Ocean of Milk 1

                         “Pure heart is compared to the Himalayas, to the ocean of Milk, to a
                           chariot for the Divine.”
                                                                                                   Sri Sathya Sai Baba


Every culture has its legend of the origin of the species. In the Hindu creation myth, the nectar of immortal life came out of the churning of a cosmic Ocean of Milk. Gods and demons had each taken opposite ends of a gigantic serpent, wound him around Mandara Mountain, and pulled him back and forth in opposite directions, like a cosmic blender making a cosmic milkshake. The tug-of-war lasted a thousand years. When the milk ocean finally began to froth, the giant snake vomited a terrible poison, threatening to contaminate the sea of life. Shiva rushed to swallow it, but his consort, Pavarti, ran to choke him. Shiva’s throat turned blue forever. The Physician of the Gods, Dhanvantari, finally emerged from the Milky Way with a bowl containing the semen souply elixir, accompanied by the moon, Goddesses of Fortune, Misfortune, and Alcohol, a bevy of Apsara nymphs, a wish-granting divine cow, a white elephant, a divine 7-headed horse, the most valuable jewel in the world, holy basil, night-flowering jasmine (with blossoms that never faded or wilted), a powerful bow, a conch, an umbrella, a pair of earrings, and sloth. It must have been quite a party.
Our own rediscovery of immortal life began only after most other things had stopped churning. The Goddesses of Misfortune had become more fortunate, the Physician of the Gods had bought tickets on the chariot of the divine, and the moon faded behind us as approached the sharply rising mountains of the widening Seti Gandaki valley.
Until the completion of the Siddhartha highway, fifteen years before our bus pulled alongside the Phewa Tal shoreline, the two hundred kilometer trip to Pokhara had been only accessible by foot and mule caravan. It was still that beautiful green subtropical idyll when we arrived.
In no other place on Earth did mountains rise so quickly, from the bottomless canyons that the river had dug into the valley floor. Inside of thirty kilometers, the elevation soared from a thousand meters over seven times higher. With this sharp rise in altitude came four thousand millimeters of rainfall every year. Our year was no exception. It would be five days before the sky opened a hole big enough for us to walk through. Robyn and Julie and I walked our packs through an ocean of milk, looking for the Garden Guesthouse, another recommendation from Smiling Steve.
Finally, down a long muddy path, we found our family. The short Sherpa father sitting under the banana tree, wore a tall Dhaka topi cap, and a perpetual sunbeam, between his wingnut ears. Mother was thin and elegant with white dress and stone necklace, blue cummerbund, and a vermilion bindi to match her carmine shawl. She walked on air. Her four little girls smeared their own blood red dots on each other’s foreheads, as they flew by each other on their homemade swing set. Robyn helped bathe their baby brother in an aluminum bowl. We asked the name of their mongrel puppy.
“Dog.” Papa Wingnut replied. We called him ‘Rabies.’ As the drizzle turned to deluge, we piled further inside our rough brick and thatch lodging. Smiles and plates of dal bhat appeared under the eaves.
The next four days ran watercolors. We took guest house bikes uphill into town to cash travelers cheques, to pay for our trekking permits and gear. I bought a sweater, hat, gloves and socks, and rented boots and a compass. We met Thomas again without Tim, but with a new friend named Reine. We played chess over cake in the Babu, buffalo steak in the Cuckoo, and lemon meringue pie in the Swiss restaurants. But then we found Hungry Eye coconut pie, and our rainy day tournaments became serious. In the evening I played scrabble with the girls in the cozy comfort of our room at the Garden. On the 12th of October the downpour finally stopped, but it was too late in the day to start. Not so the next morning, though. Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains.
Robyn was already up and packing at 5:30 am. Papa Wingnut had brought us a quick coffee, and we caught a slow bus to Dumre, where we forded the Nahala Khola, our first river of the trek.
“Namaste.” Rang out across the rice paddies, as we passed Newari smiles and hands folded in prayer. It was hard to maintain our balance and a consistent forward momentum with our loaded packs, on the hot mud paths between the wet terraces, especially when the Himalayan foothill backdrop wouldn’t let go of our eyes. We passed long thatched houses with covered annexes of stacked firewood. There were baskets everywhere.
Fluffy clouds and crisp-angled sunshine floated over green fountains of bamboo, mango and banana trees, and sal forest. A homemade ferris wheel hung ripe with kids. Mammoth banyan and pipal trees watched us from the side of the trail, offering occasional shade.
Our arrival in Turture, mid-afternoon, was drenched with sweat. We found the owner of the Nirjala Hotel, who opened up a dark crooked wooden room. I don’t know why we put our lock on the door, you could walk around the frame, but it made us feel more secure. We asked for a menu at the Beauty Hotel restaurant, up the stone path.
“Dal bhat.” He said. It was a geological epiphany. We had crossed the lemon meringue faultline. Across from us sat a Manchu moustache with coke bottle glasses, rolling a cigarette. He slid his tongue along it like he was playing a harmonica, and, firing up, exhaled with an extended hand.
“John.” He said. “Thunder Bay.”
“Wink.” I replied, shaking it. “Kenora.” We nodded like Northwestern Ontarians do, at snowmelt. We were going to travel together.
A group of five Israelis hunched over their diaries kitty-corner, clearing their throats like it was a form of speech. The tall thin one had been watching John and I, and started a conversation.
“Where are you staying tomorrow?” He asked.
“Dunno.” I said.
“You don’t know?” He asked, like Israeli’s ask when they’re not quite sure they heard right. “Why don’t you know?” He pulled his glasses down a bit.
“Do you know?” I asked.
“Of course I know.” He said, surprised I didn’t know he knew. And told me where they would stay. Of course.
“Where are you staying the day after?” He asked.
“Dunno.” I said.
“How can you not know?” He asked.
“How can you know?” I asked back. He told me they had this notebook, you see. From an Israeli friend who had just done the trek. Who wrote down the best place to stay in each village, on the twenty-day hike around the Annapurna Circuit. I told him I didn’t believe him. He showed me, but only for a moment.
My mother always boasted of my photographic memory.