A shock of voices and a foul smell hits me as we step out of the brick airport into the cool air. Nearly a hundred tanned Nepali taxi drivers stand behind the metal fence holding signs for those they are awaiting. “Hello, hello!” they cry with thick Asian accents, trying to get our attention. When our designated driver is finally found among the crowd, several men grab our bags and haul them to an old white jeep.
Once the luggage has been tied to the roof, the men come to us, holding out their hands. “I’m sorry,” my mom says, “We don’t have any of your currency.” The men don’t move. “I only have US dollars,” my mom insists, louder, proving herself by showing them ten dollars, keeping the bill out of their reach. She knows that to these men, dollars are useless.


Kathmandu is a dirty city. Dusty cars zoom by, obnoxiously honking their horns every few seconds, and goats freely roam the dirt roads amid the bicycles, motorbikes, and pedestrians. There are no traffic lanes. Every vehicle goes the way the driver pleases, with no mind as to stopping or waiting. Even that night, while sleeping in our meager hotel, we can hear the loud horns honking as the cars weave in and out of ruts in the roads. The next morning, we shop in the colorful and crowded market to find the few supplies we need for the rest of our trip. Venders press in on every side, trying to advertise their wares. Oranges, apples, baskets, jewelry, and hats are stretched out in front of me as we walk. I shake my head to keep away the insistent salespersons.
Waves of mixed scents reach my nostrils as we keep walking. The smells of dung, chapatti, leather, and dust waft through the thick afternoon air. Even though Kathmandu is colder than what I’m used to, the market is hot in the midday sun. While making our way through the various shops, I have to jump out of the way of a motorbike that is precariously darting in and out of carts and potholes. Shaking off the momentary scare, I take my brother’s arm and continue my shopping.


The next day, we set off. Due to thick traffic, our car journey takes many hours. Along the way, we pick up five Nepali men who are to embark on the adventure with us; porters to carry our belongings. The guide, Kuman, is a short, stout man with small stature and a huge heart. I like him right away. He loves to hug us and make jokes in his broken English. “Kuman,” we ask, “what are we having for breakfast?”


“Scarbruled aigs!” He says enthusiastically.
I have fallen asleep in the car. The bumpy dirt roads do not provide for an undisturbed nap, but I have been able to stay in a light sleep until my mom’s excited voice comes from beside me. “Look! There they are!” I sit up and turn my eyes to where she is motioning. In the horizon, rising high above hilly terrain are several white capped mountains, sunlight streaming between them, illuminating them like something out of a fairy tale.


“It’s dee Ahnapurnaz,” Kuman explains, as the Annapurna mountain range has come into view. That is where we are to spend the next seven days; trekking in and around those beautiful peaks.


An hour later, we reach the starting point of our hike. I set off in my clunky hiking boots, grinding my walking stick into the ground as I embark with a grin on my face and a hop in my step.


Ten minutes later, my feet are already dragging. The thick green jungle and small brown huts make the scenery interesting, but the climb is grueling. Up, up, up we go, ascending hundreds of stone steps. We take a break thirty minutes into our climb, everyone sweating despite the cool temperature. Even though they are expert climbers, the porters looked exhausted. While my family and I drink purified water out of our North Face water bottles, Kuman and the porters drink directly from the mountain stream flowing quietly beside the path.
We set off once more, taking breaks every twenty to thirty minutes. The higher we go, the thinner the air becomes, yet the clouds are settling in around us. It is like walking through a dream. After a few hours, we reach our destination: a small mountain village called Dhampus. I can see the porters up ahead, waiting outside a small lodge. The “hotel” has several rooms and a snug dining hall.
It is cold. Once the sun has fallen behind the foggy peaks, we huddle like penguins in the dining hall, wrapped tight in what layers we brought. One fading light bulb gives the tiny room its little light, and several trek guides carry food in and out of the small adjacent kitchen. Just as the food we have ordered is placed in front of us on the hard wooden table, a loud noise catches our attention and the lights go out. A brief moment of confusion follows, but a low hum signals the start of a generator, and the light bulb flickers back on. Across the table from us sits an Irish woman and her husband. They laugh over crude jokes with a group of three from Australia. To my left sits three Nepalese women and a Japanese man, stifling giggles over language differences. Outside the window is the cold darkness. Leaning into my mom’s warm shoulder, I carefully eat my steaming chicken soup.
The next morning, my first recollection is the cold chill I had felt during the night. Suddenly, excited voices draw me from my downy sleeping bag and my toes hit the cold concrete floor. I slip my feet into my flip flops and wake my brothers up in the beds next to me. I unlock the door and walk out a minute later to find out what is causing the oohs and ahhs. Once I can see past the lodge, my jaw drops.
There, rising through a hole in the clouds is the peak of Machapuchare, or the “Fish Tail” mountain, illuminated by the pure white light of the early morning sunbeams. My dad is oblivious to the rest of the world, basking in his own artistic moment, snapping picture after picture of that magnificent sight. A moment later, the clouds have moved and the breathtaking image is suddenly eclipsed by fog.
Kuman’s voice breaks through my daydreaming. “You want brake-fahst? We have yoor tea and bpancakes in here!” We are all laughing by now and follow our short, hearty guide inside the dining hall for our food. Once we are finished with breakfast, we pack up our stuff and gather our poles and backpacks and set off for our next destination, which is another mountain village about a four hour walk away: Landruk.
Even though it is pretty cold when we embark on the day’s trek, it only takes about twenty minutes before we are stripping down to shorts and t-shirts which are under our numerous layers of jackets and sweatpants. Kuman leads the way, singing the only line of the only western songs he knows, “Buffalo Soldier” by Bob Marley.
“Buff-a-lo Sol-ja!”
We all laugh.
A few minutes later, while hiking up a dirt path, my older brother and I are in an intense game of “20 Questions,” while my parents are talking to Kuman behind us. Today, instead of climbing up a misty mountain, we are trekking through a thick jungle, complete with bugs and waterfalls. The path goes up and down. Sometimes we walk on dirt, sometimes on stairs cut into the rock, and sometimes we cross small bridges made of logs. Time flies by, and we reach Landruk faster than we had expected, though we are all in a cold sweat. There is another family from America that is staying in our lodge, and the adults sit on the roof, staring at the magnificent view while discussing common connections. I however, and am downstairs, trying in vain to get a hot shower.
The water is cold. Not only is the water frigid, though, but the shower is merely a spigot in the wall, right over the toilet. After I finally conquer the showering experience, I head up to the roof. A cold wind blowing across my wet hair sends a shiver down my spine, and I realize I am barefoot. With a shrug, I continue up the stairs.
The sight at the top takes my breath away. We are at the peak of a tall hill, looking into a lush green valley of fields. The entire hillside is covered in step farms, where the fields are cut so they look like steps going up the side of the mountain to keep rainwater from washing the crops away. Machapuchare presides over the valley, peeking through an opening between two distant hills. The sun is just setting behind the top of the ridge across the valley. Once the sun is gone, everything is plunged into darkness.
Dinner consists of macaroni with stringy yak cheese and baked tomatoes. A thin film collects on the surface of my hot chocolate as it is made from fresh milk. I cast a glance around the dining room, and suddenly look down when I catch one of the younger porters intently studying my face. In Asia, it is not uncommon for people to stare at each other, as it not considered rude like it is in America.
That night, I stay up reading a thick novel, kept awake by the words popping out of the pages at me and the loud noises coming from outside our room. It is just our luck to have planned our trip during the week of one of the largest religious festivals in Nepal. Outside, loud music blares from an unknown source, and voices scream with loud off-key singing and drunken laughter. I turn over in bed, shivering from the cold. At last, I urge myself out of my sleeping bag to turn off the light. I try to sleep. Eventually, the rhythmic breathing of my younger brother lulls me into an undisturbed slumber.
Day after day, we get up, pack our things, eat eggs and pancakes, drink Nepali tea, and set off for another tiring trek. We go from Landruk to Ghandruk, from Ghandruk to Banthanti, from Banthanti to Ghorepani, from Ghorepani to Tikhedhunga, and finally from Tikhedhunga to Birethanti. Throughout the days of trekking, we encounter various kinds of scenery. There are hours of walking through jungle, rainforest, fog, sunlight, rain, waterfalls, streams, and dry fields. We pass natives carrying bundles bigger than their bodies. We move out of the way for packs of mules, the bells on their collars making them completely conspicuous. We pass other trekkers from America or Europe, some sweating from the effort and some taking their hikes in stride.
The days seem to blur together in my mind. By the time we reach Birethanti, I am totally spent. Day after day of trekking up and down for hour upon hour seemed to slowly deteriorate my muscles and mind. I am numb to pain, numb to cold, and numb to the feeling of placing one foot in front of the other time and time again. My iPod is my only companion beside my thoughts, and all I can think about is getting home. I can barely keep my eyes open. However, I am not senseless enough to be ignorant to the beauty around me. Luscious green hillsides, mountain streams reflecting the pure blue of the sky, and air fresher than I have ever breathed overflow my mind. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, smiling. We are far from civilization, far from the noise of a crowded city, and far from the business of everyday life. The weariness brings a surprising sense of utter satisfaction.
Looking back on the once in a lifetime trip, I can’t help but smile. I will never forget the smells of Kathmandu and the fresh Nepali tea, the sound of Kuman cracking one of his jokes or the rustle of the jungle trees around me, or the fear that would creep into my heart every time we would walk along a narrow ledge with a drop too far down to measure. I will never forget the smiles of the children that we would pass, their hands always extended for a coin or a piece of candy. The most vivid image that will never leave my mind is the sight of the glorious snow capped Annapurna peaks, merely a few of the hundreds of Himalayan Mountains, keeping their silent watch over the land of Nepal.