While I was home over break, I tried, albeit rather briefly, to get back into shape. It first began with this ill attempt at running. Since it was cold outside, I got on the treadmill, equipped with water bottle, workout gear, and music. About ten or twelve minutes into my run, I hit the power button and laid down panting on the carpet. Clearly running is not for me.
I can easily track the decline of my physical fitness over the last few years. Playing varsity golf, walking the dog, and avoiding gym-class dodge ball in the weight room were my main forms of working out during high school. When I arrived at college, I did not suffer the freshman fifteen; however, I also rarely left the library so although I did not really get fatter, I did get softer. Then after enjoying a couple bouts of malaria in Uganda and losing whatever muscle mass I still had, I came back home and sat in the library some more. Sometimes I would run crazed around campus, frazzled with work, but generally I typed papers or sat reading. Then, I went to Europe, where I indulged myself with chocolate and various pastries and once again, stagnantly sat in libraries.
When I decided to come to Nepal and Bhutan to study Himalayan peoples, people who live on some of the highest mountains in the world, I knew I was getting myself into treacherous waters. I was by no means even remotely in shape. So, when we arrived in Bhutan and went on our first hike, I brought up the rear. After a few more hikes, I adjusted to the altitude and was pretty much okay. However, I was always at the end of every group hike along with one of my friends, Lisa, who leads hikes at her school and enjoys acting as the sweeper in the group.
One day about halfway through our trip, nearly the entire group was feeling sick or low in spirit. Hiking up to a monastery that day, the whole group moved at a particularly slow pace and nearly no one spoke. During the lecture, everyone sat hunched with glazed over eyes. As Lisa and I were walking to the toilets with our Bhutanese guide, he told us, “I’ve been so worried about you getting sick. Please tell your friends not to drink the water.” We looked at each other, unsure whether he was worried about us in particular or the group as a whole.
About a week later, our question was answered. After traveling to two different colleges, sitting in on classes, and attending our own lectures, we had a few days rest in Bumthang, a dzongkhag in the middle of Bhutan. We had some time to hang out, read, visit a local brewery and cheese-making factory, and hike. The night before one of the longer hikes, our guide, academic director, Lisa, and I all sat around the woodstove fire together, discussing the next day’s hike. Lisa, who had been sick for a few days, was contemplating whether or not she should go and inquired about the hike’s difficulty. I was also interested since I had recently fallen into a drainage hole and banged up my knee a bit. The guide looked at us and said comfortingly, “Not hard. Gradual incline. Like this.” And he motioned with his hand, holding it almost completely horizontal. Then he turned to our academic director and said, “Don’t worry. We will take it slow for Hilary and Lisa. We don’t want to push them too much.”
Lisa and I burst out laughing. She always was at the end because that is the spot she preferred. Although I originally brought up the rear out of necessity, I came to enjoy the separation from the group and hiking in silence and had chosen to remain there during our treks.
However, now, as I am preparing for a five-day trek into the Himalayas for my Independent Study Project (ISP), I am a little worried again. Higher elevations than before, few hikes in the last couple weeks, and no place to work out for free in Kathmandu have brought my lungs right back to square one. Although I’ve contemplated trying to run again in order to get into shape, I’ve developed excuses such as, “I only have hiking boots” and “breathing in too much Kathmandu pollution while running is much worse for my lungs than sitting and reading.” So when I set out for the mountains in the next week and a half, I have a request: wish me and my lungs luck.
The market was held on the grounds of one of Kathmandu's upscale restaurants. Walking in, I was immediately stuck by how well-groomed and put-together everyone was. I stood there in hippie-pants that I picked up in Boudha, the Tibetan Buddhist portion of Kathmandu (see photo) that is just crawling with the baggy pants and patterned skirts of Western dharma practitioners, and immediately regretted the fact that I hadn't showered in the last three days. However, I sucked in my insecurities and began checking out the different booths. There was artisan cheese, sugar-free jams, fresh-baked goods, and fine clothing; all things I could not even consider buying with my meager student stipend. Finally, I stumbled upon a booth about street dogs and figured I could take a look without giving in and buying a block of cheese. The booth was run by an older couple, maybe in their mid-60s, from Australia. We got to talking about their work and my research. After a little while, I got up the nerve to ask to interview them at some point, and although appearing a little nervous about it, they said yes.
