by Andrew Hyde
The teahouses in the towns rumored to be welcoming you? They are just hotels built for the trekkers. There isn’t much of a town at all, in fact, other than the hotels. In most we visited, there wasn’t anything besides that. The culture was something you could pay for, as if it were set up for you, holding a temporary spot in your life.
And then there was the trekking. Trekking on the most hated road in the world. Ugh, the road. Day 1: The road! Day 2: The road. Day 3: The fucking road. Day 4: The fucking road destroying this place. Day 5: The fucking road, built by children, destroying this place. Day 6: The fucking road, built by children, destroying this place and eating the soul of everything around it. Day 7: The inevitable road.
The road is going in at the strong urging of the citizens of Manang. There are 3,000 full-time residents who were able to convince the government to put it in with stories of the hundreds of children who will be saved with a modern road running in and out. It just so happens that the road goes exactly on top of the trekking trail. Once the road is built, the trail will be gone. Now, if you are a person who can do third grade math, you can figure out that the road will carry, on average, the same amount of tourists that currently hike on the trail. One car per three minutes with eight passengers — all on a road that is unstable at best. The guiding services expect trekking to go up when the road is completed.
On day six, right past Tal, we saw the road being jackhammered into the hillside. “Awful young workers there,” I said. “It is a good job” my guide said, speaking as the last words he spoke as my official guide. We passed a group of about twenty youth, aged from six to ten, high up on a hillside clearing the blasted land from the tourist-funded army. The tourist-funded army. Yes, come to the mountains, and see the whites of the eyes of the child labor you are supporting. I’ve never seen eyes so cold. So hurt. So helpless. They are doing a very hard job, unsupervised, with almost no pay as a replacement of their childhood.
My guide learned a valuable lesson about unfair and dangerous jobs: If you support them, you can lose yours. If you hike the Annapurna, you support, directly, child labor. They might hide it during the high-season, but the ugly and shameful beast is there. Oh yeah, and that knock-off, brand-name jacket you bought in Kathmandu to keep you warm on your trek? Those are made by a different set of small, tragic hands. Wilderness.
We are in the last years of the Annapurna being a place where people trek. The inevitable road is set to be finished in 2014, with buses and jeeps honking and smoking up the valley. They are aiming to have 150 vehicles per section, per day.
The power lines cover the entire valley until Manang. A 42” flatscreen TV is displayed in the kitchen/ bedroom/bathroom of a teahouse. The fire rages on, but with no chimney the smoke hangs at waist level. The ten people in the room don’t seem to mind, but their daily environment is killing them.
We pay for our conservation-fund-approved-menu-meals and hike on, back on the road which, conveniently, happens to be the only way to get up the valley to the next town.
Give me a moment while I Photoshop the power line out of that pristine Himalayan view.
I sit down in Manang for a veggie curry. I’m excited to meet the residents of this town. This place, that is the result of converting one of the most classic hikes in the world into a jeep trail. I was quickly joined, at 11am no less, by a group of five drunk and high business owners. The all too familiar get-to-know-the-tourist-before-selling-them-shit game is played. It is around zero degrees outside. No insulation to be found. This week, eight Nepali die due to the cold.
“You want good weed, you come to Karma.”
The inevitable road is being built and is supporting this and this alone. There is a small town that used to be here. It has been swallowed up by the tourist trash and is gone forever. The army is blasting an amazing amount of rock into the river below. I’m learning the hard lesson of how tourism can destroy.
It is January. It is the coldest week of the year. It is 14,000 feet above sea level, and there is no snow. We walk over the 17,769-foot pass without stepping in a spot of snow. The glaciers have receded back as far as they can without disappearing. We make it over the highest pass in the world. It is one of the slowest days for traffic on the pass, an officer tells us days later, six people, guides included. “In October you can see 1,000.” For a moment I look out and am amazed at the beauty of the region. A small trail is the only evidence of human impact, and here, for a moment, I feel an uplifted moment like I’ve never felt, like the mountains were speaking out, telling me that everything is okay.
The feeling fades quickly when we get back to town. The majestic Nepal is dead to me, to a lot of people, many of whom live here.
After the trek, the papers read of the risk of a political uprising. It is “tourism year,” so the Maoists are pretending to agree to not do anything for 2011 — though not many people really believe that. Opportunities arise in the classifieds with many visa offerings for those wanting to slave away in foreign lands. Only 320 died last year in Qatar.
The opportunities are depressing. The government is depressing. The people have lived through hell and are seeing their country being built into a three-star hotel for assholes like me to come and experience their Himalayan dream. With more than 30% of the nation’s children not attending school, the government focuses on tourism in 2011. In all my travels, I’ve never felt dirtier.
I found many things in this country to be urgent cries. Perhaps this is mine.
RETHINKING NEPAL
My piece on Nepal, posted on my blog, was read over 300,000 times and evoked a range of emotions from the audience. The most common response from Western travelers that had been to Nepal was “that is the piece I wanted to write, but was afraid of sounding ungrateful.” The most common response from Nepalese is “you ignorant, sorry, slob of a man!” Roughly. I received a slew of death threats and even a call from the US Embassy sternly suggesting I should never come back to Nepal. Yep, I’m banned from Nepal.
It has been a year since my “Tragedy of Nepal 2011” post caused a stir. I reread the post and think of it as something I couldn’t write today. The piece feels equal parts inspiration and depression. I smile and cringe.
When the Nepal Times reprinted the story as front page news, I received a few emails from concerned travelers, reporters, and photographers. “I hope you are out of the country” was the subject line from one National Geographic photographer. A gut check. Since when does a personal blog matter? Since when is a traveler’s report considered news? I had never been scared, as a writer or a traveler, until this point. I took down photos of me from my blog, I played my location off as if I were in a different place altogether.
I went to Nepal to find tranquility — to learn principles from Buddhism and embrace the spaciousness of the high Himalayas. I came back with serious thoughts about my security and what violence could come my way. Of course, there was probably nothing to really fear. The conflict that drove me to write such an angry piece, was, quite naturally, met and matched with the anger of those who so deeply love the country. The opposition to the post was roughly broken down into three camps:
1. Travelers who had different experiences
2. Tourism officials and representatives wanting to keep my experience and opinions from spreading
3. Nepalis expressing anger for a perceived attack on their country
Most travelers go in peak seasons when they never really would run into a Nepal that wasn’t a reflection of themselves and their travel partners. Go to any country in the high season and you will find a similar experience. It is easy to pass over the issues, perhaps something I should have done. Turning a blind eye would have made my experience more about the mountains and the people. The tourism officials whose livelihood is directly dependent on a positive image of the country had every right to be angry about what happened on my trip, as well as my willingness to write about it, and the many citizens I’ve traded emails and comments with are inspiring.
They believe in their country and have been through a lot. They will continue to believe in their country through and through. That is noble. We can hope that the voices I heard from can make a political impact together in 2012, and beyond.
I’ve read a few novels with a similar underlying rage in their story lines about Nepal. When I first read Into Thin Air and some of the other Mount Everest climbing books, I was a bit put off by the chapters about the ruckus they encountered in Nepal. They all seemed to depict a loving disdain, which I now understand. I am still unclear about the lessons I learned. I look at a picture of myself on a mountain ridge at 18,000 feet and have amazingly positive feelings. I look at a picture of the pollution that grounded all planes for almost a day and I want to add even more anger into my original post.
I want to tinker and continue to search for additional lessons. I want to have a positive outlook for the future of a world I see overpopulating and expanding. That is the biggest lesson I gained from my experiences in Nepal. A glimpse of the whole enterprise of development, both in Nepal and beyond, is now on. To ask: what kind of road can be traveled if these issues are not faced, encountered, and openly dealt with? At this point, it’s all still a matter of data: what is happening to every traveler, whether that is positive or negative? As long as the data skews positive, the tourism thrives and the issues that come with that tourism continue to be masked and swept under old rhetorical rugs that don’t always coincide with reality. The economy of Nepal benefits greatly from international tourism and I’m sure the words I wrote have had an impact, causing tourists to rethink what they are looking for and where they may expect to find it.
In retrospect and with distance, the lasting imprint of my trip in Nepal is a positive one. Whenever I find myself in a really special place — overlooking some valley from a mountain peak, or sitting at the banks of a crystalline lake, or wandering the expanses of a vast, open desert — I will often hum a Buddhist chant that I learned in Manang as an ode to its beauty. It is this chant that lingers, and not necessarily the sadness of all of the other things I saw. I am grateful for my time there. I learned how to look at a situation holistically, and how to channel the intensity of my viewpoints into a format that fostered a difficult conversation for so many people.
Still, my actual experience there, not the retrospective of it, was a fog of depression. The experience of sharing those feelings at the time — with all its fallout and support — only served to make that fog denser.
I’d love to revisit this piece and place in ten years to see what was the lasting story. Perhaps my focus point was too near, too one-sided to be fair to the layers of socioeconomic sophistication that makes up this proud country. Through the fog, the focus of my lessons were very near to what I could physically see.
Wilderness.
Chapter 20
DUDE RANCH
Let him ride a horse. He’s a cowboy ain’t he?
—Nathanael West
MCCOY, COLORADO
“Our horses are professionals at giving people who are not sure how to ride horses rides. In fact, it is their job!” Day six on the volunteer job and I had already learned the worst of the jokes to banter with guests. After ten months on the road, I had decided to mix it up a little bit. Constant travel only lets you learn so much about an area, so I decided to try a new strategy: volunteer travel.
I had returned to the States only to surprise an ex-girlfriend in hopes of giving us another shot at dating. Life on the road was great, it really was, but I often found myself feeling that perhaps it was misguided that I sought to do this all alone, that the trip would mean a lot more if it were shared with a partner. I had thought about this situation a lot — I certainly had plenty of time to. One of the main reasons we had broken up in the first place was due to my traveling plans and I felt like I would always regret it if I never made an effort to heal and rekindle our relationship. We had talked while I was traveling and I felt like if I had a chance to surprise her in San Francisco, to romantically swoop in and say how much she meant to me and that things might turn out differently this time around. Thirty hours of traveling later, I found I was to receive the surprise: in the past ten months we went from dating to her picking out flowers for her wedding. A wedding, to be clear, that was not to me.
Licking my wounds after a week I don’t quite remember, I found myself back in Colorado looking for something to dive into and keep me interested for a while. My friend Jimmy, who I met a while back at a bluegrass festival, gave me a call one day shortly after I had returned: “You know the Internets stuff and we need some help.” I did know the “Internets,” it was true. Perhaps I could throw myself in and help out. Why not? My relationship with the pair, after all, had started with the distant lyrics of breakups, murders and work related deaths hitting crescendo off canyon walls. Bluegrass has a way of rocking the soul. A rocking certainly is what my soul had just been through. Serendipity, perhaps?
Anyway, it seemed like a good fit.
“Sure” I offered, “pick me up from the freeway in a few hours? I’ll find a ride to Vail.” Everything in my life was still in a bag, so hitching a ride three hours to a scarcely marked highway exit involved a grand total of ten minutes of packing. In fifteen minutes, and on a whim, I had moved to Black
Mountain Colorado Dude Ranch. Part of travel is doing the work to save up for it. Some jobs you find end up being just as much an experience as the trip you are saving up for.
A dude ranch is the same thing as a guest ranch. It’s working cattle ranch that allows guests to vacation there. Guests can help the ranch out and, without risking life and limb as was the case in the ranches of the old west, get a taste of what it is like to push cattle through the wilderness, rope a calf and run a business.
My bed on the ranch was the attic of the old employee housing unit built in 1895. It was early spring and the snow had yet to quit falling. The horses were as eager to escape for a ride as they were for the crisp air to move north. I borrowed some boots and gloves and got to work helping mend fences and dig ditches. I was quickly reminded that I was better at the “Internets thing” than I was at even being near a horse.
My friend called for help. I showed up. It’s the tradeoff I will always live by. It’s part of the character I inherited from my parents and that I always try to instill in people. I was able to do a few days of freelance work for an ad agency and spend the rest of my summer on the ranch helping out. If your life is led by money, it is the monetary alone that you will follow and that will return; if your life is led by volunteerism and charity, it will give back with abundance in shapes and colors and textures that warm all sides of the heart. My boots were dirty from some morning chores and my keyboard was clicking away doing what I knew how to do best. Afternoon breaks were spent taking a horse for a few hours to explore the vast Colorado backcountry. No guidebook could give me this satisfaction. No amount of planning can let you know what your soul needs.
My first cattle drive was a proper adventure. Our Texas Longhorns, wandering somewhere out on the ranch, needed to be brought into the corral for branding and medical checkups. We take off after an early breakfast and ride almost every trail there is on the ranch to find them. No fences out here, so if they had up and decided to make a run for Kansas you would find yourself riding for hours before you picked up a trace. Fortunately, it was just an hour into the ride before we spotted a few calves, and, pretty soon we happened upon the whole herd. We formed a flying V behind them and with an enthusiastic “heeeewaaawwww,” started the movement back to the ranch. All was going as planned. We were moving cattle. Across the meadow. Up the ridge. Through the aspen grove. The team worked efficiently and the cows kept their irrational bolting to a minimum. All we had to do was get them through the final gate and we had completed our job.
Well, the cows had different plans.
A momentary lapse by the left flank and the entire herd had bolted left up an embankment and right up the other side of the creek. Som
e had even turned back on the horses, scaring even the most seasoned of riders. The yells from cowboys became frantic and frenzied. The ranch staff flanked to the right and a few of us braved heading off the cows up the hill to the left.
I channeled my inner Billy Crystal and got to the top of the ridge before the cows did. The group was close behind in chase and together we finally stopped the horned beasts. We didn’t turn them around, we just stopped them. We were in a stare down — novice cowboys and cattle eyeing each other with the energy of “what do you want, punk?”
We needed to charge them to get them turned back to the ranch. The combined riding days experience of everyone in our group would barely be enough to get us into a saloon. We were scared. They were cows. “On three we charge!” was the command. “One, Two. Moooooooove, you damn cows!” was the call. And, move them we did. Down the ridge, through the gate, and into the corral. Nobody got bucked off! It was a jubilant moment. Everyone felt like they passed the “city slicker that thinks they can help” mark by actually succeeding on our own. Helping out. Giving back.
A hunter has his binoculars out looking for elk on the ridge leading to the ranch’s property. This hunter is most likely a poacher, as all the land is private and any information he learns by what he sees can only be used by breaking the law for a kill. The road leading to the ranch is dusty and unfortunately filled with these types of out of state license plates, pretending to be ethical until their actions are questioned. “Oh, yeah, we just saw this place on a map and wanted to see what the country looks like.” A bullshit statement, but at least they are making the effort to look like they are not poaching.
In a deep southern drawl the cowboy driving the truck I’m in says “Well, just want to let you know, in these parts, the elk shoot back.” The cowboy spits a reek of tobacco juice from his lip out the window after making the eye to eye threat to an armed party. “Y’all have a good day now.” We drive off.