Table Of Contents

Prologue

Part One
Far East: Travels in Asia
1. Beginnings
2. Japan: Cycling on the Roof
3. China: Mei Yo
4. Tibet: The Center of the Universe
5. Nepal: Hello Pen
6. Amazing Thailand

Part Two
Far Under: To Oceania and Back
7. New Zealand
8. Australia: The Merry Old Land of Oz
9. Irian Jaya: Of Cannibals, Missionaries, and Noble Savages
10. Bali and Java: Dancing With the God

Part Three
Seeking Shiva, Chasing Alexander: Travels on the Subcontinent and Across the Silk Road
11. Beginnings (II)
12. Mother India
13. Borders: Between Countries and Souls
14. The Karakoram Highway
15. Travels in Ladakh and Kashmir
16. A Journey Through the ‘Stans
17. Winter Blues: The Frozen Caucasus

Part Four
The Bridge from East to West: Pedalling Through Turkey and Europe
18. Greece and Turkey: Club Med
19. Georgia: Under A Bad Sign
20. Eastern Europe: Into the Old Country
21. Western Europe: To the Alps and Beyond

Part Five
The Journey Home: Across America
22. U.S.A.- South
23. U.S.A.- West: Running Out of Road

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Chapter Five

Nepal : Hello Pen

To wander over the earth; to see and never have my fill of seeing…new land and seas, and ideas. To see it all as though for the first time and the last time, with a long, lingering gaze, and then to close my eyelids and feel the riches crystallizing inside me, calmly or tempestuously as they will, until time has distilled them through its fine sickle into the quintessence of all my joys and all of my griefs. This alchemy of the heart is, I believe, a great delight.
-Nikos Kazantzakis

We are welcomed to the mountain kingdom of Nepal by a small man, who stands by the side of the road wearing a topi (a small, multicolored, pointed hat) and a long baggy shirt. He stands with his hands folded together in prayer, and half steps into the road, imploring us to stop.

“Namaste Dai, Namaste Didi,” he welcomes us. Namaste is the formal version of Namaskar, which means, “I salute the God within you.” It is the traditional greeting used throughout Nepal and northern India. Dai and Didi are “brother” and “sister,” common forms of address throughout the country.

“And what is your good name, sir?” he inquires.

“My name is Dave,” I reply in slow textbook English. All this travel has taught me that my seemingly simple name can be difficult for people from other cultures.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Ravi,” he grins, “but you are better than I.”

I look at him questioningly, not knowing where this is leading.

“In Nepali, Dev means God,” he tells me, “so surely you have been sent from the heavens.” He continues, “And who is the charming memsahib riding along with you? I am thinking she is looking like Nepali, but Nepali lady no riding like this on bicycle, so maybe she is coming Japanese or Chinese?”

He grins some more, wags his head from side to side, and goes on with the conversation. “You know, it is the time of taking tea. Would you be so gracious as to of joining me?”

In six months in China, we have been invited for tea just twice by the Chinese. Twenty minutes across the border, we already have an offer. We park our bikes and duck into a small roadside shack, where we have our first cups of sweet and spicy chai, the national drink of Nepal. The chai is made with fresh milk and strong black Darjeeling tea leaves, boiled with cardamom seeds, cloves, cinnamon, and loads of sugar. After all the green and jasmine tea of China—and the rancid yak butter tea of Tibet—drinking this tea is like being let loose in a candy store.

Ravi is a farmer, and grows rice, millet, and enough vegetables to provide for his wife and four children. He learns English through interaction with foreign trekkers during the two short trekking seasons, when he works as a porter. He earns three to four dollars a day at this job, carrying loads of sometimes more than a hundred pounds up steep trails in a basket on his back, attached via a strap around his forehead. He has no complaints about the work, though, and in a country where the per capita income is around 150 dollars a year, the salary is not to be scoffed at.

As we sit in the teashop, people pass by and pause for brief inspections of our bicycles. Nobody stares, no one yanks on my beard, and not one person screams at us. For the next several days, we find every Nepali we meet, and the soft charm they exude, completely ingratiating.

Scenes from a Third World documentary greet us in the mountains. We pass bare-breasted women carrying water jugs on their heads, naked kids with sores on their frail bodies, and villages with thatched-roof huts. Yet in contrast with China, everything is clean, and almost everyone we meet is smiling. Water gushes everywhere from rocks, from hillsides, through villages. Each village has public water taps where people wash, bathe, and collect water. Where there are public toilets, most have clean water for washing; even better, most of the excrement has made its way into the hole and has been flushed away.

People everywhere are friendly and curious, but there are no mob scenes like we encountered in China, and everyone is a lot more respectful of our bikes, bodies, and privacy. Children with pretty faces are everywhere, and they often approach to greet us with a smile and the words “hello pen.”

Western aid groups and other travellers have often made a point of bringing pens for children, thinking that they could use them for their schoolwork. Unfortunately, this hasn’t really worked, as the pens are often sold and do not end up on school desks. However, it is amusing to see how “hello pen” has become a standard greeting; in one stretch of road, we pass hundreds of schoolchildren who all stop to wave and give us the salutation. Even an old man stops us here, puts his hands together in prayer, but instead of “Namaste,” smiles kindly and says, “hello pen.”

Though Nepal is the domain of Mount Everest, most of the country is lush, green, and subtropical. We ride through narrow and precipitous valleys full of terraced rice and millet plots, which in the humid and heavy air remind me of Japan.

Many villages have health clinics, women’s associations, and centers for the deaf, most of these having been created by foreign aid projects. There are also decently stocked shops with the most incredible selection of cookies I have ever seen, most of them coming from the gigantic Indian biscuit industry. We are only forty kilometers from the Chinese border, yet almost everything in the shops comes from India, rather than China. The only major exception are the green army tennis shoes that half of the population seems to wear (the other half going barefoot).

There is ice-cold Tuborg beer in tiny refrigerators in all the shops, and small stalls called bhattis serve dal bhaat, Nepal’s primary meal. Dal bhaat consists of rice with lentil curry, along with saag, which is similar to spinach, and achar, a spicy mix of pickled vegetables.

The small guesthouses scattered through the region are simple and clean. They are run by cheerful proprietors, as often women as men, and staffed by loads of young boys who, whistling as they go, carry our panniers and bicycles up to our rooms, refusing to allow us to carry a thing.

In the mountain village of Dhulikel, the owner of the Nawaranga Guesthouse welcomes us with steaming bowls of gurung, thick soup made of dried greens and mountain vegetables, followed by bowls of sweet and sticky homemade custard. We discuss the impact of tourism on his village. A rash of guesthouse building and an increase in competition have nearly forced middle-class lodges to go out of business; they are undercut by new guesthouses, which charge next to nothing in their drive to pull in guests. Additionally, most tourists these days come on package tours, demanding the comforts of home, and their overnight stay is arranged through the upscale Dhulikel Lodge, which takes the lion’s share of the business.

The lodge owner tells us that many tourists come here only on day trips, and because Dhulikel lies only thirty-five kilometers from Kathmandu, most can’t be bothered with staying overnight. The precarious economic situation has created aggressive competition, which in turn creates more jealousies and squabbles than the village has seen before.

Kathmandu has long been a legendary destination on the Asian travel circuit. It was the goal of hippies in the 60’s and 70’s, travelling overland from Europe: a Shangri-La where marijuana grew wild, the people were laid back, and one could live for next to nothing in the shadow of the mighty Himalayas. The city has also been a home away from home for the mountaineering community of the world. Since the 1950’s, when Maurice Herzog climbed Annapurna, and Edmund Hilary and Tenzing Norgay became the first people to summit Everest, climbers have flocked to Kathmandu in their bids to go higher, faster, and further.

More recently, Kathmandu has become a haven for travellers escaping the rigors of travel in China and India, countries with massive bureaucracies and overwhelming populations. Although Nepal is poorer than both of these countries, the mountaineering scene and big-budget tourism have combined to create a small pocket of wealth and—at least for tourists—all the amenities that come with it.

A friend of mine jokingly calls Kathmandu “San Francisco in Asia,” and in some ways, he is right. A relatively small city (the Tribuvan “International” Airport resembles a cow pasture), Kathmandu is crammed with eateries, outdoor shops, and bookstores. There are Japanese sushi bars and a plethora of vegetarian restaurants, one of which has a signboard that reads, “Come enjoy lovely free space we are no meat delightful but have beer.” A former Peace Corps volunteer runs a place called Mike’s Breakfast, serving fresh scones, quiche, and large stacks of whole-wheat pancakes and blueberry waffles, along with strong filter coffee from Kenya. The café is housed in an art gallery, and patrons dine to the accompaniment of Bach and Chopin.

In the tourist quarter of Thamel, there are at least twenty new and used bookshops, their shelves lined with travel guides, best-selling novels, and scores of classics. In Pilgrims Bookstore, which boasts branches in Varanasi and Delhi, one can find virtually any book ever published on Buddhism, Hinduism, mountaineering, the Himalayas, yoga, and Eastern mysticism; if the book is not on the shelf, it can be ordered from the smiling clerk who wags his head from side to side and says, “for you my friend, special order only five days.”

Between the restaurants, bookstores, and souvenir shops, there are the outdoor shops, which display in their windows brand name Gore-Tex parkas, backpacks, and down sleeping bags. These items sell for around a tenth of what they cost back home. My inspection of the zippers and seams reveals that the items are complete fakes, copied right down to the label.

Kathmandu also has a burgeoning nightlife. The Rum Doodle High Altitude Bar displays autographed pictures of climbing king Reinhold Messner and dozens of other celebrities who have frequented the place. At Tom and Jerry’s Sports Bar, one can catch the latest football match between Manchester and Chelsea, or the NBA Finals. There are numerous reggae bars, where Bob Marley songs blare into the street, and short Nepali guys slide up to you furtively and whisper in hushed tones, “hashish, you buy hashish?”

Video parlors show pirated versions of Hollywood blockbusters, and music shops offer the entire Billboard One Hundred on copied cassettes at a dollar apiece. There are photo labs, telephone centers promising the lowest overseas rates, and newsstands selling The International Herald Tribune, The Guardian, The New York Times, Le Monde, Der Spiegel, Time, and the Asahi Shinbun and The Daily Yomiuri for the Japanese readers.

If all these consumer opportunities aren’t enough to drain one’s bank account, there are the street vendors, who sell wooden chess sets, Tibetan bowls, Nepali daggers, and Kashmiri carpets. Curiously, their most proffered item is Tiger Balm, which they hawk at outrageous prices, more than one might pay back home. A stroll down the streets of Thamel at any hour of the day brings over scores of eager young men, all repeating, “hello Tiger Balm sir.”

Aside from eating, sleeping, and writing in journals, Hitomi and I spend our time wandering the streets of Kathmandu, which are filled with diverse scenes out of another time period, if not from an entirely different planet. On the eastern side of the city lies Pashtupatinath, a large temple complex and park perched on the banks of a small river which flows into the Ganges. Pashtupati, as it is called, is a holy spot, and the dead of Kathmandu are brought here for cremation. Several ghats, open spaces with steps just off the water, line the riverbank, and bodies are often burned here atop flaming pyres. Men in loincloths and women in saris bathe or wash clothing, while monkeys prowl stealthily nearby, looking for scraps of food or unattended belongings to steal.

After a cremation, families of the deceased gather to scatter the ashes into the water, ensuring that the soul will return to the mighty Ganges, hundreds of kilometers away in India. Several barbers have set up along the river next to the ghats; the sons of deceased parents shave their heads after their parents’ passing, so there is quite a demand in the cutting trade.

Above the river, a small park area and temple complex houses several large phallic stone lingams. The lingams are presided over by groups of sadhus, men who have renounced their possessions and families to travel throughout the land, clad only in a loincloth and carrying only a bowl with which to beg food. The sadhus can be found at religious sites, at holy mountains and rivers, and at festivals honoring the various manifestations of the Hindu deities.

Several sadhus in particular ply their trade every morning around the lingams. They have dreadlocks down to their knees, and their faces and arms are smeared in ashes. They flash the peace sign at the camera-toting hordes, then approach with small books that list rates for a display of their mystical powers. One fellow promises to lift a very large rock on a string tied to his penis, while another will put his legs around his head and then stick his feet in his mouth. Of course, none of these feats are free, and photo sessions cost extra.

Far more exciting are the snake charmers who perform downstream from the sadhus. They play wooden flutes to induce their collections of cobras and other highly poisonous snakes to come writhing out of the straw baskets in which they have been coiled. The performances have a heightened sense of danger this week, as the papers have reported that snakes attacked and killed several charmers. I wonder if perhaps someone was out of tune.

North of Pashtupatinath lies Bodhinath, home to the Tibetan community of Kathmandu. Seemingly a million miles away from the ghats, Bodhinath houses a large stupa with giant eyes painted on top, which stare out at the crowds. Locals call these “the eyes of Kathmandu,” and numerous stupas throughout the city have the same features. Tibetans here do koras around the stupa, spinning prayer wheels as they go, then head off to nearby snack shops to eat momos and drink tea or chang, a potent alcohol made from barley.

Much of Kathmandu is a cacophony of motorcycle engines, horns, and Hindi music blaring from all the vehicles and shops. The air is grimy, and black fumes belch from the tempos, three-wheeled taxis driven at suicidal speeds throughout the city. The haze usually obscures the Ganesh Himal, soaring snowy peaks which lie close to town. Hitomi and I start out enthusiastically each morning, heading off to explore some new temple or return to a favorite spot; by early afternoon we are exhausted, overwhelmed, and congested, and beat a hasty retreat to our hotel room or one of the many tea gardens.

We have grown used to being surrounded by monks drinking yak butter tea, and to seeing women in multicolored saris carrying pitchers of water on their heads. These things are far more a part of our daily lives than shopping malls and financial districts, and I no longer take pictures of the scenes that surround us. While we are supposed to be enjoying Nepal, part of me is already fantasizing about Thailand, about spicy food, fresh coconut milk, and tropical beaches.

As I pick up a bundle of mail from home, it strikes me how far removed Hitomi and I are becoming from our own cultures. Friends and family write about rush hour traffic, second mortgages, events or news we have “missed,” and climbing the career ladder. There are complaints about not having enough time to spend with husbands, wives, and kids, about bills, about the lousy state of the world. All this seems meaningless as I sit in a teashop in Kathmandu, watching a butcher across the street take a break from his card game to hack off a slab of goat meat for a customer.

Hitomi and I live now in a culture with endless time; time to sit, time to drink tea, time to wait. Every stranger here makes his neighbor’s business his own. Rush hour is eternal here, with cows, goats, chickens, and cycle rickshaws competing with buses, tempos, and the throng of humankind. Here, everyday life for most people is a struggle just to put enough rice on the table, yet most folks don’t complain much about the state of the world.

Our only bills are for the occasional inner tube or extra spare part; our tent’s only source of heat is our bodies, nestled next to each other in our sleeping bags; we spend most of twenty-four hours a day together. Our greatest concerns each day are finding a flat patch of ground for our tent, finding food and water, getting a good night’s sleep, and rejoicing when the winds are in our favor. I wonder how our nomadic lifestyle will affect us in the long run, and whether or not we have reached a “point of no return.”

On a more immediate note, my guidebook’s description of the Everest/Gokyo region sounds fantastic.

Nepal is a country of few roads. Less than fifty years ago, travellers walked or rode horses into the Kathmandu Valley. The maharajas from India were borne over the grueling mountainous terrain on chairs hoisted by their servants. While there is now full road access to Kathmandu and air service to many parts of the country, most Nepalis still live in small rural villages connected by footpaths which have been used as trading routes for centuries.

Thus, the bicycle is not the ideal vehicle for exploring Nepal. We leave ours at the guesthouse, sling on our backpacks, and head for the mountains. We plan to visit the world-famous Solo Khumbu region, abode of some of the highest peaks on earth, including Mount Everest. Most people fly in, as a round trip on foot to the Everest Base Camp takes over thirty days. Ninety-six percent of all trekkers today fly into the region, leaving only four percent making the long hike through the lowlands. This figure sounds appealing to us.

To start off the trek, one must first get to the village of Jiri, several hundred kilometers east of Kathmandu. Veteran climbers of Everest often joke that the hardest part of their climb is the bus ride to Jiri. Three buses leave each day, all by six in the morning, all crammed solid, and all taking at least thirteen hours—if one is lucky.

Our luck looks to be questionable, as my wallet is pickpocketed somewhere between the ticket counter and the bus. Several rupees lighter, Hitomi and I make our way into a vehicle that looks as if it has served as a tractor and an off-road machine for most of its life. The seats are miniscule, presumably designed for people under five feet tall without legs or knees. Hitomi, at four-eleven, can manage, but my knees do not fit between my seat and the back of the one in front of me. After much cajoling, I convice the fellow beside me to let me use the aisle seat, where I can at least stick my legs out to the side.

The bus quickly fills up. Women in saris, plaited hair halfway down their backs, carry several children who all share one seat. Men wear Chinese suit jackets and topis (hats), and a few gangly Westerners carry backpacks the size of your average Nepali. Most of the young women of marrying age get to sit at the front of the bus, either to be protected from the lechers in the back, or to serve as a distraction to the chain-smoking driver. There is much discussion about seat positions, and the aisles are filled with chickens, bags of rice, and other odds and ends, following which the driver clambers into the cab, turns a Hindi pop tape to full volume, and we careen down the road at full speed.

It is one thing to bicycle next to one of these buses, and another to ride in them. I try to sit back and enjoy the mountain scenery, but can think only about what a maniac the driver is. He roars along at full throttle, swerving around curves and narrowly missing small children who are playing in the road. A baby behind us cries incessantly, wailing into our ears; her mother vomits on the floor beside our backpacks.

It is hot and humid in the valley, and the bus makes innumerable stops to pick up passengers while we sit inside and swelter. There is no room left inside, so new passengers climb onto the roof. Soon there are between fifty and a hundred people lodged on top, clinging to the roof rack or to each other, packed as tightly as we are below.

Despite the fresh air outside, the curvy mountain roads have a brutal effect on the passengers up top, who begin throwing up en masse. Most of their offerings blow directly into the open windows below. Closing the windows is impossible, as the heat would be unbearable, not to mention that most of the windows are broken anyway. So we bounce along, our legs, knees, and shoulders crammed into each other’s various joints and bones, covered in vomit. I marvel that the man next to us has a smile on his face the whole time. He is either a completely enlightened being or an absolute idiot.

We do get a respite from this ordeal, as the bus overheats and breaks down, and we get to disembark and spend two hours sitting by the side of the road. Most of the passengers go into an orange grove and proceed to strip the trees of their fruit, leaving the peels scattered all over the ground.

Having received our initiation into the rigors of Third World travel throughout China, none of this shocks either of us. We look at one another, and without saying a word, burst out laughing. The Italian tourist in the back of the bus is another story. This is undoubtedly his first time in Nepal, and he sits shell-shocked in his seat, looking rather green. He speaks only Italian, which isolates him from all conversation and the questions of curious Nepalis, and he remains frozen to his seat, gazing in horror at the situation he has gotten himself into.

After fourteen hours, we reach Jiri, at the end of the road. It is deep in the mountains, yet the road remains smooth and well paved, and Jiri looks like a very prosperous place. It has benefited from much Swiss aid and has several schools, agricultural technology projects, and hydropower schemes—as well as the road—to show for it. Of course, the gap between appearance and reality is often wide, and as we arrive shortly after dark, the town’s electricity goes out for the night.

We stumble around in the dark, trying to find headlamps in our packs, and are rescued by a young boy who encourages us to stay the night at his family’s home. His name is Rajeev, and he speaks impeccable English and decent Japanese, all learned from tourists. Rajeev takes us into a small home with bare rooms lit by candles, where his father greets us warmly and seats us around a table. Rajeev’s mother, who can’t be more than twenty-five years old, shuttles into the kitchen to reheat some dal and chai for us.

In the morning, after a deep and much-needed slumber, we bid adieu to the family and leave the road. It is a gorgeous day, and soon we are in the midst of rape blossoms and millet fields, all sparkling in the morning sun. Passing us on the trails are Nepalis of various castes and cultures: Thaman, Chhetri, and Sherpa, all carrying the most amazing loads. Porters carry cases of beer, drums of kerosene, bananas and cauliflower, and occasionally even large pieces of furniture, all on their backs, attached by a thin strap to their foreheads. Many walk barefoot, their wide feet and sinewy calves a striking contrast with their tiny upper bodies.

Most of the porters are men, but there are a few “Sherpanis,” as they are called, hauling loads as heavy as the men. The Sherpas are Buddhists who inhabit the high mountain regions of Nepal, and they appear to have a more equal division of labor between men and women than the lowland caste groups, who are all Hindu. The non-Sherpa women we meet on the trails here are not porters, but perform domestic work, taking care of children, cooking, cleaning, gathering wood, and working in the fields. When not portering, most of the men we meet throughout this region seem to spend much of their time drinking tea and chatting with friends.

We are greeted with cries of “Namaste” everywhere, and of course, with “hello pen” by many of the children. One young boy approachesand boldly salutes me. He tells me in an authoritative voice, “I am a student.”

“Good for you,” I respond. “It is a noble profession.”

“Yes,” he answers, “and you know, sir, a student must have a pen.”

I laugh, and retort, “yes, he must, but I’m not going to give you one.” He smiles back and rushes down the trail to find another victim.

We amble along a pretty river, passing women with large nose rings who smile and tell stories as they stride along. Everything along this river valley seems so lush and alive. The first village we come to is Shivalaya, a collection of small houses with tin roofs. We stop for lunch, feasting on a large plate of potatoes, vegetables, and cheese, noting that the green Italian has arrived and looks much more exuberant and energetic than he did yesterday.

Outside the inn where we are eating, a sign says, “We have two meter beds!” but this is not enough to entice us to stay. We continue, spending the afternoon climbing almost 1000 meters to a collection of lodges which straddle a ridge. Most appropriately, the settlement is named Deorali, which means “pass” in Nepali.

We emerge from a forest of rhododendrons into a sea of mist that envelops the ridge, and are greeted by a large signboard advertising one of the lodges:

WELCOME—Only guaranted with various facilities on this mountaintop lodge.
WE DON’T SAY MUCH. ONLY YOU YOURSELF QUALIFY US! We have:
1. The past present and future’s various classified racial dish.
2. To escort you with various, different language musical cassette lab.
3. None competitors neighbor quiet, sound a peacePull, private, and dormitory rooms.
4. Yum yum mouth weting super famous choclet and varities.
5. The panormic view from open sun shine mini dining set varanda.
6. The hot shower renting hi trek boots also available.
MOST OF ALL WE ARE SPECIALIZE IN FIXING THE REASONABLE PRICE!”

All these amenities are too good to pass up, so we make the Deorali Lodge our home for the night. Dinner is a lovely dal bhaat (whether it comes from the past, present, or future, I know not), and the showers are most welcome, the lodge operating on a most practical system whereby the hot water slowly heats as the kitchen staff cook. We never come across the super famous chocolate, but the proprietress recommends her apple pie, a most suitable substitute, and I retire quite content, marveling over the juxtaposition of cultures and time warps here.

We reach the hamlet of Sete, ascending 500 meters in just under forty-five minutes and even passing several of the Sherpa guides and porters. They are quite amused by the two of us: short Hitomi and tall me, bearing large packs. Hitomi’s skin is blackened from the high-altitude sunshine, and I am occasionally asked if this lady with the pack is my Sherpani!

The lodges in Sete are nowhere near as fancy as those in Deorali, and there are no billboards to welcome us. However, a friendly man who turns out to be the local schoolteacher runs a simple, homey place; he invites us in just as the usual afternoon mist begins to descend on the pass. By evening, we are joined around a smoky hearth by Claudio the Italian and his seven “portatores,” a British couple on their way around the world, a Nepali student of Buddhism and Thangka painting, and a seventy-five year old Malaysian man, who has never done any hiking before, but says that he has little time left to do all the things that he has wondered about doing. Far away from cars and televisions, we gather at this wonderful polyglot roundtable, happily tired, sipping sweet chai and feeling fully how rich and colorful a tapestry this planet we call home really is.

The following morning we get an early start, hoping to get ahead of a Slovakian tour group that has shown up. The number of group tours to Nepal has increased dramatically in the past years with the rise of adventure tourism. It could be argued that the groups bring much-needed income to financially strapped places like Nepal, but the reality is that most of their dollars wind up in the hands of a foreign tour operator, or at best, in the pockets of an agency in Kathmandu. Groups pay for their food in advance and often camp, making their contribution to the local village economy negligible, while their drain of resources is the opposite. These groups clog the trails and back up service in the lodges, as they often come in from their campsites to escape the cold. They line up for showers (a group of seventeen takes from two to three hours using the bathrooms), often take up all the available seats and tables in a lodge, and overwhelm the locals. However, the “hello pen” gangs make an absolute killing.

A few days down the trail, we come around a short rise and see Mount Everest come into view, a black triangle of rock poking up behind the snowy face of Lhotse, a neighboring 8000 meter peak. Seeing Everest from this different perspective, I realize just how much terrain we have covered in this high land, and how vast the scale of everything is here. Exactly one moon before, we stood looking at the same mountain from its other side.

The trail crosses a pine forest and traverses into Ringmo, where apple orchards abound and all the teahouses have scrumptious apple pie, dried apples, and apple cider. Then we climb to the Trakshindo La, a final 3000 meter pass before the Khumbu. A defunct cheese factory marks the top of the pass, and I try to imagine what the Swiss were thinking when they put it here.

We descend into the village of Nunthala, a collection of older lodges huddled together on a track that runs through the center of town. Two young ladies approach Hitomi and me, and they ask us where our bicycles are. We look at them in amazement, then at each other, and before we can ask any questions, the older girl asks, “Don’t you remember me?”

It turns out that she is Tara Sundas, a student at a school I visited in Kathmandu, where I hope to land a teaching job in the fall. Her sister, Srijana, also attends the school, which was created for Tibetan refugees and lower caste kids, who are often sponsored by trekkers or other visitors to Nepal. Both of the girls have uncanny memories, and they can recall everything we talked about during a presentation on our bicycle journey. They invite us into their home, the Thamserku Lodge, rented out by their parents, who are farmers. As elsewhere in Asia, where teachers are accorded the highest respect, we get a red carpet welcome from the family.

After we consume heaping plates of dal, garden vegetables, and bowls of hot soup, Tara’s father brings us steaming mugs of water buffalo milk, which is extremely rich and creamy. With Tara acting as translator, the entire family gathers round us to ask questions. While the family finds Tara’s translation of our bicycle tales amusing to no end, I am far more intrigued by her own story.

Tara, who is fourteen, makes the journey to and from Kathmandu at least four times a year. It takes her two days to cover the distance from Nunthala to Jiri, a journey of about fifty kilometers over four strenuous passes; Hitomi and I took four days to make the trip. In Kathmandu, Tara has learned to speak English fluently, as her school uses English as a medium of instruction. She has her sights set on entering the university and hopes to become a doctor because there isn’t one in her village. Although she enjoys the worldliness of Kathmandu, she misses her family and the slow pace of life in Nunthala.

Both she and Srijana face an uphill battle, though, for they are part of the “laborer” caste. Although the caste system has been abolished in principle, it carries on in practice throughout India and Nepal. One’s caste identity cannot be hidden, as family names are based on caste. Thus Tara may not drink or wash from the same tap as a Brahman or Chhetri (priest and warrior castes), nor may she eat with them. Tradition dictates that she cannot hold certain jobs. Even if she were to become a doctor, she could not treat patients of a higher caste, which would severely limit her practice.

Without foreign sponsorship, the Sundas’ could not send their daughters to a decent school. The family rents out the Thamserku Lodge, but their rental income is nominal, as the trekking season is short and visitors are few. It doesn’t help that a new, upscale lodge has just opened down the path.

Tara’s older brother, Kesab, wasn’t able to receive an education, and now he mainly sits about, a sullen and angry young man. He helps his father in the fields, but his dreams are elsewhere, as he watches the foreign male trekkers pass through with their girlfriends in tow, appearing rich as kings. Unlike his sisters, he cannot speak with them; this alienates him even further, and given his background, his prospects appear to be dismal.

Tara’s father talks with me about sending his son overseas to work. In Nepal, for a price, one can obtain a visa to Japan, Germany, or the U.S., where one can then find work illegally. In one week, a Nepali can earn the equivalent of a year’s salary in Nepal. However, most people here aren’t aware of the true costs. It is expensive to live in these wealthy countries, and illegal immigrants must spend their time in fear of capture and deportation. They also endure wretched conditions in the factories where they work, and they must live away from their families in an alien culture.

I caution Tara’s dad about all this, as he sits nodding, and tell him that a far safer and more sensible future lies with his daughters. My observation may be a hard pill to swallow in a society where women areoften seen as useful only for making babies and doing chores.

In the morning, we are draped in wreaths of marigolds and plied with mugs of buffalo milk. Promising to stay longer on our trek out, we bid the Sundas family and Nunthala adieu, and take to the trail once again.

Above Lukla and its airstrip, the trail becomes more crowded. We meet hordes of trekkers, dressed in clean, colorful, hi-tech gear, smelling of after-shave and perfume. They smell a bit better than we do, but are far less fit, and we whiz by them as stealthily as possible.

A Tibetan man shows up on his way south to India. He has just crossed the Nangpa La from Tibet, a 5000 meter pass, wearing only a suit jacket, a Mao cap, and a pair of worn tennis shoes, on his journey to reach the Dalai Lama. His lips are badly blistered, and we give him some Blistex, which he proceeds to rub all over his face, grinning and laughing uproariously. His spirit is light and large.

The high mountains begin to come into view. Kwangde, Kussum Kangru, Thamserku, Kangtega, and other snow-clad glacial giants dominate the landscape. This is Sherpa and Tibetan country. In every bend in the path are mani walls, gompas, prayer wheels, and Tibetan inscriptions reminding us that we are in the realm of the gods.

Lodges here are much more upscale and expensive, featuring carpeted rooms and extensive menus. Staff speak English, German, and French. “Hello pen,” is replaced with “Bonjour” on the trail, and I am encouraged in each village to buy sneakers while they are still cheap. I wonder why on earth I would need an extra pair of tennis shoes up here, then realize that the vendors, in their thick accents, are actually offering Snickers bars.

Namche Bazaar is a market town, set in a bowl up against a ridge at 3300 meters. It is a haven for travellers coming from Jiri or from the high regions of the Khumbu, much like Kathmandu is for those arriving from Tibet and India. There are a variety of restaurants, souvenir shops, a telephone office, travel agents, and scores of shops renting down jackets, bags, and mountaineering equipment.

The shops here used to be noted for their abundance of cheap, high-quality gear, much of it discarded from major expeditions. Duty and weight limitations on airlines make it too expensive to cart back halfway across the world, and much equipment is procured from sponsors anyhow, so it is easier to leave it behind. In the past, Sherpas had no idea that these lightweight items had value equaling the Nepalese GNP, so a climber willing to make the trek to Namche could be outfitted like a mountain king on a pauper’s budget.

Today’s Sherpas know the value of the gear, and have become shrewd traders. I spend several hours chatting and sipping tea with Dorje, a shopkeeper who complains about the lack of business this year. Dorje and his father are high-altitude Sherpas. They have each summited Everest several times, and have used their expertise to earn a small fortune. Dorje now has two small children, and has decided that there is too much risk in the high mountains, so he has gotten into the retail trade, which he jokes has its own crevasses and avalanches.

Dorje goes to Colorado every year for a ski holiday, easily sponsored for a visa through his well-off climbing connections, and while there he picks up a lot of gear to take back home. When I ask him why anyone would buy a mountain stove, which sells for seventy dollars back home, for 100 here, he retorts that the same stove goes for 120 or higher in Europe, so he has plenty of customers.

Dorje tells me about the rise in material comforts in Namche over the past ten years. There is heat, electricity, television, and enough income for the kids to go to Darjeeling or Kathmandu for education, but Dorje laments that young people don’t seem to respect their elders anymore, and that competition and greed seem to be driving the community. There isn’t as much time for drinking tea, sitting back, and watching the kids grow up in the shadow of the mountains; all the new luxuries must be paid for. As both of us know, this scenario is being played out all over the world. I tell Dorje that perhaps the reason I am riding my bicycle is to buy a little more time.

The weekly Namche Bazaar still takes place, and anything that has survived the walk in from Jiri on someone’s back is sold for a significant markup. There are cases of Snickers, cartons of cigarettes, bottles of whiskey, Chinese tennis shoes, and slabs of meat. Despite the rise in prices, items are gobbled up as if in a famine, as above Namche, prices can only rise even higher. Sherpas and lowland Nepalis spend hours bartering over biscuits, rice, ramen noodles, and bottles of Coke.

By now, Everest has become a relatively small world. We bump into several porters and guides we know, find Claudio happily sipping cappuccino with an Italian trekking group, and spend the afternoon watching the Slovakians wander in and out of the mountaineering shops, purchasing fake Gore-Tex. Mr. Chin, the old Malaysian, has arrivedlooking absolutely whacked, and swearing he’ll never do this again. Around the corner, we bump into Jamie Carr, who went to Kailash with us. Jamie is here to lead a trekking group, and we compare the luxuries of Namche with our days back stuck in the middle of the river in Tibet.

Even better than the familiar faces are the views from the ridge above Namche, where a sea of peaks in the high Himalayas are on display. The summit triangle of Everest is in view, as is the Lhotse-Nuptse wall, and the lofty vertical pinnacle of Ama Dablam, with its hanging glaciers, glistens like a jewel in the morning sun. The peak is named after the neck amulet worn by Sherpa women, and is considered by many to be the most beautiful peak in the world.

At this altitude, the walking is slow going, and Hitomi and I feel lethargic as we leave Namche. My nose runs, and Hitomi develops a hacking cough which only gets worse as we climb higher into the cold, dry air.

Above the monastery of Tengboche, the path turns north, up the last valley into the base of Everest. This valley, like the high mountains, is out of the realm of humans, and is an abode much more suitable for the mountain gods. It is too high to grow crops, and too cold to live here more than half a year. The lodges are not part of any community, but rather a collection of dismal shacks, weather beaten and forlorn in the incessantly howling wind.

Lobuche and Gorak Shep, at 4900 and 5100 meters respectively, are two of these wastelands that mark the end of the trail. The lodges are hopelessly overcrowded, crammed with cold and exhausted trekkers and climbers. Most people are hacking away with deep chest coughs or fighting sinus ailments. Many have diarrhea, and others show signs of altitude sickness. For most people here, ourselves included, the initial excitement is far gone. Most of us just want to make one final push to Everest Base Camp, or to Kala Patar, a spur of the peak Pumori, where close views of Everest can be had without climbing the mountain itself. It is hard to imagine that this is just the start of the journey for those planning to climb Everest.

Our lodge looks less ramshackle than those beside it, but is a poor choice. The Didi in charge of the kitchen has had an argument with her man, and has run off, leaving him bewildered and helpless. Wild-eyed, he churns out plates of burnt, greasy hash browns for dinner, and a set of charred, malformed pancakes for breakfast.

We move to the lodge next door and find it almost as abysmal. Dal bhaat here resembles the soup regurgitated by the sick French group in our dorm, and costs six times what it would in Namche, not to mention that there are no seconds. The lodge is icy, as the stingy owner keeps only a tiny fire going, and he and his cronies encircle it, not allowing any intruders. The latrine brings back memories of China, a set of wooden slats out in the frigid wind, covered with putrid, yellowing bits of frozen defecations. It is indeed time to move on.

We arise at dawn, and fit toes that feel like blocks of wood into our stiff boots. I don’t want to know what the temperature is. It is windy outside, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and we race ahead of the large French group that shares our lodge, determined to have the summit of Kala Patar to ourselves for at least a few minutes.

Our breathing is labored, yet today we have no problems with the altitude. We ascend quickly and silently, passing the few others who have started out ahead of us at this frozen hour.

The mountains here are tremendous. Mammoth peaks are set against a sky of the deepest and darkest blue I have ever seen. Blocks of ice the size of houses spill off Nuptse, its towering bulk blocking out the sun. Further up, the massive Khumbu Icefall roars down from the flanks of Everest, a river of towering seracs and bottomless crevasses, which every year claim more lives than any other place on the mountain.

Everest pokes her head out of the sky. It is staggering to be at 5600 meters, higher than I have been anywhere on earth, and still have a mountain towering almost 3300 meters above me. Next to Everest, and actually more impressive, is Pumori, almost a perfect triangle of snow. Her bulk is so close that I can feel her icy breath slipping through my layers of clothing.

Ringed by peaks and the silent world of snow, I have one of those rare moments of intense clarity and awareness that the Japanese call satori, which translates as “enlightenment.” All thoughts of past and future fall away, and for about thirty seconds, I am totally and completely in the most beautiful place on earth, feeling the wind kissing my frozen lips, bathed in a light that I thought only existed in a painting.

I feel profoundly thankful for all the events that have brought me to this spot, and I begin weeping uncontrollably, shedding tears of deep happiness. I hug Hitomi and try to put into words what I am feeling, but it is better left unspoken. There are no words to describe this, in any spoken language. I feel more at peace than I have ever felt, anywhere before.

“If I were to die right now,” I tell Hitomi, “it would be perfectly okay.

No more wishes, goals, memories, or moments. Just this, these mountains, sky, us, and my breath, right here, right now.”

The moment passes, the cold rips through my body, and we push on, reaching the summit of Kala Patar in an hour and a half. There is nobody else here yet, and we take photos, fold our hands in prayer, and take in the mind-boggling scenery. In this landscape, we are truly nothing but specks of dust.

“Hello sir. Buy Tiger Balm sir? Hashish sir? Something sir?”

The chaos and dust of Kathmandu actually become endearing after a time. We are back among the same sadhus and carpet salesmen, the beggars on the corner, the Indian banana salesman who gives me a higher price every morning, despite the fact that I speak Hindi with him and have bought bananas every morning this week at a bargained price.

It has been three weeks since we returned from the mountains, and a rather eventful time at that. After descending to Namche, Hitomi and I separated for ten days. She was tired, still coughing a lot, and wanted to go back and rest a few days in Nunthala, with Tara and Srijana. I was feeling really strong, and wanted to take an alternative route back, so I made the weeklong march out through the Arun Valley, an even steeper route than the traverse from Jiri, and one with few lodges or amenities.

Back together in Kathmandu, Hitomi and I spend the next week planning ahead. Winter is coming to Nepal, while in Southeast Asia, the “cool” season has arrived, with eighty-five to ninety degree temperatures and a hundred percent humidity, perfect for cycling! The land route to Thailand, however, is blocked by international politics. Myanmar will not allow land entry from any of its borders, and so we will have to fly into Bangkok.

The day of the flight, we pedal out to the airport, where several Immigration officials pounce on us when they see our loaded bicycles. Tribuvan Airport has no rules regarding bicycles, no requirements for boxes, turned handlebars, or removal of pedals, but we are greeted by two men who stare greedily at our steeds and rub their palms with glee, and we soon find out why. One of the men takes our panniers and bikes, and plunks them onto a large scale, watching the needle soar up to just shy of fifty kilos for my gear, plus another fifteen kilos for the bike. Hitomi’s mound of equipment weighs only slightly less than this. We are informed that our luggage exceeds the allowances by over twenty kilograms, and that it will cost us 100 dollars per kilogram as excess baggage. This is over 2000 dollars—ten times the price of the plane ticket.

I argue with the official to no avail, then tell him that we cannot afford to pay this and will have to cancel our flight, which causes him to look panic-stricken. A porter, who has been watching the entire proceedings with avid interest, comes over at this point and whispers something to the official, then takes me aside.

“I help you no problem, sir, you are soon flying, sir,” he advises me. He tells me that 200 dollars will rectify the whole situation.

At this point, I remember that I am in a country that was ranked in the top ten corrupt nations by a recent study, and a light goes off in my head.

“Sorry,” I reply, “we don’t have an extra 200 dollars to pay with. I guess we will just have to cancel our flight and do something else.”

“How about 100?” the porter asks, still looking rather hopeful.

“Nope. We just can’t pay that; it’s half of the plane ticket.”

He looks at me rather sheepishly, and says, quite crestfallen, “Fifty possible?”

I smile and say, “Let’s go. The flight leaves in fifteen minutes.”

Our man, now smiling widely, ushers us around a screen, where an officer sits at a desk sipping tea and yakking on a phone. The porter rambles on in Nepali with him, and then asks us for payment. This produced, the officer takes out a form in triplicate, fills in a few lines excusing our mass of baggage, and gives it a resounding whack with his stamp. We return to the baggage counter, leaving the porter and official to divide our bills. Our receipt passes muster with all the other officials, and we hand over our bikes, panniers and all, to the porter—hoping, as we walk out toward the waiting jet, that they will follow us into the airplane.