May 10, 1990 - Syabru Besi - the Himalayas - Nepal - Journal Entry

Published previously May 17, 2023

Before leaving Kathmandu on the bus to Langtang Glacier, Lance and I each dropped two valium. The road was reputed to be extremely treacherous and neither of us wanted to experience the fears upon seeing shattered buses in the chasm.

At Thamel Market the driver loaded about sixty Nepalese onto the bus along with our guide, Dorge. Our Sherpa porters were on top with the packs. People were leaving the city.

Last night the army had cleared the streets with gunshots. The pre-democracy forces were calling for an end to the monarchy. The generals understood change meant them losing money. A strict curfew was enforced by the military. Protestors are arrested and shot at without warning. Lance and I also are glad to be leaving the city and sat on the bus' left side.

The bus headed north on a paved two-laner and climbed out of the verdant valley into a narrow steep-sloped chasm. The road was one vehicle wide without any guard rails. Lance was out cold, but I kept looking over the edge. The drop was a cliff and I searched the gorge bottom for any bus or car or truck wreckage. I spotted several far below the road. The Nepalese didn't seem to care about the danger. The Sherpas even less so. Lance remained in a blissful unconsciousness. After two hours I joined him.

We finally arrived in Syabru Besi at mid-morning surroune by the Himalayas.

Everyone got off the bus.

The porters were tossing down our gear. Dorge directed the effort. One grabbed mine backpack. He threw it to the ground. I heard a clink. I knew it was my A2 Olympus striking the ground hard. I opened the bag and checked the camera.

Broken.

I stuffed it back in the pack, hoping the damage might mend itself during the trek. The valium made delusion easy, as did the altitude. Lance stumbled from the bus. Drool on his chest. I pointed to the stain.

"Look at your shirt."

We were twins.

The Valiums had done their work. The New York architect blinked in the high sunlight. Sky scrapping mountains surrounded the small village. Dorge pointed to a restaurant. We were all hungry and the plan was to set out away after lunch. We walked up to a cafe. I couldn't see inside. Hordes of flies crawled on the glass.

"This place is filthy," I complained.

"Before filthy. Now only dirty," answered Dorge.

"Order food. We eat outside." I shrugged, because from here on in we would be eating our own food. If we didn't get sick from this, we never would.

Another bus pulled into the village. Mostly Nepalese, but two more westerners. They were younger than Lance and I and looked in good shape and their equipment seemed to be their own, instead of rented like ours. We were far away from our homes and I ordered a beer. Lance shook his head. He was Jewish and the Tribe don't have a reputation for drinking like the Irish. We are always home as long as there is beer.

Altitude - 1400 meters

May 12, Rinche - Lama Hotel - Langtang - Journal Entry

Published previously May 18, 2023

Day two Lance and I dined with the Sherpa porters, cooks and guides by a campfire outside the guesthouse. There is no electricity in this valley other than our flashlights and my Sony World Band radio. I turn it on, finding a scratchy Nepali station playing local pop sounding much like Indian music. The Sherpa are happy and break out their cigarettes. Damn, they love smoking tobacco. I think about joining them, but my lungs are torched by today's trek.

There was culture clash of endurance. We were hungry after the hard steep climb. The Sherpas seemed fine. It had been a hard trudge on the trail. They were carrying forty kilos each. Our load were small backpacks. They hadn't even broken a sweat.

"The first thing a westerner learns in Sherpa is 'Lo ngi' or "Carry this." The next is 'seng t'a nyi' or "Carry me."

Dorge says tomorrow the trail will become steeper and we will cross a landslide. I wonder if the Sherpas have as many words for steep as the Eskimos have for snow.

Lance and I drank two glasses of whiskey. Dorge said none for the porters or anyone else in our crew.

After dinner Lance and I went to our separate rooms. Our legs are noodled and neither of us are acclimated to breathing at this altitude.

The trekking crew remained outside by a fire. They smoked heavily and play cards. Laughter and cursing. I can't decipher the swears, but I can discern that they are all in good humor.

Working in nightclubs had taught me the menacing tone of calling someone something bad.

I turn on my Sony Word-Band radio

Nothing, but static in this deep valley.

No one here knew anything of the troubles in Kathmandu.

Several nights ago Lance and I had stood on the roof of our Thamel hotel. The protestors ran down the narrow street. The police were behind them. The soldiers trapped them and started shooting. They spotted people watching from the roofs and aimed up, aimed, and pulled their triggers. The officers had told them that this was a communist uprising and they were going to kill the king.

Kathmandu didn't exist here.

There was the trail and the villages and the river and the Himalayas covered with snow.

After this I was flying to Paris with stop-overs in New Delhi in Frankfurt.

No one was waiting for me at either terminal.

I had friends in Paris.

I would call them once back in Kathmandu.

There are no phones here.

Only word of mouth.

All I am is a trekker in a lodge by a cataract raging through the valley. I open the window. A billion stars are overhead. Something strange about the ground. Millions of fireflies carpeted the grass. Blinking like the stars. This place is magic. I breathe in the thin air scented by pines and fire. Only the earth, the river, and the smoke of a smoldering fire.

We're heading higher tomorrow.

No one on the way but us and Sherpas. Yaks too.

The poverty here is crushing.

Porters are paid $2 a day.

We're paying ours $5.

They're carrying forty kilos. My pack weighs five.

Just so I can see a glacier at the end of the trail. The room next door is quiet. Lance is asleep.

Outside the Sherpa have fallen asleep.

It's only 9.

I lay my head on the pillows.

Dreaming of the Cafe le Flore in Paris.

May 21, 1990 - Kathmandu Nepal - journal Entry

The setting sun silouetting the Monkey Temple transports me evokes eternity. This city below the Himalayas was famously one of the great stops of the the Silk Road as well as the Hippie Trail through Asia; Kabul, Goa, Kuta, Koh Saen Road in Bangkok, and Bali. I've been to four of them. I can't find the hash I had bought at the trailhead of Langtang Glacier. Two grams. It has to be hidden in my bag and I'm worried that the flics will find it at Charles de Gaulle aeroport. Douane officers are skilled at finding things, which is not lost, but can not find.

This morning he threw away the clothes, since he was leaving for New York. The architect had been a good travel companion on the trek to the Langtang Glacier. I don't really like reefer, but I do like opiated hash. There is plenty of hash in Paris, but nothing as good as here.

I wonder if anyone in Paris will talk to me. It's been eighteen months since I was last in the City of Light. I called Olivier from the GPO and he replied to my request to crash with him with a warm, "Quais." but almost as if he had something to hide. Like Cindi had returned to LA or he was fucking one of my old girlfriends or he was snorting heroin or didn't have any money. Not a problem since I could always work for Albert at the door of the Balajo.The uncertainty of what awaits in Paris has my mind working overtime. Is NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD my salvation?

Time will tell.

I read about the Yusef Hawkins trail verdict in the Herald Tribune. Joseph Fama was convicted of second-degree murder. White versus black. Race war. I haven't seen any of that out here, although the Nepali army responded to the call for freedom by shooting the protesters and the same had occurred in Bangkok.

Four months ago Andy drove me to JFK on the BQE.

Hopefully tomorrow there's a USA direct phone booth in the New Delhi Airport, so I can call New York. A six-hour lay over awaiting the Air India flight to London then back to Paris. No one will be waiting for me there. I have used New York City to gauge cities on this trip. the best were Penang, Bangkok, Chiang Mai, and Kathmandu. I was happy to pass fast through Jakarta, Medan, and Singapore.

Returning to the East Village isn't so appealing, but I have to renew my lease in August and pursue a literary career, instead of working on 47th Street slinging diamonds. I'm checking out of this hotel in an hour, having survived the attack of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. I must have killed a thousand last night, even though I taped over the windows and door with masking tape, leaving smears of blood from my smashing them ith a rolled-up Herald-Tribune.

A taxi will take me to the Kathmandu airport.

No more lepers, no more beggars, no cows wandering the streets in a bovine stupor, no distant drumbeats, no monks, no cremations, no raga dirges from the Monkey Temple, no naked fakirs, no communist rallies against the king, no smiling sherpas, no temples of the Dhubar Square, no glancing north to the gleaming snow peaks of the Himalayas, because today belongs to a plane.

Leaving Kathmandu.