Few people stumble into Nepal by accident. Jim had an ongoing love affair with the mountains and its Sherpa inhabitants. Susan had begun a jewelry business in California. Rick was Buddhist so for him coming to Nepal was a pilgrimage. My husband, Chris, and I were just plain curious.
I had one problem (aside from shopping detours). I don’t do hills. That is to say, anything that goes down, i.e. escalators. We live in South Florida, where hills are HOV lanes on Interstate 95. But, I wanted desperately to see the Buddhist full moon festival, meet the Sherpas, talk with a lama, taste the crisp, giddyfying (not a word – but it should be) mountain air. And maybe my soul would be forever cleansed of shopping malls, hair salons and air-conditioned condo mausoleums.
“The moon festival lasts three days,” Jim explained. First day, the Lama Rimpoche gives his blessing. Second day, monks perform ceremonial dances. Third day, they make a fire for purification.”
While Jim outlined the series of events, the lights flashed back on. Kathmandu had hopped back into the 20th century – for the moment. Jim carefully unwrapped the sapphire after dinner for us to admire (he had returned to buy it from Babu). It glinted mischievously.
In the morning, we would be above the clouds enroute to Phaplu.
Normally, the flight from Kathmandu to Phaplu takes a quick half hour. Getting through the security check (for matches, not guns) and the Kathmandu airport lobby may take longer. A handful of passengers clustered alongside the Twin Otter plane, its freshly stenciled red, gold and blue “Lumbini Airlines” logo shining brightly. The land crew dragged a hose past us and began to refuel the craft. No one smoked, thanks to the matches security check.
Once we had scrambled aboard and settled in, a flight attendant leaned across aisles to pass around a tray of hard candies and wads of cotton to stuff in our ears. As soon as the propellers revved up with a deafening whirr, I jammed the cotton deeper.
The Twin Otter lifted into a clear blue November sky, promising an unimpeded view of Everest. Land fell away in folds of green terraced layers along with Babu, his sparkling sapphires, the dust and the traffic. Flying into this ethereal landscape, I felt as if we were shaking off all the decay and corruption of the dusty city and soaring like homing pigeons to our destination – Phaplu.
The propellers settled into a steady rumble as we gained altitude. The Himalaya awaited us – the undefeated wrestler, challenging man’s audacity to match its might. Next to this behemoth, mankind’s greatest achievements, the Great Wall, the Pyramids, the soon-to-be finished Three Gorges Dam, looked like children’s building blocks.
The pilot gently nudged the aircraft toward Everest. We approached its green, tree-studded foothills. Jim pointed out Chiwong monastery perched on a precipice overlooking the Solu Khumbu Valley. Far below, the Solu Khumbu River twisted its way through fertile green farmland.
I caught sight of the monastery’s rooftop and prayer flags, a sequin of light enveloped in tall firs, before the plane arced. The pilot spotted his landing target, a patch of flat land that looked more like a ski-jump than a landing strip.
When we touched ground, a gaggle of spectators – kids in jeans, a red-bereted policeman, porters – waited for the passengers to spew out. Women wearing garlands of yellow chysanthemums over their long robes smiled as we struggled up the dirt path from the airfield to Phaplu’s main thoroughfare – a dirt road bordered by low stone walls. A calf slept in the middle of the road and a rooster scampered past an electrical pole.
Town wasn’t far – about fifty yards past the airstrip. Phaplu consisted of several stone-hewn buildings with blue or green painted window frames and tin or wood-shingled rooftops. We passed a grocery store, a barbershop and a small guesthouse before arriving at our lodging, the Hotel del Sherpa, an ornate stone edifice surrounded by yawning firs, with welcoming front lawn-chairs and table set outdoors for afternoon tea.
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