Through the Looking-Glass #10

Published December 19, 2006 in the Telluride Watch

After spending one month in a modern Kathmandu where young hipsters meet over coffee, bloggers have gained celebrity status and Land Rover ads top the front page of an English-language weekly, it is easy to forget that life outside the capital city remains impoverished. Electric lines are few and far between, telephones are at least a three- or four-day walk away and health posts remain poorly stocked. Kathmandu has always been an island of prosperity, and in the past ten years an island of peace too, within a country of poverty, turmoil and barebones existence.

When I realize I have forgotten this reality, I become embarrassed.

Kate and I are beginning our trek from the Syaphru Bensi trailhead into Langtang National Park in North Central Nepal. We will follow the Langtang River for three days to reach Kyanjin Gompa at 12,800 feet. As we make our way through the lower villages along the trail, we see small gardens of fresh greens, carrots and onions next to the lodges that will serve them up to trekkers in the evenings. Kate is wearing a chobundi-chholo top in a traditional fabric design that leaves the Nepali women we pass in giggles and the Nepali men calling out to her flirtatiously, “Eh Kanchi!”

We end our first day by collapsing onto thin mattresses at Lama Hotel in the similarly-named village. After hurried hot showers out of plastic buckets and a quick wash of a day’s worth of clothes, Kate and I crowd the wood stove in the dining room waiting for our dal bhat to be prepared. A day on a trekking route always ends up this way, in the dining room, warming by the fire, singing songs. I watched a documentary about finding the roots of a Tamang folk song, “Bhedako Oon Jasto,” in this region before we came on the trek, and I was as enchanted by the tune as the filmmaker Narayan Wagle. I press the lodge owners at Lama Hotel about the lyrics, but they don’t know it. Instead, we sing the song that every visitor to Nepal has learned, “Resam Phi Ri Ri,” the silk thread that flitters in the wind.

On the second day of our trek we continue following the Langtang River up to Langtang Village itself at 12,000 feet. Almost to the village, we have to venture into a field of yaks, which has Kate terrified. She tells me stories of being nearly chased off a trail by a yak in the Everest region five years ago, picks up a rock and hides behind me. I tell her she’s being ridiculous, but I pick up my own rock and stay on the other side of the low stone walls that divide the trail.

Day three, we realize, is Halloween. We leave Langtang Village by about 9 am, a late start by Nepali standards, but we are assured an easy day by the lodge owners and our guide. They weren’t lying, we only have another 800 feet to climb, but I remain haunted by the high-altitude nightmares I had the night before and am tired from the fitful sleep. We need no excuse to walk slowly at this altitude, as there is really no other way to go. We reach Kyanjin Gompa in time for lunch. Kate rests for a moment while I wash my clothes in a field of yak dung. We then take a round of the village, visiting the dairy established by the Swiss in the 1950s. I am psyched to buy some yak cheese, but Kate remains unimpressed. We walk back to the Yak Hotel discussing what we might do to celebrate Halloween and wishing for some other Americans to spend the evening with.

It is as though the universe has heard our call. We round the corner back at our lodge and see three people standing outside in the courtyard. “Hey, are you Americans?” I call down. “Absolutely,” replies the guy. “Happy Halloween,” Kate and I shout down, and we walk down the stone steps to make introductions. As it could only happen, one of the three, Germaine Bartlett-Graff, grew up in Telluride. She is accompanied by her childhood friend Ariel and a New Yorker named Marc they met the day before. We decide to celebrate Halloween by drinking the local specialty tongba, a hot millet beer, and snicker momos.

I explain to the lodge owner that today is a special American holiday, but I have forgotten the roots of the pagan celebration and tell him instead that it is a time for American children to eat candy and for American adults to throw a party. He is game, and opens up a bottle of the most vile Chinese whiskey I have ever tasted. By this time, another 10 or so villagers have crowded into the dining room, and they begin celebrating our holiday along with us. Marc’s guide Chhiring picks up a stringed Nepali instrument and I ask the locals to sing the song I’ve been wanting to hear.

The chorus of voices, accompanied by this Nepali guitar, emit a twang that my ears accept after a moment of hesitation. I jot down the lyrics to the song, and soon I join in:

Aakashbata ke udi aayo?

Bhendako oon jasto, bhendako oon jasto …

Yo maayaa photo mai kichi leunlaa,

Purniko jun jasto, layeko sun jasto.

Out of the sky, what has come flying in?

Like the wool of the sheep, like the wool of the sheep.

Can I take a photograph of my love?

Like the light of the full moon, like the gold she is wearing.

The group continues singing for an hour or so, and one by one, we Americans peel off to our rooms, leaving the Nepalis by the fire with their Chinese whiskey until the wee hours. When we come down to the dining room the next morning at 7, the lodge owner remains hidden under a blanket in the corner. The group of Americans chuckle with one another. “Only in Nepal would they outdo us with our own holiday celebration,” Marc says. Only in Nepal.