87 - Cannabis Trail (Kathmandu Valley, Nepal)
TRAIPSE THROUGH THE HIMALAYAS AFTER SPENDING SO MUCH TIME AT SEA LEVEL? Yep, I was a tad intimidated. How would altitude and decreased stamina affect my adventure? I feared going balls deep on an epic hike only to realize I didn’t have the fuel or the physical chops to carpe my diem. So, I consulted the Lonely Planet and haunted local tour outfits for a warm-up excursion. A test run for me. A test run for them. I was prepared to drop sizable coin on longer campaigns and wanted to find someone reputable.
The Sundarijal-Chisapani-Nagarkot-Dhulikel route fit the bill. Who’s this for? Mildly infirm, time-strapped wayfarers on a budget. It’s a tease, a Himalayan hors d'oeuvre if you will. In hindsight, I underestimated my enthusiasm and its potential to overcome diminished physical capacity, but it was better safe than sorry. Time was a valuable asset I used to my benefit. It took notable self-discipline. I was smitten, infected with Himalayan fever.
I met Gopal (my guide) in the morning. We hopped in a car from Kathmandu to the trailhead in Sundarijal and set out for the day’s goal—Chisapani. At a reasonable pace, you can reach it in a few hours or less. We took over half a day. Gopal was an amiable, laid-back fella with serious motivation issues, a “stop and smell the roses” type. And by “smell the roses,” I mean “smoke the pot.” A lot of pot. He was unpleasantly surprised to discover I was more interested in the journey than a slo-mo marijuana-infused jaunt. Previous hikers set a precedent. He assumed a young-ish American would be on board. His disappointment was palpable. Lunch was a two-hour affair cooked from scratch. Slow season? Dunno, but the holdup was borderline excruciating. I was ready to forge ahead solo.
Ten minutes in, Gopal regaled me with tales of his priapic exploits. We could’ve been teenagers on a wake and bake hike in the hills near our homes. His current “girlfriend” hailed from Spain. I had one once. She was excellent. What I didn’t have was a wife and a child. He did. He met his señorita while she and her husband were on vacation. And by “vacation,” I mean “honeymoon.” He was their guide.
Keep in mind, ten minutes in. That’s how long it took for me to learn he’d banged a client’s newlywed wife during their honeymoon. Logistics were an issue, so they had to be creative. This required furious bursts of naughty time near the bathroom. I’m no romantic but that shit’s beautiful. Both spouses remained clueless. Neither planned on divorce, but that didn’t deter their hearts. The heart wants what the heart wants, ya know? Thrice daily e-mails kept the spark alive. He mentioned an upcoming rendezvous sin husband. Who needs “The Bold and the Beautiful?” I had Nepal.
His third mistress was the aforementioned Mary Jane, a constant fixture during our time together. She was never far away. It grew wild along the trail, in the villages, and everywhere in betwixt and between. He pointed to a huge branch with large buds before harvesting and hiding it for a later pick-up. I continued to thwart his advances. I’m not against a magic carpet ride, I just wasn’t in the mood. And even if I had been, one should always be circumspect about drug use abroad. All the usual suspects are illegal in Nepal, including marijuana.
Mary Jane has a special significance in Hinduism. It’s used sacramentally by Sadhus (Hindu version of monk). Why? One of the faith’s major deities (Shiva) is big on the stuff, making MJ sacred. Sadhus appear to enjoy a de facto exemption on its use. Also, once a year on Shiva’s birthday, the exemption extends countrywide. Hard to imagine hardcore enforcement. I didn’t see it. Still, what’s good for the goose may not be good for the gander. Tourists make excellent fodder for bribes. I thought it best to abstain until I had the 411.
That being said, the streets of Thamel (Kathmandu) are awash in roving peddlers offering a cornucopia of banned substances and services. It begins with an offer for a rickshaw ride, tiger balm, temple visit, etc., but quickly devolves to a “hookers and blow” scenario—Rickshaw? Monkey Temple? Massage? Nepal girl? White woman? Hash? Marijuana? Cocaine? Heroin? The surreptitious method of communication never failed to make me giggle. Think ghostly ventriloquism. Miscreants would flash-whisper just as I passed, words floating on a breeze somehow landing in my ear canal. Caught off guard, I’d turn to investigate only to find said miscreant nodding affirmation as if my acknowledgment was tacit approval. I’d try to pass without laughing. It required serious effort. Some didn’t see the humor. I laughed harder.
White woman? What the fuck did that even mean? I’m guessing it was a “foot in the door” technique. Part of me wanted to investigate, but I’d wager window shopping was frowned upon by careerists. Heroin? That one threw me for a loop. After relentless entreaties, I buckled and turned to the young salesman du jour, “Heroin? Yes? You have heroin? I want a lot of heroin. A lot. Can you get me this much?” I then pantomimed a bowling ball sized quantity of dope. He didn’t flinch. No problem. “Really? You can get this much heroin? Right now? Really?” Again, no problem. I thought for sure he’d balk at the ludicrous amount (about a kilo or two). Let’s recap: A 6’4” white American attempting to buy a fuckload of heroin in tourist-infested Thamel without care or compunction. We never got to price because I couldn’t stop laughing. Seriously?
Although shooting heroin and fornicating with a Nepalese hooker while avoiding a Kathmandu prison piqued my curiosity, I somehow declined every offer. Nepal abolished the death penalty, so I’m not sure what my problem was. Drugs are fun, but not worth the risk—not in Thamel, not in Kathmandu’s surrounding hills (at least not at the outset).
Eventually, we arrived in Chisapani. The view was exquisite. The village was not. Lonely Planet described it as “a grubby little truck stop without the trucks.” And yet, I remember it fondly. Chance encounters are the spice of the itinerant life. The following morning, a Nepalese army major from a nearby outpost introduced himself. We hit it off at once. Upon learning of my American heritage, he informed me of a past visit to Orlando, Florida. He’d completed two six-month stints in Hati as a member of a United Nations peacekeeping force. For vacation, it was off to Disney World, Universal Studios, and the Kennedy Space Center. It’s a small world after all.
He gave me a quick tour of a modest cheese-making operation fed from local buffalo and yak milk before inviting me for coffee at his outpost overlooking the village. How could I refuse? It’s not like we were in a hurry. Gopal encouraged me to mingle while he did whatever the hell he did. And that’s how I found myself sipping coffee on a fine Nepal morning with a Himalayan view and a new friend. I was curious about the need for an army outpost. He explained it was a holdover from the Maoist insurgency. (Kathmandu is less than 20 kilometers away.) Safety wasn’t an issue, but the outpost remained as a precaution and visual reassurance. He showcased his brochures from Universal Studios and the Kennedy Space Center. That, my friends, is why travel is like cocaine. All the drug I needed.
I bid the major a fond farewell (we exchanged e-mail addresses) and set out for Nagarkot. The lolly-gagging continued, as did long lunch breaks and the vicissitudes of Gopal’s motivation. At peak THC levels, he’d bark, moo, baa, and cluck at the corresponding animal as we passed. It was hard not to smile, a wonderful anecdote to vexation. Gopal was a kind soul. Had I not fancied a haul-ass hike, his feckless lethargy would’ve been a welcome diversion. Still, this was a warm-up, so I quelled frustration and dialed down ambitions. Nepal was my oyster. I had time. Simmer down now, ya silly bastard.
In Nagarkot, we stayed at the Hotel Viewpoint, a slightly upscale abode perched on a ridge above town. The rooftop platform had an excellent vista, my first real taste of Himalaya. At dusk and dawn, warm light and atmospheric anomalies conspire to make distant snow-capped peaks appear as if floating over a void. If you can enjoy the view in silence, it’s a magical scene. As the hotel is popular with Chinese tour groups, good luck with that. Incessant chatter and rapid-fire shutter clicks are a surefire way to break the quasi-spiritual spell.
Over dinner, Gopal recalled troubled times a la civil war. Banners and signs along the hike served as reminders. The Maoists never posed a direct threat to tourists, but that didn’t rule out indirect ones. He shared his harrowing experience during the height of the unrest. While guiding an American bloke, he walked into crossfire between them and the Nepalese Army. They pressed on through a small gorge (packs overhead for protection) before hunkering down at a village school with teachers and children. After the rebels skedaddled (a guerrilla hit-and-run operation), the army surrounded the town and began questioning villagers. Gopal told me had his client not confirmed his guide status, it would’ve been curtains for him.
For the most part, the Maoists didn’t threaten tourists physically. There were exceptions, but these usually involved gung-ho foreign males with an overabundance of ego. They weren’t above extortion, however. Makeshift checkpoints were common on popular trails as were corresponding donation “requests.” They were nothing if not judicious, offering receipts to prevent further taxation. Though tourism was down, the brave souls who persevered viewed a shakedown by revolutionaries and the “proof of purchase” souvenir as a one-of-a-kind experience,a feature, not a bug. Nothing like a cohort of privileged assholes to spice up an insurrection.
The final day was the least enjoyable. The morning was a pleasant decline through hillside villages followed by an afternoon slog along a major highway. Initially, we were to take a bus to Dhulikel, but Gopal believed the Dhulikel Mountain Resort was within reasonable walking distance. As this was his first visit to that hotel, he didn’t realize it was four kilometers outside town. Oopsie. We capped off our three-day trek with a three-hour pavement stroll in the lowland sun. Dust, fumes, and cacophonous traffic flavored our mid-day constitutional. Everybody honks. Nobody listens.
The resort was a bit upscale for my tastes, at least so early in my Nepal sojourn. I like to reserve the three and four-star concerns for rest and recuperation after an arduous stint lacking creature comforts. It’s never so much the accommodations (I like a good pampering as much as the next douchebag), it’s more about the clientele. Upper-class establishments cater to the upper crust on whirlwind tours, whereas hostels and guesthouses serve the “salt of the earth” backpacker crowd. Case in point: My fellow lodgers were a group of mature German tourists. Not exactly the “swing naked from the chandeliers” set. By then, I realized I’d likely paid a “premium” for my warm-up trek. That’s not to say it was outrageous, only that it was more than I required.
I couldn’t argue with the view, the food, or the chill atmosphere. Normally, I shun canned entertainment, but the sequence of traditional dances following dinner was worthwhile. Although performed by young amateurs, the majority were authentic-ish with the medicine-man dramatization by far the most compelling. In remote areas, advanced medical care is non-existent, so folks rely on custom, i.e. local remedies combined with chanting, singing, drumming, incantations, etc. The hotel version had much less gravitas, but frontier reality is life or death. Gopal vouched for the representation as his father was such a healer.
Comically dubious performances rounded out the lineup. I shan’t forget the illustrious yak and yeti ensemble. Imagine two individuals, one donning a yak costume, the other a yeti disguise, engaged in a bizarre musical/theatrical interaction. The yeti entered mounted atop the rambunctious yak, dismounted, and began the “ritual,” a ritual which included a fair amount of dry humping. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was breakdancing involved.
The next morning, I was treated to more stunning scenery painted in hues of a rising sun. The trip concluded with a hot, noisy, nauseating, adrenaline-laced car ride back to Kathmandu. I stared straight ahead from the back seat to avoid vomiting while channeling subtle pangs of terror at impending collisions.
