The Harshest Hours in the Himalayas

It was just before 5am, the sky still dark and cold when we departed. Outside the lodge, porters were pulling on their hats and gloves and adjusting their bundles. Trekkers were slowly stepping out into the chilled air, bracing themselves as they turned on their head torches, watching the frosty breath leave their mouths after a last bowl of hot porridge or garlic soup.

Shubas, my porter, came unprepared with no torch, so it was up to me to lead the way. As we set out for the great mountain ahead of us, a very distinct feeling came over me. It was the first time I would walk these paths in the dark, and as I carefully tread over different sized rocks and sensed the vastness of the abyss that lay in wait beside me, only inches from my innocent feet, I realized what I was feeling was fear.

Sukra, my scrawny Nepalese “guide” with less-than-adequate English and almost no inkling as to the importance of communication and professionalism, was already far behind me, accompanying my much slower roommate. And here I was in the blackness of the night on the edge of this beast of a mountain in the freezing cold with a lightless, phoneless porter who brought himself only one liter of water for a five thousand four hundred and sixteen meter pass.

“You can do this, Lauren. You've made it this far. This is the last test”, I told myself. I searched in front of me, unable to make out the curves of the trail ahead. Behind me in the distance, I could see the slow-moving torches of other trekkers, already much lower on the mountain than I found myself. I wondered if they, too were unsure of their footing.

When the first hints of light began to reveal the trail beneath my feet, I felt immense relief. My fingers ached from the bitter cold and I questioned whether or not I could afford to blow hot air into my gloves at such a high altitude. I was already measuring my breath, and noticing that the inside of my nostrils was now frozen. The further we walked, the slower we got. My usually fast feet seemed to be betraying me as the trail steepened. Shubas stopped to sit on a rock, removing the bundle from his skinny frame. “Water”, he exhaled, his voice already exhausted. I stopped walking and looked up at the magnificent golden coat that swept over the snow-capped peak we were facing. I shook my head in disappointment but smiled at the irony. For the first time in my life, I was too tired and too cold to take out my camera.

As it got lighter, my fingers did eventually thaw, reminding me of a pain I had experienced only once before while bike riding near midnight in a rural Dutch village one New Year's Eve. I wondered how long frostbite might take to set in and tried not to worry. My feet moved more slowly than ever, one occasionally crossing over the other as my body responded drunkenly to the increasing altitude. Less-affected trekkers cautiously, respectfully passed me from time to time, greeting me first and exchanging the familiar lift of the eyebrows or shake of the head to acknowledge the challenge we were taking on.

The landscape was changing beneath my feet, crunching as I stepped over the thin layer of hardened snow. Another rock, another rest. I marveled at the peaks that surrounded us and listened to my own quiet breath, until the silence was broken by a helicopter flying overhead, which in these parts, could only mean one thing. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. This mountain seemed to have a way of making one feel so small – so insignificant.

The two hours and forty-five minutes it took me to reach the almost eighteen thousand foot pass of Thorong La were some of the most challenging hours of my life. I spent them on a pendulum of ponderation, swinging between the awe-inspiring Himalayas and hyperconciousness of my own mortality.

When I spotted the colorful string of traditional Buddhist flags at the top of the pass and the group of Polish trekkers lifting their glasses to toast, I stopped moving and simply raised my eyebrows and smiled back at Shubas. “Black tea?” he asked, as we weakly eased ourselves onto a bench in the small wooden lodge where ten or fifteen other trekkers were attempting to regain some warmth. I was shaking so much that I couldn't hold my tea, so I set it on the table and used the metal mug to warm my hands.

 After about thirty minutes I decided I was ready for the four hour descent. Just as I stepped outside, I heard my name and turned to see my roommate arriving on horseback with a giant smile on her face. “You made it!” she shouted excitedly in her adorable Chinese accent. “Barely” I laughed, “but yes, I did.” Suddenly I looked over to where the path would continue and I felt a surge of energy. I made it, I thought, and it's all downhill from here.

Stomping On Fear

Sometimes we fear so much in this world that we allow it to get in the way of our most enriching opportunities. We watch the news and decide that a country is too dangerous to visit. We don't talk to strangers because they might want to do us harm. We keep to ourselves because we're not sure what people want from us.We don't skydive, and we decide not to white water raft, or in some cases, even get on the dance floor because we don't know what will happen. Fear can come in teaspoons or in vats, but somehow, regardless of it's quantity, its effect on us is always similar. At some point in my life I decided that if I let my fears get in my way, I'm going to end up bored, with nobody to blame but myself.

Are you familiar with Couch Surfing?

I've been traveling to remote corners of the world for a while now, and only one year ago did I discover an organization that completely changed my approach to visiting new places. Couch Surfing is an organization that aims to create cross-cultural connections by facilitating friendship and a free place to stay in virtually any part of the world.

My reaction was the same as yours. “What do they get out of it?” My American brain couldn't fully grasp the concept of opening my home to a total stranger – just because. But one year ago when I planned a trip to Cape Verde, a group of islands off the coast of west Africa, an unexpected flight cancellation caused me to have to extend my stay by an entire week. I hadn't budgeted for that, much less in a nation where hotels would cost twice what I was accustomed to paying. It was time to be resourceful.

Aware of the numerous risks I was taking as a solo female traveler, I decided to take my chances and contact potential hosts. I was thrilled to receive welcoming responses, and in the end, Couch Surfing turned out to be an amazing solution. I stayed in the homes of four different incredibly generous, friendly and helpful people as I hopped from one island to another.. I could feel my heart growing fuller as my days were spent talking and laughing over meals with my them, visiting places of interest, hiking or taking walks, listening to music together, and sharing stories. It was truly mind-blowing to me that there were these incredible people out there willing to extend their friendship to me, help me as much as possible, and offer me their spare bedroom and their trust. Clearly this is more than anyone could possibly hope for.

I know that some of you can't help but judge me for seeming naive. But really, is it worth thinking about what could go wrong? I don't think it is. If you trust your instincts and you read the references made available to you, this is one of the most fabulous opportunities you may ever choose to take. I have now couch surfed in Cape Verde, Mozambique and Trinidad and Tobago, so when I decided to come to India, it seemed all too obvious what I needed to do.

I have always felt intimidated by India. The things I had heard repeatedly from other travelers – the strong smells, constant crowds, unsanitary conditions, extreme begging, groping men, and the almost inevitable chance of becoming violently ill for at least a few days - caused me to keep putting India on the back burner of where my list of destinations was slowly cooking. But when I decided to take an entire year off of work to travel, I knew this would be my only chance to avoid monsoon season and visit India with a proper amount of time to explore. Perhaps I couldn't escape the sensory overload I so dreaded, but I could still try to do this right...and right it was.

It was past midnight when I landed in New Delhi, and I had a place to go and people waiting for me upon arrival. We sat and chatted for a few hours until sleepiness overtook me and I retired to my bedroom. The next day we shared breakfast and tea and my host helped me to map out a plan for the three to four weeks I intend to spend in the country. In the afternoon, he and his friend took me around the city a bit. We visited an old fort, watched the sunset, and then decided it was time for a nice meal.

Maybe it's silly, but the simplest things thrill me. As we sat at the dinner table of a Delhi restaurant, my host and I looked at the menu together; dal, paneer, matter, aloo, palak. I was able to name all of them in English, and he gave me a “five out of five!” for coming to India prepared with some Hindi vocabulary. When we were almost finished with dinner, my host and his friend both had big smiles on their faces as they watched me eat. “Wow”, one of them commented. “You are doing a really good job with that naan. I can't believe you can break it with just one hand. Even many Indians cannot do this. You know our fat friend that you met yesterday? As much as he likes to eat, he still hasn't learned to use only one hand.” I started laughing and might have even blushed. It was one of the coolest compliments I think I've ever received.

There were strong smells in the street that night. A begging child approached me at the ruins, causing me an immediate pang of sadness. The roads were crowded with honking cars and fearless drivers who knew no such thing as lanes. And the stares! Men stared at me from cars, from restaurant tables, and as they passed on the street. There was no groping, thank goodness, but there was no blinking either. Staring seemed to be an indulgence. But you know what? There wasn't a moment that I felt uncomfortable. I was welcomed to this country by people who offered me friendship, a home and a wealth of information. My introduction to India was perfect. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Go stomp on your fears. You'll never wish you hadn't.