it's okay, i escaped

sorry to leave you in suspense last time, with myself
in police
custody in Nepal. Everything worked out (the police
just have
nothing to do way up there in the mountains, and they
needed somone
to talk to). The security at the Nepal Tibet border
is somewhat
present, but way up in the mountains, the police force
is somewhat of
a rag-tag bunch, and they're all just guys after all.

It was a beautiful, bright night sky, the night of the
full moon,
nestled way up in the mountains. Timure sleeps
cradled in the Bhote
Khola river valley. Dogs keep sentinel all night,
barking at nothing
in particular, or just barking at everything.
Standing on stone
terrace of the low stone house where i stay, I can see
Tibet, that
forbidden land across the line, Shangri-la in the
moonlight. But i
am IN Tibet, Tibet in exile, the uprooted village with
a history as
old as people. These mountain dwellers care for me
like one of their
own, or even better. I stay in this family's home,
eat with them,
drink tea with them, talk with them (in my limited
Nepali language);
I am given the largest bed in the house, and a
comforter to keep me
warm (and some fleas to keep me company). They are
hospitable to a
fault. I ate until i was ready to burst, because they
keep filling
my plate, until i learned to say "Pugyo!!" ("Enough!")

I returned in the morning to Briddim, walking with
Kamal, mero sathi,
and Pema, mero miith-juu, and stayed on with my
Tibetan family for
another night, and then, after parting ways with my
Miith-juu, and an
extended family farewell, tromped on around the
mountain with Kamal,
taking the high road up the Langtang river valley, Up
to Kyanjin
Gompa, an ancient monastery high in the glittering
mountains. As we
traveled up the way, up to 8000 feet, 10000 feet,
12000 feet, the hot
jungle sun gave way to the crisp sharp snow sun of the
Himalaya, and
we arrived at our lodge in Langtang Village just as a
snow storm
barreled down between the ridges above us, screaming
white snow
hurling against the windows, obscuring the outside
from our vision,
snow finding its way in between the cracks to the warm
room where we
sat huddled around the small stove, burning yak dung
to keep us warm.

I awoke in the cold of morning, after a fitful night
of sleep, and
snow was still blowing against the windows, and
everthing outside our
door frosted with sugar. We huddled around the stove,
and at noon,
with all the feirceness it had come with, the storm
cloud broke in
two, and the sun shone. We walked up across the high,
rock strewn
alpine meadow, up and over the lip of a bowl, and
there lay the
village of Kyanjin Gumpa.

The Monastery is a old, rude stone building, some 500
years old, here
in the high mountains, surrounded by the crytal spires
of the
Himalaya, shimmering pearl in the sun. It now used
only
intermittently, on the full moon and other special
occasions. There
is a village of lodge that has grown up around it, a
tourist village
that is starved for life. "Less tourist, this year,"
everybody
says.

I met a charming couple of Australian doctors, great
company, and
together we conquered Kyanjin Ri, what WE called a
mountain, and here
it is known as a "Hill".

So, after a journey of almost two weeks up, we left
Kyanjin Village,
and tumbled down the valley, rumbling like the River
we followed,
fumbling down through the jungle, and then finally
crumbling into a
bed in Shayfru Besi, at the end of the trail,
returning from the
snows to the roads in one day, and my legs hurt for
two.

Now i'm in Pokhara via Kathmandu, did some business in
the city then
back up into the mountains, and i leave tomorrow to
head up to
Muktinath, and then to Marpha.

more later...

"Jahun Bistarai" (take it easy)

mark