Susie told me she’d originally given two dogs to the ani-haru—“but I think they let him out and he ran away,” she says about Gunga’s brother. I ask Chenzom about it and gather from her emphatic monologue that the other dog fought so much that they gave him away, and he’s now living happily with a man and a friendly tiger. I look forward to telling Susie that Gunga’s brother is alive and well, but a conversation with Lama’s brother Pujong, whose English is very good, reveals that the dog was in fact given to the neighbor, but subsequently eaten by a leopard.

Today, watering and hoeing Pujong’s vegetable garden with Diki Kunzum and Palsung. I asked them if they’d been working like this since they were small. Palsung said, “Every day. Not work, our mother—” She makes slapping motion, laughs. “You every day school. You lucky.” She says in her next life she’d like to be one of the touristpeople—“nun only Muktinath, Kathmandu. Touristpeople many many trekking. I like same same touristpeople.” She asked me if I'd like to be a nun. I said I would for a short while, but not whole life. Palsung, suddenly serious: “This not possible. Nun whole life, not short time.”

“I happy, I cry. I unhappy, I laugh,” Palsung teases. Something about her seems an embodiment of crazy wisdom. She has an absurd tongue-in-cheek sense of humor and is often deadly serious in the middle of her joke. I tell her that when I first came to Muktinath I thought ani-haru were like Superman. She says, “Superman strong, but mind slow. Nuns also mind slow.” I say no, they know 3 languages, they’re not slow at all. She says, “We broken Nepali and Tibetan.” But their Mustang language is not broken, I tell her, and she asks rhetorically, “You English broken? We Mustang not broken, same same. All other broken.”

We are finished hoeing. Diki goes to help Pujung in the other part of the garden. Palsung makes four furrows, drops seeds into holes. “You say you like nun with lips, inside heart no like. I say I no like with lips, inside heart like,” she confides.

Knowing I’ll have this large quiet room in Pujung’s house, to be alone for an hour or two at the end of the day, frees me to engage actively with the ani-haru during the day—I no longer feel the need to “escape” their shouting and squabbles and chaotic activities, and can appreciate their vitality and enthusiasm more fully.

“I think, America visa, Nepal visa same same,” Palsung says. I'm explaining about needing to go to the immigration office, and she joked that she would go with me to get a visa and go to America. I tell her that each country requires a visa for foreigners. “You lunch here?” she asks. I tell her the line might be long or short, so I don’t know. She suggests, “You office, little hungry? You bread in plastic?” So I take a piece of roti, warm from the frying pan, and put it in a plastic bag. The visa process turns out to be fairly painless, and the taxi driver is enormously helpful in escorting me around and then waiting to take me back home.

When I return, one of the little Eghara explains to me at great length, that of course, I could take her to the United States with me, and it was naughty of me to say that I couldn’t afford it. How did she know this? Because I brought her a bar of chocolate from Boudha the other day, so she knows I can afford anything.

After lunch, ani Kendo spins white wool into yarn, using a wooden spindle in a porcelain bowl. She winds a sheet around her body to protect her robes from the bits of wool fluff that float around her and blow through the courtyard.

Bought a surge protector today. The ani-haru: “Ah, protector, this same same like god?”

Later, eating vegetable momos at the end of a long day, the ani-haru tell me: “We very long puja. We puja, then protector happy. We no puja, then little angry. We many many eating, protector little angry.”

Senduk wags and hops when I open the accordion-style gates on the front wall of Pujung’s house, where I will sleep from now on. No barking or trying to run out. He is the sweetest, most affectionate and docile pet. I sit for a few minutes in the darkness and stroke his long bangs. He buries his head in my knees. In the other room, Pujung beating a drum and ringing a bell.

After giving me what I thought was to be my own room, the ani-haru removed me from it a few days later, and I starting sharing a room with two ani-haru. My insomnia did not like this at all: the ani-haru talk loudly through the night, get up at four in the morning, and leave food and dirty laundry lying around in the bedroom. There is very little space for my things, so after nearly two months of being in Nepal, I'm still feeling unbearably unsettled, and long to be able to sleep a full night through.

Lama comes up with an odd solution for me: go sleep at his younger brother’s house. Lama’s wife Chimi shows me the house, saying, “Lama brother very clean. If clean, use shower, no problem. If hair, then he little angry,” meaning I mustn’t make a mess, which I found ironic considering the ani-haru’s standards of sanitation. Lama’s brother’s house is small, clean and tidy—the spare bedroom large with a great soft carpet. From now on, I’ll go down after dinner to sleep there, and return to the ani-haru’s house in the morning.

Walked up to Kopan Gompa, just a ten-minute walk from the house. Unfortunately, it’s closed until early December, because of a retreat for Westerners. Walking down the hill again, I pass a group of young Nepali teenage girls. They call out, “Hello!” and introduce themselves. They all wear jeans and pretty shirts, and their dark hair is pulled back. “Where are you going?” They had also wanted to visit the Gompa today, and are disappointed to find it closed to the public. When I tell them I don’t have any plans, they say cheerfully: “Let’s go together then!” and we go together—by bus to their home a short distance from Boudha.

They speak good English and are well educated. “We always say hello to tourists,” they tell me. “But they don’t like to talk to us. You friendly, like us!”

On the way to Poonam’s house, walking on a dirt path past shops and houses, the girls beg me to say I was lost at the bus station in their town. “We didn’t get permission to go to Kopan today—please, sister, help us! Or our mother will beat us with broom!” They laugh, but I promise not to give them away.

Poonam’s house is clean and bright, with lots of patterned fabrics and odds and ends. We go up on the roof. A little boy is running around naked. Another little girl is being bathed—water streaming over her thick dark hair. They give me a whole bowl of pickles to eat, so spicy my eyes water and I ask for a glass of water. I know the water’s not purified, but it’s time for my immune system to earn its keep. They feed me dal bhaat. The family is noisy and happy, but seem more sophisticated and well-mannered than other Nepali families I've met through the ani-haru.

At the front door, Poonam ceremoniously hands me a wrapped package in a plastic bag. “Small gift,” they explain. “We have never been so close with tourist people—now, you our sister!” I open it later—a plastic picture frame and a greeting card.

We go to each of their houses in turn and visit briefly. Each girl seems to have a four year old brother. Their mothers are all very different, but each of them friendly and interested. One older lady, who just had returned from a visit to Fargo, North Dakota,
said, “America giving lots of aid—thank you!”

Everyone asks to see Nick’s photo, and they all agree that he looks Nepali. “Your children, perfect Nepali!”

The girls guide me back to the main road and put me on a micro heading to Boudha, a packed minivan. Halfway there, the engine dies. The van fills with smoke, everyone jumps out in a panic! Another micro pulls up, “Boudha, Boudha!” I get on, and reach home uneventfully.

(Later I regret giving the girls my phone number, as they call nearly every day, to giggle and say, “Guess who!”)

After breakfast, told the ani-haru I was going to Boudha and I'd be back for lunch. It’s funny that the route to Boudha is the same route I walked many weeks ago on the way to Kopan Gompa, which is of course just around the corner from our house. At the time it seemed like quite an adventure, everything new, having to ask directions—now it’s quite ordinary.

When I got back to Kopan, Lama was standing by the front door looking nervous and expectant. “Where you go? I ask nuns, they not know, I little worry because my friend come, you not here, now good, you here, you also sit in house.”

Lama’s “friend,” I discovered only later, is Chatal Rinpoche, an important and venerable Nyingma lama. (Nyingma is one of the four Tibetan branches of Buddhism.)

We spent most of the day being very quiet—the ani-haru giggled a lot. Finally, we all huddled at the bottom of the stairs to watch Chatal Rinpoche leave. He was helped down the stairs and we just got a glimpse of him—a kind squarish face with a furry white beard streaming out. Even though, at the time, I had no idea who he was, I found myself quite moved, even shaken. We were each given a handful of cloves to eat and a red protection cord to wear around our necks.

Return from Muktinath

Dear friends, thank you for the posts and all the emails. I am back from Muktinath at last. I have much to share, but it will take me some time to transcribe my notes, so I'll be retro-posting over the next few days. (have been updating--scroll down to see)

Lama’s brother, Pujung, lives in a small house below the ani-haru’s house. He has a wonderful dog named Senduk (lion). The ani-haru are very strange to Senduk—I think they’ve just never been taught how to treat animals. For me, Senduk is gentle and obedient—he comes whenever I call him, and sits on command. The Eghara were bemused by this—they call him over and shout “Seet! Seet!” and smack his neck, and are bewildered when he doesn’t obey. One of the haired ani-haru asks me if it’s true people in America pay to own dogs. I tell her yes, sometimes, other times they’re free. They think that’s hugely funny—like buying dirt.

Moving into the Kopan house

From Pokhara, we rented a minivan and drove to Boudha in comparative luxury—nine ani-haru, Chimi, and me. The trip was uneventful, though bumpy. The ani-haru were exhausted and slept most of the way.

We arrived back in Boudha, then stayed a couple of nights at Dragon Guest House before moving into the large house in Kopan, where I will be staying from now on. Five ani-haru have been here all year, taking care of the house and doing puja and meditation. (In April, Lama will select a different set to stay in the house while the others go to Muktinath—they rotate like this year-round.)

Three of the Kopan ani-haru have hair, because of the practice they’ve been doing—in a few weeks they will shave their heads like the other ani-haru. The elusive Pema, of whom I read by candlelight, in my freezing room at Muktinath, is one of these haired ani-haru. Pema turns out to be an unbelievably pretty young woman with a gentle, confident way of moving, and full lips always on the verge of a smile. “You sleep my room, Muktinath,” she tells me, in a tone of voice that implies nothing could make her happier, and I tell her I know it, that I saw her notebooks there. If she minds that I snooped through her things, she doesn’t show it.

The ani-haru keep saying things like “all nuns go, you here sit” with no explanation of where they’re going, for how long, do I really have to hang out alone in their friend's house, to whom as usual they haven't introduced me—finally they reveal that Uppal is coming at ten, which is no guarentee of anything—

I think the plan is that Uppal and Chimi are coming here with someone else, and then we’ll take a bus to KTM while ani-haru rest here 1 day.

2 dogs fucking in the alley. Children playing on bicycle. I wait all day, watching things like this.

Around 4, K appears leading Lhamu Cheten, who seems subdued for some reason, and lots of women appear in the courtyard, including Chimi. I go down. Uppal materializes. Tea, then Chimi says, “I go now to friend’s house, you also come.” We take her friend and Uppal and get a taxi. Then we’re off to a part of Pokhara I'd never have imagined from Lakeside and Damside: not as noisy or polluted as KTM, no other tourists. Instantly in love with the noise of Nepal all over again—the fearless driving, the honking, the yelling. Went to friend’s house—after some tea, back in taxi and off to bus ticket seller to haggle over price for mini-bus—taxi driver shows up halfway through bargaining to remind us he was waiting and give us his opinion.

At friend's mother's house. Big square kitchen: large copper bottle-necked urns on shelf with “Laboratory” printed in bubble letters. Poster-paint sketches.

Beautiful old woman with strong, proud face and about a dozen gold hoops through the edges of each ear. Another woman with round, dark face and plump, and her daughter? Small, maybe 13—pouty lower lip—the creator of the laboratory and sketches, no doubt.

Chimi says, “You eat momo. You hungry.” They set a plate stacked high in front of me and I eat alone while they continue stuffing momos…I wonder if they are just trying to get me to stop stuffing—mine are terrible. Chimi’s fingers move so fast, I can't see exactly how she does it, but hers are perfect—moon-shaped with nice tucked crinkly edges. Can't get over feeling rude when I eat first. It’s unbearably bad manners to me, but here nobody waits for anyone else to eat, and there doesn’t seem to be any serving precedence etiquette.

Uppal says, “You tired? You sleep?” This is something else I can't get used to—being sent to bed like a child—but, there is nothing else to do, so I follow Uppal into an apartment next door. In living room, points to an old man watching TV—“This daddy.” She leads me into a bedroom, straightens the cover on an unmade bed, and says, “You sleep here.” Shows me how the light switch works, “No close,” she says pointing first to the door lock and then to the carpet. “Someone there.”

The young girl comes in. Expressionlessly, she shows me a photo of herself, which I admire, and offers me a banana. When I eat it with relish, she offers me 2 more, which I refuse.

The 3 women and daddy all share the other bedroom. Daddy snores.

Unreal, to sit here now in Hotel Tillicho once more, especially after having said I'd never stay here again. The ani-haru are at police checkpoint, doing something—they sent me on alone.

This morning I was all packed, drinking tea by the fire, when one of the Kancchis and the biggest police officer showed up: “Ready?” and when I fumbled with my pack straps, “You fast ready.” Kanchi, Yangzum Bhuti and the p.o. threw white kata around my neck and I raced to the main entrance to meet Karsung, Kendu and Kartok. Not sure what the rush was—we stopped several times along the way for tea and chatting with their friends. I thought we were leaving early in the morning to be sure and get rooms, but now they say they are staying at the checkpoint until evening, and will meet me here later—what is going on?

I'm in the same room as before. Feels so unreal. Last time I was here, I thought this place drab—now it seems luxurious. I remember I felt very confused and unsure of myself—I feel almost as unsure now, abandoned by the ani-haru without warning. I remember also being really annoyed by the owners’ voice—I hear her on the telephone now and it’s just an ordinary Nepali woman’s voice, not particularly annoying at all.

Everything so clean and bright—hard to take in.

Left at 7—it was 11:15 when I got here—and our stops probably totalled ½ hour—no wonder people before said it was a short distance! Fun seeing how different and yet the same it all looked on way back—bits which on the way seemed like isolated barren stretches which went on for miles now were short main streets running through ordinary Nepali towns. The ani-haru knew everyone and we drank barrels of hot tea. The Hindu priest from the mandir came with us, as well as the old ani I used to be afraid of—we lost her along the way.

Vegetable thugpa! Steaming egg, green onion, brilliant carrot, white onion—after weeks of nothing but ramen noodles and dal bhaat—and I can eat at own pace—sitting in chair! bright pink tablecloth—

Hard to believe the ani-haru will really meet me here—they seem part of a different world now—how easy to get on a plane, fly to Kathmandu from here, and back to Colorado—but no—

Later:

Ani-haru arrive—they are staying elsewhere—now it all makes sense! I wish they’d told me this earlier, so I could have decided for myself which hotel to stay in—it wouldn’t have been this one. I'm going to start asking a lot more questions ahead of time, since they aren't very proactive about telling me the plan—or maybe they tell me and I don’t understand. Tomorrow—tractor—we leave at five.

I have a BOOK a BOOK a BOOK—I went to the store and bought a thriller spy thing with wonderfully clipped British dialogue for 110 rupees—it’s only 4pm but it’s really dark out—about to storm—I've been starved for books these three weeks—how amazing it is to be in developed area—

A bizarre feeling not to undress in shiveringness, and fall asleep trying to get warm. I’ll never take this for granted again—it’s such a luxury—I've been reading my book in state of absorption——it’s such an ordinary, commonplace, poorly edited book—but I havent enjoyed a book so much since Harry Potter IV—what luxury this all is

Last morning in Muktinath. Went for quite a cold climb on the side of the hills where the sun hits last. Funny to think that when I first started exploring the hills, I thought the area was an isolated wilderness. Now I know the paths are frequently travelled; the ani-haru and other locals range all over that area collecting manure and firewood, and troops of pack donkeys often come through as well as travelers of all kinds. It’s lost maybe only a little of the enchantment, in the way that familiar things become ordinary—but at times a sudden magic occurs, like last evening when I saw a herd of deer standing motionless in a perfect circle while evening puja bells rang in the distance, as if listening.

This morning I kept to the path—it led up through snowsprinkled shadowy hills, but suddenly at the end arrived at a flat mesa, draped with sunlight, and a stone circle. A 180 degree view of the valley.