Three Weeks in a Remote Tibetan Village
- stemeillon
- May 6
- 26 min read
Updated: May 7
Where to Start!?
I'm typing on a French keyboard. Here's what it looks like when I type, "Elise help, where is the damn apostrophe?"
%Elise help; zhere is the dq,n qpostrophe§%
Anyway, please appreciate that this took a lot more effort to write than usual. This post is a bit longer, but I didn't want to butcher it into pieces. I’ll tell my story first, reflect on it, and then share some of my favorite journal entries.
Preparations
Spring approached in Nepal, as did the imminent arrival of high tourist season, and I decided to get the heck out of Kathmandu for April. Simultaneously, our lovely US government stopped funding the work I do in architectural solar research, sooo as I pondered my newfound joblessness, I thought—what better time to disappear into a remote mountain area for a month? Postscriptum: if you’re hiring, let me know 🤠.
I first heard about the Dolpo region in western Nepal from my dear friend Flore (for those of you following along, she’s the friend I went trekking with in December). She wanted to go, but said it’s hard to access and requires expensive guides and permits. I forgot all about it until I met a guy named Sam, who said that two years ago he managed to get into the region without a guide or the proper permits. He stayed with a monk who oversees a 700-year-old monastery for two months, during which time he mostly meditated and learned about Buddhism. He was chased by bandits, hid in a cave, and was drugged by some old guy with sketchy tea... a serious adventure! I sent his contact to Flore in case she was still interested in going, but her plans had changed—she was now focused on kickstarting a DJ career in Nepal (no biggie).
A while later, I met a Nepalese guy who works in solar energy distribution to remote villages in Nepal (my dream job). I learned about his time volunteering in a school in the even more secluded Upper Dolpo region for six months—wow. He showed me his Instagram, and after seeing photos and stories from that time, I got hooked on the idea of going.
I talked with Flore, who was feeling itchy to get into the mountains, and explained that we could probably get to the region by dodging some of the more expensive requirements. We started to hash out our plan in mid-February.
First, we needed a permit for Lower Dolpo: $20 for the first week and $5/day after that. We decided on 3.5 weeks, but we needed a legitimate trekking guide to make the permit for us. The Upper Dolpo permit is an additional $500 for the first week and $50/day after that. All told, with a guide, it would easily cost thousands of dollars for the amount of time we planned to go. Needless to say, I can't afford that—and I vehemently believe that the outdoors should not and cannot be restricted only to the wealthy.
We met with Sam and another guy named Surya, who had helped him before, but the agency we visited said they didn’t want to assume any of the liability risks. Then Surya set up a meeting with us and another trekking agency, but when we finally found the office (in a small, unvisited alley), something seemed very off. The "boss" came in and offered to do it for $500, which was not in our budget, and refused to negotiate. When I asked his name, he didn’t really answer. Shady.
We told them we'd think about it and left. A few minutes later, we were back on the main street and the boss-man guy came after us. In a hushed voice, he said we couldn’t trust the guys from before and that they’d tricked him too. We followed him for a coffee, and he explained that they had a fake agency that wasn't registered and were trying to scam us. His name was Bi, and he did in fact have a real agency. He offered to do the permit for $420 each, saying he had to charge enough to cover insurance for his agency if any issues arose. We met once more, and he told us he didn’t want to be dishonest—so he’d now charge us only $380. As Flore pointed out, that was a rather ridiculous notion, given that the whole operation was dishonest anyway.
Commencing the Trek
On March 18, we took a bus to Nepalgunj in the southwest, then another north to Dunai, the capital of Dolpo. The whole ordeal took a full 48 hours. The first bus had a crazy, scary-fast driver, and the second was transporting crates of live chickens on the roof and stacked bags of onions in the aisle. Good thing I like onion smell. We rocked along narrow, off-road paths so bumpy that my phone recorded 18,000 steps. We learned to eat sugar cane, got very tired and sore—and we hadn’t even started hiking yet!
We arrived in Dunai without having our permits checked or being questioned, and we went straight to bed. The next day, we got our things ready and prepared our cover story for the checkpoints: our guide’s father had suddenly passed away, so he had to return home, and now we were going to meet a porter in the next village. We had the Lower Dolpo permits and a photo of Bi’s guide license to show for credibility.
The next morning, we had an unfortunately timed squabble and, due to time constraints, started hiking before we could resolve things. But we did make it past the checkpoint with no issues. In fact, the military guys even took selfies with us, and the rangers gave us some caramels! We spent the first two days hiking alone, and on the second night we managed to resolve things—just in time to arrive at the indescribably beautiful Phoksundo Lake.
I’ve done a lot of hiking in my lil life, in many different places with varying levels of sketchiness, and I’ve seldom seen a “Dangerous Way” sign on a trail (usually it’s just implied). And of course, right as we started edging along the narrow cliff-side path some rocks fell from overhead—narrowly missing us. We sped up but couldn’t help feeling like it wasn’t a good omen. Then when we arrived at the lake, people told us the pass into Upper Dolpo was still closed—too much snow, even for locals. And THEN the next day I woke up with a fever and gastric issues. Between our squabble, Flore getting a nasty cough, the rock shower, the gastric, and the snow levels, the world has never so clearly told me something was a bad idea. So we listened, turned around, and went back to Dunai.
I recovered in bed for two days. On the third day, I cleaned my clothes, popped my blisters, and finally ate some real food. On March 28, we started hiking up toward Dho Tarap, where Sam lived in the monastery. Flore pivoted her plan to stay for only a few days then head elsewhere since her time in Nepal was coming to a close, but I wanted to stay a little longer. While I completely understood her decision, I was a bit bummed. I still wanted to attempt going into the Upper region, but didn’t love the idea of doing it alone. Plus, I’d promised my family I would be safe. ("Safe" is very subjective, but if I think something is unsafe, chances are the average Joe would agree.)
Finding Dawa in the Village
After three LONG days of hiking, we arrived at 4200 m (14,200 ft) in Dho Tarap. It’s one of the highest human settlements in the world, and it felt like we’d stepped into a different pocket of time. Stone and mud houses carved the valley, which was dotted with yaks, horses, and sheep. We had some soup and started our search for "Dawa that lives in the monastery." There's no service there, so we couldn’t contact him.
I'm slowly coming along in my Nepali, and after a few interactions we realized finding him would be a challenge: there are many Dawas, and many monasteries. The first family asked, Dawa: boy or girl?—I accidentally told them he was a girl, and chaos ensued. So we decided to start making our way up the valley, ticking off monasteries. The first one was a bust. At the next, a teeny-tiny Tibetan granny took us in for coffee and sat us in the overwhelmingly powerful presence of a man praying in the corner.
After a bit of deliberation and more rough Nepali, two monks helped us identify our friend as Dawa Phuntsok Lama from Jampa Gumpa, in the northernmost village of the valley. As the granny walked us down the hill to show us where to go, I told Flore I think I need to stay here for a month. As we passed the second village, we asked a girl Do you know our friend Dawa? She said I am also Dawa!! Oh my god. Finally we made it to Jampa Gumpa. A neighbor went to get him, and we waited in front of his house overlooking the valley across from a 5,000 m peak.
When we all saw each other, big smiles broke across our faces and we sat with him in the upstairs area for a tea. He was happy to see us because he wasn't sure if and when we were still coming, and we were happy to have made it and found him despite everything. That night we met his family and had a dal bhat (rice and lentils) dinner with some yak meat.
Meet the Family
Dawa is roughly in his mid-thirties and studied as a monk in India; then he went to university (I forgot for what) in Kathmandu and worked as a trekking guide for a number of years, during which time he went to Nepal, Bhutan, and received an invitation to Germany. When he came back to Dho Tarap to take care of the monastery and his mother, he fell in love with a woman named Puthi, and they had—as he was very proud to tell us—a love marriage that produced their now four-year-old boy, Tsokye. He is a smiley guy and speaks a bit of English from his days in tourism, although now it's a bit rusty.
Puthi is 25. She is smart, hardworking, super fit, and is not smiley. She went to primary school only for a few years, but dropped out young and started working in the traditional wool-weaving practice and in the fields. She is a very talented weaver, and Dawa boasts that everyone in the valley wants her work. He also brags that she is one of the best moto drivers in Dho, is much better than him, and that she works hard all the time—much harder than American women... But anyhow, she is a pretty good cook given their means, and always makes different things from the same ingredients: tsampa (similar to wheat flour), wheat, yak meat, rice, lentils, butter. No vegetables, and definitely no fruits. Puthi intimidated me in a good way.
Nima is Dawa’s 78-year-old mother. A cataract shrouds her right eye and her speech is very muffled. She still works in the fields, breaking dirt, and spends much of her time preparing sheep wool by hand for the weaving practice. Her face is cracked with stories, and I can only imagine the hardships she has endured in her life.
Tsokye is Dawa and Puthi’s 4-year-old. He is an energetic pest, and fortunately for him, he is very cute. He always has the face of someone who’s done something wrong, and is often found running around or crying. I don’t know how kids work, so I would usually just say coucou! (meaning “hey!” in French), and I think by the end he thought that was my name. He was also my first time making friends with a small child—I never really babysat growing up, and I don’t have any small children in my circle at home, so that was a valuable experience. Turns out I was right—they’re a lot like dogs, but they cry more.
Daily Life
Our first day, we did some laundry in the freezing creek behind their house (and Flouki bravely washed her hair), and then just rested on the roof of the house overlooking the valley. Flouki did some meditations and I read some of a book by the Dalai Lama titled How to See Yourself As You Really Are. In no way is this a bad thing, but the Dalai Lama is the biggest nerd I’ve read—a nerd of the mind. I guess a life of meditations will give you a lot of knowledge about meditation... huh!
We were sleeping in the prayer room! Dawa put two little beds on the floor for us and it felt like our sleep was surely blessed by default. For reference, I don’t pretend to be an explicitly religious person, but I've been learning a lot about Buddhism since I started traveling. I’m reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, which for me is much more digestible than the Dalai Lama’s book, and the philosophy is fascinating. It makes me want to read more religious texts and understand the similarities and differences between religions in order to better understand the world's people. Maybe in time I’ll come around to the religious bits, but for now, spirituality resounds a bit with me. I’m in no rush. I’ll leave it at that.
The next day, I spent my time in the fields while the men tilled the dirt and the women broke up the clumps behind them with makeshift pickaxes. One man in front pulled two yaks by rings in their noses, and the one behind pushed a wooden claw into the dirt as they pulled to break the earth. Dawa explained to me that inflicting pain on the yaks was bad karma, but that they had no other option. After every row, the guy in the back would say Om Mani Padme Hung, a prayer of compassion. Every thirty minutes or so, we stopped, sat in a circle, and passed around a jug of Chyang, the local barley juice at 4% alcohol. I tried not to drink much of it because it felt so dehydrating, but they don’t really drink water—so in the end it was more dehydrating not to drink it. We had a picnic lunch of boiled potatoes, tsampa bread, radish salad, and a spicy sauce called acar.
Funny lil story time:
That morning I was taking care of business—had just squatted—when Nima walked over the hill, saw me, and kept walking toward me. I awkwardly smiled, she kept walking toward me, and I awkwardly, all while smiling, gathered myself up and walked off to find a better spot. It was super—well—awkward. That afternoon she put down her spade and I thought we were taking a break, so I started to follow her—but she paused, then whipped up her skirt right in front of me and squatted. I have never turned around so fast in my life. I guess that makes us even.
The next morning Flore left super early. I was sad to see her go and hoped she would make it back safe. Over the next few days, I kept helping in the fields and made friends with Puthi’s 15-year-old sister, Pedma. She wants to become a nurse in Kathmandu and then come back to help her village. She likes rabbits and the color yellow but hates potatoes and the color red.
The altitude, the dust, the wind, the cold, the lack of hygiene—all of it compounded. I had a fever and a nasty cold and spent the next four days taking paracetamol, bored out of my mind. In Tibetan Dolpali healing, they believe that afternoon naps worsen fevers, so I was forbidden from sleeping. To help pass the time I read through all of my old emails and text messages. I peaked in my boredom in life (I hope). But the family took good care of me—I ate soups, tsampa flour, and some chapati. Dawa told me that I’d become part of the family, so of course they would take care of me, but that if it got worse, I’d have to head down.
At this point, Dawa also began talking to me about starting a business with him—either importing Tibetan weaving work to the US, or a tourism project for Buddhist education in Kathmandu, or some way for him to bring in money. The guilt I felt that night kept me awake. I’d love nothing more than to help him set up a business that directly supports their village, but I don’t have the competencies, the connections, the money, or the time. I thought a lot about what I offer as a person. Sometimes my biggest contribution to someone’s life is limited to a hug or a comforting smile, and other times the most I can offer is money—and I don’t like when that’s the case because I don’t have the money to truly support someone.
In the following days I finally felt better. I asked Puthi how I could help one morning (she spoke a few words of Nepali), and she gave me prayer beads and sent me with Nima. I had no idea what we were doing. We walked for 30 minutes to the big stupa in the village (800 years old, built by the old king of Mustang) and sat for tea with some other women who had arrived. They quickly criticized my clothing and said I must be cold because I was wearing only one pair of pants—and they were wearing three! Also, I had crimson red paint stains that looked exactly like blood. I assured them I was okay, but they didn’t look convinced.
Then Nima and I started walking around the stupa. I had no idea how long it would go for or what the special occasion was. The other women were doing what I can only describe as prayer-burpees: they got down on their stomachs, prayed above their heads, pushed themselves back to standing, walked a few steps, and did it again. It looked exhausting. It was cold and windy, and I was thankful to just be walking—otherwise I’m sure I would have gotten sick again. Six hours later Nima signaled that we were done. We finished praying and walked back to the house. I was in awe that she had done so much walking, and I knew it must have been quite painful for her.
It turns out it was for a full moon ceremony, and we walked around 37 times—an auspicious number? It also turns out the effort made Nima sick, so for the next week I was tasked with feeding her and keeping her awake. Let me tell you… keeping an 80-year-old woman awake during a sunny afternoon when she is sick is no easy feat. Most days I woke up around 6:30 (for those of you who know me well, that is significant), had a small breakfast of tsampa soup (flour and water) and yak cheese or some chapati (bread), then went on the roof to read, do some yoga (high-altitude yoga is basically cardio), and break my brain over the Dalai Lama’s book. I also did quite a bit of journaling.
In the afternoon, I would go down to sit with Nima and bring her hot water and tea. I watched her spin yarn and would sometimes help her prepare the wool. She would try to nap, and I’d have to nudge her awake every few minutes. I was quite bored. Around 18:00, Puthi would come back from her work and make a yak poo fire (their fuel source there, as there are no trees—it actually smells quite nice). We ate around 20:00 and went to bed by 21:00.
“And on the 15th day, her pants were falling down.”
—Me in my journal.
Getting gastric and a cold and eating a high-altitude Tibetan village diet will do that I guess. I was always a little bit hungry, and forgot what it felt like to be full. And you know what? I feel very fortunate that in my life, I’ve never felt that before—and that I knew for a fact it was a temporary feeling.
On that note, here are some photos of what we ate. Often we ate tsampa flour, and my favorite photo is of Flore exhaling as she put it in her mouth and a puff of flour coming out. Sometimes we mixed it with tea and made it into a mush that we ate with our finger or a stick on the ground. Sometimes they made a soup with flour, water, firm yak cheese, and yak meat. The meat was super tough, and there were a few times I had to discreetly spit out a chunk of cartilage and chuck it over the wall when I’d go outside to brush my teeth. The first two days, Puthi was proud to show us a variety of Tibetan foods, but it quickly shifted to their normal eats. Also, they have practically no spices up there, so they collect spice packets from instant noodles and used that in everything. Anyway, I’ve never been so detached from access to other food—and that was its own challenge.
Turning Points
Time was crawling. Two weeks felt like an eternity. And I think Dawa felt it too because on the two week mark, over dinner, he asked me Soooo has it been a month yet? Not the kind of question you like to hear from your host. But I told him that I would probably only stay for one more week. Then the next day he indirectly accused me of breaking their power supply; I was appalled and felt really uncomfortable, and when he left to go work that day I realized they didn't want me to help for "men's work" and I didn't have the skills to help the women with the weaving so I was just starting to feel like deadweight. Then I remembered I went to engineering school for crying out loud and gosh darn it I was not going to let him accuse me of breaking anything. So I went downstairs, quickly rewired the USB port, and felt an insane rush of confidence that reminded me of the Dalai Lama's book: losing confidence was ridiculous because I didn't change as a person between when I did and didn't fix the USB, so feeling insecure was just a waste of my energy on something negative.
That afternoon I decided to leave in the following days. There was a mountain across from the monastery at a bit over 5000 m (16500 ft), so I decided I would climb up and then head back down in the following days. But then that night something changed. I think I realized what my purpose there was. For example Nima forgot her peanut butter spit jar in the greenhouse and when I noticed I went down to get it for her. Never thought someone would be so appreciative of being handed a jar full of granny loogies. I told Puthi dinner was VERY delicious (in Tibetan, I think) and saw her start to smile with me for the first time, and I helped them fix another power bank and got two high fives from Dawa. I decided to stop panicking about time and just appreciate the present moment. I would know when the time was right to leave. That night I helped Nima light her prayer candle because she struggles with old hands + matches, and she reciprocated by fluffing my pillows. I nearly cried it was so tender.
The next day Dawa stayed behind because he wanted me to help him fix their water pipe coming from a source in the mountain across the valley, and I was thrilled for a change of pace. We were cleaning the living room after breakfast and he said "can I tell you a secret later?" I just chuckled and he repeated his question and I said ok ok, but then it turns out "later" meant "right now" and he told me "I am going to break up with Puthi." I'd really rather men not tell me their secrets at this point.
"What!? Why!?"
"She doesn't clean the house."
"You know, she works so hard, maybe it's okay if sometimes you help clean too, no?"
"Cleaning is a woman's job. And she is so lazy, she doesn't work hard, you haven't even seen the other women in this village and how hard they work."
I had no idea what to say. After all he bragged of his love marriage and her strength, he was going to leave the mother of his child for not sweeping? I was disgusted and I am sick of meeting men like this that don't show their true colors. But it just felt kinda strange. I wasn't sure whether to believe him or if he had an ulterior motive in telling me.
Later that day I was helping him fix the water pipes and after a few hours he said "if I worked this hard in the US I would be a millionaire." After this and several other comments about the US, it's clear he has an archaic idea of the American dream; also if two hours of manual labor made people a millionaire, Mexican immigrants would have full control of the US economy by now. I was just pretty offended that this monk was telling me that he believed he worked harder than Americans ever could and that our lives are easy as pie. Of course his life is challenging, and it is challenging in ways that you can't really compare to the challenges of living in the US—it's SO different, and I think it's hard for him to wrap his mind around how many different kinds of situations you can find in the US. Some people press a button for a Coke to be brought to their desk, and others work multi-day shifts at three jobs to try to support their families. But it's not usually the 9-5 corporate machine existence that they show in movies about a guy who decides he wants to leave that life behind.
An hour later we sat for a break and I tried to explain the idea that "the grass is always greener on the other side" and that it's better to appreciate the things we do have than to compare with another person, who struggles in ways we can't know until we live with them. He then told me about the novel concept of a green card marriage and I explained to him the associated costs and he was flabbergasted. It also lead me to call his bluff; he just wanted to test the waters and see if I'd help him to get a green card. He won't leave his wife, he is way too dependent on her (because even though they are men's jobs, she's the one that brings in most of the food for the family, she's the one who understands the wiring for their solar battery, and she is a much better driver). But all in all I just started to feel quite disappointed because the image I had of Dawa was falling apart. I came to the conclusion that, regardless of how it was going, it was probably time I get moving soon, and it was almost at the three week mark anyway.
So I announced that the next day I wanted to go hiking and the day after I wanted to rest and the day after I would leave. But then the next morning my throat was feeling scratchy again and the weather was bad. I took it as two reasons I shouldn't go hiking and decided to leave the next morning instead to try and beat the oncoming sickness. I spent a lovely last day in the greenhouse with Nima and spun some yarn and ate some tsampa and chapati. Tsokye and I played for hours and it was exhausting.
That night I decided to buy one of Puthi’s blankets because I felt it was a reasonable way to support them through money while also casting appreciation for Puthi and her work, especially in the eyes of Dawa. I think we were all happy with the transaction in the end. I packed my things and the next morning gave them some gifts and books for the local school. I gave Nima my lighter so that she would be able to light her prayer candles, and asked only for a group photo. We went outside, Dawa gave me a white scarf for good luck, and we took the most hilarious group photo. I'm usually the one making faces in photos and now it still looks like I'm making a face because I'm the only one not grimacing. One of my new favorite photos.
Puthi drove me to the road. Gas up there costs $7/LITER which is actually insane—that’s $28/gallon. It took 30-40 minutes and she gave me an orange scarf and sent me on my way. I was quite sad to leave actually, but oh man I have never been so homesick. Three weeks of no communication with the outside world was hardcore, especially because I couldn’t really communicate with anyone except Dawa (and that was limited), and because it was so hard not knowing if my people were okay. More in the reflection at the end.
I walked for 22 miles and quickly realized how heavy that wool blanket really was. Weighted, I went at about the same pace as an unweighted herd of donkeys. A very American-style measurement for speed. But one of the herders was starting to become really quite bothersome and I sprinted ahead for an hour or two when he stopped for his lunch break. I arrived at my intended village at about 4:30, and while I had time left in the day, I was plum tuckered out. I stayed there that night and the next day bolted back towards the city. It took about 7 hours and I was walking in the hot sun on donkey roads the whole day, but I saw some pretty flowers and a huge vulture flew right over my head. By the time I got within an hour of the village I was out of water and spent the next few miles getting more and more dehydrated. But I finally made it and bought some water and juice and chocolate, a bar of body soap and shampoo, and a scrub brush for dirty dishes (I was the dirty dishes, it had been a literal month since I'd had a shower). The store clerk was very confused that I didn't also want dish soap.
I took one of the better showers I've taken, ever, and stuffed my face with choco pies and Cadbury chocolate and then started to sort through messages. Goodness I missed people! Calling my sister was the first real conversation I'd been able to have in three weeks and wow it felt pretty darn nice!
The next day I took what was intended as a 20 hour bus and turned into 40. The afternoon of the first day they told us there weren't enough people on the bus to pay for the long journey ahead so we had to wait for the next morning. They put me in a hotel room with the only other girl on the bus, who quite invasively scrolled through all of my photos and took very awkward selfies, and when I came back from brushing my teeth she was standing in her underwear and asked me if I had a nice camera. I was appalled, especially when she told me I needed to take my pants off too, and strangely enough it was the most threatened I've felt in a long time. I slept poorly, with my knife in my pocket, and the next morning we got on the bus. They jam packed it with bags of grain, five live goats in the luggage storage carriage, motorbikes on the roof, and people sitting in the seats and on the bags in the aisle. Hours of delay and a popped tire later, we arrived to Pokhara at 3:30 in the morning and the bus drove straight through the city. I yelled everyone awake to stop the bus but oh my god I could not deal with that bus anymore. I got to the hostel at 4:00 AM and crashed in the bed SO hard. Arriving felt unreal.
The next morning I reflected that I’d lost probably 5-7 kg (12+ lbs) and figured the best thing to do all around was eat a pile of bacon and fruit and yogurt and a big buttery brownie and a cappuccino. And lemme tell you, after weeks of grinding yak cartilage into my teeth and eating flour water with ramen spice, that tasted pretty darn amazing. And I’d forgotten what it felt like to be full. I spent the next five days chasing that feeling and intimidating men with my appetite.
Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius
JK they’re not his, they’re mine (I’m going crazy). Here’s my thinks from this here experience, and also some of my funny anecdotes:
Not really talking or having communication abilities for three weeks is incredibly difficult, especially when it's not something you've prepared for mentally. I realized that sometimes I talk to fill an empty space, and it was intimidating to face the emptiness head on. But it also was probably a great thing and taught me which things are worth saying and which things don't matter.
Tibetan hospitality is incredibly similar to that in Mongolia. And they eat a similar diet. They offer you everything they have and try to make gifts when they can.
I wonder if anyone in this world experiences a linear passage of time.
Little Tibetan girls have the best hair. It’s inspiring for my bed head aspirations.
Tourists in Nepal have negative sentiments towards the roads being built to remote villages. It destroys the natural landscape, they claim. It ruins the charm of the village, they claim. It’s insane that a village being connected to civilization can offend rich white people. The charm in question meaning “oh cool I’ve stepped into a time portal and people here still die from food poisoning or a common cold.” Okay John go use a million bucks to tear up all the roads leading to your cute little countryside summer home and see how you like eating flour water from now on. The problem is less the road and more the overwhelming tourist influx. Cultures evolve. They always have. There are studies on ways to protect cultures from being disintegrated by globalization, but preventing someone from a way to get to a hospital is not the answer.
Dawa if you ever read this I apologize. On our second day there, Flore and I were served two breakfasts. The second one was much too large for me and was a bean soup with a very dense tsampa mush to eat it with. I couldn’t finish my tsampa mush and when Puthi left I had Flore stand guard and threw it in the fire. But then I realized she would see it sitting there when she came back so I went to dump sheep poo on the fire (their fuel source there) but spilled sheep poo everywhere, and then used a severed yak tail to wipe it off the mantle but then wiped sheep poo into Nima’s tea cup… whoops. Then I realized it would still be visible so I pushed it deeper into the fire and then it got stuck on the tongs so I frantically waved the tongs around until it popped off. I sat down just in time for Puthi to come back and stir the fire… if she saw anything she didn’t let on. Panic.
There’s no point in fixating on our lust for something in the future. In my case that was calling my mom and eating a brownie. All it does is distract us from appreciating anything about the present moment, and it makes time go slower.
It pisses me off that trekking may become a rich-people-only experience. Permits are crazy expensive at times and the need for a guide can be super financially limiting. So then all of a sudden the only people going places are wealthy elites who are exactly the type that distort the charm of the cute villages they so want to protect. I understand that trekking tourism is one of the only ways Nepal can make any money, but its evolution is very complicated.
I rely heavily on modern technology to stay in contact with people in my community, and it has allowed me to travel without feeling like I’ve lost them in my lives. Being disconnected for three weeks gave me more appreciation for my support from home, and I don’t think I would have been able to travel for so long without knowing my people are okay.
Favorite Journal Entries
"Sometimes it just takes sitting still to notice that the world is dancing." -Me when looking at ants.
April 11
*In broken Tibetan/Nepali*
Nima: Drink tea
Stella: I don’t want tea
N: Bring me your glass. pours tea
S: Enough enough! Thank you.
N: Drink
S: takes a sip
N: DRINK
S: forcefully finishes glass
N: Drink Chyang (goopy barley beer). pours chyang
S: Enough enough! Forcefully takes a sip
N: TASTY??
The Greenhouse
Pocket of humid warmth
A haven in the windblown alpine
Fragile fronds dare to say hello
April 13
Last night I thought Nima pooped on the floor by her bed but this morning I discovered it was yak poo. She did poop in front of the house once. It’s funny—it really doesn’t bother me anymore. There aren't many places you could say "watch out there's poop on the floor" and they'd look at you and say "ya duh." Also, caretaking for old people is hard cause you have zero authority. We're getting along though. She asked my name!
April 14
We were eating dinner and some guests were all talking and looking at me and it turns out they were talking about how it's funny that I chew with my mouth closed. It gave me a giggle.
A Reflection on Chocolate
In my bag, I had a Snickers. Originally meant for the hike, it became intended as a gift for Tsokye when I leave. Yesterday I was very hungry all day, and then I had a moment of weakness and I took a bite from that revered Snickers. It was my most underwhelming experience eating chocolate, ever. I thought it would help bring me closer to home but I realized materialism cannot replace emotional ties that are the basis of my homesickness. The material things I enjoy are not independent; they rely on the conditions surrounding them. Popcorn will taste amazing when I'm watching a movie with my mom, but on its own I will realize that it's not the popcorn that I missed. I think about the times I've been given a juice or a Coke by someone here. The taste was imbued by their kindness. Me buying and drinking a Coke may be satisfying but it will not have the same effect. Similarly, me giving that Snickers to the boy—it would have tasted so good to him. When I ate it I was so disappointed because I think it took on the taste of lust and selfish desire. Who'd a thunk that eating a disappointing chocolate bar would lead me to these realizations? Needless to say I won't be eating the Skittles that are also waiting in my bag.
April 16
Just finished sorting sheep shit out of sheep wool with Nima. She refuses to wash her hands before we eat. Yeuhch.
April 18
All the pores on my legs have dirt in them.
It's wild how when they speak a little bit of Nepali I get all excited because I can understand them a lil. Oh man I miss socializing I guess.
April 19
I'm really gonna miss this place actually though. It's quiet against the sounds of the modern world. Also what if I was this quiet in real life. It's wild how personality changes based on communication abilities.
Time simply can't be real because its passage is so relative... concrete things can't fluctuate.
There's a lot more I could talk about but I think that would push this into a full-on book. All in all I'm so grateful for the experience and all I learned about Tibetan culture, Buddhism, and the way I interact with the world. If you made it to the end of this, thank you for bearing with me and I hope you enjoyed reading about this experience!
I'm now back in Kathmandu after spending some time in Pokhara and at my friend's hotel in Manang. I'll be here for another three weeks and I have no idea what I'll get up to, but I think it will go by fast.
Always so much fun to read these. Take me with you next time! 🙏
Thanks for taking the time to write and share all that. I have enjoyed following along on your adventures and think your reflections are insightful way to learn and appreciate parts of the world I am unlikely to venture to or spend as much time in. Cheers to you!
Stella, you are amazing! What incredible adventures you are having. I love reading your blog. I am off on a fully first world visit to Paris with my college girlfriend to celebrate our 70th birthdays. My adventures require a flushing toilet and cappuccino with croissant each morning. Love you! Nancy