Peace Corps Nepal - Chapter 3: Kathmandu Training

Chapter 3: Kathmandu Training

The path I was on was called the "Baglung Road" by the other teachers at the school.  It was actually more a dream of the possibility of a road, not a road as I understood the word.  At first, the roadway was a simple, slightly worn path down the center of a narrow, flat

field.  After a few hundred feet, it evolved into a dirt walkway nestled between walls of stone or the dirt retaining walls of terraced fields.  Often, the road was a simple, flat surface that interrupted the steep hillsides. The trail’s stony surface was firm and flat, crushed and compacted from years of travelers.  It was occasional marred where seasonal streams eroded shallow channels across it.  Trudging along the road between barren, stepped fields, I saw that the trail, following the natural contours of the hillside, gently winding its way upward through a grove of bamboos and into a forest of sparse trees and mountain laurel.  Within the woods ahead jutting out from among green foliage, was the thatched roof, whitewashed upper walls and porch of a lone house.  It perched on a small ledge interrupting the steeply plunging hillside.  Far below were the cliffs of the gorge and its raging river hundreds of feet below.

There was a more direct route northward from where I lived.  To go that way, I would cross the parade grounds in front of the school and take the main road up the hill to the alcove of the communal water supply. A partially hidden path just beyond and behind the watering station threaded itself through a grove of trees to the terraced fields beyond.  As soon as the path emerged from the trees, it became the top edge of a field’s retaining wall only as wide as a man’s shoulders. From there, the narrow pathway looped around a dozen small fields of all shapes sizes, dropping down two levels to a slightly wider footpath that skirted the edge of the dense jungle above.  From there, the trail followed the hill’s curvature, undulating in and out with the terrain.  The trail eventually led into

a densely wooded area, passing above where I first stayed. Inside that forest, the path twisted and turned through stands of trees, bamboo thickets and dense underbrush.  Along the way were a myriad of side roads and alternative pathways. 

A few hundred feet into the jungle, a path branching from the main

trail led out of the trees, across a surprisingly gentle pasture and into to a remote, secluded oasis of trees and bushes.  Within that copse was hidden a cool spring of water and the promise of some privacy.  One of the challenges I faced was keeping comparatively clean.  Soon after arriving at Balewa, I had established a daily routine of using lye soap and cold water from my earthen jug to wash my face, arms and feet.  I reserved the sterilized and filtered water for cooking, drinking and brushing my teeth.

Most weekends, I stripped naked and wrapped a large cloth around my waist and upper legs – pulling the end through my legs and tucking it in.  Then, grabbing my soap and towel, I headed for the local spring in hopes of getting clean.  I tried to bathe by imitating how the local men washed themselves in the afternoon.  They would strip down to their loincloth, crouch in front of the iron pipe and clean themselves, carefully washing each segment of the seven-stranded cord they never took off.  The cord was an important part of their daily life, positioned differently for different activities.  Once satisfied that each strand was clean, they finish their ritual by reaching under their loincloth to take care of the unseen.  Unfortunately, every time I tried to wash, a crowd of women gathered to stare at the tall, red-haired, white foreigner.  My embarrassment and self-consciousness kept me from spending the time or effort I needed to bathe effectively.  I also needed to wash my clothes without an audience.

When I shared my need for more privacy with one of the Nepali teachers, he told me about the wonderful oasis of privacy on the other side of the hill.  It was a long walk, and any time I sat down, I had to fend off legions of leaches from my feet, but it was worth the trip.  I found the privacy I need to get fully clean.  An added bonus was the opportunity to wash my one set of clothes, and wait for them to dry while sitting around wrapped in my cloth.  It was during one of my irregular visits there that I discovered lice in my hair, which I eventually treated with DDT.

At another junction, the side trail took me to a small enclave of buildings set within the jungle.  There, I encountered a large extended family struggled to operate their newly built teashop. 

Sitting on the shop’s steps was a forlorn woman holding a small, infant girl on her lap.  The listless child’s head lolled backward and flies crawled across her unseeing eyes and into her open mouth.  I could do nothing. My feeling of helplessness was overwhelming and the horrible scene indelibly etched itself into my memory, returning, unbidden, in my dreams.  There were many different ways to travel, and the jungle road offered many destinations – including a dismal path leading to the cold, silent clearing of a local witch doctor.

When travelling alone, I preferred to take the longer route to Baglung.  There were more people along the way, more rest stops and the road was more open.  I also knew that there were fewer dangers along a well-traveled road and less chance of making a wrong turn.  Trudging along that convoluted, twisting road to the woods above, I continued mentally reviewing my first days in Nepal and our training in Kathmandu.

The first evening at the hotel in Kathmandu, we joined our in-country Peace Corps trainers for dinner.  We ate in a long, narrow room on the first floor.  A row of windows facing the courtyard gave us a wonderful view of the enclosing wall.  A massive, wooden table dominated the room. It was in the center of the room and stretched from wall to wall.  The table’s patina, intricately carved legs and style gave it both a sense of age and value.  Surrounding the grandeur of the table, marching arm-to-arm down both sides, were matching, straight-backed chairs.  The table and chairs completely filled the room with the backs of the seats only inches away from the walls.  Glistening white bone-china plates elegantly graced each place setting, complimented by white linen napkins, clear, cut-glass water goblets and heavy, silver flatware. Parading down the center of the table were a half-dozen large, silver serving dishes piled high with an unidentified entrée of raw, ground meat artistically garnishing with sprigs of fresh green spices.  Many, smaller dishes of white rice and unrecognizable sautéed vegetables encircled the massive plates of meat.  The hotel staff heard a rumor that Americans ate meat and had done their best to present a Western style meal.

We knew the meat could not have been beef since cows were sacred, but we never discovered what kind of meat it was.  Fearing all the terrible things that could happen from eating raw meats, most of us ate only the rice and the more familiar vegetables.  Our trainers recommended that we not drink the tepid, iceless water and stick to hot tea or bottled beverages.  No one complained. Few of us felt hungry, and our excitement at finally being in Nepal overshadowed any problems we had with our first meal.  We spent most of the evening sitting around that massive table talking, joking and laughing about our recent adventures in flying.  Even though a few Volunteers did taste the red, gooey meat, and drank the water, no one became ill.  It was apparent that someone may have spoken to the staff about our difficulties; after that first night, the meals served to us at the hotel were less formal, less extravagant, less daunting, fully cooked and more recognizable.

The next day, our training continued as we met together in the hotel’s lobby.  As a group, the trainers led us as we walked a short distance from our lodging to a nearby construction site.  The partially built structure we would use looked like a three story metal skeleton.  It was missing the outer walls and the floors were unfinished, pitted cement.  Rusting, bare steel beams and decaying surfaces suggested that the work on the building had stopped some time before.  Although I saw a number of openings that appeared to be for staircases, there were no stairs, only ladders stretching up to the second floor.

Each morning, we walked the few blocks to the construction site.  There, we stood around the gravel courtyard waiting for our trainer.  When they arrived and divided us into study groups, we climbed the rickety bamboo ladders to our assigned, open-to-the-air rooms on the second floor. Usually, we used three of the rooms for our classes.  Sitting on an old, folding metal chair positioned just a few feet from the missing outer wall, I struggled to keep up with our morning language classes. The trainers used large pads of white paper propped on a stand with the morning sun glaring off the dull surface.  Like our hotel, a cement wall surrounded the construction site and, although the trees and large bushes just inside deadened most of the street noises and gave us some sense of privacy, we still needed to speak very loudly for others to understand.  Our language classes met until noon and, much to my relief, we had an hour for lunch. Most of us took advantage of the food provided by our hotel, but a few, brave volunteers ate at a restaurant adjacent to where we were staying.

We usually returned to the “skeleton building” after lunch to continue our studies of Nepal’s history, culture, and traditions.  The curriculum included field trips to nearby points of interest and excursions to small communities outside the city. Our structured learning ended in the late afternoons and we had a few hours of free time.  I used mine to explore the bazaars looking for adventure in a city with cows wandering the streets, fruit bats hanging from

trees, marijuana plants towering over sidewalks and feral dogs roaming around for food.  At night, the dogs hunted in packs. The roads I wandered often led to round, domed-shaped temples topped with rectangular cupolas painted with huge eyes on all four sides.  No animal was to be put to work within sight of those eyes.  Above the eyes were tall, central spires with long strings radiating in all directions.  Attached to each were multitudes of rectangular prayer flags.  I fequently visited the eyed Buddhist Bhagwati temple.The largest and most ancient Hindu temple I discovered in my wanderings was the Swayambhunatha Stupa.  Encircling it was a wall sporting an array of different carvings splashed with bright colors of paint, banks of carved prayer wheels, gongs of different sizes and cups for burning incese or candles.  

 On another street, I found a frightening, multi-armed idol depicting a god adorned with a necklace of human skulls and girded by a belt from which hung bloody, detached, human arms.  It stood guard

over freshly presented, bright yellow and red offering. Some idols I found in partially hidden in alcoves along residential streets.  The trainers told me that they were probably private, family worship areas.  Often, the idol within a recess was of Ganesh, a chubby elephant-headed god that supposedly removes obstacles of life.

During some of my excursions, I encountered ragged bands of men playing strange, whining, atonal music on square, three-stringed, long-necked instruments. These men were often accompanied by others using highly dented, dull metal horns.  Frequently, a musician would be twirling a highly embossed metal can affixed to the end of a handle.  Inside was a prayer written on a piece of paper and each rotation sent it to god.  A

surprisingly rich and mellow sound emanated from these bands, and the donations given to them were generous.

As I aimlessly wandered the streets of Kathmandu, I discovered many immense, unused buildings.  Some of the smaller, modest structures were empty governmental buildings,but others belonged to the powerful political families that had been overthrown when the king regained power in a daring maneuver involving cars, planes and deception.  The elaborately ornate larger edifices had

massive, overhanging eaves braced with richly carved wooden supports depicting events in the Vedas or explicit and risqué scenes that leave nothing to the imagination.  A trainer told me that most of the carving on roof supports depicted scenes from the Kama Sutra.

While walking along many of the suburban streets I passed towering poppy plants and cows lying in the street chewing their cud. Garbage rotted in the gutters while beggars held out their hands for money while sleeping fruit bats hung from the trees next to them.  Everywhere there were emaciated mongrel dogs festooned with lumps, sores and dangling tumors.   I spotted them skulking down darkened alleyways or asleep on the streets. Fortunetellers, sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk at an intersection near our hotel, plied their mystical arts with enthusiasm and conviction.  With their astrological charts and tables strewn about them, they eagerly told people their futures – for a price.  

Each afternoon I ventured further away from the safety of our hotel discovering a variety of stores, temples and street vendors. On some days, I wandered the streets before our classes began.  It was during one of my early morning outings that I saw men selling fresh yogurt in unglazed clay bowls. They carried dozens of their red-brown bowls stacked inside rope cradles suspended at each end of wooden yoke carried across their shoulders.  Our trainers warned us not to eat any yogurt from street vendors because the many crunchy, black bits suspended throughout it were neither raisins nor nuts. When flies and other insects became stuck on the yogurt’s skin, the peddlers simply stirred the struggling insects back into the bowl content.

Other hawkers offered unusually colored drinks in strange, clear glass bottles.  The bottles had long necks with spherical bulges their mouths.  The carbonation within a bottle’s liquid pressed a ball in the bulge upward with enough force to seal the opening.  A customer opened their drink using a lever mechanism secured around the neck to force the ball down and out of the way.

There were many important places near our hotel including the Peace Corps Headquarters.  To get there I walked down the street from our hotel and a few blocks later turned left onto a wide, important boulevard.  On the way, I passed the King’s Palace.  It was an impressive, white mansion festooned with statues, fountains and a large, fabricated lake in front.  One trainer shared a story about a massive, million-dollar, clear crystal chandelier and the difficulties works had installing it.  Every time I saw the palace, I wondered about the size and location of such a huge fixture. Just past the mansion was another, smaller road leading to a poorly maintained back street.  A short way down that street was our headquarters.

The Peace Corps Headquarters consisted of two principle buildings inside a walled enclosure. At the entrance was an old, western style two-story house for volunteers to gather, relax and swap stories about their experiences at their station.   That house was a favorite place for those working in the city to socialize and help new volunteers adjust to living in a strange place.  One major problem that each of us needed help with was the very real reality of “Culture Shock.”

On the first floor, diffuse sunlight filtering through a bay window on the street side provided sufficient lighting for most of the day to read.  It was a surprisingly cozy environment of miss-matched wooden chairs, overly worn lounge chairs and a dank smelling, faux leather couch in front of the window.   There, we often exchanged precious books that covered all genres of interests including science fiction, classic novels, philosophy and cooking.  At times, we would also play card games around a small, badly marred coffee table.  The house had a distinct, musty smell of mildew, aging wood and decaying books, occasionally overpowered by the aroma of rotten eggs emanating from an unfortunate victim.  When the common dysentery of Giardia, a protozoan parasite, afflicted a volunteer they would ostracize themselves for the duration of their suffering. Even with the smells and dim lighting, the house was a haven where we socialized, helped each other, shared our troubles and talked about home.  We could always find the comfort and support we needed.

The gravel driveway of the Peace Corps Headquarters curved around and behind our little house to the small parking area in front of the main building.  It was a much newer, well cared for three stories high cinderblock structure. On the first floor was a small clinic that provided for the medical needs of volunteers.  Past the reception area was an examination room, a small infirmary, and a modest lab staffed by a nurse and Doctor Small.  The doctor and I spent considerable time together playing chess, eating together at western restaurants, and talking about Physics, diseases and interpreting X-ray images.  One time he challenged me to examine an image and tell him what was significant.  Somehow, I did not notice an entire arm was missing.

Near the clinic’s reception desk was a stairway leading to the second floor landing and a short hallway leading to the various administrative offices.  Walking down that passage felt like a piece of America.  Its dimensions, design and décor provided a haven of Americana for the administrators and visitors. Large pictures of an illegal mountain climbing expedition embellished the walls directly outside the director’s office.  Earlier that year, a Peace Corps Volunteer had climbed Dhawalagiri Mountain, but had not obtained permission from the Nepali government to climb nor had paid them for the privilege of climbing. Although officially reprimanding him and requiring that he pay the National Mountain Climbing fees and the associated fines and penalties, the volunteer was openly praised for his heroics.  The pictures of his exploits adorned the hallway and were a shrine to his adventure.

There were other, smaller buildings inside compound for supplies, personal storage and the care of vehicles.  Parked under various shelters were single-speed bikes for the volunteers to use instead of walking or hiring a taxi.  Since the Headquarters was only a short walking distance to the American Embassy, King’s Palace, many westernized restaurants and a variety of hotels and shopping areas, very few of us used the bikes.

At night, the Peace Corps Headquarters was empty and silent.  The administrators and staff that worked there had permanent homes of their own. One afternoon I discovered a little oasis of western life and comfort while visiting the Director’s home. He had a small staff of hired help that maintained his lavish home and life style.  Some of them acted as servants, ready and eager to do the Director’s bidding while others were cooks and housekeepers.  It strongly reminded me of movies depicting white-clothed aristocrats maintaining their entitled lifestyles in the middle of third-world poverty.  At the time, I did not realize how significant his running water, indoor plumbing and electricity was even in Kathmandu.   

One favorite haunt within walking distance of the hotel was the bazaar area of Durbar Square. Every day, purveyors displayed colorful arrays of fresh produce, lumps of bloody meat, and other goods of all descriptions.  Peddlers spread their offerings on the ground or stacked them on temporary stands. They often waved choice items with their dirty hands to prospective buyers.  Around the perimeter of the square, tucked into cubbyholes and glass-fronted stores, were the more permanent shops. While walking around in the bedlam of sellers and buyers taking in the sights, I noticed many people had disturbingly black mouths and teeth. The black discoloration was the telltale sign of an addiction to chewing leaf-wrapped beetle nuts. 

A young woman and her daughter made and sold these addictive packages from a small recess along an alleyway leading away from the square. I easily identified most of the foods in the bazaar but some of the fruits and vegetables had odd shaped, weird coloring or the wrong size for what they appeared to be and I did not recognize them.  It was during my visits to the bazaar that I honed my bargaining skills by buying a more familiar item from one of the less aggressive sellers. Unfortunately, my haggling ability always seemed to suffer from my inexperience and poor language skills. Every time I made a purchase, I felt cheated and the seller was elated.

Near Durbar square with all its people and chaotic activity was Hanuman Dhoka, or “Monkey Gate,” I knew it as a large, very ornate building with a massive, carved doorway sometimes

protected by an armed guard.  When asked about the history or significance of the “Gate,” our trainers never gave me a satisfactory explanation. The Nepali men within the “Gate” gave even more confusing responses when I asked using my poorly mastered Nepali. Because of its size and central location, Hanuman Dhoka became a familiar landmark I used to keep myself orientated while exploring the maze of alleys and passages around the bazaar. One narrow alley across the square from Hanuman Dhoka led to a cheap and friendly hostel used by visiting Peace Corps Volunteers. Next to the hostel, an inexpensive teashop offered a variety of foods. I frequently encountered people from India, China, Germany and other countries there to help Nepal and its rush to develop or tourists seeking a new experience.  One night, while chatting with two engineers from China, I learned about some of China’s political interests in the area and sensed their enthusiasm to build roads.

Near the hostel was a narrow street dedicated to the needs of mountain climbers.  It bustled with Sherpa, aspiring foreign adventurers and tourists looking for souvenirs. Experienced

volunteers assured me that I would need a compact, climber’s kerosene stove, small cooing kit and wooden matches and this street was where to buy them.  Most volunteers were stationed in large villages where they lived in apartments located over stores, restaurants or other businesses and usually cooked their own meals or ate at a local restaurant.  Volunteers stationed in smaller towns lived with host families who provided a room and plenty to eat.  Even living with a host, having the ability to cook western-style meals was a blessing.  I knew I would be glad to have the stove and pots with me.

Every new turn and alley revealed something new to me.  Kathmandu was kaleidoscopic mixture of beliefs, practices, behavior and cultures.  Buddhist priests wearing orange robes mingled with Hindus, Muslims and the faiths of the tourists from many nations.  Hindu and Buddhist statues, shrines and temples populated every street, and religious demonstrations including processionals were a common event as were wandering sacred cows, feral dogs, Fortune Tellers, beggar, tradesmen and an occasional Holy Man.

Outer, low walls of stone and cement surrounded many of the round-shaped temples and some had wrought iron fencing encircling them.  Within the framework of the fencing were cups where devout worshipers lit candles or oil lamps and burned pieces of paper.  It was my understanding that the paper had prayers on them that the flames sent to the god they worshiped. 

At one temple, I watched a woman go down on her knees as if

genuflecting, but her decent continued until she was lying prone on the ground.  Then she stood up, taking a step forward in the process, and repeated the sequence.  I do not know how long it took for her to go completely around the temple nor how many times she made the trip.  I thought of this woman when I learned that Martin Luther, before he nailed his ninety-five theses to the chapel door, circled the church on his knees.  I saw religious icons, buildings and activities everywhere I roamed.  Some people spun prayer wheels, others hit cymbals or bells and many people offered sacrifices.  Everyone worshiping

seemed to chant.  Returning to the hotel, I wondered about how my own American culture and Christian beliefs filtered my observation and often felt guilty about letting my own Bible readings lapse while in training.  There were so many demands and distractions that every night I fell into bed exhausted.

 Part of our training was a total immersion experience, which I dreaded as soon as I heard about it.  On that feared day, three of us joined a trainer in one of the Headquarters’ cars and drove us up into the hills north of the city.  The first place he stopped appeared to be a typical farmhouse where a congenial man, clasping his hands together as if saying a prayer, greeted us with a hearty “Namaste.”  He then shook the trainer’s hand and, after introductions, greeted the volunteer we were leaving at his house.  As we drove away, I turned and watched the two of them chatting amiably as the host led his guest into his house.  The idea was that, after a brief stay with a host who did not know English, we were to find our way back to the hotel only using our Nepali language skills.  Our gracious hosts would give us directions in Nepali and we could seek additional help as we walked home. I thought, “If this was a ‘typical’ family, there was nothing to fear.”  Instead of feeling anxious, I began to look forward to meeting my host.

 After dropping off the other volunteer at a homestead very much like the first, the trainer and I continued up the hillside.  Seeing the farmer at the second farm greeted us the same way as the first man had, I stopped worrying about my return.  The trip from the second house was long, involved and confusing. Eventually, we stopped at a comparatively large estate protected by two large, ferocious dogs.  Wanting to return to the city immediately, the trainer assured me that someone would be there and left me.  I waited, but after a long time I realized that no one was home.  I was alone without food or water.  The only other living things were two large, snarling, snapping dogs tied up a few feet away from me.  Lost, I started walking back to Kathmandu by following the way the trainer had left.  I was greatly encouraged to keep going by the monstrous, terrifying dogs behind me.  A few hundred feet away from the farm, the beasts behind me were satisfied with my progress and happily lost interest.  I then slowed my pace and considered my situation.

Trudging along the dirt road, I vaguely remembered some of the turns and twists we had taken on our drive up.   I reasoned that, when in doubt I would always choose to take larger roads leading downward.   Plodding along, I rehearsed in my mind how I would ask directions in Nepali, and reviewed the possible answers.  After a few hours, I easily found my own way back to the outskirts of the city.  Unfortunately, the labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets ahead totally confused me.  I had to depend on my language skills to get home.

When I finally reached the paved roads of Kathmandu, I started asking strangers for directions to the hotel.  After a few disastrous attempts at communication, I realized that very few people even knew of the hotel and those who had heard of it did not know where it was.  After one confusing exchange, I decided to ask how to get to the King’s Palace.  Once I was near the Palace, I knew I could find my way.   There was another obstacle to my success – most of the people I asked talked so fast and used so many unfamiliar words that I did not understand what they were saying.  Often, I only understood the directions through mutual pointing and gestures. By late afternoon I finally meandered into familiar territory and, after recognizing a familiar recessed idol of Shiva, I knew my way home.  It was evening and becoming dark when I finally walked up to my room.  The other volunteers had returned hours before.

It was not long after my ordeal that the Kathmandu part of our training was finished.  Before the deployment to our stations, we still needed specific teaching experiences using our language skills.  For the final phase of our preparation for service, we would practice different teaching methods in supervised classroom at a school close to our final destinations, which would remain unknown until all training aspects were completed.  During this final part of training, each of us would live with a host family and fully experience Nepali life. Half the remaining volunteers would serve in the eastern part of the country while the rest would be west of Kathmandu.  A few days before we were to leave, I sought advice from experienced volunteers.  They warned me that the Nepali were highly suspicious of We

sterners and thought anyone from America with a radio and camera was a CIA operative. 

On their advice, I left my radio, camera and most of my clothes in a locker at the Peace Corps Headquarters.  I took only my basic needs packed into an aluminum-framed backpack: the medical kit assigned to me, a sleeping bag, a few clothes, toiletries, my Bible, language books, flashlight, iodine tablets, candles, matches, camp stove, compact cooking kit and canteen. I left behind my precious new radio, camera equipment, and most of my clothes.

Eight other volunteers and I flew out of Kathmandu in an old, well cared for DC10 heading westward to Pokhara.  Although I knew the others in the group, my closest friends from training were on another flight going east.  Taking to the air, the others on the plane grouped together with their friends leaving me alone.  I listened as they shared anecdotes about our training, excitedly talked about their possible assignments and keeping in touch with each other.  Sitting next to a small, round portal alone and frightened, I stared out at the range of blocky, snow-covered mountains to the north.  Looking northeast toward Sagarmatha, all the peaks appeared to be the same height and I realized that I still did not know which of the white lumps Mount Everest was. During the next hour or so, I studied the jagged, forbidding shapes of the Himalayan range and watched as their rugged foothills unfolding beneath me.

Scarring the undulating terrain below were hundreds of small, terraced fields that paraded up the hillsides in rounded, irregular steps.  Traces of well-worn dirt paths wound between the fields as it intersected clumps of trees, little brown houses, and other, dusty walkways. Some of the terraces had blankets of new green growth while others were flooded with water. Most of the fields were dirty brown plots dry and devoid of life. Thin, black streams of water flowed down between the terraces twisting around rocky crevasses and merging into each other in their rapid decent.  Although out of sight, I knew the flows would quickly grow into rivers cascading to the valleys far below.

My thoughts suddenly snapped back to the present when I walked around one of the hill’s sharp curves and entered the edge of the forest.   A few steps in and spindly trees, thick mountain laurel and scattered clumps of bamboo surrounded me.  The pathway was dry, compacted and barren as it wound itself around outcroppings and larger rocks.  Nearby, I heard loud chirping of startled birds and rustling in the underbrush.  I knew I would soon be at an ancient rest area on top of a knoll with its large “Peepal Tree” providing shade and protection to weary travelers.  On the other side, the roadway broadened into an easier to walk pathway bordered with low walls of stone bordered it.

Peace Corps Nepal - Chapter 2: Getting There

Chapter 2: Getting There

Leaving the new teashop and crossing the main walking path, I took the smaller one that abruptly descended to the large playing field below.  The buildings of Tribuvhan High School were off to my left and before me, looming in the distance, were the snow-covered peak of Dhawalagiri. The larger, wider path continued toward the school’s parade ground in front of the two-story main building.  It was a wide, grassy area with an outline made of partially buried, flat fieldstones for a proposed new building.  No one ever spoke of it, but I suspected that the principal along with many of the well-to-do men of Balewa hoped to build the grand structure and immortalize their names.  Every morning, the students gathered on that field, stood in lines, pledged allegiance to their country’s triangular flag and prayed to their king. 

Carefully picking my way down the steep hill, I was soon below the three narrow, stepped terraced fields behind the school.  Before crossing the barren field I glanced around looking for any stray bulls roaming around that might give chase to me.  Only seeing a few grazing cows near the perimeter, I boldly stepped out and headed for the far side.  While crossing, I passed a remnant from yesterday’s mid-day rest period games: a pile of rocks.  I never saw anyone playing soccer on the school’s “soccer field,” but the boys would enthusiastically engage in a strange game that seemed similar to my childhood game of “King on the Mountain.”

The rules of the game were simple.  After choosing teams, one side constructed a precarious stack of stones in the middle of the field and then, surrounding the pile, picked up stones and prepared to defend their cairn.  Meanwhile, the other team fled to the field’s perimeters and plotted their attack.  Without warning, the attackers would race in from all sides throwing rocks at the defenders and the defended pile of stones trying to topple the flimsy structure.  The defending team countered the attack by throwing rocks at the incoming boys, attempting to create such a discouraging barrage of fire that the others would scurry out of range.  Often, defending students actually chased an attacker while throwing rock after rock at them.  Sometimes, a small team of attackers targeted a specific defender and ignored the stone mound.  Although it did not have the physical contact of “Kuvity-Kuvity,” it was a very dangerous game usually resulted in minor injuries and bloody wounds.  The few girls that attended the school disappeared during this time.

The cows, intent on eating, were still oblivious of my crossing as I reached the far side.   Pausing for a moment, I looked up toward the school.  Above it, the old teashop, bamboo thickets, rhododendron and dense forests hid the terraced, cultivated hillsides and steep rocky terrain beyond.  Before turning to the main road – just a wider, dirt walking path – toward the neighboring village far below, I looked around for any evidence of yesterday’s accident.

The mishap happened during our noonday break. I had gone to the old teashop above the school and was walking back down the main road when I saw a student hopping up the hillside and turn into the small alcove protecting the town’s spring. Quickening my pace and joined him in the niche protecting a communal spring.  He was sitting at the far end where an iron pipe protruded from the hillside.  From it, water continuously gushed, splashing onto a flat, stone-paved ground a few feet below and then draining down a ditch. Surrounding the flat surface was a low wall of stones that provided seating.  Every morning, after carrying water back to their homes to fill large clay jugs, the women would gather here to gossip, wash clothes and bathe.  The men bathed later in the day.  

Holding his right foot in the stream of water, turning it red with his blood, the student looked up at me in surprise.  He was from one of the more affluent families of the area and wore sandals, a luxury that many of the students displayed. The sandal he had removed was sitting on the floor nearby with a perfect hole through the center of its sole.  He spoke excitedly making it difficult to understand, but eventually I pieced together what had happened.  While playing one of their more violent games, he had stepped on a nail protruding from a piece of wood.  After his initial surprise and pain, he had stoically pulled the nail out and headed up the hill to wash.  He took his foot out of the streaming water and, taking a closer look, I saw an exit hole on the top of his dirty foot.  The nail had gone completely through. Using my “teacher” voice, I encouraged him to use soap to wash his foot and go to the Nepali Nurses stationed in Baglung – a four-hour walk to the north.  The only local help was from a long absent Medicine Man licensed to dispense drugs and a nearby Witch Doctor practicing spells and casting curses for the right price.

Today, seeing no evidence of the student’s incident, I turned and headed down the wide, dirt pathway. It was a familiar route, eventually going to the very edge of the gorge beyond the small Newari village below.  Once a month, I bought kerosene from a small military outpost at the lower end of the main street.  Nearby was a public clearing that locals used for major celebrations.  On my first foray to get fuel, I watched a curious “shadow puppet” performance with intricate, articulated cutouts of royalty acting out some historical event.  Farther down the hillside, a large, long plateau provided a landing area for small, four-passenger STOL (Short Takeoff and Landing) planes.  Every Thursday, a plane brought mail, packages and sometimes visitors. To head northward, I only trekked part way down and then turned left onto the “road” toward Baglung, which is the administrative headquarters of the Baglung District and of the Dhawalagiri Zone. For a short while, the roadway was level and I soon let my wandering thoughts drift back to Los Angeles and when I had left my family the day after Christmas.

At the airport, I joined the other twenty-three volunteers to begin our long trip to Nepal. Because of a recent rash of hijackings, there were stringent security measures in use.  At the boarding gate, every passenger had to pass through a metal detector.  Only after passing the detector without sounding an alarm was someone allowed down the long ramp and into the plane. When it was my turn, the detector beeped loudly. A security guard briefly detained me, asking me to step to one side where he searched me for weapons and asked me to empty my pockets. The only questionable item was my new penknife, a Christmas gift from my parents.  Both the guard and I thought that was the problem, so they asked me to walk through the detector again.  The cruel thing beeped again, and the guards had me remove my belt and try once more.  After a third time of raucous beeps, I took off my shoes and glasses.  When the gate beeped a fourth time, they patted me down again and used a “detection wand” over my entire body.  Although the gateway still beeped, the hand-held device could not find anything on or in me.  Eventually, the uniformed men around me gave a collective shrug, let me collect all my belongings and motioned me to board the plane.  Because of the delay, I was the last person to board the plane and had to sit in an aisle seat.  The 727 jetliner was soon high above the Pacific and we were on our way to our first stop - Hawaii.

That leg of our trip went quickly.  At first, we chatted about Christmas, our flying experiences, the expectations of the flight to and adventures in Nepal.  After a while, the chatter in the cabin quieted and we all settled into our own thoughts.  I silently considered my future and my fears. The pilot brought me out of my meditation sooner than I expected when he announced that we would soon be landing and suggested that we look out the right-side windows to see “The Island”.  I strained my neck to see past the person next to me and look out the small porthole.  Although there were clouds, I caught glimpses of greenery, flashes of white sand and dark blue water through the broken cloud cover.  Disappointed, I quickly gave up on my futile attempts to see details and shorelines.

Everyone was silent as the plane banked, turned and descended, making a smooth landing.  As we taxied off the runway, our pilot encouraged those of us continuing on to Guam to disembark and walk around in the waiting area of the gate.  Because we were going on to a foreign country, we could not leave those confines. Glad for a chance to stretch and walk the stiffness out of our legs, most of us left the plane.  There, standing in the isolation of our boarding gate, we watched grass-skirted island women enthusiastically greeting other passengers, draping garlands of fresh flowers around their necks when they exited into the main terminal. 

Our layover in Hawaii was brief, less than an hour, and before we had fully stretched our legs we were back on the plane.  We soon took off with considerably fewer passengers than before. This part of our trip was much longer: a tiring, nighttime flight to Guam. The air in the cabin quickly became stale, filling with the smell of people, perfumes and cigarette smoke.  The pilot dimmed the cabin lights, and with the constant roar of jets our senses deadened, time itself seemed to slow and stand still.  After many tedious, uncomfortable hours of struggling, the flight attendants finally demonstrated how to remove the armrests and turn a row of seats into a short, uncomfortable bed.  I was soon curling up on a makeshift divan, wrapped in a small airline blankets and my head resting on a tiny, soft, passenger’s pillow.

I was very tired, full of doubts, and both thirsty and hungry; but because it was an overnight flight, reading lights were discouraged and there were no snacks or drinks offered.  I tried to sleep, but slumber eluded me.  I spent the night gazing out the tiny portal at the blackness outside and listening to the sounds of sleep surrounding me.  My mind wandered from past memories to mental scenarios of Nepal that my imagination created.  In my musings, I pondered my relationship with my God, the uncertainty of my future and the direction of my life. Just when I become certain I was part of a “Twilight Zone” episode, we landed at a very dark airport.  There, the airport authorities allowed us to get off the plane for a few minutes to stretch our legs.  We wandered around a limited area on the hot tarmac. It was Guam’s summertime and, although the heat was oppressive, the air felt fresh and was free from the smells of stale cigarettes, people and plane.  In a few minutes, I was sweating and looking forward to climbing back into the plane’s nice, cool air-conditioning. Less than an hour later, we again boarded for the next leg of our journey: Hong Kong.

The plane landed at Hong Kong after more than twenty hours of uneventful tedium.  We needed fresh air that did not reek of bodies and cigarettes, craved enough space to move about freely and some time away from each other.  As soon as the plane landed and the doors opened, we fled the confines of the plane, dispersing ourselves throughout the terminal.  Some of us visited the many nearby souvenir shops and liquor stores while others headed toward restaurants and various food vendors.  Briefly stopping to breath in the fresh air, I set my sights on the venue of electronics.  During the long flight, I had an epiphany: I would need a radio wherever they assigned me.  With that in mind, I set off down the corridors of the terminal determined to purchase a radio to take to Nepal with me. Because our layover would once again be brief, I raced off as quickly as possible, finding a “duty-free” electronics store deep within the central concourse.  Drawing on the advice from some of the experienced Peace Corps Volunteers, I bought a shortwave radio.  It would keep me in touch with the news and happenings of the world.  The Panasonic^®, three-band transistor radio cost thirty dollars and came with a stiff leather case, earphone, and external antennae jack.  It had always been a dream of mine.  I had coveted such a radio for years, and I was overjoyed to find one at so low-priced. Similar radios in the United States cost over a hundred dollars.  I raced back to the plane, clutching my prize tightly. Quickly, I stowed it under my seat just minutes before the plane’s door closed and we were soon on our way to Thailand.

Briefly interrupting my reminiscing, I negotiated around a sharp turn in the road.  Ahead and above me, I noticed the common sight of women toting heavy loads on their backs by supporting most of the weight with a strap across their foreheads.  Before coming to Nepal, I had never seen this way of carrying, but here, it was how men and women, including Sherpas, bore their burdens.  The women I saw brought to mind one of my lesser embarrassing moments.  In the mornings, before I had an outhouse built, I relieved myself behind the building where I lived.  One day, I turned around to face three women, burdened with huge bundles of wood, staring at me and giggling.  They smiled, and then turned and continued on their way.  Having gotten around the curve, I continued on my way and allowed my mind to continue its remembering. 

The sun crested over the eastern horizon as we finally landed at Bangkok.  After deplaning and retrieving our luggage, we gathered in the main area of the terminal with the Nepali trainers who were accompanying us.  There they told us that the final flight of our journey to Kathmandu, Nepal was not until late the next day.  Because of the delay, Pan American airlines had arranged for luxurious accommodations at a lavish hotel in the heart of the city.  After the trainers distributed meal vouchers, we left the terminal, struggling with our luggage and valuables, to the street outside where an ancient but well maintained bus waited for us.  The bus was a welcome change in transportation, and the trip into Bangkok was a comfortable relief.  On the way to the hotel, I was both tired and excited about the opportunity to get a good night’s sleep and exploring the city the next day.

Finally, after countless turns and maneuvers, the bus arrived at the hotel and we gratefully entered the opulent main lobby.  It was an expansive, high-ceilinged edifice with a massive, central stairway covered in red carpet that curved upward to the rooms above.  Across from the entrance, a grand restaurant offered expensive, western-style foods and greatly modified local cuisine served on linen covered tables with glistening, gold tableware.  After organizing us into small groups, keys were distributed.  There were four of us sharing a single room, and soon we each had our key and together we climbing the runner-covered marble stairs to the third floor.  When we reached the third floor and opened the door, the spacious suit pleasantly surprised us.  A spacious, strikingly gaudy main room greeted us with bedrooms off to the side. Deep red, fuzzy patterned textured wallpaper covered all the walls and the ceiling was a dull, matte grey. Across from the hallway entrance, glass-paned doors had decorative golden drapes festooned with red embroidery. The drapes were partially drawn and then tied back at their centers allowing the use of the doors that opened onto a small, wrought iron balcony overlooking the bustling and congested street below.  

Curious, I stepped out onto the balcony and, from its vantage point, I watched a man three stories below me enthusiastically swirl brown lumps of food in a broad, round pan held over a portable fire pit.  To finish his strange meal, he suddenly added noodle to the dish, briskly mixed it together and deftly dumped it all into a bowl.  After serving it to his customer, he quickly began working on another order.  All around him, the street was a chaotic bustling tangle.  I watched fascinated as lightly clad men steered rickety bikes through the crowds of colorfully dressed men and women while animated shoppers loudly haggled over a confusing array of fruits and vegetables.  The air was heavy with the smell of cooking combined with a sweet aroma of fruit and of hot spices that wafted up to me.  It was early morning and the streets were awakening, becoming alive and exciting with the life of Bangkok.

After stowing our luggage, the four of us, hungry from hours of tedious travel, went to the hotel’s first floor restaurant with the airline vouchers in hand. Sitting around a lavishly appointed table eating breakfast, we talked about our trip and planned for the day.  A mutual desire to explore the strange city of Bangkok quickly emerged and we decided to spend the day together as tourists visiting as many places as we could.  We would catch up on our sleep that evening.  As we stepped outside of the hotel keen to start on our adventure, we encountered a taxi with a driver anxious for customers and eager to show off his town.  He was a small, congenial man who spoke surprisingly excellent English.  We immediately hired him as our private tour guide for the day.  He was our key to the city and surrounding countryside and was overjoyed to spend the day showing it off while earning lots of money. Excitedly packing us into his smelly little car, he started our tour with a very long drive into the flat, fertile, farmland north of the city.  Although it was a narrow, dusty road, and we needed to roll all the windows down because of the heat and humidity, our trip was reasonably comfortable.  Along the way, we enthusiastically pointed out all the curious and unfamiliar things as our escort shouted descriptions and information over the roaring, rumbling road noises.

 My trek northward was familiar and I often mused about my experiences, but now I was coming to a resting area.  The low wall of stone, encircling a raised bed of dirt and a large tree, offered a comfortable place to sit down, shrug off my backpack, and sip some water.  Under the cool shade of the tree I could rest, enjoy the scenery, chat with anyone else there or just daydream. Large trees at the center of rest areas were usually Banyans – commonly called “Peepal trees.”  Some Hindus considered these trees holy: a place where worship did not need an idol.  To some, the trees actually host a goddess and are associated with “wish-fulfilling” and eternal life.  Many of the rest areas I encountered were cared for and, in the summer, had a dense, cooling canopy of green.  Some areas had dead or dying trees surrounded by uncared for and moss covered walls.  This was wintertime, the day before Christmas, and there were no leaves.  Still, it was nice to rest and continue my musings.

After the long drive with countless turns along a dusty, dirt road, our driver pulled into an area in front of a round, plain looking stone temple and parked near a simple doorway.  It took a few moments for us to realize how massive the structure really was.  After helping each of us climb out of his little car, our new friend solemnly ushered us inside. When our eyes finally adjusted to the dull walls and dimly lit shrine, we found ourselves in front of a monstrous, gold-covered, sixty-foot long reclining Buddha.  He was on his right side, his feet toward the door and head supported by his arm.  The holy place was immaculate, cool, dry and very silent.  The smallest noise reverberated off the curved walls and echoed throughout the chamber.  Awed by the sight, we spoke with hushed voices and moved with deliberate caution.  When we left, our driver told us that few visitors to Bangkok ever came to this temple, and that were truly blessed and lucky that he was our driver, guide and friend.

Bouncing and jostling our way back to the city with all the vehicle’s windows wide open, we speculated about what our guide would show us next. The cars jarring up-and-down combined with constantly accelerating, decelerating and swerving made it difficult for me to look at the other volunteers, so I stared out the window at all the wonders around us.  While in the country, we passed dozens of barren, rectangular fields separated by low earthen wall.  When we neared the city and buildings became numerous, we seemed to follow a busy waterway filled with long, narrow boats.  At one point, I saw a spacious, colorfully ornate temple populated with austere monks walking around in bright red robes.  Soon we were amid a jumble of stone buildings, wood shacks and a chaotic menagerie of street vendors and roaming animals.  It was in this cacophony of life that our new friend took us to a very small temple recess tucked below a nondescript building. Inside a deep alcove and behind a set of massive iron bars was a small, solid gold Sitting Buddha. Gazed in wonder at the glistening figure, we listened as our guide launched into a story of how, during the Second World War, the local monks saved the Gold Buddha from plundering Nazi invaders. They hid the figure by painting it to look like stone and then left it in full view.  The Germans, thinking it was just another stone idol, left it in place.  It was a true-life story like the “Purloined Letter” of Poe.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of colors, crowded streets and smells ranging from marvelously seductive and pungent to nauseating sewer odors.  Returning us to our hotel in the early evening, our new friend suggested that we continue our explorations after freshening up and getting something to eat. He seemed willing, even eager, to wait for us.  It only took moments for us to look at each other and nod agreements. In less than an hour, we were riding off to sample Bangkok’s nightlife.  The city was a surprisingly dark, punctuated here-and-there with islands of bright, colorful lights.  Many of those lights came from questionable nightclubs that offered music, drink and anything else a person could desire. Looking at the unsavory clientele standing around the entrances of the more raucous nightclubs convinced us to stay safely in our little cab and continue our tour.  Exhausting the venue of larger clubs, the driver took us to an even seedier part of the town where everything imaginable was for sale.

We drove past an assortment of places and finally stopped at one brightly lit building far from the safety of our hotel. Inside a large display window were a dozen scantily clad young women sitting on a variety of mismatched chairs, stools and sofas.  A blazing sign above them, written in multiple languages, offered both full and specialized massages provided by your choice of server. Intrigued, we and quizzed the driver about expectations, safety and costs.  He earnestly assured us that the business specialized in pleasing Westerners, whom they called “monkey men” because of the extensive body hair compared to most Asians and local men who usually did not have chest hair.  After a brief discussion, we decided to investigate further. 

Once again, the driver had to help us out of his taxi and promised that he would wait.  Because I had spent most of what little money I had on my shortwave radio, I told my companions that I wanted to be last to select.  Each of the other men selected a “professional masseur” and the type of massage they wanted.  The list of services the masseurs offered included a variety of legitimate, and what I considered morally and ethically, acceptable choices.  Realizing that the others had selected the affordable, standard service of simple backrubs, I randomly pointed at one of the remaining women and selected the cheapest service.  After making payments, the selected women led each of us into the labyrinth of corridors and rooms behind the lobby.  

I found myself in a small, white room with a massage table, bathtub, sink and small table covered with an abundance of colored bottles and strange devices.  The woman with me did not speak any English and made her questions and directions well known through gestures and pointing.  After watching her repeat a series of gesticulations, I realized that she was offering additional “services” for cash.  Once she understood I was not interested, she looked at me with distain and then, pulling a curtain partway across the room, handed me a towel.  The session continued with her finishing the experience by walking on my back.  The privacy curtain was again pulled in place and I got dressed, my tired, aching muscles refreshed.  For the first time since leaving the United States, I felt relaxed.  The woman then led me back to the lobby.

When the others had all returned to the lobby, we went outside where our driver had, keeping his promise, waited. We carefully climbed back into his taxi and headed back to the hotel talking about our encounters.  The women had each offered additional service, once they were in the privacy of the massage rooms, for cash only.  Officially, the establishment denied that such extras existed, but demanded a share.  According to our driver, these businesses were legal and that there was fierce competition among them throughout Bangkok. Once we got back to the hotel and paid the driver, we quickly climbed the stairs and retired to our suite for a good night’s sleep before continuing our flight the next day.

Early the next morning we gathered in the hotel lobby, boarded the bus and headed to the airport.  The first leg of this part of our trip was to Calcutta where we transferred from a 747 jetliner to an old DC 10.  I felt that I had been plunged into the past by the look and feel of the comparatively small, propeller driven plane from long ago, but it safely flew us to Kathmandu, Nepal that afternoon.  Inside, sitting near the front of the plane and staring out a dirty little window, I watched as we flew above the changing terrain and circled to make our final approach to the cement landing strip below. Ahead of us, blanketed by thick green fields, was the large and broad valley of Kathmandu.  Within the city, a network of meandering roads and pathways interconnected the many jumbled clumps of brown-red buildings. On a majestically prominent hill just outside the city, a large, circular temple festooned with tall spires overlooking all the lands with grandeur. The hills surrounding the valley were forbidding guardians, cradling its sun-soaked beauty in silence.  Northward, the hills quickly soared into the massive, snow-covered block-mountains of the Himalayas.  Their white peaks, parading east and west, disappeared into the misty distance. Beyond the icy peaks was the fabled land of Tibet, hidden from view by the mountains and a thick ocean of clouds. Squinting at the mountaintops, I wondered which rocky sentinel was Mount Everest, known in Nepal as Sagamartha, “Earth’s Mother.”

Staring out the little window as the plane descended, I watched the city become a maze of dark, twisting streets and sprawling, dirt-colored buildings of every description ranging from small hovels of commoners to the monstrous edifices of powerful and wealthy families. I realized that many of the structures were like poorly designed townhouses.  Two to four storied adjoining buildings lining the larger roads, along with a confusing array of signs and pictures. At many roadway intersections, brightly colored temples acted as traffic circles. What I glimpsed as we neared touchdown, idols, small temples, and altars were scattered throughout the city. One place I spied near a very congested intersection was a huge, white mansion encircled by a high wall.  Within, wandering about a manicured yard filled with lush foliage, were strutting peacocks displaying their colorful plumage. Tucked between the squalor of the busy town were other mansions, each in startling contrast to the poverty outside.  As the plane finally touched down, I realized that just outside the little airport’s fence dozens of vendors were selling food, clothing, and everything else from tools to musical instruments. Around and engulfing them was a large, colorful crowd of men and women with slow moving trucks, cars, and bicycles passing by. Sacred cows were plodding through the dusty streets, and a brief glance down one narrow alley gave me my first sighting of the wild, mongrel dogs that roamed the city in search of food.

I felt pangs of doubt and fear well up within me as the plane finally bounced to a stop. It was an entirely alien world outside where the culture, traditions, and beliefs still baffled me. The bedlam I saw while landing made me wonder about our reception, but then I remembered a trainer telling us that, after years of internal stress and conflict, Nepal was welcoming outsiders into their country.  I quietly prayed that he was right.  Even after weeks of training and the total immersion experiences, Nepal was a great unknown. A part of me questioned if my own understandings, beliefs and faith would be strong enough to endure, and I wondered if I would meet the physical demands of this country and my job.  Naively, I did not consider what health risks I was facing.  The World Health Organization’s maps of this area identified the entire country of Nepal as a hotbed of dysentery, disease, and death.  I should have been concerned.

Passing through customs and collecting my luggage, I joined some of the other volunteers in the back of one of a number of large, open-sided trucks. That old, green vehicle had obviously seen much better days, but it was well cared for and was reasonably comfortable. We were strangely silent and acutely aware of the new and strange sounds, sights and smells of the city during the jostling, bumpy trip to our temporary housing.  The route we took was circuitous, winding its way through a labyrinth of narrow, busy streets filled with cars, bikes and people.  Eventually, we arrived at a spacious old mansion only a few blocks north of what I later learned was the King’s Palace.  The other trucks soon arrived and we were ushered into hotel.

At some time in the past, our hotel had been the home of an elite and powerful family. When the government collapsed and royalty had regained power, the huge mansion, along with hundreds of other mansions, was confiscated and adapted for use as a hotel. A crumbling, stone and cement wall encircled the entire estate, and the only entry from the public street was a private drive through a narrow passage.  A pair of rusting metal gates flanked the entrance. Inside the compound, the driveway looped around a central courtyard, past the front doors and back to the entrance. Like many other buildings and hotels in the city, the new owners had modified the structure as much as they could afford to accommodate western style living. When my roommate and I finally entered our assigned room, we realized that the hotel was still very primitive. Bare light bulbs, strange shaped outlets and shuttered windows were some of the amenities we had in our dim, second floor room.  We discovered that could not open the two large windows overlooking the courtyard, and the renovators had converted a small storage closet into a barely functional bathroom. Ornate, gold-colored fixtures chugged out a sad, slow flow of smelly water and the toilet was beyond description.  Our room was wonderfully spacious but discouraging in its austerity and lack of both bath and true privacy.

Other travelers sitting down near me interrupted my reminiscing.  Standing up, I put my hands together and greeted them with “Namaste” before hefting my backpack into place, picking up my walking stick and continuing my journey.  The road was reasonably level for a few hundred feet, but quickly slanted upwards following the natural contours of the hillside.  Terraced plots of land formed a mosaic pattern of steps up the hillside from the cliffs of the Kali Gandaki Gorge to the summits, and the wide walking road narrowed to a well-worn footpath along the edges of the barren fields.