Belly Up

It takes five taxis before one claims to know where the Nikon Center is on Silom Road, half way across the city of Bangkok. I get into one cab only to exit a few feet away as the driver shakes his head, “Oh no madame, can not find.” Unlike the Nepalese cabbies who would tell you anything to get you into the car, the Thai taxi can't make enough fare going far out into the business boonies during rush hour traffic. I hail consecutive taxis until coolly offering the fifth one $300 baht. Miraculously, the hack knows where I need to go.

“Are you sure you know how to get there?” I question the nodding driver. It was imperative to drop off the Nikon for repair so I could have one last day to capture the spirit of the city without the black blobs of yak and goat hair on the camera sensor – the interior depths swiped clean of spilled dal bhat, Coke and jungle grime of Nepal.

The cab speeds off into the thick of the slow moving traffic, getting denser by the minute, the driver sighing proportionately louder as we become more entrenched in the jam and bottlenecks. We seem to be driving a long time before he decides to call someone for directions. He's on the radio, he's on the cell, he's shifting gears and speeding four times faster through lines of cars, weaving in and out like he's playing a video game, all the while sighing more emphatically.

“I thought you said you knew where this was...” I lean forward to verify.
“Much traffic, madame.” Sure traffic... and that universal stereotypical male refusal to ask directions perhaps... which is now cutting into his once large profit. All taxis have the dashboard Buddha enshrined in flowers with the King of Thailand hanging from the mirror – ours is dancing a wild jig as non existent spaces between cars open to his erratic honking and bullying. He screeches to a halt in front of 161 Silom Road, “Nikon, madame.”

The Nikon people are helpful and friendly in the well stocked store.
“Your camera very, very dirty,” the techie scolds and condemns it into quarantine until scrubbed and fitted with a new pop up flash, burnt out by overuse. “It cost you 4,500 baht, ok?” she looks concerned. I do the math: about $145 U.S.
I smile, “No problem, madame,” knowing it would be close to $500 in the states and take about three weeks.

“You come back tomorrow after 4 p.m.,” she instructs me. Delighted, I walk out into the hot Bangkok afternoon and celebrate with green mango slices served in a bag and sprinkled with a chili-sugar fish sauce washed down with a perfect Thai iced tea full of sweet goodness and caffeine. It is heightened by traditional Thai instrumental muzak piped from a speaker – but it sounds weird. I realize it's a rendition of John Denver's “Country Road” that's being plucked by Asian strings, lost in some strange Thai translation.

Every afternoon fierce thunderstorms rattle the city, booming from buildings, lightning flashing uncomfortably close. It's a good time to get off the streets and into a spa. I slip into a salon for a manicure, pedicure and just for fun have them slap bleach on my head, which after four weeks resembles an inverted skunk. The salons love to place patrons in the front window so everyone can see how busy they are, hoping that it will draw more clients. Passersby stop and stare at my ridiculous position as four stylists hover around me – each foot balanced in a separate bowl of lemon water, fingernails being filed and hair tugged straight up at the scalp and painted with white fuzzy lotion. I wave to the gawking strangers in my best parade mode. Primped and primed my hair glows in the night and my toes twinkle in metallic pink.

When the appointed time comes to pick up the camera at 4 p.m., I go through the same dance trying to hail a cab until one accepts the magic offer of 300 baht. It's traffic as usual but the store closes at 5:30 – an entire hour and thirty minutes to get to the half hour destination. We drive for forty-five minutes before I ask, “You DO know where Silom Road is, don't you?” He doesn't answer. “The shop closes at 5:30. If you don't know, you should call for directions,” I suggest. He pulls over and pays a woman to use her cell phone since his is out of minutes, and then speeds off.

“How far?” I ask.
“About twenty-minutes,” he answers nonchalantly.
“But the store will be closed by then!” I panic, needing my camera for the last day excursions – the Palace, wats, longboats on the river, canals, people, places. He speeds up but it's ten minutes after closing time when we arrive. They are just pulling down the store's large metal gates as I bolt up the steps pleading. I writhe under the iron gates like an action adventure figure.

Night changes the face of Khao San Road as the vampires emerge on the scene selling everything from university diplomas to large buckets of “Very Strong Drink Cheap” according to the hand printed signs the bevy of bar touts are waving.
“You want to see ping pong show?” one carnival barker asks me.
“Ping pong?” I ask, wondering why anyone would want to leave the vibrant street scene to go watch a game.
“Er... no,” a friend pulls me away by the arm, “You don't want to know what the showgirls do with those ping pong balls...”
“So, not a tournament...” my naivete blushes.

I have dinner just off the chaos of Khao San – green curry, tamarind soup and fresh coconut juice served in the shell – and enjoying a tasty meal when a rat scuttles across my feet and into a drain close by. I like rats, but not with my main course. I've never had a bad meal in Thailand, I think silently so as not to tempt the bacteria gods.

My last day in Thailand is a list of must see places with a like-new Nikon. The morning is sunny and warming up – but I am feeling sluggish and suspiciously grumbly when I realize it's my stomach doing the grinding. Downing a couple of antacids I head over to the first temple where a ceremony of chanting is taking place, the monks' harmonious voices lifting into the rafters and beyond. Pro videographers are filming as the elder monk shakes water onto the crowd with a wooden whisk broom. Young monks in saffron robes are being fed in the wings. Entwined with sweet incense, the mantra doesn't sooth my abdomen which is turning inside out. I head down to the docks anyway.

It is then that the full, frustrating reality forces a return to the hotel, where I spend the rest of the afternoon and night in the sleepless torment of the dreaded Bangkok Belly until the taxi takes me to the airport at 5 a.m. for the thirty hour journey back to Denver. No long boats or palace, no last massage and certainly no more green curry.

I arrange myself into the more spacious seat of Japan Airlines, fortunately next to the restrooms, draped in blankets. The two-story jet smoothly glides down the runway into a perfect ascent way up above Bangkok skies heading north seven hours to Tokyo, where another jet will take me to Chicago in a fourteen hour cruise over ice and frigid sea before boarding a final plane for Denver. A shuttle bus will then schlep the one and one half hours to Ft. Collins to pick up my car and drive six hours to Crested Butte where I'll sink into my own cushy bed looking out on dark skies that contrast a bizillion stars strewn across the Milky Way. And sleep until my spirit figures out where my body is. There's no place like home...

Jump

While I was out trekking for ten days the bugs invaded my room at Three Sisters. They scuttle across my walls and floors. The large spider I didn't mind sharing the bathroom with is nowhere to be found as the parade of ants carries away large pieces of unidentifiable things. In the morning, I catch them trying to make off with my toothbrush and have to send the brigade to their afterlife.

One particular night I had to fight a waterbug for the rights to the toilet seat. If you've ever seen a palmetto bug in the south, they're just like them − large brown armored bodies with squirmy multiple legs and long antennae... only they crawl up through the water pipes and drains. If you've never seen a palmetto bug... think roach the size of a hamster, but not cute and fuzzy. Knocked into the toilet bowl and flushed down three times he kept swimming back up, each time with more defiance than the last until I had to decapitate him with a toilet brush. I would have left him as a distraction for the ants but there was too much satisfaction in the final flush.

So it was that morning I went to the travel agent, sensing the perfect time for a good pampering in Bangkok. With Nepal Air's notorious reputation for being late, if they get off the ground at all, I thought it best to switch to Thai Air... the golden peacock of flight and service.

“We can't cancel your flight for a refund. You have to use the travel agent you booked it through,” Adam Travel in Pokhara informed me. “But we can change the ticket or book the Thai flight.” Manang Travel was found online during the initial trip preparations because Nepal Air's website doesn't have interactivity for booking flights. They sent a receipt that said I paid $1000 in cash for my ticket but in fact, I had paid $600 by credit card to fly from Bangkok to Kathmandu round trip. I'm sure they charged the airline the $400 difference after charging me a non existent $145 Foreign National Tax they claimed was out of their control.

“No, you paid too, too much and tax should only be $40.” the Pokhara agent confirmed. Manang emailed back to say they would work on my travel changes but I never heard from them after my inquiry about the receipt and extra tax charges. Nepal Air only has one plane, which only flies three times a week and Adam Travel books the next flight out, which means I have to be on a bus tomorrow for Kathmandu. At one point two of the agents each have two phones to their heads talking simultaneously into both just trying to get the bus, plane and hotel secured.

I have one more day in Pokhara before the seven hour bus trip back to Krazytown and the Kathmandu Guest House, supposedly a swankier place at $25 a room. After a farewell dinner at the Moondance and leisurely stroll back to the other end of town, I stop at a convenience store. I am staring at shelves of chocolate in a pleasant trance. Almost brushing shoulders with someone, I look up to see another woman trancing out over the chocolate choices. She is dressed in the rich colors of traditional India, a russet scarf drapes her head and shoulders. As she turns to me, from under the veil is a broad smile, cheekbones rising up with recognition.

“So here we are in the chocolate,” Gabby laughs. We walk back to her guest house, even farther down the lake than mine and I watch her performances of traditional dances of India on her computer. The hand maneuvers alone are a language in of itself as she gracefully splashes and skims through shore water on a beach at sunset, feet and body poised.

No need for teary goodbyes this time since we'll most likely run into each other again in a forest or chocolatier's somewhere down the line. Hours later I'm feeling my way down the dark night on an unlit road to Three Sisters to finish packing for the early bus ride.

The same driver and co pilot that took me to Pokhara navigate the bus through mountain curves, traffic, goats and grandmas back into Kathmandu, still crazy and thick with people, filth and dust. At the Kathmandu Guest House, the accommodations are only slightly better than the $15 room at Hotel Karma. The staff is helpful though and switch me to another room, which is about the same but without the acrid smell of cigarettes. I find my favorite vegetarian bookstore, Pilgrim Books, with its restaurant in the back garden, and order the Tibetan Thukpa soup.

On the street, the touts and shopkeepers are relentless in clawing to get anyone into their store, taxis and rickshaws practically run over tourists in trying to get them to stop and get in, street hawkers push little violins, flutes and trinkets into your face with hopes that you'll buy their crap. If you're talking to someone, reading your map, or writing in your journal they'll stand there breathing on you and then follow. They all try to engage you in conversation for the sole purpose of getting you to buy. I doubt I will ever return to Kathmandu except to pass through its airport en route to a trek. I spend the rest of the night in the gardens behind the gated guest house.

At the Kathmandu Airport, Nepal charges 1700 rupies (about $23) to get out of their country. Through numerous security checks in a small airport I am felt up and patted down by four different women, the last on the tarmac as we're boarding the plane. Men to the left, women to right, we form a line for feelies. My special mantra of music and positive thoughts will hopefully help lift this solo, overworked jet into the air − as the engines grind into a hum not heard on other planes I turn up the ipod. Some three hours later we slam down in Bangkok.

No visa, I stand in line for almost an hour to get one on arrival only to find I don't need a visa for the four day stay. Thailand makes it easy for tourists to stay and spend money, and they do it all with a pleasantly sincere smile and “Sawadee.” No one wants to exchange my Nepalese rupies so I'm stuck with several thousand of them.

The Banglumpoo Guest House is not elegant by any standards however it's only $395 baht (about $11, mostly because the US dollar is so weak), relatively clean, spacious and I can walk or taxi easily to almost anywhere. I find pad thai at a street food cart, order new prescription glasses and get a two hour massage before heading to slumberland to dream of green curry for breakfast.

Below: Bangkok's Khao San Road with tourists who can't say no to buckets of "Really Strong Drink" the street touts push for the bars.

Sisterhood of the Orange Shag

It's a trick of the guides to say the hike to the next village is less than it actually is, so they get further on down the line faster. Dhanu claims it's a five hour hike from ABC to Dovan, because probably had I known it was seven I would have stopped earlier. But she tells us she has sent a runner to reserve our rooms and urges that we get there. I consider it a reason to slow down, breath and enjoy since we'll have rooms waiting. Down from the heavens we trek, through the damp clouds that have now settled into the valley. It was hard to leave the glory of the Annapurna bowls behind. We arrive late in Duvon at 4 p.m. and there are no rooms.

“What happened to the runner and our rooms?” I ask annoyed, my knees slammed, ankles fat and swollen like my old aunt's, and exhausted beyond food or drink from over seven hours of head-down hiking.

“Maybe there weren't any,” Dhanu offers.

"But you said you sent the runner out early,” I eye suspiciously thinking it was a ploy to move faster toward home. Again we're offered the dining room which isn't an option when the cook starts up at 5 a.m. Feeling snarky and smelling ripe I'm still not going to sleep with sherpas or someone's morning porridge.

“What about the other guest houses?” I ask.

“I don't know them,” Dhanu quips as I trot back up stairs to plead with lodge owners for a room. The first lodge gives us a clean, no frills room for a fraction of the cost and will feed Dhanu too. It was dry with three beds and I was gloating in my refusal to accept the pattern of guides and guest houses, now realizing that the trail is just a method to funnel as many tourists through the trekking food tube for as much as possible in the short two month season. It was completely understandable since Nepal's tourism waned for years while the Maoists raged. Now that they're in government, the trail extortion falls into the laps of the lodges.

Day seven. You know what you'll find there. The Dreaded Steps of Chomrong. We leave Dovan at 8 a.m., body still screaming from the grueling seven hours of torment a mere few hours prior. I daydream of hot showers and sweet smelling clothes. Leaping up the stone stairmaster at Chomrong are young singing boys with the normal huge loads on their backs and as usual I have to stop often to breathe and I'm not singing after two hours of climbing to the village at the end of the day's hike. But there is a glorious hot shower waiting at the Lucky Guest House on top and I wash some clothes on an outside stone like the village women.

We order pizza, pasta and Coke, a carb feast to commemorate the day. Outside, the lodge owner is hammering out his bakery pie pans, flattening them into pizza pans since the other eight guests also ordered the same thing and the kitchen didn't have enough pans. Dinner is hours late but who cares... we're showered and toasty. Annurpurna South and Fishtail still loom impressively large as the sun sets draping them in pink clouds.

The Sisterhood of the Orange Shag Coat is parting ways this morning. I watch Gabby gracefully amble up the path, walking stick in hand, to Poon Hill as I head down to Landruk, a different route than the one we came up. There are many comrades on the journey. Some are destined to meet again and I had a feeling Gabby would be one of those, still, it was a teary farewell as she trekked up to the right and we rambled down to the left on the other side of Chomrong steps. Past stone walls and tiered fields of millet and rice. Crosby, Stills and Nash are my morning meditation as I sing along in the sun not yet hot enough to melt the skin off my arms. Through banana and palm trees, down to the river bank, the path is easy for most of the morning.

Dhanu's shoe disintegrates, the sole completely falling off and in conversation discover that the taxi driver who dropped us off at the trail head makes more for our hour round-trip than the $50 (4000 rupies) Dhanu is making for her ten days of laboring up and down mountains with a thirty pound pack. Guides only make twenty-five percent of what Three Sisters Adventures charge. I wonder how that is empowering women, the Sister's credo, when men are still making more for less work... and it infuriates me. True, Three Sisters runs a school, orphanage and guest house, giving the girls an opportunity by training them and the girls make more than they could anywhere else − but why should the trek service's cab driver get so much more? All I could do for Dhanu was tie her soles back on with a leather shoelace and a promise to buy her new boots when we returned to Pokhara.

The next couple of days dissolve into each other. My sleeping bag is funky, toes a fungus farm, my stomach is over the iodine water and food cooked in dirty kitchens with goats and chickens running through next to squat toilets.

“How far is it to Phedi from Damphus?” I ask Dhanu as the clouds gather.

“About one hour,” she says, “But we stay in Damphus tonight.” She was worried about getting paid for the full ten days.

“Don't worry, I'll pay you for the last day,” I had already decided to pay her more than the salary the company would give her for this trek. The moment I said we're heading back early, Dhanu was like the cliche horse to the barn... I couldn't keep up with her as the sky broke loose, rocks and mud became a greased path - I lost her twice when the road split off. In the final hour down to Phedi, the pick up point, the stairs become steep rock cliffs and I fall three times. It is, undoubtedly, the worst of the trail, which is why everyone starts off on the Nayapul side. Down the final flight of stairs I slide to the taxi like a runner to home plate.

Knowing a shower and a hot meal will make me human, I hand all my clothes to the launderer at the guest house and head off for a drink at the Moondance Cafe, victorious and still in awe of the experience of the Annapurna mountains.

Easy as ABC

The Deurali day dawns bluebird and clear, still damp but not too chilly as the sun moves slowly up the valley from far below. At 7 a.m. on the fifth day of the trek we start the final four hours to ABC as shafts of light force through wedges of mountains, Annapurna in front of us, Fishtail to the right. The river is rushing down below through sheer rock walls and the climb is steep at first, mostly mud and rock trail and, gloriously, no stairs as it passes through the gorge in its ascent to Machhupuchhre Base Camp (MBC). We're at about 13,000 feet, the air is thinner and less damp and although I have to stop to catch my breath, I can finally breath more easily ─ no thanks to two weeks of gorging on dal bhat and Coke at low altitude in the heat. Why anyone loses weight on this trek is a mystery since you must eat three times a day so your guide will get their free meal.

At MBC we stop for hot ginger tea before the final climb to ABC only two hours across alpine terrain at a gradual altitude gain. The day is absolutely perfect for the hike. The Annapurnas indescribably fill the broad viewscape until clouds descend from nowhere to obscure both sun and scenery and the air becomes damp and cold with their mist.

Mountain dogs voluntarily escort trekkers to and from villages through their territory and two pass guiding a few tourists. Shrouded in clouds at almost 14,000 Annapurna Base Camp sits in a bowl surrounded by Machhupuchhre and the Annapurnas. Again we are told they are no rooms but we're able to opt for a three bed dorm with another British woman whose last name is acceptably Fairey. We celebrate with rich chocolate carried half way around the earth from Mountain Earth Foods in Crested Butte. Dhanu makes scrunchy faces at it because she prefers the sweet American junk bars.

Up on a ridge are prayer flags, poems and memorials to those lost on the mountains. Annapurna has claimed many in their attempt to conquer her. Although I can't see through the cloud, the glacier below is noisily moving taking rocks with it in its eerie descent. All around avalanches caused by late rains are thunderously crashing every few minutes. Somewhere on the mountain in the fog is a French climbing team and separately a solo American climber. I walk the edge high above the glacier among the prayers, intuitively seeking a niche in which to hang the Red Lady flags I carry from my own beloved threatened mountain − to ask the Big Sister Annapurna for her blessing.

Through the mist an unnaturally bright orange glow is coming towards me.
“You should put your flags with all the others so they'll be read by more people and the more they are read, the more the universe will absorb them,” Gabby's British accented wisdom rings true even though she is dressed in a florescent day-glow orange long-shag coat.
“Jeezus Gab, you look like a psychedelic yak...” and I think, why didn't I bring my usual ceremonial costuming for this trek instead of wearing all the fake North Face garbage everyone else also bought in Kathmandu? We plan to string the flags in the morning after the sunrise ritual. This leaves us free to take off and explore nearby ridges before the evening descends.

Past the flags a bastion of rocks delicately balanced, little castles, stupas, more tributes, more petitions with the solemness of a graveyard. Down sloping sides through fields of larger rocks we come upon a circle of dark barren soil ribboned through with white sand, a dry creek bed in a lunar landscape. Dotting the fine dirt are clusters of tiny puffball mushrooms and in the greyness and altitude we're certain we've left the planet. Over the next ridge, avalanches so loud the ground shakes and the evening light is setting in. We head back to camp for dinner.

Always a jovial party in the common room, the kerosene heater is blowing strong fumes and heat under the long dining table skirted with yak wool blankets to slide your legs under. Yes, there have been fires and bodily combustion but in the night cold, temperatures dropping fiercely now, no one cares. The laughter continues until the moon rises three-quarters full over cleared skies and illuminates the ranges with such magnitude that everyone rushes out of the lodge to stand outside in silence in awe of the lunar lit snow peaked panorama.

When I finally pull myself from the surreal world, I crawl off to sleep fully clothed − down vest, wool hat and gloves tucked happily into my bag with all the electronics and batteries. Dreams are intense for everyone who falls into the trance at Annapurna.

Sunrise humbles the soul and elevates the spirit as the light moves down the goddess-face of the Annapurnas. People and flags silhouetted on the ridge where the sun has not reached yet stand with cameras poised. Across the bowl behind us is Machhupuchhre, the fishtail still bathed in shadow. Points, peaks and avalanches, I am mesmerized by the unfolding daylight, a phenomena I don't witness at home either with my Mediterranean heritage and night schedule.

I move to the other side of camp as a white veil of light is dancing with rays of shadows cast from Fishtail's peaks. Suddenly bright streaks shoot upward from a jagged point with the explosiveness of a sparkler on the Fourth of July as the sun rises to form a perfect diamond bead visible for only five seconds as it rises into the sky. Five seconds of star burst, stripes of prisms welcome the day. When the light show plays itself out, you realize how high you are... mostly because you've held your breathe through the entire performance and at high altitude.

Gabby is her own little spectacular sunrise decked out in the shocking orange acid-yeti shaggy coat. I gather the lavender anointed red prayer flags and we head up the ridge. As the silent prayer request begins, Gabby, with the longer legs, ties one end to the highest point of the pole above the other flags. As I reach to tie my opposite end, a prepared chant for each knot, a bellowing voice calls, “Playing through!”

Golf club and ball in hand, a dreadlocked, surly-bearded man with aboriginal tattoos across his forehead and a mischievous smile suddenly appears and sets his tee right next to me on the ridge.

“How did I get in this Fellini movie?” my disoriented brain is not registering the scene as he screams, “FORE!” and hits the ball high over the nest of flags to a makeshift hole marked by a pole and tin can way down on the camp floor while the ever glowing Gabby-in-orange is laughing and shooting photos.

The flags are up waving high above the backdrop of Annapurna and Fishtail surrounded by magnificence, hope and a temporary golf course. Dhanu is impatiently pacing, hoping we'll come down soon to start the return... back through the forests and stairs to find a room and more food. It's 10 a.m. when Gabby and I pull ourselves away from the mountains we've spent a knee-destroying five days to get to. As we approach Dhanu she pipes in with her favorite insistent comment, “Ok, we go now. Ready?” She repeats this continually until there's no choice but to pick up your bag and head out.

Light in the Forest

Down the two thousand portal steps of the other side of Chomrong, across a rotted wood suspension bridge slung high over a raging river the bamboo forest is rife with trekkers, some as green as the foliage. Monkeys are not rare but to see them when your eyes are always downward focused on the rocky path is a reminder that you came half way around the world to take in the scenery. We see two swinging from large moss covered trees. Flowers and delicate ferns are thick; beautiful parasitic plants drape themselves from trunks.

The path is often just a creek bed, water running through strewn boulders until you get to more stairs, which are far less now since the jungle topography is fairly level. Hundreds of waterfalls roar down from mountain tops ‒ liquid curtains undulating through deep crevices in rock, bouncing off cliffs and finally trickling into the many little gurgling grottoes. If you ever played Myst in the 90s, the sounds of the bamboo forest were what they could have modeled the soothing water sounds of Channelwood after.

The path crosses gnarled tree roots, orange and smooth from untold years of human feet polishing them. Birdsong is melodically hidden in the thickness of bamboo and mossy branches. The rhododendron won't color the forest with its bright blooms until March and April. The sun is glaring but in the microcosm of the bamboo cluster we are damply shaded in another world where donkeys are thankfully not allowed.

Up ahead on the trail is a lone woman. The brim of her straw hat doesn't quite cover bright eyes and cheekbones that that rise with her smile. Hiking trousers cuffed with decorative beads and embroidery, jacket bordered with mirrored bands of ornamentation, long braided hair extensions twisted to one side of her head, walking stick in hand she turns to say, “'Ello, Namaste!”

A Brit, stylin' her way through the forest alone. Dhanu was delirious at the prospect of a roommate. I was happy to meet a kindred elf spirit in the woods. Serendipitous instant synergy, she starts walking along as though she had been trekking with us from the start. Gabby from Cambridge is a dancer, social worker, massage therapist, traveler, musician and gypsy in equal parts.

Emerging from the denseness into the village of Bamboo, all the rooms are full and we're told they there is no vacancy at the next village, Duvon, an hour away. But Gabby miraculously conjures up a dorm room with four beds, one already occupied by a young German girl, and the three of us move in, relieved we don't have to share the storeroom or sleep with the sherpas, as the rain starts to pound the metal roof.

Immediately following dinner, inevitably dal bhat the tastiest and most filling, all the lodges send the guides to their charges to write up the breakfast order, which is hard to think about with a warm belly of dal. Guides and porters are always fed last, meaning about 9 p.m. after schlepping the big loads up steeps through the heat all day.

Throughout the trek, male guides, porters and villagers snarl with disdain when they see a female guide. Some do a double take, some call out rude quips and some just stare frowning. This will change in the next five years as women break into the trade more fully. As it is, I'm amused and Dhanu just ignores them.
“Namaste” I chortle to gawkers, smiling like Jack coming down the beanstalk with the golden goose.

I wake to a wet sleeping bag and water sporadically spraying from the bamboo mat ceiling. The night was soaked in downpour, saturating the roof. The squat toilet is dank and cold with the unsavoriness of a cattle feed lot. Breakfast is waiting. Cold damp fog sets upon us as we trudge off to Deurali, the last village stay before the ascent to Annapurna Base Camp. Donning wool caps, gloves and jackets through more bamboo forest and mud paths until the terrain opens, the peaks are obscured by afternoon cloud cover as Deurali comes into view above the trail.

It's only 2 p.m. and we find a room in one of the four guest lodges, order hot ginger tea and dal bhat and settle in for a half day of rest before the final four and a half hour trek to Annapurna Base Camp (ABC). The waterfalls above and river below are engorged with rain, deafening throughout the day and night. The locals say it's unusual to have so much rain this late in the season, monsoons should have ended over two weeks ago.

Cocooned once again in my bag, I sleep in my wool hat, long johns and fleece ‒ camera batteries, ipod and laptop enclosed within to keep the cold from draining them. I learn not to drink liquids late because there's no way I'll be leaving this warm down shelter to crawl off in the dark, cold mist to the horror of the squat hole in the middle of the night. I dream of thinner air and sunshine.

The Way of Things

The fog lifts, the rain stops and in the Gandruk morning I take my laptop to the quiet deserted porch to write in the new light at 6:30 a.m. This is a mistake. Like moths to a flame, sherpas, porters and guides come out from the shadows to peer over my shoulder and ask non stop questions. Even Dhanu, whom I've told that I need time alone to write, is planted next to me leaning over reading what I'm trying to compose. Knowing I have precious little time before she begins glaring and squawking for me to get moving, I get up to write in the privacy of my room.

“Why do you travel alone... where is your husband?” one male guide asks out of the blue.
“I like to travel alone for many reasons,” I laugh and add, “and I have no husband.” I try to slither past him to my door.
“Oh I am sorry!” he says of my single status as though I had just told him of a death.
“But I'm happy,” I try to explain to a man in a male dominated culture that views unmarried women as flawed.
“You will be married within five years to an American man!” his wide grin predicts. I laugh even harder.

I take an Ibuprofen from the massive pharmaceutical armory I bought in Kathmandu, wrap my knees in elastic support and head to Chomrong, a six hour hike that would take two hours if not for all the blasted steps. Dhanu points out the destination in the hazy distance which can be seen from Gandruk just around the mountain across the valley and I feel heartened. It doesn't look so bad until my eye follows the path – down to the valley floor, across a river and then back up, zig-zagging its way across the opposite mountain.

All the altitude gained the day before is lost and must be recovered to get up to Chomrong – and of course this is done through the Endless Series of Stone Stairs in the furnace of tropical heat. I pray for rain without donkeys. The sky becomes overcast about one hour into the trek as the down town train of clopping hooves is getting louder jingling nearby above. I get out of their way.

In many places the trail is washed out by landslides making it difficult to find and navigate. In the solar smelter of up and down, I worship my guide who is carrying my heavy back pack. As it is, my day pack feels like a large German shepherd on my back, growling and snapping at me. I'm almost ready to chuck the eight lbs. of camera gear into the green abyss, especially when I realize the little black bird I seem to have captured in every frame is not following me – it's a speck of dirt sealed inside somewhere that no amount of shaking or air will budge.

The steps ascending to the gates of Chomrong are reminiscent of the dreaded Gates of Mordor, especially at the end of a grueling six hour hike. A trekker passing on the way down counted over two thousand but I'm sure they lost count. The stay at our planned guest house is once again thwarted by no vacancies and we grab whatever is available – attic rooms separated by poorly constructed, unpainted, rough cut two by fours and paper thin paneling.

You sleep with your neighbors at fingertip distance, their breath hot through the walls. A group of rowdy American men from the midwest, a Miami couple and one misplaced woman occupies the rest of the floor. There is one bathroom for the twelve of us but at least it's a sit toilet. Squat toilets are difficult for someone not used to sitting on their haunches for hours in the rice field. The eight men, who celebrated conquering the steps with Nepali liquor, snore out of sync all through the night, shaking the building to its foundation. In the morning, the sky is clear and filled with the omnipresence of Annapurna South and Machhupuchhre, whose crevices, peaks and ice can now be seen in detail.

An early start time becomes imperative to get to Bamboo, the next village, to secure a room because as high season is underway groups with planned itineraries rushing to get from point A to B send runners to book up the accommodations. If you're traveling single with a guide, it's difficult to get a room since the lodges want to make the most bang for the buck. More people occupying as many beds as possible means more dinner, lunch and breakfast bought... a large chunk of their profit equation.

They aren't yet prepared for women guides, who are currently oftentimes forced to share the same quarters in the dining room with the men counterparts. I told Dhanu I would pay for her bed, or we could share a room if the lodge balked at giving us shelter after a strenuous day when all thoughts focused on getting your legs horizontal in a cushy sleeping bag. She would get frustrated trying to explain that the lodge owners wouldn't let Nepali stay with guests, especially since guides don't pay full price for food.

“But I'll buy your food, I don't care. I want a room and a bed,” I offered.
“No, they won't do!” her hands over her eyes, shaking her bowed head in disbelief that I just didn't get it. If it's all about money, then what was the difference?
“They don't like,” she sighed, knowing her path would return to the same lodges again and she needed to stay in their good graces. If we were lucky, I could share a dorm room with three or four people, which is always preferable to trucking off to the next village one to three hours away when you're body is already screaming and room availability is just as questionable. Or having to sleep in the store room and fight creatures of the night for your space on a cot in their rightful territory while they try to unravel food bags.

“Ok, tomorrow you find maybe a friend,” she reasoned.
“A friend? What do mean? I have to find someone to sleep with?” eyebrows raised I thought to myself that's tough enough to do at home.
“Yes, you find a friend to share and then it is easier to find a room for two clients and one guide,” her experience told her. So much for the solo sojourn of solitude trekking. We set off for the Bamboo Forest with Dhanu stopping to smile at everyone going the same direction and ask their destination – the unsolicited matchmaker searching for my roommate.

First Steps

Whoever said “What doesn't kill me will make me stronger” never climbed the endless steps through Himalayan mountain villages, the uneven pathways to the massive Annapurna sentinels. Months on a stairmaster couldn't prepare the trekker for the relentlessly vertical stone steps of torture one must ascend and descend through villages, bamboo forests and mountainside to get to Annapurna Base Camp.

The journey began deceptively easy at Nayapul, instead of the notoriously difficult cliff staircases of Phedi where trekkers would turn back in tears abandoning all hope in anticipation of a more difficult trail ahead. Even though sleep evaded my pre-trek night, not from excitement but from the two pots of lemon tea too late discovered full of caffeine and not sleepy time herbal, as I lay wide awake in bed knowing a 6 a.m. start for me was laughable but necessary to reach the first destination – a five hour hike into Gandruk. Five hours, an easy day... I had hiked further in worse condition after major celebrations back home in Crested Butte.

At noon in a small village I hesitatingly order fried rice with egg and a Coke – surprisingly it is all delicious. Coca-Cola, which I never drink, has seek and destroy qualities that settles the stomach while it kills and dissolves anything it encounters. The added bonus of caffeine doesn't hurt. We head out into thunderous skies and rain that turns to downpour within five minutes. The stairs become even steeper – a treacherous slip and slide with torrents of water cascading down the smooth rocks. I am a lightning rod with my metal hiking pole. We duck for cover under the rickety porch of a home with goats, chickens and toothless old men until the deluge stops.

Back on the path I'm constantly trying to out pace donkeys ladened with bags of rice or supplies. They slide into me, losing their otherwise sure footing on the slippery boulders, almost knocking me off the path, their bells jangling like an alarm. You can hear them ringing as they approach and Dhanu yells, “Donkeys! Hurry!” but my guide doesn't understand that ski season is less than four weeks away and tweaking a knee or ankle is not an option. Neither is a helicopter lift out, or sketchy Nepali medical care.

More stairs, always stairs... step step breathe, step breathe step stop pant – when was your last cardiac evaluation? Dhanu stops often to see if I'm still standing with a look that bespeaks sympathy for the pathetic Rocky Mountain girl whose hair is getting whiter by the hour as the now blazing sun devours both color and energy. The downhill slide on the steps may be even worse than the winded uphill climb. Along all the places I have to stop to catch my breath, native women are passing, smiling casually full of ease with baskets strapped across their foreheads filled with a few 50 lb bags of rice, vegetables and small children piled on top. And they navigate these paths in flip flops. Of course, they also look twenty-five years older than anyone the same age in the modern western world.

Disturbingly, trekker trash is everywhere. Mostly Pan-Asian tourists who simply discard their wrappers and tissues on the ground with no regard for people or their communities. It litters the otherwise pristine environment in an area considered sacred to the Nepali.

The lodge we planned to stay in at Gandruk is booked and up we go to the next one, Gurung Cottages... clean, welcoming and a western toilet instead of a squat. I am happy, even though my legs are not. We eat in the cozy common room with Norwegians and sherpas, all of whom play cards afterwards. The trek is a social foray on all levels, people on the trails stop to converse and compare. In the morning after a 6 a.m. breakfast everyone packs up and heads either up or down to conquer their own personal stairs. Mine lay six hours ahead to the Dreaded Steps of Chomrong.

Three Sisters

From what I gather from returning trekkers, most of the Himalayan hiking trails are uneven rock and boulder steps, like the Peace Pagoda path on steroids - not the ideal for hiking. That coupled with the heat factor gives reason for second thoughts about a porter on my trek, and as a friend pointed out, you're creating employment for the native population.

“No problem I can get you a good guide, been in mountains many times, from good family,” my hotel-trekking company owner promised. Everyone is a guide, was a guide or owns a trekking company in Nepal.
“I really don't want to trek with a man, are there any women guides?”
He looked horrified, like I had just slapped his dog and spanked his kids.

“Women are not good guides, they aren't strong and can't carry the weight. They want to turn around when it gets hard,” he said convincingly, the same argument as the Kathmandu hotel owner. In fact, every man I had asked about a female guide or porter wrinkled up their face to say, “Are you crazy hiring a woman?”

However, I have yet to see a man in this Nepalese society carry the weight of a basket on his back filled with firewood equal in size to a small redwood forest, and up narrow clay paths. In fact, I hadn't seen a man do any of the hard labor women were expected to do daily. I had recently seen several women carrying large baskets of rocks back to their village and when I point this out to the hotel guide service man, he tells me I can't hire a villager woman because she doesn't carry the baskets far. Aparrently, there's a collective Nepali male denial similar to mass hysteria.

It's not that I have anything against men... I adore them. But after a few hours in anyone's company, I'm ready to come up for air so to spend two weeks with a man I didn't even know was not my idea of solitude exploration conducive to writing. At the Moondance Cafe, I ask an American living in Pokhara about women guides.

“Oh, all the men tell you that because they see women coming into the trekking business as a threat,” she confirmed my suspicion. She directed me to the north end of the village, just past the clutch of tourist spots where the road becomes dust to Three Sisters Adventure Trekking and Guest House. Native women were working their daily chores in the rice paddies along the lake. It was quiet and local - hens clucking, kittens mewing, dogs barking, cows lounging and kids sharing games, kites and swings hung from tall bamboo trees. In a building next door to the guest house a sign read “Empowering Women of Nepal.”

The sister at the desk was Nicky, of Lucky, Dicky and Nicky Chhetri, who explained they had started the school next door, guest house and trekking company to allow disadvantaged women a chance to create their own productive lives with a trade and education. We went over the itinerary for my trek - twelve to fourteen days with a porter-cum-guide, a woman who has completed her initial one month guide course, first aid classes, with several different treks under her feet as a porter guide-in-training but who is not yet completely guide certified. The fees were $15 per day plus round trip transportation to the trail head (about $70).

Later in the day I meet my trek sister, Dhanu, who is twenty. Her English is somewhat difficult, she is soft spoken and not boisterous as some of the other guides who are wildly chattering with their assigns. This is a good thing for someone needing the solitude of the trek and freedom to hear silence. I book a room at Three Sisters for Sunday night as we leave early Monday for our drop off in Phedi.

Back at Hotel Grand Holiday, the half dozen men always hanging around the front desk drinking tea go wide eyed, shaking their heads in horror as I tell them I've booked a female porter-guide. In the morning, the Three Sister's taxi picks up my gear, serves a fine breakfast and shows me to the newly cleaned room. The ceilings are high with a fan, teak doors and floors that shine and tea service on a table covered with a Nepalese embroidered cloth. There's a real bed, not a foam mattress on a homemade platform, and the view is of tall, tree covered hills with rice paddies at their feet... the lake view is unobstructed directly across the road. There's a noticeable difference of a woman's touch in decor and warmth - real artwork on the spotless walls instead of barren, clean furniture, thoughtfully arranged for ambiance. I feel at home.

In tomorrow's first light, Monday, October 6, I'll be on my way to the snowy bowls of Annapurna and Machhupuchhre. I take with me a piece of all of you, Crested Butte, as well as offerings and red prayer flags for our Red Lady mountain to hang in the presence of clouds, wind and spirits to ask for her salvation from the money hungry mining moguls that would destroy her and our community.
Namaste.
Visit their website to learn of the programs, orphanage and amazing projects these sisters have provided: http://www.3sistersadventure.com

Peace Leech

“Leeches?” I squirm disbelievingly.
“Yes, they drop from the trees during rainy season,” said the waiter at Moondance Cafe, my now favorite Pokhara cappuccino haunt.
“But not now?” I ask hopefully.
“Well, over in the woods on the trail to the Peace Pagoda,” he smiled to ease my obvious panic. But that, of course, is exactly where I was heading - over the lake, up the hill and through the woods to the Buddhist Peace Pagoda. However, the prospect of little vampiric slimy things falling from the sky and latching onto my body to feed wasn't appealing.
“You can use tiger balm, they don't like that,” he offered.

I decide to brave it. “What's a travel adventure without leeches thrown in?” I recite this mantra all the way down to the lake where ferrymen wait. I hire an oarsman to take me round trip. Your personal water taxi waits for you to complete the two hour hike through leech infested forest. My ferryman is jolly, older and makes sure that I have water, “Hike is slippery, path is steeps with rock,” he warns.
“What about leeches?” I question, hoping for a different answer.
“Stay on path,” he pointed with a head shake.

I bolt up the first set of stone steps, uneven in height with large and small boulders set into red clay and patches of moss. The trail immediately turns into thick woods and I glance at my arms and legs continually checking for rubbery black blobs. I pass working women with baskets on heads, sickles and implements in hand. Cicadas are a hidden symphony of screaming violin strings if the bow was dragged hard across them.
“Ah ha!” I say aloud, discovering a trail of glistening slime crossing my path, “leech sign...” I carefully step to the center of the rock runner and continue ascending the slick stone.

I can function outdoors in sub zero temps but tropical climes zap my energy and ambition so by the time I reach the top of the hill and Peace Pagoda, I am soaked in sweat but happily without leech. Unable to see the mountains for a couple of days through cloud cover, the view of Pokhara and its surrounds is still beautiful. Chinese on holiday are taking photos of themselves in front of every possible view, flower and ornament as thousands of them flock to Nepal. I get one of them to take my tourist shot in front of the Pagoda, which is a dome as white as the Himalayans.

On the way down the stairs of the stupa I almost step on them... the largest slugs I've ever seen crawling across the stone leaving a sparkling residue, antennae bending and thrusting as they slowly feel their way. Two dull yellow rubbery bananas were sliming their way to where ever slugs go when not devouring plants. They weren't dropping out of trees or looking my way for a meal. Since I no longer have a garden or a need to set out beer traps in a merciful killing of the voracious flower destroyers who would get happily drunk and drown, I look upon them with wonder. These are not the vampires. And having seen none, I traipse back to the boat, the downhill even more treacherous than the climb and far worse on the knees.

My captain is waiting in the dingy lake restaurant, laughing merrily with his kinsman. We glide across the lake, slipping past shoreline grottoes covered by deep green foliage. Cranes wing overhead and the cicadas sing their deafening tunes. The breeze is uplifting in the day's stifling sun, now setting somewhere behind billows of white. I sail in peace.

Sacred Valley

The paved road to Pokhara is one of the few improved roads in the country. It is barely wide enough for two buses going opposite directions – with a deep ditch on the inside and steep drops off the other, the drivers have gotten pretty adept at navigating the curves. This means they go faster. There are few cars on the road, mostly buses, vans and motorbikes. The procession up is crowded with travelers going home for the Hindu holiday Dassain. A gaggle of passengers ride on top of the vans with tethered goats in makeshift pens munching on hay while the stench of burning brakes fills the space between passing buses... you hope it's the other vehicle.

Trash is tossed out the windows regularly as the passengers seem to think nothing of the countryside and villages they transit through, which are kept clean by the enclaves that live there. Deep ravines give glimpses of layers of mountains beyond as women carrying bundles of firewood or hay several times their own weight hike the vertical walking paths. Flocks and cattle often block the road, setting off a honking frenzy for the bus drivers who just want to get through as fast as possible. Even through more primitive villages, immaculately groomed women look like moving rainbows dressed in bright mutli-colored saris and scarves.

At noon, the bus ambles into the Hamlet Restaurant for a squat break, as those are the only toilets available on this trek, and I wonder how these people get their reading done. By 1:30 we're pulling into the Riverside Springs Resort for lunch, which was included in the price of the $18 bus ticket. The Indian food buffet, deliciously refreshing on a terrace overlooking a wide river, put the color back into the faces of those riders who had to use the little waxed motion sickness bags during the five hour toss.

Photography can never capture the full presence of actual space... of body in its relationship to raw magnificence (and the Crested Butte Photography Guild will probably revoke my membership upon hearing this, or at least I'll get a good thrashing when I get home...) My first glimpse of what I thought to be clouds, literally took my breath away. High into clouds were spiked, glistening mountain peaks, brilliant white and unbelievably huge. The girl next to me gasped, or maybe it was my own voice as we caught sight of it simultaneously. The rest of the passengers, having seen this view before went about their post lunch coma snoring.

“That one is Machhupuchhre, and that other is one of the Annapurnas,” the Indian gentleman in the aisle seat offered to the two dazed girls. “Machhupuchhre is called the fishtail because it resembles one.” Slapped by a fish, I couldn't take my eyes off of it and searched every time we rounded a corner that brought the peak closer into view. We were still 120 km from Pokhara. Gripped by exhilaration at the prospect of hiking into the bowls of these giants I suddenly hoped I wouldn't be laid out incapacitated at their feet.

Finally, Pokhara, portal to the sacred valley trail heads, the lakeside resort without all the kitsch I'm accustomed to in upstate New York. I check into the Grand Holiday Hotel, not quite on the lake as advertised in the brochure, but a block away in the Lakeside District. I didn't really care and the room was much nicer than their friend's in Kathmandu, now far behind. The view out the window from my bed scanned the entire range, still mostly hidden in clouds. I head out into the late afternoon.

At Lake Fewa, the colors are orchestrating into sunset as tourists arrive to hire the many rowboats dotting the waters. Tall tropically green hills dive into the shoreline speckled with purple hyacinths while shafts of light play hide and seek between the layers. Suddenly, the clouds dissolve exposing the full glory of the impossibly high mountains that float like an unreal hologram in the heavens. Everyone turns in awe at this revelation. I forget to breathe. I can't speak, there are no words. I can't move or take my eyes off the towers spiking infinitely upward for fear of missing some nuance of color. Alpenglow is an entirely different experience on 25,000 feet of mountain. Like a clan of stunningly beautiful women in saris, intense pink and orange, purple and deep blues blush the faces of the evening Himalayans, driving the color upwards until spellbound, I realize the evening has fallen and jewels of the night sparkle in the sky.

Kathmandu Adieu

The only thing worse than trying to navigate Kathmandu streets is trying to find your way around them in the dark. Without enough power to run the city 24/7, there are scheduled blackouts and some unscheduled ones as well. The Kathmandu clan seems to handle this as amusement, and it lends a romantic candle glow ambiance to the already exotic. After the first time feeling my way down pitch blackness I learned to pack a flashlight as standard equipment when leaving in the daytime, just in case the evening sneaked up.

Even in full daylight, it's sometimes hard to see the smaller statues and stupas, the tiny ones dotting the city streets or tucked into dirty corners, because they're usually covered in merchandise or garbage, or used as a perch for a clutch of chatty men drinking their glasses of tea. I'm taken by the open affection men and young boys have for each other in this culture, arms draped around necks, or holding onto to a friend in contrast to male bonding in America that involves no touching, except in football games, and affection is displayed by hooting together with a case of beer (endearing nonetheless...)

Weary from crowd surfing in the heat I duck into Pilgrims Bookstore, the largest in Nepal, and explore its rambling room after room finally discovering a hidden oasis in the back garden vegetarian restaurant. Trancing out in the late afternoon, pleasantly satiated with fine Biryani and yak curd, Indian music and pungent sweet incense, it's an effort to disengage from the dream and reenter the mad world of Kathmandu to complete the trek necessity list.

It's hard enough to get the mandatory liquids and gels past the Improper Fluids Police at the airports so I wasn't taking any chances with trying to bring my knife in carry-on luggage. You absolutely must have a knife if you're hiking, the shop owner agreed and seeing a sale he pulled out several. The first one nearly slices the tip of my little finger off. I foolishly hadn't considered that switchblades were legal in other countries. More blood than bad, the store owner ran palely to get a bandage.

“Who is your guide?” the asked as he wrapped the bandaide around my wound.
“I'm not using a guide. I hike solo,” I knew I was in for an argument and a guide sales pitch. It was standard procedure ­ they want to be, or find, a guide for you ­ not because they're worried, but because they all need work. Although, after seeing how adept my blade skills were, he might have been seriously concerned as to my trekking abilities. I buy a smaller knife with less kick.

Back at the happy Hotel Karma, they're still unconvinced that I'm trekking solo. Women just don't do that unless they're natives hauling loads of wood or tending flocks. They think I've hired a sherpa without their help, cutting them out of the trickle down loop of funding.

“I need to leave tomorrow. Can you book a bus ticket and call these hotels in Pokhara for me?” I hand the desk clerk the list of guest house names I researched online.
“Sure, no problem,” is always the answer with a smile. That evening he hands me a bus ticket and a brochure from a hotel not on my list, telling me that there were no vacancies in any of the places I gave him... but he just happens to know the owner of the Grand Holiday Hotel lakeside in this portal town to the trail heads. The brochure looks nice and I'm grateful to have everything arranged with an early morning departure plan, even if I don't think all those hotels on my list were booked.

In the morning he walks me to the station to catch the 7:30 bus. At 8 a.m., the Pokhara bus rumbles out through harried bumper to bumper traffic in thick, throat swelling smog. Sputtering to get crosstown, the traffic is at stand still more than it is moving, crowds close in weaving through the stopped lines. The driver turns off the engine during these long spells. At one stall, a boy is running for his life with a mob chasing him. Probably having stolen something, the teen is overcome by the pursuing men who beat him madly, kicking him in the body and pounding his head. Perhaps it is the betrayal from another of their flock that trips the trigger from affection to violence in this men's code of ethics. Horrified, it shed an entirely unexpected perspective of a people I had thought to be forgiving and peaceful. Last night in one of the shops, a keeper gently removed a cockroach from a garment it was climbing.
“All life is sacred,” he smiled and put the bug outside.

A half hour out of the turmoil of city congestion, the bus is ascending up a narrow two-lane road of cutbacks and hairpins turns, winding through cleaner mountain air and tiered, lush rice fields. The Karma boys had said it was only a five-hour journey and seventy-five percent cheaper than the winged yeti mountain hoppers that fly between villages.

“It's going to be a long eight-hour ride,” the girl next to me grimaced as we 're tossed like seafarers on rough waves.
“Eight hours?” I gasped as the realization that there was probably a monetary kickback to someone for booking the bus ticket.

Krazymandu

The streets explode early in Katmandu, people tumbling from their doorways into the stream of chaos - motorbikes with three or four riders squished onto a seat made for two, and rickshaws bumping down potholes tossing passengers like bobbing car ornaments. The early morning air is somewhat cleaner until the midday sun bakes the grime and trash into an unsavory stew of foul odors. The ultimate reality of sharing the road here is that you fear for your life – either from getting hit by any variety of vehicles, or at the very least having toes run over by a rickshaw wheel – and the vehicles don't really share, they honk and bully their way through (and they drive on the left here so the turns are unexpected for right hand driving cultures.)

The city is a maize of unmarked streets. Maps are useless unless they show unique hotels or restaurant landmarks since all the shops look the same – which they are with exactly the same merchandise. Shop after shop of Nepal slogan tee shirts, stitched bags and clothing, Indian styled shirts and pants, pashmina and wool, singing bowls, trinkets and, of course, more mountaineering gear than you can shake a pole at. Hesitate in front of any shop for two seconds and they're on you like a spider in a web. Stop at any corner to get your bearings and every hack, rickshaw driver and beggar will descend on you like an army of ants finding a tasty bit of morsel at a picnic.

However, step outside the tourist area of Thamel and the world changes – still crazy – but more the flavor of the local scene. There is little begging, sales pressure or redundancy of tourist chotzkies. Prices are lower, even if you aren't getting the locals' deal. I was told that everything was available in Kathmandu, and certainly you can buy it all here, from valium to knock-off Northface, but I should have remembered how little patience I have for shopping. All the gear that I wound up buying, I already have two and three of at home. The tourists are justifiably a meal ticket, and all are fair game walking rupies.

At the street market, which is every street, throngs of sweaty masses are pushed up against each other, barely moving. Caught in the center of a glut of bodies trying to get through a sidewalk bottleneck of coughers, wheezers and grabbers barely staying aloft in the tide, the meaning of panic was taken to a new height of definition.

Finally on the other side, one of the many young, incessant beggar boys approaches, refusing to leave. Ignoring them is not a natural response for me and when I acknowledge the little guttersnipe by saying “no” he pinches my arm as he turns away, angry that he won't be getting his glue money – and I'm not talking school supplies. Grimy little grubby fingers put me over the edge, as my mind and spirit were still hovering somewhere trying to catch up with my body after three days of travel. I rickshaw back to the smiling Hotel Karma, shower and sleep for sixteen hours hoping my spirit will find me.

The next day dawns into familiarity with street noise similar to early East Village NYC and I adjust to the cadence of chaos. I determine to lose myself fully to the streets and wander the meandering mishmash. I reluctantly enter several mountaineering shops emerging victorious with a new “North Face” down vest, sherpa hat, gloves and glorious purple hiking poles that say “Annapurna.” I spend the rest of the day seeking stupas and temples and in a deafening downpour, I stumble upon the eyes of Buddha watchfully peering through a tower of prayer flags smiling at me.

The Wait

“You are American?” the Thai custom agents asked.
“Yes,” I said somewhat cautiously not knowing how the Thai felt about the USA these days.
“We love you,” they echoed each other. “Yes, we love Americans. And we love New York.”

After untold hours in cramped jets, days in airports, thrust into a time warp where space and time collided, to hear I was loved from total smiling strangers was striking a celestial chord within. I love Thailand. I love Bangkok. I gathered my things and went off to seek shelter and shower, happy to be back in the land of the friendly, even if only a twelve hour layover.

Fifteen minutes from the airport the Regency sounded like a royal night of slumber, however, my body wasn't understanding where it had been dropped into - sleep escaped me and the roosters next door crowed non stop from 5 a.m. - the airport would be the better place to hang out until my 2 p.m. flight to Nepal. I had been warned. Royal Nepal airline is not the best for schedule. I could relate to that, not having a propensity towards keeping to schedule myself.

If you're going to be stuck at an airport, Bangkok is the place to be. I was ready for Thai food and didn't care when my flight to Kathmandu was delayed a couple of hours. Questing for my favorites, green curry and Thai iced tea, was easy since there are so many culinary delights at the Bangkok airport. The airport is multi-level and layered with shops that sell everything from dried fish to new camcorders and Chanel perfumes. There are even massage salons and after the food frenzy and a two hour out of body massage, I thought I was ready for anything.

Royal Nepal Air gets to their ticket counter whenever they damn well please. When it finally opened, the line was expectedly long with well-traveled people, mostly aroma-ripened Euro-youth, some brightly dyed and dreaded, who had obviously been backpacking across the planet since they could walk. Two more flight delays and seven hours after the scheduled departure, the jet taxied off into the dark. But the flight is a party plane, packed to capacity with laughing, chattering, diverse languages. Cheap synthesized music plays old movie themes and the stewardesses aren't seat belt gestapos. The cabin smells of musky stoutness and urine, and there's a river on the bathroom floor that you have to step around carefully. The back dozen seats are filled with dark skinned men joking and gesturing. My window seat, carefully chosen to maximize the view of the Himalayans, showed only the pitch blackness of sparsely populated regions. The plane finally rattles its way up into the night for the three hour flight.

At the Kathmandu airport, the customs agents push luggage through a non-functioning scanner. They don't even bother pretending that they're looking for anything, they just take your $40 visa fee and send you along to the throngs of hawking taxi drivers and hotel screamers. Fortunately, the kind people from Hotel Karma are there to greet me.

Through unlit streets we weave – dark glimpses of cattle scurrying through open doors in narrow passageways, cars, motorbikes and pedestrians vie for position and dogs own the night. An impossibly large bus is trying to navigate its way through a narrow corridor where electric wires and lights are hung for tomorrow's contrived World Tourist Day celebration. My driver refuses to budge in his futile attempt to get by the bus blocking the road, where the oncoming traffic has the right of way, while onlookers are imploring him to please back up. Finally, he decides to comply - the plug removed things progress through the tightly curving city. The air is acrid as we arrive at the noisy center of Thamel, the tourist district of Kathmandu, where the hotel is located. A band is playing next door, motorized vehicles and rickshaws are honking, people are yelling and there's a faint smell of urine in my room. I pull out my sleeping bag and cocoon into dreamless sleep, knowing Kathmandu will be waiting in all its squalor in the morning.

High Road

By the time you read this I'll be gone... trying to sleep in some unlikely quiet corner of the Bangkok Airport after twenty-four hours of plane changes, airports and squished knees, awaiting a flight to Kathmandu in another twelve hours. But it wasn't easy. Packing was far more difficult than I had imagined, even though I knew I didn't need things like Italian boots, leather jacket or lipstick. The panic stemmed from not knowing what to anticipate on a trek in a fourth world country, hiking for weeks along narrow yak trails between teahouses at very high altitudes. Unlike hikes through Italy where there was the promise of a hot shower, fabulous food, and succulent wines waiting after a glorious walk through medieval countrysides... and you knew which shoes to bring. Teahouses... the name sounds so civilized. British formal tea with scones and clotted cream. Japanese tea ceremonies. New York's Russian Tea Room.

“You need to bring your own linens,” a friend recommended, “because none of the teahouses have sheets or blankets. And you'll want to pack your own toilet paper too.”

I once guffawed about the story of a woman hiking Everest who took her espresso machine along. At the time it seemed absurd, however, as caffeine is one of my main daily staples it started to look more reasonable after realizing that there wouldn't be good espresso, let alone a plain ol' cup 'o joe until I return in a month or so. Intentionally, I had bought only a small backpack considering the length of time and various climes I would encounter. Certainly not enough room for an espresso pot. In fact, it was looking minuscule as things started accumulating in the corner reserved for the pile of possibilities where any item that came to mind as remotely necessary would get tossed into.

I hadn't been camping in over 30 years. I didn't even own a sleeping bag. After five summers back in the Butte, I was the proud owner of a condo, a cat and a ‘72 VW Bug, three and a half townie bikes, four pairs of skis, five down coats and thirteen pairs of hiking boots... but no sleeping bag. Like Dracula taking the dirt of his homeland along for survival, I felt it was imperative to buy a local bag instead of in Nepal.

“You have to get into the bag itself to see if it feels right,” Ryan at the Alpineer suggested. I wondered, what does a right sleeping bag feel like? I tend to sleep thrashed across an entire queen feather bed with two down quilts and high thread-count sheets so a confined space where I can't move my toes feels claustrophobic. Ryan assured me the bag was specifically designed for a woman's body, which is why they must have manufactured it in dirt sucking pastel blue instead of a disguising dark color. I now finally owned a sleeping bag that would take me to new levels of snore induced nirvana upon the sheetless teahouse beds along the Annapurna trail.

Bogged down with the normal work load crammed into a compressed time frame so I could leave earlier, coupled with my habitual routine of procrastination, time was not on my side and was rudely moving towards the departure date with increasing velocity. I still hadn't ordered half the things I thought I would need as a traveling journalist – light weight cameras, video equipment, solar chargers and a herd of batteries and memory chips.

“So, you're going to Nepal with a sharpei? Those dogs know how to guide you on the trail?” my mother had asked. “Aren't you afraid or worried about being so far away with strangers?”

“No mom,” I chuckled, “I'm going with a sherpa not a sharpei. They're the friendly native guides there.”

It was then that I recognized that I really had everything I needed for this trip – namely, a sense of adventure. A few days before the planned departure, I had pretty much eliminated everything except minor toiletries, underwear, a camera and charger, mini netbook, a handful of buffalo jerky and my new sleeping bag. It's about a new experience seen through the first exposure to a wondrous new environment, untainted by someone else's interpretation. And the certainty of knowing I'll be returning home to one of the most incredible places on earth with the anticipation of another Butte-teous, deep powder season. Wishing you who are on the road wandering a safe journey…

Rhythm of Life

It could be the combination – the uncatalogued uniform of the traveling musician in tight black jeans, leather jacket, guitar bag draped across a shoulder and some hip-funky, long, fluid hair worthy of shampoo commercials – that triggers an instinctive reaction spiraling deep into the labyrinth of inner cochlea. I secretly become Goldie Hawn's character in The Banger Sisters. It's not just because at heart I'm really a groupie – the gypsy road gig warrior in me is envious. I want to schlep my guitar across the universe and get paid for being a bohemian troubadour songster again.

Coolly moving to his own beat down the airport's people mover, he steps in time to my ipod blasting John Cougar Mellencamp's “Hurts So Good.” Osmotically, music speaks in an invisible language of the air. We are connected. I sigh, thinking he's probably going to some fat gig in New York or California and head to my own gate that flashes “Tampa/St Pete NOW BOARDING.”

The seats are packed with retirees, young tan bodies, and a few excited Disney bound kids who are already bouncing off the non-existent space between seat backs. As we reach cruising altitude, a stewardess is frantically looking for the traveling partner of an unconscious woman in the bathroom while 3 medically related passengers head to the stern to help. The captain turns on the seatbelt sign, announcing that we're heading into thunderstorms as Tom Petty wails about “Free Falling” in my sequestered world of rhythm oblivious to sharp, bumpy drops in altitude, calamity gawkers and screaming children.

Three hours later the Florida gulf coast comes into the port view. The captain says broken clouds and 90 degrees. I start peeling off the Colorado layers; the thick air drenches my desert skin as the palette instinctively craves an iced refreshment – a minty mojito in hand, I head down to the sand for the daily ritual sunset celebration. I'm thankful it's an evening solar party and not morning, although there were long nights we sat on that same beach as teens watching “the sun rise from the bottom of the sea”… even though we were on the wrong coast for that. But it didn't matter. We were experienced.

My mother's 80th birthday party was to be somewhat of a surprise. You just can't pull the wool over mom's eyes. She's also experienced. She’s seen it all at this point, heard every excuse in the book and saw right through every fabrication of why you're home after her dictated curfew. By the time my four younger brothers came of age, I had already ruined their chances of getting away with anything.

What mom didn't know was that we were arriving at her door in a 15-passenger stretch limo stuffed with her grandkids, best friend, champagne, chocolates, flowers and me. I would later swear I had been drugged to have agreed to ride shotgun-chaperone, confined in a throbbing disco-lit padded cell on wheels with all those hyped-up kids. Mom looked thoroughly surprised and somewhat confused to find herself cruising the beach in a pimp mobile. It was after the exquisite dinner for 30 of the immediate family that we realized a surprise party for an 80-year old, who was already exhausted from constantly caring for the 90-year old relatives, maybe wasn't such a good idea – although we're pretty sure she enjoyed the limo ride more than the ambulance.

Hospitals have so many unnecessary rules that shouldn’t apply to large Italian families of musical and theatrical persuasion.

“It's ok, we're with the band,” one of my musician brothers nodded in his best stage smile to the nurse who was reciting regulations governing how many people were allowed into the emergency room with their mother.

“Wait... she's in the band?” the nurse's suspicions were justifiably tweaked but by that time the entire entourage had slipped into mom's room, closing the door behind. Musicians have a back stage pass to the world.

Hours later, and a battery of tests seemingly unrelated to any of her symptoms, mom was declared perfect and we left with her.

“Don't worry, we'll send you the bill,” the desk nurse smiled and waved and then added, “What's the name of your band?”

The clan of bleached and dyed haired, leather clad attendants in tight jeans clung firmly to their mother and smiled back, while the bass player brother of the family shot a sideways quip, “You didn't give them her real name and address did you?”

Old Standards

What is old supposed to look like? At one time I thought I knew but, as you discover later, at 17 you know less than you think. I simultaneously laugh and shudder when someone starts out with, “at your age you should...” From the time I turned 35, the music industry was telling me I was too old to rock. A few weeks ago an online opinion article, probably written by some teenage girl, snidely demanded that no one over the age of 30 should be seen in the latest fashions... mini skirts, tie-dye tees and bathing suits... as if anyone under that age was around the first time those fashions were flaunted back in the 60s and 70s. I still wear the originals. One click away was another story about how Elton John, Madonna and Mick Jagger, along with all the others who paved the road to heart pounding, rocking music should get off the stage and retire.

Don't get me wrong – youth is great. But I don't want those little guttersnipes telling me what to wear, how to live or setting limits based on what they perceive old should be doing. True, at one point in all our lives we thought 30 was ancient and most of us never planned to live that long. But now that we’ve survived, most of the Boomer generation knows no limits.

“Have you ever thought about cutting your hair short... like, up to your chin to highlight your cheekbones? Older women look younger with that cut,” an acquaintance offered.

“I like my hair long…” the hair on my neck bristled.

“But you'd look younger...” she slurred as her fingers went for my locks.

“No, I'd look like an older woman with shorter hair,” I snorted, ignoring her as I grabbed another piece of sushi and shot of sake while the younger set bounced somewhat rhythm-less to a rap beat.

“Women your age shouldn't have that color blonde. You need to lowlight your hair. Aging women need to look softer...” she said as her legs gave out and she sat down on the floor.

“Wait...” I curtly cut her off, “you’re saying I should lowlight a color that's not found in nature to try to make it appear more natural? Obviously, I'm not trying to convince anyone I'm a real blonde. I like to wake up to light-sucking, shockingly bright hair... it’s like an instant shot of incorporated caffeine. ‘Soft’ is a description I use for people not right in the head and has nothing to do with the way I want my persona to project.”

It doesn't matter what hairstyle, color or fashion you sport if you're too drunk to stand, or speak without spitting. It's all in the carriage. If you carry yourself well, people will follow the statement you create. In the 80s of New York's East Village culture, design spies would scope out the street wear of the neighborhood locals because they were so unique. You'd see a modified version of it in the following season's lineup.

Not that bleached platinum is anything unique or different. My idea of fashion is more theatrical since the world is my stage and my modus operandi involves creating my own reality. If chin length layered hair chunked out in wide, tri-color bands of red, gold and brown makes you feel younger – then you are. The trick is to be confident and walk like you mean it. Yeah, that's right, I intentionally put this chartreuse bolero with hot pink pants, and you bet... my hair color matches the shoes and the outfit. Wanna dance?

There is no age or fashion appropriate in my world... as long as the golden rule is adhered to (Do unto others…). Which of course, brings up the family thing. For some reason, it sent my then 10-year old daughter crying hysterically, burying herself into her bed covers, when I came home with strands of hot pink and electric blue tresses in the mid-80s.

“But you have to meet my teacher!” she sobbed. It was the one time I reversed a decision about appearance.

Perhaps brilliant color triggers responses from the time when little old ladies emerged from salons with blue hair... which they still do. It's like a bright warning light to MOVE OVER when you glimpse their fuzzy halo shining from behind the wheel of a 40-weight car veering ominously in the left lane with the directionals blinking continually – keeping the driver in the car behind guessing which way the devil with the blue hair is really going.

My mother turns 80 this week– and she stills drives but doesn't have the traditional bluehead of the Florida elderly. Having survived my rebellious teen years, wading through the experimental styles of the flower child love era of the 60s, she's wizened and always more amused than offended with any hair color, threads or lifestyle choice. As my grandmother would say, “What’s important is that you're true to yourself, kind to others and loyal to your family... but make sure you know how to dance well…”


PS: I'll be in Florida this week dancing quite well at mama Belloise's 80th birthday party.

Almost cut my hair
It happened just the other day
It's gettin kinda long
I could have said it was in my way
But I didn't and I wonder why
I feel like letting my freak flag fly
Cause I feel like I owe it to someone – David Crosby

From the musical Hair:

...I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy
Shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied!
Oh say can you see
My eyes if you can
Then my hair's too short