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.