a journey through problems

I woke up at around two in the morning to find myself suffocating for lack of air. As I tried desperately to make some sense out of this new inconvenience, in my state of semi-consciousness I realized that we had forgotten to open the little ventilation window above my head. As I propped up the window- the boys snored away heavily, snuggling in their cozy sleeping bags, unaware of the fact that I had just saved all our lives. At five in the morning I was woken up again- this time by little droplets of water landing gently on my face. The dew had condensed into the innards of the tent overnight and now was dripping from the ceiling. I took it as nature's way of telling us to get up. I obliged. Attempts to distort this natural alarm clock by sealing the tent with garbage bags were to prove unfruitful in days to come. 

Tea was served. It is probably worth mentioning that people there didn't know how to make tea. Dawa gave them a crash course on tea making (along with the tea we had brought along) the other day when our tents were being set up. After lazing through the morning, we decided to do laundry- a noble idea as every garment we had smelt of sweat and mud by now. Washing clothes with river water is an experience not everyone can boast of. As I had just taken up David on the offer to wash his clothes in return of some other favor (I forget..could have been nutrigrain bars), some villagers from down in Ward 2 came down to meet us. As the only one who could communicate, I hesitantly handed over the daunting responsibility of washing clothes to the two white boys from the land of washing machines.

The villagers had heard of our arrival and were curious as to what kind of work we were there for. I told them that we had come to get an idea of what problems they had, and see if we could help solve some of them. Word travels fast in a village, and so does fabricated gossip. They confessed to me that they had heard that we were here to set up a trekking company. I assured them that as a bunch of kids living in a tent that leaks at night, we did not have the economic expertise nor the interest to make money off of their poverty. Convincing people of our authenticity was something we overlooked in our planning. But that was ok, we were there to learn as we go. They then invited us to visit their ward (where the only sub-healthpost of the VDC was located) and a few schools there the next day. The Phakumba VDC is sub-divided into 9 different wards, and given there were no roads or even trails discernable to the unacquainted eye, getting from one to another could take up a good chunk of your day. As darkness reigned and the temperature dropped from a good eighty to a biting thirty in a span of a few minutes, we hurried through our line of still wet clothes and put them into the tent for the night. We enetertained ourselves by playing soccer with the kids, games of rummy among ourselves, and by writing our thoughts here and there. Far in the hills you could see signs of sporadic settlement. The one to the east- with electricity- we assumed was Taplejung bazaar. 

The next day we made a trip down to the ward. Aakash, a kid from the house we stayed at, volunteered to show us down to ward two. He was a shy teenager with a friendly smile and an adorable rural sherpa accent. We'd grow fond of this little brother of ours by the time we would bid farewell to this family. But as of now we found ourselves struggling hard to keep up with him already as he cruised through the rocky hills. I was, for once, thankful for David's injured knee because it was saving me some of the embarrassment of being slow. We first stopped at a small school (Patidada lower secondary) that runs up to grade eight. We talked to the principal and teachers of the school and asked them for the problems they faced. Lack of government support, facilities, negligence to fulfill the legal quota for teachers by the ministry yada yada was the theme. Nothing surprising for me, yet. We promised to help in any way we could and moved on. At the healthpost the villagers were waiting for us. Plenty of surprises there! For starters- the Assitant health worker, in charge of running the health center was on a vacation and so was the nurse ! Therefore, the responsibility was handed down to the next logical person in the hierarchy- THE PEON! But this guy hadn't arrived yet. You couldn't really blame him. After all, it was only 2 pm in the day! Just FOUR hours late, if he were to show up then. A small line of patients waited patiently. Their non-chalant expressions hinted this was normal practice. After a few phone calls were made (some people do have the luxury of cell phones there), he showed up. A quick and dirty tour of the health post left us in shock. The health post receives twenty one medicines from the government every four months but runs out in the first month itself. Which means nine out of twelve months in the year- there are no medicines. The next alternative people have is to walk to Taplejung- eight hours! Common-cold could kill you here! No wonder diarrhoea is lethal. For once I was grateful for all the witch doctors around. If nothing else, the placebo effect must be saving a few lives here and there. Shaken, we made our promises and moved on. On our way up to the only secondary school (upto grade 10) in the VDC, we stopped by a small primary school. It was barely a school. What it was, was an infrastructure made of bamboos. But the effort was commendable as it was set up by a local youth on his own.  The secondary school (Mahendra Secondary School) was pretty big but looked like was in need of some serious renovation. The principal of the school, sadly, did not take us seriously and tried to dismiss us as tourists. A few teachers tried to be helpful. I ended up ranting about how his attitude was stereotypical of a defeated Nepalese mindset and that it accounted for the present state of the nation. We left the school, struggled up the hills, and crawled back to our tents, tired from the day. 

Although our experience within the house and the kids were memorable ones filled with novel and mentionable incidents, I feel the boys are better suited to comment on that. So, I will focus on the business end of things while letting them express their perspective on the culture. 

Home

We were finally there. But, as we began to realize following elaborate trails of bamboo irrigation systems, just how little we knew about this place. Phakumba is not a village, it is a conglomeration of villages. There is no town “center.” There are 9 schools and 7 districts. One health post. This was not the destitute village we were expecting.

That night, we stayed at Dawa’s house. Rolling out our sleeping backs and mats, we slept on the floor by a hearth. In the glow, children poked their heads in and out and Dawa came in with a few glasses of Tangba (a drink make from pouring hot water over fermented millet.) We drank. Refilled out glasses and drank some more. Dawa’s father, who we called Baba, came in. He looked nearly 80 and we couldn’t believe that he climbed these hills daily.

Smelling of smoke and feeling the altitude we felt the alcohol mix, and blur us into sleep.

The next morning, Suman and David woke up before I did and they went off to the out house for a very memorable poop. Apparently, it had been about 2 ½ days, maybe 3, since either one of them had defecated. I was much more regular, though an incident in which I mistook alcohol pads for butt wipeys made me feel their discomfort.

That day, we met with the VDC’s veterinarian. He was very helpful, and we chatted over morning Tangba and, what we deduced, pork fat. Afterwards, we went down to meet with a teacher and talk to him about what we were doing and see what problems he saw with the educational system. As we walked down the terrace slope, everyone knew us. News travels fast in a small village.

After that, we packed up our things, said our goodbyes and trekked off to Dorchi’s in-law’s house. Dawa told us it was ½ an hour away, so we had absolutely no idea how far it was. We hiked up. David’s knee, which had started hurting him on the final ascent the day before, was getting worse. We were doubled-up on packs, and relying heavily on our walking sticks for support.

We hiked through another Cardamom forest, simultaneously cursing it for being there and blessing the fact that they had it. At last, we arrived at the house. It was a 2 ½ story mud and wood structure that sat atop a large terrace and overlooked the effacing Limbu village and, very distantly, Taplejung. Dawa and his brother set up our tents and brought our supplies into the house. The family did not know how to make tea, so Dawa taught them. David and I did not normally drink tea, we did so because we thought it was the thing to do. It was a strange scenario.

There was a couple packs of kids running around with chickens. Dorchi’s youngest, Dulma, was there with her mother. I don’t think she recognized me from the time before. Dorchi says she has Autism, but we weren’t quite sure – not that we were experts. But she didn’t respond to sounds, could not speak, and did not seem to show an aversion to eye contact. It is quite probable that she has some hearing deficit that evolved into the symptoms of a disability. But, as Suman commented on her laugh, “that is probably the purest laughter in the world.”

This was to be our home for the next week and a half. Little did we know how much we would grow to care about it, and feel comfort when we ducked our heads into the smoke filled dining room for supper.

Conquering Mt. Phakumba

After the miserable bus ride, the freedom to walk around freely was a boon. Roads (well, spaces wide enough for vehicles to squeeze through), had ended right where the bus left us. After arranging for porters to carry our stuff, the journey began. Basantapur joins Sankhuwasabha and Tehrathum (districts of Nepal). We took to the Tehrathum end. The hills were inviting. Every once in a while, we'd run into a group of kids who'd hover around the boys (Sage and David) saying "Hello"; excited, perhaps, to have this opportunity to relate to strangers. Or maybe just hopeful that it'd earn them something in return- a foreign candy, for all it's worth. Regardless, the whole interaction was amusing to me as I tried to figure out which group exactly I belonged in.

As we stopped at tea houses along the way, during our five hour walk to Pachpokhari, we couldn't help but fantasize ourselves inhabiting this serene venue for the rest of our lives. The prospect of waking up every morning to the cool mountain breeze with the sun rising beyond the marmalade hills was too appealing. It was almost as if we had entered a worm hole and in 24 painful hours, transported to this place, distant from the hustle and bustle of civilzation (The infrastructure around would give one the impression that this motion took place simultaneously in space-time).

We reached pachpokhari at around six. A run down old cottage with smoke coming out from all its visible ends was where we were told we would be staying for the night. We rested our stuff, and went out for a stroll. The stars were magnificent. A homely dinner was arranged. We snuggled into our sleeping bags, slightly drowsy from the tongba (alcoholic beverage made from millet), as we tried not to think of all the things that lay ahead. We got up early the second day (14th Jan). Someone told us that a tiger had killed two goats in the house we stayed at. Now all the warnings from Dawa to not stray off too far from the house last night made much more sense.

Sage and I woke up to the annoying sound of kids shouting "malai pani, malai pani" (me too). Apparently David had introduced one of them to chocolate (Belgian, I might add), and now there was an army of little buggers wanting more of that stuff outside our window! As we set off for the day’s journey, we made it a point to stop by the fog harvester that we had seen on our way down the day before. Turns out the fog harvester did little to alleviate the huge problem of drinkable water that the village faced. After a few pictures, another day of treacherous walk up and down the hills began. The magnificent Mt. KanchanJungha smirked from a distance at our tiny steps. We stopped at Chauki, a cute village an hour away from Tehrathum- where we had noodles. As we'd find out later, if you plan to walk through the day up and down barren hills at an altitude of 3000 meters, having more than just noodles running through your system is a good idea. Sadly, we found out the harder way. Through shreemane and lampokhari, we reached guphapokhari at around six. The walk was bizzare in that you would move through barren desertlike habitat to a forest with birds singing in a span of few minutes. It was as if all the ecosystems of the world were neatly laid out in this small microcosm. And if it weren't for my backpack that was getting heavier with every step, I might have even enjoyed the walk. Guphapokhari (literal translation - cave lake) was engulfed in a sea of mist when we arrived. At a small guest house that was cleverly structured to pander to tourists trekking to Kanchanjungha through this route, we decided to take shelter for the night. More tongba, food, a few intimate stories and we snuggled back into our sleeping bags. That was the longest I had ever walked in a day, but the statement was to lose its truth value immediately the day after.

As we left Guphapokhari excited at the prospect of reaching Phakumba that night, little did we know that 3000 meters in altitude, David's injured knee, dangerous bridges with pieces falling off of them, hunger, severe thirst and extreme fatigue lay between us and our elusive destination. And one of our porters decided to desert us, so we all had extra stuff to carry. Sage, the strongest (looking) of us all, had two backpacks. And every time we would conquer a small cliff huffing and puffing on all our modern trekking gears, we'd find our porter- a thin sherpa, carrying more weight than the three of us combined, waiting for us patiently, smoking his tobacco. Did I mention that he completed the whole three day-50 pound trek in flip-flops, drunk? But that’s a different story. He was a quiet fellow, aloof and always looking far at the hills. "..In my country Platos and Aristotles might be plowing the fields somewhere, Edisons might be shepherding cattle in oblivion.. ", Devkota’s words spoke to me as I tried to imagine all the things that possibly went on inside his head. After the most painful walk of our short existence in this planet, we reached Chimphak (a village in Phakumba VDC), Dawa’s village at around seven. We had conquered our little Everest. But in the back of our tired heads, we knew the journey had all but begun. 

Day 2: Post Pee, Pre-Phakumba

Picking up post-urination where David left off, we were, at this time, approaching Dharan. A little history: Back in the day, Nepal was comprised of feuding Kingdom States. It wasn’t unified until 1768. The city of Dharan can trace its origin back to the 1500’s when it was the capital of the Morang Kingdom. In the 1950’s it was designated as a retirement center for returning Ghurkas. (Ghurkas were Nepali mercenaries who fought for the British. They are the most trained and lowest paid soldiers in the British Royal Army.) But, relatively speaking, their pension and organization has made them one of the prominent Social Development groups in Nepal. Now, the center has shut down and they have little to offer, other than a crudely geometric bell tower. When we got in, it range four or six times. I can’t remember.

It was pitch dark when we got in. Trees with sinewy, cavernous roots marked the center of the square. Dawa climbed on top of the bus and tossed our things down: 3 frame packs, our food rations and one, very large duffel bag filled with camera equipment, books and sleeping pads. He told us to always keep them in sight, reminding us yet again to be weary of theft.

The dilemma, as we were informed of in bits and pieces, was whether to get on the next bus to Basantpur. In some sense, this decision may have been made for it: the bus might not leave to Basantpur due to the Maoist Bandh. Himalayan times, a popular English newspaper’s headline read two days before our departure: Taplejung Closed for 14 days. Out of all the 75 districts, it had to be this one. Frequently referred to as the most remote area in the country.

Information does not travel fast here, or reliably. But, we heard accounts of starvation as no food was being let in, and nobody was being let out. The Maoists tend to avoid tourists, notably because the American embassy is almost as large as the old Royal Palace, but really, I think, because it is no one’s best interest to decrease the tourism sector.

Dawa was polite to the point of silence. Suman could hardly get any information from him, and Dawa could hardly get any information from the driver. If we stayed the night, we would have to find a hotel, and get on the bus the next morning. We were already strapped for time…

But, after another pee break, we boarded the bus. The passengers stared at David and I. It wasn’t uncommon, at this point, we were not in a popular touristy area. Most trekkers who come in search of Kanchenjunga or Everest take an internal flight. Not the 20 hour bus ride. But this was different. Suman looked over at us, “You have no idea how happy they are to have you on this bus.” And it was true. We didn’t. Apparently, in case Maoists boarded the bus, they would see David and I, check our passports, and categorize the bus as a tourist bus, letting us on our way.

We didn’t sleep well for this leg of the trip.

But, in and out of dreams, and, as I was informed of 8 days later, a small, carsick girl, becoming uncarsick on my shirt, we made it to somewhere-close-to-Basantpur. There, we eat noodles. Had mango juice, and, finally, began to get excited. This bus ride was a test of endurance. We were now at the finish line.

Much to the chagrin of Mr. Giri, David and I insisted that we ride the last 30 minute leg of the trip on top of the bus. The top of the bus, is normally reserved for luggage, that is strapped down, and children, that are not. The bus itself is something out of The Electric Cool-aid Acid Test and The Magic Schoolbus. It was a tank, with a metal exoskeleton of sorts that allowed a person, if they wanted, and they wanted often, sometimes while the bus was still in motion, to climb to the top from just about anywhere.

So we climbed up. Threw our legs over the side. Suman came up to make sure we didn’t kill ourselves. Dawa came up to see what the three crazy kids were doing. But we were certainly enjoying ourselves.

We took videos and photos, both of the mountains and the curious group of kids, who were also wondering What In God’s Name we were doing up here. But hey, anything beats those bus seats and, with the ice of adrenaline flowing through our veins, we were ready to go.

The city of Basantpur? Well…maybe not city. I mean, city is just a word right. A word that is commonly associated with places like New York or Kathmandu and, generously, to Cleveland. A place where there is a large amount of people and a vast congregation of buildings, huddling together. This was a road. Okay, road is a bit generous too. This is a long clearing in which things can bounce up and down on. Flanking said clearing, where shops, some of the last we’d see in quite some time. There was a pharmacy at which Suman stocked up on anti-colds, anti-diuretics and anti-candies. Suman’s anti-candies could be any number of things, from digestion pills, over the counter medicine, what have you. But, without fail, they all tasted like chicken feed and we, without fail, pretended to pop them in our mouths and threw them away.

This was the beginning of our trek. Our 3 day trek. Which, we were told was 2. It is unfair to write about the past, with the conceit of knowing the future, but I feel for the 3 of us, excitedly trotting along, as we had no idea what we were getting ourselves in to.

Cliff Surfing!! :)

Picture yourself on a bus on a mountain,
With miniature seats and terrible tires
Somebody tells you the bus might tip over,
A bathrooms our only desire

Suman in the bus with Dawa!
Suman in the bus with Dawa!
Suman in the bus with Dawa!

AHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh,,,,,,,...........

SumanonabuswithDawa.mp3

In case the mp3 above didn't work. The song above is meant to be played with Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by the Beatles. Why do this, you're probably wondering. Have they lost their minds, you're asking yourself. Yes. To a degree, yes we have. And if there is anyone or anything to blame, its the hellish bus rides from kathmandu to Bastanpur and from Taplejung to Baratnagar that consumed nearly 45 hours of our lives. An endless discomfort.  

We met up with Dorchi at the bus stop situated on the side of a relatively busy, smog and dust filled street. We were thirty minutes late but thanks to the nature of Nepali time, which works in hour long increments, we were actually thirty minutes early. While we waited for the bus to fill up with passengers, we conversed with Dawa, Dorchi's brother, who Dorchi organized to be our guide to Phakumba. Sage can probably describe this better than I can, so I let him elaborate later, but I'll say this about Dawa - the man is smart, completely approachable, and because of his build and character, he emanated bodyguard. The kind that you would read in middle school in a clunky Artemis Foul book. Offer the man a snack, he will refuse. But if that man offers you oranges, he'll persuade you to take it. If you need a walking stick, he'll be sure and chop down a tree to make sure you have one. While Dawa was watching our bags from potential pick-pockets Sage and I strolled over to a tiny booth-like hut not twenty feet from the bus. The orange and red of Cheese Balls compelled us to this place where Suman demanded we not pay more than 5 rupees for a bag of chips. I gave the woman thirty rupees and grabbed myself six bags of delicious tiny, air filled cheese balls. Within seconds Sage and I began to devour the cheesy nothingness but then
HONK. HONK. HONK We had to act lively, a bus will leave you on the side of the road if you're not ready to get on when that wonderfully imposing sound blares. A man on top of the bus called for our 4 bags (3 frame packs and 1 very oversized duffle bag with tents and equipment). After strapping them down, and removing any loose and easily removable items, we hopped on the bus and sat in our seats. Sage and I sat in one section and Suman and Dawa (our guide) sat in the other.  Thank you Suman. Not too long after that we were off.
At this point in the bus ride, I was naive. Hell, As we cruised down the busy streets of Kathmandu, I let the dust drift through my large, open window and into my lungs so that I could 'feel the open air and gaze down at life'.  My relative discomfort had yet to be exacerbated by steep cliffs, gangster bus drivers, and a narcoleptic butt. I was mesmerized by the novelty of being transported through rural towns, bustling cities, and flowing hills. But before long, I realized that reality wasn't going to tolerate my romanticism.
Then there came a tingling. Distant first, it grew into a sensation so immense it could be felt far away in the capillaries of my pinky toe. Not a moment before we were swooping around cliffs, did the jostling bus dislodge the integrity of my bladder and the subsequent flood inundate my patience. I had to pee. I had to pee. I had to pee like I never have before. I moved around, tried this position, that position. I had to hold to my junk, I was worried. But this bus careened through the coming night without the slightest indication of stopping. The fear of ruining myself on this densely populated bus while sitting next to Sage set my pupils ablaze as my scattered brain attempted to process a solution. These were my options:
1) Force the bus to stop.
2) Lean out the entrance to the bus and let the stream go with the wind.
3) Cover myself in my jacket, slowly take down my pants, and work a water bottle into a position of relief.

The wannabe gangsters conducting the bus were in no way going to stop this bus while whitey American went off by himself - off to some cliff- to let his pee loose. They have a schedule and these guys will do as they please. So option 1, no way. Option 2, logistically how could I possibly do this without potentially peeing on everybody in the bus and being deemed an incorrigible human being. Thus, I chose the third option. I turned to Sage, informed him of my predicament - And this is how you know a man's a good man and an even better brother, - when I told him he livened up and was trying to work with me through the process. I had to have a strategy, you see. I was erupting. Finally, I pulled down my pants just far enough to well, you know, and then I, well…. BUT I couldn't do it. No matter how hard I tried. Whether it was the notion of indecency my mother inculcated in me or a simple failure in the mechanics of my physical position - I just couldn't. Fearful, I shot back at Suman and asked if there was any way that option 1 was still an option. He was doubtful. He turned to Dawa and asked how long before the next stop - Dawa said thirty minutes. 'FML'. I know this sounds dramatic but let me tell you, I would rather be punched in the face a few times then feel that awful discomfort.  Soon, my leg started to shake uncontrollably, sweat began to pour. Then, before I knew it the bus had stopped - I scrambled around like a freshly decapitated chicken and ran off the bus, past a restaurant, and into the back where I chose the closest stall and peed for what felt like ages. It was beautiful.
Ate some food, hopped back on the bus, and thanked Dawa's perception of time for working in my favor. In terms of discomfort, nothing quite measured up to that but as the night hours rolled by, new sensations corrupted my peace of mind. But after a night of freezing cold from the window that would periodically open on its own, but pain, bus switching due Maoist strikes, and little girls vomiting on Sage, we were ready to get off this eternal ride.
Had it not been for the terraced hills and crystal rivers, insanity would have surely devoured everything instead of a little nibble.

and.. off we go, or do we?

A few days before our trek we went up to meet a prominent leader from Nepal Communist Party, Maowad (also known as Maoists in pop culture). The plan for the meeting came about as a consequence of scattered bits and pieces of unreliable information that was relayed to us via not-so-authentic sources. But given that all our knowledge on the place we were going to was based on such information, we thought it was only fair that we treat this new data as seriously as all the rest. In short, we’d assume it to be true. The information was that a branch of Maoists (YCL and Limbuwan) had been carrying out notorious activities in the region for quite some time. A few tourists (on their way to Kanchanjungha) had been asked for donations (euphemism, of course. I personally don’t think it counts as a “donation” when you have a gun pointed at your head…but then again, that’s just me) some years ago, when the Maoist insurgency was on its prime, and after that this route pretty much saw no tourists. Even Dorche apparently had to flee from the village when he was last there for the fear of being made an offer which he couldn’t refuse (Godfather, anyone?). So, long story short, we wanted to meet this leader and have him assure us that should things go wrong he’d have our back. Mind you this is no ordinary leader. If you make a list of top twenty leaders for the Maoist party, he’ll make it. We will not reveal his name, just to be all secretive and cool.

It was dark by the time we went to his house. The conversation with Anil took longer than expected, partly because the man was overly nice and sincerely wanted us to know what we were getting into. So, instead of reaching New Baneshwor (the place we were being picked up at to meet him) at five, we arrived there at around six. In other words, we were an hour late to meet the leader of the Maoists! Not a position you want to be in, especially if at the back of your head you hear yourself saying that YOU are the only one who has to/can do all the talking (with no prior experience to count on). At a shady looking corner in New Baneshwor, someone came to receive us. I could hear my heart beating.

We were taken to a standard building. It looked like it was all Maoists living there- standard strategy. What followed was unexpected. A lean, frail and amicable figure greeted us and invited us in. I stole a quick nervous glance at his face. It was the face of a man who had seen enough of the world to know what he was doing. You could tell, he was in it because he believed in it (unlike most others who are there for obvious reasons). I, for all my efforts, could not figure out how to start small talk and be comfy with a Maoist leader. So, I started off with a sense of business and urgency. I conveyed our stance and what we were doing. I told him why we were in it. And then I found myself struggling hard to not let my frustrations with the party show in my tone. I mentioned the ever widening gap between the intellectual portion of the party and the on-field portion. He smiled. I did not know what to make of it. (On hindsight, I think he smiled at my naivety). I quickly steered myself on track and told him that we were not here to affiliate ourselves with any political party, but to make sure that no political agenda gets in the way of people who want to do good in this country. [Lemon tea was served.] I think I ended my speech with a question asking if he could guarantee that we would be allowed to do the work that we were here to do. And then he spoke.

He thanked us for taking the initiative to do such work. He told us that he was aware of the general sense of frustration within the public about the state of the country. But he cited examples from history to highlight that the transition from a civil war to peace is a gradual one and takes time. He asked for patience and belief. He also told us that he was aware of the activities in Taplejung area; apparently a group called Kirat (something) was creating some problems too (unaffiliated to the Maoists). He gave us his business card and asked us to call him should we be approached with evil intent. He also told us he would call the head of the Limbuwan group and make him aware of our presence. At the end he asked us to not be afraid and go in with the attitude that should things go wrong, we were smart enough to find a way out. That was the line of the day for me. We thanked him and disappeared.

The next day, nothing really happened. We saw a friend off at the airport. The day after was a bandh. On the eleventh, I passed my written exam for my license. We got ourselves PSDP t-shirts (pictures to be posted). We mostly shopped around for trekking equipments and such. At this point, we were set on leaving on the twelfth.

The day started all wrong. I hit the last possible pole in my driving test (had to pay a “fine”), was denied a visa to Brussels (because I applied in the wrong embassy), and I had no idea whether to leave with the boys or to wait and sort my visa stuff. Twenty minutes before we were supposed to leave, I decided to start packing- hoping that things would be alright, somehow. A few goodbyes, smiles, tears, and we were off. Dorche and Dawa were waiting for us at the bus stop. Instead of the scheduled time of 2 pm, the bus left at around 4:30 (not bad). Little did we know what we had embarked on was to be the most painful journey of our lives, yet. David will fill in the details as he knows the pain better than any of us. 

Posting

Hey guys,

As we had no access to internet while we were in Phakumba, en route or in Taplejung, we have decided to do daily/semi daily retroactive blog posts documenting our trek beginning Feb 8th.

Cheers,
PSDP