in a canoe

It is an odd yet thrilling feeling to be rocking back and forth in a skinny, roughly hacked wooden canoe upon a swift, opaque river, knowing that beneath you lurk prehistoric monsters with jaws full of teeth... And the water's edge is so close to the rim of the little boat. Looking over to the other shore, the specter of mountains in the distance— we are on the Indian border, and yet, there they are: the Himalaya.  

They are that big.

return to pokhara

We arrived in Pokhara under a threatening sky— sticky, stiff-legged, and hoping the rain would wait until we were safe inside a guest house. It's amazing how much can change in two years; the sleepy little touristy town I remember has spread out, with shops upon shops and restaurants offering everything from Italian food to Mexican. More foreigners than I remember glided around in baggy striped pants, prayer beads, and flip-flops, between zipping motorbikes and the occasional cow. Construction was going on about every ten steps or so, with mounds of earth piled high beside buzzing saws and bricklayers. Pokhara was touristy two years ago, but my initial reaction upon returning, was that it had lost some charm. But there was the lake, the hills and that sky— and somewhere— somewhere in all that boiling grey, white peaks stood.

the long-awaited colours

The first sight of them peeking above the clouds never ceases to thrill me. As I peer out the window of my home for the summer, my dehydrated eyes are soothed by the sight of long-awaited pinks and greens— the bougainvillea falling to the grass— and then there's the red and gold and pink and blue roof of the Shechen Monastery.

I'm half asleep, but so very happy.
I'm home.

until we meet again

the return

I barely made my flight to Kathmandu. The flight out of Istanbul was so delayed that when I arrived in Qatar, I was left with twenty minutes to get to my connecting flight. Minutes evaporated in the sweaty heat as I boarded the inter-terminal bus and navigated my way through the crowd of bloodshot eyed passengers in the security check cue. The second I got my bags back from the x-ray machine, I ran. I ran like I haven’t ran in ages‑ thankfully it was a small terminal, and I managed to make it to my gate, red-faced and breathless, the last person admitted as the gate closed.

Four and a half hours were spent in a variety of contortions as I tried unsuccessfully to get some sleep. I was awakened by pink sunlight and pale clouds. As we moved closer to Kathmandu, I began to see somewhere in the distance, something sharp and dark, jutting out from the beneath cloud cover. Those familiar faces, those magical beings, the Himalaya.

My heart ached with a certain joy and longing as a bright tapestry of memories unfolded before me.
What will this adventure bring? Where will I go? What will I see? Who will I meet?
What will I discover?



We landed with a sway, and I with a smile.

forgetting the search

On the very last morning, as I waited for my ride to the airport, there, from the rooftop of Ngudrup Guesthouse, I finally saw the mountains around Kathmandu. I can't help but feel it was somehow meant to be; that I was supposed to forget the search in order to see what I had been looking for. It felt mythological, standing there on the rooftop, staring at those white peaks in the pale distance that had been right behind me all along.



Until we meet again.

pokhara to kathmandu, drawn

I found this woman on the bus to Dumre so beautiful with her fiery, flowery sari and matching bangles. Engrossed in her telephone conversation, she was completely unaware I was drawing her.



The mosquitoes were driving me batty, so I only managed to sketch this much of a house in Bandipur. I've taken to using coffee as my brush water, and I quite like the earthiness of the colours.

Below is a portrait of our trusty, bumpy microbus to Kathmandu. I was squeezed between a tiny woman in pink and the guy who collects the fares and yells, "KATMANDOOKATMANDOOOO!" out the window. He kept trying to stealthily take pictures of me next to him with his phone, and every time I caught him, he would laugh and say something in Nepali that would crack up the driver. I have no idea what on earth they were saying, but the whole thing had me laughing for a good bit of road. Their senses of humour and the incredible scenery made the four sticky hours pass with ease. I sketched our micro at a rest stop, which gathered the small group of our passengers. We went through my sketchbook page by page before hopping back onto the bus.



Once in Kathmandu, I noticed my hiking wound was developing an infection. So I drew it.
I now have some very nice, curved scars as souvenirs.

a land-locked ocean

Feeling restored and eager for a hike, Melissa and I climbed to the top of the very steep hill at the entrance of Bandipur to Thani Mai Temple. I could attempt to describe the hike, but words fall so short of the beauty and magnificence that surrounded our tiny beings. I will tell you that the wind that blows in the valley sounds exactly like the ocean.

dreams realised

hello, himalaya.

My cough still rattling around in my lungs, I took the short 500 rupee cab ride up the enormous hill to Sarangkot for what was promised to be a spectacular view of the Annapurna range. I was not disappointed. I sat breathless, wordless, pulled out my sketchbook and stared a while before setting my pen to the paper.



Suddenly I was surrounded by a bus load of excited Greek tourists who happily snapped the scene away with all sorts of cameras.

"Where are you from?"
"I'm an American living in Istanbul."
"Wow! Are you here with friends?"
"No I came to Nepal alone."
"What? You came here alone? You weren't afraid?"
"No," I laughed. "I generally travel alone."
"Wow... Hey Maria!" (I forgot her real name) "Come look at this girl!
She's American and she came here alone! She's not afraid!
And how are you getting down from here? By taxi?"
"No I plan on hiking down the hill."
"By yourself?"
"Yes, I've been told the trail has a lot of hikers on it."

The women kindly wished me luck and hopped onto their bus in a flurry of Greek. I began to search for the trail down to the lake— which was not easy to find— and once I had climbed down a considerably steep section, I suddenly became aware that I was completely and utterly alone in the woods. I had been repeatedly told by various people that the trail was safe with a continuous flow of hikers, but here I was, on a beautiful but slippery steep path that often disappeared under a mountain stream. If I fell, no one would find me. If I was mugged, no one could help me. This was potentially one of the dumbest decisions I had made, but I had been told I'd be fine. I decided that it would be easier and quicker to keep heading downhill than to climb back up to Sarangkot.

I slipped on a wet rock. My right leg was gashed open in two places and blood was running down into my boot. I washed my leg as best as I could with my water bottle and applied pressure with a few napkins. The wounds were so clogged with dirt that the bleeding soon stopped. Thankfully I didn't slip off the side of the hill or twist my ankle! I picked myself up, took in the beauty around me, and continued down my path.

It took me about two hours to get back to Peace Eye, where I showed off my stupidity to Olan, who shook his head with a smile. I vowed never to hike alone, even if an entire village tells me it's ok.

blue sky, green lake

I had arrived in Pokhara a sticky, sweaty mess coated in road grime. The sun was setting when Melissa and I parted ways. Melissa was off to the hills for a yoga retreat, while I planned on chilling out by Phewa Lake and doing a little hiking. Though I was exhausted and had developed a rattling cough from the previous weeks' pollution, I couldn't have been happier. As I lugged my bags in the direction of the lake, I felt like I was in the middle of some incredible dream. Green trees, green lake, green hills. Colourful saris, men in tans, black shiny water buffalo. I had finally seen the Himalaya on the bus ride in, and hoped they'd grace me with their presence in the morning. After asking for directions at a local bookstore and a couple of guys on the road, I eventually found my way to Peace Eye Guest House, highly recommended by Lonely Planet and well within my skimpy budget.  

The sun had left by the time I arrived at Peace Eye, and not having a reservation, I was nervous that the little guest house would be full— which as it turned out, it was. The owner, a kind-faced man named Chiran, must have felt sorry for the dirty, tired wire of a girl in front of him, and showed me to the last available room. It didn't have a bathroom and was very basic, but it was nice and clean— absolute heaven. I set down my bags and made a beeline for the shared shower room to feel human again.

Eventually I wandered down to the café, which was a small, really cool outdoor space with if I remember correctly, a thatched roof. I plopped myself down at one of the tables with my sketchbook and flash light (the power had gone out), ordered a beer and some fried rice. A couple of the other guests were hanging out, reading by candle light. We nodded to each other and exchanged those knowing, traveller smiles. My Kathmandu cough was getting pretty bad— I couldn't go five minutes without feeling like I had pulled a muscle in my abdomen. Chiran thoughtfully brought me some lemon honey ginger tea to soothe it, along with a candle to draw by. I felt like the luckiest girl— I was surrounded by warm souls, I had my sketchbook and paints, a cup of hot tea, and I could feel the mountains of my childhood dreams behind me.

The morning light brought with it excitement— if there was light, there was sun, which meant there was a good possibility the mountains were visible in the blue sky. I climbed to the roof terrace and was astounded— Annapurna and Machhapuchhare, right there. One of the guests I had met the night before was standing in wonder, camera in hand. He had just completed the Annapurna circuit, and told me that this was the first time he had been able to see the mountains in a near-month spent in Nepal, despite trekking in their foothills. We decided to climb to the roof of the taller, next door building for a better look.



After a much needed cup of coffee and a chat with my new friend Olan, I headed out to walk as far as I felt like walking around the 4.43 km² lake. The sun was burning hot, and saturated all the colours around me— everything was so vivid, bursting with life. I sang a little song in my head as I hiked along in the summer heat.



On the way back home I stopped for a light lunch at a Newari restaurant, where I devoured a delicious lentil patty topped with a fried egg called a wo. The wo was served with a tangy sauce that I suspect has mustard oil in it— I've been googling for recipes and hope to find one soon!



As I sat on the restaurant deck with a soothing post-wo tea, I pulled out my sketchbook and started to draw, immersed in a great wave of contentment.

the road to pokhara

As our month in Nepal was coming to an end and the students at Shree Mangal Dvip were busy with exams, Melissa and I decided it was the perfect time to head north-west up the Prithvi Highway to the lakeside town of Pokhara. We were fortunate to discover that one of our student's fathers ran a trekking company, Swiss Nepal Family Trekking & Expedition, and so we were able to get bus tickets on a comfortable and safe bus for only 400 rupees. I highly recommend checking Swiss Nepal Family out if you want to do some exploring in Nepal.

The bus was meant to leave at 7:00 am, but as we had learned, there's time, and there's Nepali time. I'm not sure when we left, I decided to ignore all time-telling devices for this adventure. The journey from Kathmandu to Pokhara is allegedly eight hours, but I believe it may have actually been more like eleven— we were met with several landslides that backed traffic up for miles. Thankfully, we were in a comfortable bus!



I had my window fully open the whole way to feel the rain, smell the trees and hear the splashing wheels. I was exhilirated, I felt like a child; full of wonder and excitement. I was heading toward the Annapurna range, and if the universe decided to smile upon me, I would finally be able to see what I had dreamed of seeing since I was seven years old. All those afternoons I spent pretending I was climbing the Himalaya on my bunk bed, pitching tents with my sheets, feeding my panda porridge out of a pot I stole from the kitchen. I dreamt of yaks, butter tea, snow-capped peaks, Hillary and Norgay. All I wanted was a glimpse.

Suddenly, fifty miles outside of Pokhara, the sky parted, and every breath in my body was taken from me.