Camino, day 10: Navarette to Najera

After my little choking incident yesterday I was feeling vulnerable, lonely and fragile. My chest muscles hurt from the coughing spasms, my bad shoulder felt strained, my blisters were bothering me and I was feeling sorry for myself. So I checked into a hotel at the edge of town (too far from the center to be convenient, it turned out), holed up in my room, did my daily washing of socks, underwear and t-shirt, attended to my feet, and did seven New York Times' crossword puzzles on my iPad, Monday through Sunday. And then, uncharacteristically, got a really good night's sleep.

I woke up in a much better mood. At the good breakfast buffet I loaded up on protein, carbs, fruit, and several cups of good, strong, bitter coffee. When I stepped outside the air was startlingly brilliant, cool, no humidity, and a steady breeze was blowing the cumulus clouds swiftly through a lapis sky. After yesterday's adventure I was wary of inhaling, but when I did I felt like I was breathing in vitamins straight from the source.

And today's walk, from Navarrete to Najera, was once again mostly idyllic, 10 miles or so through the famous La Rioja wine country, across rolling hills and vineyards set against a backdrop of green mountains. Yes, there were some highways visible from time to time and on the way into Najera there were some factories and apartment blocks, but most of the time it was serene, with birds chirping and earth underfoot.

I walked with an Irish character for a short while today, a hyper-energetic, wildly gesticulating man vaguely about my age, with an enormous face made even larger by bushy-to-the-chin sideburns. Ultimately he was too fast for me and he scooted ahead, but in the few minutes we were together he unironically tried to persuade me that drinking water is bad for you, that it bloats you and slows you down. Beer, orange juice, and biscuits are all you need, he said. Judging from his surfeit of energy, it seems to work for him. For the time being, though, I think I'll keep drinking water.

But I haven't connected deeply with anyone the past few days, and it feels ok. I love the solitude of the walk, lost in my thoughts and drinking it all in. And I love being startled from my reverie as another pilgrim says "Buen Camino" as he or she speeds by me.

In the middle of a long stretch, an enterprising entrepreneur had set up a stand selling fresh orange juice. As I approached I heard the strains of Dylan's "Hurricane" blasting from the stand, and it seemed so strange to me, hearing this song in the middle of wide-open sun-drenched vineyards in Spain. So when I passed by I waved and said "Bob Dylan!" The OJ seller gave me a huge thumbs up, smiled, and repeated "Bob Dylan!" really energetically. For some reason that made me very very happy.

Camino, day 9: Logrono to Navarette

The walk across Logrono, much of it the antithesis of what I had seen earlier, made me love the Camino even more. Of course I want to experience the idyllic countryside and the near perfect villages with just enough decay to make them super picturesque and the towering architecture of grand churches and ancient royal buildings. But I also want to feel the full experience of walking across a real country, callouses, scars, and all.

So I embrace the warehouses and factories and empty lots and power lines and the scruffy and manicured apartment blocks, and the bustling commercial districts with gleaming shop windows and signs and billboards, and walking not only on dirt paths but also on narrow highway shoulders with cars and trucks and busses zooming by, and... well you get it, I embrace it all.

Leaving Logrono this morning was all of that. Curiously it was the least well-marked part of the route so far, and in fact I made a few wrong turns. But my puzzled looks were answered by local folks gesturing me in the right direction. Leaving town was lovely. The path goes through a park active with runners, bikers, dog-walkers, strollers, and pilgrims, and along the reservoir for the town. Then back through vineyards and farmland on the way to Navarette, where I am now.

I had a disturbing experience just about a kilometer outside of Navarette. This time of year there's an amazing amount of airborne seed pods flying through the air. It's almost like snowfall some of the time, and sometimes the earth is covered in a thick layer. As I was walking a gust of wind sent hundreds of them in my direction, and one flew into my mouth and I inhaled it. I couldn't stop coughing violently and felt as if I were choking to death. I threw off my pack and for several minutes had a hard time catching my breath. I must have been a sight, with liquids streaming out my eyes and nose. A middle-aged British couple who I had passed earlier and had been kind of standoffish was walking a couple of hundred yards behind me and must have seen the whole thing. By the time they got to me I had finally gotten control of myself, and as they approached I said I had inhaled a seed pod. Well, they didn't even slow down as he said "hmmm, rawther unpleasant, that", and walked right by. And I thought, hmmm, rawther unempathetic, that.

But in the spirit of the day I suppose I should embrace that as well.

Camino, day 8: Viana to Logrono

Well there was something almost reassuring about the rather drab walk I took today. From the first 80 miles or so one could get the impression you are walking through a movie set, an idealized recreation of the fantasy of Spain, with gorgeous rolling farmlands, perfect villages and towns all seemingly preserved in every detail from the medieval era, and of course the beautiful city of Pamplona.

But walking into Logrono you see the detritus of modern life. The path goes through industrial areas, past warehouses and factories, along busy roads, and through scruffy underpasses, some strewn with garbage. Not particularly ugly, but against the relief of what I've walked through so far, it was quite a contrast.

Most of the towns and villages, and Pamplona for that matter, have been well defined. It's almost like a line is drawn around the town and people live inside the line and grow things outside it. This is of course a vestige of the medieval era, when the need for defense defined the perimeters, but it's remarkable how much it's still in place. Logrono's not like that. Yes, there's a lovely old inner core, but apartment blocks and commercial structures are sprawling all around the city.

The walk was short and easy today, just under 8 miles, and I left Viana late and arrived here within 3 hours. After showering and washing some clothes I went out for some lunch and to explore the city. There are some grand old churches, public buildings, and plazas--a substantial city--but what struck me most was that many men were sitting around drinking in the middle of the afternoon. Several were quite visibly drunk, and others were sleeping it off on park benches. A function of the horrific Spanish economy? Or something particular to this town or to this day? I haven't seen that before.

Camino, day 7: Los Arcos to Viana

No tears today, but lumps in the throat. As I left Los Arcos shortly after 7:30 this morning in the brisk air and under a fast moving sky I was overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude. I can't believe how fortunate I am, both in life in general and specifically about being able to do this walk. To have the physical health, freedom, and means to do this is an amazing gift.

And then later in the morning I met and walked with a couple for about an hour. He, a 65 year old former veterinarian with a long pony tail, she an attractive 60-something still-working nurse; ex-hippies living in Washington State educated at Stanford. They had started planning to do the Camino about a year ago, but eight months ago he got Toxic Shock Syndrome. He was hospitalized for three months and given a 25% chance of survival; at one point his heart stopped for 25 minutes and they were just about to give up on CPR when it started beating again and he suffered some brain damage and is almost completely blind. He's had six operations, the last skin graft didn't take, and he still has a hole in his abdomen that his wife patches every night. AND THEY ARE DOING THE CAMINO!!! It was a beautiful thing. They walked excruciatingly slowly, she leading him and warning him about each stone. Some days he takes a taxi and she walks, some days he manages to walk. Is it some kind of coincidence that I meet folks like this, or are there more people out there than I can imagine overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles to lead the lives they desire?

In order to keep my health and spirits strong I've decided to split each of the next two "stages" in two. They're both long and challenging and daunting. So today I did a little shy of 12 miles and I'm in Viana, and tomorrow I should have an easy day, just about a 7 mile walk into Logrono.

Today's walk was more challenging than yesterday's, but no less beautiful, through misty rolling farmlands and a few quaint villages. There were a few really steep and treacherous ups and downs, but thankfully they were short. The sun appeared and disappeared, creating wonderful shape-changing patterns on the fields, threatening clouds neared a couple times but didn't drop even a sprinkle, and the colors were intense against the grey.

Camino, day 6: Estella to Los Arcos

I found myself crying inexplicably twice in the last 24 hours. First on the bus from Burgos back to Estella yesterday when I finished reading a small gem of a book, "84 Charing Cross Road" by Helene Hanff, essentially a love poem to bibliophilia and London. And then in the middle of the night when I couldn't get back to sleep as I read a moving and difficult childhood memory posted by an old White Plains friend on Facebook. Partly I think it's because Terry and I said goodbye for seven weeks, which, despite my life of frequent travel, will be the longest time we've been separated in 39 years. But it's also because this experience is causing my emotions to bubble up to the surface.

And then this morning a woman asked if she could join me at my table for breakfast. After the preliminaries--she's a 60-something retired respiratory therapist from central Pennsylvania--I asked her what her motivation was for doing the Camino. She said her husband died 3 years ago and since then she's been doing extreme stuff, skydiving, a marathon, and now the Camino. Tears were running down her face as she spoke. It was awkward, unexpected, and powerful. Ten minutes later we said goodbye and Buen Camino and I have no idea if I'll ever see her again. So it isn't just me.

The walk today--at the risk of using up my quota of superlatives--was gorgeous. Leaving Estella there was a gradual 5 mile climb, and half an hour in I came across the famous wine fountain. I had promised to take a sip, and it was delicious. Actually I took several.

The path wound uphill through a couple of small towns and offered views looking back at Estella and the surrounding mountains. The weather was cool, overcast and blustery, but eventually the sun burned off the clouds and by early afternoon it was perfect walking weather--60s, low humidity, a cool breeze.

There was an 8 mile stretch with no food or water, so I had prepared. I bought some local ham and cheese and bread and at around 1 PM I stopped and sat by the side of the path and feasted. Man, simple food can taste really delicious after 10 miles walking in the fresh air.

Now I'm in the small town of Los Arcos, in a very basic but clean room in a simple pension, showered and resting. I can't say that the 14 miles I walked today was exactly easy, but I feel less enervated than I would have expected. For the first time today I felt viscerally that, yes, I can do this!

Camino, day off: Logrono bus station en route to Estella; INSPIRATION OR INSANITY?

I met a guy at the Burgos bus station this morning. 38 year old man from outside of Barcelona doing the Camino for the third time. Friendly and warm with super clear blue eyes and an incredibly positive spirit. I saw his foot was heavily bandaged and asked him about it. He had walked from Roncesvalles to Burgos in 7 days, more than 25 miles a day! And then took a fall and seriously hurt his ankle (couldn't understand exactly, something about a tendon?) and was taken by ambulance to the hospital in Burgos where he spent two nights, then last night in an albergue. And now he was going back to the place he stopped to continue walking!!!!!!!!!! He said it's all mental, that he will overcome the pain. Rationally, he's nuts, he could do serious damage, but yikes what an attitude. I'm humbled. No, I would never do such a thing--he could permanently do himself in--but I will keep him in mind when I feel sorry for myself dealing with a little foot pain.

Camino, day 5: Puenta la Reina to Estella

Many of you know the history, but in case not, a very brief summary: The Camino de Santiago de Compostela is an ancient Catholic pilgrimage route, the goal being the Cathedral in Santiago where the bones of St. James (Sant Iago) are supposedly interred. At the time it started to become popular in the 9th Century, there were three principal pilgrimage destinations--Jerusalem, Rome, and Santiago. After the Crusades, Rome and Santiago became the biggest games in town. Feeder routes from France, Switzerland, Germany, and other parts of Europe developed, many leading across the Pyrenees to the route I'm on now, the Camino Frances, the last 500 miles on the way to Santiago. Towns and villages grew up along the way in the ensuing centuries to support the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims that undertook the journey each year, and eventually four large large cathedral cities emerged and evolved, Pamplona, Burgos, Leon, and of course Santiago.

People undertook the pilgrimage for a variety of reasons. Devotion, penance, and redemption, in lieu of prison (hence the tradition of stamping the pilgrim passport to prove one actually made the journey), for economic opportunity, and surely for a host of other reasons. Many pilgrims in the medieval era reputedly had only four possessions, a heavy cape to protect against the weather (I assume some sort of undergarment was worn, but that's just a guess), leather sandals, sometimes with wooden soles, an eight foot wooden walking stick, and a large gourd attached to the stick for carrying water. It was a very risky undertaking and many people perished along the route, and there are remains of early pilgrim hospitals and cemeteries all along the way. Mock funerals were sometimes held before the pilgrims left their home towns because it seemed likely they wouldn't return.

People today do it for a variety of reasons as well, though most are carrying high tech clothes and backpacks and smart phones and iPads with which they access the Internet via wifi virtually everywhere along the route, and then they fly back home instead of turning around and retracing their steps. Folks today do it as a spiritual quest, to test their bodies and endurance, because they're history or architecture or art lovers, because they want to see what it's like to walk across an entire country, or as tourists because it's now a popular thing to do. Most people undertake it during a transitional period of their lives, after the death of a spouse, after or even during an illness, upon graduating college, in the midst of a change in career, at retirement. I suppose there are some devout Catholics who do it in the original spirit, but they seem to be a small minority of those on the path.

And there's nothing like walking 13 miles with a blister to get one wondering "Why the hell am I doing this?".

Highlights of today's walk: Crossing the famous and beautifully proportioned thousand year old bridge on the way out of Puente la Reina, a town where two pilgrimage routes converge, the Camino Frances and the Camino Aragonese. Approaching the town of Cirauqui, which could be seen from different perspectives over quite a distance; the sky was generally overcast but often the town's buildings were eerily lit by the sun breaking through the clouds. And arriving in Estella, a town with lofty churches and fortifications, walking over its own dramatic stone pedestrian bridge, and finding our beautiful and luxurious hotel, just across from one of those fortifications.

Starting tomorrow, I'll be taking a three day break from the Camino. Terry's five days of walking are done and we'll be traveling by bus to Burgos tomorrow, spend the next day there, and then she'll go on to Madrid and fly home and I'll return to Estella where I'll restart my Camino. The experience will change for sure. It'll be a solitary rather than a shared one. I'm looking forward to it with both excitement and a bit of trepidation...

Camino, Day 4: Cizur Mayor to Puenta la Reina ("I cannot walk, it is too beautiful")

As Terry and I began our ascent of the fairly steep windmill-accented ridge several miles west of Pamplona, the cool morning air, strong sun, gentle breeze, waving fields, ubiquitous wildflowers, singing birds, and grand vistas were almost tear-inspiringly transcendent. It was one of those moments when one's belief that it's good to be alive becomes a visceral "it's SO good to be alive at this very moment, in this place."

A few minutes later Terry came upon a young man sitting cross-legged next to his pack just off the path. He said to her in heavily accented English: "I cannot walk. It is too beautiful".

That pretty much summed up the whole day. The views, the sun, the breeze, the light, everything was perfect.  We walked 12 or so miles from Cizur Mayor to Puenta la Reina along all sorts of paths, a few stretches with steep ups and downs, and through several villages. We're now showered and relaxing in our room on the upper floor of our hotel situated in the middle of town, looking out at very old lichen-covered rooftops.

One of the great things about the Camino is the sense of camaraderie among the walkers. This afternoon I walked for a while with a Canadian woman and within five minutes she was telling me about an experience she had two days ago. She said she's not religious, but when she came across a shrine that consisted of a bunch of quickly crafted crosses left by pilgrims, she decided to leave one in memory of her father who had passed away 15 years ago. She said she unexpectedly burst into tears, and she said she was holding back tears telling me about it.

Camino, Day 3: Larrasoana to Cizur Mayor

One of my favorite things about this part of the Camino is how quickly the environments change. We started the morning--finally good weather!--by climbing out of the beautifully maintained town of Larrasoana through fields and woods, past young wheat stalks blowing in wave-like motions, past graffiti covered stone buildings in various stages of dilapidation, along a highway with cars zipping by at 70 mph, up some steep inclines, and, six miles later, descending into the town of Arre, essentially a suburb of Pamplona.

We stopped in Arre for water and a quick snack. Church bells were ringing while a crowd gathered in a large plaza to celebrate a bunch of girls having First Communion. The girls were excited, happy, and glowing in their beautiful dresses while their families were hugging and exchanging best wishes and celebrating.

From there the walk had a more urban feel. Past dwellings, shops, and parks, with graceful rows of pollarded trees lining the main road leading through town, and then finally to the edge of Pamplona. There we crossed the Puenta Magdelena, a 12th century bridge used by millions of pilgrims over the years, through the two massive city gates, and along the dramatic and imposing stone fortifications that surround the city. Then into the beautiful old city center of Pamplona, where we stopped for lunch at a restaurant where we had dinner the night before going to Roncesvalles. After lunch we continued through the historic part of town, then out alongside several graceful parks, past apartment buildings and businesses, through the University of Navarra campus, and to the edge of the city.

We were about 3K from Cizur Menor when I realized I had mistakenly made reservations in Cizur Mayor, the adjacent town. Not what we wanted and I felt like a bonehead. We were at a loss but we stopped into a bar and were directed to the hotel. Though it seemed like it took forever luckily it was only about a mile and a half out of our way. And now we're finally here, and it's nice.

We walked altogether around 13 or 14 miles, and though the weather was near perfect--low 60s, brilliant sun, cool breeze, and low humidity--I'm pretty exhausted. But exhilarated too. And looking forward to the wine or beer that awaits downstairs.

CAMINO, DAY 2: VISCARRET-GUERENDIAIN TO LARRASOANA

We walked nine miles today but it was much more challenging than we had anticipated, mostly due to the recent frequent and heavy rains. We set out from our pension at 10 AM after a simple breakfast of coffee and bread and butter, and once again it was chilly and misty. Aside from a few light showers the rest of the day was mostly damp but dry, with occasion cool winds. I figure next month, when the sun should be hot and unrelenting, I'll be craving such days.

The first six miles took us through lush forest, with occasional views and fleeting glimpses of the surrounding mountains and fields. Heading out of Viscarret the first mile or so was a steep rise, which got our blood pumping and we quickly shed our fleeces. But the difficult parts were the downhills. The path, uneven to start with, was essentially a sheet of slick mud and mud-covered stones, dangerously slippery. Sometimes we literally proceeded six inches at a time. It was exhausting and we had visions of tumbling bodies and backpacks.

In early afternoon we finally arrived at Zubiri, an industrial town, and crossed the triple-arched ancient stone bridge, the Puente de la Rabia, into the main square. According to our guidebook the name comes from an ancient legend that claimed that any animal led three times around the central arch of the bridge would be cured of rabies. Just over the bridge we found a bustling bar, where we happily shed our packs and had our midday meal. Lunch was simple, and after being hungry for hours, particularly delicious, a sandwich of ham and cheese between some sort of potato and onion pancake, water, coffee, and a shared apple torte.

Exiting Zubiri we had a long steady climb past a huge concrete factory and then through gentle farmlands with exquisite views of the surrounding hills, replete with flocks of sheep, grazing horses, and picturesque crumbling stone structures. We passed through a couple of tiny villages and finally made it to our pension in Larrasoana, again a room in a private home, which took us a while to find even though the town is so small. It took us nearly six hours to walk the nine miles, and now we're lying prone. Dinner will be ready at seven.

Camino, Day 1: Roncesvalles to Viscarret-Guerendiain

 I've long dreamed of walking across a country. Though my life and career have allowed me to somewhat satiate my seemingly unbounded wanderlust, and though I've done some substantial treks, I've never had the experience of walking across an entire nation, feeling the subtle and not-so-subtle changes in terrain, weather, culture, and architecture as I go. So when a constellation of people in my close circle walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, including my close childhood friend Rich, my cousin Sandra and her husband Marc, and my older daughter Rachel, my interest was piqued. In both 2010 and 2011 I walked four days of it, the first time with my son Josh during a 12 day visit to Spain, and the second time on my own. After those short but inspiring experiences, I decided I wanted to walk the nearly 500 miles from the Pyrenees to Santiago. So when I retired earlier this year from my three decades long career as a dealer in rare books on art and architecture, walking the Camino became my focus and I've been preparing for it all winter and spring.

And now my wife Terry and I have begun our adventure. The plan is for us to walk together for the first five days, then she'll head home to go back to work, and after we take a break to say goodbye, I'll continue on from where we stop. So after flying into Barcelona and spending time there, then taking the train to Pamplona, where we spent another day, we arrived in Roncesvalles yesterday evening after an hour and a half bus ride along twisting mountain roads from Pamplona. 

Roncesvalles, where we decided to start our Camino, is a tiny village in the Pyrenees on the Spanish side of the border with France. It's famous as the site of the defeat of Charlemagne by the Basques in the 8th century and as a stopping place for pilgrims on the Camino arriving from various parts of Europe for over a thousand years.

Tucked into the mountains and surrounded by rolling hills and woods, the village--really just a small handful of old buildings--was shrouded in mist and fog and early evening light when the bus dropped us off. It had a magical and mystical air and was abuzz with pilgrims, both those who had walked the treacherous 22K route from St. Jean Pied a Port, where many folks start from, and those who were planning to start their Camino the next day.

The buildings, dating from the medieval era to the 18th century, have been repurposed for the modern Camino. The albergue is in an old monastery, and our hotel was in a converted hospital. A sprawling three floor building with stone walls up to three feet thick, it featured an entry lobby floor made of stones inlaid in floral patterns and massive exposed wooden beams throughout. Our room, on the third and top floor, was dominated by the modern roof structure that jutted into the living space, and the gigantic beams were kind of dangerous--Terry had to duck to get to the bathroom from her side of the bed. We enjoyed our first pilgrim meal, salad, steak, potatoes, wine and dessert, in the stone walled dining room before going upstairs to bed.

We were awakened repeatedly in the middle of the night by the pounding of torrential rain against the roof. And it was cold. I dreaded the idea of walking 3 or 4 hours the next day in such awful weather. Though it was still raining steadily after breakfast, the weather report said it would lessen as the day went on. We decided to try to wait it out and indeed by 11 AM there was a break, so we set out. 

As is often the case in the mountains the weather was changeable throughout the day. As we walked past farms, through woods and fields, and through several impossibly picturesque villages, the sun broke through and disappeared, it drizzled, it rained harder, and the wind was steady at times and occasionally stiff. Definitely not what we would have hoped for, but in its own way it was thrilling. 

We walked about 8 miles, and now we're ensconced in a pension, really a guest room with a slanted ceiling and exposed beams on the upper floor of an expanded house, in a tiny village called Viscarret-Guerendiain.  We've just gotten out of our wet clothes and are assessing just how much water got into our backpacks. It's raining hard outside and we're too cold to go out to get some food even though we're ravenous, but I'm sure once we shower and warm up we'll be game.

CAMINO MEMORIES, 2010: HOSTEL MUSIC

 Josh in the albergue before leaving in the morning

As I get ready to leave for Spain and the Camino de Santiago de Compostela tomorrow, a memory of my first night on the pilgrim road...

In July 2010 my son Josh and I walked for four days on the Camino and stayed in pilgrim hostels, or albergues, along the way. The evening before our first day's walk we arrived in Roncesvalles, a tiny town in the Pyrenees on the Spanish side of the border with France. Many folks doing the Camino Frances--the route from the Pyrenees in the East to Santiago de Compostela in the west near the Atlantic Ocean--start there. 

There are just a handful of buildings in the town (population 24), all hundreds of years old and encrusted in lichen and moss. There's a charming stone chapel, a small rustic bar that served food and drink and had internet, and the albergue, then located in a 12th century Romanesque church, as it had been for the past 800 years. The building was severe and solid and starkly beautiful. More than a million pilgrims had probably stayed the night there over the years.

The showers and toilets, a rudimentary kitchen, and some meeting rooms were downstairs, but the sleeping area was the cavernous nave of the church. There were 60 bunk beds lined up in rows, and the night we were there all 120 spaces were taken. We arrived around 7 o'clock in the evening, signed in and got our pilgrim cards, were each given a pillow and a towel, and were told that the doors closed at 9:45 PM and lights out was at 10 PM.

The huge space, with tall stone walls that dwarfed the bunk beds, was resonant. And as 10 o'clock approached it was loud in there. People were organizing backpacks, arranging and getting into sleeping bags, and talking to companions. At 10 sharp the lights dimmed and a recording of early vocal music played for about three minutes. It was very calming and the collective mood changed. It was time for sleep.

What followed was a John Cage kind of music. I was too wired to sleep so I listened. At first there was the shuffling of bodies in sleeping bags trying to find the right position, scrunching and re-scrunching of pillows, and some scattered whispering among friends. After 15 minutes or so the sounds evolved: deeper breathing, snorts, snores, farts, the sounds of sleep. Multiplied by 120 the combination of sounds was something else, and it struck me as beautifully musical, with changing cadences and rhythms. All the while the volume was going down as if a steady hand were turning the knob. After around 45 minutes or so, even the bodily sounds quieted and the air was peaceful. After that I was able to go to sleep.

Coda to this story: Two years later a new albergue opened, with modern and updated facilities, and the church only houses pilgrims when the new albergue is full.

MEMORIES OF NEPAL, 2: TREKKING AND LOCAL JUSTICE

MEMORIES OF NEPAL, 2: TREKKING AND LOCAL JUSTICE.

While in Kathmandu in 1982 Terry and I arranged to trek in the Himalayas. Through a tourist agency we hired a crew who would carry our packs, cook our meals, set up and break camp, and lead us on a route near Machhapuchhre in the Annapurna Range, a towering and imposing 26,000 foot mountain rising dramatically from a much lower plateau. Safety was supposedly not an issue--we had heard only positive things--but having a guide was an extra comfort. And it cost only $40 a day for the two of us. We were matched up with a Canadian woman and an Australian guy, both about our age, and to attend to the four of us, we were provided with an experienced guide named Ratna, a cook and 6 porters. We met most of them in Pokhara after a several hour bus ride along winding mountain roads from Kathmandu, and set out the following day.

Day one started out on an inauspicious note. Less than two hours after leaving Pokhara we were walking on a broad path along a fast flowing river when we saw a strapping young Tibetan man, with broad muscled shoulders and glowing skin, lying face down in the water among large boulders. Several people had arrived at the scene. Word spread quickly that he had committed suicide. We were shocked, we were told it was highly unusual, and we walked on, shaken.

The trek was amazing. We walked about 50 miles in 8 days, about 3000 vertical feet per day, sometimes challenging. There were few roads in Nepal at the time and the villages and towns were connected by a vast network of paths. Some were broad and flat and could accommodate pack animals, and some were narrow and steep and rocky and only agile humans could navigate them. The paths wound through forests and small villages and along mountainsides, sometimes with vertiginous views. At one point we passed through a dense miles-long forest of 30-foot rhododendron trees in full bloom.

The larger paths, and even the smaller ones, were essentially foot highways. Streams of people passed by, some carrying unfathomable loads. Most stuff was carried in a sort of giant hemp-like sack with a broad strap that went around the forehead; the weight was borne on the forehead and back and those who carried heavy loads of wood and bags of rice and root vegetables walked stooped toward the ground. Believe it or not we even saw a few porters carrying giant loads of glass-bottled Coca Cola on their backs up to the higher more remote villages. Many walked barefoot in all kinds of weather, though some had hand-me-down sneakers with the laces removed and open just enough to squeeze in their widespread feet that were so terribly cracked and rough. Any romantic notion I harbored that they might be hardened to the pain fell away quickly. It felt pathetically small, but I gave our porters my tube of antibiotic cream and they were grateful.

Because transport was so difficult, and because everything had to be hand carried, most products were extremely local. In the course of a few hours of walking you could pass through one village with houses built only of bamboo and grasses and another village further up the mountain in which all the houses were made of stone and stucco. Endless miles of terraced fields turned whole mountainsides into giant avant-garde geometric earthworks best seen from the opposite sides of valleys, and spoke of hundreds of years of back-wrenching work. And we got some spectacular views of high peaks. One morning we awoke very early and climbed about 2500 feet before dawn, rising to about 13,000 feet to see the sun rise between multiple 20,000+ foot peaks and fast moving clouds. I felt like I was dreaming at the top of the world.

Each evening the crew gathered wood and started a fire, cooked rice and cut up vegetables for curry, brewed tea, and set up the tents. Considering our pretty basic standards at the time, it was luxurious. We all got along well. The porters spoke some English, Ratna was mostly fluent, and they were sensitive and gentle, though their lives were anything but. One morning we passed through a town and the cook bought a live chicken for the dinner that evening. The gentleness and loving attention the cook paid to the chicken that day was beautiful. He carried it in his pack on his shoulder and petted its head and cooed to him all day along the path; the chicken seemed calm and content. When it came time to prepare dinner, the cook deftly slit the neck of the chicken, drained the blood, collected it and cooked it separately, an apparent treat. I don't remember any struggle.

On the fourth night of the trek we camped just outside a village with about a dozen small houses, situated on a river. As usual we left our backpacks in the open air outside our tents, this time propped up against a stone wall. When we got up in the morning the packs were gone. Ratna and our crew were in disbelief, and within minutes the whole town was there, arguing. They seemed in shock. "This kind of thing never happens." "Our livelihood depends on the trekkers coming through." They were ashamed for their fellow countrymen and worried that word might spread to avoid the area. 

We weren't sure what to do. We had the one set of clothes we had taken off in our tent, our boots, and our sleeping bags. Everything else was gone, clothes, first-aid kits, wallets, passports. Ratna discussed the situation with men from the town. A decision was made--without my input--that we would walk 6 hours to the nearest police outpost to report the incident; it was considered that important. So I got ready to walk the 12 hour round trip, maybe for nothing. Terry and our Canadian and Australian friends were to stay the day in the village and enjoy lying in the sun and swimming in the river.

We were a sort of a posse. Ratna, one of our porters, a half dozen people from the town where we were robbed, and I started walking in the direction of the outpost. They would ask every person we passed whether they had seen a stolen pack or anything suspicious. About an hour in, someone said he'd seen a guy in unusual clothes just up ahead. Indeed he was wearing my shirt and sneakers. He ran, but the villagers caught up with him, tackled him and roughed him up, with slaps to the face and body and lots of screaming and threatening.

After claiming that he'd bought the stuff from the thief, upon more coercion he finally admitted that he'd taken the packs, but that it had been in the middle of the night and now the goods were spread around to other people. They kept slapping and screaming at him and finally he said that he had stashed the stuff in a bunch of hidden locations that he could take us to. Meanwhile more local villagers joined us; there was a reputation to uphold. For the next 4 or 5 hours, as he led us through miles of remote terrain, we ran and leapt up and down the beautiful terraced hills, 2 or 3 feet at a time, all at high altitude. I happened to be in the best shape of my life at that point, but I was stretched to my physical limit. Absolutely exhausting and rattling. The locals were running and jumping like billy goats and olympic hurdle champs and I was just getting there by the skin of my blisters.

He'd hidden things behind rocks in remote forests, in friends' huts in several villages, in a container buried in the dirt, and it turned out, his mother's house. The "posse", which had grown to about 20 folks by now, physically dragged him up to his village, which consisted of a half dozen bamboo huts and some cleared dirt, found his mother, screamed at her, slapped her on the face numerous times, knocked her to the ground and then started kicking dirt on her. At this point the low-level fear I had felt all day turned to near-panic; how violent would local justice get? Much to my relief they left her on the ground and made the thief apologize, formally, directly to my face. Very intense.

We got almost everything back. The only things gone, if I remember correctly, were a few packs of cigarettes and a couple of Cadbury chocolate bars, all presumably consumed by then, and one pair of Terry's underwear.

The next day we continued our trek. My knees were a bit shaken and sore, but once again I was glorying in the unforgettable beauty of the country and the charm of the people. Perhaps the most bizarre part of the whole episode followed. For the next three days, until our return to Pokhara, hundreds of people coming from every direction asked if we were the victims of the robbery. The news had spread throughout the countryside for many many miles. Locals, porters, trekkers, everyone knew about it. We were briefly famous.

MEMORIES OF NEPAL, 1: KATHMANDU

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MEMORIES OF NEPAL, 1: KATHMANDU   

April 28, 2015

There's long been a special place in my heart for Kathmandu. When I first got there at the end of 1973 I was 20. I thought I had left college indefinitely but was in fact in the midst of a year off, and I'd been traveling for almost 4 months, much of it through, for me, very alien cultures and landscapes. Across Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India before Nepal, all overland. Through cold deserts, lush jungles, countless villages, and cities like Istanbul, Herat, Kabul, Peshawar, and Amritsar. I was brought to tears by the beauty of the tile work of Isfahan and the death-in-the-streets poverty of Lahore. Amazing, exciting and eye-opening as it all was I rarely felt at ease, and to some degree was always on guard.

But in Kathmandu I thought I had found Shangri La. There was a graceful beauty to the city and its people. I loved the steadfast calmness of the Nepalis and the Tibetans, with their beautiful skin and their sweet toughness in the face of hard living, and I loved the architecture, with its finely wrought wooden carvings and profuse ornamentation. Life in the streets seemed so "real" to me, with butchers, ear-wax cleaners, and metal workers plying their trades in public, but without the frenetic in-your-faceness of India. The vegetation was lush and welcoming, animals and smells were everywhere, and it was winter and the weather was warm and the sun was strong. And at least on the surface (or perhaps in my 20-year old imagination) the people seemed genuinely happy.

Kathmandu was just on the verge of being "discovered". It had been opened to western tourists starting only in the mid-1960s, and by the early 1970s it had become a magnet for the legions of hippie freak travelers on the Silk Route, either coming east from Europe or going west from Australia and New Zealand. There was no tourist infrastructure yet. No hotels in the Western sense, few paved roads, no streetlights. It took 19 hours to get a phone call through to the States. Tourist lodges offered very basic shared rooms with communal bathrooms, which meant a cold hose and a hole in the floor, or you rented a room in someone's house. After spending the first month in a lodge, I rented a private room in a home for the next 2 months. It had stucco walls with years of soot and was cozy and dark. No electricity after dinner and I remember sitting in my sleeping bag reading, writing, and drawing by candlelight. The "bathroom" ceiling was literally 4 feet high and I couldn't even come close to standing up. I loved it there. The family was warm and welcoming and the rent was $3 a week.

The first three months of 1974 in Kathmandu were magical, at least for a 20-year old American artist-type wanderer with a little spending money. The pie shops that had sprung up to cater to the backpackers had become hangouts for the profusion of writers, artists, and musicians among the travelers. Everyone shared stories and art and music. I was carrying a guitar, as were many others, and spontaneous acoustic jam sessions were the norm. Sometimes Nepalis--kids who worked in the pie shops mostly--would join in with native instruments and somehow it all meshed. I had a regular gig at the one western-run bar in town; I played two evenings a week for about six weeks at the Union Jack Pub for tips and a meal and drinks. Even at the time I realized I had serendipitously stumbled into a wonderful and fleeting cultural moment. 

Among other favorite memories of that stay in Kathmandu: Regular and numerous visits to the Swayambhunath temple complex, including a new-agey full moon festival there, and an unbelievable Hindu religious festival somewhere outside of the city, with something like 200,000 pilgrims who had arrived from all over the Indian subcontinent.

I was awakened from my reverie by getting quite sick. Probably something in one of those magical pie shops. My digestive tract rebelled and I started to lose weight, much too quickly. I went to a local clinic, where the other patients in the waiting area--all locals--looked near death. I remember one guy with a growth on his neck the size of a softball. I was misdiagnosed and given the wrong medicine and I got sicker and lost more weight. It became clear that I should head back to the States. Getting back to New York via New Delhi and London was an adventure in itself, with an unexpected and potentially dangerous stop in Damascus, and by the time I got home I had lost 40 pounds. Once treated for amoebic dysentery and food-borne hepatitis I recovered, had a good time gaining the weight back, and eventually continued my adventure by heading out to San Francisco for the summer. Another story.

The next time I was in Kathmandu was with my wife Terry in 1982, when we spent about a month in Nepal. It was still magical, with its glorious temples and stupas and gentle generous people. But it was utterly transformed. Five star hotels, buses filled with Japanese tourists, paved roads, direct dial phones, a major tourist industry. When I tried to find the house in which I had stayed, I not only couldn't find it, I couldn't find the street or even the neighborhood. The entire district had been razed and rebuilt. Greater Nepal had not yet undergone such changes yet. We enjoyed an amazing trek starting in Pokhara, with eight days of glorious walking in the shadow of Machhapuchhre in the Annapurna Range, a 26,000 foot peak. The trek was filled with adventures and wonders and beauty and more stories and my love for the country deepened. I haven't been back since.