Houston, do you copy?

I’m back people, I’m back. First and foremost the trek to the foot of Mt. Everest was a complete success. Seven slow methodical days up followed by fifteen blitzkrieg hours down.

Its currently 4:15pm on Sunday March 28^th here in Kathmandu and one of the two following scenarios is going to play out in the next six hours:

Scenario A: The Patron Saint of Travelers hooks me up and sees to it that as Standby Passenger #1 I successfully secure a seat on China Eastern Airways Flight #758 to Shanghai leaving at 11:45pm tonight. If that happens I’ll be mid-flight over China when I turn 31. Free international in-flight alcohol will be abused. Oh sweet holy Lord how I hope I bag that seat.

Scenario B: I don’t secure that seat and am forced to fly out on my originally scheduled April 2^nd flight to Shanghai. Under this scenario I will spend the next five nights languishing in Kathmandu and repacking lbs lost on the Everest Highway in the form of Everest can beer, buffalo momos, and cheap pastries. Oh sweet holy Lord how I hope I bag that seat.

Under either outcome I intend to button down and craft a detailed recap of what was an amazing and inspiring nine days on the Everest trek. It may take some time but one of my best is surely on deck…

But in the meantime, to the newlyweds…

His Last Great Adventure

I’m writing from the second story of the U.S. Defense Attaché to Nepal’s home here in Kathmandu, my plane takes off for one of the world’s most dangerous airports in eight hours, I haven’t written a G-damn thing in almost two weeks, it’s 10:00pm, I’m tired, and the bag I just finished packing for my attempt on Everest Base Camp weighs more than I do. I have a few things on my plate…

It is a crying shame it has to go down like this because if I had the time (and a functioning computer) over the last four days I would have produced a pretty fine recap of my last 10 days. But with the clock ticking and cans of Coke leading this soon-to-be-late-night-typing-charge, I’m going to do my best to recap Annapurna and Kathmandu and tee up Everest before my eyes close. Here goes nothing…

— — — — —

A B C…

It’s easy as, 1 2 3
As simple as, do re mi
A B C, 1 2 3
Baby, you and me girl

Despite what MJ would have you believe the trek to Annapura Base Camp was not easy. But at the same time it was not hard. I spent six days in some of the prettiest country in Nepal and I’m going to try and sum it up in an hour. Talk about getting short-changed.

Day 1: Up at 6am to land a taxi to the bus station for the 6:30am bus that took Clay, Reggie, and I to the start of trail. The view from my window seat as we climbed the mountains was both a knockout and wake up.

I couldn’t have found two better companions to burn hours on the trail with than Clay and Reggie. Fate must have had us in mind as we met waiting in line for our permit tickets. We quickly hit it off and joined forces. Clay (35, New Zealand) and Reggie (26, Nebraska…what?) run completely counter to all things main stream. They live and work for six months of the year in Switzerland leading rafting tours and travel the globe the other six living out every travel whim they can imagine. Not for everyone but it suits them find. Not an hour on the trail and Clay was getting into his greatest hits collection with tails of hitching across Europe and visiting arms markets in Pakistan. The man has tattooed the globe. He’s also fond of using the “F” word. We connected immediately.

All of these kids claim to have voted for Obama. And I have the video to prove it.

The first day was an 8 hour grind. When we blew past the recommended stopping point for the night at 2pm I knew we were going to write our own playbook. And we did. The whole tea house trekking arrangement is money and then some. Every 2-3 hours you come across tiny villages or cluster of shacks where for 100 rupee a night you get a bed and unlimited blankets. 100 rupees is…wait for it…$1.30usd. For each of the five nights I spent on the ABC trail I paid $1.30usd for lodging. Tough to wrap your head around. The rub however is the premium placed on food and just about everything else. The markup for a plate of rice, noodles, etc escalates dramatically as you ascend the mountain. Rightfully so as everything is carried in on a sherpa’s back.

Day 2: I don’t know what to say. We walked. And walked. And walked. And climbed. We went up giant steps and down. And then up again…

…and then we arrived at Dovan. The elevation escapes me but lets say 9,000ft. The sun sinks into the mountains and air gets cold. In a hurry. I slept in full thermals…in my sleeping bag…under two blankets. And just to hammer home the point…I cuddled my video camera inside my bag from fear of a cold malfunction.

It was the second evening and we hadn’t even reached the snow line yet we all understood what the pregnancy meant: long days of trekking, saying goodbye to hot water, compromised hygiene, and increasing hardship. Good times. In hindsight the second day was the backbone of the trek, the hardest overall.

Day 3: We got after it on Day 3. Fed (or as fed as someone can be by oat porridge) and out the door by 6:30am. Our goal was to reach MBC (M????? Base Camp), a mere two hour hike from ABC. The day witnessed our first glacier, our first avalance, and our first white out. The scenery was spectacular.

We reached MBC just as the weather closed in. At 12,000ft in the Annapurna Himalayas you wear everything you’ve got even while you’re inside. That evening I had the coldest night sleep I can remember since sleeping in a tent in Germantown, MD sans sleeping bag. The three of us were the only three trekkers at our particular lodge. Just us and six Nepalese. Between the group four of us could communicate in English (and yes I counted myself). Talk about a wild evening.  Clay, Reggie, and I layered in every article of clothing and wrapped in our bags huddled around a dinner table as snow and hail pounded the tin roof of the dining hall. We felt pretty hard. When the all-you-can-eat rice and lentil soup dinner is finished and it’s only 7pm there is nothing left to do but retreat to your icehouse and knock off.

The cold. I don’t know how to describe it. You’re wearing everything you’ve got. Two pairs of socks, thermal pants, motorbike riding pants, long sleeve thermal top, cotton shirt, knockoff fleece jacket, outer shell. You’re wrapped in your sleeping bag and covered by a mountain of blankets. Mountain blankets. If I had the time and energy I could have a field day with mountain blankets. These things are thick as a mother and could stop lead, yet the color schemes and designs are straight out of Rainbow Bright. I intentionally stopped drinking water at 5pm so I wouldn’t have to pee in the middle of the night. But perhaps the worst part was having no clock, no TV, no anything to tell what time it was. You wake up in the middle of the night and you don’t know if its 11pm or 4am. You just toss and turn and try to steal Zzzzs until it gets bright outside the window…

Day 4: My internal clock got me up at 6:30ish…just in time to capture an indescribable sunrise on Annapurna South. Not a sound in the air. No wind, no animals, no humans, no Indians honking. Nothing. Clear skies and snow-capped peaks in every direction. One of Mother Nature’s great amphitheater. They were a beautiful and humbling few minutes alone that dawn.  Beauty like I’ve seldom experienced.

The reason we elected to spend the night at MBC was to ensure clear morning skies for our push to Annapura Base Camp. And blue skies we had. The two hour walk up to ABC was effing awesome. For three full days you’ve been wandering through various dry ecosystems until finally you arrive in a winter wonderland. I had dodged the snow bullet for the ’09-’10 winter until that morning.

Then finally you arrive into base camp. 4,130 meters…or 13,549 feet. You feel like you’re somewhere…like you’ve accomplished something great…then you cock your head up to the peak of Annapura (the 10th highest summit on the globe) and you realize you ain’t done jack&*$# compared to the real men that summit those 8000m monsters.

We arrived at base camp around 10am and had the entire day to kick it. Wander the ice field, drink tea, swap stories, watch and marvel as the sherpas rip smokes, and sadly watch as the inevitably cloud cover blows in at 1pm. It was another cold night but nothing like MBC. We were half way home…

Day 5: Round trip the Annapura Base Camp trail is roughly 80km. We walked nearly 25 of them on Day 5. It was an all-out, go-for-gold, guns-o-blazing 7am to 4pm marathon day. None of us had showered since the second night, our clothes were starting to smell, and all of us were ready for some western conveniences. We were basically ready to get home. Q: What kind of bathroom facilities does one find while trekking in the Himalayas? A: Squat toilet in wooden sheds. Now I had been in Asia for over six months and had used a million such toilets for, um…some light faxing or routine conference calls. But it wasn’t until the hills of Nepal that I found  myself conducting any real business in the infamous squat toilet. After five days of this you want the road show business trip to end.

So we all found a 6th gear and went from 13,549 down to 6,000 in nine hours. I gathered from the facial expressions of those we told that not many people pull that move off. Needless to say we got to Chhomrong the fifth night and felt like strung out rock stars. We’d pushed our bodies to the limits but were still alive to smile. It was an easy night’s sleep.

Day 6: After a late start and a 2 hour decent Clay’s knees forced Reggie and he to the DL and another night on the trail. I wished them luck and burned the remaining six hours at a walking clip that the great Jess Davis himself would have been proud of. I got to the trail head, ate a few samosas, found a bus, and made my way back to Pokhara.

The ultimate takeaway from ABC was (a) that my body and legs could handle the conditions, (b) my mind could deal with the hardship and grind, and (c) I needed better gear for Everest. With that wisdom gained…ABC: check.

Now serving…Everest Base Camp…

— — — — —

K-k-k-k-k-Kathmandu…

Really, really going to,
If I ever get out of here,
If I ever get out of here,
If I ever get out of here,
I’m going to Kathmandu.

Even though it’s my least favorite song of his collection I couldn’t miss the opportunity to honor the great Robert Seger. Kathmandu…

Today was my fourth day in Kathmandu and as much as you are probably more interested in the city and its people than what I did in Kathmandu for four day…you’re going to get the latter. For all the places I’ve had to stop, regroup, plan, organize, and map out the future for this wild ride Kathmandu will likely go down as my crowning achievement. At no point during my last six months have I pulled off with as much success and results the same amount of research, planning, and organization as I have in my last four days. To me Kathmandu will always be a great war room in which the balance of my time in Asia was strategically mapped.

The backpacker ghetto of Thamel is to Kathmandu as Khao San Road is to Bangkok. Wedged in the heart of the city Thamel is a square kilometer overflowing with trekking shops, clothing shops, travel consultants, supermarkets, bookstores, and every conceivable service one would need to plan an assault on northern and central Asia. And given the fact there are countless more merchants and vendors than the market can support, those who know how to negotiate and work the oversupply system have a field day.

Over the last four days I…

• Ate my first cheeseburger in Asia. Then ate another.
• Consumed a 1,026pp used copied of Lonely Planet’s China guide and outlined my route through it.
• Negotiated, secured, and packed all necessary permits, equipment, and transportation for a 14 day roundtrip expedition to Everest Base Camp. And paid not a penny more than was necessary.
• Arranged free lodging for the duration of my stay in Chinese’s largest metropolis.
• Confirmed the overland border crossing status for two countries that end in ‘Stan (one of which I can’t pronounce), and confirmed the various Chinese cities where those visas can be acquired.
• Had additional pages inserted into my passport by the U.S. embassy to ensure sufficient pages to accommodate my remaining itinerary.
• Located the lone Toshiba notebook service dealer in Kathmandu and arranged for them to replace a fried $80 power cable at no cost. Hence why I haven’t written a word till now.
• (And most important) printed and laminated one 8.5 x 10 color copy picture of my grandfather for the arduous journey ahead.

I don’t know if any of that made sense or if anyone really cares but pounding the pavement in exotic foreign cities to handle the planning and logistics for successful off-the-wall border crossings and hard-to-get visas all at the best discount while under the clock is apparently something I excel at.

Despite the countless momo’s I ate or the video I shot or the Everest can beers I crushed, I’ll always think fondly of and smile  at polluted and loud Kathmandu when I reflect back on the insignificant deals I cut, the focus I enjoyed, the speed I walked, and the backbone I laid for what will be the final act of this Asian walkabout.

— — — — —

His Last Great Adventure

I don’t know what to write here. I really don’t. I could take this in so many directions but the hour is getting late and my 6:30am flight is coming on quickly…

When our flight takes off from Kathmandu for Lukla tomorrow Clay, Reggie, and I will begin something special. I’m confident it’ll be one of those magical life experiences that forges life long friendships and makes memories that wouldn’t be traded for gold. Tomorrow, well in five hours, we’ll begin walking towards the roof of the world. It’s been a dream of mine to lay eyes on Everest ever since I was a little kid, and I know exactly the point on the trail during our second day when I’ll take my first glimpse of it. I frankly get goose bumps thinking about it.

I wish I had the energy to share the route, or the elevation change, or the preparation, what I’m bringing, or all the emotions surrounding this undertaking. I wish I had the energy to venerate my old man for reaching the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro with me during an epic father-son climb two years ago. I wish I had the energy to write about proud I am to be honoring his father in this way. But I don’t.

So I’m going to conclude with this instead: I’m leaving tomorrow for fourteen days to climb to the base of the world’s highest peak and I’m bringing my grandfather along with me. If I reach it I plan to do two things: First, I’ll prop his picture up and secure it was sturdy rocks so he can enjoy a heavenly view of the great mountain long after I’m leave. Second, I’ll open the two mini-bottles of Smirnoff vodka I’ve packed and pour two cocktails.

Smirnoff on the rocks, that was Thomas Francis O’Neil Senior’s drink. Ice will not be in short supply, nor will scenery. If all goes as planned I’ll raise a toast to the company of two Everests and enjoy one final drink with my grandfather…on my 31^st birthday.

An Everest of a Man

Thomas Francis O’Neil Sr. passed away peacefully this past Tuesday morning at the remarkable age of 97. A remarkable feat for a remarkable man.

My time in Nepal, like its people and culture, was to be quiet, slow, and peaceful. With the magical yet tiring rollercoaster of India successfully under my belt I wanted nothing more out of Nepal than to rest, regroup, and perhaps undertake some light trekking. It had been four full days since I’d been in front of a computer when I ducked into a rickety internet shop in the Himalayan foothill town of Tansen last Thursday. I had to do no more than read the email subject line (“Grandpa”) to know in my heart my grandfather had died. Reading my father’s email through tears I learned that his father (the original TFO) had died quietly in his sleep at 5am the morning of Tuesday March 2^nd. By some strange twist of fate I’ll always know where and what I was doing at that moment. Nepal is 13.5 hours ahead of California so when I pulled into Lumbini a little after 6:30pm to conclude a great day’s journey my grandfather was, at that same time, concluding his greatest journey of all.

For the hours that followed I walked the narrow streets of Tansen in a daze, but quickly the tears turned to feelings of warmth and celebration. As my grandfather’s son, two daughters, and eight grandchildren have reiterated on countless occasions, when the day finally comes it will not be a day of sadness and grief but a day of celebration. Celebration of a great life lived…all 97 years worth.

My grandfather embodied the spirit of travel and adventure. In the early 1930s he and three companions set off on a legendary cross country road trip from Buffalo, NY to California. They slept by the side of the road next to their vehicle: a Model T Ford. It would become the stuff of O’Neil family legend. In his later years he traveled the globe from Europe to Hawaii to the Panama Canal and did it in style on everything from the QE2 to the Concorde. His appetite and zest to see the world continued till the very end.

In November of last year my grandfather lost his third wife. Never divorced, his giant heart simply outlasted theirs. Three months later that heart finally crossed the marathon finish line and gave out. So with great joy and happiness the O’Neil, Hoch, and Flink families will gather on Hilton Head Island in two weeks time to celebrate the life of a great man.

My father was correct when he said my grandfather would have insisted I continue on my journey rather than return home for his service. I will not be coming home to celebrate his life with my family so instead I’m going to celebrate his life here, in Nepal, in the most meaningful way I can imagine.

…

When I get an idea in my head I feel strongly and passionate about and dedicate myself fully to its outcome I usually achieve the end result I’m searching for. It took me till dinner time that evening in Tansen to commit my mind fully to honoring my grandfather by placing a picture of him at the base of Mt. Everest. It was as simple as that, and with that my original plan for Nepal was scrapped.

I had previously done enough research on trekking to Everest Base Camp (EBC) to completely abandon the idea. The trek to EBC is one-way-in and one-way-out, the time commitment is substantial at 12-15 days, and the aesthetic diversity of the trek sounds inferior when compared to others in Nepal. On those facts alone I wrote off EBC before even stepping foot into Nepal. A switch was thrown that night in Tansen however and I immediately shifted gears and refocused. I had much work ahead and little time…

The 125km road from Tansen to Pokhara is reputed to be one of the two epic drives in Nepal. I didn’t know it at the time but after pulling away from Tansen into a breathtaking morning and telling my grandfather I was riding the day for him, I began what would be my final day on the bike. The six hours to follow were incredible. Hundreds upon hundreds of twists and turns led me north and deeper into the mighty Himalayas. I arrived into Pokhara a little after noon, found a room with a view, and went to work. Step 1, the Tuna…

My first stop in town was the Enfield shop (Hearts & Tears) which had provided guidance on my border-crossing questions. I learned they facilitate the sale of Enfields on behalf of sellers for a modest commission. After speaking with the owner at length of the challenges of selling a bike in Kathmandu, and after having his story corroborated by various other traveling Enfield riders, I rightfully recognized the opportunity before me.

So yesterday afternoon I loaded up on cleaning supplies and scrubbed that dirty bastard until the shine practically came off. Cleaning my bike of the dirt, grease, and grime amassed over the last 3,500km in my guest house’s driveway was bliss. There was one mechanical issue the bike needed fixed before I could hand over the keys. The mechanics shop was to open at 8:00am this morning, so at 6:30am with the sun just starting to creep over the mountains I headed out for one final spin on the great Silver Tuna.

Back in Jaipur some thirty-four long days ago I sat on the back of my bike with my hands wrapped around the waist of an old mechanic friend of the seller. As he gunned the engine and accelerated us through the streets of Jaipur he cocked his head back and said in an accent that sounded more Mexican than Indian: Listen to that sooound. So have a listen (and excuse the standard def quality)…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmL93_tFPBE

Several hours ago I handed the fine owner of Hearts & Tears absolutely everything I own. Registration, insurance, importation documents, foot pump, spare tire tubes, wrench set, screw drivers, helmet, and keys. They have my advertised price, my reserve price, and wiring instructions for my bank account. Couldn’t have been easier. Time will tell who kick starts the engine next…

Step 2, knock off Annapurna Base Camp (ABC) trek in preparation for Everest. The Annapurna Range of the Himalayas is just north of Pokhara and hosts one of the world’s great treks: the Annapurna Circuit. A giant loop the Circuit takes between 3-4 weeks to complete. That’s a time commitment I simply can’t make. The other option is to trek the Annapurna Sanctuary Trail which leads to the heart of the range and culminates at Annapurna Base Camp. This one-way-in and one-way-out trek takes between 7-10 days and tops out at an elevation of 13,549ft at ABC. Although this elevation is nearly a mile lower than what I’ll be attempting at Everest Base Camp, ABC couldn’t be a better and more convenient introduction to Himalayan trekking.

The logistics of trekking in Nepal are pleasantly straight forward. Positioned at various logical stopping points along the trail of every major trek in Nepal (i.e. ABC & EBC) are lodging facilities, meaning no tent and no camping gear is required. You can walk all day and enjoy a coke, apple pie, and a bed every evening. Teahouse trekking, as it is affectionately known. With lodging taken care of all I needed to do was secure the necessary gear. Shoes? Check. Socks? Check. Pants? Check. Thermals? Check. Sleeping bag? Check. All I was lacking was a weather proof coat, gloves, and sunblock. The umpteen trekking shops in town were more than happy to lend a hand.

So here I am at 6:15pm Himalayan local time on Sunday March 7^th. Tonight I’ll pack, stow my excess gear at this guest house, and hope for a good night’s sleep. But first I’ll continue carbo-loading at dinner with my two trekking partners, Clay from New Zealand and Reggie from Nebraska. Tomorrow the three of us head off like A. Supertramp…into the wild. I have a pretty good idea of what I might encounter along the way. I don’t, however, have the slightest clue how the physical toll will play on my unprepared body. Time will tell. Needless to say I’ll be taking a walkabout from Walkabout for the next week and change. If you get bored I’ll be pinging my nightly location for my Old Man…

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0BYIXuqoZzMudqFzK2iJv4nS6av2qrLTS

Destination: ABC

To honor and celebrate my grandfather the way I intend will require many steps, tens of thousands in fact. No single step less important or less essential to success than the previous or the next. Tomorrow morning I’ll take that first step towards reaching Everest and celebrating a true Everest of a man.

Road to Nepal

I very well could have titled this Holy #@!&ing &%(! (Part II) or To: Steve O’Neil From: India Memo: We’re not done with you yet, but my final day in India was easily one of my longest and most tiring. It’s a strange thing sitting down to recap events over here. While toiling away on the bike for hours I think up endless quotes and snippets to weave into these stories. On most days when the snippets are really flowing I’ll pull over and jot them down over a chai. Yesterday was the Niagara Falls of one liners yet not once did I pull over to put them into ink. Not once did I have time. March 2nd (Day 173), my final travel day in India lasted thirteen hours…

5:43am – My internal alarm clock beat my real alarm clock by 2 minutes. The day begins.

6:20am – After packing and kick starting the Tuna I noted my time of departure. From the dyed rubbish filled streets where the party ended just hours before, I thought to myself I might as well be riding out of the French Quarter at dawn on Ash Wednesday.

7:00ish – After getting turned around in the labyrinth that is Varanasi and receiving several conflicting sets of directions I found myself heading north on the two-lane secondary Rt. 66 and not National Highway 29 which I had intended. The morning sun rising to my right for the first time since that fateful ride from Jaisalmer to Bikaner, I began traveling in the direction I will grow most accustom during my remaining time in Asia – North.

7:30ish – After carefully selecting the location of my final morning chai stop I pulled over for what was one of the best. After downing two cups and preparing to head out the friendly boys of Steel Workers Union Local 205 demanded I take their photo. I hope it’s not the case but I doubt very much that morning coffees will ever be as entertaining again in my life as they were on the magical morning roads of India.

7:30 – 11:00ish – To describe this chunk of the morning is to backtrack to Varanasi. The Festival of Colors is a national celebration so in no way are “the shenanigans…tomfoolery… or ballyhoo” limited to select locations. Like the streets of Varanasi the road to Nepal was dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors from the previous day’s celebration. Pinks, purples, greens, blues…the day-old watercolor dye still covered everything from asphalt to clothes to skin to hair to cows to dogs to even monkeys. On my final day in India I can’t think of a more special visual to remind me of the vibrancy of this nation than the living rainbow all around me.

11:00 – 1:30ish – The secondary two-lane Rt. 66 from Varanasi was an accident waiting to happen. Crowded with cyclists, pedestrians, and speeding buses the unsealed road was miserable. I knew eventually the road would link up with my intended route – NH29…as in national highway 29. I was anxiously counting down the distance markers until I hit the merge city from which point I figured it’d be smooth sailing on the national highway. Things couldn’t have gone more differently if Bruckheimer himself was calling the shots. When I finally linked up with NH29, the road to the border, India decided to have one last laugh at my expense. To my horror the road was not a pristine blanket of asphalt on which I could cruise at 40, but rather…drum roll please…The Worst Stretch of Road in India. I know what you’re thinking. This is the final day and O’Neil is embellishing to enhance his story, but trust me when I say that for 18 painful kilometers along NH29 life was hell. Those 18km took me ninety minutes. That’s an average of 7.5mph. The pavement simply dissolved into crater size potholes. There was absolutely no escape and every vehicle, large and small, was slowed to a crawl. The shaking and jolting the Tuna endured was horrific. The mere fact my chassis is still intact is a testament to the durability of the Royal Enfield brand. If the Bullet were a lacrosse player it would no doubt be the stocky defensive mid-fielder who never runs out of steam and can take whatever is thrown at him. I should have named my bike John Rice. When the road ceased to improve after an hour of riding I started to panic. I quickly concluded that if these conditions remained unchanged all the way to the border (some 100km away) I would be spending another night in India. Salvation finally came when I hit the urban outskirts of Gorakhpur and stability (and speed) returned.

1:30ish – I had confirmed that Nepalese tourist visas were issued at the border in exchange for one passport photo and $40 dollars in cold hard US greenbacks. The most memorable ATM run in my life back in Varanasi had produced Indian rupees, but due to the festival all banks and money changers were closed so I faced the annoying task of converting rupees to dollars prior to the border. I figured there would be services to trade currency at the border but given my turtle-like speed I didn’t want to chance arriving after dark, finding shops closed, and stranding myself in a dusty border town for the night. The logical solution was the city of Gorakhpur, 90km south of the border and the last major settlement before Nepal. After riding to what I surmised to be Gorakhpur’s urban center I located the first military uniform and asked where to find a currency exchange. The entire ordeal took no more than thirty minutes before I was off with a crisp $100 dollar note in my wallet to tackle the final stretch of Indian road.

2:00 – 4:45pm – The roughly 90km from Gorakhpur to the Indian border town of Sonauli was unforgettable. The two lanes of NH29Extention shared nothing in common with its dismal counterpart to the south. The road was smooth and empty, or as I like to say at the outset of a day on heavily groomed ski slopes…the track was fast. I hadn’t braked all day since the morning chai stop and I was pretty much running on fumes and adrenaline. Adrenaline fueled by my final moments in India but perhaps more so by the nervous anticipation of the impending border crossing. It was during this final stretch that the what ifs started to flood in. Crossing the border from India into Nepal on foot with a backpack is a no brainer. Given the current political stability in Nepal the doors are wide open and visas are handed out to foreigners as nonchalant as business cards at a commercial real estate brokers convention. The catch was the Tuna (no pun intended). About a week ago I emailed the owner of a Royal Enfield rental shop in the tourist heavy town of Pokhara regarding the logistics of bringing a bike into Nepal. I wanted to know (a) if it was possible, (b) the cost, and most importantly (c) whether the bike’s registration number would be attached to my visa/passport thus creating a problem when I exited the country on a plane and not the Indian-imported, Delhi-registered Royal Enfield Machismo Bullet motorbike on which I entered the country. All concerns were assuaged when the female owner replied back with positive news on all fronts. She said I would have to pay a daily import fee ($1.60usd/day) for the duration of the bike’s stay and that the import certificate would not be attached to my passport. This apparent info from a would-be reliable source gave me the green light but my nerves were still rising as I got closer and closer. My entire day had been music free until I pulled over at the 30km marker and broke out the camera. With a crowd of a dozen looking on I said a few final words into the camera lens before announcing that one song would be taking me home the final 30km stretch. The serene xylophones of So Cool accompanied me into India and it was unthinkable that they wouldn’t accompany me out. My final forty-five minutes of riding in India were magical. I found myself surrounded by lush green fields that went off in the distance seemingly forever. Perhaps the greatest compliment to the music, the setting, and the moment was the late afternoon sun. Never before had I ridden that late in the day so suddenly I found myself in a familiar yet unfamiliar place I loved: the Sweet Spot. The Sweet Spot is that photogenic golden hour in the afternoon sun when blenders come to life and rounds of 18 to a close. For me, like many I assume, it has always been the most feel good time of day. With that the stage was set for my goodbye to India and as the road markers counted down and the inevitable got closer images from my five previous weeks started flashing through my mind. The tearful flight into Mumbai…the wild days of discovery and exploration in Mumbai’s streets…the overnight train to Jaipur…the first Bullet test drive…the drive to Pushkar…the rooftop beauty of Udaipur…the unforgettable arrival into the Blue City…the freezing morning drive into the Great Thar Desert…the outpost beauty of Jaisalmer…the 33 hour of hardship to Amritsar…the border closing ceremony…the first view of the Himalayas…the broken cable adversity…the icy mornings of McLeod Ganj…the twists & turns of Himalayan roads…the three day haul to Delhi…the awe of the Taj…the morning euphoria riding east…the night in Kanpur…the unexpected in Varanasi…and now finally the test of endurance to Nepal. Not gonna lie to you I definitely got choked up and shed a few tears but you probably could have seen that coming. And then it happened. From around a bend come into view my final stop: Sonauli.

4:45 – 5:45pm – I’m pretty sure I would have ridden right up to the border and blown through it had a plain-clothed man not stepped into the street and waved me to stop. He politely ushered me to the Indian immigration office which consisted of three chairs and three old men. I turned on my “yes sir/no sir” switch and started with the paper work. Within minutes I was officially stamped out of India without so much as a word of the massive Delhi-registered Bullet parked outside in plain view. I quickly mounted up and pulled away towards the border not 200 feet away. Inching along in 1^st gear I passed two heavily armed Indian border guards and entered no man’s land. For about 100 feet between India and Nepal there is a dusty clearing that runs to the horizon to both the east and west. Merchant stores run right up to the edge of this buffer zone on both the Nepalese and Indian sides. It was fantastic. I’ve crossed some cool borders but this was by far the most out there and Wild West feeling. I rolled into Nepal, parked my bike outside immigration, and walked in. Twenty minutes later I walked out with a fresh 30-day visa. With that first piece of the puzzle securely in hand I turned around, walked back in, and asked what to do next about my bike. Across the dusty road sat the customs office and my final hurtle. I parked outside in plain view of the entire office staff and walked in. I approached the counter and with a giant smile said ‘namaste’ and “happy holi.’ If I could win these guys over I would be in the clear. A massive pit formed in my stomach when one of the agents asked “carnet?” I replied I did not have one and took it to be a very bad sign when he began laughing. The men spoke in Nepalese for a very long minute before one yelled into the next room and a t-shirt wearing, English-speaking, twenty year old appeared. We shook hands and walked outside. I quickly produced photocopies of the bike’s registration card and my international drivers license. We talked about the daily fee and the hefty penalty for violation and I requested a 29-day permit. Shortly after I was back in customs watching my guy fill out paperwork and getting that giddy feeling inside that I was in the clear. When he presented me the permit to sign I did a mental fist pump when nowhere on the document did my name (or passport details) appear. Hell he hadn’t even asked to see my visa. A handshake later I was off with docs in hand and smile ear to ear. It was done. We were in. Probably not the last time I cross an international border on bike.

5:45 – 6:46pm – The sun quickly heading for the horizon I bolted across the street and produced $60usd at a currency exchange window. With a wad of Nepalese rupees in hand I fired up the Tuna and headed west towards the sinking sun to cover the last 28km to Lumbini – the finish line. The tree-lined ride to Lumbini was pure satisfaction as the realization started to sink in. I had done it. I had ridden a motorbike across India. Even now to write those words seems pretty surreal. It was after nightfall when I finally pulled into the quiet streets of the tiny hamlet. I turned off the engine and marked the time: 6:46pm. The 340km from Varanasi to Lumbini had taken me 13 hours.

7:00 – 10:00ish – Traveling in India you feel like a single drop in the ocean. You simply don’t run into other travelers that way you do in Southeast Asia. Nepal is totally different in that respect. The ocean of Indians shrinks to a pond of Nepalese and the backpacker scene becomes more visible. I was more than pleased to get an immediate taste of that difference at my guest house. After showering I joined two jovial 30-something English couples for a huge dinner and tall bottles of Everest beer. Great company right out of the gates and a welcome indicator of things to come. I can count on one hand the number of drinks I enjoyed in India over five weeks. I’m happy and ready to say the same won’t be true here in Nepal.

…

I’ve been thinking for days now how to conclude India in writing and I still don’t have a good answer. India will always be many things to me. First, India will always be a place of great discovery, adventure, and endurance on the back of a motorbike. All told I rode slightly over 3,300km in India. That’s the same as riding from Manhattan to Albuquerque. I relied on smarts, ingenuity, discipline, and some luck to safely navigate some of the world’s craziest roads. I’m very proud to say I did this:

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&oe=UTF8&num=200&start=78&msa=0&msid=113857108228539669434.000480f652345c8edf1ba&ll=29.573457,77.739258&spn=10.462469,35.15625&z=5

Second, India will always stand as an example of what is possible in life. No idea should be considered off limits, out of bounds, or too farfetched for the undertaking. It’s only by putting yourself completely out there and discovering how you response to unforeseen adversity that you truly get a measure of what you’re capable of. I learned an immeasurable amount about what I’m capable of accomplishing when I commit fully to an idea, project, or in this case a dream.

Finally, India will always be a blinding reminder that happiness doesn’t need to be measured in rupees or dollars. If those that possess so little can find so much love and contentment in their seemingly destitute lives, what the hell are we all really complaining about?

You can take my word or come see for yourself, but it truly is like the advertisements say. It truly is…

!ncredible India

Holi! Holi! or The Day India Painted Me

Varanasi is the kind of place one could write books about if so inspired. The town is simply fascinating. Situated on the banks of the legendary Ganges River Varanasi is the place Hindis come to die, and if not to die at least cremated and set adrift down its holy waters. Whether I was ready for it or not Varanasi hit me the moment I walked out my hotel’s front door to take a peek around. The buildings that line the waterfront alleyways are so tall and so tightly packed together that it’s pretty dark and slightly ominous at ground level both day and night. I forged my way through the canyon floor and found the Ganges. For whatever reason I decided to make a left instead of a right and within two hundred steps came face to face with eleven burning bodies. Before I could take another step forward to improve my view I was told from several somber individuals “no photo.”

It was a sight and procession to behold. The deceased, tightly wrapped in a tunic, are carried down to the river’s edge where they are briefly submerged and receive a final bath in the holy Ganges. They are then carefully laid atop the wood pile and lit. This most sacred of Hindi ceremonies apparently goes on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The amount of firewood is staggering. Fresh from a shower following a 330km day and in search of food only moments before, I stood there fixated upon the blazing corpses on the banks of the Ganges. In your face from the start, that was Varanasi.

I could go on about how instead of cremating lepers, children or those with smallpox they simply row the bodies out to the river’s center and weight them down to the bottom. Or about how a couple I met saw a body floating down the river midday. Or about how despite having some of the worst water quality in India countless Hindis still bath and drink from its holy waters daily. I would prefer however to talk about water balloons.

The Festival of Colors was celebrated Monday March 1^st this year in India. A holy holiday celebrated nationwide I got the sense early on by the immense crowds and visible military presence that being in Varanasi for Holi is like being in the French Quarter for Fat Tuesday. It’s the place to be. I never discovered the religious significance but the day (and days leading up) is celebrated in an anything goes water fight in which dyed water is delivered by child-assassins in the form of water balloons, buckets, bottles, and squirt guns. Everyone in my hotel knew full well the score since for the two preceding days we watched, from the safety of our 7^th story rooftop restaurant, various factions of children wage aquatic warfare on each other.

(Holi morning…)

It was to be my second to last sunrise in India and I wanted to capture it. The timestamp on the above picture is 6:28am March 1^st. By 7am when I walked back into my hotel the atmosphere was tense. Kids get up early on Christmas back home and the same is true on Holi in India. After all kids own the day, or at least the water. From my elevated rooftop vantage point I could tell there was grisly watershed taking place in the streets below already by 9am. I wasn’t particularly interested in soiling a set of clothes, but the real reason I was reluctant to venture out on Holi was a gut feeling that if anything bad was going to happen during my last 48 hours in India it was going to be on the chaotic slippery streets of Varanasi. I then realized I didn’t have enough cash to pay for my room and given my early departure time the following morning I would have to settle up that night. This meant one thing. I would have to make an ATM run…

The way I saw it I was going into war. I retreated to my barracks and laid out all my clothes. What could I afford to potentially sacrifice beyond repair? I settled on one of two identical utility Angkor Wat t-shirts. I couldn’t afford to have those tiny assassins tie-dye any of my pants or shorts so I sat contemplating going out in my unmentionables when I had a stroke of genius. My unused rainbow colored hotel towel would serve as my fatigues from the waist down. I slid into my sandals, wrapped my HSBC card in newspaper, and descended the five flights of stairs to the battlefield.

I guess the accepted rule on Holi is that if you’re foolish/brave/crazy enough to venture out in the morning hours you’re openly declaring yourself in play and thus fair game. My field strategy was to maneuver to the main road, acquire cash, and retread as quickly as possible. I did not however have a map or any intel on my prepubescent enemy combatants. I just knew they were out there and I wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

When I got to my front door I paused, looked left, and looked right. All clear. Then I looked up and found sitting in her window well a tiny young girl holding a water cannon. We locked eyes and smiled. We both knew she couldn’t get me from her position but we also both knew I’d have to cross her immediate line of fire to exit my building. My God this was going to be an intense experience I though. I waited until she momentarily looked the other way and made a run for it. No joke the sky began raining down plastic artillery fire for points I hadn’t even located yet. I quickly learned this army of hidden nuggets had three clear advantages over me: elevation, numbers, and experience.

(Short but deadly.)

My ATM run that morning was as close as I ever want to find myself to urban warfare. Even though the stakes were limited to dry clothes and pride, the feeling of intensity and complete vulnerability was shocking. I found myself running through alleys with eyes darting every which way. Sometimes I saw it coming and other times I was completely caught off guard. I’ll never watch Blackhawk Down the same way again. This photo does little justice to the physical and psychological damage those invisible bastards inflicted on me that morning. The smile is misleading. I was sobbing on the inside.

The opposition and I eventually reached terms of a ceasefire just in time for my final sunset in India.