Cajon del Maipu and Ranger Rachel

Something I forgot to mention before: on the bus ride from Putre to Arica I noticed a run-down roadside restaurant called Markamasi (say it with a normal American accent). Anyone who is a UPS volleyball fan would definitely have stopped here.

After an afternoon paragliding in Iquique, I took the long bus ride to Santiago, made even longer by out-of-synch episodes of The Nanny. I didn´t stay in Santiago, instead making my way by bus 95km away to Cajon del Maipu, where Refugio Lo Valdes (also known as Refugio Aleman) awaited me. Once again there was no public transportation all the way there, so I hitched a ride with a dump truck driver to Baños Morales, where the refugio is. The refugio was a surprise-- a rock building with wood shutters in contrasting colors, just like the third generation huts of Switzerland. The similarity comes from the fact that the refugio was built by Germans, members of the Andean German Climbing Club. The decorating motif was edelweiss flowers, which seems pretty funny for the outskirts of Santiago. I slept in la mina, the attic, where I just rolled my sleeping bag out on a mat. (I read on the sleeping bag company website that I should avoid washing the sleeping bag... always, so that means I will go an entire year leaving it smelling just as it is... anyone want to go camping??).

In the morning I walked over the river in the valley to el Monumento Nacional El Morado. The CONAF (ranger) building at the entranced was staffed and I paid an entrance fee of $3. I walked past burbling red streams full of minerals to a quietly rippling lake at the base of a glacier. On the way back, I stopped to check out at the CONAF office and the ranger on duty (or off duty, as it turned out) asked me up on the balcony for a cerveza. I said ¿como no? and climbed up, nearly hitting one of the guys sitting on the bench with my poles. Oops.

The conversation that followed was one of the best I´ve had since the start of my Watson project. In Switzerland and India, I could talk to the locals, but I didn´t have enough of a command of their languages to get very deep. But here, with Ranger Guillermo, I finally got to discussing how wilderness should be according to Chileans. Perfect. That is exactly why I was there. I stayed watching the sun set on the vertical curtain rocks across the valley, then went back to my refugio for the night, satisfied with my invitation to return to the CONAF office the following day.

I hiked another valley that day, but, hindered by the strong wind and a wandering mind, I walked fewer kilometers. In the afternoon, I stopped at the refugio to get my pack, almost falling asleep in a lounge chair looking out at the snowy peaks (with, sure enough, German chatter in the background). My pack, decidedly heavier than one week ago, is full of books in Spanish--I am ready to spend the long bus rides catching up on South American literature since my Spanish major had a decidedly peninsular bend. I had a coffee with Guillermo the ranger back at the hut as the last walkers of the day wandered down from the glacier. We made two big loaves of bread together and spent the night talking with Fernando, the other ranger, and el viejito, whose name I never caught. We discussed why there were no women working at the CONAF station and the machista mindset that keeps them from working elsewhere. I got to take a photo in Guillermo´s official looking park ranger hut and even snuck the rubber duck in for a shot or two. In the morning, I ate more homemade bread and scrambled eggs out of a shared skillet with my new ranger friends before heading down the road. I got a ride to Santiago before I even hit the crossroads.

Now I am sweating away in the big city and the locals rush around doing Christmas shopping. My thoughts are back home as today is the first night of Hanukkah (no wild Hanukkah in Santa Monica parties for me). Tomorrow I meet Carolyn at the airport and we head south to Patagonia in search of refugios in Torres del Paine.

Lauca2

A police truck drove by and the driver asked me where I was going. I was quick to defend--no where, just walking. I finally got that he was telling me there was another tourist climbing GuaneGuane and that I could join. I hopped in the back of the truck and met Laurent, a French guy who had been backpacking South America for 15 months. He was carrying his whole 50lb bag, but he was still the one stopping and waiting for me. My head was pounding as we headed higher and higher, past the scratchy bushes to the loose dirt and rock closer to the top. Laurent was a fellow couchsurfing and he was full of suggestions for my hut adventures in Chile, so while he waited for me to catch up, he made a long list of connections and recommendations for the rest of my time here. I shared my chocolate with him, which he said was like champagne to him since he was living off of just rice. The view from the top was incredible. It was a clear day, and I could see out to the twin volcanos and to the laguna cocacotani and lago chungara. We added our own little rocks to the cairn and then calmly sat at 5,096ft and went over the list Laurent wrote for me. I headed down at 5.45 but Laurent thought he would build his tent up there on top. I felt good the first 20minutes going down-every step I slid downwards at least a foot. It was like skiing in powder at Cystal. I made my way along a bifodal valley. I tried not to step where it was green-the bifodal was soft and squishy and crunchy, like walking on turf grass after rain. It seemed so delicate, and I couldn´t tell which parts would give way under my feet, so I just stayed on the rocks at the edge.

OK, well I can´t write more now. I have my bus ride (23.5 hours) from Iquique to Santiago in a half hour. From there I will visit one more refugio just a few hours from the city before meeting Carolyn in Santiago on Monday.

y mas fotos

fotos

Lauca National Park

The idea of no public transportation to a national park was hard to grasp considering what we have in Yosemite, with buses going around the entire park. But Yosemite gets the same number of visitors in a day that Lauca does in a year, so ok.

A few days ago, I packed my bag in Putre and walked up the road intent on catching a ride to Parinacota. The locals in town assured me this was the way to go, legal and safe. I took a dusty trail into a valley and crossed a river, climbing up on the other side. This cut off the 5km I would have walked on the road back to the international highway. At the crossroads, I walked up to the police and asked them when there were buses or anything going that way. One of the policemen waved down a truck and got me a ride. So I heaved myself and my pack 6ft up into the cab of the big-rig and we were on our way. The driver and I had lots of time to chat because we were going up the hill at 10mph. And we had to stop a few times to let the engine cool down. But I didn´t mind--with snowy conical volcanos slowly coming into view, I needed time to look around. We passed green bofedales and vicuñas grazing by a river. In Chucuyo, we stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch... me and all the Chilean and Bolivian truckers. The lunch special was quinoa soup and alpaca steak with rice, typical Altiplano fare. Thus fortified, my driver dropped me off at the tiny whitewashed adobe town of Parinacota. I took a quick turn around town. There was little sign of life on the two streets in town and the CONAF (national park ranger office) office was closed despite a posted sign promising long hours every day of the week. A local Aymara family offered lodging for tourists. There used to be an official park service refugio but it was no longer available for tourists so as not to compete with local families. At such high altitudes--4,000m I think--my head hurt and I felt pretty tired, so I napped under my sleeping bag for a couple hours before venturing out into the village.

The CONAF office was still closed in the afternoon, but there was a well-marked trail that led out just beyond the village. The Parinacota interpretive trail had seen better days in terms of interpretation, but the wildlife was as stunning as ever. The big black ducks made funny noises while playing in the shallow water of the lake. I walked past spiky plants in the dry dirt and had a larger than life view of the volcano Parinacota, over 6,000m, and its twin volcano across the border in Bolivia. The bofedal stretched out in front of me--rounded patches of green with water flowing slowly all around. Alpacas and the fuzzier llamas grazed all around, uninterested in my progress through their feeding ground. A quick dinner with food I brought from Arica then I went outside again. The wind was stronger this time, but the colors were so vivid in the sunset that I had to keep snapping photos despite my numb fingers until the battery on my camera ran out (don´t worry... I had another one). The almost full moon rose just behind the twin volcanos. The sun lit up the snow in pink, then as the light fell, the color transfered to the sky behind them--a swirl of pink and blue. The moon grew a fuzzy ring of yellow. The orange stripes the sun left behind were reflected in the pond where the black taguas were still playing. Then my mom´s thoughts on how taking pictures interferes with the moment came into my head, and I put away my camera and tried just to be. The volcanos set off in pink, the ripple patterns of the water, and my hood crinkling in the wind. But enough of that--it was too cold to enjoy the moment for too long, so I went inside to my room--the pleasure of a mountain hut means being able to escape to somewhere warm.

I woke up late--the cold had kept me from sleeping late into the night. After a granola breakfast, I hung around the main square waiting for the CONAF ranger who had finally shown up to stop talking with the kiosko owner so that I could ask him about trails and huts. Ernesto told me about the trail to Cocacotani Lagunas and the Cerro GuaneGuane trail, but it was probably to late in the day to do them since there are often afternoon storms during the invierno boliviano. So I emptied my pack of everything except necessities... which ended up being quite a lot: clif bars and tuna as snacks, 3.5 liters of water, 2 jackets for the afternoon, and my first aid kit. I walked down the road in the direction of the lagunas, no really thinking I would make it the whole 11km. After only 20 minutes, I passed a house and a big sign that said propiedad privada, no pasar, multa (private property, do not pass, fine). The road split so I walked one way, thinking that maybe the sign referred only to the other part of the dirt road. But rocks all along the jeep trail were painted with the same words: propiedad privada. I realize why that struck me-not just because I don´t tend to trespass on land when there are signs warning against it, but because I was in a national park. How could this be private? Another thing to ask the rangers about. The road ended soon after that, a watery bofedal had swallowed it, so I turned around. Maybe the ranger meant that I should go the other way down the road.

Still feeling good, I passed Parinacota and the little lake as I followed the jeep trail in the other direction. I was just walking, my own slow pace, enjoying the vast empty landscape. In 1.5 hours, maybe 2 cars passed me. I had a snack sitting on the side of the road in the sand, watching the heat waves rise in the distance then be blown sideways by the wind so that the picture I saw was like a bad-quality VHS.

I kept walking up the road, watching the shape of Guane Guane peak change as I moved around it. I had thought of this day as a warm up, getting used to the altitude, before I attempted to climb GuaneGuane.

Coming up on my next entry... climbing into the back of a police truck, a 5,000 meter hill, and a serious grapple with national parks in Chile and how they are run.

L´chaim... yes the hills are still alive

...with the sound of music, what else. After my trek past la Quebrada de San Lorenzo, I returned to town for a day before leaving for points further north, and wouldn´t you know it, the sinfonia in town had a open air concert in the plaza de 9 de julio. Of course I decided to attend, especially since the poster said comedias musicales. I looked at the program and was disappointed for a second. I read ¨La Novicia Rebelde¨ ¨Mi Bella Dama¨ Ël Violonista en el Tejado¨ and ¨West Side Story.¨ It took a minute to sink in that these weren´t just some local Spanish language musical comedies and that I knew more than just West Side Story. The Rebel Noviate... wait a minute - that must be my good friend Maria von Trapp. And Mi Bella Dama and El Violnista en el Tejado tranlate easily to old favorites My Fair Lady and Fiddler (ok techniquement Violinist on the Roof, but I got the picture). So the Saltenos and I enjoyed a night under the stars with some real classics. The concert, with the locals humming along to the music, drove hum how similar South America is to the US, especially compared with India. But ok enough about the post-trek music... here´s a bit on La Quebrada hike.

Climbing up out of the quebrada, or gorge, I moved from wet jungle to clear views of the valley. Overlooking the flat city with shiny buildings in the distance reminded me of the hikes I took while studying abroad in Granada. Then, as in now, I was thrilled to be up in the mountains, looking down. There is no better place. After the 2 hour climb out of the valley I made my way just below the ridgeline, with ups and downs, and views of the valley on one side and rolling hillsides stretching out on the other. As the wind picked up and clouds threatened me with rained, I sat down by Lago Bravo (or something) for a rest. I renamed it Tapps that 2 / Sludge Lake in honor of the nice layer of green sludge that covered most of the surface of the lake. I watched the leaves on the lake that left tracks of clear water in their wake after being blown by the wind. It was loud by the lake, like the sound of generators at an overused campsite, but it was nothing man-made: the ranas (frogs) were just announcing their presence. The intermittent drops of rain on the little bit of lake that wasn´t covered reminded me of my visit to the Pitti Palace gardens in Florence, the rain drops breaking up the reflection I would have seen otherwise.

I enjoyed splashing through little streams as the trail wound its way upwards through another quebrada. I sampled a local plant, a kirusilla. It was about 3ft tall, with a single curling leaf on top. The stalk, or stem really, was over an inch thick and covered with little spikes that looked like they would hurt but were actual pliable to the touch. Manuel ripped out a stalk from the root and peeled out the outer layer, handing me the white flesh of the center. It was sugary sweet, juicy, and wonderfully cool after the long walk.

This ¨hut¨ was a building by a farm that the farmers offered out to hikers. There was no idllyic Swiss countryside living--with no other buildings in site and a 5-7 hour walk to town, this was real mountain (dare I say wilderness?) living. Life was rough there--the faces of the farmers reflected that. Their role as hosts was a mere economic exchange. I got a handshake and then they went back to work. The older couple merely offered a cot in a mud brick hut--the room across from their own room, in fact. Tiny windows with misshapen wooden shutters offered light by day but the warped boards promised to let in the cool air at night. Down the path 200 meters were other farm buildings, the musty cooking hut and buildings that offered protection to the animals. This was just a place to sleep. There was no hot meal at the end of the day made with fresh milk or meat. Just the crackers and cheese we brought from below (of course that is fine for me for one night--it is more the difference with other lodgings for trekkers that families offer that I am highlighting here). There were lots of dogs around - at least six - and I was surprised by the fact that they didn´t try to snatch my food away even though it was on a stool at their level. I only learned the name of one of the dogs. The senora of the farm kept yelling ¨Willy¨ ¨Willy¨ as if that was the only dog that was being mischevious (kind of like our neighbors do with one of their triplets).

I watched the goats and sheep come down the hill for milking near sunset. Most of the cows made it back too, but we could see the outline of a couple cows way up on the hillside, sillouetted in the fading light. The men ran up the hill to round up the cows. I went to bed early, spreading the puma skin over my sleeping back in case I got cold. I made sure that the head was facing toward my feet, so I wouldn´t wake up with a snarling animal in my face.

As it turned out, the night was so warm, I threw of my puma skin during the night. I hung him up properly in the morning, though. Before I left, I watched a calf being lassoed. The usual.

I collected more kirusillas, even better on this day since it was warmer and sunnier. I strapped them to the back of my pack, thinking that was a pretty good look for me (maybe it was, but it wasn´t the best place for the kirusillas--they ended up falling off during my descent in the jungle. oops). We stopped in the afternoon at Manuel´s abuela´s farm. She was a real abuelita-- referring to everything in the diminuitive form. Manuel brought her kirusillas - Ay las kirusillitas! We should sit in the shade (sombra)? La sombrita! She was impressed with out (not so big) packs and the fact that we carried them all this way. I think she takes a horse to go into town. I bid goodbye to the sombrita and the comfortable breeze of the mountainside and descended the rest of the way back to the start of the San Lorenzo reserve. Coming back to civilization meant luxuries like fresh alfajores oozing dulce de leche. Well, that AND musical comedies under the stars. A good day.

I took a long bus ride over the mountains, stopping in Calama for a wonderful peek into Chilean family life. My couchsurfing host Pablo brought me to his house in time for his tia´s birthday fiesta. There were all kinds of sweet goodies on the table, not to mention bottomless cups of rich hot chocolate and birthday cake. Despite all the food, however, what caught my attention was the way the family gathering was not about the food-it was about conversation and just being together. I saw a procession in the streets of the Calama, accompanied by dancers in the flashiest costumes I have ever seen.

Another long bus ride, this time overnight, to Arica and I was much closer to the park I was aiming for. I left my big pack in the bus station luggage storage so I could get around the city easily. I hopped in a colectivo to the center of town and walked around inquiring about trails and transportation in Lauca National Park. Another new CS friend, Christian, made my life so much easier by meeting me (and my bag) at the station and later taking me to the big store to stock up for the trip inland. This morning, he even dropped by La Paloma bus to Putre. I slept the whole way up - 3 hours and almost 3500 meters up. That is as high as Leh in Ladakh. I feel better then when I landed in Leh way back in September, perhaps because I didn´t fly here. But I still decided to take the day slowly in order to get accustomed to the high altitude. I made more inquiries about the trails I can take. I will start by staying in Parinacota and go from there to the refugio by Lake Chungara. This is a parched landscape, dry and dusty, despite the promises of summer rains every afternoon. This is a small city, one story buildings and dirt roads, with no gas station or big grocery store. During the afternoon, the roads were eerily quiet. took a short walk along a dusty trail, passing a kids´ futbol game on the return. It will be an early night then I am off, making my way to Parinacota for a few days.

Happy 24th to Becca! (wow)

photos from India

I am in Argentina planning my overland adventure to reach trekking destinations in Northern Chile. It is great having Mom here visiting (although I have to do most of the talking in Spanish). Happy Thanksgiving!

1st Quarterly Report

I know I asked the right questions about mountain huts and wilderness because three and a half months in, there are no easy answers. Thinking about intellectual questions even as I enjoy the pink glow of sunset on snowy peaks is not new to me, but there is more complexity surrounding the meaning of wilderness in Switzerland and India than I imagined when I wrote my proposal.

My first night in a mountain hut was at Aescher Berghotel in Appenzell. It was the Swiss national holiday and the celebratory fireworks matched my mood as I began to understand the Swiss system. There certainly is a mountain hut system run by a single organization, the Swiss Alpine Club, but I realized that narrowly defining my project liker that would leave out so much of the infrastructure available to hikers and climbers in Switzerland. So I happily trekked to and stayed at Berghotels in tiny alps and isolated, privately run inns as well as SAC huts.

My success in Switzerland was finding out about these different kinds of mountain huts and figuring out how to creatively arrange my own hiking circuits. I did not visit the most famous tourist destinations like Jungfrau in the Berner Oberland or the Matterhorn in Wallas. Instead, I went to the little huts--the ones Swiss people visit-- the ones that, according to their log books, haven't seen an American in years. The looseness of the Swiss system and the wide availability of services for hikers allowed me to be spontaneous, planning only day by day. I walked alone most of the time, silently passing through deserted alps and past cows with clanging bells (ok, silent except when I was belting out "the hills are alive..."). My mind was racing, though: could I really call any of the places I walked wilderness? There were branded cows and goats everywhere, indicating the presence of farmers and, more importantly, the fact that someone owned the land. I crossed countless fences---wooden, wire, electric-- and walked on well marked trails not only at altitude but also all the way down into villages. These were trails to get places, not tourist trails to see places. There was nothing wild about this landscape. Even an eerie howl turned out to be no more than an alpine horn player giving an afternoon concert to the misty mountains.

I explained my project to my friend Claudia, a Swiss mountain biker I met at Aescher on my first night. Claudia speaks English well, but she didn't understand what I meant by "wilderness." I have her my crudest definition: wild nature, untouched by humans. "Oh yes," she said, "we have some of that much higher up." After hiking hut to hut in Appenzell, Ticino, the Berner Oberland, and the Valais, I came to agree with Claudia. There is some wilderness "up there," but it wasn't where these huts were. I was in farm country--the presence of hikers does not disturb the cows or their farmers (and their purchases are certainly welcome). Importantly, it is the farmers tolerating hikers, and not the other way around. For the Swiss, wilderness begins when it is too high for the land to be used as summer pasture for cows. Wilderness is the land on crampons and ice axes, where daily climbers make daring ascents to peak summits. There was no question in the minds of the Swiss media who reported on the numerous climber deaths that took place while I was hiking in Switzerland. These victims had ventured into the uncertainty of wilderness, where no hut can protect you from the elements.

I left Switzerland with confidence--I had built up strength by carrying my pack over high mountain passes and I knew how to schedule my time to see the huts that I wanted. My failure in India was my inability to do what I had done in Switzerland: independently organize my time. Two bouts of illness undermined the strength I had built up and government regulations concerning foreigners on treks hampered the spontaneity I had while hut hopping in the Alps. Eventually, of course, I did go on the treks that I wanted--I saw the Himalayas from three different states: Ladakh, Sikkim, and West Bengal. But at times, I felt that my Watson spirit was lacking because I had to wait for permits or for other travelers instead of setting off for adventures on my own.

My experience with the limited access that I had to trekking regions naturally influenced my perception of wilderness in India.

As I had anticipated, there were villages scattered throughout the Himalayas, even at high altitudes. Like Switzerland, grazing animals were the surest indication of human presence. There was a variety of lodging available to trekkers depending on the trail and time of year. I stayed in wooden shacks with warped plank walls and just a space to roll out a sleeping bag on the Dzongri trek in West Sikkim. I stayed in a solid stone building with bed frames and an indoor toilet on the Singalila Ridge trek outside of Darjeeling. The biggest factor affecting the trekker experience was whether the lodging was built specifically for trekkers or was simply a part of a local family home.

In the mountain hut systems I visited, the rhythm of life was determined by the locals, not the trekkers. At times I was eating breakfast as one of the family, on a wicker stool by a fire in the dirt-floor kitchen. And even if farmers did not run lodges themselves, they still interacted with tourists, selling snacks and drinks in small shops nearby. And the physical evidence of those goods -- the plastic wrappers along the trails and the scent of burning trash -- was everywhere.

A wilderness utterly lacking in human presence is something to be guarded against here in India. Roads reach past 18,000ft outside of Leh, the capital of Ladakh, making what would have been extreme wilderness at altitude another access point to the border for the Indian army. The difference in political situations between Switzerland and India certainly affects the meaning of wilderness here in India. The trekking regions I visited seemed to be dangerous wilderness areas not ebcause of the risk to human life, like in Switzerland, but because of the possible threats to national security. An empty landscape is one to be guarded against in the border regions of India, even the supposedly non-threatening ones. The regulations that frustrated me, like needing to hike with another foreigner and needing to hire a guide, seemed intent on monitoring the actions of foreigners in the wilderness regions. And I registered my passport at army check posts innumerable times while on the trail. Certainly not all of Indian wilderness is near a border, but based on the places I visited, it seems that like Switzerland, wilderness in India is where things turn dangerous. In both countries, there are the same considerations like villages in remote areas and icy peaks requiring crampons, but the political situation added another dimension to my understanding of wilderness in India.

I am looking forward to taking more chances in my planning of treks in the coming months as I head to South America tomorrow. As I visit more mountain hut systems, my understanding of wilderness becomes more and more complicated. I am glad that there are still so many unknown factors out there to challenge me.

Singalila Ridge Trek

I got up early so that I would be ready to meet my guide, required by the Indian government, by 8.30. It was early enough that the streets were still quiet and I could smell the fish slopped out on wooden slabs and the chickens freshly slaughered, all ready for sale. Rajin and I took a share taxi to the start of the trek. There was traffic along the way, caused by rows of trucks filled with flag-waving singers, all shouting Jai Gorkha. In Mana Bhanjang, the officer at the checkpost who looked at my passport asked me what I thought of Obama. This was a common response when I said I was from the US, even in the tiniest Nepali villages in the mountains. The road at the end of the main bazaar was blocked off and a banner strung above the road said that this was the finish for the Himalayan 100 mile run/trek. Wow. Imagine running a marathon. In the mountains. Four days in a row. We were there along with the schoolchildren waving Indian flags to watch the first finisher cross the line. With a more limited effort, I began the walk up with Rajin. The first 2 km were quite steep, but the effect was lessened by the two stops we made for tea along the way. These "huts" were part of the system - we could have stayed here except that would have made for a very short day. It was nice to have a local refreshment without the weight in our packs. Right before we got to Tonglu in the afternoon, we plopped down on the grass (well Rajin was more graceful anyway) and looked off into the blue landscape. To the left of the ridge is Nepal-- the rolling hills don't look too different from the ones on the Indian side, but it is a cool feeling knowing that across the way is an entirely different country. The trail the first day was often deep groves in the dried mud. The park is closed for 3 months during the summer monsoons, so I imagine that is enough time to wash away the trail that is set the rest of the year. We passed only a few people, all locals walking down with huge baskets of wood balanced on their foreheads. By the end of the day, my face ws crusty with dried sweat and my sleeves were black with soot, but I was loving it. It was late afternoon and the light falling on the full-on view of Mt. Kachendzonga was hazy. There was Hindi music playing as I sat outside in the fading light, but otherwise I just heard cows walking home on the rocky road. The lodge I stayed at was part of a family home. I was the only trekker there, so I got to warm my hands by the same fire as the children and watch as they cooked. I ate separately from them, but it was the same Nepali fare. The lodge felt homey and my room was a huge step up from the trekkers' huts on the Dzongri trek -- there was no cold wind coming through cracks in the wall and I even had my own bathroom. I went to sleep with my Nalgenes filled with hot water (purified for the morning) so my toes were warm as I went to sleep.

Breakfast was at 7am. I could pack my jacket because the sun was warm even at that hour. I got a stool in the kitchen and got to watch from only inches away as my host family for the day made Tibetan roti over the fire. The dough was rolled out then cut in the middle 3 or 4 times, long lines that didn't reach the edge of the circle. The roti were fried up to cripy, almost flaky perfection. We left at 7.40 am and I arrived at Sandakphur a full 8 hours and 45 minutes later. This day was a tie, in my book, for the world's longest hiking days ever (this is mostly in terms of attitude, not in terms of actual length). The first part of the day was sold - it was pretty flat and easy. We passed through a village much bigger than the one we stayed in the night before, but it was very quiet - everyone was either inside or out working in the fields. Only an hour into the hike, I got a clear view, albeit from far away, of the flat-topped Lhotse and that most famous of peaks, Everest. I felt exhilirated after that, ready to walk and walk. We covered 13 out of 19km before lunch. There were steep bits, switchbacks up entire mountainsides at impossible angles that seemed to go on forever. I occupied myself by calculating my walking speed at different times - this was better than focusing on the blisters on the back of each heel. The last set of switchbacks were the worst -- I could see a roof at the top of the hill, but I couldn't walk any faster. I needed a break every 20 steps to make it up the next section. How happy I was to put my feet up on a bed when we got to the trekkers' hut at the top. The soles burned and tingled and froze all at the same time. I had to get on my feet again quickly though to check in at the checkpost with my passport. This night I was comfortable, but there was little feeling of family. I was glad to have the hot water bottles in my sleeping bag at the higher altitude. I stayed up and looked at my photos of the day. It is definitely fall here: the mountainside looks like a zoomed in Seurat painting - the overall effect is green, but there are discernable blobs of color-yellow and gold and maroon and white- dabbed everywhere.

Rajin knocked on my window at 5.15am. Was it really my idea to get up at that insane hour? But how often will I get a chance to see the sunrise on both Kanchendzonga and Everest? It was a much easier walk to the viewpoint than the one I had at Dzongri. There was only 1 other American there and a few Indians. The fiery red skittle of a sun hit Kanchendonga before Everest, and its light was on us quickly, making the morning warm even before 6am. After taking the "usual" sunrise in the Himalayas with prayer flags fluttering in the foreground picture, I descended. It was all blue skies and easy going for most of the day. 21km seemed daunting after my experience the day before, but I regained my confidence quickly. We left the jeep road and made our way across grassy hillsides. The trees here were wind-blown-all knobbly and spindly. The red arrows spray painted on the ground a few days earlier to direct the runners in the Himalayan 100mi race were oddly reminiscent of the Swiss trail markers I saw back in August. There were no villages to stop at for tea on this day, so we ate biscuits instead. Isn't that reason enough to go trekking--when cookies are allowed at 9.30am? Phalut, just below the dividing line of West Bengal, Sikkim, and Nepal is not a village but merely a forest service outpost. I took off my boots right away, the Chacos giving my raw heels a chance to breath. I sat and ate noodle soup outside and watched as the officers in uniform scurried around in a hurry. An important personage--the secretary of the environment of all of India- was expected at any moment, so the men were tightening belt buckles and straightening hats. Three jeeps pulled up in a cloud of dust and the forest service men stood at attention. I could tell who the head honcho was by the stiff posture of the men as they saluted. There were at least 12 people milling about after getting out of the jeep, along with the uniformed men who were already there, but when the Secretary saw me he greeted me and sat down at the table with me. We preceeded to have an entire conversation while with whole contingent stood back and waited-- and yes, everyone was listening. He asked me where I was from and what I was doing here. He didn't see the connection between my study of history and my interest in mountain hut systems, so he decided to enlighten me on the topic. "Do you know what it was like here 30 or 50 years ago?" he asked. Well, no. He could tell me because he had been here 50 years ago, when the trekkers hut, now destroyed, was further up the hill. In those days, the huts were made of wood, the kind of buildings that let cold air in as I had experienced at Dzongri. He indicated the new trekkers hut where I had left my pack--a stone hut would have been unthinkable back then. After ennumerating a few further concepts, he thanked me for talking with him and the whole group shuffled down past the trekkers hut to the green forest service hut. Only afterwards did it strike me that my casual, American nature of talking might have seemed rude to those listening, since I didn't use sir as automatically as they did. Rajin and I left the hut and went up the hillside (past the the ruins of the old trekkers hut, as promised) to the viewpoint. With prayer flags fluttering, I admired my last view of the snowy Kanchendzonga and Everest ranges.

In a final episode of growing pains, I woke up and realized my last wisdom tooth is growing in. The others did the same in Spain - they must like traveling. I ate my porridge sitting in the sun outside. I couldn't finish the whole bowl, that it turned out ok because it was an easier day. The trail was gentle downward slopes through shady forests. The trees were mossing and I crunched on speckled fallen leaves the whole way down. We came to Gorkhey just past 11. The unique location didn't really sink in until I was sitting in a kitchen drinking tea. I looked out of the window at brightly lit terraced fields. I could see cows grazing and a few weather-beaten farmers digging in the dirt. I had to remind myself how different this is-- how special to be in a quiet Nepali village. Like a true Indian, I squatted by the water spicket outside and washed my pants for the first time in 25 days. How's that for adventure. I might have been in shape to walk 10 miles a day, but washing clothes by hand was a different matter- my forearms felt very tired after that. I took lunch outside--roti, an omelette, and a highlighter green prickly vegetable. After lunch, with our smelly socks drying on the top of a thatched bamboo roof, Rajin and I walked across a rickety bridge and we were back in Sikkim (oops no permit this time). It is past harvest time, so all that is left on the terraced fields are the bottoms of corn stalks.

I ate my morning porridge and we set off through other quiet villages on the way to Rimbik. We were on a local trail, just stoned laid out between fields. The people along the way were interested in me like I was in them. I took a much needed hot bath in Rimbik and enjoyed the views of Darjeeling across the valley. And finally, I started working on my thoughts about wilderness, my conclusions (or at least my observations) from the last 3.5 months of travel. I am now back in Darjeeling after a long morning drive. Cold, cloudy weather has set in, so I know how lucky I was to have sun and clear skies for the entire trek (yes, even in the afternoons). I will take a share jeep to Siliguri then a taxi to Bagdogra and fly to Delhi from there. All this to do mundane things like get a Tanzanian visa and add pages to my passport (both only possible M-F). I got train tickets for a day trip to Agra so I can take a picture of my rubber ducky with the Taj Mahal, my one concession to famous sights in India. And somewhere along the way I will type up the quarterly report I wrote and post it here. My last few days in India, coming up...

Darjeeling Limited

no not the movie - it's just that my time in Darjeeling is limited. It was tough to leave Gangtok since Sikkim has been my home for the last month. I especially didn't want to say goodbye to my "family" there because I know I will miss them. I said goodbye to Prerna, Zoe, and co. this morning and took a share jeep to Darjeeling. It was an easier ride than the one I remember taking 1 month ago from West Bengal into Sikkim; this time, there were no obstructions on the bridge. I knew we were getting close to Darjeeling because I could see peaks off in the distance brushed with snow -- not just a few mountains like there were in Pelling, but an entire mountain range. The line of peaks seemed to go on forever (in reality it was maybe 120 degrees worth of viewing). I don't think I've ever seen so many mountains all together. It was also hazy enough that the lower parts of the peaks, the parts with no snow, seemed to vanish, so that all that was visible was a long line of pointy snow. The tiny old man sitting next to me knew enough English to proudly point out where he lived in the city. I said goodbye and dropped my bag at a hotel before going off to organize my trek for tomorrow. Within an hour, I had done it, and visited the post office on top of that. I will leave tomorrow for a six day trek on the Singalila route.

Diwali in Gangtok

Gangtok was celebrating Diwali the day I got back. We spent the evening upstairs watching fireworks go off all over the city. When I walked up to the balcony, I was greeted by smoke and loud noises--fireworks are illegal here in Sikkim but still very much available. Bangs, whistles, and whines were the noises of the day as we covered our mouths in the rising smoke. I tried some flaky Indian sweets that other people had brought over and watched Prerna light some fireworks of our own--these were the little ones, more like friendship fountains and sparklers than actual fireworks. Dinner that night was especially fun because it was the first time I ate with my hands. I learned the right technique, mixing the rice with the daal and potatoes and creamy pumpkin and green beans before scooping it up in my right hand and using my thumb to push it into my mouth-but I still looked pretty silly eating that way. Diwali lasted a few more days--there was a certain energy to the city at that time. The lights seemed brighter at night and during the day the garlands of marigolds hanging from most doorways were another reminder of the festival.

Dzongri, the rest

I woke up the next morning thinking that something was wrong because neither my watch alarm nor my camera alarm had gone off, but it was just a half an hour too early (imagine that happening if I was back at school -- me waking up before I was supposed to - ha). We had our morning tea and packed up our sleeping bags before enjoying a pancake breakfast. We were on the trail by 8.15. I had packed up my two jackets it the yak pack because I didn't want to carry them, so it was still cold for me in my lightweight blue shirt. But it was all uphill, so I warmed up right away. About halfway, we past Bakhim, where there was a government-owned rest house as well as a little farm with a shop selling candies and drinks for trekkers. We went inside the rest house, empty since it was the middle of the day, to see what it looked like. It was wooden and two stories tall-the only rest house that was two stories along the trail. Bakhim is at 9,000 ft, so the broken windowpanes probably made it drafty inside at night. Downstairs was a room for cooking and a big dining area. Upstairs were 6 or 7 rooms, each with two wooden bedframes. It was sparse but clean. I was ready to see the rest house we would stay in that night (if there was space), but there was still quite a ways to climb. I tried to take steps up like I was on a staircase rather than go straight up the incline, so that my heels wouldn't rub the back of my boots. My feet were feeling infinitely better than the trek in Ladakh, but I didn't want the pain to go from irritating to debilitating. That night we stayed at Tshoka, a veritable village. There were almost 10 houses where the locals lived. Phurba explained that Tshoka was settled when the Sikkimese king needed a place for his yaks to graze. The 3 rest houses, two government owned and one privately owned, came into existence only in the 80s. Tshoka is lively because it is on the main trekking route--trekkers going up to Dzongri or Goechla pass here at the beginning and end of their trips. There are only so many rooms available--maybe 3 or 4 at each rest house--so the majority of trekkers actually pitch tents on the ground outside the buildings. Our guide explained that it was first come first serve to get the spots inside, but it seemed that if your guide was friends with the right people he could find a way to squeeze you in if your group was small enough. Our mountain lodge had a nice balcony from which I sat and watched the activity in "town" while enjoying my afternoon tea. The foothills rolled out from Tshoka in shades of blue, echoed by the lines of the bright blue A-frame tents set up by my room. We could see the lights of Yuksom when the sun set--it made me proud of the human (and yak) power that got us this far. Although I miss the strength I felt in Switzerland, carrying my own pack over mountain passes, I did enjoy the sight of my green Gregory pack strapped to the back of a panting, drooling yak, my Watson Fellowship flag flapping with every step. It was noisy that night, with a big group of Russians celebrating their last night on the mountain with singing and clapping and stomping, but we still had days to go so we turned in much earlier.

We walked on wooden planks through foggy forests of spindley rhodedendron trees, reminding me of the rainforests of Washington. Bark peeled off in big maroon strips and the yellow moss was soft under our feet. After lunch, the fog so so thick we couldn't see the views at all. I wasn't worried though, remembering my day of fog in Switzerland when I walked from Schwarzwaldalp to Faulhorn; the mountaintops, pink in the setting sun, were even more striking because they came as a surprise. Dzongri is above 14,000ft and it definitely felt that way. My tent was crusty with sparkling frost by 6pm. I was in a tent and not in the rest house because Dzongri was much smaller than Tshoka, so there was less space for trekkers to stay inside. We were lucky that Kevin and Margie got a room because it meant we had a warm place to eat our meals for the two nights we were up at Dzongri. As we were drinking tea that afternoon, I heard people talking outside and immediately identified them as Spanish. I busted out my rusty language skills to talk with the Basque and Catalan guys. I floundered a bit for the right words but the basic structure I still have down (Chile here I come!). We went to bed early that night in preparation for the busy morning we had planned.

Phurba came to my tent at 4.15 to wake me up. It was freezing. Really. I dressed in all the layers I had and met Kevin and Margie by their room. They were similarly bundled up. I downed some biscuits with honey along with my tea to have energy for the walk and doned my headlamp. By 4.40, the whole group headed out and up under a dark and starry sky. The walk to Dzongri viewpoint for the sunrise left me breathless from the beginning. The frozen dirt crunched under my feet as I trudged upward. We turned off our headlamps after a while because the path became more and more clear. I kept glancing to my right, to the line of orange on the horizon. That was my timekeeper, my statistics -- all the pressure I had been missing up until this point. I thought back to 8 (ish) years ago, when I took off on a sunrise adventure and missed the sunrise... it was one of those winter trips to Montecito Sequoia. Rebecca was the only one who was up for the trip up to a ridge at such an early hour. I strapped on skis like all the other guides while she donned snowshoes. I remember how the moon was bright enough to guide us as we slid silently past the snow-laden branches. But I didn't really know how to use cross-country skis in the backcountry - so Becca on her snowshoes passed me up when 6 feet of powder was more than I could manage. I was stubborn enough to make it to the top, of course, but by that time everyone on top was enjoying a fully risen sun while they sipped tea. So I couldn't miss it this time. Not when I knew everyone else in my group would make it. There was no conversation as I fell in behind Kevin and Margie on the march up the hill. There were no flat bits of trail, it seemed, only steep climbs. My breathing was heavy and loud and I could feel a cramp coming on in my stomach. But we negotiated a curve and I could see the prayer flags waving at the top of the viewpoint. I could see the rest of the trail. I knew I could handle it. My breathing stayed heavy but I calmed down a bit. My hands, sweaty but warm in the fleece gloves, kept my trekking poles pumping all the way up. We made it with time to spare. I took and posed for a few obligatory pictures but then I sunk down to rest. I felt warm enough to take my beanie off and let my crusty hair breath, but the sweat made me get cold again. I let my feet dangle as I looked all around. Mountains in every direction. Snowy peaks that soared above 20,000 ft. Nepal just on the other side of the Singalila ridge. My exhaustion--the climb and the early hour combined--was like the feeling after a volleyball match. My wind, my power was gone. Then the sun, up until then hidden behind the peaks in front of us, hit the top of Kanchendzonga. The snow, and the swirls of snow coming off the top in the wind, were all lit up pink. The sun rolled forward, lighting up successive peaks in order of their altitude. Sitting there, so drained and sweaty, so hot and cold, I could only feel awe that I had reached that spot--yep Rachel "softie" Gross got a little teary-eyed at the sunrise. We stayed up at the viewpoint a lot longer, but for me, that was the moment. The sun hit us at 6.03, warming us, giving new excitement to the little group gathered by the prayer flags. The snowy peaks had been the highlight thus far, but I turned round and round as the sun lit up the surrounding landscape in rainbows of orange and green and brown. We got back to Dzongri 3 hours after we left, tired but increasingly thrilled with the morning adventure as we processed what we had seen. The rest of that day pales in comparison with the morning adventure. We took a day hike to a lake. The lake itself was not a big sight, but the clouds stayed away until 1pm, which afforded clear views of the same peaks we had seen that morning. I thought of a brochure I saw for UPS when I was still in high school-- the photo was of the Sound, downtown Tacoma, with Mt. Rainier looming in the background. From 0-14.000 with a sweep of the eye, or something like that. The landscape I saw that afternoon was almost the same--a feast for the eyes at every altitude, only this landscape started at 14,000 and towered higher and higher. That night was even colder--the only time my sleeping bag was pushed to its limits.

I woke up fully expecting the clothes I had rinsed out to be frozen. They were. There is nothing like shaping a crunchy long sock and having it hold that exact shape. I dressed in other clothes, leaving my crisp clothing in the yak pack awaiting a thorough session in the strong sun of the lower altitudes of Tshoka that afternoon. The first part of the walk was in the shade, and the little streams we passed were all frozen to varying degrees. It was my duty, naturally, to test each one to see just how frozen--I skated and scooted and stomped my way across ice--some of it cracked, some fell through completely (only a couple of inches, Mom, don't worry). My gore-tex boots held up to the test and I managed not to fall. When the sun hit the trail, the views were dramatic enough to keep me looking back every chance I got. These were the views we didn't have on the way up because of the fog. Going down is much easier for me. My boots kept me sure footed and my recitation of the entire Oklahoma! soundtrack kept me energized. We were at a different guest house in Tshoka this time--I liked all the space I had though it seemed a bit strange to have so much room to myself when the porters just set their sleeping bags on the dining room floor. The afternoon we lazed away over tongba (well, not for me) and good conversation at a "cafe" that one of the locals runs. A conversation with a trekker who had been to some of the places I plan to visit in Patagonia, along with Margie and Kevin's recommendations for Tanzania, kept me thinking about my plans for the rest of the Watson year.

The last day was more difficult than I thought. My feet told me they had had enough pounding on the rocks for this trip. Lunch was pretty special--we ate at the foot of a waterfall and had a chance to dip our sore toes in the icy water. We got back to Yuksom in mid-afternoon. I was tired and dirty and I could feel the old ankle "fun" starting up again, but I knew this trek had been a big success.

I took a 6.30am jeep back to Gangtok and admired how the rice fields that mark the contours of the hillsides are turning golden in the sun.

Dzongri trek (first days)

I left Gangtok for Pelling last week on a share jeep. Prerna's suggestion that I get my ticket the night before made the 6 hour ride more pleasant because I was in the front seat, sharing the bench with only 2 other people as opposed to 3. I got there after dark, so I couldn't see the mountains peaking through the clouds, even though I knew they were there. Dinner was at a westerner-filled restaurant, a strange shift for me since I had been so long in the local scene in Gangtok. But it was pleasant, nonetheless, because I sat next to an older Swiss couple and the conversation turned to Aescher and Wildkirchle and other places in Appenzell that usually only locals know about. I enjoyed the first few chapters of Robinson Crusoe, one of the books taken from Bandana's schoolbook collection (since I exhausted Prerna's already). It seemed fitting to start the adventure book as I was starting my own adventure, though I had none of the misgivings or bad omens that Crusoe suffered. I woke up at 6:15, not early enough for the sunrise but it was still clear enough that I could see across to the snowy peaks for the first time. Gangtok has some views of Kanchendzonga, but only if you are high enough and it is early enough to still be cloudless. Peaks like these I hadn't seen since the dramatic flight out of Ladakh. During the 26km taxi ride to Yuksom (which took more than 2 hours), I stopped at Khecheopalri Lake, a holy wishing lake surrounded by fading prayer flags. Surrounded by Bengali tourists, I didn't make a wish, but I did find a little trail that led away from the crowds and around the lake. The silence the holiness of the lake demanded was dimished somewhat by the buzzing of insects on the reeds--it is a sound that might fool you--it seems silent until you really stop and listen. There were some small waterfalls along the road that all the jeeps stopped at--they were nice but after Yosemite Falls (and Vernal and Nevada Falls) these little ones aren't quite as notable. In Yuksom I met with the guides, Phurba and Jeewan, and my fellow trekkers, Margie and Kevin. I read a few more chapters in my book - by this time Crusoe had left his Brazilian plantation and landed on a deserted island - but I left the book for another day since we were meeting at 7.15 to start our trek. 

After breakfast, we climbed up above Yuksom to see an old monastary on a hill. I was slow on this first little walk and I worried that too much time had elapsed since my last trek. But this was just a warm-up, and the walking only got better. We gave our bags to the porters who brought them to the yaks (4 total for our group), and we stopped briefly at the Coronation throne before starting on the actual trail. The throne was basically an eroded, whitewashed rock. The colorful designs of the monastaries I still find interesting, but I am not very attracted by the rocks imbued with holy powers or significant histories. The first day on the trail lasted only 3 hours, but it felt like a full day since we didn't get on the actual trail until past 11. We had to stop and have our permits checked at more than on outpost at the beginning of the trail. Permits are necessary for all foreigners, which is why it took a while to arrange this trek. Part of the permit fees went to government organizations like the forest ministry that was in charge of environmental concerns, but although we saw plenty of signs in English advising us on environmentally friendly trekking practices, we saw little of this in action. From the farms just outside of town, we climbed gradually on rocky trails. We passed over 3 suspension bridges, some with loose boards that threatened to fall at any minute, and were passed by teams of yaks heading down the mountain. I mentioned how hungry I was to Jeewon and he obliged by finding a few roots for me to sample. As he played Beatles songs and music from a recent Bollywood hit, Rock On, from the speaker on his cell phone, Jeewon picked a yellow leafy plant with a white stem. Peeling away the outer layer of the stem, he told me to eat the rest. It was tart like a lemon and surprisingly juicy. The other plant I tried wasn't quite as good--it made my mouth go all dry and pasty. I made it to camp about 10 minutes behind Kevin and Margie. Together we enjoyed tea and chubby bananas and then lunch, quite late at 3pm. We were at a campsite rather than staying in a rest house because the nearest rest house would have been too far for our first day. There was still a structure--2 rooms, made of wood-- where the guides and porters could cook (and sleep). Our tents were up above the trail while the cooking went on in the building below the trail, so there was no scent of fuel wafting towards us as we relaxed in the afternoon, only the sound of huge nuts falling from the trees. I enjoyed talking with Kevin and Margie from the very beginning. I understood the subleties of how they described themselves ("I was raised Catholic" and "we live in Georgia but we're from the Midwest") and that made me realize how long it had been since I had spent time with Americans. Of course I have met a few during the last 3 months, but mostly I have spoken to local people and trekkers from other countries. That is what I was expecting as I planned for this project, but it was comforting to find people from back home with whom I had so much in common. From the earliest conversations, Kevin and Margie proved to be great trekking partners. We all enjoyed the starry sky for a while that evening while the light played tricks on the mountains across the valley, making us think that an outcropping of rocks was some abandoned building. 

gangtok etc. -- one month later - oops

I flew from Leh to Delhi and Delhi to Bagdogra, covering the long distances across India in only a few hours. The last 120kms were not quite so easy, however. There is no airport in the hilly state of Sikkim, so you have to drive to get there (or take a helicopter, I suppose, but I really wasn't up for that). There was supposed to be a direct taxi service at the Bagdogra airport to Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim, but when I enquired, I was informed that no taxis would be leaving until 5 that evening (it was 11am then) because of a strike. This didn't bother me too much, because it was India, after all, and travel inconveniences are part of the territory. Besides, Zoe had emailed me to tell me that because of the strike she and Prerna couldn't pick me up. So instead I took a taxi ride into Siliguri and tried to get on a share-jeep going to Gangtok. They also warned me it would be hours until one left, but we loaded up after only 2 hours. By loaded up I mean that in the SUV 2 plus the driver squeezed into the front while 4 people each got to share the bench seats in the middle and back row. Imagine four adults sitting in the back of an SUV like elementary school kids in carpool. Add heat. Add Hindi music. It was a real party. I couldn't believe that 120km would really take 4 hours -- I was right, in a way: it took more than 6. The roads in West Bengal (the state just south of Sikkim) and Sikkim itself are worth noting. They are incredible - windy, crumbling, rocky - and cars of all kinds, not just jeeps and trucks, manage to use them. I was lucky enough to have a window seat, and I couldn't help but keep my head almost out of the car the whole drive. It wasn't the heat, which was uncomfortable but not unbarable, but rather the sights along the way. In Sikkim all the roads are windy - inclines of almost 30 degrees and curves that make the road south out Sequoia seem easy are the norm here. At best, the roads resemble the alley at home- mostly smooth but a few potholes. Because of the rain, the roads are always falling apart. During the drive it was pavement, rock, dirt, mud, and stream. Luckily the jeep had no problem with all this. I could see why a short drive would take so long. Another reason was the animals on the road. Cars have to stop (or at least swerve) to let chickens, goats, cows, and monkeys cross the road. I kept my head out the window as we passed 4 storey high bamboo and waterfalls pouring onto the road and the monkeys stared right back at me. After 2 hours we made it to the bridge with a sign that said "Welcome to Sikkim" in the usual light green that is practically the state color. But I wasn't welcomed quite yet. Our jeep joined a long line of cars waiting for the strike to end. People could walk across the bridge, as I did to register as a foreigner, but the cars had to wait. 2 hours later, the sun had set and the police finally whistled at us to start moving. We had lost a few passengers so I was comfortably situated in the front seat now as our jeep was the first to slowly move through the crowds of people right at 6 o'clock. It took another 2 hours to get to Gangtok on the windy roads; I was almost lulled into sleep except that the driver kept stopping to pick people up along the way. Gangtok is a city on a hill--the main road, the national highway, that we had been on the whole time, goes right through the center of town. The driver handed me my backpack from the top of the jeep where it had been tied down and I walked down the road to find a phone to call my friends Zoe and Prerna. It was too late to meet them that night, so we hooked up the next morning (Rosh Hashanah, in fact). And this whole description was only the first day.

Comfortable with Prerna and her family, I checked out the possibilities for trekking after a couple of days. To do the high altitude trek with huts, Dzongri, I need a permit, which was impossible to get only for one person. This meant waiting for another foreigner's travel plans to coincide with mine to insure that I got the permit. It finally worked out--I am leaving today for Pelling en route to Yuksom to start my trek. I will be out there for a week before returning to Gangtok. 

One highlight while I have been waiting is getting to stay with Prerna and eat all the local food that they eat normally. Meals always include rice - usually we have dhal and some kind of potato or vegetable dish. I have tried nettles and prickly vegetables and bitter ones too. I have had new kinds of fruit juice, bitten into a guava for the first time, and had my mouth burn from eating things that are just too spicy for my American palate. Prerna's house is pure veg, which means no meat, no eggs, and also no onions or garlic. I helped Prerna's sister Bandana make momos - by help I mean mostly I watched and I tried my turn at folding the dough around the cabbage mixture a few times. My momos were lumpy dumplings rather than expertly creased but they still tasted pretty good. 

While waiting for the trekking agencies to find some other trekkers, we went to Yangang where Prerna's grandparents lived. It rained every day there, which created perfect conditions for the best rainbow I have ever seen: it was a full arc, reaching across the entire valley. I couldn't help thinking how funny it was, to be driving on the eroding roads of steamy Sikkim--a place entirely new to me--while at the same time singing along to Avril and Pink. I see the influence of American music and movies everywhere here-Prerna and Zoe know both Backstreet Boys and Rihanna's latest hits better than I do. 

Along with my friends, I have been a guest at a neighbor's place downstairs and at the house of a family friend. Being a part of life here means that the time I spent here trying to make the trekking work wasn't wasted. I am lucky to have the connections here that I do. I am sure Zoe and Prerna are ready to have a break from me asking "what now?" all the time, but they will get to see me next week since I am leaving the gear I don't need here. Now I will see how my body will hold up to the mountains again. My camera is charged up. My bag is packed. My boots are shiny and clean-- ok not really. I didn't get that carried away. But I am ready now for another adventure. 

leh festival

As I tossed and turned this morning I could hear the wind outside in the garden, but by the time I woke up it was sunny again. I walked around the town this morning, attempting to book a littile outing for tomorrow. The bike excursion I was interested in (for the sake of acclimatisation, of course) may or may not happen, they told me, so come back later. Over a cup of tea and some almonds, I officially booked my Markha Valley trek with Dreamland Trek and Tours. I had a mushroom omelette and a banana pancake for breakfast, which admittedly, is not very Indian, but it is on every menu in town so I have been thinking about it for a while. I walked to the polo grounds, basically like the town square, where the closing ceremony of the Leh Festival was being held. I got there 45 minutes late and the crowds were big, but they were still in the speech making phase of the ceremony. I struggled to see over all the heads for a while as men in traditional costume, the same as the ones we saw in the street last night, did dances with swords. I noticed that there was an unspoken rule for viewing the dances: children and women could go up closer and sit, but Westerners could walk up in front of everyone and sit in the shade in the very front. That felt a bit strange, to go past all the local people to watch their festival, but it meant I had a good view of the rest of the performances. As some women in long furs and caps danced, some men in uniform, the army, no doubt, came out with big dogs on leashes. Now no matter how safe everyone says this place is, this is still Jammu and Kashmir, so my immediate thoughts are not comfortable. But they were just their to show off the tricks the dogs can do, like jumping over hurdles and through firey hoops. The usual. The little boy dressed in the monk robes got scared when the dogs came out, especially the big attack dog, so he came and hid behind me until it was over. At the end, all the dancers (because there were people from different regions in different kinds of dress) came out together and the announcer welcomed all tourists (no local people) to join in on the dance. I needed a cool break in the shade after the sun and the crowds, so I ducked into a German Bakery (yes, there are many German bakeries here in Leh) for a tea. I ran into Martin later and we walked the city a bit as I enquired after my bike trip again. We heard various reasons why it (along with Martin's jeep trip to the Nubra Valley) might not happen tomorrow: the road is closed because of snow; the road is closed because the llama from the festival is going that way; the road is open but there aren't enough people; and also, the road is most definitely open. Basically, this means come back tomorrow and we will see. Zoe always said don't plan too much in India because something always happens to alter the plans. So tomorrow I will see. On another note, while writing an email to Carolyn I realized I had 5 different kinds of tea in the last 10 hours: masala tea with Javeed while booking the trek, a black tea with breakfast, a milk tea after the festival, and then a Tibetan herbal tea followed by a mint tea at the "Pure Veg Tibetan" restaurant I went to with Martin tonight. Also a banana lassi for dessert. There are no mango lassis this time of year, we have realized, so now we just ask anyway as a joke.

more on india

In Delhi I got to try all kinds of exciting new things. Like coconut water straight from a coconut that they slashed open in front of us. And Masala dosa - South Indian food - when I was out and about with Tony. A full meal (and a burning mouth) for only a few rupees. With Zoe and Poonam, I went to Sikkim house and tried momos and thukba. Momos are a bit like won tons - can be fried or steamed - with chicken or veg or whatever you want in the middle. Thukba is a noodle soup. Most recently, with my new Swiss friend Martin, I had chicken korma with bananas and potatoes in a sweet sauce stuffed with nuts and fruit and lots of butter naan to pick up all the extra sauce. A good meal, though it was cold enough that we had to move inside from the terrace where we were sitting listening to the call to prayer from the towers of Leh.

When we are waiting for power outtages to end or just hanging around, Zoe would play around on her guitar. I managed a weak "happy birthday" but I don't think I have a future in music. On another earlier morning (anything before 3 was a success) we went to Qutb Minar. This is the tower that marks the start of the neighborhood where I lived for almost 2 weeks. I passed it for days, admiring it lit up at night and particularly admiring its red glow at sunset. Finally, I got to go up close. The motifs were Islamic, so geometric patterns and writing in Arabic formed most of the decoration (reminding me of my days in Granada). The tower itself was very well preserved and quite detailed, although the rest of the area, tombs and walls, were crumbling. The bright green parakeets offered an interesting contrast to the red-brown of the structures. We autorickshawed our way over to Lotus Temple, the new Ba'hai temple built in the shape of a lotus flower. We had to take our shoes off to walk inside. In our bare feet, Zoe and I took a turn around the quiet and cool room, though neither of us were really interested in sitting down to pray. The information center for the Temple was strange--it seemed like a propaganda center for a religion with a lot of private money... which is exactly what it is, I suppose. But the architecture was interesting to see and made me think of Andrew building exciting and practical buildings all over the world (ok, maybe in a few more years).

Today I walked around the city and bit and stayed low-key--the altitude still has its effect on me. In the afternoon, Martin and I met up for a walk to the palaces above the city. Winding through narrow white streets where tourists didn't go, I was again reminded of the little villages of the Alpujarras. Winded from the climb, we looked back over the city of Leh. It was marked by green trees in the very center, but otherwise it looks like a very dusty mountain outpost. The mountains nearby are all bare and brown--you have to climb up or look at just the right angle to see any snow-capped mountains--all this is so different from my last set of mountains: the grassy hillsides of the Alps so slippery from rain you could slide right off. The palace is really more of a ruin, but it was fun to duck into dark hallways and climb up ladders to explore the place. We continued up to what looked like another palace, the one we had admired the night before over dinner. The trail was just dirt and you had to pick your own way... I chose the direction that looked the easiest, but it turned out we had to boulder our way over some big rocks to make it back on the main track. As we pulled ourselves up to the top, the colorful flags, almost mere threads in the wind, greeted us with their flapping. We climbed up until locked doors blocked our way, then we sat and looked out at the view, doing a little language stalking in the process. (over tea the night before, I had explained to Martin how one of my newly acquired German words was genau since we heard an Austrian woman speaking English and struggled to identify her nationality... so today we both laughed as one of the Germans next to us said genau in the midst of their conversation) We picked the back way down, which led us through a non-touristy part of town once again. People were lined up in front of ovens, buying their naan for the evening. Back on the main Bazar, we heard an annoucement coming from a car. The only association I have with this kind of microphone is the one the Germans use in Casablanca that Ingrid Bergman translates for Rick and for us. But this announcement was in English--a woman telling us to pay particular attention to the clothing the men in the upcoming procession would wear. So out of nowhere, it seemed, a crowd formed and men beating drums, then men holding swords and women in traditional (and very warm-looking) clothing passed by us. A little dance, many flashing cameras, then they continued on. I imagine this was part of the touristy festival in Leh that ends tomorrow.

I will continue to reflect on the time I had in Delhi to see if I can scrounge up any more stories to write here. Tomorrow I will try to be a bit more active, as the altitude allows. It is hard to imagine that this is just the start, that the Markha Valley trek reaches 16,000 ft. Hmm.

A look back at the pictures I posted earlier...
I went around the city in the green and yellow autorickshaws. They are completely open, which is nice around 10pm when there is no traffic and you can feel the air on your face. Otherwise it means you are always close enough to hold hands with the truck driver next to you and to breath in the exhaust fumes. I also go to go on Tony's bike. Mostly that was a good experience, except for the time we ran out of petrol. I thought he was kidding when he said that, but sure enough, the engine put put putted its way to a stop. It was pleasant at 12.30am so we walked a mile or so to the nearest petrol station and went on our way again. When Zoe and I were finally both feeling well, we woke up early enough to make the trek (haha) to North Delhi. It took about an hour by autorickshaw and then by metro (surprisingly clean and quiet). It turns out everything, including the Red Fort, is closed on Mondays, so we didn't get to go inside, so instead we went to Connaught Place and to some shopping areas there. For the first time I saw a touristy part of the Delhi rather than the one where people simply live. This mostly meant that every place I passed in the shopping area would say "excuse me madam please." No jewelery or clothes shopping so far since I don't really do that anyway, but I did finally buy a couple of books to read yesterday (Kite Runner and an Orhan Pamuk--none of this milly-tilly nonsense).

first impressions: delhi and leh

I arrived in Delhi in the middle of the night and was struck most by the heat and the traffic. The heat jumped out at me, slammed me in the face in a way that not even high speeds on the roads with the windows down could solve. For 4am, the roads were busy, but it was not the congestion as much as the drivers' interpretation of road rules that struck. Basically, there are none. No lane dividers, no real red lights, no stopping for people or bikes... just an idea that you should stay to the left side. The more aggressive vehicle always wins and it is always a test of nerves. That made me glad I wasn't driving in India. The roads the first few days always felt crazy like I was hurtling down the street at ridiculous speeds, nearly clipping everything in sight. But like much here in Delhi, I got used to it.

Through a couchsurfing connection, I met my new friends Zoe, Tony, and Poonam. They have welcomed me into their home and made me a part of the harried city life here. From the first sip of chai to the yummy chicken Zoe made as a goodbye treat, the "home-food" has been good and comforting. Usually we eat when Tony, a DJ, comes back from work. which means 1 or 2am. That means I stayed in Delhi on a rather strange schedule. That was time because it meant I was outside less during the hottest part of the day.

I spent a week and a half in Delhi, and, because of my friends, lived almost like a local here for that time. That means traveling around in autorickshaws (after Zoe did the bargaining), seeing a few sites in the cities (with prices 10 times higher for foreigners), and even catching a movie in Hindi. Some of the things I saw were surprising. I was surprised by the lines at the gas stations (no waiting for petrol or diesel, but for gas you waited at least an hour). I was ready for the cows on the side of the road but I didn't think they would be so scrawny, so dirty. I was ready for a different kind of security, but I didn't think I would go through a metal detector and patted down at a movie theater. I was ready for heat, but not the dripping sweat when the fan stopped running when the power went out. None of these things, all new to me, were bad--they were just different from the way I was used to living.

Now that I have arrived in Leh, Ladakh, my experience in Delhi becomes even sharper. I had thought that I wasted too much time there, especially when I stayed inside for 3 days when I was sick. But just being there, breathing the dirty air until my throat hurt and buying huge bunches of bananas from the street vendors, was the real Delhi--all a part of the India I came to see. And I learned so much from talking with Zoe and Tony and Poonam while I was there, not just about Delhi but about the northeast, where they all come from, as well. Like how most Indians in Delhi assume that Zoe is a foreigner because of the way she looks. Or how traditional women might still fast during the full moon "for the health of their husband."

I could explain things like seti to my new friend in Leh, Martin, because of what I learned in Delhi. Martin, a Swiss guy (of all things) about my age, shared a taxi with me from the airport in Leh to the city center. We found a guesthouse together and so have shared a couple of meals together, which is nice for two people traveling alone. I could tell him about the heat and intensity of life in Delhi since I had just been there, and he came straight from Zurich. It was fun, too, to talk with someone from Switzerland, because of all that we now shared.

Leh is a great place to be a tourist. It was a brisk 5 degrees Celsius when we landed at 6.40am, but it warmed up to at least 12 or 13 in the sun during the day. The sky is bright blue and cloudless, the land is desolate and brown. We are at over 10,000ft here, which means my head hurt the whole day. The first walk through the town reminded me, somehow, of Capileira in the Alpujarras of the Sierra Nevada in Andalucia. That is a funny connection to make, I know, but this town has the same kind of white buildings, the same quiet in the streets. Most of the town center is focused on Western tourism. There are clothing and shoe and craft shops alternating with trekking agencies all along Fort Road and the Main Bazar. There are little German bakeries where westerners in hiking boots sit and sip chai. There are restaurants everywhere advertising their fare as Itealian (yes spelled like that) / Tibetan / Chinese / Israeli. And the food they have really does cater to the international clientele. For breakfast today with Martin, sitting in the shade of a garden, I had eggs and potatoes and toast along with my chai and mango juice. Now this is not very adventurous of me, I know, to order that when I am in India, but it was such a nice feeling of home. Of course yesterday's breakfasts was parathas and curd (potatoes-stuffed naan and a sort-of yogurt), so I balance it out.

I leave for a trek to the Marhka Valley on Thursday, the 18th, which gives me a few days to acclimatise and see some of the gompas (monasteries) in the area.