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Around the third hour on the third day of trekking uphill on a rocky trail in the rain, I felt a profound appreciation for the generous tolerance of my family. We had come to the foothills of the Himalayas by way of various story lines of my life, including President Kennedy’s 1961 inaugural address and my father’s death in 2014. These events led us to Nepal, and to a walk through the clouds.
My wife, Monica Jonas, and I live in Brooklyn with our two children. Our daughter, Annika, is 15 and our son, Jonas, is 11. I was born in Nepal in 1966 while my parents were finishing a fellowship with the Ford Foundation. Between 1962 and 1964, they served as Peace Corps volunteers in Nepal, being the first group to ask not what their country could do for them and responding to one of their generation’s great calls of duty. The Kathmandu of 1962 brought my father from Northern California by way of Copenhagen and my mother from Albany and small-town New Hampshire. Both were inspired — as many others were — by Kennedy’s speech, and moved to a place that had opened to Westerners only a dozen years before. I have always envied them that last chance to see a place and culture so rich in its own history and character, before tourism, technology and the creeping influence of the modern world.
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I first returned there in 2000, when my wife was seven months pregnant with our daughter. Twenty or so of the volunteers from that first Peace Corps group assembled to reminisce. My father and I had not been terribly close, so the trip was a welcome chance to spend time together off the grid. My father was always at his best off the grid. The high point of the visit was a trek from Jomsom (the gateway to Mustang and the high plains north of the Himalayas) to Annapurna Base Camp. For those two weeks we were joined by five of the other former volunteers; the trail narrative was about the changes that had come about since the early ’60s — comfortable teahouses, swarms of Western trekkers, electricity in remote villages. While I felt as though I was stepping back in time, my father and his friends talked mostly about the improvements they saw and what it had been like to walk those same routes 38 years before.
In May 2014 my father was crossing a street in San Francisco. He walked slowly at 77, and following too far behind a crowd coming off a streetcar, he walked into the path of a fast-moving truck. He had survived a career in the unrest of the developing world — Albania, Afghanistan, Egypt, Nepal, Mongolia — but those steps in California were his last. A year of estate-settling left me a small inheritance, and it was important to me to do something meaningful with the money. My wife suggested Nepal, and the die was cast.
I had kept in touch with our guide from 2000, Karma Sherpa. He and I are roughly the same age, and he had recently started a business — Sherpa Royal Trek and Expedition. Through our emails, a plan emerged: We would trek from Lukla to Tengboche Monastery in the Khumbu region, and we would visit Chitwan National Park, in the jungles and grasslands of southern Nepal. At Tengboche we would pause to celebrate my father’s life in a ceremony. As a bonus, we arranged for Karma’s son, Gyalbu, to join us.
Soon after, Nepal was shaken by its worst earthquake in generations. At this point, I was emotionally and financially committed to the trip. But tourism in a wake of a disaster did not appeal to me, not so much because of the dangers but because of the moral imperative to either be helpful or get out of the way. It did not seem at that point that our trip would accomplish either. By July, however, it appeared that the rhythms and patterns of life were returning to most of the country. We recommitted, and departed in mid-August.
Kathmandu has grown in 50 years. The tales and pictures from my parents’ lives are of a sleepy and exotic place. Vestiges remain, particularly in old quarters, at the temples and historic squares, and in the ancient history of its style and architecture. Monkeys scramble through the trees at Swayambhunath and clamber over the stones of Pashupatinath. But the city is also choked with tuk-tuks and motorcycles, and trucks from India and China. Crossing the street is an act of faith. On our first day after arriving, we visited Changu Narayan, the Hindu temple of Vishnu, part of which dates back to the fifth century.
This would be the first of many temple visits; most were standing as they had for hundreds of years, the patina of worship and age layering onto their incredible artistry. The central temple towers above, a double-roofed masterpiece of unrestrained creativity. Like many of its counterparts throughout Kathmandu that survived the earthquake, diagonal braces have been added for support. They are the only unadorned, uncarved wood in sight.
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From there, we visited Bhaktapur, one of the ancient city-states of the Kathmandu Valley. Famous for its elaborately carved wood and ancient structures, its narrow side streets zigzag through towering, balconied walls. The earthquake damage was evident not so much in what you saw as in what you did not. At various spots, a low pile of rubble marked the loss of a structure. Our sightseeing guide, who knew the town well, told us at one pile that eight people had died. At another, four people. In Bhaktapur, there was nowhere to run but into canyonlike walkways five feet wide and 40 feet tall.
I noticed another theme here, which, sadly, would characterize most of our trip: There were terribly few tourists. I’m not a fan of tourists, even when I am one. I like seeing the natural self of a place. But it was hard not to feel regret for the trinket sellers and tour guides all the same. We ate buffalo momos (dumplings) at a rooftop cafe and drank Cokes to beat the humid afternoon air. A lone family of sightseers climbed the steps of the Nyatapola temple next door, flanked by monumental guardian statues of gods and warriors.
The following day was a lesson in monsoon travel in the high Himalayas. Those flying to Lukla are at the mercy of the clouds, and the standard process is to be present and ready at the airport in the event that pilots and air traffic controllers agree that the way is clear. So we waited. There were a few trekkers, a British officer of a Gurkha regiment and families traveling to other domestic destinations. The waiting room slowly filled and emptied. By 11 a.m. it became clear that our flight would not depart and we would have to return to try our luck the next day. I’d avoided telling Monica that Lukla airport — a steeply sloped runway wedged between a chasm and a cliff — is one of the most dangerous in the world. Some things you’re better off not knowing.
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We spent that afternoon in Boudhanath, one of the largest Buddhist stupas in the world. Its iconic all-seeing tower was shrouded in scaffolding. Karma had a higher purpose, and ducked into the monastery to ask the lama for his blessings for the next day’s flight. Jonas didn’t understand his mission and asked where he had gone. “To see the lama,” I answered. Jonas’s eyes grew wide. “They have a llama in there?” he asked. We explained, and then got our blessings.
The next day, the weather seemed better. At 7 a.m. we boarded a plane, and by 7:30 we were airborne. Five minutes from Lukla, clouds forced a diversion to Phaplu. It wasn’t where we had intended to be, but we had a feeling that we had a bird in hand, and opted for starting in Phaplu instead of returning to Kathmandu to try again another day. A porter, Bahadur, was hired to carry what we could not — perhaps 100 pounds. Another porter could not be found, and Bahadur negotiated for double wages.
Over the next four days we made our way to Lukla, a journey that would have been a 10-minute flight over the hills. Distances on these trails are given in hours or days, never miles. The conversion rate between our speed and that of the locals is two or three to one; that is, for every two or three days we walk, they walk one. Jonas, however, is a mountain goat, and Gyalbu settled into his role as Jonas’s guide and companion, moving at a pace only athletic preteens and Sherpas can match. Monica and I moved through the clouds and rain with slow persistence. Annika toggled between our two groups.
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The scenery, while missing the majestic peaks I so wanted to share with my family, had its own magic. Everything was deep green, and against the backdrop of fog and clouds the world became shape and shadow. Monkeys appeared — and water buffalo, cows, chickens and dogs — all mellow and unfazed by our passing. More beautiful than the mountainscape were the people: responding with friendly namastes, peering out from their windows and doorways as we passed by. I was happy to be lost in time and space, with my family.
We had planned to perform a service at Tengboche, a three-day walk beyond Lukla, but it was apparent we would not make it there. Karma proposed Taksindu Monastery instead, and we arrived there in the middle of the second day. We waited outside the gates while Karma went to inquire with the lama. Taksindu is both a monastery and a monastic school. Boys my son’s age gathered around in maroon robes.
I had no idea what the ceremony would entail. I had no specific requests and no understanding of Buddhist rituals. My father was raised Lutheran, lived most of his life as an agnostic and had died Episcopalian. I had brought what remained of his ashes and a large photo of him as a young man, sitting nobly with backpack, boots and zinc oxide against a backdrop of the Himalayas. The rest I left to the traditions of that place. Two rows of monks faced each other across the room. They chanted rhythmically through various prayers, culminating with chaotic horns and cymbals. A tremendous rainstorm was taking place outside. We sat between the rows of monks holding butter candles.
At the end I made a contribution to the monastery, and paid one of the elderly monks to make a paste of my father’s ashes with dirt and press this into sacred forms, dry them in the sun and secret them in between rocks and in the seams and crevices of the forest. There was never a request from my father for this. It would have been an awkward conversation in any event. Once someone is gone, you have to do what you think they would have wanted.
Two and a half days later we reached Lukla. From there we were able to return to Kathmandu and prepare for Chitwan, where we would rest and reflect. In Chitwan, the scenery changed from steep hills to flat plains. Verdant rice paddies were punctuated with stooped villagers in brightly colored clothes who labored in the humid air. The road turned to gravel, then a dirt path, and we arrived at Barahi, a luxury eco-resort on the banks of the Rapti River.
Off-season, post-earthquake Nepal crystallizes here into a personal adventureland of elephants and rhinos, tall grasses and a peacefulness that is otherworldly. At sunset the cumulus clouds rose above us like the mountain ranges we had missed in the North. The still air was disturbed only by an occasional bird or dragonfly, as elephants walked through the grasses across the river.
My parents’ Nepal can still be found there, in the simple villages and tranquil pace. While they left Nepal, it never really left them. Some places we pass through, but others pass through us.
A Nepal Travel Experience By ANKER HEEGAARD
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