We woke up bright and early stretching contently as wide smiles stole over our faces. We were glad to shake the dust of Kathmandu from our feet, and get a fresh start. Awwwww! The mountains! You could already feel the crisp, clean air radiating from the valley. We walked upstairs to breakfast, and fell into conversation with the owner of the ‘hotel’. The man was short and stocky, with dark features and a pleasant smile. And, there was that darn abnormally long pinky nail again! Dawa began to tell us about the trekking, the best places to go, that there was no snow, and most importantly that he thought our packs were far too big for us. ‘It makes me want to take the bus back to Kathmandu and drop off our stuff.’ Justin said passively. I nodded, not believing it to be much of an option. Little did we know what a wise choice it would have been.
We started out of Jiri towards Bhandar, but first we would pass through the village of Shivalaya, the birth place of Shiva. A small town of no more than 100 inhabitants, sitting at 5,900 feet, with a large, newly built church, and traditionally dressed Nepalese. The hills were steep, and surrounded us on every side. The clouds lazily drooped over the hilltops, and the endless hand-cut terraces were dressed in a blanket of vibrant green. The rugged paths were laid with hand cut stones, and we placed one foot in front of the other with precision and difficulty. As we climbed higher, the path dropped dramatically down to the valley floor making the terrain more dangerous with every step. The trek to Shivalaya alone was to take three hours (another four hours to Bhandar), but after struggling to carry our packs up the trail for two and a half hours - we knew that timeline was not to hold true for our overburdened selves. Three hours later, we crossed a large suspension bridge 40’ above a roaring river dappled with giant grey boulders. The bridge bounced and swayed from our weight, and we trudged onward one wobbly step after another. The clouds sank lower, and drew darker, threatening to unload their wrath. The first drops fell, and we scrambled to put on our rain gear while quickening our step. ‘It’s all downhill from here!’ Justin yelled back to me. ‘Let’s run!’ We came in sight of a second expansion bridge crossing over a larger river, and looked on rather amused as a man ushered his herd of cows and goats across. We ran on, splashing through streams, and dodging rain drops. Just as we reached the last bridge stretching out to the tiny village, the sky unloaded. It was 2:30, the trek had proven to be more strenuous than we imagined – 6.5 hours instead of 3, and the monsoon promised to stifle any hope of reaching Bhandar that day.
2011 is the ‘Year of Tourism’ for Nepal, and a newly added information board welcomed us to Shivalaya. The board read ‘Do As the Nepali Do’: Don’t litter, don’t give to the beggars, dress modestly, and don’t show Public Displays of Affection . . . I smiled and looked towards Justin. ‘So let me get this straight. You brought me to a country where I have to be fully covered and can’t show any PDA? Add the fact that we have 50lbs on my back - 73 on yours while struggling up a mountainside getting sweaty, stinky and dirty, only to end up at a place where there are no showers or running water, and we have to sleep in separate, single-wide beds? You don’t like me very much – do you?’ He looked down at me in amusement. ‘Let’s eat!’ he said turning towards the nearest teahouse, the Riverside Hotel.
The hotel was cleverly constructed of timber framing, and river rock siding stacked like bricks and packed with clay-filled mud. Our tiny room of two single beds and a nightstand proved difficult for Justin to stand up. He hunched over while inside and we were constantly smacking our heads on the doorway hardly tall enough for a hobbit to walk through. After a quick meal, we retired to our room. We brushed our teeth with bottled water, and spit off the deck onto to the earth below. We thought back over the day’s trek: the breathtaking scenery, the men putting our packs to shame by carrying baskets on their backs the size of a mini-coupes, the monsoon still pouring down outside, and the fact that even in the middle of nowhere we could still purchase a coke, a snickers, or a bag of lays. We took note of the people, and the foreign customs that they displayed. The men would hold hands, or affectionately place their arms around one another while walking under an umbrella, but you wouldn’t see a man and a woman touch for any reason. They would clear their throats noisily, and without reservation spit on the floor. Whether they were inside or out – it didn’t matter. They publically picked their noses, talked very loudly on their cell phones (yes, cell phones – in the big city, on the trail, or in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, from the richest and the poorest - they all had cell phones), and smoked in the kitchen, restaurants and anywhere else they pleased, likely without the slightest inkling that this was not only intolerable but illegal in our country. Nepal possessed an air more wild and 'uncivilized' than we were accustom to, and we tried to remain unbiased as we eagerly took metal notes of all our differences. Exhausted from our day, we quickly fell asleep tucked away in our sleeping bags, on our tiny beds with their thin foam mattresses covered in a thread-bare sheet that had probably never been washed.
The next morning we were forced to report to the tourist office, where they were determined to pressure us to pay for permits, 2,000 rupies (USD $30.00) each. Justin and I argued the injustice since we were only passing through the town and not going into the Conservation. We disputed with the woman until she finally agreed not to charge us because she simply wanted us out of her office. We started out towards the trail irritated by the hassle, only to be stopped by an officer with a large assault rifle. We rolled our eyes towards one another, and followed him to the check-post. He pointed towards a book where we were to right down all of our information: name, passport number, nationality, permit (that we were just suppose to have bought) number, and where we were headed. I quickly scribbled down our information, made up a permit number, gave Justin a look, and asked the officer if we were finished. He nodded and we dashed off. ‘Quick!' I hissed. 'Before he realizes that the permit number is a fake!’ We sprinted, the best we could with giant packs, along the slippery trail zigzagging up the steep ridge, and tried to put as much space as possible between us and the officers. Our adrenaline was pumping, and we hardly dared pause to catch our breath. I felt as though Jack trying to climb up the steps of the Giant’s house after just having climbed the bean stock. My heart threatened to fail, and nearly out of breath, I glanced over my shoulder to see if they were giving chase. A few more feet, and we would be to the top and in record time! I damned my bloody pack and its weight, then checked back to see if Justin was keeping up only to see a red-faced puffing resemblance of a man, throwing his knees high trying to keep up, sweat dripping profusely off his face, . . . Curse these packs! If only we had known we didn't need to pack so much we could be running away so much faster!
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