Langtang

It was wet and rainy as we left Kathmandu in the dark
of morning,
headed to the Langtang Mountains, on the Nepal/China
border. We
drove out of the valley and up into the mountains,
Hindi music
blaring ecstatically from the speakers of the rocking
bus, Nepalis
packed in elbow to elbow, and i the only white guy in
the crowd. We
ascended into the clouds, the road dwindling to what
might more
properly be called a "path". As the rain broke and
the clouds
parted, i caught glimpses of the valley, miles and
miles below, and
it felt more like we were flying than driving. Out
one side of the
bus, there was the mountainside, just 1 or 2 metres
from the window,
but from the other side, nothing was visible except a
gut-wrenching
drop that, if taken, would surely render the bus
unrecognizable, and
afford the ocupant's souls a quick trip into the next
plane of
existence, not a bad deal for Rs150. I began to see
why Nepalis live
so much in the moment, with a smile for every waking
day. This bus
ride affirmed the fact that i was alive: I started
alive and i
arrived alive. It was a good day.

I spent the last bit of the bus ride on the roof,
leaning on a sack
of melons, enjoying the dramatic scenery of the
Mountains as they
rose on every side of my, and the bus crawled along
the trail, far
above the roaring Langtang Khola down in the valley,
and then, after
11 hours on bus, we rode into Shaypru Besi, a small
coal-mining town,
the End of the Road, gateway into the mountains.

We trekked up the trail the next day, the stones
glittering silver in
the sun, trekking above the turquoise and white waters
of the Bhote
Khola (the Tibet River), green rice paddies terraced
into the
mountainside, and mountains rising high above us. We
walked up the
trail for a few hours, and then rounded a shoulder,
and there,
nestled in the elbow of the mountain, high above the
river, lay
Briddim village, red and blue and green and yellow and
white prayer
flags flapping in the wind, a huddle of small stone
huts with smoke
rising from the rooftops. We descended into the
village, stone walls
bordering the trail, and we dropped our packs on the
front porch of
the Village Lama's house. We were welcomed
immediately, and were
served cups of Bhote Ciya, Tibetan tea flavored with
butter and salt,
and Roti, a cracker-bread that is shaped into a
tibetan knot, to be
soaked in the ciya and then eaten.

I was welcomed into the family's household, and i
ducked down through
the door into the smoky, dark dwelling. The tibetan
household is
centered around the fire, which is constantly kept
burning, and the
smoke drifts up and out the eaves, rather than up a
chimney. The
walls and ceiling were velvet black from years of
smoke, and the
beams were decorated with fresh painted designes from
Lhosar, the
tibetan New year. A shaft of sunlight created a
diagonal bar of
illumination, falling across the hut, and pooling on
the floor.

We sat in the hut, drinking Bhote ciya and munching on
Roti, and
speaking with the family in a mix of rudimentary
english and my
limited Nepali. The eldest son, Pema Lama, spoke good
english, so we
talked. He is also a young man of 24 years, like me.
He said to me,
"You and me are miith (pronounced like "meet"), and
then explained to
me that this means soul friends, and that tomorrow, we
would hold a
ceremony which would create a brother-like bond
between us. In
celebration, the family called upon a neighbor to kill
a chicken
(being Buddhist Lamas, they do not kill anything them
selves), and we
had a solemn party, a feast of Dal-Bhat (rice and
lentils) and Khukra
(chicken).

The next day, there was a ceremony, and Pema and i
each put a tikka
on the other's forehead, and we were prestented with a
Khadar, a silk
scarf that is bestowed as a sign of welcome. Thus we
became
Miith-juu, and i was welcomed as a part of the family.



more later...

love,

mark