Himalayan MisAdventure
like a sore thumb - the Bob Marley Lodge and Reggae Bar [see picture].
This was too damn freaky to pass up – I went in to inquire about a room. The entranceway led to an enormous area that functioned as a lobby, dining room, and bar. It was surprisingly well decorated with the type of stuff you’d expect to find in such a place. Enormous Jamaican and Ethiopian flags were flanked by a number of paintings and posters depicting Mr. Marley chillin’ like a villain, playing his guitar, and indulging in his trade mark pastime. What didn’t jive was the music. Instead of something appropriate like ‘Legend’, the same Jimmy Hendrix tape looped over and over again. During my brief stay, I heard 'Cross Town Traffic' 4 times (I counted).
After a few minutes, an attractive well-dressed Nepali chick emerged from the kitchen and informed me that one room was left and would be available shortly. Exhausted and worn out, I dropped my pack and took an empty seat at one of the giant communal tables that faced out onto
the town’s only street. The well-dressed woman chatted a bit while I scanned the menu. Passing up the tempting Yak fajitas, I opted for some Tibetan Toast, a plate of Dal Bhat, and a pot of Rasta Tea. After taking my order she stuck around and asked the usual questions,
‘Which country are you from?’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Where are you trekking to?’
I soon began to feel a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t that the questions were all that strange – I’d been asked them a hundred times – it was the manner in which they were asked – flirtatiously. Here in Nepal, like neighboring India, local woman simply do not flirt with
travelers – ever.
Strange, but that wasn’t the half of it. Mid way through our conversation I began to suspect that maybe she wasn’t really a she. It wasn’t simply her manner, style of dress (straight out of a Banana Republic catalogue – unlike anything I’d seen in months), or even her deeper than usual voice. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Without being obvious, I scanned the telltale signs you learn to check for in Thailand’s nightclubs. Her knuckles looked
big but not that big and I was unable to detect an Adam’s-apple.
Maybe it was the altitude? (3800 meters / 12,500 feet)
This was all too strange for words – the whole scene reminded me of something out of a David Lynch flick – I wouldn’t have been surprised if a midget had walked in and taken the seat next to me.
My confusion must have been transparent because the moment the androgynous waitress returned to the kitchen a large bald guy sitting next to an exotic Latin-looking woman leaned over and said,
“It’s a Guy!”
“How can you be sure?”
“There are some things you just know”, he replied. “I’m from Berlin and we see a lot of weird shit there”.
Nodding toward his partner he added, “Carla thinks it’s a guy too.”
“Hum….maybe you’re right”.
Once my tea arrived I moved down a few seats and swapped a cup for a few swigs of my tablemate's flask of apple brandy. During my meal I learned that Michael had been granted a 3-month leave of absence from work and was passing the time photographing the Himalayas. Since Carla didn’t speak, ever, it was tough to tell exactly how she fit into all of this. Maybe she didn’t speak English? Perhaps she didn’t have a tongue? I guess it really didn’t matter though, she was
pretty hot and appeared content simply listening to us.
When I told them I planned to head up to Thorong Pass the following morning, Michael asked if I was crazy. Like 95% of the trekkers on the Anapurna Circuit, they’d just come over the pass from the opposite direction – clockwise from the East.
“No one that has any sense tries to go over from this side. It’s too steep and gets way too hairy.”
Apparently big afternoon storms have a habit of rendering this side of the pass super dangerous.
“There is no way you can get up and back down in time – you know that don’t you?”
“Actually, I don’t really plan to make it all the way up. I just want to hike above the snow line, take some pictures, and get back down.”
As I understood, this would put me on par with the highest peak in the continental US (Mt. Witney – 4,400 meters / 14,500 feet) and in Europe (The French Alps – 4,700 meters / 15,500 feet).
”Well, you better start pretty early then”, Michael slurred. By now, he’d polished off most of the brandy and the tea seemed to be doing the trick.
Our conversation was soon interrupted by the scene unfolding before us. Not 20 feet away, in broad daylight, a large middle aged Nepali woman was being dragged down the street by 3 similar looking women [see picture]. The strangest part was that the draggers, as well as everyone watching, were smiling, even laughing.
What on earth was going on? This was definitely not normal, especially here in N.E.P.A.L, land of Never Ending Peace And Love.
Maybe it was the thin air? Maybe.
Things grew more bizarre by the moment. Over and over the dragee would be taken out of sight only to reappear, rush in front of The Bob Marley Lodge and Reggae Bar and cause as big a scene as possible [see picture]. She would stand crying, cursing, laughing, and / or screaming at the top of her lungs until someone would attempt to calm her down. After this proved futile (everytime) a few more women would appear and begin to escort her out of the public eye. The dragee would then fall to the ground and carry on in an even louder and seemingly more insane manner before she would be physically wrestled off the street and out of sight. Within minutes and without fail she would find her way back into the limelight and start the process all over again.
Our waitress informed us that the dragee’s sons had moved to American and India, leaving her free to pursue her favorite pastime – drinking binges. Apparently, her behavior was not all that out of the ordinary.
“Maybe it’s the thin air?”, I suggested.
She rolled her eyes and placed a hand on my shoulder as a response. I cut a sideways glance at Michael who was trying to suppress an all-knowing ear to ear grin. Although I still wasn’t sure he was right, it really didn’t matter. Our waitress’s gender was not something I was ready to gamble on much less personally investigate. The last thing I was prepared to do was reenact the shower scene from The Crying Game.
After finishing my meal, I decided it was time to get moving. By the 10th go-around the once exciting street theatre was beginning to grow a bit stale. Plus, the brandy, the tea, and the thin air were starting to make me a bit drowsy.
I bid Michael and Carla farewell, dragged my pack up to my room, locked the door, and headed up to the Muktinath Temple. The thought of crawling into my sleeping bag and drifting off to sleep was tempting but I was leery of spending any more time than necessary in this place. Plus, I could only imagine the brow beating I’d receive from Sharon when she learned I hadn’t visited the temple. After all, she was the reason I was up here and the temple was the reason she
initiated this journey.
Sharon (a.k.a. Sharondipity, a.k.a. Cross-Country, a.k.a. Pixie) [see picture] is a cute 20-year-old hippie chick majoring in Eastern Religion at George Washington University. Her semester in Nepal was part of a study abroad program focusing on local handicrafts, specifically local loom weaving. How exactly this fit into her major was never exactly clear to me but since it wasn’t my project, I didn’t ask too many questions. I’d met her on the bus from Katmandu to Pokhara then tagged along to this ‘fantastic’ guesthouse she knew of.
The Holy Lodge [see picture] was all that she’d talked it up to be and then some. It’s run by a cast of characters who, hands down, are the funnest and funniest proprietors I’ve ever met. It’s impossible to have a straight conversation with any of them. At the Holy Lodge
the clock is stuck at 4:20 and life is treated as one big game to be enjoyed and played to its fullest.
Within a few days we’d formed a tight little crew comprised of a drummer from Denmark (Mikkel), a financial analyst from London (Tina), and an out of work Italian actor (G). One evening after dinner the gang sat around the Holy Garden discussing trekking options (THE thing to do in Nepal). Due to different schedules and budgets it seemed we would soon be splitting up. Tina and Mikkel were planning a trip to Anapurna Base Camp, G was considering trekking up Poon Hill, and Sharon was flying into Jomson. G wanted to know why I’d been so quiet – what were my plans?
I explained that long hard days of walking uphill followed by cold uncomfortable nights in cheap lodges weren’t very appealing to me. In order to see anything worthwhile you had to hike well above 3,000 meters (9,500 feet), ensuring a 12+ day round trip. It all sounded pretty ridiculous - at best, I’d avoid getting sick and manage to take a few pictures - at worst……..
I didn’t have anything to prove and I felt I’d done my share of roughing it in I.N.D.I.A (I’d Never Do It Again) where I’d passed the last 5 months facing new and unexpected challenges nearly every day. Nope, trekking wasn’t my cup of tea. The sky full of the Anapurna Range, seen from the Holy Roof, would be enough for me.
“Dude, I’m totally lazy too”, Sharon said. “That’s why I’m flying into Jomson and then hiking up to Muktnath. There’s a really cool temple up there that burns an eternal flame of life. Oh my God, you have to go with me, it will be so much fun!”
Nonetheless, she was a cool chick and her idea did have its merits – high altitude with relatively low effort. After another day of “come on dude, get off your lazy ass and do it”, I gave in and booked the flight.
Unfortunately, things hadn’t worked out as planned for Sharon. Three days after arriving in Jomson, on our way up to Muktnath, she dropped to her knees and became sick - really sick, super sick. Whether the culprit was food poisoning or Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), she’d been forced to stop and recover at Khingar.
Thus I found myself hoofing it to the sacred temple of Muktnath alone – armed with a camera so that my sick friend would at least see what she was missing. Actually, from what I’d read about the place, it sounded pretty interesting. Muktnath (Place of Salvation) Temple is one of Nepal’s most auspicious spots. Both Buddhist and Hindus make pilgrimage to this site of natural power whose big draw is a blue flame of natural methane gas said to burn on top of water spurting out
of the mountain.
What I found was a small run down temple [see picture] draped in hundreds of Tibetan prayer flags. As per the eternal flame of life, you really had to use your imagination. Tucked under an enormous Vishnu and Buddha shrine was a small opening covered with what appeared to be chicken wire. If you stuck your face against the metal grating you could make out the sound of running water and, in the distance, see what looked like a stove’s pilot light. After taking the requisite photos (see pictures), I returned to the Bob Marley Lodge, sneaked up to my room, and settled in for the night.
If I had any clue what the following day would entail, I’d have turned right around and met up with Sharon.
Instead, I woke at the crack of dawn determined to get as far up as possible. After 2 hours of near constant progress, I became concerned – I had yet to see other trekkers and the trail looked a bit doggie – conspicuously free of prints or trail markers. I was convinced I’d taken the wrong path. Instead of feeling dejected, I was angry – angry with myself and with the local who’d given me the ambiguous directions. The next hour was spent nearly running back the way
I’d come.
Back in Muktnath I stopped the first Westerners I came across - a distinguished looking middle aged Britt and his son. During the course of our discussion, I found myself staring at the father – I was sure I knew this man. He’d come over the pass the day before and informed me that I had indeed been on the right path. Pointing out that since the vast majority of hikers were approaching the pass from the other side (East), the West Side had been and would be empty
for a few more hours.
“Christ, I was on the right path all along!”
“You don’t still plan on heading up there?” By now it was nearly 9AM
“Well, the whole thing has pissed me off so much that I just might try it”, I responded half-joking.
As the father looked me over – carefully taking in my tennis shoes, muddy rolled up cotton pants, and ill fitting rental parka – I watched his expression change from mild bemusement to serious concern.
“You might want to consider hiring a guide/porter. Regardless, you should wait until tomorrow morning and set off early enough to avoid the afternoon storms. People die up there.”
After convincing him I’d probably turn around before reaching the snowline, I stated, “I’m sure you’ve heard you look a lot like Jeremy Irons.”
Smiling sheepishly, he threw a knowing glance at his son and responded “It’s just something I’ve had to learn to live with.”
As I bolted up the path, again, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d just received directions from Jeremy Irons. Given his appearance, accent, and evasive response, the answer was probably yes. The acid test will be whether he has a teenage son. (Anyone know?)
For the next hour I hummed ‘The Wind Cries Mary’ and went over what I should have said:
“I liked you in ‘Stealing Beauty’”
or even
“Die Hard 3 Sucked”
would probably have elicited a more telling response.
By 10AM I was regularly encountering West bound hikers. Stopping to take a few photos [see pictures] and catch my breath I struck up conversation with a fellow American who informed me I had another 3 hours until I reached the pass. Based on his estimate, I figured, accurately, that the return trip would take approximately half the time up. I calculated I’d be back down before 3PM.
3 more hours up +
2 hours down (1/2 of the hour that I’d already climbed as well as ½ the 3 I still had to go).
The skies were crystal clear and the mountains appeared closer and more beautiful than I could have imagined. Even if an afternoon storm moved in, I’d be on my way down before it fully hit - most likely below the snow line where at worst I’d get a bit wet.
The single biggest mistake I made that day was to accept the American’s estimate without receiving a second opinion. I suppose I wanted to believe it was possible.
For reasons that now escape me, I decided to go for it. Deep down I guess I wanted to say I’d climbed the highest pass in the world (5,400 meters / 17,650)
5 hours later I would have given my left nut to take the decision back. It was nearly 3PM and although I was well above the snow line I was still not at the top. A wicked snow storm HAD rolled in, at eye level, and turned the world upside down. The temperature dropped suddenly, the wind became fierce, and visibility was reduced to nil. I was in the middle of a white out [see picture]– alone (I hadn’t seen another trekker for over an hour – I wouldn’t seen another all day).
The thought of turning around was no longer a viable option. I’d run out of water a long time ago and stumbling back down in these conditions would surely be fateful. My only chance would be to make it to the top where there was said to be a teahouse. Whatever I did, I’d have to do it fast – the snow was quickly filling in the other hiker’s snowprints (the only visible evidence of the path) and I was frequently loosing sight of the trail. 15 of the hardest minutes of my life later I reached a very very steep incline. This meant good news and bad news. The good news was, according to all reports, I was at the bottom of the final ascent – the top of the pass and the teahouse were a few hundred meters above. The bad news was,
according to the same reports, the short distance would undoubtedly be the hardest I’d yet encountered. It was so steep that the hikers coming from the West chose to slide down it. By now, the snow had hardened, basically rendering this section an ice chute.
Things didn’t look promising.
After a fair amount of trial and error, I began making my way up on all-fours. My left foot and right hand would break through the hard snow and establish a secure foothold. Three deep breaths later, my right foot and left hand would follow suite. An eternity passed without visible progress. Becoming frustrated, I lost my head and began lunging up the mountain. I’m not sure if I blacked out or simply slipped but I soon found myself desperately clawing at the
ground, slipping, falling, back down. Before I knew it, I was at the bottom, again.
Enraged, I staggered to my feet only to fall, hard. I raised myself a bit more carefully a second time only to fall once more. Beaten and bruised I curled up in a ball and contemplated my options. There had to be an alternative! The thought of beginning the climb once more was
unimaginable. The distance was too far, the conditions too severe, and the air too thin. At high altitude, the percentage of oxygen in the air is equal to that at sea level. The problem is that because the atmospheric pressure is so low, each breath draws in only a fraction of the air, and thus oxygen, that you are used to.
Each movement had become extremely fucking strenuous. Very quickly, I felt a bit drowsy, even comfortable in my fetal position and began entertaining serious thoughts of resting for a bit - I could feel myself shutting down. Luckily my survival oriented reptile brain didn’t care for such thinking. Without being aware of making any decision, I found myself back on all fours – this time shouting, out loud:
Get Up!
Move!!
Come On!!!
Let’s Go!!!!
Now!!!!!
Slowly yet steadily I crawled up to the top (5,400 meters / 17,650 feet). There, as promised, was the teahouse. Stumbling toward it I began to imagine busting through the door, falling into a warm safe haven, pulling out all the Rupees I had to my name, and being cared for.
I must have stood in front for a good 2 minutes before it actually sunk in – THE MOTHER FUCKER WAS CLOSED!!!!
Unbeknownst to me, it was only open from 7-12. Since trekkers rarely come over the pass outside these hours it made good business sense. Because humans can’t survive at this altitude for long period of time, there really wasn’t any alternative (Sherpas – high altitude freaks of nature maintain the highest permanent settlements at 4,700 meters / 15,500 feet). As I’d later learn, rotating teams of employees would trek up the pass (from the East side of course), open the tea house, then head back down.
Under normal circumstances I would have kicked in the door without hesitating but right now I just didn’t have the energy to even consider it. Instead, I crawled into the unlocked outhouse. As expected, the shitter was grim, bare, and dark – since it had a door that shut out the elements it was the most wonderful place I’d been all day.
Sitting against the wall (I didn’t dare lie down) I broke out my last Snickers bar and took stock of the situation.
Negatives
* It had been hours since I’d felt my toes.
* My gloveless hands were raw and bloody.
* I’d contracted a deep hacking cough.
* My khakis were beginning to freeze to my calves.
* I had to be seriously dehydrated.
Positives
* My rental parka turned out to provide excellent protection.
* Although it felt cold as hell the temperature was extremely warm for this altitude – probably
in the mid 20s (Nepal lies at the same latitude as Miami).
* The Big One – I wasn’t suffering from AMS. Other than fatigue, I hadn’t contracted the pounding headache, nausea, diarrhea, or myriad of other debilitating problems associated with this altitude.
Before the Snickers was complete, I noticed it’d become very bright outside and opened the door to discover the storm had passed and, with the sun’s intensity, it could almost be described as warm. Standing there I knew the sensible thing to do would be to break into the teahouse and spend the night. People were sure to arrive in the morning and even if I couldn’t get a fire started, I would survive. It would not be prudent to try to make it down now. If I fell and
broke anything or even sprained an ankle, I’d be Fucked. Plus, another storm could move in at any moment.
The thing is, I didn’t want to spend the night in this God forsaken place so I began constructing reasons not to.
* I’d just accented 1,600 meters – far more than the safe recommended maximum of 500 per day. There was a good chance that I’d wake up in the morning or the middle of the night with very serious altitude problems.
* There was also the possibility that if I couldn’t get some sort of fire going I’d wind up with a few less toes.
* I really wanted a plate of fried eggs.
* With each step down, I would grow stronger and breathe a bit easier.
* The sudden occurrence that I could rehydrate myself by eating snow (duh!) tipped the scales and I began making my way down.
Another storm DID move in and the return trip sucked ass every step of the way. Strangely, very few thoughts went through my head and I can’t seem to recall any of the particulars.
Well after dark I arrived back in Muktinath with the sense to steer clear of the Bob Marley Lodge and Freak Bar, opting instead to collapse in the cozy and inconspicuous Mountain Top Inn.
Over breakfast the following morning I swapped stories with the other guests – essentially giving a Reader’s Digest version of the previous day’s fiasco. An overweight red-faced Australian took a particular interest in my tale and began asking a lot of questions. Benign
enough at first, his approach soon became pointed, even challenging. It was apparent that he considered himself THE authority on these parts and that he doubted the sincerity of my account.
The urge to get in this guy’s kitchen flashed inside me but soon faded. After what I’d been through it just wasn’t important. I had better things to do than pander to this yahoo’s inflated sense of importance by convincing him of my story’s legitimacy.
Afterall, I had a phat plate of fried eggs sitting in front of me and a camera in my pocket with all the evidence I need. [see pictures of The Pass, the teahouse, and the storm]
Namaste (I worship the God within you) My Friends
