Through the Looking-Glass #3

Published October 17, 2006 in the Telluride Watch

Autumn marches on in Kathmandu. Where fall brings early snows and cold rains in the San Juans, in the Kathmandu Valley it ushers in afternoon breezes that keep kites high aloft in the sky and blow the mosquitoes away. Nepal’s monsoon ended with a bang right before my arrival here near the end of September. The afternoon I flew in from Bangkok, the sun shone high and the humidity filled my pores. Many people told me I brought the good weather with me; the previous four days had been cold and rainy, with low-hanging clouds in the hills.

The clouds that hang low in the hills are dangerous. They bring moisture that saturates the ground, causing landslides and ruining poorly-built roads. They also restrict the visibility of the small planes and helicopters that ferry trekkers, aid workers and residents to and from remote areas in Nepal. Every monsoon I have spent in Nepal I have read about at least one aircraft that has crashed into the side of the Himalayas. Four years ago, my dear friend Pasang’s husband was killed when the helicopter he was piloting crashed in the Khumbu region. That helicopter disappeared without a trace, as is not uncommon in that treacherous terrain. This monsoon caused a helicopter crash that in one moment on September 22 killed some of Nepal’s foremost conservationists along with dedicated foreign aid workers and diplomats. The loss is immeasurable.

In total, 24 people died when the helicopter crashed in Ghunsa, in a remote part of Taplejung District in far Eastern Nepal. The group had traveled there to attend and participate in a ceremony marking the handing over of the Kangchenjunga Conservation Area to a local council. This model had been implemented in other parts of the country as well with much success. “[The conservationists that died] proved that nature is best protected through grassroots ecotourism activities, and their projects are being replicated in Nepal and across the world,” said Kunda Dixit in the Nepali Times.

Dr. Chandra Prasad Gurung was among those killed in the crash. He was one of Nepal’s foremost conservationists and had worked for the past eight years as the country representative for World Wildlife Federation Nepal. I attended the first day of a three-day puja ceremony for Dr. Gurung on Friday, which had at least 200 people in attendance. Most people milled about, much like at a wake, sharing memories of those lost. Inside the living room, an altar to Dr. Gurung had been erected, and individuals approached it, draping katas (Tibetan silk scarves) around his photograph and lighting incense.

About 40 people surrounded the ghavri (shaman) leading the ceremony on Dr. Gurung’s front lawn. The Gurungs are an ethnic group from the middle hills of Western Nepal, and according to their funeral tradition a ghavri is invited to perform a puja ceremony and invite the departed soul back to earth. This happens on the first day, and on the second day, the soul is said to inhabit the ghavri’s body. On the third day, the soul is forever released from the bonds of earth. Next to the ghavri were a goat and a chicken to be sacrificed as an offering to invite Dr. Gurung’s soul. Dogs scampered about, seemingly sensing the blood soon to be spilled.

Upstairs in Dr. Gurung’s house, I sat with a few friends, all of whom had worked with Dr. Gurung. “I cannot make sense of his death,” said Tsering Tenpa Lama, also with WWF. “He talked about retiring in five years, and even then, he had so many plans for what he wanted to do next.” Jann, a Dutch man whose partner had worked with Dr. Gurung since the mid-90s, also wondered what lesson was to be learned from the deaths. “It seems you learn that life is precious, and you remember that for a while. But after a short time you again forget until someone else’s death comes.”

The community of Nepalis and foreigners involved in the conservation and development world is tight-knit; many of my Kathmandu friends knew and had worked with those killed in the crash. The main topic of conversation over the past few weeks has been the crash and the disbelief that these people are gone. Although I did not personally know any of those who died, sitting with friends mourning this loss, I was instantly taken back to the many times over the past year that the Telluride community has faced unexpected death.

In 2006, Telluride first lost Glen Harcourt, Bo Willse and Tim Hackett, then quite suddenly, Hoot Brown was gone. Again Jim Stewart and then David Gibson died. In Telluride then as in Kathmandu now, I did not personally know those who died, but to be a member of a close community is, in effect, to know everyone, and I was touched by all of those deaths. In June earlier this year, my friend Paul Green was killed suddenly in a car accident in Tibet, and in an instant I felt the cumulative effect of all of the death my community had experienced until then. It swept over me and preoccupied my thoughts for months to come.

In the wake of my friend Paul’s death, an email he had written just the week before he died was circulated among friends. He was in a remote region of Tibet working on his PhD research surveying the monasteries of a certain lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. “I feel so fortunate I can hardly believe it – to be here and involved in what I am. I actually feel like it is ‘my gompa’ there at Tsechu.” The friend that shared this email, Galen Murton, also wrote, “My grief is alleviated somehow in knowing that Paul was in his favorite place on earth, doing what he loved best.” And what more can you wish for a friend who dies unexpectedly? That they were happy, doing what they loved to do, up to the moment of their death.

The lesson remains the same, as with Telluride’s losses, as with Paul Green, and now as with Nepal’s losses. Death comes unexpectedly; best to be doing what satisfies you most and not settling for anything less. I took that to heart and followed my happiness to get back on the road again, camera in hand and never far from a good friend, a good adventure, a good meal, a good time. I spent this afternoon with a group of Nepali friends, harvesting rice, making lunch, playing cards, sharing memories, sitting on a hillside letting the temperate autumn breeze wash over me. There is nothing I would rather have been doing.