and 24 hours and 2 buses, one minivan, and 1 long shared jeep ride back up into the mountains, and we’ve arrived in Darjeeling. The new motto, as it was forcefully impressed upon us by our guesthouse owner, Lama, is ‘beat the heat’. Stay in the hills, he said, you don’t want to know what 45 degrees Celcius feels like. But at the same time, 20 degrees, overcast, and damp ain’t the best alternative, especially when your hotel room manages to be colder than sitting outside on a windy porch that overlooks the blanket of fog hiding the Darjeeling hillside.

But first Nepal. We budgetted two weeks. We stayed for four: equal parts oh-so-slow-n-bumpy transport, Nepali charm, and mountain vistas made two weeks impossible.

It began on arrival in Kathmandu. Intimidated by the daunting visa on arrival process, Maya and I prepared for all out arrival gate efficiency – she gets into line while filling out forms, I maneuver to the front of the currency exchange desk to grab enough rupees for passport photos, then slingshot over the photo booth for the requisite mug shots for our visas. Then our checked baggage arrived first. In terms of difficulty, this was more like a Sunday hike up Mount Royal than a trek to Everest base camp. Fielding the taxi tout onslaught, we were whisked over to the Holy Lodge where my blessed bartering skills resulted in a palazo for $12 per. That evening, we Nepali beer tasted on our communal patio with a lawyer from Toronto and two med students from Chicago, where we learned about trekking routes, the ins and outs of Kathmandu, and one of the med student’s summer jobs painting parking spot lines in big box shopping malls (he considered himself ‘the’ master of painting handicap spots).

A few days of wandering, touring, and, of course, weighing down our backpacks with cumbersome but trendy yak wool blankets, we zipped over to Pokhara to begin our circuit of Annapurna. By circuit I do not mean ‘the’ circuit but ‘our’ circuit – a mere 6 day loop into the 3,000m altittudes through traditional Gurung villages. The 8,000m Himalayas lurked around each switchback, but one does not get close enough to touch on ‘our’ circuit. Requisite gear is at a minimum – lodges and teahouses dot the landscape (as do guides and porters carrying the 10 member French families (the mismatch of men and women made it impossible to untangle who was related or married to whom) or 6 member Japanese expedition (the oldest of that bunch was always laughing and was more often seen riding a horse up the mountain rather than walking)). In the largest village, Ghandruk, we stayed at the Snow View lodge, the only haunt to boast a giant green lawn, perfect for Annapurna gazing and lying in the midafternoon Himalayan sun. Also perfect for a young Chinese duo to arrive late in the day, spy the owner’s vegetable patch, and demand that they be the ones to cook dinner for all, an inspiring spectacle that made me miss and completely not miss cooking back home.

Our other trek took us north of Kathmandu to the Langtang Valley. Here, the trails were more rugged (less porters, less trekkers, and less perfectly manicured stone steps that taunt and burn your thighs and hamstrings), the lodges and guesthouses were more authentic (the Tamang Tibetan heritage), and the interactions more rewarding. Maya took photos of the 2 day old baby horse at the Friendly Guesthouse in a village called Lama Hotel, photos that were a huge hit further up the mountain at Friendly’s brother-in-law’s and second cousin’s lodges. We shadowed a German couple who had a tough time dealing with both altitude sickness and a very moody guide – we spent three nights at the Yak Hotel at the top of the valley, and on the third night, when the Germans and the guide left, an invisible pall lifted from the dining room, as the owner started singing Tibetan chants and the cook transformed from downcast to garrulous, talking me up for hours on the outrageous commissions I can earn by directing all of my friends back in Canada to the cook’s soon to be cutting edge, yet affordable, mountain guiding services. We followed the high peak gossip and drama of the four Russian climbers that attempted a high and challenging pass sans guide, as we only learned on our last day that the two that had remained trapped for nearly ten days, survived. We completed five day hikes at the top of the valley, only one of which actually ‘made it’ to a definable point, that being the top of Kianjin Ri, a 4,800 meter peak decorated with countless prayer flags and makeshift stone stupas – after watching many HBO episodes on recent exploits of the well-heeled on Everest, Kianjin Ri was our Sagarmatha.

We met a French Canadian couple whose guide, Himal, invited us to drink local vodka with his friends – an engineer and an army captain – and also pryed us away from our bumpy 9 hour bus ride to join them in their jeep the next morning on their trip to the Tibet border (where we could only gaze into Tibet from a safe distance, while Himal crossed the friendship bridge and returned with duty free wine and candies. He also affectionately reffered to his bosses as mamo and tato – mom and dad in Polish – to Maya’s utter delight. In fact, that jeep ride back to Kathmandu included a lot of mothering, as mamo peeled us apples, bought us snacks, and made sure we had enough bottled water.)

We spent about 8 days total in Kathmandu, searching for the best apple pie, sweetest milk tea, and cheapest – you guessed it – yak wool blankets. Most mornings we sat in one of two spots outside of the nameless cafe across the street from the expensive and way too busy cafe (that we tried once, and yeah, they made great cheese croissants, but no, we preferred our cheapie perch), where we alternatively drank 20 cent cups of tea and one dollar Starbucks beating lattes (yak milk can do no wrong) while surreptitiously importing our own apple pie and yak cheese from another bakery. We bartered and bought many gifts and souvenirs, shipping them from the local post office, a process that was so perfectly chaotic – fill out several forms written only in Nepali, while your fake North Face duffel bag is inspected for its contents, then sown up into a burlap sack by one lady, burned on the edges by another, stamped in a variety of colors by somebody who I’m pretty sure didn’t even work there but was really happy just to hang out, addressed, weighed, and then left on the floor where, rest assured by the Swiss physiotherapist who’s done this before, it will likely be put on the right plane back to Canada. We also survived a major Kathmandu fire that charred an iconic bookstore – the place erupted into flames accompanied by an insurgent’s BANG!, after which we bolted down the stairs of our hotel, grabbed our valuables out of the safe, emailed home saying we are safe from the impending cataclym and ran, ran! from the flames. An overreaction? Si.

Then we cancelled our flight to Delhi and took the executive bus (N.B. no matter of ‘executive’ relieves you from the sordid state of Nepali roads, or the fear of tumbling over the cliffside, or the statistic that one is 20 times more likely to die in a traffic accident in Nepal than anywhere else in the world) east to the border town of Karkarvita. Darjeeling looks a bit like a northeast coast U.S.A. tourist town – what with the foggy views, malt shoppes servings burgers, cakes and teas, and a ton of local tourists walking through the pedestrian mall and stocking up on tea inspired, but ultimately useless, knick knacks. The only difference is this is India: you eat samosas, pakoras, and dosas, you dodge high speed jeep traffic, you request a bucket of hot water for your shower, and you conspiratorially smile at the other westerners – your minority status in this sea of Hindi, Sari and Thali worn like a badge of honor.

Will we brave the 45 degree heat? Even though Lama, the friendly owner at the Maya Lodge (that’s right), may do anything to stop us? Will I cave and book our Varanasi hotel online to ensure some degree of sanity (A/C!) upon arrival in the holy city on the Ganges? Will we get all new age in Rishikesh or sleep on a houseboat in Kerala? Yeah, I’m stressed out about it too. Surely a pricey bout of high tea at the Windamere hotel and a day trip on a toy train will complement a cupa Darjeeling to calm my 24 hour bumpy bus ride rattlin’ blues.