this is better than my sister's blog who is traveling around the world. I think she should have taken lessons from your friend!
Through the Looking Glass...
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Hello Friends and Listeners!
I'm back from my fall sabbatical in Nepal, and am happy to be back on the airwaves soon!
Tune in this Monday evening, 9:30 PM to midnight MST, for another great edition of L Sharp Radio. In the Telluride and Ophir Valleys, tune in to 89.3 FM, elsewhere in the San Juans, tune in to 91.7 FM, and elsewhere in the world you can stream live from www.koto.org.
Happy listening!
Liz
I'm back from my fall sabbatical in Nepal, and am happy to be back on the airwaves soon!
Tune in this Monday evening, 9:30 PM to midnight MST, for another great edition of L Sharp Radio. In the Telluride and Ophir Valleys, tune in to 89.3 FM, elsewhere in the San Juans, tune in to 91.7 FM, and elsewhere in the world you can stream live from www.koto.org.
Happy listening!
Liz
lightening speed of 30 mile an hour....
I would love to meet this Liz of yours!
I would love to meet this Liz of yours!
Through the Looking Glass
By Liz Lance
Published December 19, 2006 in the Telluride Watch
After spending one month in a modern Kathmandu where young hipsters meet over coffee, bloggers have gained celebrity status and Land Rover ads top the front page of an English-language weekly, it is easy to forget that life outside the capital city remains impoverished. Electric lines are few and far between, telephones are at least a three- or four-day walk away and health posts remain poorly stocked. Kathmandu has always been an island of prosperity, and in the past ten years an island of peace too, within a country of poverty, turmoil and barebones existence.
When I realize I have forgotten this reality, I become embarrassed.
Kate and I are beginning our trek from the Syaphru Bensi trailhead into Langtang National Park in North Central Nepal. We will follow the Langtang River for three days to reach Kyanjin Gompa at 12,800 feet. As we make our way through the lower villages along the trail, we see small gardens of fresh greens, carrots and onions next to the lodges that will serve them up to trekkers in the evenings. Kate is wearing a chobundi-chholo top in a traditional fabric design that leaves the Nepali women we pass in giggles and the Nepali men calling out to her flirtatiously, "Eh Kanchi!"
We end our first day by collapsing onto thin mattresses at Lama Hotel in the similarly-named village. After hurried hot showers out of plastic buckets and a quick wash of a day's worth of clothes, Kate and I crowd the wood stove in the dining room waiting for our dal bhat to be prepared. A day on a trekking route always ends up this way, in the dining room, warming by the fire, singing songs. I watched a documentary about finding the roots of a Tamang folk song, "Bhedako Oon Jasto," in this region before we came on the trek, and I was as enchanted by the tune as the filmmaker Narayan Wagle. I press the lodge owners at Lama Hotel about the lyrics, but they don't know it. Instead, we sing the song that every visitor to Nepal has learned, "Resam Phi Ri Ri," the silk thread that flitters in the wind.
On the second day of our trek we continue following the Langtang River up to Langtang Village itself at 12,000 feet. Almost to the village, we have to venture into a field of yaks, which has Kate terrified. She tells me stories of being nearly chased off a trail by a yak in the Everest region five years ago, picks up a rock and hides behind me. I tell her she's being ridiculous, but I pick up my own rock and stay on the other side of the low stone walls that divide the trail.
Day three, we realize, is Halloween. We leave Langtang Village by about 9 am, a late start by Nepali standards, but we are assured an easy day by the lodge owners and our guide. They weren't lying, we only have another 800 feet to climb, but I remain haunted by the high-altitude nightmares I had the night before and am tired from the fitful sleep. We need no excuse to walk slowly at this altitude, as there is really no other way to go. We reach Kyanjin Gompa in time for lunch. Kate rests for a moment while I wash my clothes in a field of yak dung. We then take a round of the village, visiting the dairy established by the Swiss in the 1950s. I am psyched to buy some yak cheese, but Kate remains unimpressed. We walk back to the Yak Hotel discussing what we might do to celebrate Halloween and wishing for some other Americans to spend the evening with.
It is as though the universe has heard our call. We round the corner back at our lodge and see three people standing outside in the courtyard. "Hey, are you Americans?" I call down. "Absolutely," replies the guy. "Happy Halloween," Kate and I shout down, and we walk down the stone steps to make introductions. As it could only happen, one of the three, Germaine Bartlett-Graff, grew up in Telluride. She is accompanied by her childhood friend Ariel and a New Yorker named Marc they met the day before. We decide to celebrate Halloween by drinking the local specialty tongba, a hot millet beer, and snicker momos.
I explain to the lodge owner that today is a special American holiday, but I have forgotten the roots of the pagan celebration and tell him instead that it is a time for American children to eat candy and for American adults to throw a party. He is game, and opens up a bottle of the most vile Chinese whiskey I have ever tasted. By this time, another 10 or so villagers have crowded into the dining room, and they begin celebrating our holiday along with us. Marc's guide Chhiring picks up a stringed Nepali instrument and I ask the locals to sing the song I've been wanting to hear.
The chorus of voices, accompanied by this Nepali guitar, emit a twang that my ears accept after a moment of hesitation. I jot down the lyrics to the song, and soon I join in:
Aakashbata ke udi aayo?
Bhendako oon jasto, bhendako oon jasto ?
Yo maayaa photo mai kichi leunlaa,
Purniko jun jasto, layeko sun jasto.
Out of the sky, what has come flying in?
Like the wool of the sheep, like the wool of the sheep.
Can I take a photograph of my love?
Like the light of the full moon, like the gold she is wearing.
The group continues singing for an hour or so, and one by one, we Americans peel off to our rooms, leaving the Nepalis by the fire with their Chinese whiskey until the wee hours. When we come down to the dining room the next morning at 7, the lodge owner remains hidden under a blanket in the corner. The group of Americans chuckle with one another. "Only in Nepal would they outdo us with our own holiday celebration," Marc says. Only in Nepal.
By Liz Lance
Published December 19, 2006 in the Telluride Watch
After spending one month in a modern Kathmandu where young hipsters meet over coffee, bloggers have gained celebrity status and Land Rover ads top the front page of an English-language weekly, it is easy to forget that life outside the capital city remains impoverished. Electric lines are few and far between, telephones are at least a three- or four-day walk away and health posts remain poorly stocked. Kathmandu has always been an island of prosperity, and in the past ten years an island of peace too, within a country of poverty, turmoil and barebones existence.
When I realize I have forgotten this reality, I become embarrassed.
Kate and I are beginning our trek from the Syaphru Bensi trailhead into Langtang National Park in North Central Nepal. We will follow the Langtang River for three days to reach Kyanjin Gompa at 12,800 feet. As we make our way through the lower villages along the trail, we see small gardens of fresh greens, carrots and onions next to the lodges that will serve them up to trekkers in the evenings. Kate is wearing a chobundi-chholo top in a traditional fabric design that leaves the Nepali women we pass in giggles and the Nepali men calling out to her flirtatiously, "Eh Kanchi!"
We end our first day by collapsing onto thin mattresses at Lama Hotel in the similarly-named village. After hurried hot showers out of plastic buckets and a quick wash of a day's worth of clothes, Kate and I crowd the wood stove in the dining room waiting for our dal bhat to be prepared. A day on a trekking route always ends up this way, in the dining room, warming by the fire, singing songs. I watched a documentary about finding the roots of a Tamang folk song, "Bhedako Oon Jasto," in this region before we came on the trek, and I was as enchanted by the tune as the filmmaker Narayan Wagle. I press the lodge owners at Lama Hotel about the lyrics, but they don't know it. Instead, we sing the song that every visitor to Nepal has learned, "Resam Phi Ri Ri," the silk thread that flitters in the wind.
On the second day of our trek we continue following the Langtang River up to Langtang Village itself at 12,000 feet. Almost to the village, we have to venture into a field of yaks, which has Kate terrified. She tells me stories of being nearly chased off a trail by a yak in the Everest region five years ago, picks up a rock and hides behind me. I tell her she's being ridiculous, but I pick up my own rock and stay on the other side of the low stone walls that divide the trail.
Day three, we realize, is Halloween. We leave Langtang Village by about 9 am, a late start by Nepali standards, but we are assured an easy day by the lodge owners and our guide. They weren't lying, we only have another 800 feet to climb, but I remain haunted by the high-altitude nightmares I had the night before and am tired from the fitful sleep. We need no excuse to walk slowly at this altitude, as there is really no other way to go. We reach Kyanjin Gompa in time for lunch. Kate rests for a moment while I wash my clothes in a field of yak dung. We then take a round of the village, visiting the dairy established by the Swiss in the 1950s. I am psyched to buy some yak cheese, but Kate remains unimpressed. We walk back to the Yak Hotel discussing what we might do to celebrate Halloween and wishing for some other Americans to spend the evening with.
It is as though the universe has heard our call. We round the corner back at our lodge and see three people standing outside in the courtyard. "Hey, are you Americans?" I call down. "Absolutely," replies the guy. "Happy Halloween," Kate and I shout down, and we walk down the stone steps to make introductions. As it could only happen, one of the three, Germaine Bartlett-Graff, grew up in Telluride. She is accompanied by her childhood friend Ariel and a New Yorker named Marc they met the day before. We decide to celebrate Halloween by drinking the local specialty tongba, a hot millet beer, and snicker momos.
I explain to the lodge owner that today is a special American holiday, but I have forgotten the roots of the pagan celebration and tell him instead that it is a time for American children to eat candy and for American adults to throw a party. He is game, and opens up a bottle of the most vile Chinese whiskey I have ever tasted. By this time, another 10 or so villagers have crowded into the dining room, and they begin celebrating our holiday along with us. Marc's guide Chhiring picks up a stringed Nepali instrument and I ask the locals to sing the song I've been wanting to hear.
The chorus of voices, accompanied by this Nepali guitar, emit a twang that my ears accept after a moment of hesitation. I jot down the lyrics to the song, and soon I join in:
Aakashbata ke udi aayo?
Bhendako oon jasto, bhendako oon jasto ?
Yo maayaa photo mai kichi leunlaa,
Purniko jun jasto, layeko sun jasto.
Out of the sky, what has come flying in?
Like the wool of the sheep, like the wool of the sheep.
Can I take a photograph of my love?
Like the light of the full moon, like the gold she is wearing.
The group continues singing for an hour or so, and one by one, we Americans peel off to our rooms, leaving the Nepalis by the fire with their Chinese whiskey until the wee hours. When we come down to the dining room the next morning at 7, the lodge owner remains hidden under a blanket in the corner. The group of Americans chuckle with one another. "Only in Nepal would they outdo us with our own holiday celebration," Marc says. Only in Nepal.
Hello Friends and Family,
Following is the last of my Through the Looking Glass Series, published Jan. 5, 2007 in the Telluride Watch. It was great fun to have had a chance to write throughout my travels, and I very much appreciate the positive feedback I received from many of you.
I am also attaching a flyer announcing my upcoming show of my black and white photography, also titled "Through the Looking Glass." This show features all new work that I did on my recent travels in Nepal. If you're in Telluride, I hope you'll be able to attend the opening reception at Gallerie Framing (217 W. Colorado Ave.) next Friday, January 12 from 6 to 9 pm. The show remains up until February 8, so if you can't make it to the opening, please stop by the gallery sometime over the next month to see my work.
Happy Reading and Happy New Year!
Cheers,
Liz
Through the Looking Glass #11
By Liz Lance
Living in the San Juans, it is easy to become unimpressed with other mountains. Nestled in the box canyon at the San Miguel headwaters, Telluriders sleep at almost 9,000 feet and wake up surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the Lower 48. It's no wonder we're high-altitude arrogant. At Kyanjin Gompa in Langtang National Park in North Central Nepal, Kate and I were sleeping at 12,800 feet and waking up surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the world. It's not just the thin air that took my breath away.
After climbing to the top of Kyanjin Ri at 15,659 feet, Kate and I spend one more night in Kyanjin Gompa before beginning our trek back down the mountains. We set out after a breakfast of strangely salty oatmeal and made it back to Langtang Village in time for lunch. The sun is high in the sky, as are our spirits. We've just planned our route to reach Gosaikund Lake for the November full moon. We'll be there in three days, we figure, as we make our way down the trail, back through the field of menacing-looking yaks. We have lunch in Langtang, where I have meat for the first time on our trek. The Tamang people that inhabit most of the region we have been trekking in are Buddhists and do not butcher animals. If someone of another caste is in the area and butchers an animal, however, they'll happily eat it up. Kate opts out of the sheep meat, and instead visits the Langtang Village Dairy, where she feasts on a tomato and cheese sandwich on a baguette, proclaiming Langtang cheese far superior to the Kyanjin Gompa cheese I had been eating the previous few days. While we tour the cheese factory, we meet two Japanese women also looking for an alternative to dal bhat.
After lunch, the trail down to Lama Hotel increases in grade, and we begin pounding down stone step after stone step, bracing ourselves with newly acquired walking sticks. A sharp pain creeps up in the outside of my knee, so I begin to slow down and take more breaks. We reach Rimche, our destination, at dusk and I happily put my pack down for the night. Without the extra weight, the pain eases out of my knee and I sleep well.
The next morning, walking down the staircase to breakfast, however, the pain reappears, and I let Kate know that I'll be moving slowly again today. Ever the affable traveling companion, Kate assures me that we'll get there when we get there. By lunchtime, though, I am in tears. Our guide has taken my pack by now, but with each step still comes a shot up the outside of my leg.
The reality that we will not be able to continue to Gosaikund begins to set in. "Liz, I don't see you continuing to walk like this," Kate tells me, and makes the decision for us to return to our origination point of Syaphru Besi. This decision is at odds with our guide's interests, though. If we cut the trek short, he will earn less money, so he tries to get me to press on. Kate insists that it's not possible, and I see an immediate shift in our guide's demeanor. I ask him how long it will take us to reach Landslide, where we've decided we will stay the night. "For you, it will take three hours. For other people, it takes only 45 minutes." He no longer walks alongside us, but gains at least a 30-minute lead, reaching Landslide and having tea long before we get there. He no longer refers to me as his little sister.
The final day of our trek is a slow one. We descend in altitude, and it is again hot in the sun. We peel layers off as we cross the final suspension bridge across the Langtang River and return to Syaphru Besi. The Buddha Lodge, where we were one of only two parties staying the week before, is now bustling with activity. An expedition of Japanese climbers has arrived after scaling Yala Peak, and by 4 PM, the dining room tables are already littered with whiskey bottles. We see the women from the cheese factory in Langtang, and they invite us to join them in their celebration. Before long, the whole lodge is laughing together, jokes being translated from Japanese to Nepali to English. By the end of the night, I have invitations to stay with three different families in Southern Japan and these new friends have mastered the pronunciation of my name.
We awake the next morning to the sound of the bus horn, serving as an alarm clock for the whole village. The Japanese have gone ahead of us in a private bus, while Kate and I once again journey by local bus. Despite the early morning cold, Kate and I perch atop the roof of the bus for our journey home. I will stop again in Gerkhutar, and Kate and our guide will continue on to Kathmandu. After passing through the worst of the landslide-strewn road, we stop in Dhunche for tea and bus maintenance. The next stop is two hours later in Kalikasthan, where we will show the area Maoists our receipts for their tax that we paid on our way up. The Japanese bus has been stopped there for some time, and our friends wait idly by on the side of the road. When our bus goes by, they see us on the roof and begin waving madly, snapping pictures of the crazy American girls on the roof of the bus.
One more hour and I disembark in Gerkhutar. I toss my pack down from the roof first, and climb down after it. The bus continues on in a cloud of fine red dust, and I begin walking back up to the Pandeys' home. When I reach the house, I set my bags down in the rear breezeway and step into the kitchen, where one of the Bhaujus (sisters-in-law) is preparing tea for a neighbor who has stopped by.
"Namaste," I say.
"Arko pahuna ayechha," the neighbor says. "I see another guest has come."
Bhauju looks at me and smiles, squeezing my hand. "Pahuna haina. Yo hamro chhori ho." This is not a guest. This is our daughter.
I am home.
Following is the last of my Through the Looking Glass Series, published Jan. 5, 2007 in the Telluride Watch. It was great fun to have had a chance to write throughout my travels, and I very much appreciate the positive feedback I received from many of you.
I am also attaching a flyer announcing my upcoming show of my black and white photography, also titled "Through the Looking Glass." This show features all new work that I did on my recent travels in Nepal. If you're in Telluride, I hope you'll be able to attend the opening reception at Gallerie Framing (217 W. Colorado Ave.) next Friday, January 12 from 6 to 9 pm. The show remains up until February 8, so if you can't make it to the opening, please stop by the gallery sometime over the next month to see my work.
Happy Reading and Happy New Year!
Cheers,
Liz
Through the Looking Glass #11
By Liz Lance
Living in the San Juans, it is easy to become unimpressed with other mountains. Nestled in the box canyon at the San Miguel headwaters, Telluriders sleep at almost 9,000 feet and wake up surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the Lower 48. It's no wonder we're high-altitude arrogant. At Kyanjin Gompa in Langtang National Park in North Central Nepal, Kate and I were sleeping at 12,800 feet and waking up surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the world. It's not just the thin air that took my breath away.
After climbing to the top of Kyanjin Ri at 15,659 feet, Kate and I spend one more night in Kyanjin Gompa before beginning our trek back down the mountains. We set out after a breakfast of strangely salty oatmeal and made it back to Langtang Village in time for lunch. The sun is high in the sky, as are our spirits. We've just planned our route to reach Gosaikund Lake for the November full moon. We'll be there in three days, we figure, as we make our way down the trail, back through the field of menacing-looking yaks. We have lunch in Langtang, where I have meat for the first time on our trek. The Tamang people that inhabit most of the region we have been trekking in are Buddhists and do not butcher animals. If someone of another caste is in the area and butchers an animal, however, they'll happily eat it up. Kate opts out of the sheep meat, and instead visits the Langtang Village Dairy, where she feasts on a tomato and cheese sandwich on a baguette, proclaiming Langtang cheese far superior to the Kyanjin Gompa cheese I had been eating the previous few days. While we tour the cheese factory, we meet two Japanese women also looking for an alternative to dal bhat.
After lunch, the trail down to Lama Hotel increases in grade, and we begin pounding down stone step after stone step, bracing ourselves with newly acquired walking sticks. A sharp pain creeps up in the outside of my knee, so I begin to slow down and take more breaks. We reach Rimche, our destination, at dusk and I happily put my pack down for the night. Without the extra weight, the pain eases out of my knee and I sleep well.
The next morning, walking down the staircase to breakfast, however, the pain reappears, and I let Kate know that I'll be moving slowly again today. Ever the affable traveling companion, Kate assures me that we'll get there when we get there. By lunchtime, though, I am in tears. Our guide has taken my pack by now, but with each step still comes a shot up the outside of my leg.
The reality that we will not be able to continue to Gosaikund begins to set in. "Liz, I don't see you continuing to walk like this," Kate tells me, and makes the decision for us to return to our origination point of Syaphru Besi. This decision is at odds with our guide's interests, though. If we cut the trek short, he will earn less money, so he tries to get me to press on. Kate insists that it's not possible, and I see an immediate shift in our guide's demeanor. I ask him how long it will take us to reach Landslide, where we've decided we will stay the night. "For you, it will take three hours. For other people, it takes only 45 minutes." He no longer walks alongside us, but gains at least a 30-minute lead, reaching Landslide and having tea long before we get there. He no longer refers to me as his little sister.
The final day of our trek is a slow one. We descend in altitude, and it is again hot in the sun. We peel layers off as we cross the final suspension bridge across the Langtang River and return to Syaphru Besi. The Buddha Lodge, where we were one of only two parties staying the week before, is now bustling with activity. An expedition of Japanese climbers has arrived after scaling Yala Peak, and by 4 PM, the dining room tables are already littered with whiskey bottles. We see the women from the cheese factory in Langtang, and they invite us to join them in their celebration. Before long, the whole lodge is laughing together, jokes being translated from Japanese to Nepali to English. By the end of the night, I have invitations to stay with three different families in Southern Japan and these new friends have mastered the pronunciation of my name.
We awake the next morning to the sound of the bus horn, serving as an alarm clock for the whole village. The Japanese have gone ahead of us in a private bus, while Kate and I once again journey by local bus. Despite the early morning cold, Kate and I perch atop the roof of the bus for our journey home. I will stop again in Gerkhutar, and Kate and our guide will continue on to Kathmandu. After passing through the worst of the landslide-strewn road, we stop in Dhunche for tea and bus maintenance. The next stop is two hours later in Kalikasthan, where we will show the area Maoists our receipts for their tax that we paid on our way up. The Japanese bus has been stopped there for some time, and our friends wait idly by on the side of the road. When our bus goes by, they see us on the roof and begin waving madly, snapping pictures of the crazy American girls on the roof of the bus.
One more hour and I disembark in Gerkhutar. I toss my pack down from the roof first, and climb down after it. The bus continues on in a cloud of fine red dust, and I begin walking back up to the Pandeys' home. When I reach the house, I set my bags down in the rear breezeway and step into the kitchen, where one of the Bhaujus (sisters-in-law) is preparing tea for a neighbor who has stopped by.
"Namaste," I say.
"Arko pahuna ayechha," the neighbor says. "I see another guest has come."
Bhauju looks at me and smiles, squeezing my hand. "Pahuna haina. Yo hamro chhori ho." This is not a guest. This is our daughter.
I am home.
I had fallen behind in reading Liz's travels. What a treat it was to sit here and catch up. She truly transports her readers with her descriptive words. Thank you, JohnR, for sharing this with us.