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.