Journal Entry 10.4.23
Today was a day that would test the most seasoned traveler. We were trekking and the altitude made breathing difficult. I had to stop periodically to catch my breath. Quite unexpectedly we encountered late monsoon rains. It had been drizzling each day since we started, but this was real rain, monsoon rain. Within the first hour of trekking nothing we carried or wore was dry. I was soaked to my skin, my anorak holding pounds of water, my leather hiking boots full of water sloshing around with each step. The trail had turned into a river. But there was nothing to be done. No point in complaining. We could not turn around, we had to move forward. We had to move through the discomfort and because everyone was equally uncomfortable there was no point in complaining. It made me think about collective grief—nothing to be done except to move forward.
Suddenly, we faced a landslide we needed to cross. The seasoned porters went first, they were skilled at crossing the landslides because they lived in this area. It was hard to watch two men weighted down with our baggage, testing the trail to ensure it was safe for us to cross. Shame crept in but was pushed out by being impressed with their skill. Abruptly, we looked around thinking we were hearing thunder, then we wondered if they were blasting for the roads, but looking out at our porters we realized that the hillside was giving way. The porters were safely past the point of being at risk, but the sight was awe-some and not just a little bit terrifying. We decided to look for an alternative route.
We went to the nearest house, where we were given coffee by an acquaintance of one of our party. I felt something move under my skirt and realized that I had picked up leeches during the day. The home owner led me to a room where I could pull up my skirts and pull 5 leeches off my legs. Eventually, we decided to climb over the landslide through the forest. We hiked up through the potato fields of the house owner, crossed right over where the land had given way, and went down through the forest on the other side. The track was barely visible and the mud and rocks incredibly slippery. We all were sliding and stumbling, laughing the entire way. There was something so wonderful about the absurdity of the situation; the misery so great and so shared that it turned into joy and laughter. We arrived in Lokpa peeled off our soaking clothes, emptied our bags of sopping wads of money, books and notebooks, clothes, turned everything out onto the floor and on clothes lines on the balcony. Once done I took a dipper bath and in the process discovered that I had collected 20 additional leeches on my legs. My socks were bloody masses where the parasites limited the clotting blood. I felt disgusting and happy.
There is something so delightful about physical misery. It reorganizes everything. It reduces everything. It reminds you that happiness can come from the simple act of peeling off a bloody, muddy pair of dirty socks, and that tepid water poured over your head can feel like the fanciest spa imaginable.