95 - Om Mani Padme Hum (Upper Mustang, Nepal)
I LEFT LO MANTHANG ON DAY EIGHT AND BEGAN THE JOURNEY BACK TO JOMSOM. On night seven, it was dinner and a movie—dal bhat with yak meat and the made-for-TV movie “Into Thin Air” by John Krakauer on VHS. VHS? You know you’re in a savage land when forced to endure the abysmal picture quality of a video cassette player and standard definition TV. Barbarians. I divided my attention between Everest and dinner preparation. I sat mesmerized as the woman of the house entered the kitchen, stoked the fire, threw another pile of cow shit in the stove barehanded, and went to work sans hand cleansing. Delicious.
Nine days without a wash left me marinating in my own juice. And then there was Ghami village—the promised land. When I learned gas-powered hot water was available at the guesthouse, I considered smooching the women in charge. Sublime. That’s how I’d describe my shower experience. I nearly dissolved.
On day nine, I confronted Mustang’s version of a traffic jam. Herds of sheep, pack horses, and seasonal migrants hindered progress on a narrow stretch of uphill climb. Speed wasn’t the issue, it was the clouds of dust that left those in its wake subject to mild asphyxiation. And the incessant whistling and grunting of shepherds can needle one psychologically after about hour three.
The land was sad to see me go. What else could explain overcast skies and a couple of inches of snow? No complaints here. The weather to that point was Triple-A fantastic. A casual glance at the Himalayan backdrop revealed mountain snowfall. A few diaphanous flakes accosted me on a midnight bathroom run.
I did lament for those headed north. Daytime temps dropped, clouds proliferated, and locals went south. In retrospect, I conducted my Mustang expedition at the last possible moment to ensure a remarkable journey. The high season runs from August to September. No crowds, but I was pushing my luck with a late-October departure. Fortune favors the bold… or chronically ignorant.
By then, Hansel and Gretel succumbed to my charm. We even had actual conversations beyond the mild pleasantries almost required when you encounter the same people day after day. Not that they’d invite me to their home in Germany for beer and pretzels, but we got along in the end. Sharing my doxycycline stash helped.
The duo was having stomach issues, so I offered a few pills with instructions. I knew Grets was having an issue, but I wasn’t privy to Hans’ intestinal tribulations until one fine morning on our return. Adjacent rooms. Paper-thin walls. Grets and I shared a wall, Hans was in the bed next to her. Well, at around 6:30 am I heard the unmistakable sound of flatulence (phblaaaaaaat), followed by a distinctly German, “Scheisse!”
Confused? Hans shit the bed, or shit his pajamas inside his sleeping bag on the bed. Thus began a frantic attempt at mitigation underscored by the sloshing of an upside-down water bottle and repetitive nylon scrubbing. This took some time and required a toilet timeout. Nothing like a disaster pants vignette to welcome the morning. My immediate task was twofold: Stifle laughter. Avoid shitting myself. When I overheard Grets telling their guide they were now both having issues, I was almost compelled to respond with, “Noooo shit.”
My antibiotic largesse may have caused more harm than good. When I was young(er) and ignorant, I was in the “antibiotics can cure anything” camp. This camp is woefully misguided. Rampant over prescription has led to unintended consequences—superbug resistant strains running hog wild in hospitals and a pandemic of dysbiosis from the decimation of gut microbiomes. They do not discriminate, killing the good and bad bacteria, ushering in epic battles for territorial supremacy. Suffice it to say, this explains the dramatic rise in FMTs, fecal matter transplants. When folks swap shit, shit gets real, ya heard?
If that’s not enough, the generic drug industry is rife with quality control issues. The price of cheap generics? Unjustified illness and death, a foreseeable result of outsourcing pharmaceutical production overseas. Less accountability, less oversight. And if US markets have been flooded with inferior drugs, imagine what happens in the developing world (Nepal, for example). In fact, unscrupulous Indian and Chinese manufacturers have been dumping substandard drugs abroad for decades. Want to know more? Of course you don’t. This is scary shit. But you should investigate anyway. Read this book and check out this online pharmacy.
On day ten, we made a lunch stop that included a show of a different kind. I wandered into a room adjacent to the dining area to discover two young men butchering/disemboweling a ram. Drying sheep parts hung along rope cords strung wall-to-wall like macabre decorations. On the floor was the recently departed lying on its back sans internal organs. I wasn’t repulsed as much as fascinated.
With one hand on a knife and another gripping a horn, a gentleman detached the head and organized the bowls much like I’d go about rearranging my sock drawer. Just the fact this scene struck me as exotic is excellent evidence of how far removed many of my ilk (the developed West) are from the food production and distribution system. Sad but true.
I was proffered a silver bowl filled with sheep liver slices. I didn’t make the connection then, but animal liver is a nutritional powerhouse prized by traditional cultures the world over for thousands of years. And raw liver exceeds the salubrious qualities of the cooked version. I was grateful, but I should’ve been more grateful. I came close, really close. Knowing what I know now, I may have bitten the bullet and accepted his gracious offer. Sanitation was a concern, so I probably dodged a bullet. I succumbed to Gretel’s remonstrations, but curiosity was killing me. In the years since I’ve had a go at raw liver from a trusted source. Let’s just say it’s an acquired taste.
The remaining trek to Kagbeni was pleasant but uneventful. We spent our final Mustang night at the same teahouse from which we began our journey north. It was then I encountered the strangest scene of all: a couple with a newborn baby. Yes, this duo brought a seven-week-old trekking in Nepal. I was stupefied and made no attempt to hide my bewilderment. Have a baby. Don’t have a baby. If you’re going to do it, take some goddamn responsibility. I mean, seriously? I wanted to ask, “Seriously?” while pointing at the infant. I never found out where they were from. Someone guessed Eastern Europe. I’m all for exposing children to the world, but that’s ludicrous. Ludicrous, I say!
I was still working my way through the original text of the Kama Sutra translated by Richard Burton. In Chapter V, “On The Kinds Of Woman Resorted To By The Citizen,” there’s a list of woman not fit to be “enjoyed.” The list includes:
-A leper
-A lunatic
-A woman turned out of caste
-A woman who reveals secrets
-A woman who publicly expresses a desire for sexual intercourse
-A woman who is extremely white
-A woman who is extremely black
-A bad-smelling woman
-A woman who is a near relative
-A woman who is a female friend
-A woman who leads the life of an ascetic
-And, lastly, the wife of a relative, of a friend, of a learned Brahman, and of the king
Do we need to be cautioned against sleeping with lepers and stinky woman? Pretty sure those take care of themselves. And how would the ancients define “lunatic?” The text sheds no light.
