A Missing American in Nepal (etc.)

I do hope it's Aubrey Sacco from Colorado (pictured here) who was seen at Nagarkot earlier today. It does kind of fit the M.O.: a girl alone, apparently getting on a bus, headed to the airport. Ingo has already included me with the K9 team if we need to deploy, but right now, we're on standby pending confirmation that the sighting was indeed Aubrey. We should know in about an hour.

Aubrey hasn't contacted her family since April 20, after a planned trek in the Himalayas. She began the trek at Syabrubesi and planned to follow the Lonely Planet hiking guide through the Langtang National Park.

News of the possible sighting came just as the dog team was about to leave their base at Shyauli Bazaar. It would be half a day getting here to Pokhara. Then, me included, we'd go to Kathmandu (unsure if by plane or bus). Then we'd go to the mountains where Aubrey was last seen or at least last believed to have been. Right now, there's a lot of correspondence going on between Ingo, the family, and parties here in Nepal and abroad.

But even if this search is called off, it's been really interesting to see and hear about how SAR is mobilized here.

So, I'm sitting here in my room, happy the power is on (for now). The breeze from the ceiling fan really makes a difference. Earlier today, I was sweating my way around Lakeside, doing my bit for the Nepali economy. Things are really cheap (for me) compared to the US, but this country has brought out the buyer in me—something I don't do a whole lot of back home, especially when it comes to clothing. Today, though, I had some fun and parted with quite a few rupees—and way too easily I might add.

Well, we'll see how much money I have left near the end of my trip, and then maybe I'll spend more on fun stuff. The clothes and fabrics are so cool.

Speaking of clothing, most foreigners I see—well, all I've seen so far actually—kind of have the hippie look. That is, anywhere from "kind of" to all-out hippie-dom, with dreadlocks, mismatched clothing in all sorts of patterns and prints, and sometimes dirty bare feet. So, I did stick out like a sore thumb, wearing your basic cotton tee and the upper half of my convertible pants, which show more leg (about two inches above the knee) than what anyone else was wearing. Oh, and I had on wool socks and trail runners, while all the other feet I saw were clad in sandals if anything at all. So, I made some purchases, and now I can go back to Lakeside and blend a little more.

"Hippie" has never been a word you could apply to this Deb (although, in this heat and humidity, my curly hair approaches dreadlock-ish on a daily basis, even though I shower and brush it out), but now you could say that I've gone Nepali casual. I had fun trying on my new duds back here at the HRDSN house, while awaiting futher news on the Aubrey Sacco search.

Anyhow, I wanted to answer several questions sent to me by Jayne. She suggested I answer them publically in case anyone else was wondering. So here goes...

Q: Where is Ingo from? He doesn't look Napalese.

A: Ingo is Dutch. His last name, Schnabel, is pronounced Shnah-bel, with the "a" sounding like "ah." And when he says it, he draws the "ah" out a bit. Shnahhhbel.

Q: Is most of the country Hindu?

A: Yep. Buddhism is apparently a distant second to Hindu, so I've read. There are also much smaller percentages of Muslims, Christians, and other religions here, not to mention something like 40 native languages. But I understand there are some similarities between Hinduism and Buddhism, and I've met people who say they're a combination of both. I believe (all? most?) Hindus don't eat meat. Buddhists do, which is clear here in the HRDSN house, where we've had pork or chicken with many meals.

Q: Is that [Hinduism] where the caste system in Nepal originates?

A: I don't think so because the caste system includes people of other religions. I honestly don't know how it began but will look into that. I'd like to know myself. This caste system really is pronounced here, the extent of which kind of surprised me even though I'd read about it beforehand. To see it in action is really something.

Q: I heard the kids talking in the background of your video and it sounded like they might be speaking English. Did I hear that correctly?

A: No, they were speaking Nepali; although the older children here in the HRDSN house do understand some English, and I think the younger kids know some words, too, because English is taught in the private schools from an early age. The children are very shy about trying to speak English with me, though. One of the older boys did translate for Phulmaya, Jith's wife (who speaks no English) when she asked me if I wanted more rice, but I wasn't looking at her and didn't realize she was talking to me. "More rice?" he said quietly, lifting only his eyes when he looked at me. Then, after dinner, when I said "thank you" to Phulmaya, that same boy told her to say "You are welcome." She giggled and said, "Welcome."

Ingo does speak some Nepali, having been here more than 20 years. But he has a little difficulty understanding sometimes and he says his Nepali isn't great. His native language is German, and I believe he used to speak some Russian—he recognised it at a restaurant in Lakeside, where there were Russians at another table—but said he's lost it. I think he has, at one time or another, spoken other languages as well. Ingo often speaks to Jith and other Nepalis in English. They seem to understand him, with his Dutch-German accent, much better than they understand me. I guess they're just used to it after all this time.

Well, I guess I'll go see if there's anything new on the Aubrey Sacco case. And I'll upload some more photos and video too. I'm just snappin' and shootin' away! Everywhere I look, there's something I want to capture. Each one is taking me at least two hours to upload.

A little later: I learned that Aubrey Sacco has missed her plane, and there has been no confirmation that it was her who was seen in Nargarkot. Ingo says that if that had been Aubrey who boarded a bus to Kathmandu from that location, she should have had time to make the plane.

Wandering in Pokhara

I can't just sit around. I need to move and explore, no matter how steamy hot it is. If I don't get a good walk in every day, I'll go bonkers. Besides, I'm in Nepal; I have to get out and see what I can see.

So, I left the house without a plan and started wandering. It was around noon, time for resting during the hottest part of the day. But I was fidgety. Phulmaya, Jith's wife, offered me an umbrella for the sun, but foolishly perhaps, I declined. I rubbed some sunscreen on my sweaty face and arms and went on my way.

Maybe my lack of an umbrella was one reason I was giggled at on the street—a silly foreign girl wandering aimlessly without sun protection. Occasionally, someone would call to me in English from a shaded porch and ask, "Where are you going?" I would shrug, point, and say, "I don't know, that way," and people watching would laugh some more. I felt like a dork.

I saw a group of children and adults gathered around, watching something. I went over to look, too. A man and woman were seated (squatting more like) under an umbrella at the side of the road, casting small metal sculptures. I enjoyed watching the process, and as I watched, all eyes turned to watch me. I smiled, but no one smiled back. I said hello, but no one answered. I tried "namaste," but nope. Nothin'. So I watched for a while longer then slipped away. I could feel eyes on my back as I left. Well, that was kind of awkward.

I passed small corn fields and rice paddies and hillocks of dried rice plants. I saw people sitting outside, bathing with water they ladled over themselves from barrels and buckets. Women washed dishes and clothing in the roadside ditches. Others walked with baskets on their backs. So, see, I wasn't the only one walking during the hottest part of the day... but I suppose they were actually going somewhere.

I passed some larger, gated homes—homes of the rich, Ingo later said—all taller than Pokhara’s two-story maximum, a law that’s apparently not being enforced, especially with all the political turmoil that’s been going on in Nepal for so long. Who has time to pay attention to such things as building height? Ingo says that higher than two stories is very dangerous because a 6.5 earthquake will surely bring them down. He says Nepal is due for a big one.

I stopped to photograph a pretty field and some simple and, in my view, quaint buildings with the foothills in the background. A woman called to me from the other side of the stone wall: “Namaste! Namaste!” Then she said something else in Nepali that of course I didn’t understand. So, silly me, I just nodded.

“Very pretty,” I said, gesturing at the scene I’d photographed. “This is yours?” A dumb question, I thought and figured she didn’t understand me anyway. But she continued talking. And I continued smiling and nodding. It was a funny, rather one-sided conversation.

Not knowing what else to do, I pointed to myself and said, “Deb.” Then I pointed to her. “Sada,” she said. Of course, she had to repeat it three times until my ear caught on. Amazing how difficult it is for me to understand even simple names. When I finally said it correctly, she smiled. Then she put two fingers to her lips, not like holding a cigarette but with the fingertips touching. Hmm. Several people had done that to me already. Sada then pointed at her house. “You want me to come in?” I asked, unsure of what I was supposed to do. Sada smiled some more, then turned around and went inside. Um... do I open the gate and follow her? I decided against it. Maybe she meant she was going in to eat.

Later, when I described the gesture, Ingo told me people were asking if I needed food or water. Wow... cool. How nice. He also told me that the word I'd heard some children add after "namaste" was actually an insult. Oh. Apparently some of the higher caste Nepalis, like the Brahmins, aren't too fond of foreigners, and they teach this to their children.

So, what else did I see on my walk? Well, I saw people napping on their porches and others gathered, talking, in the shade. I saw water buffalo, which pretty much have free reign unless they happen to be tethered. I saw two bulls doing the head-butting thing.

After two hours of wandering, I arrived back at the house, also the temporary office of the HRDSN, which, by the way, is rented. Ingo, Jith, Phulmaya and four boys—and currently me also—occupy the second and third floors. The owner and his wife are on the first floor.

Soaked to the skin with sweat, I took off my sneakers, peeled off my socks, and went up to the third floor for a much-needed cold shower. Sometimes lack of hot water isn't an issue at all.

Okay, time to go see if Ingo is awake after his midday nap. If so, I need to bug him to continue with the HRDSN story. When you get him started, though... boy, can he tell a story!

FYI: An American girl has recently been reported missing in Nepal. Her family has contacted Ingo, so I'll keep you posted. Read the story: CU-Boulder Graduate Aubrey Sacco Missing in Nepal

Another Namaste

That word I can say: namaste. It means hello, welcome... stuff like that. And you put your hands together like you're praying when you say it. Yep, I can pull that off just fine. But I may be hopeless when it comes to learning any more Nepali. I learn one word, say it, get laughed at, say it again, and they laugh even harder. Apparently, the word for "butter" is very close to the word for "shit." So I guess I asked for the wrong thing on my toast.

ANYhoo... back to the deep, serious stuff.

As I sat in the front room, waiting for Ingo, I felt like I was about to meet a celebrity. A hero more like (although, I'm well-enough acquainted with him by now through emails and a documentary to know he would vehemently object to that description). I was excited. Jith Magar turned on the overhead fan and offered me a bottle of water.

"Where is Ingo?" I asked, and Jith motioned at a closed door with a smile. Did I detect a little "be careful what you wish for" in that smile?

It was early afternoon, but this had already been a long day. I'd gotten up with the sun again in Kathmandu, my stomach growling at the fact it hadn't been fed since the previous morning. To pass the time before breakfast, I'd gone for a short walk outside the guest house gate, then returned to sit in the courtyard to read the newspaper, filled with articles about the indefinite nationwide strike. Oh, and Sandra Bullock's impending divorce. I was very happy to see Sabina, which meant I wouldn't have to be hungry for much longer.

After I enjoyed a large apple pancake with jam and butter and a pot of masala tea with milk, Yolanda gave Sylvia and me our handwritten plane tickets for Pokhara. Sylvia was right; Things did work out. Then I settled my bill just in time for Karna and Dikpal's arrival at 8:30 sharp. Again, they seemed reluctant to enter the hotel.

Despite my insistence that I could carry (and wheel and drag) all my own things however far we had to go—I can be a bit over-confident about stuff like that—the young men took my duffel bag and large suitcase. They tried to relieve Sylvia of her burden, too, but she insisted a bit more than I had and hoisted her very heavy backpack, instead handing Karna a much smaller, lighter knapsack.

Then Karna and Dikpal led the two of us through the city on foot to the airport, past a Maoist demonstration and throngs of idle people out of work and school because of the strike, past street vendors apparently immune to that strike, past heaps of pungent garbage, past stupas, cows, chickens, and mangy-looking dogs. We dodged an occasional, fast-moving ambulance or truck full of police, which gave a hint of what it's like for pedestrians when regular traffic is moving through the streets. Yikes!

After about an hour and a half, we reached the airport, and I bid Karna and Dikpal farewell. For now. They refused my offer to pay for their help.

The plane ride to Pokhara was short and fun, though thick clouds blocked our view of the countryside except for a brief time after takeoff and shortly before landing. The stewardess—and I was surprised there was one on a flight this short and a plane this small—hunched over as she passed through the small cabin, offering a cup of water, a small candy, earplugs, and a newspaper in either English or Nepali. The movement of the little prop plane made me feel a tad iffy, especially after that warm walk with the sweet smells of rotting garbage and who knows what else.

As soon as I arrived in Pokhara, I knew I would feel much more relaxed here. Besides, I wanted to be where Ingo was. That's where I need to be, at least for now.

As arranged by Karna and Ingo, I soon found Jit, Ingo's HRDSN assistant of 19 years, waiting for me just outside the airport gate. Jit took my luggage and immediately hired a couple of bicycle porters, though I never actually saw any money change hands. Perhaps Ingo would pay them when my bags were delivered, I figured, then had an uh-oh moment as the cyclists disappeared with my stuff. (Which did end up in my room, intact, I must add.)

Jit and I and another man from the search and rescue squad, whose name I didn't catch (no Bobs or Marys here) began the long walk across town. In the humidity, I was dripping in no time, though my companions seemed unaffected.

********

Before coming to Nepal, I'd heard that it's one of the poorest countries on earth. Psshhh, I thought. Poor depends on who's talking. Just because they might not have big-screen HDTVs or brand-new SUVs or the latest in anything—just because they may live a simple, subsistence lifestyle—doesn't mean they're poor. Right?

Okay, I give: A lot of what I've seen here... THIS is POOR. This is extreme beauty mixed with extreme poverty. In some cases, I'd call it squalor. This is part of the spectrum of the human condition I'd never witnessed firsthand before, not even in areas of Mexico and Central America I'd thought were the poorest of poor. But I look at these people, sitting and walking amongst the garbage, cow manure, and dog poop, washing dishes and clothing in dirty water in roadside ditches, and it seems that most have no idea how destitute they are. Or don't let it get to them, maybe. I see smiles and laughter in spite of it all. I've already received hospitality and generosity I would not have expected from people who have so little... had I any expectations to begin with. I've tried really hard not to have any.

Here in Pokhara, conditions between the airport and Ingo's house (which is in the opposite direction of the touristy Lakeside area that I'll see tomorrow) are much like I'd seen in Kathmandu, and though it's clearly a smaller city, there's trash all over the place and that same sickly sweet smell. But then, at the outskirts of town, things began to change as the landscape became more rural. Small rice paddies and corn fields and what I think are big mounds of dried rice plants took the place of the piles of trash and decrepit hodgepodge of buildings. It's still what you might call a hodgepodge out here but in a more endearing sort of way. That doesn't mean all the trash is gone or that people aren't still washing in the milky-white roadside ditches, but it's a peaceful, pretty area that calls to the wanderer in me. I'm looking forward to some roaming.

********

Suddenly, that closed door blew open, and into the room burst Ingo Schnabel. And that's the only word I can think of to describe his entrance. With a booming, "Well, hel-LO, Deb!" he pulled me in for a hearty cheek-to-cheek. I couldn't help but laugh and knew right away that the "strong personality" I'd heard about from others who've met this animated, passionate leader of Nepal's rescue squad is indeed very real. It hasn't taken long to feel certain that Ingo and I are going to get along just fine.

P.S. I should be getting my little internet "stick" and SIM card tomorrow, now that the strike is over, so I should be able to upload some pics. I'm snappin' away!

Namaste From Nepal

Hey, everybody, just a note before my post: I'm here in Pokhara now with Ingo. SO glad to be here, and I'll fill you on the trip here soon. But I have to tell you that the internet connection here is... SO... freaking... slow that I'm going to be limited to how many individual emails I'll be able to respond to. And uploading photos and certainly video may be near impossible. We'll see how it goes once they get a gadget that will allow me to log on with my own computer. Maybe that will help. In the meantime, please know that I'm reading every one of your messages and LOVE them! I'll answer when and if I can.

I hope to get caught up to the present soon, but, for now, here's what I wrote yesterday (which seems like ages ago) but was unable to send until now....

Sylvia, a solo traveler from Switzerland, gave me good advice yesterday. About Nepal she said, "Expect nothing ... except that things will work out." I realized in less than 24 hours that those are words I'll need to live by for the next three months.

Yesterday was like living 10 days within the space of one. And now it's 2:15 a.m. on the next. What will this day of surprises bring? The plan is that it will take me from Kathmandu to the much smaller city of Pokhara, also known as the city of lakes. Thankfully, Sylvia is going there, too. I'm glad to have such a confident travel companion who knows I'm unsure of myself and is gracious enough to help.

When I wondered aloud how we'd get a paper plane ticket—little is done electronically here, so it seems, and Yolanda had arranged for our travel by phone with an agency—Sylvia patted me on the arm and said not to worry, it would work out. I paid Yolanda (cash only, no credit cards accepted) for the ticket but received nothing tangible or digital in return as one would expect in the U.S., where we'd get at least a confirmation email or receipt.

At 8:30 a.m., give or take some Nepal time, which could be a while, Karna and his friend and cyber cafe partner, Dikpal, will return to the guest house to walk with me and Sylvia to the airport. They know a shortcut, they said.

But that's still hours away, so back to yesterday...

Like tonight, I couldn't sleep for long after I was dropped off in the middle of the night, showered, and rearranged my belongings. I was awake at 2 a.m., listening to dogs bark, which they did again at 4:30. Soon after, the sky began to lighten and a nearby rooster started to crow, so I climbed out my window onto the veranda again and watched my surroundings materialize and people begin to stir as the morning progressed. A man in a nearby open window began tap-tap-tapping, and the tapping continued for hours. What he was working on, I'll never know. Children played with a puppy in an adjacent courtyard, while their mother (I assume) was busy sweeping around them. A motorbike zipped by in the alley. Later, a man carrying a large load of newspapers announced his presence, or perhaps the headlines, as he passed outside the hotel gate.

At 6 a.m., I ventured downstairs. The guest house was quiet, but I found three of the staff—two brightly clothed women, one in vibrant blue, the other in fuchsia, and an orange-shirted man—sweeping and tidying in the courtyard. I sat at a table, just watching them and two resident dogs until Yolanda appeared and sat down with me.

"How do you know Ingo?" I asked her. And in her Swiss-accented English she explained, "A friend introduced us. I was looking for property in a remote area, and Ingo is trying to sell the resort at Shyauli Bazaar. So I went there in January. It is a beautiful place—you will love it—but it is too big for me alone. Maybe if I had partners. I believe Ingo told me about you then."

Yolanda went on to explain a bit about the Maoist rebels (I'm really trying to understand what's happening here in Nepal) and the current strike, now five days old. For those five days and who knows how many more, businesses have been forcibly closed and driving forbidden, with the exception of ambulances, the police, and some leniency for foreigners, of which there are relatively few right now in the city. People can't earn a living with this going on. ATMs are running out of money, and people are running out of food. Schools have been shut down for weeks, well before the general strike began.

"Why do they comply?" I wanted to know. The answer: because they risk certain punishment if they don't. As I also read in the newspaper, the Maoists will vandalize the shops and beat shopkeepers who ignore the rules of the strike. Same for those who defy the ban on driving.

Later, as I walked with Karna and Dikpal to their cyber cafe, I asked them how everyone knows these rules (and there are others). "They are announced," Dikpal replied. His English is quite good, easier for me to understand than Karna's. "They tell it on the streets, in the paper, and on the news."

"There's more electricity right now, " he added, "because businesses and factories are closed, so it's not shut down as much."

I said, "It must be difficult to run a cyber cafe when the power is shut off for hours twice a day."

Karna agreed. "Oh, yes. Very difficult. It makes it hard to pay the rent."  He meant both the rent on the shop—about 1000 rupees per month, which is equivalent to approximately US $150—and rent on the nearby 10x10-foot room he shares with several other young men.

I later saw that room when Karna and Dikpal invited me up for tea. (And I must say, I've never had tea as tasty as the Masala  I've had in Nepal.) When we arrived, I followed their example and took off my shoes before entering. My trail runners looked out of place among the pairs of flip-flops and quite a bit larger. I noticed the big window was covered with cloth, but there was no glass. Inside, I found others seated on two single beds, watching the news on a small TV.  A girl and boy got up, and Karna motioned for me to sit in their place. I felt odd about them giving up their spots for me as they left the room.

The reporter was speaking Nepali, but I didn't need to understand the language to understand what I was seeing. It was amazing what had been going on in the city just a short time before, some of it right outside the cyber cafe while I was tucked inside. The storefront was closed, but we'd entered through a side door from an unlit hallway. From inside the small, dim space where I found several computer cubicles but nothing that resembled a cafe, I occasionally heard commotion out on the street: sirens and shouting and chanting.  Karna and Dikpal would go out to look.

"Come see," they urged, but I shook my head and continued looking through my email, which was comforting. It was my connection to what I was familiar with.

While I waited for my video to upload—slow, slow going in Nepal—I asked the boys... well, they're 24 and 26 years of age, so despite their much younger appearances, I should call them men... I asked them about how they came to know Ingo.

Karna did some of the explaining, but, thankfully, Dikpal helped me understand what he said. I think he'd realized I was having trouble making out Karna's words.

"We are grateful to Ingo and respect him very much. If it were not for him, we would not have this education. Maybe 2nd year only. Ingo found us in our village not too far from Shyauli Bazaar and brought us to his school. It was wonderful there."

I wanted to ask the young men more details about their lives before Ingo came into them, but I admit I was shy about what felt to me like prying. I'll have to get over that, I suppose, if I'm to write the book that is the main purpose of my time here.

"When the Maoists came, when we were young boys," Dikpal explained, "we had to hide in the jungle, so they wouldn't take us."

I asked if the Maoists still do that—force children 12 and over to join them... or else—but Karna said no, not since the end of the war.

******

After a few hours, I gave up my cyber-connection to the world at large and, despite their offer of free service, paid Karna and Dikpal the going rate for their internet and a bit extra for their help, coming to get me from the airport and today from the hotel and walking with me through the city. We talked some about how far foreign currency goes here in Nepal, and I told them the equivalent in rupees how much we'd pay for certain things in the US. Of course, things are at least somewhat relative to income levels, but Karna and Dikpal looked quite surprised.

Karna and Dikpal wanted to take me to Boudha Stupa, a nearby Buddhist temple. Dikpal explained that he and Karna are a combination of Hindu and Buddhist (if I understood him correctly) and pointed out a Hindu god portrayed at the temple. We couldn't go inside, but large numbers of people walk clockwise around the outside as a form of religious observance, and some lie on the ground—"prostrate themselves," Dikpal said—especially in the morning and evening. Among the many awkward things I said throughout the day, I replied, "I guess people have to be careful not to step on them." Karna and Dikpal laughed.

We walked in the rain for a bit, then spent a couple of hours at Karna's room. While I was there, a taller young man came in, and I recognized him from Debra Kaufman's documentary, "A School of Their Own," about the Riverside School whee Karna and Dikpal also grew up. I'll have to find out his name, but I was shy to talk to him, and he seemed not to notice me. He was quiet, intent on watching the news of the strike. He smiled only when a little girl came in and danced in what little floor space there was in the room. Maybe I'll have the chance and courage to speak to him when I return to Kathmandu at the end of the trip.

Why does asking so many questions feel strange? How do I draw people out and encourage them to tell me details about their lives—lives that are so much different and difficult than my own.  Will they feel like I'm judging? What questions should I not ask? What's too personal? If they know I'm writing a book, will they be reluctant to share things with me? Will they tell me the bad with the good? And how do I get used to the idea of exposing people's lives like that? Yes, I have much to learn and get used to.

At 6 p.m., Karna and Dikpal deposited me back at Yolanda's guest house, seeming unsure about being there and hanging back when I went inside. After speaking with Yolanda and learning the few details about the flight to Pokhara, I made arrangements to meet the young men in the morning. They laughed when I suggested a time—far too early and too long in advance of the flight, I'm sure they were thinking—but they agreed with a smile to come fetch me and Sylvia too.

Well, I suppose I should try to sleep again for a while.  I'm anxious for the sun to come up and can't wait for breakfast. I realized too late yesterday that I'd not eaten anything but a little Nepali snack of dried rice and some kind of bland but appealing, crunchy, flour-based thing (thanks to Karna) since breakfast yesterday. Amazing how you can completely forget your hunger for a while when your other senses are close to being overwhelmed.

Nepal!

Written sometime in the middle of the night on Wednesday, May 5th (or 6th):

The word of the day is "adapt." Adapt to the surroundings, the circumstances, the culture, because Deb definitely is not in northern Arizona.

Flying into Kathmandu, I pressed my face against the window, looking for any sign of life or light in the darkness below. Were we still above the clouds at 11 miles out? (So said the computer screen on the seat back.) I couldn’t see a thing. Then, five minutes out, I began to see some twinkling lights, but nothing like you would expect from a city. And now I know why: The power has been shut down in Kathmandu, and what light there is is running on battery power or candle flames. Good thing I brought my headlamp.

It's been a long time since I exited a plane onto a tarmac. Once the man who blocked the aircraft doorway as he asked a flight attendant for some papers she didn’t have let us down the steps, there was no longer any direction. No one in a purple jacket or dress suit was waiting inside the airport to answer travelers' questions as there had been in Hong Kong. So, I followed the small crowd—most of the passengers had gotten off at the stop in Bangladesh—who walked up to a row of kiosks and filled out immigration paperwork. (Good thing I brought a pen, which I then loaned to another traveler.) That done, I followed the "With Visa" sign since I'd gotten my 90-day visa in advance from the Embassy of Nepal in Washington D.C.

When I approached the man behind the tall desk, I opened my passport, pointed at the visa stamp, and said to the top of his head, "They didn't write in an expiration date, but I leave on August first." He said nothing and didn't look up. He just wrote the date on my visa, 90 days from today, and handed it back to me. I followed other passengers to baggage claim.

Yippee! My luggage arrived. I'd had my doubts and was resigned to the fact that I might have to wear those same travel-dirty clothes for at least another day or so. I glanced over at the three somber men seated behind a table with a sign that read, "Mishandled Luggage: Complaining Desk." I was prepared to have to walk over and say, with a smile of course, “I'm not really complaining, but my luggage is missing.” Happily, that was unnecessary.

As I hauled my bags down the next hall and around the next corner, thinking, wow, I didn't bring enough stuff; these bags are pretty light, I saw a bunch of faces on the other side of a glass wall. I immediately recognized Karna. Then I saw the sign ("Namaste, Deb Lauman") he told me he and his friend would make, which they were holding against the glass, upside down. I waved, and they came around and met me outside.

After a quick hello, Karna and his friend (I didn't catch his name, only that he's Karna's partner at the cyber cafe they own) took my bags and loaded them into the trunk an old Toyota sedan. In turn, each of the boys reached up (because I'm significantly taller at 5-foot-5) and placed yellow satin scarves around my sweaty neck with a "Namaste, Deb. Welcome to Nepal."

(Photo: Karna and his friend have trouble opening the trunk of the car.)

Then came the drive to Yolanda's hotel. It was a white-knuckler as we twisted and turned, narrowly avoiding concrete barriers jaggedly aligned down the middle of the road. The streets were deserted and the city dark. What I could see of it as we passed looked like bombed out buildings from the second World War.

Soon, we turned abruptly down a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for the car. The two men in front (there was a third man, a driver who was also a friend, Karna said) didn't speak at all, and Karna and I were also pretty quiet in the back seat. He did say, though—or at least I THINK he said—something about having to take the Maoist strikes day by day, hour by hour, and this was a night they were able to drive. It would have been a very long and rather eerie walk to the hotel had they not been able to use the vehicle. [Later: I realized they took a risk coming to get me, though they were safe while I was actually with them since I'm a foreigner.]

Suddenly, the car stopped (good thing I'd been bracing myself, or I would have tasted the back of the front passenger seat), and I hesitated as Karna and his partner got out. This was it? Apparently. Dogs started barking behind a locked gate, and I soon heard a woman say, "Who's there?" No one else answered, so I said, "It's Deb. I think I'm staying here." Given the accent, I assumed the voice wasYolanda, Ingo's Swiss friend (though I don't know how or how well they know each other).

I asked Karna if I should pay for the ride. He didn't know, he said, and went around to the driver's side to speak to the man behind the wheel. The car sped off, and Karna said nothing, so I followed Yolanda, who'd unlocked the gate and led us inside the dimly lit building and up a few flights of stairs. Karna and his partner followed with my luggage.

Yolanda explained that there may or may not be power in an hour or so. She showed me into my room and pointed out the bottle of water and candle on the small table. She said breakfast would start at 6:30.

Karna and friend stood side by side in the hallway. How would they get home, Yolanda asked. Karna said they would go on foot. I asked Karna if I would see him tomorrow and if I could visit his cyber cafe. (There's no wireless here, so I'm writing this on battery power in the hopes I can send it from the cafe tomorrow.) Karna said he would come back in the morning. Yolanda asked him what time, and when he hesitated, I told him that I would be here whenever it was convenient and not to rush. I can tell already that this is not a city that I'll be exploring on my own, particularly given the present political conditions and strikes.

When the two young men left and Yolanda closed the door behind her, the first thing I did was open a window. Two panes, each double locked. The room felt a bit oppressive, so I needed to let in some air. I pushed open the outer window and climbed onto a veranda (I'm sure there's a door somewhere, probably from the hallway). I needed to try to get my bearings—where am I?—even in the dark.

(Photo: My small hotel room. Sorry about the lousy quality. It was late, and I still need to figure out the settings on my camera.)

How quiet for a city. The only sounds I heard—and that I'm still hearing as I lie on the thin mattress by the open window—are barking dogs and, I believe, an occasional parrot. And crickets. I see only one dim light in a nearby window. But there are no traffic sounds. No people sounds.

I had a much-needed shower, too. A cold shower, but that's just a statement of fact, not a complaint. Why complain at all? Things are as they are, and I have no expectations. I'm just here to see and hear and learn and take it all in.

And the other word of the day: alone. It's one thing to be by yourself in familiar surroundings, even in places you've never been but that are familiar culturally. Here,  halfway around the world in a place that, so far, bears little to no resemblance to my life at home, I feel very much alone. But I'm not afraid or nervous. I'm just here.

So are the mosquitoes. Hence, the lavender mosquito netting that's presently tied up above the bed. But rather than let it down, I think I'll attempt to end the lives of those that got in, close the screenless window, and try to daydream myself to sleep.

Next day: Posting this in a hurry. Karna and his friend, Dikpal, have opened their internet cafe for me to do this and check email, but we had to come in through a side door. The Maoist strike means all businesses, including this one, must be closed. Otherwise, they risk vandalism and then some. I'm trying to get a plane to Pokhara ASAP, to be where Ingo is. Kathmandu is not a place I want to hang out right now, though Yolanda's hotel is very nice and feels safe. Yolanda is helping me and another traveler get one of the limited planes out right now. More soon...

Leavin' On A Jet Plane Today

This morning I feel like I did the day I left for the beginning of my six-month Appalachian Trail hike filled with anticipation but anxious about the unknown. And like that adventure, I leave today for my three-month stay in Nepal with no doubt I can finish what I'll start. Who knows what future starts this experience will lead to, but how dull life would be if we always knew what was in store for us.

So, I'm down here in Phoenix, having just woken up in a shaft of sunlight with a sweat ring around my neck. What a difference a two-hour drive can make. Had I awakened back in Flagstaff, where it was snowing yesterday morning, I would have grabbed a fleece as soon as I got out of bed. But I'd better get used to waking up warm, as it'll soon be monsoon season in Nepal, hot and extremely humid.

My plane leaves at eight this evening. I change airlines in Los Angeles, then sit for another 13-some-odd hours in another flying tin can with a couple hundred of my closest friends (flying is not my favorite pastime) till I arrive in Hong Kong. After 13 hours wandering and people-watching there, and I'll be in another airborne capsule for seven hours until I land in Kathmandu at 10:30 p.m. on May 5 (which is about 9:15 a.m. on the 5th here in Arizona, I believe.)

Once I clear customs with my one large suitcase, mostly filled with t-shirts, synthetic convertible pants, at least 15 pairs of underwear, and nearly as many pairs of socks, along with a half-empty duffel bag and a carry-on backpack full of electronics, I'll hopefully find HRDSN member Karna Bahadur Dura and Yolanda, Ingo's Swiss friend who runs a hotel not far from the airport. I'll go to the hotel for at least one night, but I hear there could be "political unrest" in the city, so I may make my stay in the capital a very short one before flying to Pokhara.

As with all mostly unplanned adventures, and even most that are planned to a T, we shall see.

A New Generation of Nepali SAR Dogs

I wanted to share some videos with you from the Himalaya Rescue Dog Squad Nepal's training and breeding center in Shyauli Bazaar. I'll be trekking from Pokhara to Shyauli Bazaar in June, along with HRDSN leader Ingo Schnabel and two SAR K-9 trainers from Germany.

(If you can't view the embedded videos here, I've added direct YouTube links below each.)

Shyauli Bazaar in Lamjung at the Middim Khola River is one of the most beautiful places in Nepal. Here, you'll see HRDSN's newest litter of SAR dogs-to-be.

Direct link

Meet Hunter, a SAR dog donated to HRDSN by Lynn Martin from Oregon. Lynn teaches at the Dog Obedience Academy. Here's Hunter demonstrating his man-trailing skills after just a few lessons.

Direct link

See a bit of the daily "shaping" training at Shyauli Bazaar. "The shaping or fine-tuning of the dogs' performance has to be done step by step. With the help of the clicker training method and voice commands in Nepalese language, the dogs learn to negotiate obstacles of different kinds and shapes. This is preparation for entering and searching collapsed buildings for disaster victims."

Direct link

And here's Dunston, reporting his find to his handler and leading him back to the subject. "Rückverweisen" is German for "search, find, report back and then lead your handler to the subject."

The way Dunston communicates a find is jumping up and placing his paws on his handler's chest. This method is taught step by step with clicker training and small treats and is used with dogs who don't like to bark at a discovered person. Dunston was never a barker, and since he is an excellent air-scenting dog, he was trained to do his reporting (or alerting) in this manner.

 

Direct link 

A Walk In The Woods

There's no news article link to give you for this one. I guess the ending didn't make it a newsworthy story. Still, a disabled teen did spend a cold night in the woods, and search and rescue, local firefighters, and members of CERT (Community Emergency Response Team) did spend all night looking for him, wandering the forest, Forest Service roads and trails, tracking, and knocking on doors in Munds Park.

He'd left the house around 5 p.m. on Friday but hadn't returned home by dark. The first searchers on scene checked what was said to be his usual route to Frog Tank, but there was no sign of the subject, legally an adult but mentally much younger, who wasn't dressed well for what was becoming a very cold night.  It had, after all, been a rather warm spring day.

We'd brought ATVs with us but were told the young man would probably be afraid of searchers, so the vehicle noise certainly wouldn't help. Not to mention the muddy and very wet conditions that would have made driving difficult. Even on foot, my search partner and I encountered some obstacles, at one point stopped by a wide and deep, swiftly moving creek swollen with spring runoff. We talked to two of our teammates who'd arrived on the opposite side of the creek, compared notes about our perspective assignments, and since our next search assignment was on their side and theirs on ours, we swapped.

As my companion and I looked for prints around a stock tank and seasonal ponds and along water-filled washes, we had to climb over barbed wire fences, slog through the mud, watch our step on jagged rocks and mounds of snow, and at one point, cross a very rickety suspension bridge. Meanwhile, we called the subject's name as nicely as we could, adding that he wasn't in trouble and we just wanted to help. We'd stop to listen for any response, but all we heard were coyotes.

And the only tracks we found belonged to critters, big and small. Other searchers even spotted some fresh mountain lion prints. In the pitch dark, I couldn't help but wonder if we were being watched.

Another search team did, however, find human prints in the woods. They matched prints they'd spotted around the subject's home. Incident Command had checked and described the tread on the boots of those who'd arrived first on scene to do a hasty search and ruled those out, so everyone was optimistic these were the missing teenager's prints. But the tracks were eventually lost in rocky terrain.

At daybreak, weary searchers were replaced by a fresh crew. But it wasn't long before the subject was located, Code 4 (fine), as he was walking back home.

Nepal Update: A Documentary and Photos From The HRDSN

With five weeks to go until I leave for Nepal, I've been learning as much as I can about the country and their only SAR team, which not only responds to calls for missing and injured trekkers but also to disaster situations, like earthquakes, floods, and landslides. The Himalayan Rescue Dog Squad Nepal, or HRDSN, also provides medical aid to remote villages and even started a school that defied Nepal's caste system and gender prejudice.

I just finished watching the one-hour documentary, A School of Their Own by Debra Kaufman, who sponsors a Nepali student. Debra went to Nepal to meet the child, and it was then that she discovered how the Riverside School's mission intersected with the country's fight for democracy and freedom. The school struggled to stay afloat during Nepal's bloody, 10-year civil war, during which the police accused the children of being Maoist rebels while the rebels themselves were forcibly drafting children over 12 years of age into their army.

I learned a lot about education in Nepal, the 10-year People's War, and the HRDSN's special school in this documentary, which "shows how children, even in the most extreme circumstances, can lead a nation to a better future."

And here are some photos from the HRDSN, taken by Ingo and other team members:

Below, Ingo distributes application forms for medical aid and numbers for the line of men. They will have their turn after the women and children have been treated. The villagers are Muslims, most from Rautahat. The former Hindu Kingdom of Nepal didn't come to their aid following a flood, but HRDSN did.

This next photo was taken in 2002. While the HRDSN's medical disaster unit stopped on its way to the Terai Flood disaster in Rautahat, they stayed overnight at a school compound in Lothar, Makwanpur District. The local people took that opportunity to line up their children for medical checkups by Ingo and the team. Most of these kids suffered from diarrhea and chronic bronchitis.

The first villagers arrived early in the morning at a HRDSN medical camp.

This is James Scott, an Australian trekker who went missing in the Gosaikund and was found 43 days later. This picture (with Ingo) was taken in 1992, a year after his ordeal, when James came back to thank his rescuers.

And this is Ingo today, with Tara, one of the HRDSN's next generation of rescue dogs.

This is Lobsang Ngodup, co-founder HRDSN in 1989. Ingo met Lobsang 37 years ago while trekking with his dog, Nelson, in the Himachal Pradesh. Up in the mountains at a place called Tiuni, there was a little shop run by Tibetan man (that was Lobsang) who sold dry yak meat. The two became friends and shared a dream of starting rescue dog teams in Nepal and India for earthquake relief.

This next photo was taken during a HRDSN student fitness training in 1999. The boy on the right is Karna Dura, who I'll be meeting in Kathmandu. Karna is now at the Lalit Kala Campus, studying business management and fine arts and, with some of his schoolmates, runs a cyber cafe.

This is another Nepali citizen I may meet. He (or she?) lives at the HRDSN headquarters at Shayauli Bazaar...

 And the, um... dish on the platter in this last photo (for now) is, I'm told, a delicacy. 

Nepal Adventure Update: A Visitor From The U.N.

I recently got some exciting news from Ingo Schnabel (pictured here), founder of the Himalaya Rescue Dog Squad Nepal (HRDSN).

While I'll be with Ingo and the others in Pokhara and Shayauli Bazaar, the squad will be visited by Adrian DeCastro, PhD., special adviser and counselor at the United Nations. Dr. DeCastro and some of his colleagues and potential donors are very interested in the HRDSN's work and want to see things firsthand in Nepal. This means a lot to the squad, including the potential for funding infrastructure and equipment they desperately need. So, I'll really look forward to meeting Dr. DeCastro and learning more about this unfolding aspect of the HRDSN story.

Oh, and I finally booked a flight... and then another flight... and another. Twenty-three hours and 17 minutes of flying time and 14 hours, 48 minutes of waiting in between those flights, and I'll be in Nepal. Phoenix to LAX to Hong Kong for a mighty long layover to Kathmandu. After a few days in Kathmandu, I'll take a short flight to my final destination: Pokhara.

A Snowy Search Near Munds Park

"Everybody be quiet for a second!" I had to raise my voice over the sound of the wind and radio traffic, neither of which stopped on my command. Nor did the racket caused by the icy pellets hitting my hood.

But my three tracking companions abruptly stopped talking, as I unzipped my jacket to turn down my radio. I thought I'd heard something just as we'd started moving again. If I had heard something, it was certainly far off and in the opposite direction than we'd been headed.

Another tracker said he thought he'd heard something, too.

"I'm going to shout," I told my teammates, then let out the loudest, high-pitched yell that I could. And then we all waited. Seconds later, I exclaimed, "Yes! I heard a bark!"  My teammates moved towards me and listened. Then we all heard it. Definitely a dog, and it was now actively barking.

During our mission briefing, we'd been told the woman we were looking for had called a friend the previous afternoon and said she was going to walk her dog and then come home. But she never returned, and her vehicle was located the following morning at the overlook on I-17 south of Munds Park. We'd also been told that the dog, a husky/shepherd mix named Max, is aggressive and protective so we should be very cautious if we encounter him. But, at this point, the barking was quite a distance off, across a canyon and possibly over the rise beyond.

Almost immediately, the four of us designated Tracking Team 3 took off in the direction of the sound, taking turns shouting and blowing whistles then quickly stopping to listen. "Tanya!" we called, hoping to hear a shout back from the 39-year-old mom we were looking for. "Max!" we yelled, hoping the dog would keep barking.

Once down in the canyon, we lost the sound but kept moving. Eventually, we split up, with two staying in the canyon as it rounded the base of the hill and two of us heading up-slope, trying to pick up the barking again.

We called and listened, called and listened, but it seemed the barking had stopped. As my teammate was talking with Incident Command on the radio, I moved further toward the far side of the hill and continued calling. And then I heard another bark. It still seemed rather distant. Was the dog moving?

The two of us continued in the direction of the sound, then stopped short. Suddenly, the barking was very close, and we caught sight of movement through the thick brush maybe 50 feet away. That was definitely Max! We watched the dog pace while we waited for our teammates to arrive before moving any closer. "Tanya!" we called a few more times, but there was no response.  Was she over there?

Finally, four of our teammates arrived, and we all moved in. Max moved off. No sign of Tanya in the immediate area. Two trackers followed Max, who was dragging his leash, and four of us began looking around.

Soon after, we found articles of clothing mostly buried in fresh snow right where Max had been pacing. A definite sign... but not a good one. We all knew this was likely evidence of paradoxical undressing, a phenomenon often associated with severe hypothermia. One of the items was partially burned, indicating that Tanya had made a futile attempt to start a fire. The other discarded articles of clothing were intact and not burned at all.

The four of us proceeded to search the immediate area, doing some "purposeful wandering" and then line-searching as best we could over the dense, rocky terrain, looking under pinion pine and juniper trees as we slowly worked our way back and forth. But we found no further evidence. Or Tanya.

After a long day of searching, often in blizzard conditions, we hiked out to base as our weary selves were replaced by fresh searchers with fresh eyes and bodies. For the rest of that evening, throughout the night and into the next day, the searching continued, with volunteers from our county and Yavapai County Search and Rescue working together.

At around noon on Wednesday, Tanya Morris's body was located by search dogs about 100 feet from where we'd found her clothing and boots. She'd been covered in snow and not immediately visible.

See: Missing Woman Found Dead South Of Munds Park

Added 3/16: Tanya Morris's obituary was in the paper today. She had four children and a life-partner of 14 years.