Up, up, and up 3421 stone stairs

We were to pack and meet Krishna at 7am to leave but Ron’s casio calculator watch alarm was muffled in his sleeping bag as we soundly snored away. We rushed through packing and breakfast and set off on a famously exhausting stretch of stairs between Tirkhedunga and Ulleri. These are no ordinary stairs, mind you, they are 12” inches high, cut roughly from stone, and someone counted 3421 of them between the two towns, though I think there were many more than that. Several times I counted out a hundred, and it seemed to go on and on and on. My strategy was to go slowly, at a pace I could maintain the whole way. I fell into a meditative rhythm - right foot, left pole, breath in. Left foot, right pole, breath out. The peak of Annapurna South inspiring me forward. It was an unrelenting ascent, and towards the end, I joked that I should just crawl the rest of the way...

When we reached and passed the town of Ulleri, I left some beads in offering on a tree, to mark the accomplishment of the summit. What I thought was supposed to be the hardest day of the trek. In hindsight, this was laughably naïve. The day wasn’t even over. And the uphill for the day was far from over. We stopped for a rest break and I snapped some photos of porters with extraordinarily heavy loads that can reach in excess of 100lbs. This when I can hardly haul my own body over the same mountain. One asked for half my granola bar, how could I say no? The hardy peoples of the region have a tough life living up in the hills. From early ages, girls and boys have to do there part to carry firewood, fodder, and supplies from the cities. The preferred method is in a doko, or hand-woven wicker basket worn on their back with the weight bearing off straps around their forehead.

We continued up through Banthanti amidst forests and waterfalls, and then stopped for lunch in Nayathanti at the Hungry Eye restaurant. It was only an hour further on to our teahouse, but I longed to stop for the day.

As we neared Ghorepani, several groups of trekkers started to clump together on the single trail. I really hate hiking in long lines so we started what I can only call Trail Games. Where you strategically stop for an extra rest or push on even when you need water so you can pass a group.

You also mentally size up the other trekkers. When the young and frenetic pass you by, that’s ok. But when grandpa with a bad heart and a limp threatens to overtake you, you must go all out to maintain your frontal position, whatever the cost just because you should be able to go faster. Some don’t follow any rules of trail etiquette. My least favorite was the group that would make a big production of passing you, and then take a long rest so you pass them. Then they start on the trail again and pass you once more. This can go on for hours.

When Ghorepani came in to view, everyone broke out into a foot race. This was a race for survival, a race to get the best room at the best teahouse. We stopped at the very first one in sight, the See You Lodge, unaware there were better places with better views further up in the main section of town. But, this was one of three of the teahouses we stayed in the entire trip that had an attached private bath. We payed top dollar for the luxury at 300 NRS ($4) and it was worth it, despite its crumminess, as we didn’t have to venture out in the dark and cold to pee. The shower head sprayed right on to the floor (and by proximity, the toilet) which meant the floor was perennially wet. This isn't anything new, we have been dealing with this design feature for about 6 months now. Fortunately, we brought slip-on rubber sandals, that we could wear in the shower and later around the teahouse with our Southface socks.
We collapsed in our little tin can room and napped after the nearly 6 hour hike. Waking to eat a giant fried chicken leg with watery mashed potatoes. And then enjoying a Snickers by the warmth of the fire. There is something deeply satisfying about eating a candy bar and feeling zero guilt. Every chocolatey bite, a well deserved reward. Guys can’t understand this. Ron would eat two a day if it fit in the budget and Krishna’s backpack.

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Annapurna here we come!

Today is the day we start our trek! After much deliberation, we decided to do a moderate two week trek called the Annapurna Sanctuary Trek, that takes you up to Annapurna Base Camp and back. We had initially thought we would do the classic three week Annapurna Circuit, but there is a hellish pass over 5000m (Thorong-La) that neither of us felt fit enough to tackle.

We awoke early to finish packing, had a big breakfast and was on the road at 9am. We took a taxi to Nayapul, 41km away, for 1600 NRS ($22). After an hour of winding roads through the mountains, the cab pulled over to the side of the road. Is this it? There doesn’t seem to be anything around. We started to get out, but then we realized that Krishna just had to take a piss. He thought this was highly amusing that we thought the trek started here, and it wouldn’t be the last time we would be entirely lost without him.

Around 10:30am we were in Nayapul, which seemed a long stretch of dusty wooden stalls on either side of the road. We grabbed our packs and followed Krisha down some stairs, through the bustling bazaar. Just like that, we were off on what was to be an epic journey. I was filled as much with anticipation and excitement as I was with anxiety. Will I be able to handle all the ascents? Would my knees hold out on the downhill? What are the teahouses like? And the bathrooms? What if I get sick or break a leg? Will I even make it to base camp? And if I get there, will I make it back?

We had our ACAP permit checked in Nayapul and TIMS checked in Barethanti a short 20 minutes further we started to criss-cross a beautiful aquamarine river by several suspension bridges.

We got our first glimpses of walking bushes or “tree people” what we dubbed the porters of large leave bushels (probably fodder for goats).

As we got to Matathanti the trail crossed the river (or we lost the trail) with no real crossing in sight. We literally leapt several feet from rock to rock, and came to a row of rocks that looked treacherous where I hesitated for too long. So long in fact, Ron had plenty of time to dig out his camera and capture my predicament on film.

Sometimes you have to force your body to just plunge ahead, because if you overthink it, you stand there for 10 minutes in an impossible situation of “there is no way forward or back, so you have to do it” even if you don’t want to. I finally started across the slippery rocks and one teetered ever so slightly so that my backpack pulled me off balance, and for the briefest of seconds I put my entire right boot (up to the ankle) in the river. Thankfully they were waterproof, and I made it across, but I was a bit ruffled right off the bat.

Our first day was blessedly short (around 3 hours) and relatively easy through stepped farmland. A little up, a little down. This is a famous Nepali description of trekking in the Himalayas, and what all the guides (including Krishna) use to describe virtually every hike. Today was maybe the only day that this was even fractionally accurate.

We stopped in Tirkhedunga at Shankar Guest House, our first teahouse, or what they call the guesthouses that line the trails around Annapurna. It was, in a word, basic. Two twin beds (about a foot too short for Ron) and a bare light bulb (useful only when there is electricity). The walls were paper thin, constructed from eighth-inch plywood board, and didn’t even extend to the floor. It was like our room was a bathroom stall, if you stuck your head in the 6” gap at the bottom of the wall you could see into the next room and the room after that!

The bathroom (which means only the shower-room in Nepal) is often solar powered, and usually has hot water if its been a clear day. The toilet is a toss-up between the squatty Indian variety and a regular western style toilet. The sink is never near the bathroom or the toilet, and is found closer to the kitchen. Inconvenient, yes, but let’s pray this allows the chef (or local gurung woman) washes up more often.

All in all, it did not match my imagination of ancient and historic teahouses that I thought would be more reminiscent of elaborately wood carved Tibetan monasteries. Like places Eddie Murphy visited in The Golden Child, where he rapped and scratched on a prayer wheel. I’m spoilt by this movie, and get a little smirk on my face when I spin one now (see previous post), not as reverent as I probably should be. Needless to say my expectations were outta whack. But I would soon appreciate the small comforts of the teahouses, the nice local people running them, the huge dinner portions near the warmth of a wood burning fire after a long days trek. All for 150-500 NRS ($2-$6) a night, you can’t beat it. We snuggled in to our humble abode and were sound asleep and snoring by 7 at night, which would not be an unusual hour for us to retire during the rest of the trek. Early to bed, early to rise.

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Pokhara Lakeside

Our jumping off point for the trek was Pokhara, a lovely and lush lakeside town, where the Himalayas reflect off the water, and everything and everyone is chill and relaxed. The bus ride was a bumpy 7 hour affair but we had front row seats for some breathtaking views of Kathmandu valley. The bus barreling far too fast for its badly worn shocks down a winding road next to a sheer drop off over gorges and the river below. Little villages and farms charmingly dotted the countryside blurring past our window.

We thought we were being savvy by packing our lunches ahead, but we ended up stopping for breakfast, lunch, and a pee break in-between. Our lunch of day-old Weizen pizza was eaten at lightning pace on the side of a bustling road where every honk nearly made me leap off the bridge we dangled our legs from into the sewage run-off below.

Before we took off, an old woman who could hardly stand without toppling over, limped to the bus window begging for money for food, so we gave her what would have been our lunch money. Grateful, she held her hands in prayer, Namaste.

We had booked ahead and stayed at Bedrock Hotel for the unbelievable price of 600 NRS ($8). I wondered, what is wrong with this place, that the price is so low? Well, for one thing, it didn’t include heat, which would have doubled the price but wasn’t really necessary with the extra blankets they provided. We also needed to toughen up if we were going to be heading into the mountains anyway. But the real shocker came when we first arrived. They said that they were overbooked for the first night and we would have to stay at a place next door, which we did not want to do.
Apparently a “big group” was arriving and renting all the rooms. After all my hemming and hawing over this, you know how annoying I can get, they relented into giving us our room and putting someone from the group in the other hotel. All was serene and peaceful, and we were snug in our bed by 10pm. About two hours later, it seemed we were engulfed in a flock of excited migratory birds. I couldn’t figure out what all the high pitched commotion was about until I peeked through the window shade and saw at least 100 teenage girls descend upon the hotel like a clearance sale at Forever 21. The group was not a bunch of trekkers (of course, what I assumed) but an entire high school class from Kathmandu on break. They packed 6 girls to a room, their flip flops flipped and flopped then flung in piles of pink and purple rubber in the hallway. Their loud incessant chatter overlapped each other in louder and louder waves of hysteria and then there was cackling about seemingly nothing at all that went on all night. Never having been a teenage girl, Ron couldn’t comprehend the situation and about died. I could understand it (even in Nepali you can make out the, like, you know when you like, y‘know, you know?) but it didn’t make it any more bearable. Worse, they didn’t check out the next day and we had to endure 2 nights of it.

The next day we went on a hike to the World Peace Pagoda perched on the mountaintop across Lake Fewa. We hired a local guy to paddle us across, who was very proud of Pokhara trying to relay facts and point out mountaintops in broken English. It made me think of Small from Ghana. There was a great secluded hotel right near the dock that would be a perfect place to relax after the trek, but alas they had no internet access - an unfortunate deal breaker.

The hike began as a series of stone stairs, that soon became clear that it was all stairs for a solid hour to the top of the ridge. It totally kicked our butt, we nervously glanced at each other, realizing that we were both in serious trouble to be going on a two week trek. Up is infinitely harder than all of our long walks put together. We scurried to the top at 1100m, the gleaming white stupa a jewel against the bluest of skies. In four alcoves around the perimeter, rested Golden Buddha statues.

In our glee, we didn’t notice the sign asking us to remove our shoes, and we were halfway up the stairs before a girl scoffed at us for sullying the sacred floor. Oopsie.

The vista was spectacular from this high up over Pokhara. From the lake below all the way to the snow-capped peaks in the distance, beckoning us. Or mocking us, we’ll see. Ron also snapped a great panoramic shot that is the new photo at the top of our site.

Then we declined two hours down the other side of the mountain and back around Damside (the local district) to Lakeside (the tourist district). Ron’s knees ached a little after this, and he got a little taste of what was to come. We wisely stopped at a roadside pharmacy and bought 6 sheets of ibuprofen. Locals here buy one or two pills at a time when they need it, so the pharmacist couldn’t understand what we would possibly do with 48 tablets.

Undeterred from our little walk, we rented gear for 15 days at Annapurna Trading Company for 230 NRS ($3) a day from a mustachioed man (like a young Sadam Hussein) who gave us a long commentary on Nepali politics free of charge. I still don’t really understand it, so I won’t try to paraphrase. To keep warm and snuggly in the high altitudes, we rented “Northface” down jackets and Negative 5 sleeping bags. In addition, we rented a big backpack for Krishna to carry everything in. We were quite lucky to rent brand-new, never before used (and abused) equipment, so we didn’t have to contend with any weird smells or worse - unidentifiable stains.

We also purchased a pair of trekking poles, which after hiring Krishna, was the second best decision we made on the trek. Although you look like a bit of a dork, they help immensely to keep balance on rugged terrain and reduce strain on your knees on steep downhills. I negotiated hard and got 4 “Leki” poles for 1700 NRS ($23). Although certainly not of similar quality being Chinese knock-offs, it was a startling price difference to our real Leki poles back home for $300.

Actually, the husband of the shop agreed to 1600 which put the wife in a sullen mood of disbelief at the nonexistent profit margin. I felt so bad for trying to get an extra dollar off from this poor woman, that I followed her out of the store and gave her 100 rupee bill. She hugged me, and we had a bonding moment commiserating about the men in our lives. Men and women, struggling to live and love each other, are alike all over the world. It made me realize in the often discomfort of the differences of culture when we travel, how many more basic similarities we share.

We unpacked nearly everything from our backpacks down to some essential personal items: toilet paper, sunscreen, sunglasses, camera, fleece hoodie, extra socks, t-shirt, flip flops. This would be the light day bag we would carry on the trek.

Then we loaded Krishna’s bag with everything else. First we stuffed in our sleeping bags, jackets, gloves, and hats. Then came our reading books (I brought a relevant book for inspiration- Annapurna by Maurice Herzog). Next was our ridiculously heavy first aid kit and shared toiletries case. Followed by about five pounds of Snickers and Bounty bars (these are like Mounds, mmm). And last but not least, a bottle of cheap whisky (at least we poured it into a plastic water bottle to lighten it up!). Yes, we had everything necessary to hike the Himalayas.

Everything left-over we left locked up at the Bedrock Hotel for our return. I was slightly horrified as to how much there was that we didn’t deem important enough to take with us. It was the size of a suitcase and weighed around 40lbs. What have we been carrying around?

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Trek Preparation in Thamel

The Thamel area of Kathmandu is a trekkers heaven. It has shop after shop of stores filled with trekking gear. Most of it looks like brand name gear but it really is made in Nepal or China with a stolen (or slightly altered) logo. My favorite was socks I bought that said Southface on them, they made me crack up every time I put them on.

Along with 4 new pairs of “coolmax” socks, our largest purchase was hiking boots. We must have tried on 20 pairs of shoes at a dozen different stores. It was surprisingly hard to find our sizes and the ones that fit were often super-ugly (I know that’s not supposed to be a consideration) or of questionable quality for the price. Our patience paid off, and I found a light green pair of boots for 3500 NRS ($48) that were most comfortable if a tad big. I figured bigger was better than smaller, as my feet were bound to swell from hours of walking. Ron later found a pair of black boots he liked, being quoted 6500 NRS ($89) at one shop but negotiating down to 3900 NRS ($53) at another.

We thought it was going to be cold but weren’t sure just how cold. Some we talked to thought that gloves and hats were unnecessary at this time of year. Maybe in Kathmandu, but we were sure glad we went ahead and bought yeti hats knitted from colorful yarn and fingerless gloves with a super functional fold-over mitten parts for a mere 500 NRS ($7) for the lot.

At first fumbling, we quickly learned the negotiation dance with local street vendors. If you ask the price and there is a one count pause than the real price is about a third less. If there is glance focused somewhere in the distance (where I think they picture you as a rich westerner in a big house) followed by a pause longer than two counts then the real price is probably half what is quoted. If there is sustained eye contact and no pauses then it’s a fair price. This is a very rare occurrence, but it does happen.

Part of the scam of tour based trekking is that they procure your permits for you, which is supposedly an expensive and difficult process. To trek in Annapurna you need two: Annapurna Conservation Area Permit (ACAP) and Tourist Information Management System (TIMS). These require little more than showing up at the Nepal Tourism Office right next to the main local bus station in Kathmandu, filling out a couple forms, giving 6-8 passport sized photos (we printed around 30 each on our Epson printer before we left on this trip), and 4000 NRS ($55) for the both of us. It took about two hours of our time (walking time included) and we were officially independent trekkers.

We didn’t want a guide, because the trails are well marked and easy to follow but we both cringed at carrying all of our gear ourselves, so we opted for a porter. Since we were leaving from Pokhara, naturally we thought to hire one there but after talking to a few folks, albeit from tour agencies, we considered hiring one from Kathmandu if, that is, we found the right person. Walking out onto the street one night, we were approached by a guy from Touch Paradise and we went back to their office to discuss. There are at least a million tour agencies here, so it could have been anyone from anywhere that night. We immediately liked the owner and after some discussion asked if we could speak to the proposed porter ahead of time (which was a prerequisite for our decision).

We met Krishna, a small (is there another?) Nepali in his thirties that looked about as big as the bag we wanted him to carry. It was a “yes” at first sight as we asked him questions about his experience and style. We just wanted someone that was easy going and spoke passable English and he was all that with a good sense of humor to boot.

We had an appointment to meet another porter (that according to Ron, sounded like he had marbles in his mouth) so we played hard to get but immediately went back and booked him. For 14 nights porter service (not including transportation to/from Pokhara) we paid 894 NRS /day ($12) or 12516 NRS ($169). This would later prove to be the best decision we made in the trek, as he carried all of our heavy stuff and was a cool guy and quasi guide as well. Worth every single rupee, indeed.

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The Squares and Temples of Kathmandu

Walking out of the tourist district of Thamel, we finally start to see the real Kathmandu. The little shops and buildings give way to unexpected ancient temples and squares. Women carrying bursting baskets of brick with nothing but a thin forehead strap. Butchers chopping meat on what must be unsanitary tables. Motorcycles zipping past buses with mutli-toned horns that sound like the bionic man. Rickshaw drivers napping on the job.

We walked the 2 kilometers to Swayambhunath Stupa, a major Buddhist pilgrimage site. Sorry, but I’m going to use the metric system from now on because, duh, it makes sense. It’s what the world uses outside of America and, like, the entire fields of Mathematics and Applied Science. But I won’t be adopting the universal clock, it still takes too much brain power to compute what 16:45 means.

Often called the Monkey temple, because there are just a ton of sacred monkeys running amok. Below is a short video of migrating monkey families in front of a contemplative gold Buddha.

We walked up the 365 steep stairs a little out of breath and at the top, guess what? The temple was under construction! What great luck we’ve had with all the sites being repaired when we show up, or maybe Ron just can’t escape restoration work no matter how hard he tries.

Around the stupa were a bazillion prayer wheels that we circumnavigated clockwise with a gaggle of school children straining on their tippy toes to reach the spinning the wheels. Om Mani Padme Hum. Ah! The jewel is indeed in the lotus.

Rainbow colored prayer flags hung from the spires of every stupa, their inscribed mantras fluttering in the wind up to the heavens. They are never removed so some are tattered and faded from the weather strung next to new brightly colored ones in dense masses that recall circus tents and used car lots for the pious and faithful.

We lit candles as offerings and received elaborate red, yellow, and gold marks on our forehead from an old woman for a small donation. The red clump started to slide off our sweaty faces (and regrettably into my bangs) so we removed it and reverently touched it to the third eye of Buddhist statues we passed.

We ventured to the famous Durbar Square, even after an unhelpful local told us it was closed because it was Saturday (which is like our Sunday, the most likely day off for businesses and religious observances).

It was most certainly open, bustling as I imagine it always is with locals and tourists alike. We watched as a man dutifully and painstakingly scrubbed a Buddha statue with a brush.

In continuing with our training program for the trek, we opted to walk to the Boudha Stupa and back. It definitely had distance, at nearly 16km roundtrip, but it was flatter than flat. It is very difficult for us to find appropriate inclines on the road, so I’m confident we’ll be under trained and ill prepared for what lies ahead.

You are allowed to walk inside and around the stupa, under the serene and watchful Buddha eyes. Even prostrate yourself on wooden slabs provided for your praying pleasure. The air felt light and pure, even surrounded by the congestion of urban Kathmandu only steps away. A respite in the middle of chaos.

I finally got a National Geographic shot (it took only 50 cities and 10000 tries!) of an old Buddhist monk relaxing near the entrance.


See more of our photos of Kathmandu on Flickr.

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Kathmandu Post Office - A study in the ancient art of form stamping

Ever since our First Need water filter broke back in Rome, we have had to buy bottled water. This really sucks. Not only is it expensive, but we pollute the planet unnecessarily with more empty water bottles. Also, it’s a constant daily struggle of procurement and transportation to ensure we always have enough. I had left a spare filter at my Dads which was not exactly convenient when we needed it. It’s like having your spare car tire not in your trunk but somewhere in Romania. So now we would need the spare and a spare spare so I went to REI.com (which was so bizarre online shopping again, trying not to faint at the costs) and bought one, in addition to super strength insect repellent and replacement indestructible sporks (our first pair, I accidently threw away in a bag of half eaten fried rice in Africa, and whenever we caught without a utensil Ron gives me the stink eye).

Since we didn’t know anyone in Nepal, my Dad sent us the care package to the Poste Restante, General Post Office in Kathmandu Nepal. I had read online that you can send letters to people traveling by sending it to Post Restante but not a lot of positive remarks about care packages. I was worried when we arrived to the post office, a dimly lit concrete wasteland of a building one afternoon. We were shuttled to three different tellers before entering a closet sized room to root through a box of letters, all too slim to contain what was sent. Uh oh, I thought.

My forehead perspired, as I tried to communicate “package” in sign language to the clerk. He went through a stack of orange slips and found one addressed to me, verifying my passport with a quick glance, and sending another fellow off to get a key for the giant iron safe next to us. Hooray, how easy was that! At this point I went in to a congratulatory speech on the reliability and efficiency of Kathmandu’s Post Office, how in the backpackers circuit it is second only to Bangkok. Never mind my single audience member didn’t really understand English all too well. The key was produced and in the cabinet was…only a stack of papers. Hmmm. Not so fast, flapjack.

We were directed to another low squat dingy building out back and that’s when the fun really began. First I handed my paper to a lady behind a counter in what looked like a shipping/receiving dock. She had me write my name and address on the back and wanted a photocopy of my passport, upon which when I told her I didn’t have one she ordered Ron to go out and get one. Good ole chivalry….or something. Then I was directed to a man sitting at a nearby table to fill out a form that was in Sanskrit. He pointed to one line and had me write my name, and pointed to another to sign. I had a fleeting thought of being in a foreign prison and being told to sign something you can’t read. Never a wise idea.

He wanted 20 rupees and told me to take my form to another room. This room had three desks where the men looked like they were not working hard but rather hardly working. One with a funny hat, beckoned me over, stamped my form and wrote some numbers down, sending me back to the lady. The ladies assistant produced my box from somewhere “in the back”, opened it, and started rummaging through it. What is this? He questioned, as he held up the water filter. I explained and he snorted in response. He wrote down what I gathered was the contents of the box on another paper and sent me back to the room where the guy listed the items in an oversized ledger book and asked for 65 rupees in “tax”. He stamped my other form and sent me back to the lady for the second time, who then sent me back to the guy at the table (again for the second time), and then back to the lady (for the third time), where Ron was back with my passport copy.

She stamped and collated all these papers and forms, and then she asked for another 40 rupees, before finally passing me my box. I wasn’t sure if this was actual payment for service or each stations “tip” for looking busy by stamping forms. This was no kidding, I must have been there two hours shuttling forms around, but at least I got to see the fascinating, unbelievable and wholly unnecessary bureaucracy of a post office in action. Thanks again Dad for sending it, can you believe it made it to us?!

On the way back to our room, we saw The Cutest Little Girl in the World. She wore a tattered sweater and dusty roses in her hair, with a smile that could melt your heart. We are accosted by street beggars at least a dozen times a day, but we could not resist her charm, I think we gave her 5 bucks, what amounted to a fortune in comparison to the single rupee coins filling her bowl. Ron took about a hundred photos of her. Finally I had to pull him away from her gaze, before he adopted her and smuggled her back to the US. He was totally smitten.

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Namaste Kathmandu!

I tried in vain to sweet talk the stone faced Indian woman at Delhi airport into giving us seats on the right side of the plane, but she was having none of it. We were told the right side seats gave you some magnificent birds-eye view of the Himalayas. Who knows if we got the information backward or just got lucky, but we sat on the left and saw the stark white Himalayan caps stretching out in a vast blue expanse of earth and sky. Much to the dismay of the right-seaters, we got the shot.

We arrived at Kathmandu airport and met our shuttle to the Acme Guesthouse. At some point someone asked to carry my bag, and naturally I assumed this was one of the guys from the hotel. Only after getting in the van did I realize the baggage carriers wanted a tip to carry my bag all of 50 feet. I told them I had no change, our smallest bill pulled moments ago from the ATM was 500 nrs ($7). They first said that bill was only 3 US dollars, pleading with me to be generous, and then backpedaled that they’d gladly make change for us. More like run off and never come back, do they think I’m stupid? I told them to shove off and stop trying to scam tourists fresh off the bus (or airplane, as it were).

I feel travel-hardened and although I’ve been way too nice and naïve in the past, this exchange made me feel that I’m just not taking any sh*t anymore. The hotel manager complimented my grit, that it was unwise to encourage the airport scammers, but then I wondered where the heck was he when they took our bags in the first place? Standing there letting it happen. Illustrating perfectly the first rule of travel, that the only person looking out for you, is you.

Kathmandu has some elements of dirtiness and craziness but is much more manageable (at least by two or three factors from India) and is delivered with a friendly smile. We immediately liked the feel of the city and were happy to be spending a week. The ACME Guest House was not all we hoped it would be, but we got a weekly rate of $16/night. The bathroom and general cleanliness, as usual, had much to be desired. I miss Reyna, my El Salvadorean cleaning lady that came in every other week. Ron used to complain about her sometimes lackadaisical cleaning jobs, but we would both kill to have her once-over some of these rats nests we sleep in now. My, how things change. It did have a nice grass lawn with tables and chairs but the food wasn’t great so we usually ventured out.

The restaurants were plentiful, serving tasty international cuisine. Most surprising was how well Nepalis represent Mexican food. In the span of one week we had burritos, enchiladas, nachos, and a sizzling platter of fajitas. (Ron got his birthday wish!) Other standouts were The Yak Restaurant serving hot Tibetan beer and momo’s (which are like Trader Joe’s potstickers only way better!) freshly made that day with a side of spicy red dipping sauce. Another Nepali staple food is Thungpa which is like a noodle soup, usually vegetarian but sometimes with chicken, I found it nothing like Grandma’s and required at least a tablespoon of salt to make it ingestible.

I had my alone-time lunch (those scheduled occasions when Ron and I split up to stay sane) at an Organic Café that advertised a “salad bar” but my dream meal was not to be as it was no longer being offered. Instead I had a huge salad full of nuts and jicama topped with balsamic dressing and I was temporarily in heaven and luckily not sick later on.

We ate breakfast many mornings at Weizen that offered a delicious set breakfast at a good value (150 nrs or $2). The set breakfasts are ubiquitous and pretty similar all over Nepal. If you can believe out of the twenty some-odd breakfasts to date, we never took a single pic, here is an example from google images.

You start with eggs that taste best “fried both sides“. Never order scrambled, they are sad, lifeless mush and worse are sometimes diced boiled egg parts masquerading as scrambled eggs. Next are the home-style potatoes lightly browned with onions and peppers, so tasty you almost forget you like hash browns more (almost). Then comes the toast that can be anything from freshly baked wheat toast (like Weizen) to a seeded hoagie roll (Maya, in Pokhara) to bland butchered wonder bread (most Nepali owned dives). It‘s a crapshoot really. With the bread surprise comes a little dish of butter that you must sniff to ensure it is not of the yak variety or gone bad of its own accord (it’s really quite hard to distinguish these two but one is a pinch more armpit-like). In the dish, which is often segregated by a little condiment wall, is the jam that is usually always an artificial cherry flavor that is very reminiscent of a red Sunkist fruit gem. Y’know the one that looks and, probably more creepy when you think about it, feels like a human tongue because of the exterior coating of rough sugar crystals.

Last (and least according to Ron) is what is called “milk coffee” or a weak, watery mixture of Nescafe with far too much milk making it more akin to coffee flavored milk than the reverse. The table is adorned with a cup filled with diagonally folded wax napkins alternating in color between yellow and pink. This counts as “décor”. And there is almost always salt and pepper but they are inevitably in the wrong containers according to tradition, which is frustrating for a self professed salt addict like me to get the proper salt volume through one partially blocked pepper hole. But I try.

Later, at night we would return to Weizen and playfully jostle for pizza and croissants with all the other backpackers at 8pm when the baked goods were sold at half price. It was really an ingenious ploy to sell through their stock, because at exactly 8:15pm everything would be gone but the crumbly remains of apple fritters and banana muffins. We learned this the hard way one night and came early enough the next time to watch the clock countdown the seconds to the strike of 8 o’clock. A hushed silence filled the room. We mouthed the game plan to each other, lower than a whisper, so no one else eyed our goods. My hand gripped the metal tongs, shaking in anticipation as the secondhand was swept up into the blur of grabbing arms and confectionary, like a famished Avalokiteśvara going for 1000 cinnamon rolls at one time.

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