With a population of just 25 million people, Nepal is more laid back and less intense than India, mathematically speaking. Yet Nepal is going through great difficulty.
A year ago, the entire royal family was brutally slaughtered inside their palace. Nine members of the beloved monarchy, including the king and queen, were killed by their own son who then turned the gun on himself.
Conspiracy theories soon emerged suggesting that the king’s brother and nephew had helped orchestrate the massacre to take control of the throne. It was a massive shock that the entire nation hasn’t recovered from, making it an especially interesting time to find myself in Nepal.
To make matters worse, terrorist attacks by Maoist rebels have recently intensified, and there were several bombings and hundreds killed during my time in Nepal. Curfews have been imposed in some areas, and I was advised not to wander around after dark or I might be shot upon sight. Fair enough.
My trip began in Katmandu, a rustic and bustling town filled with travelers from all over the world. It was fun for me to meet new people, including a group of documentary filmmakers and world-famous kayakers who showed me some cool restaurants and even a jazz club! I spent a full week in the capital, planning my upcoming trek, and observing the Yom Kippur holiday with a bunch of Israelis at the local Chabad house.
Just what is trekking? Good question. The dictionary defines it as "a long journey or trip, usually by foot, often involving difficulty or hardship." Yep! That pretty much sums it up! And while I had no prior trekking experience, nor had I trained myself for the occasion, I somehow managed to traverse across the Himalayas.
The entire Annapurna circuit takes 14-21 days to complete, but I opted to fly in & out of base camp in Jomson, which easily shaved off a week. Since I was solo without any idea what I was doing, I hired a guide and sherpa to show me the way, and we walked all day, every day, across the rugged terrain.
I hiked up hills, down hills, across rivers, over bridges, and through villages until we arrived at the lodge where we’d spend the night. Often, I’d collapse immediately for a nap, then reemerge at dinner time to eat everything I could get my hands on. Evenings were fun, with all of us trekkers playing cards game and exchanging tips for the road ahead, as we bandaged our tired, blistered feet. I was fortunate to meet up with a couple named Eyal & Anat at one of the lodges, and we ended up trekking together for several days. I enjoyed their company, and was so happy to have met them!
We returned to base camp after our trek to find a heavy military presence in Jomson. Throngs of people lined the cobblestone streets and I felt a weird energy. Members of the new royal family had arrived. They were strolling through the small mountain village, and people seemed pissed. A general vibration of mistrust hung in the air among the Nepalese that day, and I could sense it distinctly. A handful of travelers posed for photos with the new prince, who has been widely accused of orchestrating the royal massacre. None of the villagers were smiling, nor did they appear pleased by the visit. It was a surreal experience to have witnessed. Truly.
My friends that I trekked with continued on their way by foot, and I was all set to fly out by small plane back to the capital, but some bad weather hit, covering the Himalayas in a thick blanket of white snow which grounded all flights. Many of us were stuck in the mountains while waiting for the conditions to clear. Finally, on the fourth day, an alarm was sounded, and one very happy Lauren was whisked out of the mountains and returned to Katmandu!
Settled in and rested after my trek, I went to a Hindu temple one day to see the sights but ended up taking in much more than I’d bargained for. After strolling the grounds a bit and taking a few photos, I made a mistake, went the wrong way, and walked directly into the crematorium! Before realizing what had happened, I turned my head to find that I was standing beside a burning corpse with its melting foot in my face!
I ran out of the building to get some fresh air and gain my composure. It was then that I looked down and saw a dead body wrapped in a shiny orange tarp a few feet below me, at the edge of the Ganges River. I remember feeling thankful that the body was covered up after what I had just seen, but no sooner than I had comforted myself, somebody walked over and removed the tarp.
Before my eyes laid a fresh, but very dead man. He appeared to be about 40, with a neatly trimmed beard and a kind-looking face. Fastened across his forehead was a yellow piece of paper with writing, which I later learned contained the address of the deceased, in case he were to magically wake up and needed to be returned.
His wife was ushered in, doubled over at the stomach, wailing for her husband. A procession of spices and flowers were sprinkled onto the body, then white rice was shoveled into his mouth to provide nourishment for the journey ahead as they moved him onto a pyre of wood.
Next, his young son, about 10 years old approached, and his task would be the hardest of all, as it was his son who must set his father’s body on fire. The boy circled the corpse a number of times in ceremony, and as the required rotations neared its end, the boy's legs began to give out from under him like rubberbands. A man in a white shirt appeared behind the boy to physically push him the remainder of the way.
Clutching the flame and with his eyes closed tight, the boy lit his father’s head on fire. Not his feet, not the wood beneath him- but his face! I’ve never seen such horror and pain before, and my heart hurt so much for him.
I stayed a few moments longer and respectfully watched as the man’s body became engulfed in flames, quickly reducing to ash. The smell of burning flesh is difficult to experience and hard to forget, reminding me how temporary we human beings are. And so the circle of life thrusts forth.
I cried in the taxi on the way back. I cried for that boy and everything I had just seen. I cried for my own father– whom I watched die just a few months ago, and I’d shoveled the first mound of dirt onto his coffin which landed in a thud that hurt my heart. I cried for the certainty that I, too, will die, and I cried while questioning the meaning of all if it. Life. Death. Heaven. Hell. Do we all end up in the same place? Somewhere? Nowhere? Everywhere? I don’t know what to believe anymore. Culturally, we express ourselves so differently, but in the end, I'll willing to bet that we’re all the same. Death seems to underline these important principles for me. So should life.