited for the innkeeper to get my room together, I peered at my map to see if I would have to climb up the stairs on my way back to Pokhara. That's when I made a painful discovery. I was not on the lower section of Chhomrong, but in Jhinu. That meant I had made a wrong turn and didn't actually have to go down the stairs. It also meant that I would have to climb all the way back up again.

It was 400m up in 500m of trail, about as straight up as one can go. I was quite angry for a while, but it really wasn't so bad. Though I was quite exhausted, dal bhat and my first hot shower in days were a great cure.

Day 18: Ghorepani to Chommrong 16km (246km total)

Day 17: Tatopani to Ghorepani 17km (230km total)

I was sad to leave such a gorgeous town with a hot spring, but I had to more on; my budget did not allow me to linger. My destination though was Ghorepani, a trekking destination itself. It was also a 1100m climb.

It was one hell of a day. For the whole time, the trail went up, without any of the flat ground's reprieve. For the first time in my trip, I was tempted to stop early, but the day was too young. The part of me that feared a lack of challenges after the pass was proved wrong. I just too the stairs one step at a time and eventually reached the top.

The trail passed through countless hill villages, towns stretched across vertical distances of sometimes 400m. Just when I would think a town was finished, there'd be another cluster of buildings higher up. The day twisted along the Ghar Kholo always in the shadow of Annapurna South's pyramid. The valley was quite pretty.

This was a good altitude for oranges and every hotel and child was selling them. They would walk to school with piles in their backpacks. One child approached me. "Nameste! You want orange?"

"No thank you."

"Chocolate?" The child then showed me a chunk of hash the size of this index finger.

"No chocolate!" I said, wondering where a child of eight had gotten hashish and also how a child of eight started dealing drugs in the first place. The orange peddlers ended by Chitre. The kid was the only who offered me hash that day.

Ghorepani was gorgeous and well worth the hard walk. I ditched my bag at the hotel and used the last of my energy to make the 45 minute climb to Poon Hill, one of the best Himalayan lookouts in Nepal. From its 3200m, there are clear views of 14 peaks taller than 6500m, including Annapurna I, Dhaulagiri, and Gangapurna among others. It was fantastic!

Day 16: Ghasa to Tatopani 13km (214km total)

My body woke up anticipating Tatopani, which means hot water in Nepali. It was aching and ready for the hot springs. Nearly everyone who walks the Annapurna area stops there and after two weeks of hiking, it was easy to guess why.

I wanted to arrive early to relax, which was not too hard, it was a short day. The walk was nothing special. The jungle and rice paddies had returned. To make up speed, I resisted every urge I could to not cross to the other side of the river. With every bus, I hated the dusty road a bit more, but hot springs were calling.

They did not disappoint. I felt all the stress sweat out of me into the water. It was just what I needed. Best of all, it only cost 50 rupees, about 60 cents to enter. The whole town was quite pleasant. The accommodation was all quite posh for rural standards. To the North, there was an improbable view of Nilgiri South, through perfectly placed valleys.

The dal bhat that night was fantastic as well. It was served with some fresh yogurt that blended perfectly with the flavors of the tarkari. The Israeli women were there as well as Stephan. I spent most of the night finishing Into the Air, an account of a disastrous climb of Mt. Everest. It further increased my desire to never climb the peak.

Day 15: Marpha to Ghasa 24km (201km total)

Finally, after many lax days, I had the plan of making some distance. Only the day I went to Tilicho did I walk more than 15km since Manang and I was itching to pick up a little speed. My cash was hitting a low; I needed to go a bit faster, cut out the luxuries such as lunch and hope for cheap prices or I'd need to find an unlikely ATM in rural Nepal. I wasn't too worried, I had enough for 1000 rupees for each planned day and I was back on the road again, where easy shipments lowered costs. When I headed to the Annapurna Base Camp though, the price was sure to make a jump.

The cheap prices were the only thing I liked about the road, the long dusty noise machine that was killing my mountain solitude. Undeterred by the previous day's adventure, my route again included many miles along a small trail on the opposite side of the river from the road. I analyzed my map to be sure the trail stayed continuously above the river to avoid flood outs, and thankfully, it did.

The trail was quite pleasant. I cut through pine forests, going up and down, around trees and rocks. It actually felt like real hiking for once, instead of just walking along a road. I passed a mission group from Massachusetts and they were the only people I saw all day.

My route was a little longer than the main one, hugging the hills around the river's wetlands. At a few points, the trail ended, but I only had to walk across stony fields with scattered pines and the trail picked up again on the other side.

At one point, the trail forked in two, one heading low and one heading high. I try to avoid unnecessary climbing, so I took the low route. I should have learned my lesson before. A little way down, I found a nice sunny rock next to the river, which had finally consolidated into one narrow, swift stream with class 3-4 rapids. I sat and ate an apple I foraged from the ground near an orchard. There is a special joy that comes from eating a ground apple next to a river with a pocket knife. When my lunch was done, I continued down the trail.

Then, the trail ended abruptly. I had two choices, bushwhack forward or turn back. Everyone knows which option I chose. At first, I plowed through a vast field of cannabis, which was much more pleasant than the successive field of nettles, much worse than their American cousins. I'd see what I thought was the trail above only to climb the bluff to find more nettles. I walked through swamps, skirted cliffs, climbed up, down, and around boulders, the settled for the scrambling on the rocks right along the river, which was surprisingly faster and more fun that the other hiking options.

I noticed a bluff again that seemed like a trail, and again, after climbing, there was no trail, but up the next bluff, I saw blue skies through the trees, indicating level land above; this had to be the trail and it was! Travel speeded up again once I found the path. I had to rejoin the road after Lete and after a while, my left ankle started hurting. Thankfully, I only had two hours more to limp.

Ghasa was unremarkable, but the room was nice. I met a nice group of older Israeli women with great senses of humor. They were pleasure.

Day 14: Kagbeni to Marpha 9km or 15km (177km)

The trail from Muktinath all the way to Tatopani continues along the dusty, bus-filled road. At one time, this was only a foot trail, like Manang, but the road finally stretched up, far into Upper-Mustang. I did everything I could to avoid walking on the road. Looking at the map, I saw a bridge just beyond Kagbeni, leading to a a route taht skirts the other side of the river. It was sure to be quiet.

Crossing the bridge, I found myself head on with a motorcycle, also about to cross the bridge. Thankfully, the cyclist let me cross the narrow suspension bridge first. After that, the trail was quiet as I suspected. I took a left, as the map said, then found myself at a gate. It was a small gate and I just climbed over it, assuming it was for either keeping livestock in or cars out. The road continued until it stopped at a garbage pit. Around the other side was a gate which I passed through.

The trail did not continue from there. I was at the rim of a steady sloped canyon that stretched into the hills for at least a few kilometers. I looked across the canyon and the other side was much steeper with a wall of vertical rock on the top. There was a small nook cut into the shortest part of cliff wall. It looked easily climbable. This seemed much quicker than going around.

I descended to the dry river bed below, then climbed clumsily up the steep, loose other side. Cut into the cliff was a small dwelling, possibly belonging to another baba. Finally, I was into the nook, which I easily climbed. It was obviously used often.

On the other side was a long flat surface of scrub bushes. I walked along, following the river until it ended at another canyon, 75ft high, with a wall going straight down. Dead end.

I was already exhausted from the previous climb and I was faced with the prospect of turning back and doing it again. This was a good place to stop for a rest. The view was fantastic. In the distance, at the bottom of the canyon, I saw my intended trail, stretching along a cliff up the river. If I could only find a way down to the river, I could catch the trail.

So, I stood up and looked right. The canyon continued into the hills, even farther than the last. To my left was a deadly embankment. The best plan, I decided, was to walk along the rim of the canyon and hope to find a safe way to the bottom, hopefully someplace where I wouldn't have to turn back. My plan worked; there was steady hill five minutes away.

After heading down, I was able to reach the pleasant, quiet trail. It streched along the cliffs with the raging Kali Gandaki below. The trail then opened onto the riverbed where it continued down the valley. It was all very pleasant until the trail ended and the river meandered back to the bank, cutting off all progress. Dead end again.

The cliffs were higher in the hills, with a slope of loose rocks and sand right on the bank. I was not ready to turn back yet, so I inched along the dirt, watching my footprints slide down into the river. It was fine but slow going, despite the lack of solid holds for either my feet or hands, up until I reached the cliff.

From my point a bit up the hill, I could see other hikers on the opposite side of the river, trying to find a way across. One was climbing on the cliff near me. Another was sussing out the depth of the river to see if he could walk across. I knew I wouldn't be able to move forward without wetting my feet. With the advantage of height, I saw a shallow route through the river I could cross, but I'd have to go back 10 meters along the landslide. I was almost to my wading point when the hill beneath me gave out, hurling me down, right to the river.

I stopped right at the bottom, the hill that collapsed under me provided a ledge that kept me from falling into the river. Removing my boots and putting on my flipflops, I stepped into the icy cold mountain river and forded my way across. There was an island in the middle that was easy to reach. The island stretched almost passed the cliff to the trail on the other side. I stepped forward and the water was ankle deep. Another step and it was up to calves, then my knees. Any further depth and I would be unsafe for me to cross. The river was too fast. I had to turn around.

Few things bother me more that turning back as the story shows, but there was little I could do about a flooded trail. As much as I wanted to try going further, I didn't want to risk wetting my backpack or worse, death. I hiked in my flipflops in hope I'd see another possible ford and from the cliff top trail, I saw it.

The river broke into about five smaller streams before rejoining further down. Each stream was shallow and slower than the main river. I waded through stream after stream, hitting dead ends and trying new routes until it was evident, there was no safe crossing. I found my way back to shore and conceded further progress. I'd have to turn back to the bridge. This was ll the more painful after the work it took to go so far. The afternoon winds picked up right at this point, mocking me.

The way back was not as exciting, but still frustrating and adventure-filled. The bridge was at the top of the canyon, so I had to do a bit of rock climbing to get back. Finally, three hours after I had left, I returned to where I had started. I would have never had such an experience with a guide! It was good to be alone again.

The road to Marpha was long, windy and dusty. I was almost hoping for the quiet, adrenaline kick of the other side again. It took another three hours to reach Marpha, the apple capital of Nepal.

Dinner that night made up for the hard day. I resumed my dal bhat diet with some of the best of the whole trail. The rice was perfect, the curry full of many different veggies and it came with a side of fresh apple chutney. I finished this off with a fantastic slice of apple pie and some local apple brandy. I was so replenished, I made sure to tell the grandma-like didi, cooking up a storm, that she did a fantastic job. Sleep came easy that night.