The Wormlips Scrapbook

The noise here is like New York here, except louder and with roosters. I didn’t mean to wake up at 4:00 a.m. At 6:00 I called to request my customary (well, the custom started last night) Nepali milk tea, but they couldn’t bring it to me because I’m lodged in the low-rent part of the hotel across the alley.

The headline in today’s Kathmandu Times is Man Kills Wife Over Facebook Status and, only slightly less prominently, Paris Hilton Hangs Out with Princes.

At 11:00 Bhim arrived, courtesy of Thakur, to walk me around town and get some errands done: buy rupees, get my bus ticket to Pokhara for tomorrow, and try to fix Cheryl’s cell phone. I realized early on that the last errand was futile because her battery is dead-dead, but Bhim was determined. I tried to keep up with him as he slid like silicone between rickshaws and motorcyles and taxis and buses, but I didn’t do so well, causing some squealing of brakes and much horn-blowing. When he reached a giant street with about forty threads of traffic, I had a moment of panic: Don’t leave me! Technically, I think vehicles drive on the left of the road, but you’d never know that by looking.

Remember last month when my brand new polarizing filter fell off my camera and shattered on the rocks? Guess what happened on the streets of Kathmandu. We added Superglue to our to-do list. Finally found some but when I got it home I found it had hardened in the tube.

I love some of the t-shirts Nepalis wear: those with confused English slogans. My favorite so far has a photo of a winged helmet emblazoned wiht “US Marines” and the tagline, Made in Cowboy. I hope to find some interesting ones to bring home as presents.

If I hear another Om Mani Peme Hung (that’s the Tibetan version) I fear I will go berserk. It’s piped into about every fourth stall throughout the tourist district of Thamel and beyond, and it’s all exactly the same recording. So when you go along you just crossfade from one chunk of the chant to the next. But I guess it’s better than what I heard later in the afternoon: those deplorable Swedes.

After Bhim left I did a little solo exploring. The air here is so foul that even some locals wear facemasks. I’ll let Cheryl tell you the rest.

People will try to sell you things. I haven’t warned you about the beggars. There are crippled guys and lepers. I try to remember to keep small bills and coins in my pockets so I can give them some. I do not give money to the street kids. There are good organizations here working with them and giving them money just undercuts their work. It’s heartbreaking, but save your money. There are also mothers with babies and old people. It’s up to you…

I went to some Italian restaurant for an early dinner where the featured cocktail was called the “Orgasm,” a blend of Cointreau and Bailey’s with crushed ice. I didn’t order it. I looked out the window at a quaint and picturesque rickshaw driver, dignified-looking despite unmatched shoes and dirty clothes. At the exact moment that I brought the first bite of lasagna to my mouth, he did a full-on air-blow of his nose.

Shortly thereafter I took one of my Ambien and dreamed that my father came back from the dead, as he is wont to do in my dreams, and told me that he’s really happy I’m on this trip.

As I got ready to leave I felt like my veins were coursing with battery acid and my nerves plugged into a 220-volt outlet as synapses fired and missed:

Send 94th birthday card to Mamma Ginna. Vote. Water plants. No, get dressed, then water plants. Where’s the card? Answer e-mail. Can’t find address. There. Okay: stamped. Wait — 42 cents? Check USPS. Need melatonin? Call Mom. No, finish audio module functinality specs. And invoices. Need coffee. Lost the address. No milk. Vote. What’s Prop 9? Call Larrygensky. That helped. Mail ballot. Q-tips. How can I— ? Batteries charging. Where’s Eleni? Close suitcase. Can’t. Oh, bank. Why am I… Shaking. Food. What is the… Gotta go. Where … I forget.

Thanks to Dagny and good traffic, I got to the airport way early, and entertained myself till the flight left for Hong Kong at 1:30 a.m. Next to me was a brilliant young man — Ph.D. in math from Stanford and another degree from Princeton — who was heading home with, unfortunately for both of us, a bad cold. He told me that Hong Kong is 15 hours ahead of San Francisco time, so I starting rolling my watch forward hour after hour until he stopped me: “Uh, you only have to move it ahead three hours.” This is why he has a Ph.D. in math and I don’t.

Shortly thereafter I popped one of my Ambien, and by the time my penne pasta with red pepper sauce arrived I was pretty zonked. My eyes wouldn’t open so I blindly lifted the fork to my mouth, more often than not with no food on it. At one point I had a frightening image of a field of crimson racing toward me, and realized I was going face-down into my plate. Gave up and went to sleep.

Dosed on and off and checked my watch between, seeing it go from 4:30 to another 4:30. Fourteen hours later we landed in  Hong Kong. Man, what a confusing airport. It took me an hour-and-a-half to find my way outside, and I wasn’t even picking up my baggage or anything. I can’t believe how brave I was, leaving the security of the airport.

I’d been dreading this part of the trip: a twelve-hour layover in a city I never cared to visit. Late last night I posted a status message on Facebook: “Ginna is wondering what to do with 12 hours in Hong Kong.” Minutes later there came a detailed reply from my high school buddy Jeannette, and from those choices I picked as my destination the aerial tramway up to a Buddhist monastery on the same island (Lantau) as the airport.

I discovered that I needed the S1 city bus, and eventually managed to find one, figure out how to pay with my newly acquired Hong Kong dollars, and even to get off at the right place. Though it wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet, it was stinking hot.

I could see the tram station and I could see the trams whizzing overhead, but every possible route there dead-ended. After a while I stumbled into an equally confused German man. We were the only visible humans around,  but finally a guy appeared who spoke a wee bit of English, and he told us the tram wouldn’t open for another two hours. He suggested we should catch a bus up to the shrine. Together we managed to find said bus, and 45 minutes later we were plunked upon the mountaintop.

I expected Hendrick and I would part ways, but our interests turned out to be identical so we stuck together, hiking past the third-biggest Buddha in the world, up the “Wisdom Path” and continuing beyond, unwisely ignoring a sign warning of the danger of dengue fever in favor of seeing what was around the next bend in the trail up the mountain, and the bend after that.

[P.S. Find the Walking Stick in that last photo.]

We turned back in search of the “first ever multimedia teahouse” but all we found were some scruffy-looking tea bushes and an equally scruffy café selling a type of water called “Sweat” and a carefully lettered sign asking restaurant guests please not to spit.

I’d packed a brand new journal which I carefully lettered with “Nepal” at the top and “2008″ at the bottom. Last night on the plane I wrote a few pages, tucked it into the seat pocket beneath my calves, and didn’t remember it until 24 hours later when it was either in the Hong Kong trash or winging its way to some other foreign land. Not an auspicious beginning. I’m going to follow my mother’s advice and move very slowly and thoughtfully from now on. Instead of “I am putting my wallet in my pocket,” it’s “I. Am. Putting. My. Wallet. In. My. Pocket.” It helps.

Many hours later we found our way back to the airport, finally getting to ride the tram on the way down. It was very cool.

I bid adieu to my new friend as he headed toward Ho Chi Minh City and I toward Kathmandu, a five-hour flight.

This time my seatmate was a nice Nepali guy who gave me some good advice.

Getting off the plane I walked while reading Cheryl’s detailed instructions, which were hugely helpful. I paid $100 for a 90-day multiple-entry visa, passed through the various checkpoints and x-ray machines, and charged out into the mass of people hawking rides. There was Thakur with my name on a sign. I raced toward him with relief and joy. As he began to lift his hands for a namaste greeting,  I accidentally threw my arms around him. Poor man. I surprised myself as much as I did him.

By the time he got me to the Tibet Guest House it was around 10 p.m. and I’d been more or less awake for over fifty hours and traveling for 34. Once again I followed Cheryl’s advice and ordered a pot of Nepali milk tea, which I became immediately addicted to. In my stupor I filled out the application form to the Chinese government for a visa to Tibet. There’s a chance we’ll be granted it, but it’s dicey these days from Nepal.

Who would have thought that someone could write so voluminously about a plane trip?

Here’s what I hate about traveling:

• Paying bills
• Paying two-and-a-half months’ worth of bills in advance with imaginary money
• Saying goodbye to people I love, which is what I did on my way home from the Sacramento Airport the night before last
• Saying goodbye when it’ll be a long separation
• Packing
• Unpacking in search of something I’ve forgotten whether or not I’ve packed
• Tying up loose ends at work
• Trying to divine which of the ends that are neatly bound now will unravel the moment I go
• Misplacing things
• Realizing that misplaced things are not misplaced but Truly Lost. I’m down three Canon lithium batteries, a box of family photos and a sponge.

It’s always like this right before I go on a long trip: I wonder why I ever thought the whole thing was such a great idea.

I really should be packing and paying bills and issuing invoices and putting work projects to bed. I’ll make this quick.

When I got back from Sacramento I noticed from my bedroom window a few glowing orange dots on a hillside across the Bay. Minutes later they had merged into a brilliant mass. Angel Island on fire.

Yesterday Anna and I took our final hike up Marin Avenue. It’s been over a year since we started our ritual slogging up that precipitous mile, an attempt to get my little legs ready for trekking. She gave me a bracelet so I can keep her with me in the Himalaya, and then she helped me pack.

Claudia came over tonight to wash away the gray. My hair is now very, very dark. I don’t recognize myself.

To kick off my chronicle of my Nepal adventure I’ll post the farewell letter I sent to a bunch of my friends this morning.

To my dear, tolerant friends who put up with me even though I hardly ever write or call and even though I am sending this as an impersonal, group e-mail,

It’s been over a year of waiting but the time is almost here. I’m scheduled to leave for Nepal tomorrow night. I was going to throw myself a farewell party but I forgot.

I’ll be gone till just before Thanksgiving, during which time I hope to take a one- or two-week trek through Annapurna Sanctuary, raft for three days down the Kali Gandaki (ominously named after the Hindu goddess of destruction), celebrate Kukur Tihar by helping decorate stray dogs in Kathmandu, hopefully explore Tibet, see the usual tourist sights in Kathmandu from temples to funeral pyres on the river, and who knows whatall.

I’m already homesick for you all, so if you have time and even the smallest sense of human decency, please write to me. I would love hearing from you. While I’m there, Internet access will be sporadic so if I don’t answer right away … well, you’re used to that…

Is anyone free to take me to the SF airport tomorrow (Wed. 10/15), leaving the East Bay 10 pm-ish? (Flight is around 1:00 am. Ugh.).

My mother just called to say goodbye. She sounded worried.

—“I may never see you again.”
—”Why not?” I wondered.
—“You might get eaten by yaks. Or yetis.  But really I’m not so much worried about what will eat you as I am that you will be eaten.

Within a few hours, I had plenty of rides to the airport and a couple dozen bon voyage messages. Once again, I am struck by what good friends I have. I pasted all their greetings into a big document that I’m going to print and bring with me. When I’m all by myself in a strange place it’ll remind me of my good fortune.