Last night at dinner it was decided that I would accompany Hira and Palzum in the direction of Thorung La the next morning. Knowing the ani-haru, I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d ended up going right over Thorung La, but we only went to the bottom of the incline. Palzum carried a basket and we gathered pieces of manure (for burning).

I'd walked this route before, over the hanging bridge and beyond, but the ani-haru led me to a stone shrine which I wouldn’t have been able to find on my own. Hira attempted to express its significance, but I wasn’t able to gather much. She talked a lot about Padma Sambhava. Built a sweet-smelling fire. Ate crackers.

The Story of Helmut
Helmut came to Nepal for the first time in 1978 (the year I was born) and has been coming back every year or so since. In response to Nepal’s growing deforestation problem, he’s developed the following solution: he raises money to pay for the cost of solar cookers and donates them to Nepali villages. The villages pay only for the cost of transport. The ani-haru’s solar cooker is on the terrace. Helmut says, “Europe has the money, Nepal has the sun. So…!”

Asked Yangzum Bhuti how old she was when she became an ani. “18. Now, I 19.” She has only one sister (who works at Dragon Guest House) instead of two sisters like most of the other ani-haru. The tradition is that only middle daughters become ani-haru—but: “I wanted to—happiness to my heart falling.”

dusted with green
incense powder
her arms lift and fall

inside the gompa
voices rise to catch
the wind

The ani-haru’s troubling obsession with skin color explained—“We Muktinath, black, go Kopan, then white. White good.” I think they must mean “burnt black by the sun” when they say black—they’re not talking about race after all. The wind and sun here chaps skin mercilessly—they rub their faces and hands with cooking oil whenever can spare it—but it’s impossible to be completely protected—my nose is as red as ani-haru robes

the Nepali for sunflower: suryamukhi—“sun mouth”

that raw stuff

The hills around Muktinath seem crowded today. They’re not the deserted wilderness I thought at first—so naively, it seems to me now. Lots of porters, local traffic, touristpeople.

I no longer feel fatigue. I've lost most of the extra fat I accumulated in Colorado during three years of happy hours and commuting. I've stopped using hot water for washing.

When you start to become bored, that’s when things get really interesting. Backgrounds when the foreground is stripped away. How bland can you go before the mind loses its ability to taste the pepper in the milk? What is that raw stuff at the bottom of the glass.

Very busy the past few days with cleaning, pounding pine needles into incense, painting the chimneys, washing dishes.

Asked Diki Kunzum if the ani-haru and police officers ever do more than just flirt. She: “This not happen.” Very firm!

2 tourists died a couple days ago—coming over the pass—all I could understand from the ani-haru was something about a photo and then “avalanche.” I ask some of the English-speaking gompa visitors if they know anything about it, but nobody does, or else they have completely different versions of the story—not 2 tourists but one guide, or it wasn’t an avalanche but something else...

A bizarrely inefficient kitchen cleaning yesterday. We take everything out of the kitchen, and carry to Hira’s room. Hira paints the kitchen walls, splattering everywhere. She hands me a filthy rag and tells me to wipe down the grungy shelves, which have dirt and paint all over them. Then she painted the shelf edges and bottoms of the walls red, and the floor black. Then we carry everything back into the kitchen.

I spend a lot of time these days babysitting the gompa. Amusing to listen to the guides make up stories when they don’t know the answers to the tourists’ questions. I don’t know much either, and the ani-haru don’t always agree on things like the age of the gompa or the meaning of the different items. Drew a diagram of the statues and asked Chenzom to write down their names. “Pahila pahila,” she tells me—“at first”—there were 3 fires, burning on earth, water and stone. The three Buddha statues are each linked with a different fire, and painted green, white and red to symbolize their elements. Two of the original fires went out—now only the one burning on water is left, and one more has appeared, also in water. As usual, I don’t know how accurate any of this information is.

Very busy today. Sorting coins and bills from the gompa donation boxes, weeding, cleaning candlesticks.

Tharpa Choling Nunnery visit

An odd little visit to Tharpa Choling Nunnery. As soon as I walked in: shouts of “Anto-nia! Namaste!” One ani and a girl in jeans silently led me inside the gompa, which is beautiful—bright paint, everything clean and in its place, clean puja cushions and prayerbook bindings.

The lunch alone was worth the visit. It was dal bhaat, of course, but the dal had more lentils than soup, and spices added, and the chili was on one side instead of slathered over everything. An ani showed me where to wash my dishes (they use soap and teflon pads instead of ashes and leaves) and then led me to where their lama was sitting on a mat near the stupa. She told me to sit next to him, but didn’t introduce me.

After a few minutes, the lama, looking as bemused by my presence as I felt, spoke to an ani in Tibetan, and she said to me, “Excuse, please. Where you from?” I explained myself in broken Nepali and the lama and I chatted for a little bit. He explained that his ani-haru live in the nunnery all year round. The dorms are made of brick and wood, and there’s a beautiful office building with a round red roof and large windows.

I've become so accustomed to the way my ani-haru live, it has almost started to seem the norm, but looking at Tharpa Choling I remember it doesn’t have to be. Why can't my ani-haru have running water to bathe in, and warm bedroom, and well-kept gompas? They deserve better, especially the older ones who have worked so hard—I'd love for Hira to have new socks, and a coat. These ani-haru have balconies and rooftops to dry their robes on instead of rocks. It’s a bit like the Shambhala Mountain Center in Colorado. And exactly like what I hoped Muktinath would be, before I arrived. It’s like the rich and poor sides of the tracks. I wonder if they co-exist peacefully or if there’s rivalry between them.

Later:

Diki comes into bedroom to tell me to drink tea—she says: “Antonia room, shop, same same. Tomorrow I come shopping!” and here I thought I packed light—

Chenzom pushes what looks like a dead mouse towards me. “Meat. You eat?” The ani-haru always snack on the puja offerings people leave in the gompa—goat cheese, cereal, bread. They seem puzzled by my refusal to eat the charred remains of animals which have been sitting around for several days.

I tell my ani-haru about going to visit Tharpa Choling. Diki, wistfully: “I think, only Muktinath nuns very little Eng. Tharpa Choling nuns very very Eng.” Apprently they have 2 teachers, and they don’t have to work as hard. I reassure her (truthfully) that her English is at least as good as Tharpa Choling's.

I ask how her parents decided which nunnery to send her to. She explains it to me—it’s a great system. “I, one didi, one bahini.” She has one elder sister and one younger. Shows me on her fingers—she’s the middle child. “3 girl, this one nun. 2 girl, no nun.” So her destiny was decided from the time of her bahini’s birth. “Jharkot, Kinga, they Muktinath. No Jhargot, then no Muktinath nun.” She clarifies further: “Kathmandu, no Muktinath nun…”

We watch the sun set. Three other ani-haru arrive. We huddle on the bench, then Diki: “Kitchen, cold, we go!”

They tell me about Kelly, their last teacher. I ask what she looks like—long hair, short? “Same same you. Hair, this.”

And her eyes? “Same same yours.”

How tall? “You a bit long. Your face also long. Kelly, face like mine,” says Diki, cupping her square jawbone. “Everything else, same same.”

I wonder if Western women just look alike to them or if Kelly and I are really carbon copies. I'm about to ask about the mysterious Louise but Diki precedes me, “You know Louise?”

I explain that I don’t know her, but I read about her in the exercise book last night. “Louise ramro cha?” I ask. (Louise is nice?)

“Cha,” they agree.

They add, “You, Kelly, very very laughing. Good. Other come sometime, not so much laughing. Nun many many laughing, like laugh. You, Kelly, same same laughing.”

They tell me a story, but the details are too much for our vocabularies—something about making vegie momos in Kopan, Kelly’s face turning red because of the chili, and someone farting. The farting is the crucial point that I'm missing—who farted and when, and whether the momos caused the fart, I cannot tell—Diki is bent over soundlessly laughing. Chenzom tries to explain it further and her broken English words tripping over each other make us laugh harder.

The fire is burning low. “Your hand egg,” Diki says as I stretch my fingers over the coals. “White, like egg. Me black, like you coat,” Diki says.

Uppal had called herself “black,” also. She had said, “Black, no good, you good.” I thought I might have misunderstood her, but here are these 3 young women telling me, “You thumb, good, Hira thumb, no good.” They’re only about 2 shades darker than me—do I look that white to them? Why do they call themselves black?

Chenzom places a rolled blanket in my lap. “For you. Hira give.” It’s charcoal grey, thin and finely woven, but sturdy. Diki says, “Hira say, tomorrow she washing. I tell her you today finish.” I tell them I still have a few more things to wash, and Hira and I argue about who will do my laundry.

Everyone heads to the path behind my bedroom to pee. It’s cute the way they all line up on the path.

They come into my room and reminisce about when they first started learning English. “At first, we little English, only say ‘shoes off.’ Now say, ‘please take off your shoes.’”

jhargot gompa

Today, going to Jhargot with ani-haru. Got up at 6:15 because I was told we were leaving at 7—but the ani-haru nowhere to be seen.\ They appear eventually and after tea and breakfast (ramen noodles and cabbage soup) we set out around 10.

I think we will simply retrace the path I took on my way here, but we go a completely different way, circling round Muktinath and cutting through farmland. I'm wearing hiking boots and several layers; Hira is wearing orange opentoed sandals w/slight heels, the others in plastic lighweight sandals. Two of the nuns heft the remains of a small tree on their backs. I am given a small bag and sleeping bag to carry. At one point Hira turns and makes as if to take my tiny burden and add it to her own.

With us comes a wrinkled man with 2 teeth, thick glasses, wooden beads around neck, olive tunic belted at waist. He leaves a trail of spit behind him. Looks about 100—I think of him as a sort of mascot, until we reach Jhargot and he turns out to be a skilled carpenter.

We arrive at the Jhargot gompa. Several ani-haru in courtyard making torma out of flour, water salt dough. They paint them red with some kind of crushed bark paste. Then add dollops of ghee and place on altar in the gompa. Several deities wrapped in shiny multicolor fabric. Walls painted like at Muktinath but in better condition. Elephant, tiger, man with penis.

I ask age of gumpa. They say 35 y only. I thought much older—200 maybe. Point to hill: “There, old gompa, that one broken, this one.” The gompa used to be over there until it collapsed and they rebuilt it here. I ask if I can go see it. Much discussion, then 13-year old Lhamu Chetten is assigned to take me.

“This, what name?” LC asks as we walk.
“Farm,” I tell her.
“This farm, me.” She owns the farm.
We walk on. “This farm, my grandmother brother.”
I realize that to be an ani does not mean to renounce one’s family or prior life. LC is part of the land, part of the town.

We reach the top of the hill. The old gompa in ruins, looking like playdough left out in sun. A little distance away, thick stream flows into square stone shed. LC leads me down, over slippery rocks and wet grass, and opens the sheetmetal door. Inside, a mill turns. The floor is dusty with pale flour.

LC: “Water, then go. No water, no go.” It’s a water mill, grinding flour for the ppl of Jhargot.

LC takes me round the underside of the shed and shows me the water rushing out, continuing down the hill. I'm thrilled by the water mill. LC seems pleased that I like it so much, and explains over and over again how it works: “Water, go. No water--then no go...”

By the time we got back from old gompa, the carpenters have constructed two vertical support beams for the roof. It’s clear that without them the ani-haru would be in danger—the roof is buckling like a water balloon. The carpenters seem satisfied with their work.

After lunch, puja. Apparently they’re in this gompa only for a day. After this, for ten days 4 nuns at a time do puja in different houses in Jhargot, and everyone else stays in Muktinath, including me.

Helped break up firewood, then went for a walk. Returning to the gompa—as I approach I hear my name spoken over and over—I peek in—the ani-haru: “We your name practicing!”—“come, sit”—

I walk home alone—the others will come later.

Inside Muktinath, walking by the prayer wheel wall, a glimpse of red and pink by the incense-making rocks—I thought it was Diki Kunzum. Slipped between the bells. Four ani-haru pounding and sifting. “Namaste!” and then, “Come, come!”

Oh, but I don’t know these ani-haru, theyre not mine at all. But they’re glad to see me—they don’t seem surprised.

“Where are you from?” My Nepali is better now, and they have a few words of English. I explain who I am. They tell me they live in Tharpa Choling nunnery—“You come see!” They say come tomorrow at 12, for lunch.

Back to fire gompa to eat dinner with Diki, Chenzum and Kancchi. I said before that it was like camping here—but to them, it’s just ordinary life—they’ve been living like this ever since they were young. To me it’s extraordinary, and every mundane action is charged with interest—the way they keep the fire going, for instance—but to them, it’s the same as having someone over and casually turning on the electric kettle, or heating up food in imcrowave—they don’t make a big deal out of it because it really is no big deal to them.

In my bedroom, by candlelight, I find some old exercise books on the shelf. The name Pema written on the front. She was 19 in the year 2000. Lots of vocabulary, sentences, short essays. From the looks of her writing, this Pema’s English is quite good. I'm so hungry for something new to read, I devour the exercise books. One of the essays speaks of a woman named Louise, who apparently came to Muktinath to teach English.

None of the other nuns have mentioned Louise. Who is she? And this Pema—what about her?

The King of Mustang

Got up around 7:30—so quiet I thought the ani-haru were sleeping in for once. Hira washing her hands and face in the liquid ice of the stream. “Anto-nia…washing?” I'm no longer trying to hide my “special needs”—when I got back from the toilet she had warm water ready for me.

I gather from Hira that all the other ani-haru have gone to Jhargot today. They must have left really early, and quietly too. Listening to radio—announcer keeps saying puja—Hira tried to explain what he’s saying—“3 days cow puja, 2 days bulbul puja”—and he says Laksmi over and over again—she says that’s the puja which ended yesterday—something about brothers and sisters—and it’s somehow connected with the p.o.s being here and dancing—she says they also gave money. I thought it was just a party—was it part of the puja?

The Eghara plunge shivering into the kitchen with toothbrushes in hand and their round baby heads in towels. The smaller one puts her hands nearly inside the fire.

The ani-haru have some errands to do. DK says to me: “We go, you stay. You see gompa. People come, you: shoes off, no photo. It’s ok?” I feel useful.

Lots of German tourists—some Americans—I cause a little confusion among the Nepalis: “where ani?” One cross German man: “Why no photos? I took photo in other temple and nobody said anything.”

One Nepali young man asks, “Where is photo of King of Mustang?” I say I don’t know, not familiar with that title. He turns and sees photo of Wengyal Lama.: “Ah! King of Mustang!” I had no idea there even was such a title.

big puja finish

Today is the last day of this ten-day puja they’ve been doing. Tomorrow we’re going to Jhargot. Still not clear on whether we’re sleeping there or coming back every day.

After lunch the ani-haru take blankets over to the wide stream by the water gompa. 19-year old Yangzum Bhuti and I hold a basin to the water—nearly lose it to the powerful current. Yangzum Bhuti gives me a resigned look—“I go in!” Jumps into the freezing water, fills up the basin. Sets it on the little bridge over the stream.

The other ani-haru arrive and strip off their socks and sandals. I do the same. “No! You, no. Very cold,” 15-year old Chenzom tells me.

They fill a couple other basins, throw a blanket and some detergent in each basin, and jump up and down on the blankets as if making wine. The water turns black-brown. Hira and Chenzom stand knee deep in the stream holding the washed blankets, and the current acts as the rinse cycle. They twist the blankets and wring them. I “help” by carrying the wrung blankets to a rack of bells to hang them until they can be carried to the rocks to dry.

An older ani arrives and says something along the lines of, “Stop being ridiculous and pretending you're not cold. We know this isn’t normal for you! Come with me.” I follow her inside—the ani-haru have a kitchen and bedroom on the top floor of the admin building next to the water gompa. We drink hundreds of cups of “black tea,” which I learn for the first time is actually very diluted coffee with lots of sugar.

Later the sun comes out. The ani-haru sit in the sun with the p.o.s. Usual bickering and flirting. One p.o. keeps bothering Yangzum Bhuti while she’s reading, poking at her hat and flicking her book. She gives him a really hard slap on the arm.

Back at the fire gompa, in the kitchen. Ani Hira cooking dinner. The largest of the p.o.s stops by the kitchen—he has a face like a cheerful dog, and speaks just a little English. “You lucky,” he says to me. “This very holy place.”

Chenzum darts in and holds a cigarette to the firepot, darts back out. It’s gotten dark outside. The power is out (it usually goes out every night).

Then—a male voice raised in song, drawing closer and closer—a blue penlight shines—all of a sudden five of the p.o.s are in the kitchen—the only light from the wood stove and the blue penlight—loud voices, laughing. The p.o.s sit. They sing—the ani-haru dance—the Eghara also—clapping in time to the song. The singer teaches me the words. The p.o.s get up to leave, sit back down, leave, come back, dance, leave, dance through the doorway again—the Eghara flushed with excitement—laughter and jostling and bumping. “Oh, you’re waiting for your dinner, we should leave!” And they do finally. But after we’re all in bed with the lights out, the p.o.s come back. Dancing and singing in the courtyard.

I don’t know if other Nepali women party like this. The ani-haru certainly have as much fun as any Western young people. Still havent seen any signs of the repression of women my guidebooks talked about.

the sound seems to carry them

Four inches of snow on the ground. Feet are frozen—can't feel anything except a dull ache near my toes. I'd like to crawl into bed for a while, but it’s even colder inside than outside. I'm relieved to see the Eghara wearing mittens and bulky sweaters—perhaps the ani-haru are human after all! Then I come upon Hira washing her legs in the stream, while chunks of ice float by. “Dirty,” she explains matter-of-factly.

Later:

In the kitchen, Hira all of a sudden crouches down, clutches her belly, cries out, “Ayo! Ayo!” Now she’s lying down outside, covered only by a thin blanket.

Uppal: “Now, I go Jhargot, tomorrow, Jomsom.” Very casual about it. She was carrying hardly anything at all, just a tiny bag, and wearing nothing warm.

I felt a bit abandoned. Not sure if I want to stay for another two weeks. If it gets any colder, I don’t know if I can take it. My extremities never seem to get warm. The sameness of the food is starting to make me sick when I taste it.

After dinner:

A fantastic evening sitting puja with ani-haru. All their voices together create this undertone, this one perfect note—doesn’t matter how many nuns are out of sync, or maybe one’s a little louder—always this thread of sound running under their individual voices, binding them all together.

Started to match the thread with my voice (just toning, of course I don’t know the words)—like being in bowl of sound—the undertone and the inside of my head coming together—very rhythmic—when they play drums and horns, the sound going through my whole body—resonating—I remember when I first heard them play, how discordant and peculiar it was—now somehow the discord always creates harmony, accord—if you listen for it—the music creates the score—

—and also I noticed this—when toning—my awareness went out of my head and into my belly, at the very base of the column of vibrations—and I was warm at last—well, I was still cold—my extremities still numb—but I didn’t feel it, didn’t mind it—felt it only with my reptile brain—the rest of me relaxed and alert—

often the ani-haru, when they are doing some task or walking, are chanting or toning under their breath—and if anyone speaks to them, they answer and then continue—it’s seems almost subconscious—like breathing—the sound seems to carry them

solar cookers

If I understood her correctly, Uppal wants me to take photos inside the gompas so they can sell them in the shop. I pointed out the “no photos” sign and she gave me a look and said something like, “Well I'm telling you to, so obviously it’s all right!”

The mystery of yesterday’s “cookers” explained. Young woman with bright blond hair stopped by the kitchen: “You know Helmut?” Chatted for a few minutes. Apparently she and Helmut are involved with a project to distibute solar cookers to Nepal to help the deforestation situation. There are solar cookers all over Muktinath—basically just a pot with a big metal round hat over it.

the ani-haru are superhuman

In the kitchen: An ani slices off a huge hunk of butter and dumps it in the churn. Adds coarse salt and boiling water, and a little black tea. Works the handle with strong smooth motions.

In the gompa: a plate of pink and scarlet flowers making the rounds. Not sure what its original purpose was, but now one of the older ani-haru is tucking flowers behind her ears. She grins and gives me a thumbs-up.

13-year old Lhamu Cheten pulls a pink flower apart petal by petal and sticks the petals to her face in a column from forehead to chin. She turns to the rest of the ani-haru: “Hallo! Rooster! Coo-cooracoo!” The gompa erupts with laughter.

Just before lunch, Chenzom arrives in the courtyard leading a furry dog on a chain. Three other ani-haru gather round, caress the dog and place a garland of flowers round its neck. Someone has daubed his forehead with red. They call it Chimi—Lama’s wife’s name. Chimi looks lovable, but apparently has been conditioned by ninjas to rip the throat out of anyone not wearing maroon robes. “Stay!” the ani-haru warn me. They tie Chimi’s chain to an old loop of kata (Tibetan white scarf) attached to the kitchen roof, and one of the Eghara escorts me past him as he barks and growls. He stares at me all through lunch, with silent hatred. When I go down the steps again, an ani full-body blocks him from attacking me. I worry a bit, as Tibetan kata are not known for their endurance, but I figure the whole group of ani-haru is a match for Chimi the dog.

After lunch an Austrian gentleman comes to visit. He and Uppal converse in broken English. I get the impression he’s trying to raise money for something. “In Europe, money is not falling from the heavens,” he explains. “I cannot prymus anything.” He and Uppal discuss the merits of certain gompas around town. They keep using a word which sounds like “cooker” but doesn’t make sense to me in context.

Mists rolling over the hills. Afternoon light filters through clouds like gauze.

Evening:
A leisurely walk in the direction of Thorung La. Coming back, Muktinath translucent in reflected afternoon light. Framed by dark mountains. A stone enclosure with Tibetan prayer flags and kata streaming out—the faded colors and threads hanging loose—sun hanging like a diamond in the clouds.

When I get back—sit on steps outside kitchen watching sun set— the Eghara bring out firepot—argue with each other over fetching me tea—bellowing and elbowing for room. The rest of ani-haru finish puja and join us around the firepot.

The ani-haru are superhuman. That’s the only explanation for the ease of their survival. They run around in thin socks—or none—only one layer under their robes—bare shaved heads. They run up and down the stairs as if they have goat hooves. I thought maybe the snow would give them pause, but as I was inching my way down the icy steps yesterday night, clinging to the wall, I saw their tiny footprints, and they were right on the edge, barely an imprint—as if they’d been racing in the dark. They stir in several pounds of coarsely chopped red chili to every meal, and take only a couple of mouthfuls of water a day, if that (most of the time they drink nothing with meals and only hot tea inbetween). No matter how early I get up, they’re already in the gompa. They chant for 12 hours a day and then romp and sing until bedtime.

I remember at a talk in Boulder, the Sakyong saying something like, “Tibetans are very practical people. If it doesn’t work, we don’t do it. ‘Go sit in a cave and meditate for 10 years. Doesn’t work.’ ‘Come back to the breath. Doesn’t work.’ No! It works.”

ani-haru means nuns

Around 6:30 a.m. a nun sticks her head in my window. “An-to-nia! Eee-snow!” Trees and rocks covered with thin layer of crisp snow. Very cold. Spent the morning in kitchen, breathing wood smoke, drinking tea, and helping, or perhaps hindering, to make breakfast.

The nuns kitchen is a source of warmth and cheer, not only for themselves but for the other inhabitants of Muktinath. Most mornings, there’s a police officer or two drinking tea and bantering with the nuns. The police are large, for Nepali men, and carry themselves with masculine bravado, but they’re not above helping out in the kitchen. While I rolled dough into balls, a nun plied the rolling pin and a p.o. tossed dough circles onto the hot pan.

At ten o’clock we carry a huge pot of roti and chickpea soup to the gompa and eat breakfast.

Outside, guide: “This is temple. Nuns eat breakfast now.”
Tourist: “Oh, really? D’you think they’ve got some champa (porridge) for me?”
Guide: “Uh, no.”

After breakfast, into the hills. An utterly different world today. Very pale and bright—not so good for photographs, but lovely to dwell in. The clouds making huge shadows over fields and houses. Lacey snow over cracked rock and scarlet thorns. Thought of Lama—back in Boudha—how his eyes smiled when he told me about throwing snowballs as a child in Muktinath.

The word nun, for me, conjures up images of Catholic school and chilly resignation—frowny faces and anti-sex primness. These nuns aren't like that at all. They’re sexy, stylish, boisturous, hearty and cheerful. The Nepali word for nun is ani, or ani-haru for the plural. I like these words much better, so from now on that’s what I’ll say.

Came back from the hills for lunch. Sitting in my room huddled in blankets, writing with icey fingers and a shaking pen. Outside, falling snow. The ani-haru chanting. Faded prayer flags flapping in the wind, the brown hills still dusted with the earlier snowfall.

The ani-haru speak Tibetan or Mustang language among themselves, which is completely different from Nepali. A relief to realize that all the time I thought I wasn’t understanding their Nepali, they weren't speaking it at all. But—disorienting and at times nightmarish to not be understood, to not understand anything that is said.

One of the young ani-haru has a happy, funny face with a dollopy nose and white teeth and lots of energy. Her name’s Chenzom. She’s 15. She reads very well—“Who taught you English?” I ask. She says school a little bit, but mostly Kelly. Kelly’s legacy is very apparent. The ani-haru all know the English words for parts of the body, colors and vegetables.

The first word I learned in Muktinath was jado, which they pronounce more like tzaru. We have many conversations about the weahter, “You cold, no cold?” “Yes, it’s cold. I'm very cold. I'm not cold. I'm a little cold.”

“Cha khaanus!” means “Drink tea!” The ani-haru say it to me every five minutes. I love their milk tea and black tea so I comply. The butter tea tastes like curdled water and vomit to me, so they don’t offer that any more.

One ani is pounding something white in a large mortar and pestle made out of a tree root. Large black pot bubbles over the wood fire. Kartok is standing next to the stove draped in her red robes, looking like a madonna carved out of marble. Diki Kunzum comes in. She’s the most stylish of the ani-haru. She usually sports a pink shirt over her robes, and wears a brown goat-skin coat trimmed with tawny fur. Her face is broad and flat, with soft features.

The ani-haru eat with their hands, and they don’t wash either before or after eating. Use the same pan for cooking over and over without washing it. Serve rice with the same hand that scrubbed the shrine floor or rooted in a nostril or ear. Completely different standards of hygeine. I'm sure I do things they think are very dirty.

15 year old Chenzom dancing around the courtyard in the moonlight, skirts around her waist, long underwear flapping, shrieking wordlessly. The teenage ani-haru are like any other young people: emotional, high-spirited, argumentative, at times pensive and sulky, at other times wild and uncontrollable.

The two child ani-haru absolutely ferocious—they shout at each other in these deep husky voices, nothing calculatedly cute or pretentious about them. All quicksilver spontaneity and confidence, unleashed like lightening in a child body. One is smaller, with very burnt rosy cheeks. I ask them how old they are. I thought, maybe 8 and 10. “Eghara,” says the burntcheeked one. She shows me on her fingers—eleven. I asked the other’s age. “Eghara, eghara,” they clarify, pointing back and forth. They mean they are both eleven, but from now I will always think of them as the Eghara.

tromping the hills around Muktinath

Can't seem to shake this fatigue. Don’t know if it’s altitude or what. Can't go more than twenty paces wihout heart racing and out of breath.

Sitting on a flat rock overlooking the ravine. Just out of sight are the white walls of Muktinath. Water running, wind humming, crickets buzzing, earth pulsing, silence. Green and rust gorse on the side of ravine, sandy and golden grass. Motionless puffy clouds covering grey mountain peaks. Beyond that, larger snowcapped mountains rising to sharp pyramids.

The other night--dreamed I flew--not in the halting, crashing way I usually fly in dreams, but soaring, leaping off mountains and coasting over valleys. When I was small I had a recurring dream. A valley nested in mountains, and a clear lake. Coming home to it, walking. Muktinath is not that place—it doesn’t really look the same—but I have a quick throb of recognition, when I see the shining lake below—the vastness.

One nun gives me the creeps. She’s very old and just stares at me like a furious deathshead. She walks into my room looks at all my things, and then said something that could have been, “get out,” or “fuck you.” She has very white hair and never smiles.

Evening:

Walked all around the rocky hills to the south. Forgot myself in a way I can't when I'm inside the walls—even when I'm alone in a gompa. Wandered further and further away, unwilling to lose sight of Muktinath for some reason, but drawn to the next hill over and then the next, losing the path, going where the paths stopped. Then I felt at peace, and excited, and I played in the stone gardens, building and adding to the cairns others had built.

If I could bring two people here: Beatrix Potter and Andy Goldsworthy. Potter would love the thousand varieties of lichen. She would sketch the brilliant orange spores and pale green and yellow for hours, maybe sneaking a few into Peter Rabbit illustrations. Goldsworthy would make something beautiful—certainly one of his great stone eggs, the stone here is perfect—all different sizes and shapes, some grey and some orange. There are other possibilities too—bright yellow grasses like knives, tiny red and purple flowers, running streams of water everywhere, and morning light slicing the mountains like wet chrome.

Circling around the hills, struck by the beauty of the walled city in a way I couldn’t be when I first entered, fatigued and weighted. From every angle, different view. From one side the rolling, rocky hills. From another, snow caps and a great wall of mountains that look done in watercolors. The red specks could be nuns or Hindu women in saris, the faintly jangling donkeys could be carrying sacks of flour or lentils. I love the city best from outside. I love these white walls when they snake a twisted oval on my retina three hills over, not when they enclose me.

Nepali starting to come more easily, although the nuns seem to be conspiring not to use any of the 20 “essential” verbs from my phrasebook.

Mail-order Nepalese husband available

On the sunny terrace above the kitchen, the nuns are bathing. Uppal strips down to her backbrace and underwear and squats to have her head shaved. A Chinese tourist wanders up the stairs and asks if she can take a picture. Uppal gives her a withering look. She’s a formidable woman, with big breasts and belly and a voice like a storm.

There are two little nuns—they look about eight and ten. The smallest one’s legs spreadeagled, an oldfashioned petticoat dangling from her waist, squealing with laughter while she’s lathered up and rinsed by an older nun.

Diki Kunzum, one of the young nuns, tells me she’s 18 and she’s been a nun for six years. Before that she lived in Jharkot, the next village over.

The nuns keep calling me lazy, which I don’t think they mean as an insult. They say to me quite cheerfully, “You lazy?” I’ve no idea what they think it means.

A mysterious letter from the Maoist party makes the rounds tonight at dinner. Everyone takes turns reading it. Long discussion.

Before I arrived in Muktinath, I was hoping for hot showers and western toilets, but now I'm relishing the contact with the outdoors. Washed my clothes in one of the streams that flows out of the mountain, scraping and lathering on the shiny grey rock. They were frozen next morning. The nuns have given me a bedroom just opposite the gompa. Yesterday night I dreamed I'd been shot in leg—woke up, realized it was true. Found it was only the cold seeping in like knife.

Went to the mandir, the temple with 108 water spouts, to run an errand with one of the nuns. Long conversation with Rudri, the mandir gatekeeper. He’s trying to convince me to bring him an American girl to marry so he can make a lot of money in America. I told him that a lot of money in Nepali terms doesn’t go as far in America because everything is so expensive there. He explained, “Ah, but we live with economy, then bring money to Kathmandu, build house!” He promises to share cooking and cleaning, says she should be medium-pretty, but poor is fine (since you’ll make plenty of money together). Please send me an email if you’re interested in Rudri’s offer. He is the one on the right as you're looking at the photo. (Only serious inquiries please.)

The police officers, whose headquarters are at the mandir, got a huge kick out of the conversation. I'm a little afraid of them, but the nuns seem to know them all, and even slap and shout at them.

The two child nuns behave with a maturity I've never seen in children before. Watching them dig up roots from what looked to me like barren soil and heft huge pots of boiling water, it occurs to me that these children could survive quite well on their own if they had to. But of course, they will never have to. The community which supports them is so widespread and selfsustaining and flexible that although they may sometimes be cold or even hungry, they will never be alone. The function served by these women seems to be entirely different from that served by, say, Western Catholic nuns. Catholic nuns could be wiped off the face of America and nobody would notice—they serve no important function in the everyday lives of ordinary American citizens. To wipe out Tibetan Buddhist nuns would be to rip a hole in the fabric of Nepalese culture.

Two young nuns standing in the doorway, the sunlight fading behind them, arms twined around each others waists, picking their noses with great absorption.

Muktinath at last

The way to Muktinath not well marked, though obvious in retrospect. The path exceedingly steep just after Kagbeni. I would bring a walking stick or two next time.

ALMOST THERE. Yesterday spent a lot of time before going to sleep pacing around the room and talking to self. Then, dreams were very narrative and wild. A lot of people beating up other people in the most cruel way—one woman pulled out an eye, held it up to her own eye laughing before tossing it on the floor. Cheerful sadism quite disturbing. Trying to shake the images this morning. The weight of my pack like iron, like knives in my shoulderblades.

Probably another 2 hours to Muktinath—I'm going really slow.

Stopped at Kinga for lunch. Almost there.

Exhausted. Stopping to rest every four steps.

Up—up—up. Last town before Muktinath, catch up with frisky German woman and her guide. “From here, not so much up,” the guide says, but it feels like up all the way!

Tourists coming out of the town gates: “All hotels are full!” I feel special because I have a place to go—if I can only find my way there…

Town is typical Nepali tourist town—“You ee-stop! Jes’ luk! Ee-souvenirs!” in voices that still sound angry and whiny to me.

Through huge gates—inside white walls of Muktinath—too tired to appreciate its beauty—every step an effort. More stairs. Up up. A fork. I go left. More stairs.

Flowing water—108 spouts. And more steps. A gompa. Deserted except for a single nun, seated crosslegged, her expression calm.

“You nun?” I ask in my demented Nepali. “You nun of Wengyal Lama?” She says yes, pats the rug beside her. I hurl off my bags and sit. She doesn’t speak English.

“I—Boudha—Wengyal Lama—Kagbeni, Muktinath, kaha ani-haru?”

I think she understands who I am. She guides me down the stairs and this time we take the right fork, to the nuns residence.

Uppal looks like her brother. She’s standing outside the gompa bawling out some men. To my ears, it sounds like she’s cursing them with infertility and acne, but she could just be saying, “And don’t forget to give your ma my love!” The first nun leads me into the gompa, where several nuns are seated and chanting. I sit with them.

Uppal comes in. Big smile. “Ah! Wengyal Lama?” I say yes and she speaks rapidly to the other nuns. They all smile and nod. The one next to me offers me a blanket.

I sit with the nuns until they finished evening puja—prayers, chanting and music. Puja is much more like, say, a Baptist revival than a Catholic mass. The nuns chatter and laugh occasionally. Two young ones next to me comparing nail polish and writing on their hands with ballpoint pen.

Kagbeni, en route to Muktinath

In an unexpected confrontation, the Maoists take 1000 rupees before letting me pass, which makes me cry and rage inside. I'm quite short on cash now.

Kagbeni’s adorable, with lots of fuzzy calves and sleepy dogs and happy children. Threshers in red and gold fields. No beggars.

Hotel Annapurna run by competent and friendly young woman who speaks excellent English. Exceptionally clean, with large rooms and attached bath (Western toilet) for 150 rupees. This is a fine place for a first time trekker to end the day, although I bet more experienced people go straight on to Muktinath. It’s only 1 in the afternoon but I'm really tired.

I wonder what Muktinath will be like. I very much want it to be clean and developed with proper bathrooms.

A frisky, friendly German lady with short white hair takes a long time to decide where to sit, how she wants the lights, what she wants for dinner. Lots of moving around and questioning the menu choices. The didi very patient with her—even speaks a little German.

Kagbeni en route to Muktinath

In an unexpected confrontation, the Maoists take 1000 rupees before letting me pass, which makes me cry and rage inside. I'm quite short on cash now.

Kagbeni’s adorable, with lots of fuzzy calves and sleepy dogs and happy children. Threshers in red and gold fields. No beggars.

Hotel Annapurna run by competent and friendly young woman who speaks excellent English. Exceptionally clean, with large rooms and attached bath (Western toilet) for 150 rupees. This is a fine place for a first time trekker to end the day, although I bet more experienced people go straight on to Muktinath. It’s only 1 in the afternoon but I'm really tired.

I wonder what Muktinath will be like. I very much want it to be clean and developed with proper bathrooms.

A frisky, friendly German lady with short white hair takes a long time to decide where to sit, how she wants the lights, what she wants for dinner. Lots of moving around and questioning the menu choices. The didi very patient with her—even speaks a little German.

Pokhara folks wake up extraordinarily late, compared to KTM. If you’re an early riser, this will give you a pleasant respite from the touts.

The lake is dark silver, flat and glossy, and a boat ride costs just 150 rupees, or 200 with the boatman. I don’t have an hour to spare, though, so I sit by the lake for a few minutes, watch some boys in white practicing a martial art, and then go to find breakfast.

Pokhara airport. Worth getting there a few minutes before check-in gates open, to get in line. Whole process moves pretty quickly. You check in, pay an “airport tax,” then stand in another line for passenger security check-in. Separate curtained rooms for ladies and gents, which looks promising: you're hoping for a full-cavity, but no such luck. A cursory glance through carry-on bag. No pat-down.

They don’t find the forbidden item I'm carrying on my person.

A short flight.

Jomsom:

No touts or piles of trash here. Paved wide street with more ponies than motorcycles, white stone buildings, clean air. Hotel strip right next to the airport.

Once you walk up and down the one main street ten times, it’s deathly dull. Paid far too much for an unpleasantly invasive massage, and changed money—a terrible mistake: crippling exchange rate and a 200 rupee fee.

Going mad for something to read. Read the Rough Guide cover to cover sixty four times.

Evening:

The lady-in-charge at Tillicho Hotel has the most irritating voice. The walls don’t go up to the ceiling so you can hear every single thing—the television blaring, tourists barking at each other, the phone ringing every four minutes. I'm never staying here again—I hate Jomsom.

In Pokhara

6 hour bus ride from KTM to Pokhara—cramped and hot, but uneventful. A horrible chorus of touts at the end of it, screaming at us to choose their taxi. When I checked into the hotel, I was so sick of the heat and smells and noise that I decided—I'm not going out—I'm just going to buy my plane ticket and crawl into bed.

After hot shower in private bathroom felt much better. The hotel telephoned someone who came over with a plane ticket for me, and a young man walked me to the internet café, holding an umbrella over my head.

Pokhara is essentially a lakeside resort. If I were visiting Nepal purely for pleasure, I think I'd skip KTM altogether and come straight here. It’s far more chilled out, with all the same conveniences. Even the cows are cuter than in the capital.

No end of dining choices here. Café Concerto is right on the imaginary line between North and South Lakeside. Patio and rooftop bar. Pale orange walls, dimly lit, light music and candlelight.

A hundred people walking by with candles. A banner: “Grand Success of the Summit Peace Talk, Compulsion for the Nation.” Everyone very calm. Most in Western dress. Cars weave their way through the crowd without honking.

A server with a lovely crooked smile tells me it’s a peace rally. “They, candlelight. Silent, because peace rally. So peace.”

(Later)

Cutting one’s hair with nail clippers only seems like one of those ideas that won't work.

Preparing for Muktinath

This morning. Wet and sunshiny. Lama in a beautiful pair of grey silk pajamas, strolling around the garden and looking at plants with great affection. He introduces me to his other brother, who lives next to the nuns in Kopan. Lama says that I don’t need to bother buying a plane ticket beforehand—I will have plenty of choices in Pokhara. I'm going to trust him on this one.

Lama says, “Tomorrow—you go Muktinath!”

I thought before he’d said I should leave on the 13th, but maybe he meant that’s when I would be in Pokhara. Anyway, I'm ready, so it doesn’t matter!

Today I’ll go back to horrible Thamel and buy a permit to enter Muktinath (2000 rupees) and a bus ticket (300 rupees—very cheap). Tomorrow morning: leave quite early for Pokhara, stay one night there, fly to Jomosom, stay one night there, walk to Kakbeni, stay one night, walk to Muktinath. Best to go slowly to avoid altitude sickness.

Day trip to Thamel

All the guidebooks assume one is staying at Thamel, and give directions starting from there. They say things like “you’ll come out onto the main road” and don’t indicate where to leave the main road if you’re coming from the opposite direction.

I was about 12 before I grasped that “north” was not the same as “straight ahead.” The concept of reversing directions also took me a while to master—i.e., when you’re returning, you turn left where you turned right on the way there.

Even though I now have a theoretical grasp of these concepts, I still assume on a subconscious level that the universe turns with me, which makes me a poor finder-of-places and a terrible video game player.

For once, however, I reached my destination as easily as planned. Thamel is about 4 km from Bodhnath, but it felt much longer. No wrong turns, maybe because I'd forgotten until I got there that I was supposed to get lost.

I immediately hated Thamel. The guidebooks deride it as a tourist ghetto, so I thought it would be like a mall, with clean bathrooms and places to sit down and rest. It is like a mall, but it’s noisy, crowded and brimming with pushy touts. Lots of people with face masks to block out the bad smells and the pollution. My snot is black tonight.

One comforting moment: I came around a corner and discovered that Alyssa and Kevin have organized a Monsoon Wine Festival. Thanks, Kilroys!

Ate lunch at a rooftop restaurant. A young woman in a sari stood over me and watched me eat. Whenever I looked up, she stared deeply into my eyes with a big grin, and said something that sounded like English might sound if seperated from the mother tongue by millions of light years.
Tried to practice Nepali on her, but her expression never changed. Finally realized she didn’t speak Nepali either (or else mine is so bad that she didn’t recognize it). Gave up after a few minutes. Wished she would stop watching me eat and go away.

Asked at a travel agency about going to Muktinath. They said, best to buy the Pokhara-Jomosom plane ticket beforehand because it’s the peak season.

Many Thamel stores are expensive even by Western standards—cheaply made shirts for $20 or $30. I did get a couple of things I needed, like notebooks and gloves.

Started raining on the way home, and I really did get lost this time. So I got a taxi. He said 150, I said 100, we settled for 120 and that turned out to be the very last money I had in my pockets!

Got dropped off at the entrance to the stupa, but no kora tonight—it rained hard for an hour and I was soaked during the 5 minute walk home.

Lately I keep seeing dead rats on the road. A large live one was running around in the garden this morning during breakfast. I cannot think of rats as furry friends no matter how hard I try.

Making plans for Muktinath

Evening kora is a habit I've become quickly attached to. This evening I dawdled up to Tsamchen Gompa and stayed there a while, watching the crowd around the stupa get larger as the sun sank. Spotted Lama’s distinctive, straightbacked figure as he strolled around one of the upper levels with his brother, so I went over. I asked Lama when I should go to Muktinath, and he said the 13th, which gives me a couple days to get ready. He suggests I bus to Pokhara and then fly to Jomosom, and then trek to Muktinath. I asked him if I'd be teaching the nuns while we’re still up there, and he said no, at least not in a formal sense, because they’ll be very busy doing puja, but, “You sit Muktinath some days, you no like, come back down, wait Bodhnath for nuns. You like, you sit for month, come with nuns all together.” I can't imagine not liking a grove of sacred pillars of flame and enchanted waters, but I appreciate Lama’s graciousness.

After kora, I tagged along with Lama and his brother to a couple of bookstores. We stopped first in Bodhnath Bookstore, and as we left Lama said to me, “I need book, they not have.” Then he said suddenly, “I need book? We need book? Which is right?”

“I need,” I said. “We would be both of you, your brother and you for example.”

“Ah…I need book.” He seemed pleased. “I practice English,” he added. Lama has a habit of talking about himself in the third person (as in, “When Lama small, Lama live at Muktinath”) which was initially confusing to me, and I found myself interupting a lot to clarify that he meant himself and not some other Lama. But now I wonder if he’s been calling himself Lama to me all this time because he couldn’t remember the usage of I. He used I quite a lot for the rest of the evening.

I'm realizing that when quoting Lama, the expressiveness of his eyes, hands and voice is lost in the writing. His words alone don’t convey the quintessence of his personality, since his English vocabulary is limited. I look forward to learning Nepali and being able to understand him better (and hopefully to do better justice to him in my scribbles).

Went to Dharma Books next, and Lama found the book he was looking for. A beautiful Tibetan book, long and skinny with a dark red cover. Both Boudha Bookstore and Dharma Books are largely Tibetan-language bookstores, with just a few books in English, mostly by the Dalai Lama.

Saw a guy nearly get his ass kicked on the stupa. I think he was trying to climb the upper level or something. I didn’t see exactly what started it, but another guy dragged him down and started whacking him. He cowered and ran off—counterclockwise, which made his attacker even more furious, since you're meant to walk clockwise around the stupa. It was the first violence I've seen since I've been here. People don’t seem to get angry in public. The traffic, for example, is the most courteous and unemotional I've ever seen. It’s crazy and dangerous of course, but nobody’s driving angry. They honk to avoid killing you, not because they begrudge you the street.

Tomorrow I'm going to seek out Thamel, which is the touristy area of Kathmandu, so that I can buy a few things I haven’t been able to find in Boudha.

Day of Three Stupas

"I realized how much of a schedule-rigid American I was when I was over there," Kelly wrote to me before I got to Nepal. "They operate in a totally different way and do a lot less scheduling in advance."

Kelly stayed with the Muktinath nuns two years ago, and throughout my preparations for this trip, her advice and support have been invaluable to me. Today, I got to experience for myself the truth of her observation about scheduling.

A knock on my door just before 6 am.

"Lama, whole family go stupa, you also go?"

I translated this to mean, "Lama’s immediate family is going on their daily morning stroll around Bodhnath Stupa. Would you care to join them?"

It actually means, "Lama’s extended family is going on their annual pilgrimage to three stupas, one of which is a two-hour drive over dirt roads up an unbelievably high mountain. Would you care to join them?"

As we get into a truck, Lama explains that today is an auspicious day in the Tibetan calendar. The three-stupa round, apparently, carries a lot of merit. I feel privileged to accompany them, although still not sure what this entails. "Last year, nuns also come," he recalls. "Nuns like family. Lama’s whole family. Now, also you." My initial disorientation on arriving in Nepal has continually been eased by the generosity and friendliness of Lama and his family. Cheerfulness and good humor shines from their expressive faces and hands.

I ask Lama who all the people in the back of the truck are. He repeats, "Lama’s whole family."

"But who are they, exactly? Your nieces, cousins…?" I feel rude for insisting. I do get it figured out that the man in the back seat with me is Lama’s brother, and the man driving is no relative, but the hired driver for the truck, which belongs to a school which with Lama is somehow involved. I think the woman is Chime’s sister, the four girls are her daughters. Lama’s wife and children are also in the back. Everyone laughing, talking.

Swayumbhu

We go first to Swayumbhu, which is also known as Monkey Temple because of the numerous monkeys clinging to the walls and darting across the ground. One of the little girls scrunches up her face and huddles close to Apple whenever the monkeys are near.

“Do they bite?” I ask Apple.

“Sometimes,” she says, smiling.

Namobuddha

Next on the list is Namobuddha. The little girl who was afraid of monkeys becomes carsick and is vomiting over the side when we stop for tea and biscuits midmorning. I ask Lama if I should switch places with her and he said, “No, she doesn’t like to sit inside. In the back, family talking talking!”

We go on, always continuing up, impossibly high above roads and houses and farms. I think, “This is how high airplanes go.” A web of colorful Tibetan prayer flags appears in the distance. Now we’re on a road, which, if stood on its head, would make an excellent climbing wall. The jostling is so strong that it aches my breasts, and I cross arms over my chest discreetly. There are times when we go around a bend and, from my perspective, the road disappears, so we’re suspended over the void. The passengers in the back squeals and shouts. This is the best family outing I've ever been on. Before I left Colorado, Nick and I had planned to go to a Six Flags amusement park and ended up having to cancel, but this roadtrip is as thrilling as any roller coaster.

I look back. Two of the little girls are standing up and dancing in the truck.

We come around a curve just in time to see someone vomit out the side of a large bus, coming full tilt towards us. Our truck and the bus brake to avoid colliding. The bus is packed full, with people on the roof and spilling out the sides. There’s only room for one vehicle on this road, so our driver backs up until he can pull over to the side and allow the bus to pass.

When we get there, we eat a quick picnic lunch and Lama greets the head of the monastery. We hike up to the shrine where Buddha, in one of his incarnations, offered his body to a mother tiger and her cubs. (Later, Lama tells me the story in his own words, so evocatively and descriptively that I can't do justice to his version by repeating it, but lots of version can be found by googling.)

The women and children take lots of pictures while Lama and his brother do puja in front of the shrine. Prayers, meditation and ordinary life seem to be intimately bound up here—Lama’s wife interrupts the men to ask where her son is, and the children walk behind them to talk and point at the view. Nobody ever gets angry and says, “Don’t bother me, I'm being spiritual!” Lama’s son hates having his picture taken and his mother and sisters get a great rise out of sneaking up to him and snapping his picture.

Plenty of other pilgrims here today, although it’s nowhere near as crowded as Swayambhu. I'm the only Westerner, but there are Indian and Nepali people as well as Tibetans. A pilgrimage, social event and family outing all in one.

We hike down to the stupa itself. Lama tells me that last time they were here, one of the nuns fell on the path. I'm barely managing to keep my balance in Tevas, but many of the women are wearing high heels. Lama’s wife is one of them. Her strap breaks. She laughs and says to me, “My shoe—completely gone!” She walks barefoot down the slippery slope.

We stay at the stupa for an hour or so. Lama and his brother do more puja. They hold out a bundle of prayer flags to me. “Bless it! Bless it!” the childen say. “Touch with head.” I touch my head to the bundle. “Later, burn,” they explain.

The small girl who was afraid of monkeys takes pity on my ignorance and leads me inside a shrine. “Come, come.” She shows me how to prostrate to the butter candle encircled Buddha. When we’re done, she nods with satisfaction.

A man climbs onto the stupa, whitewashes it, decorates it with gold paint. Lama tells me that he has sponsored not only this stupa but the other two stupas. I don’t know if the amount he names, in thousands, is in rupees or dollars. “It’s very lucky,” he says with a big smile. “This day, and visit three stupas, and Lama sponsor. Lucky. Good omen.”

Later:

Back in the truck and down the mountain again. Before returning to Bodhnath, we drive into a small village and come to a temple. It looks much older than the other places we’ve seen, but I don’t know if that’s just because it hasn’t been renovated lately. There’s a scaffold around the main shrine and it looks like some work is being done. We take off our shoes and go inside. It’s dark and moist. A man sits near the shrine. We give him rupee bills and he gives us red paint to daub our foreheads with, and a flower. This seems like a more local event—there are only a few other people here, and no Westerners except me. Yet nobody looks at me strangely or questions my presence.

Back to Dragon Guest House to rest for an hour, then join the pilgrims at Bodhnath Stupa. I follow Lama and his brother on a stroll around the upper level. I can hardly take in everything I have seen and heard today. Even after only a few days, Bodhnath Stupa feels comfortingly familiar to me. The sun is setting. A couple of Korean tourists stop me to ask me to take a picture of them. “You look so peace, we did not like to disturb,” they say apologetically.

As I walk to catch up with Lama, a tall white man with a camera stops me. He’s also a guest at Dragon. “Excuse me, who was that man you were walking with?”

“That’s Wangyal Lama,” I tell him.

“He is rinpoche—yes?” His English is excellent but heavily accented—German, Swiss, I'm not sure.

“Yes, rinpoche.”

“His face is so strong! It’s not often that you see such a beautiful man. I wanted to ask him if I could take a photo, but he is so strong-looking, I did not like to.”

Having just asked Lama to pose for me a few minutes ago, and then casually asked him to photograph me, I suddenly feel shy. Had I imposed—or, worse, been unbelievably rude?

“You are not interested in Buddhism?” the man continues.

“Yes, I am very interested.”

“The reason I asked was that if you were a disciple of a rinpoche, usually you would be more afraid. You would not be so comfortable in his presence.”

I give him a strange look and he amends, “Well, maybe not.”

I'm not sure why I wouldn’t be comfortable in the presence of someone so kind. I'm more often than not afraid of people, or at least hugely anxious, but I tend to assume that has more to do with my own insecurities than who the people are.

Now that I think of it, I'm less frightened than usual around great and wise teachers, precisely because they’re so relaxed themselves.

I don’t have the words at the moment to express all this. The man asks me a few more questions about Lama, and then stops to take more photographs. (“I'm glad I brought this zoom—I can get very close to people without them ever knowing.”)

I catch up with Lama and tell him what the man said. “Ah, many people tell me I look strong,” he says. “I know this. But inside, I am not strong. Inside, soft.”

We sit for while. Lama and his brother pray and chant. He waves goodbye to a group of teenage monks as they descend the stupa. A few raindrops fall. We spin the prayer wheels and start home.

Starting to sink in

Yesterday I sat on Bodhnath Stupa for a long time. I'm feeling a lot more relaxed about being here. All the temples and little shops around the stupa suddenly came into fresh focus, and colors seem more vivid. I'd been feeling overwhelmed, out of place. For a while, Nick’s hidden love notes were the only thing sustaining me.

Today I'm going to go to Kopan Monastery. I woke up really early, before it got light, and got up around 5:30. It’s beautiful and crisp and damp outside.

The coffee at DGH has a distinctive, robust flavor, of which I'm becoming quite fond. Also advertised on the menu is real coffeeת דםI don’t know what it is I'm drinking.

I think tomorrow morning I’ll get up as soon as it’s light, and go for a walk before breakfast.

Lately I've been having a craving for chocolate—specifically Toblerone.

Just been served a brilliantly creative version of hash browns. I thought I was being offered canned peaches at first. Wedges of potato, in an orange sauce (turmeric?) with red specks (paprika?) and chopped onion and tomato. It bears no resemblance to hash browns whatsoever and is delicious. It was served very hot, along with a Nepali style omelette (a thin egg crepe). Subtle flavors of curry and something else I can't identify.

Kopan Monastery

Kopan Monastery is an enormous cream and red structure at the top of a hill, north of Dragon Guest House. Whenever I wasn’t sure of the way, I asked, "Hajur, kahaa Kopan Gompa?" (Please/excuse me/sir, where’s Kopan Monastery?) Two little girls walked with me a little way, practicing their English—"You have brother? What is your name?" while I practiced my Nepali—mostly, "Very nice!" and "I don’t understand…"

The library is incredible. You go up a few flights (you can look over the edge and see lots of baby monks running around in the residential area) to get to the giftshop, flanked by two libraries, Tibetan and English-language. The English-language library has every imaginable Dharma text—all the Buddha’s discourses, as well as modern teachers’ work—also a few novels, like Moby Dick, and some non-English language texts. Also magazines and journals. ("When reading dharma books, please sit appropriately," the sign says). The walls are lined with cushioned benches and a few Western-style chairs. You can sit and read for as long as you like, well, until a monk comes and says "Lunch!"

The café looks out over the valley—lots of green farmland and half-built houses and golden rooftops. Away in the distance, I can make out the Bodhnath Stupa. On a balcony below, monks robes drying in the sun.

I remember a teacher giving a talk at the Shambhala Center, in Boulder, Colorado (where I live). She said, "When you feel complacent or tired or disengaged—change something on the outside. Shake it up. Don’t wait until you feel ready, or think you deserve it. Take a level. Go somewhere. Do anything, and whatever you were blocking will come to the surface." That’s the sense of what I remember, but it probably wasn’t anything close to that—anyway, the words I chose to hear, accurate or not, seem very relevant now.

The Kopan Monastery convenience store stocks Toblerone.

Dragon Guest House in the morning

The garden: square and grassy with a little pavestone path and palm trees. Four square tables with blue and white striped awnings. Small brown birds playing.

Dragon Guest House is red brick with bluegrey and white trim. Vines and roses climbing all over the west wall. The floors stacked on top of each other, each one smaller than the last, as if they could be put one inside the other. Each floor has a large veranda.

Lots of noise and light: the woman next door washing clothes, people talking, different types of birds screaming and cooing and clucking and cawing. Far-off traffic noises.

The Nuns’ House in Kopan

We take a taxi to the house—Lama and his wife and son and daughter and me. Lama’s daughter’s name translates to "Apple," but I'm not sure how to spell the Tibetan word. She’s fifteen. Her English is excellent—she’s been learning since she was eight. Sometimes her parents ask her to translate for them. I think her brother must also know some English, but he doesn’t speak all that much, to anyone. Lama explains how Apple got her nickname: when she was born, the doctor said her cheeks were like apples. They still are. Under very bright black eyes.

At the moment, five nuns are at Kopan, and the rest are at Muktinath, where I’ll join them in a few days. Three of the Kopan nuns are in silent meditation, as Lama explained yesterday, but the other two are taking care of practical stuff: cooking, cleaning etc, so I'm able to meet them.
Not knowing much Nepali, the conversations are mystifying to me. From my point of view, everyone seems to do a lot of wandering around, pointing at mundane objects, and then laughing.

They’re probably just making small talk, like, "Hey, is that thangka new?"
"No, it used to be in the den. The dog kept trying to eat it."
Laughter.
"Well, let’s go pick the vegetables before I forget. You better take some of these chilis with you when you go."

Or they could be discussing the five realms, for all I know. I'm desperately eager to learn enough Nepali to communicate effectively. It would be convenient, if surrealistic, if everyone around me restrained their conversations to my phrasebook vocabulary: "What is that? That is a pen. Is this your book? No, that is Ram’s bicycle…"

The grass in the nuns’ garden is dense and springy to the touch, like thick moss. Lama tells me it was imported from Italy. At one end of the garden is a vegetable patch, with several red chili plants towering above some floppy greens. At the other end is an undeveloped area. Lama says he’d like to build a classroom there one day. "Now, nuns do puja, study, same place." He mimics nuns hard at meditation, and then chants "A, B, C…" He laughs. "Not good. This—"waving at the ground—"will be classroom."

"When?" I ask.

"Oh...when I find sponsor…"

Below the garden, the ground dips into a green valley, dotted with red-roofed houses and layered gardens.

Inside, pink marble floors. Lots of sunlight. A kitchen at one end of the house. On the kitchen terrace, a large shed open on one side. "This is kitchen in winter," Lama explains. "Wood, nuns cook. No gas."

* * *

"Do you play cards?" Apple asks me.

"Yes. Do you?"

"Only during holidays," she says. (It’s the end of Dasain, a major festival in Nepal.)

"Why?" I ask.

She thinks for a moment. "Not good for children," she explains, perplexingly.

Later I understand why: it’s a gambling game. When I ask Apple the name, she says they just call it cards.

* * *

How to Play Cards

Each player puts 5 rupees in the pot.
Each player is dealt two cards face up.
Place bets—usually 5-20 rupees but sometimes for the whole pot, if you feel lucky enough.
A third card is dealt each player, face-up.
If the third card falls numerically in between the first two—an 8 between an 2 and a 9, or a 5 in between a A and a Q, for example—the player takes their bet from the pot. If it falls outside the range, they pay up.

This is an excellent fun game. I give it four stars out of five.

* * *

I play for a while, but quickly lose all the small bills I have with me. The family and the two nuns play for a long time, with lots of laughing and mock arguments.

Jaws misses you

A woman comes out and said, "Ah, yes. Muktinath teacher?" She sends me upstairs with a girl and a key. I feel discombobulated. I ask the girl if that was Lama’s wife, Chime. She says yes. I follow her downstairs. Chime seems surprised to see me again. "Oh, Lama back one hour. You wait."

I unpack and find the rest of Nick’s hidden love notes in my baggage:

Somebody in America loves you.

Stay Safe.

Jaws misses you. (Our Siamese fighting fish. Nick has sketched him with huge teeth and almost as big as the bowl.)


* * *

Later:

"Lama calls you."

I go downstairs. I had pictured Lama as a jolly round cartoon Buddha for some reason, but he’s not, of course. Long gray-black hair tied back in a ponytail. Smooth oval face, serious and friendly at the same time.

According to the Tibetan tradition, he places a white scarf over my neck, which could have a nice moment except for my awkwardness as I try to remember what my role is. Am I supposed to give the scarf back at the end of our interview? Or do I just keep it forever now?

(In a dream last night which I've just remembered, I cut off the ends of the scarf, where the threads hold it, and did a weird little dance. I'm sure that’s not right though!)

Lama has it all worked out. He says in his pleasant, rather nasal speaking voice, "Today you rest. Tomorrow we go to Kopan, see nuns’ house. They do meditation now, forbidden to go top floor. Then, you rest four days. Then take plane to Pokhara, go to Muktinath. Stay Muktinath. After one month, with nuns walking walking walking. Then all together stay Kopan, nuns finish with meditation, okay to talk."

Still feeling a bit disoriented...

Tribhuvan Airport, Kathmandu, Nepal

"Driving in Nepal, not so good," the taxi driver says.

He swerves to avoid a 200-year old woman walking in the middle of the street, honks at a bus that’s coming straight at us, and passes a motorcycle with four unhelmeted passengers, two of them children. "Roads, like, bumpy."

He seems to be implying that the near-death experiences we are having by the second are not, in themselves, undesirable; just the unpaved roads.

After about ten minutes he pulls up outside large red metal gates: Dragon Guest House, owned by Wengyal Lama and his family.

Sleep-deprived fragments between Bangkok & Kathmandu

I meet a woman from Sydney in the bathroom, just before we board the last plane. "What part of Canada do you come from?" I didn’t know I had a Canadian accent. I file this information away in case I ever need to pose as a Canadian.

* * *

"I never smoked hashish before Kansas," the Nepali man says. "It’s very easy to get in Nepal, only I never tried it."

"You can get hashish in Kansas?" the American asks.

"Oh, sure," he says, waving a hand. "When I get home, then I’ll smoke some hashish, so I feel peace."

* * *

I feel great! Maybe a bit tired. I don’t understand why jet lag is seen as a problem. For non-chronic-insomniacs, I guess it might be unusually fatiguing. For me this journey was actually a pleasanter bad night than most of my bad nights. When I dozed and woke, it was nice there were other people close by, to dispel the night willies, and sophisticated women in luminous violet dresses served me food and drinks, which doesn’t tend to be the MO in my bedroom.

How Do You Say I Love You in Nepali?

Later:

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?" the American says, holding up a green scrap of paper he found between the pages of my phrasebook. In block capitals is written: How do you say I love you in Nepali?

I explain that my boyfriend had hidden notes in my books. I'd found this one in the LA airport, before I'd even left the States. I thought it was sweet then. When I reread it on the plane over the Pacific it had more poignancy. Now, held aloft by a stranger in Bangkok, it seems precious.

The Nepali man says, "When your boyfriend comes to visit you, he will call you timi." He’s not suggesting a new nickname. Timi is informal you, used for children and animals (so my phrasebook tells me). Nepali has several words for you—the other one in my phrasebook, the more formal one, is tapai.

I'm fine with Nick calling me timi, until the man goes on to say—"and you will call him tapai!"

"What?" I say. "We’ll both tapai each other!"

"I called my girlfriend tapai," the American reassures me. "He’ll just get made fun of a lot."

From Boulder to Bangkok

Been traveling for a day and a half now, mostly in the air. Boulder—Denver—LA—waiting—another flight—Taipei. Another flight. Lots of turbulence. Around midnight, or noonish by my body clock, we touch down in an enormous shopping mall, which turns out to be Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok.

The next ten hours are a blur of advertising. Win a Bentley a month and a gram of gold per kilo you weigh! Spa and foot massages available, as well as duty-free coffee, whiskey, clothing, purses, jewelry—all to the theme music to Chariots of Fire, tinkling out of the air. Every mile or so, there are four-poster beds and Muslim Prayer Rooms for resting.

Two men sleeping near the International Departures counter. The younger of the two is curled up on the floor, the other sitting with his torso tipped over his knees as if he’d collapsed midsentence. After a while they struggle awake and go get their boarding passes.

"Are you learning Nepali?" the one who was sleeping lying down says in an American accent, seeing my Nepali phrasebook. The other one comes over. He looks around forty, the American’s maybe twenty-five. He speaks to me in Nepali at first—I can't understand yet, but I'm glad to hear that I can tell where words end and begin. I tell them I'm going to Nepal to teach Tibetan nuns English.

"I guided treks for ten years," the Nepali man says. "My uncle has a trekking company. "If you have problems, if you don’t get visa, or you don’t find somewhere, call my uncle," he offers.

I show them my map and directions. "Don’t even pay this much, for a taxi," the American says, pointing to the amount Susan, my contact in Nepal, had suggested. "Say 100, and see what they say. But they see you’re new, and it’s like they can smell it. Just say ‘I know’—learn that much. Say ‘I know what the price should be.’ Act confident." (Later, I will end up paying 400 rupees.)

"Who wrote this?" the Nepali man asks, pointing to the devanagari sentences I’ve been practicing in my notebook—tapai angreji bhasho bolnu hulnu (Do you speak English) and maile bujhina (I don’t understand). "It’s better than my handwriting." I imagine it must look to him like non-native written Roman characters do to me—conscientously formed, childish in their textbook roundness. When I learned the devanagari alphabet so I could study Sanskrit, I never imagined it would have any practical use. I used to use devanagari to write privately in my journals, but now I'm going to a country where I can't use devanagari as a secret code anymore.