We loaded 20 people into a 15 passenger minivan for a 5 hour drive to our starting location this morning: 4 Americans (including John, our only male tourist, married to Stacy, plus Rachel and me), 1 Kiwi (Izzy), 1 Canadian (Sheila), 2 Australians (Emma and Kylee), 1 woman without a country, although technically another Aussie (Tash), and 10 singing Nepalis - our lead guide Nirma (female), and our second guide Aman (male), 7 female porters (Sarita - my porter, Kalpana, Bhima, Moti, Tara, Durga, Anita), and 1 patient, smiling male porter (Chandra). At least half of the Nepali girls were sick on the drive, and simply threw up into black plastic bags, which were then demurely dumped out the van window onto the road, then continued singing. Finally arrived in Besisahar (900 meters), our starting location. We had dal bhat for lunch - the traditional Nepali meal of rice, lentil soup, curried vegetables, and a pickled relish with papadum - then started walking...
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We hit the first suspension bridge, and I slowly crawled my way over the river, which seemed massive and miles below me, through the flimsy wooden slats supporting my feet. Terrified of heights, I gripped the sides of the bridge during the eternity of my crossing, to the gleeful hilarity of all our porters.
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I remind myself of a dog at the standing/squatting toilets that are the norm here: I walk into each toilet, and can't stand the smell of other people's urine, so I rush to cover the stench with the odor of my own, which is infinitely better.
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These rice field villages are here in the warm, sunny bosom of the great Himalayas, looming just there, surrounding, engulfing this countryside and community, and yet simply a backdrop, barely glanced at. The closer the mountains get, the more it makes the blood rush to my heart to think I've got to climb those giant beasts.
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