2002-03-24T17:14:00.000-08:00

KATHMANDU DIARY
Death is the Best Advisor

To begin this narrative necessitates going back to my dilapidated, hillside Berkeley home one summer morning many years ago. Victor was a toddler and I a young mother. Judy, my neighbor, had just returned from a six-month trip to Kathmandu, Nepal, and was bursting with anecdotes about her sojourn, in what seemed at the time, as an impossibly distant and alluring place. There was the tale of Sister Max, the former Harlem hoogie, now a glamorous international player (some said she was a spy) and there was the Russian countess, Zina, also a suspected spy. (In those days half of the foreign residents in Kathmandu were spies). Of course the mad Russian, Boris, and his infamous restaurant, The Yak and Yeti, was mentioned, along with various monks, lamas, a Yeshi, and their followers. Judy mesmerized us with her stories of drugs, and hippies, chhang parties and hashish holidays.

It never occurred to me then that only two years later, I would take four-year-old Victor on the counter culture express to Freak Street and Boudhanath. We would live first in a mud house in the rice fields, then in a bigger mud house, which actually had electricity, to a dingy, wet, cold basement flat in the “Rose Gardens.” The author, Pico Iyer, called Kathmandu in the seventies, “Shangri-La on two dollars a day.” I think I lived on even less. And for me, it was definitely not Shangri-La. But, I did meet Sister Max (she was one of Victor's second grade teachers), who by then had shaved her head, grown fat, and shed her glamorous accouterments to become a Buddhist nun. In fact, much of my wardrobe came from a US AIDE wives’ thrift store where Sister Max sold her former exquisite silk outfits. I also met Zina, who had become a nun. (She died shortly after the meeting, of cholera, while trekking to a monastery somewhere high in the Himalayas), and Boris, and all the lamas and monks of Judy's tales. Even the Yeshi and I became friends, of sorts, before he became an international celebrity and spent most of his time traveling around the world hobnobbing with rich devotees. However, most important of all, I met Atul, and Victor and I married him; for after the wedding, Victor prefaced events by stating they were either before or after “we married Atul.” Ten months later, Daya was born, and the pale, skinny, Berkeley ragamuffin with the adorable child on her hip, was transformed into the pink-cheeked wife and mother of two, figuratively overnight. We left when Daya was two, and one year later, Lara was born.

With our romantic history, returning to Kathmandu after twenty years was destined to be a homecoming fraught with high emotion. One of my friends in Bombay, a fellow teacher, who is Italian, e-mailed me saying he hoped I had a “blasting time” in Nepal. Another friend said, “You are bound to be disappointed. It can't possibly live up to your expectations.” And of course they were both right. I did have a “blasting” time and yes, in some ways, I was disappointed.

We'd booked a room at the Utse Hotel in Thamel, and although I was among the first westerners to move to that part of town, it is now Tourist Central. The Utse had also been a first, the first Tibetan restaurant opening its doors in 1975. In fact, Victor got his first job there. When he was five-years-old, he came home one morning to tell me that he'd just been hired as the doorboy at the Utse. His salary was an ice-cream sundae. For the next three days Victor faithfully reported for work. The incongruity of a blond child wearing a Nepali cap (topi) and a western tie with a white button down shirt, his outfit of choice, as the doorman for a Tibetan restaurant in Kathmandu, was lost on Victor, who insisted that he was “a regular guy.” Adding, “I don’t want to look like a hippie.” On the third morning he shuffled into the house only minutes after leaving, his head drooping and his spirit sunken. “Victor, what happened?” I asked.

“I got fired,” he said.

When we saw Utse in the guidebook, we hoped the same family ran it. They did. They also said they remembered us, “the American woman with the cute, little boy, married to the handsome Indian, who could forget?” The proprietors had been newly married then, without children, now they have a son and a daughter, both in college in Bangalore, India. She, Diki, is still a beautiful Tibetan woman. Her husband, the former cook, has aged much more than her and has the worried look of a man not doing too well. For sadly, the hotel, although quite nice -- the rooms are decorated with traditional brocade curtains, Thangkas and pictures of the Dalai Lama -- were mostly empty. The residents who were there, an elderly British lady with a confused look on her face, who never left the TV room, a good-humored middle-aged Greek man who told me he'd been to Nepal twenty-three times in the last ten years, and an Indian businessman who sat in the lobby all day drinking scotch, gave the place a bit of a run-down feeling.

We were too busy to hang out anyway, as our mission to find our former servants began immediately. Our first morning we rented bikes and peddled along the crazy roads, gasping for air each time a truck, putt.putt, or bus came along spewing its black, noxious fumes right into our faces. We found my dungeon-like basement apartment at the Rose Gardens, where Victor turned TB positive; my penthouse flat overlooking Thamel and our first home together, now a popular tourist restaurant near The Kathmandu Guest House. Peddling further afield, we found our biggest and nicest former home in GairiDhara, behind the palace. It was still intact, albeit without the beautiful garden of the past. Our neighbors, a family with eight children, most of whom played with Victor, were still there. Although one of the eight, Victor's best friend, Narayan, had died suddenly ten months earlier of a heart attack. They remembered us and our reunion took the form of posing for stiff photos outside their new apartments. Sadly, they had lost touch with Domodar (our live-in errand boy) or Nirmala (the baby-sitter and cook) or the “sweeper.” (I never did learn her name, she always told me to just call her “sweeper”). I was determined to find them, so we pedaled around for hours asking various people if they knew anything that could help us locate our friends, but everyone looked at us as if we were mad. In a country where half the population is under twenty-five, our former stay must have seemed like another century.

So, disappointment one, was the death of Narayan and our lost servants. The "blasting" time came after the bike ride, when we got to take hot showers, ridding ourselves of layers of monsoon mud, then a leisurely lunch at the rooftop cafe of Brezel Bakery, where we met a Dutch woman who had just finished bicycling 18,000 kilometers from Geneva to Kathmandu! -- We then went for more bike riding, more mud, more showers and a leisurely dinner at another roof-top cafe, Le Bistro, which became my favorite perch. I could stare down at the street theater watching the convergence of time-warped "hippies," still wearing tie-dye and looking drugged-out; gorgeous, muscle-calved trekkers in their top-of-the-line boots; cute, filthy urchins, accosting tourists with the unique line of, "Please buy me some milk." Of course, they didn't want Rs.15 fresh milk, they wanted the Rs.300 package of powered milk. I told my guys, “too bad, it’s fresh milk or no milk.” They took the former." What else was there? oh yes, upscale rickshaw drivers, who pedaled their bikes in pukka shoes and clean jeans and charged sky-high fares. Plus, international aide agency types looking clean, neatly dressed and earnest; white-haired Europeans on tours, dazed mystical seekers in flowing burgundy robes, or saris, and/or with bead-braided or shaved heads. And of course, young men sidling up to everyone, “Change money madam,” “You only look madam, no buy.” “Hashish, hashish” or “Very cheap” carpet, or clothes, or jewelry or trekking equipment, or rafting, or tours, they all said, “No business, I make good price for you.” And it was true, in the monsoon, the two thousand carpet, or trekking or book or jewelry or nick knack or restaurant or hotels DON'T HAVE ANY BUSINESS AND THEY ARE DESPERATE. It was too depressing for me to look, let alone buy, and so my shopping mania was somewhat curtailed. However, as bereft of customers as the stores were in Kathmandu, it was boomtown compared to Pokhara. But, that will come later.

After dinner, we heard the strains of live music coming from The New Orleans Cafe and so squeezed in (it was the only crowded place I saw in our three week stay) to listen and maybe dance. There was no place to dance, and although I've been known to boogie in isles, and if pressed, maybe even on a table or two, I wasn't in "the zone" and so gave up the idea. Actually, for some strange reason, I was “off my beer” most of the trip. I just wasn't in the mood to drink. So, we listened and wildly applauded the local renditions of rock and roll favorites, plus an original adaptation of a Nepali folk song in blues and funk, and then wandered along rain-drenched streets to our hotel.

As the days followed, this routine was constant. And so a week passed with bike rides, visits to all of the temples, stupas, villages, ancient cities and bazaars in the valley. Everything started looking alike and everywhere we went Atul remembered my misdeeds of a quarter century ago. “That is where you had a temper tantrum because I was late. That street is where you tried to break up with me. That is where you argued with me about phul and fhul” (ways to pronounce egg in Nepali). “Remember, this
is where I tried to kiss you and you pushed me away.” Or, “This is where I tried to cop a feel when no one was looking. That is where you told me about M.....and I could truly understand your pain. You had the saddest eyes I've ever seen. That restaurant is where you talked all night about ...M...... I was sure a fool in love.” I remembered most of these events and certainly had to agree with Atul that I had been difficult. My excuse, I was terrified of just about everything. In fact, the same Judy of Berkeley fame, once told me she'd laughed so hard at the then best seller, Fear of Flying, because the page that catalogued all of the protagonists' fears, including rabies, botulism, flying, closed spaces and heights; mirrored my own list of terrors (add the Punjabi strangler). So, it's a miracle I even get out of bed in the morning, let alone take off for wherever. But, back to Kathmandu.

Whereas the predominant smell in Bombay is of human feces, Kathmandu reeks of smoke and ghee. Temples, stupas, idols on each corner, in the middle of a square, hidden in a dark passageway, are all smeared with red powder (kum kum), ghee and sometimes blood. The houses, small and poorly ventilated, bathe their residents in the smoke of wood or kerosene stoves. Walking along the crowded bazaars, people jostle you, redolent of smoke and ghee, in busses they sweat smoke and ghee. This had a deleterious effect on my appetite since the food too smells of smoke and ghee. I also got sick. I fell down and gouged my leg, got paranoid that the green, slime-covered stone that had stabbed me was teeming with disease and death, took a tetanus shot, which made me nauseous, ordered Tibetan chicken soup for the nausea, which gave me food poisoning and I heaved my guts all night. Two years in India and I've had nary a case of dysentery. After six days in Nepal I'd lost five pounds. I also got severe asthma, as those noxious fumes were hard to avoid. So, that too had been part of my walk down memory lane, remembering illness and more illness. During my four years in Shangri-La, I seldom was able to get my weight up past 95 pounds. As soon as I'd regained those rosy cheeks, disease hit, and I was back down to size anorexia.

Although I lived in Nepal for four years, I have the singular distinction of never having left the valley to go trekking (remember paranoia, fear of everything). Actually, I have my sister, Gina, to thank for my terror of the open path. When I first arrived, she gave me a grave warning. “Never let anyone talk you into trekking. It isn't fun. It is a nightmare.” Then she told me horror stories of being caught in blizzards and seeking shelter in a rat-infested hut, where the rats gnawed at her sleeping bag all night. She described crossing raging rapids hundreds of feet below her on nothing but a tattered rope bridge. She said she ate only potatoes and barley for weeks at a time and told me about watching village children die before her eyes for lack of medical care. I heeded her warning and never went trekking. Not even once. This trip I was determined to change, to walk up mountains, and go river rafting and ballooning and ..... So we began with a practice, "killer trek" from Nagarkot, one of the highest hills surrounding the valley, to the oldest Hindu temple, Changu Narayan. The trek began somewhat inauspiciously as the stupendous views from Nagarkot were hidden behind dense monsoon clouds. Our stay there was like Stinson Beach on a foggy summer day. We were damp, cold and disappointed. Nevertheless, we got up and found a thin line of sun shining from behind the cloud cover and so began our walk full of high hopes. Fifteen minutes after leaving the dirt road, we followed two small bare-foot girls down a steep gully past rice paddies, cornfields and mud-brick and thatched-roof huts, through farms and barking dogs and lots of human shit. It was beautiful. Everywhere we went, children screamed “hi, hi, hi, hi,” until we'd trekked out of sight. The smaller of the little girls we'd followed (no older than five), stayed with us past her house, far from her sister, scampering along in quiet companionship. She kept up with us for ten minutes until the border of her village, and then solemnly waved good bye. As soon as she was gone, the sky darkened and it began to pour, the typical cloudburst of the monsoon. For two hours we slogged through mud and gook until we got to a deserted road and there the sun again shown. On the trail, in what seemed like the middle of nowhere stood a guest-house. The young boy manning it said it was closed because, “there was no business.” Nevertheless, he took us to his grandfather's house, where for Rs. 25 each, we were given cokes, a stool, and fifteen minutes of stories about the old days. The man said he was sending his 12-year old grandson to English-medium school and it cost Rs. 200 a year. We noticed his back yard was planted in Marijuana, so perhaps, he was doing fine. That boy made up for the little monster who had accosted us on the trail demanding a rupee. I finally gave him one. Then, when Atul wouldn't also give him one rupee, the tiny kid began hitting Atul on the legs. I called him a rascal in Nepali (I remembered about forty words) and he looked a bit sheepish and ran off. Then three naked kids, the smallest no more than two years old, ran after us for a hundreds of yards, demanding money, screaming, fake crying and being totally obnoxious when we wouldn't give them any baksheesh.

It took us four hours to get to Changu Narayan and it made me recall perfectly (aside from Gina's dire warnings) why I'd never gone trekking. I kept thinking, I've walked up hills and I've walked down, and believe me, down is better. However, Changu Narayan was quite impressive, I was especially taken by another 12-year old boy who appointed himself as our guide. He was able to speak English, Hindi, Italian and some German and he would grow eloquent describing the ancient idols and their significance in Hinduism. As we meandered around the temple grounds, he and Atul were competing for explanation time and I was getting stereo instruction. Since there were signs all over the place warning us not to give money to children or beggars, I guiltily handed the boy a ten rupee note, he was quite upset and told me he wanted more....Heeding the signs, I refused. But I felt bad, in fact, I still feel like a cheapskate for refusing to give more. He was a brilliant child and a great guide. This is one of my perennial dilemmas in India or Nepal. Whenever I give out baksheesh I either feel rotten because I was chintzy or feel like a sap because I gave too much. The truth is I want to give but I am afraid to give. Once in Bombay, at Juhu Beach, when I first arrived, I handed a beggar a Rs.20 note. This would be comparable, emotionally, to handing a beggar a hundred dollars here. Within seconds I was mobbed. Atul had to beat off no less than eighty screaming beggars as he yelled for police assistance. We finally outran them, rushing into the gates of a five-star hotel.

So, we took the bus from Changu Narayan to Bhaktapur and then stuffed ourselves into another bus filled with ghee and smoke infused people and their wet, cumbersome loads, and landed back in Kathmandu, in Thamel, where there were warm showers and good food. The next morning, at six am, we got up to take the bus to Pokhara. I had promised Atul and myself that I wouldn't weasel out this time. I would go on an overnight trek.

The ride to Pokhara was along a winding mountain road, the Prithvi “Highway” first beside the flow of the Trisuli River and then the Mayasangri River. The ride affords stunning, picture-perfect views of the iced landscape. Whereas in Kerala, the rice paddies were vast fields, here they were tiny layers of perfect terraces, almost like a giant wedding cake, for hundreds of feet alongside the mountains; with quaint, slate shingled two-story farmhouses nestled, like decorations, among the remarkable variety of green. Of course, being the queen of paranoia, I was nervous most of the way -- one very slight miscalculation and the bus could slip right off the highway and down into eternity. Which is exactly what happened to a bus filled with fifty-one passengers five hours before we drove by a section of road where police and pedestrians were gaping down into the swollen river. The bus had disappeared without a trace and it took them six days to find it. However, we didn't learn any of this until we got to Pokhara, which took us fourteen hours. Just twenty miles outside of the town, a group of disgruntled villagers had blocked all the roads, demanding payment for the hit and run death of an old lady the day before. The Indian driver of the truck had run away, “The miscreant had absconded,” to quote from the local press, leaving thousands of woebegone travelers to pay the price of his lousy driving. Finally, after a sixteen-hour standstill (our bus had only been set back seven hours), the roads were reopened and we got to Pokhara, the Shangri-La in Shangri-La.
I had always wanted to go to Pokhara, but had been too chicken to fly on the flimsy planes that used to be the only way there, besides trekking -- So, I was thrilled. Atul, who'd flown many times on said planes, couldn't stop comparing the over-built tourist scene of today, with the empty, pristine Pokhara of his youth. He kept repeating, “There were only the palace and the Indian guest-house, nothing else. It was so beautiful.” Of course, now there are hotels behind hotels, alongside hotels, kitty corner to hotels, twenty to a block, near, far, across, and every which way from the lake. And they were all empty! It was quite sad. For they were beautiful hotels and well run hotels and hotels with stupendous views. We stayed first in one owned by Kathmandu Guest House, and paid the outrageous sum of $18.00 a night, but then switched to the Marigold, where we took the penthouse room, overlooking our very own roof garden, planted with gorgeous pink flowers, which were visited each afternoon by the tiniest humming bird in the world. We had a panoramic view of the lake and mountains, all for a whopping $9.00 a night. I kid you not! But, no matter how cheap or gorgeous, the lodges were bereft of guests. Actually, even though I am quite the bargain sleuth, my pleasure in getting such deals was somewhat limited by the anxiety the empty hotel rooms caused me. I just couldn't stop worrying about the huge sums being lost and the people who would be thrown out of work by the sure demise of most of these same hotels. But, it wasn't
just the hotels....The street along the lake was crammed with clothing stores, carpet stores, travel agents and trekking stores, all empty, all totally without customers. When we booked our trip to Chitwan and the Jungle Island Resort at a whopping 75 percent discount, our agent, a slim, attractive man who gave us a card announcing he was a lecturer at the local university, was so excited, his hands shook. However, Pokhara was paradise in one respect. The food was fantastic. And if you could ignore the depressing lack of customers, it had the mood of a new-age ski resort without the snow. And, the highlight of our trip was in Pokhara, for after a bicycle trip to Devin's Falls and a quick inspection of Tashi Ling Refugee camp, which our great friends, Fred and Julie Shepardson had run for several years, we found ourselves suddenly confronted by the spectacle of Machhapuchhre gleaming from behind the fog. I think this could be categorized as a “peak experience,” both literally and metaphorically, for its snow-covered peaks seemed almost on top of us, lit-up by the waning sun, glittering in gold and silver streaks that mixed with shades of lilac, beautiful beyond my expectations or experience of beauty. Words defy me and photos just don't evoke the same mood of grandeur that one gets in person. We then saw Dhulagiri and the entire Annapurna range. What luck for a cloudy monsoon afternoon!

Despite a bike ride around the lake, and a five-hour bike ride uphill to some scary caves I was too paranoid to properly explore, a two hour trek around some nearby lakes, Begnas Tal and Rupa Tal, and lots of other bike riding and walking, in Pokhara, I gained back the five kilos I'd lost. For the food at the Bomerang restaurant, in a garden setting on the edge of the lake, was excellent. I even ordered barbecued fish and it was the freshest, most delicious fish I've eaten in years.

However, my "firm resolve" to go on a real trek, was rather thwarted after our two hour warm-up at the twin lakes. The pounding rain and ankle deep mud, with leeches everywhere, put Atul off the idea of a longer two or three day walk. In lieu of this lost "pleasure" we hung around Pokhara eating, boating, swimming, then went to Chitwan and rode elephants through the jungle.
However Chitwan started off rather badly, the “luxurious tourist bus” which came to pick us up at 7 am had been “replaced” by a dilapidated, groaning, leech-infested bus. (I am lying, there weren't actually leeches, it was so wet and run-down it looked liked there should be leeches). This bus had the tiniest seats in the history of busdom, a sort of midgets' vehicle and those in charge then proceeded to solicit rides on every corner with the driver pocketing the fares. As the bus filled up with soggy peasants dripping mud and smelling of smoke and ghee, I started getting worried, imagining the thing careening off the side of the road as the four of us, Atul, myself and a young Danish couple whom, like us, needed the leg room of the rear seat, getting trapped in the back. My sister in paranoia, the Danish woman, and I began discussing possible escape routes. The rest of the trip I kept the back window fully open, despite intermittent downpours, while gazing relentlessly at the road, ready to leap out if I saw a tire going over the edge. She did the same. We actually arrived in Chitwan with nary an incident or near crash to report. When we got to the lodge, our gateway to the jungle resort, I was back into beer and immediately ordered a liter of Tuborg.

The Danes had gone on to a resort “outside the park,” those going inside the park, our new companions, who'd come up from Kathmandu, were already assembled in the lobby. They were an odd lot. In one corner sat an Indian pair. Their forlorn expressions, plus the elaborate mindi designs painted on the woman's hands and feet, singled them out as an arranged- marriage honeymoon couple. Each one stared into the distance in utter desolation, turned towards each other, smiled fake smiles, exchanged a lame kiss, then again looked away, renewed expressions of boredom and despair upon their faces. In another corner was a blond couple. They looked like teenagers, but were most likely in their twenties. The guy had tattoos and greasy hair. The girl was tall, skinny and very sweet looking, although she too had her share of tattoos. The other guest was Valentino, at least that is what I called him. He looked like central castings' vision of the bon vivant, the Latin lover, the lady-killer. I kind of perked up when I saw him.
As soon as I finished the beer, our jungle jeep arrived and whisked us away from Bharatpur through flat paddies and fields of corn, what Atul termed the beginning of India's “Gangiatic heartland.” We drove for an hour, until we reached the edge of Chitwan and a canoe crossing to the jungle, followed by a short walk to our very own “Jungle Island Resort.” The resort sat along the Narayani River, which was brown and flooded from the rains. The crocodiles I'd read about were not visible, but silently there, so damn, there would be no “elephant bathing,” but we got a three-hour elephant ride instead. Atul, Valentino and I shared the saddle of one elephant. Although I fretted about BO, as perspiration dripped from every pore in the near 100% humidity, I didn’t mind knocking against Valentino's broad, muscular back as we jostled along the jungle, through what else? elephant grass, Saal trees, hundred feet high rubber plants and ficus (you know the small house plants you get at Home Depot). At six fifteen, we saw a rhino, he stood ten feet away and was looking very worried as our Mahout whistled for the other elephants to come. All four elephants surrounded him (a group of six Italians were also staying at the resort), a bad move as he put down his head and began to paw the earth, the sign of an imminent charge, according to our Mahout, so the elephants moved away, and the rhino turned and trotted off.
Seeing a rhino was a unique experience. I was awed by how primitive, how Jurassic he looked, with scaly armored hide and a backward fang-shaped horn on his snout, the very same horn that some Asian chemists grind up and sell as an aphrodisiac, and, has placed him on the endangered species list. This guy also had some serious testicles, those things must have weighed ten pounds each. Perhaps that is the true inspiration for the myth of rhino-horn as a pre-Viagra cure for impotence.

The next day we saw four more rhinos, one in the morning on our dawn walk (only Atul, myself and Valentino showed up for that one), then later, during the midmorning "guided jungle tour." By the way, our guide, a young man named Devi, was a delight. He makes me understand what Don Juan meant when he told Carlos Castenada about a "proper tonal." Devi is a Tharu, the original inhabitants of this former malaria zone. They were the only people who could survive in this jungle with their mysterious natural immunity to the disease. Now, malaria is under control and the “hill people,” meaning Nepalese descended from Indians, have taken over all of the land. The Tharus, as indigenous people everywhere, have been marginalized. Although lacking formal education, Devi was self-taught. He could tell us the native, English and Latin names for the jungle flora and fauna.

Only Atul, myself and the British couple, came along on the mid-morning walk. The “teens” wore some of their high-end trekking gear, including leech guards. They said they were on their way to Pokhara, to do the Jomosom trail. They were certainly well accessorized for it. As we walked, Atul and Devi scouting at the front, the two women in the middle and the greasy-haired kid, madly filming anything that crawled, buzzed or swooped, with his brand-new state-of-the-art camera, we bumped into the rhino. It stood on the path, directly facing us, not more than ten feet away. Atul, my fearless mate, and Devi had to beat the ground with long, wooden rods. It glared at them, head down, ears back, they stood their ground, while the rest of us ran and hid behind trees. Finally, the rhino lifted its head, turned and trotted off. In the evening, during the second elephant safari, we saw two more lying in a wallow.

After the excitement of “being chased by a rhino,” Atul and I sat by the river drinking Carlsberg (me), waiting for our lunch, Atul told me that one of the guides had seen a dead body floating by. Apparently, the bus that had disappeared seven days earlier had been found the day before. While it was being lifted out of the river it fell apart, dropping its contents of rigor mortis frozen corpses into the swift currents. Just as he finished his explanation, he looked up and said, “Hey there is another one.” Naturally I thought he was pulling my leg. He wasn't. A death-bloated man drifted by, splayed out on his stomach, arms and legs askew. It was a gruesome sight, yet nevertheless mesmerizing. Then after lunch, as we sat along the river's edge chatting with Devi, we saw another, this time it was a woman, drifting by on her back, her legs bent in a seated position, still clutching her handbag.
Wow, Madame Paranoia's worst nightmare. After that we canceled all plans for river rafting. I also thought of Don Juan again, and how he always told Carlos that “death is the best advisor.” Indeed it is. For, the petty annoyances -- the road strike, the midget bus, our backpacks full of dripping clothes, the tarantula in my bed during the night, the absence of coffee, the soggy food and mildew and the departure of the merry Italians, was no big deal. Likewise, the dejected Indian honeymooners, the over accessorized British couple, Atul and Lolly, had nothing, absolutely nothing to worry about; for we were not floaters. As Nepali teens like to scream at foreigners, “don't worry, be happy.” We were all alive. Thank you Buddha!

And so, my narrative ends where it almost began, in Kathmandu valley. Atul and I returned to a new, fancy, just-built eight-dollar a day hotel and lots of left over Nepali rupees to blow on trinkets and other stuff. We had not accomplished many of our goals, but we had had a "blasting" experience. We'd even spent time with Gina's ex-husband, a former Tibetan monk named Tenzin. He and his British wife live the high life in Kathmandu. After a sumptuous lunch in a plush garden, Tenzin drove us up to his beautiful, rose terraced estate. Wow!

The rest of stay in the valley consisted of shopping, eating, wandering, meandering, eating, and hanging out at Le Bistro, where, from my perch, I saw all of my Chitwan and Pokhara buddies; the Italians, the Indians, even our Jomosom couple, who somehow managed to make a twelve-day trek last two. Hmmm...I think they got smart and didn't actually go. Only Valentino was missing. Alas, he'd gone back to Delhi and his hot shot job with an NGO (non-government organization). Actually, I was convinced that Valentino was a Masssoud agent. He’d told us he was from Argentina; however, I noticed that every once in a while his Spanish accent slipped into a sound that was distinctly like an Israeli accent. And, he was the son of Holocaust survivors. A fact he seemed to have regretted revealing after two or three Carlsbads when I’d mentioned a film I made in grad school about survivors…. We even met a great old lady from Sebastapol who was traveling all over India and Nepal alone. SHE HAD TAKEN A BUS FROM DELHI! We also met macho man, a teacher from LA who was climbing a mountain as difficult as Everest IN THE MONSOON! He was returning in the spring to actually climb Everest solo. Good God! Have I been shamed enough yet? Should I, could I actually try to go trekking next time? Atul, sorry, don’t count on it. The paranoid adventure continues.

Kathmandu Diary