Mongolia

Some stunning facts: Mongolia is the least populated country in the world with 2.6 million people (less than the population of Staten Island) in a country twice the size of Texas. Roughly 1.3 million people—about half of the population-- live in Ulaanbaatar, the capital city. A small percentage (<10%) live in a handful of villages around the country. The rest are nomadic and live in the countryside alongside 43 million heads of livestock—making the ratio of livestock to people in Mongolia 13:1. (wow! And, yes, I actually did some serious research to verify this number).

Mongolia is a country full of magnificent and varied landscapes, most of which are still virgin—untouched by humanity and the industries we create that pollute the environment. This is a land where rivers run clear and horses run free; where vast lakes are rarely fished and have never seen a boat of any kind; where children with Barbie knapsacks ride 5 kilometers to school on horseback; and where general stores in lonely villages have wood posts out front for tying up one’s horse. It is wilder than the Wild West. There are no roads or power lines—just vast steppe with scarred earth where cars have made their way and endless sky that extends as far as the horizon.

It really is hard to imagine.

For years, I’ve been talking about wanting to go to Mongolia. In hindsight, I don’t really know why. I think I wanted to see the only place on earth where 40% of the population is still nomadic and lives in round white tents called “gers”. I wanted to gallop on horseback at full speed through its wide-open steppe and under its bright blue sky. I confess, the idea of having to travel on horseback from place to place had its romantic appeal. As my Dutch friend, Louis, described it—I had cowboy dreams…

But the romantic ideal of Mongolia is very far from experiencing its reality. Mongolia is beautiful. But traveling independently through Mongolia is incredibly stressful. The lack of electricity, running water, public transportation, food, lodging and general infrastructure combined with my inability to communicate in Mongolian, Russian, or Kazakh were sources of constant frustration. As was the extreme lack of privacy from having to bunk with the nomads throughout most of my travels. Outside of Ulaanbaataor, there are virtually no hotels—only in the most touristed of places (namely Terelj and the Gobi) are there Ger camps specifically set up for tourists. The rest of the time lodging in Mongolia means knocking on a random Ger and asking to spend the night. This is the Mongol culture—it is the way they have traveled for hundreds of years.

Gers at Sunset, The Gobi

Endless Horizon, The Gobi

Crossing a lake on horseback, Sagsai, Western Mongolia

Western Mongolia

Bactrian Camel, The Gobi

Me, and a baby camel, The Gobi

Climbing Sand Dunes, Gobi Desert

Sunset, The Gobi

Sunset, Central Mongolia

Red Earth, Western Mongolia

Mongolian Horses

A Canyon, The Gobi

Louis (my travel partner) and I, with our Mongolian Host Family in Central Mongolia

Little Girl, Central Mongolia

XANH Bank in a small village, The Gobi

Dinner with a Kazakh nomad family, Western Mongolia

Except for a 7 day trip to the Gobi on an organized tour, I traveled through Mongolia on buses and horseback and lived with Mongolian or Kazakh nomad families along the way. The picture above is a typical dinner--some kind of meat (camel, goat, yak, sheep, or horse), slices of fat, and noodles. It was taken in the home of a Kazakh nomad family near the Tavan Bogd National Park in Western Mongolia. I had been living with a Kazakh nomad family near the town of Sagsai and the family's son took me to see nearest mountain range. We rode 120 kilometers in 2 days and this was the only family that we saw along the entire route. We did as the Mongol's do--knocked on the door of the Ger and asked to spend the night. We were welcomed warmly and fed with no expectation of payment.

Adjusting to Hong Kong

The Hong Kong Skyline


A Bustling Victoria Harbour


It is a bit shocking to go from a country with virtually no roads to a country where Louis Vuitton is the national uniform. I have always loved Hong Kong, but for the first time, I'm no longer sure how I feel about it. A lot of fun can be had in this city, but something about spending US$2,000 on a Dior handbag seems totally wrong when you consider that the average Filipina maid in Hong Kong makes US$550 a month, or when the average Nepali lives on US$2 a day. Sure, people are handed different lots in life--I get that...but still. Perhaps what concerns me the most is that I know that as soon as I'm away from Nepal or Mongolia or India and settled back into life in the States, or Europe, or even Hong Kong--I know that commercialism will sink back in. The ads will cloud my memory and I too will go back to wanting--perhaps not the US$2K Dior bag (because, well, I have my secret sources for these things)--but the Eames chair or the Louboutin shoes or some other item that costs more than some people make in a year. And the thought of this bothers me.

Goats sacrificed to fix Nepal Airlines Jet

Tomorrow night I fly Nepal Airlines to Hong Kong. Unfortunately, this article does not give me much confidence in the airline. I hope we don't have to sacrifice any goats!

Nepal's state-run airline has confirmed that it sacrificed two goats to appease a Hindu god, following technical problems with one of its aircraft. Nepal Airlines said the animals were slaughtered in front of the plane - a Boeing 757 - at Kathmandu airport. The offering was made to Akash Bhairab, the Hindu god of sky protection, whose symbol is seen on the company's planes. The airline said that after Sunday's ceremony the plane successfully completed a flight to Hong Kong. "The snag in the plane has now been fixed and the aircraft has resumed its flights," senior airline official Raju KC was quoted as saying by Reuters. Nepal Airlines has two Boeing aircraft in its fleet.The persistent faults with one of the planes had led to the postponement of a number of flights in recent weeks. The company has not said what the problem was, but reports in local media have blamed an electrical fault.

A Maoist Strike

An Eerily Quiet Kathmandu.


Woman Passing by Road Blockade.


Burning Garbage in Kathmandu.


UN Convoys Shuttling Employees to Work.


A Random Temple.


Man with Bike.


The streets of Kathmandu are quiet and eerie today--there is a Maoist strike and the whole city has been shut down. Everything is closed. Blockades have been set up on the street--no taxis, buses or private vehicles are allowed to transit. The only vehicles on the streets are ambulances, convoys from the United Nations, trucks carrying soldiers with machine guns and bullet proof vests, and the occasional mini buses from the Nepali TV station stopping to drop off photographers and then swiftly driving away. I feel like I'm walking through the scene of a newscast by the BBC--in the background tires are burning and UN jeeps with massive antennas drive authoritatively through the lonely streets; in the foreground, young boys laugh and play football on the street.

As I approach the tourist ghetto of Thamel a little boy approaches me and points to a group of protesters wearing red shirts and carrying bamboo poles--"Strikers, Don't go there!" he warns. Then he smiles at me and asks "Where you from?" The United States, I respond. He smiles. I wonder what he wants from me. He continues. "Your capital is Washington D.C., your 1st president was George Washington, your 16th president was Abraham Lincoln, your current president is Obama. What state are you from?" California, I respond. "Your capital is Sacramento" I'm not sure I knew that until I lived there, I think to myself. You are a smart kid." I tell him. "You can ask me any capital of any country in the world and I will tell you the answer!" Ok, what is the capital of Colombia? He doesn't even stop to think. "Bogota." What is the capital of Bhutan. "Thimpu." I've just learned something new. "Your flag has 50 stars because there are fifty states. Your flag has 13 stripes because you were trying to make 13 kingdoms." I have to laugh. I try to explain to him that we had colonies, not kingdoms. He looks at me skeptically and says--"If there was no king, then how were their colonies? What is a colony?" The kid is really smart--but I go back to wondering what he wants from me. He picks up on my distraction immediately and interrupts my thoughts "Can you buy me some milk?" he asks. I look around. Everything is closed, I say. He suddenly remembers about the strike and looks down sadly at his feet. "I don't want your money" he reassures me "money is bad. I just need milk." He points to a pharmacy-- "Maybe there?" he asks. It is a pharmacy--I don't think they have milk. "But I need powdered milk," he insists. He has a desperate look on his face. Is it for your family? I ask. "No, its for my little brother." He asks for milk at the pharmacy, but they don't have any. We both look up and down the streets--there is no possibility of milk today. I pull out my wallet and hand him 50 rupees. Its okay, I tell him. Take the money. Buy your milk tomorrow.

The Funeral of the Former Deputy Prime Minister

Shailaja Acharya, the former Deputy Prime Minister of Nepal


Yesterday I visited Pashupati, the Nepalese equivalent of India's Varanasi. There are burning ghats where Nepali Hindus come to be burned after they die. I happened to arrive in Pashupati several hours before Shailaja Acharya, the former Deputy Prime Minister of Nepal was to be given her last rites so I got to witness first hand the funeral of high ranking Nepalese official. Hours before, I took my place on a bridge, 10 feet above the pyre where Ms. Acharya was to be burned. I stood with my camera and all of my lenses next to a photojournalist from a local Nepali newspaper. The funeral was attended by the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Army Chief and other Nepali dignitaries. Although all of the people were ultimately cleared from the bridge (for security reasons) by men with machine guns, I was apparently confused as a member of the foreign press and was allowed to stay alongside the Nepali photographers. Here is the article that appeared in The Himalayan.

Sadhu in Pashupati


Old Man in Pashupati

The Curious Story of the Kumari Devi

To see more pictures of Durbar Square, click here.

The Royal Kumari, Kathmandu


The Nepali's have an interesting custom: the worship of a living child goddess which they call the Kumari Devi (Kumari means "Virgin")--a prepubescent, virgin girl from the Shakya clan of the Newari community. Although the Shakya's are Buddhist, the Kumari Devi is worshipped as a Hindu goddess and is seen as the living incarnation of Durga. There are many Kumari Devi's in Nepal, but the most famous is the Royal Kumari who lives in Kumari Ghar, a place in the Durbar Square in Kathmandu. The practice of worshipping a living virgin child is said to have originated in the 17th century when a pedophile Malla king had intercourse with a prepubescent child who died as a result of the trauma. In penance, the king began the practice of venerating a young girl.

Thousands of girls from the Shakya caste (Newari gold and silversmiths) compete for the title of child goddess. To be eligible, the Kumari must be between 3 years old and puberty. She must meet 32 strict physical characteristics (the 32 perfections of a goddess), her skin must be without blemish, she must never have shed blood, been afflicted by disease, and must not have yet lost any teeth. Other eligibility requirements include having: "a neck like a conch shell, a body like a banyan tree, eyelashes like a cow, thighs like a deer, chest like a lion, and a voice soft and clear as a duck's. Her hair and eyes should be very black, she should have dainty hands and feet, small and well-recessed sexual organs and a set of twenty teeth." See Wikipedia. Girls that meet these criteria must undergo a series of rigorous tests to prove that she is the "living vessel" of Durga. They must show that they are fearless and possess great intuition.

On Kalratri or "black night" during the Hindu festival of Dashain 108 buffaloes, goats, chickens and other animals are sacrificed to the goddess Kali. The test of fearlessness involves placing the child in a dark room with the severed heads which are illuminated by candle-light while men in scary masks dance around them. The child must show no fear and remain calm. The final test of serenity involves locking the child alone in a dark room with the severed heads of the dead animals. If the child remains calm throughout the night, she moves on to the final test of intuition. An assortment of items are placed in front of her and she must pick out those that belonged to the previous Kumari. If the child passes this test, then there is no doubt. She will be taken to priests to undergo a series of tantric rituals designed to cleanse her body and then she will walk on white cloth across Durbar Square from the Taleju temple to the Kumari Ghar and she will be presented as the new Kumari. She will reign until the day she menstruates (or accidentally loses a significant amount of blood)--at that time she will lose her godliness and return to society as a normal human. "The Kumari's walk across the Durbar Square is the last time her feet will touch the ground until such time as the goddess departs from her body. From now on, when she ventures outside of her palace, she will be carried or transported in her golden palanquin. Her feet, like all of her, are now sacred. Petitioners will touch them, hoping to receive respite from troubles and illnesses. The King himself will kiss them each year when he comes to seek her blessing. She will never wear shoes; if her feet are covered at all, they will be covered with red stockings." See Wikipedia.

Durbar Square, Kathmandu


Although the Kumari was a royal invention, the tradition did not die out with the fall of the Nepali Monarchy in 2008. The current Kumari is the first Kumari to be selected by the Maoist regime instead of royal priests. It is said that marrying an ex-Kumari is unlucky, but according to Lonely Planet, it is believed more likely, that taking on a spoiled ex-goddess is just too much work!

Kumari Ghar, Kathmandu

Sunsets in the Himalayas

To see more pictures of Pisang Peak and the Himalayas, click here.

Base Camp, May 31, 2009


View from Pisang Peak, June 1, 2009

A Helicopter Evacuation: June 2, 2009

My Rescue Helicopter.


Villagers Watching the Helicopter Take Off.


I wake up at base camp, I am coughing heavily. My chest is tight and I am still having trouble breathing, but my headache and the dizziness had substantially subsided. When I stand up, I notice that I am still unbalanced and my brain is working slowly but because I have asthma, I am more worried about getting bronchitis than about my apparent altitude sickness. There are no pharmacies in the villages on the Annapurna Circuit and I know that if I need antibiotics I will be in trouble. The nearest hospital is Kathmandu, 4 days of walking plus a 1 day bus trip away. I know now that I can not continue with the Annapurna Circuit and that I have to turn back to Kathmandu, and I don’t think I’m healthy enough to make the 4 day walking trip. I have to find a phone in the nearest village and get evacuated by helicopter.

It took a long time to arrange the helicopter trip—for starters, the travel agency that Dorgee was working with told us that the helicopter would cost $5,400 and that my insurance policy with Everest Insurance Company, a Nepali Company would only cover up to $4,000 and I didn’t have $1,400 to spare. Given that there are only two helicopter companies in Nepal it seemed strange to me that the insurance company would cover less than the fees—something didn’t feel right. After what seemed like hours of discussions, Dorgee’s travel agency informed me that a cheaper helicopter had been found for $4,300. Although it still seemed fishy, I needed to get out of there and I gave them the go ahead thinking that I would split it between my US insurance policy and the Nepali policy or that I would pay for it myself. Several hours later I was in a helicopter bound for Kathmandu. In Kathmandu I was treated at the CIWEC clinic, an expat hospital. The doctor diagnosed me with severe AMS with mild HACE and HAPE. High Altitiude Cerebral Edema and High Altitiude Pulmonary Edema—meaning that I had fluid in my brain and in my lungs. This was caused by ascending too rapidly—i.e. the decision to skip high camp was not a good one. I still do not know why the Sherpas decided to skip high camp. Either they believed the good weather wouldn’t last and we should make a go of it, or the porters were not properly equipped to ascend to high camp in the snow (they were climbing in sneakers). I have a feeling the latter reason played quite a big role in the decision. In the end I found out that the travel agency that Dorgee was working with—Nepal Alsace Trekking—was trying to rip me off with the helicopter. They refused to give me the receipt for the helicopter and when I threatened to call the tourist police they forked it up and the charge had been exactly $4,000. Because of his overcharging, I almost decided to walk to the hospital instead of risking the possibility that my US insurance wouldn’t cover the excess. Because I didn’t know I had HACE and HAPE, this decision could have been lethal.

At times when I am in the East surrounded by Buddhist philosophy and incredibly kind people that are much less materialistic then the people in the West, I feel that people in the East are somehow more enlightened than we are, but when confronted with experiences like this one I am reminded that thieves are everywhere and that people all over the world are the same and sometimes, things are just not what they seem.

As for climbing, my mother asked me if I had learned my lesson and wouldn't do it again. Unfortunately, the answer is no, mom. I didn't learn not to climb again. Instead what I learned is that I am responsible for my own safety. I should have done more research on the mountain. I shouldn't have double checked the safety precautions (i.e. the lack of a satellite phone) and I should not have put as much trust in my guides as I did. In a country where safety standards are not enforced with a risk of legal repercussions for negligence, corners will be cut. Sometimes it isn't even because a person is mal-intentioned, sometimes it is just ignorance. I know better now and from now on, I will be a better educated climber.

Back Safely in Kathmandu.

Summit Day: June 1, 2009

1:47am: Pasang unzips my tent. “Morning! Breakfast.” He passes me a hot cup of tea. I have a hard time coaxing myself out of my sleeping bag. The air outside is freezing. I start putting on all of my layers and Pasang comes by with a bowl of soup and curried boiled eggs with potatoes and chili. It feels like dinner and I’m hungry. I eat all of it knowing I will need the energy for the long climb ahead. We leave base camp at 3:15 am. At 5:20 am the sky is pink and the sun is rising. The mountains are beautiful and I am so happy to be where I am.

Sunrise Reflected in the Snow.


Dendi had estimated 3 hours to high camp, but the snow is heavy and the mountain is steep and by 6 am he realizes that we won’t make it up safely or fast enough with all of our equipment unless he ties a fixed rope. I am the first to ascend via the rope. It hangs at a 45 degree angle, flush with the mountain—this is the first time I have ever climbed with a rope outside of training—I grab it and suddenly it dawns on me that I am putting all of my trust in a rope, the person who tied the knot, and the metal clips that will soon help me pull myself up. I know that as soon as I grab onto the rope and lift my feet off of the ground my entire life will depend on these three things. If any of them fail, I will fall to my death onto the rocks below me. I lift my feet off of the ground and pull myself forward. Everything holds. We begin climbing with ropes at 6:15 am and do not arrive at high camp until 8:30am. We are now running more than 2 hours behind.
A Snow Covered Valley.


10:00am: Pisang is largely hidden from view by the hill on which high camp lies. But as soon as we clear the hill we get a full view of Pisang and as soon as I see her my jaw drops and I hear myself saying “Holy Mother of God” aloud and I know then that Stok Kangri was a cake walk, and that what I am about to climb is a whole different animal.
My first "real" view of Pisang Peak.


Pisang is steep. From where we are standing to her crest, there is a rocky ridge. On either side of the ridge the mountain drops steeply. To the left side is a big blue glacier, rocky ledges, and a steep snowy slope with fresh avalanches running down its side. To the right of the ridge is another steep snowy slope with more avalanches. My fears of an avalanche taking us down are immediately quelled since I can see that there is no way to climb Pisang other than straight up her rocky ridge where it is physically impossible to be killed by a falling avalanche. The risk of falling into an avalanche, however, is quite high. At 10:45 am Dorgee and I arrive at a portion of the ridge that is so narrow, that the snow on the ridge forms a perfect inverted V shape. Dendi and Pasang are ahead of us setting up the fixed ropes and have already crossed the treacherous path to the left of the ridge. Dorgee stands on the edge of the ledge staring at the ridge. “Are you scared?” I ask him. “A little, he replies.” I am considering turning back. The wind is blowing strong and one big gust could blow us off the ridge in either direction. “Get down on your hands and knees,” I tell him. I am pretending not to be scared, but inside I am thinking that this is crazy, even for me. Dorgee gets down on his hands and knees and crawls. After mentally calculating the effect of the winds, I decide to straddle the mountain with one leg hanging off of one end and the other hanging off of the other and I slide myself forward over the ridge until I safely reach the other side. We have to cross three more treacherous ridges like this one and each time I think that this is crazy, even for me and that we should have a man rope or a fixed rope or something to act as protection in case one of us falls. I keep wondering if Dendi Sherpa is too self confident, cutting corners, or if I am just a wuss.
Musk Deer Tracks.

11:30am: After successfully crossing what must have been the most dangerous part of the mountain I run into Pasang at the end of the next fixed rope. He is sitting there waiting for us and when we arrive he says “Dendi says you go up rope, you take pictures, then we go back down. It is 11:30 and mountain closing.” “What!?! I exclaim. I tell Pasang I’ll discuss it with Dendi who instead of tying the next fixed rope is sitting in Rodin’s “The Thinker” pose staring at us and waiting for us to give up from exhaustion. I force myself up the mountain as quickly as possible and ask Dendi why we aren’t continuing after just having done all of that work. He tells me we won’t make the summit until 5:30pm and he doesn’t want to die coming back at night. He is exhausted, frustrated and irritable. I tell him I don’t want to die either, and ask if it is safe to give ourselves until 3pm with the strict policy that wherever we are at 3pm, that is where we stop and turn back. The discussion takes a half an hour but Dendi agrees that this is a good plan. We lose another 30 minutes while Pasang and Dendi set up the next fixed rope.





My feet hanging off the edge of the mountain.


3:00pm: 6,000 meters (19,686 feet). We have been climbing for 11 hours and 45 minutes. There is little snow on this part of Pisang—for the past three hours we have been climbing over huge slabs of stone, pulling ourselves with jumars from fixed rope to fixed rope. We are about 300 feet from the summit but given our level of exhaustion it will take at least one hour to summit and it is now too dangerous. I am frustrated, because this is Dendi’s error--I know that had we spent the night at high camp we would have made it. But now the clouds are rolling in, the winds are getting stronger and my arms can pull no more. I can’t stop thinking of the book “Into Thin Air”--Jon Krakauer’s account of climbing Everest--and how a missed turn-around time had deadly consequences. I understand the power of the mountain and I know we must turn around. I pull myself to the end of the last fixed rope. I’m done, I say to Dendi. This is my summit. As soon as we stop and my adrenaline rush fades, I notice that I have a massive headache and I am feeling a little dizzy. My lungs feel as if someone is pressing down on them, I’m coughing and having a hard time breathing.

The Path We Took
(climbing over the ridges avoids the avalanches)


The Last 300 ft to the Summit.


We gave it a good go!


The descent: 30 minutes later we begin our descent to base camp. As soon as I stand up, I realize that something is terribly wrong. I’m having a hard time balancing, my head is pounding and I am incredibly dizzy. I feel like I’m going to pass out. Dendi ties me to the belay device and I start belaying myself down slowly. My brain feels like it is working in slow motion and I no longer recognize my surroundings. I look around me and everything seems foreign, “Wow, that looks hard, I climbed that?” I keep asking myself. My feet feel clumsy and I keep falling on my knees. The sharp shale rips through my trousers and my knees start bleeding. I have to stop every five minutes to catch my breath. We are moving more slowly than on the ascent and I know this is not good. We have to make it past the dangerous part, because I know won’t make it down in the dark. I am cursing the Sherpa’s for not setting up camp at high camp.

At some point I stop belaying myself and I put my head on the ground. I am coughing up yellow stuff and there is a little bit of blood and it freaks me out. I keep thinking about the part of the mountain that I had to straddle to get across—there is no way I’m going to make it without falling to my death. “Dendi, I don’t think I can make it.” I call out to him. “Doesn’t your cell phone work? Can’t you get me off this mountain?” I don’t know why I am asking, because I already know they don’t have a satellite phone. “What’s the point of helicopter evacuation insurance if you have no way of calling a helicopter,” I ask him. I can’t believe they don’t have a satellite phone. Dendi picks me up off the ground and tells me we are going to tandem belay, he straps me onto his harness with carabeeners. My feet are like jello and I keep tripping and stepping on his feet. Somehow, I don’t know how, we make it across the treacherous passes and down the mountain.

18 ½ hours later, at 8:45pm we are back at Base Camp.