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.