17 July, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

In my pockets this morning was a compass, a lighter, insect repellant, bamboo wood balm, a mag-lite, a pen, and 30 or 40 odd rupees. I loved trekking--the dirt-caked pants, warm fleece, clif bars and gatorade--but I love returning home all the more.

We are back--toes and fingers clipped and clean, showered, dried, fed, soon to be rested. Our wet clothes hang under a fan.

Civilization is a wonder. We were trekking for just six days and I completely forgot the joys of modern, normal life. We learned quickly to cope with wet feet and sweat-soaked shirts. It became normal to walk all day. We became familiar with suffering. I think humans are set apart by our incredible tolerance for pain, our adjustment to difficulty and hardship.

And now we return to our home in Pokhara. Tomorrow we return to our home in Kathmandu, the YWAM base. In two weeks we return home to the states. Someday, we'll find our true home in heaven.

Tonight, Sam and I strolled through Pokhara in search of Snickers bars. Once found, the two chocolate bars went down slowly and scrumptiously. We nutted and nougeted our hungry mouths. Daal Baht needs an addendum every once in a while. This was it.

Drew

17 July, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

In my pockets this morning was a compass, a lighter, insect repellant, bamboo wood balm, a mag-lite, a pen, and 30 or 40 odd rupees. I loved trekking--the dirt-caked pants, warm fleece, clif bars and gatorade--but I love returning home all the more.

We are back--toes and fingers clipped and clean, showered, dried, fed, soon to be rested. Our wet clothes hang under a fan.

Civilization is a wonder. We were trekking for just six days and I completely forgot the joys of modern, normal life. We learned quickly to cope with wet feet and sweat-soaked shirts. It became normal to walk all day. We became familiar with suffering. I think humans are set apart by our incredible tolerance for pain, our adjustment to difficulty and hardship.

And now we return to our home in Pokhara. Tomorrow we return to our home in Kathmandu, the YWAM base. In two weeks we return home to the states. Someday, we'll find our true home in heaven.

Tonight, Sam and I strolled through Pokhara in search of Snickers bars. Once found, the two chocolate bars went down slowly and scrumptiously. We nutted and nougeted our hungry mouths. Daal Baht needs an addendum every once in a while. This was it.

Drew

Action-Man, 16 July, Chhomrong, Nepal

Tonight we are lodged at Lucky Guest House on the hillside of the Himalayan village Chhomrong. A few days ago, we passed through Chhomrong on our way to Annapurna Base Camp and at the time it seemd to me like just another remote Himalayan outpost.

But tonight, as we began to climb up to Chhomrong on the top of the hill, this remote Himalayan outpost seemed like a city. Chhomrong is a vital center for the mountain villages beyond. Horses and mules bear goods to Chhomrong, but from here the path is too rugged for the beasts of burden. After Chhomrong it's all manpower. Men and women wear big wicker baskets on their backs, pronounced 'dohkos,' like dirty clothes hampers, held by a tight strap over their heads. The porters strain under heavy loads. The stone staircases and paths are the roads of these Himalayan mountains. They were "layed by our ancestors, a thousand years ago," our fluent innkeeper told me last night. What a feat to hew and drag those blocks and boulders into position. But how much greater a feat are our American roads! If the Himalayas were in America, we would build wide, two-lane highways all the way to Annapurna Base Camp at 4130 meters.

Yes, Chhomrong seems very luxurious tonight. Electricity runs through power lines along Chhomrong's main road. We have light and lightswitches and a hot shower tonight, which was very meager. We look ahead to a full flowing stream of hot water from the showerhead in America. Up from the river, the main staircase with stone railing passes handsome rice paddies and a general store and stables and residential areas. Down there on the banks of the river is Chhomrong the nether and we are in upper Chhmorong. The city stretches from the bottom of the hill to the top. We have walked more than ten miles today. Drew and I wanted to push on to Jhinu, where there are hot springs, but Yogya persuaded us to stop here. Our feet and legs are sore. I see the light of the kitchen and hear the flame of the burners and a knife chopping. Tonight, Drew and I are gonna have some spaghetti, a rare break from Nepalese food.

Sam

15 July, Color-Man, Annapurna Base Camp

Chapter 53 of Moby Dick talks about stranger whaling ships meeting in the middle of the barren ocean. The two ships "cannot well avoid a mutual salutation," Herman Melville writes. "How natural that they should not only interchange hails, but come into still closer more friendly and sociable contact." This was especially true for sociable whalers, "For not only would they meet with all the sympathies of a sailor, but likewise with all the peculiar congenialites arising from a common pursuit, and mutually shared privations and perils."

And so it is with the world traveler! How could the European or North American, my kinsmen according to the flesh, not stop and greet us on the streets of Kathmandu or in a remote Indian village. These are the uttermost parts of the earth. Difference of country should not make much difference, so long as the two speak the same language. Yet, time after time, eager, I am turned away by reserved suspecting looks.

Tourists are everywhere, even in the Himalayas. But for me, backpackers draw the most attention. The first thing I notice is their gear. I look at bags, most of which are twice as big as mine with fancy cords and straps and cushions and sleeping bags. In Italy, I remember marveling at one boy from Finland with his solid pack and his ablutions bag. I look at the backpackers' shoes and socks and sunglasses and wristwatches. The ferry to Greece was full of young backpackers. I saw their dry, folded bath towels and blankets and big plates of food. Most of them seemed to have more spending money than us.

Now we are among trekkers, the backpackers of the Himalayas. We are snuggled in a cozy lodge beneath the Annapurna Range. This is Annapurna base camp, 4130 meters above sea level, much touted, much prized. A Canadian, a woman from France and a man from England showed up at about five o'clock and Drew turned to me, "They probably have loads of money. They'll get a heater...buckets of hot water for 50 rupees...and treats." Sure enough, they got those things and pulled on their dry wool socks.

Sam

14 July, Color-Man, Deurali, Nepal

Four days of trekking in the Himalayas has brought out the savage in me. Yet not like Ishmael in Moby Dick who says, "Long exile from Christendom and civilization restores a man to that condition in which God placed him, i.e. what is called savagery. Your true whale-hunter is as mch a savage as an Iroquois."

At lunch and supper, after hours of walking, I sink my fingers into rice and daal and stuff it in my mouth with hands, like a famished oger. Eaters of daal baht sound like horses--the moist rice like mire under hoof, the smacking lips and groans like a horse chewing oats. All in all, Solomon's wisdom is just right for this trek, "There is nothing better for a man than to eat and drink and find joy in his labor."

The water is too cold for showers and I choose comfort in the evenings over cleanliness. My long fingernails are full of dirt. Wet clothes do not dry in this cold, wet mountain air. Damp things are soaked by morning. Dry things don't stay dry. I have a black trash bag full of goodies-- bandaids and cotton for cuts and a sweat shirt and one pair of socks, both dirty but dry.

Drew, Yogya and I walk in single file: Yogya sets an expert pace on the ascent. Drew and I rotate between middle and last position. We keep our raincoats near--Drew in black, Yogya in yellow, me in blue. Yogya has thick, sure, hobbit feet. Drew has hobbit hair and Tintin shoes and socks. We race across puddles and liquid paths and stepping stones over waterfalls. Packs of horses, heavy laden, bear down on the trail with cows and sheep, leaving big droppings.

The sun crept up on us the first day and ripened my skin. Then the cold shriveled my fingers and toes. Frail integument! Our second day was full of alarm at leeches. We filled our shoes three times with salt and kept an eye on each other's calves and shoes. " The leech has two daughters," the BIble says, "Give and give, they cry." They grasp our bags from wet branches and say to each other as we approach, "Let us lie in wait for blood; let us ambush the innocent with out reason."

Sam

Action-Man, 14 July, Deurali, Nepal

Deurali is the first village on this trek into the Himalayas. Tonight, we are gathered at our lodge around a big dining room table. Next to me the innkeeper is playing cards with a boy. There is little separation between management and customers up here. On the other side of the table, Drew is reading. The wooden table between us is huge with a heavy carpet skirt. Drew just pulled on some long brown socks, dry from last night's kerosene fire in Sinuwa. Yogya is stretched out next to Drew, flipping through a thumb-worn magazine.

It's cold in this room. The price of daal baht rises as the temperature falls in these vast altitudes. We didn't buy lunch today, because we couldn't find anybody in the last village. But I had a tin of sardines and tuna in my bag. Yogya cut open the tuna with his knife. And prudent Drew unpacked Clif bars and beef jerkey from America. We are looking forward to dinner.

Across from me is a mural entitled, "Our Local Wild Life." It shows creatures that we in Iowa and North Carolina only see in our dreams--the satyr tragopan, a red, speckled bird, and its next of kin, the Himalayan monal impeyan. A fierce snow leopard prowls in the forgeround and above is its prey--the yak-like Himalayan thar and the musk deer. The last animal is the langur, an elderly primate with a rim of frizzy white hair around its head.

I do wish there were a roaring fire and big logs and a soft hearth-rug in the corner. It's so cold and wet. My numb fingertips are white and yellow. Drew and I both have bad circulation in our hands. But I am glad to be inside as the rain picks up, as the mountain torrents rush and break against the rocks.

Here at 3200 meters above sea level, I have unanswered questions. How do these villagers get around so easily? What are their methods of trekking? How do they get water filters and crates of Fanta and heavy ceramic toilet seats all the way up here? Are the hoofs of horses agile enough for the steep rocks?

Sam

12 July, Color-Man, Ghondruk, Nepal

Somehow, here in Ghodruk village, 2000 meters up in the lonely Himalayas, they have a TV. Yogya is glued to it as Nepali popstars sing in open fields and dance in fashionable clothes. I thought it was strange when Seinfeld showed up on the network in Pokhara. It just gets weirder. Where in the world can you escape American culture?

In a lot of ways I hate TV. I hate the distraction it provides for millions of people, keeping them from real life. I hate the fact that as I sit here with the Himalayas on my right and a TV on my left, I find myself looking at the TV.

The one thing that man fears more than anything else, says Blaise Pascal, is that he would be left alone in his room to think. Simplify, simplify, says Thoreau. Why can't we do it? Why do Americans lead the pack in creating distractions? It's because they have the money and the culture. So distract, distract, till the end of the world.

Distractions are the devil's greatest ploy. Millions delay the time when they will sit down and decide what it is that they believe. They run after everything. "They are destroyed for lack of knowledge," says Hosea. They don't know what will satisfy them. Linger, linger, whispers the devil, and then it is too late.

Christ calls us to wake up. It's like Plato's cave. Life is even more fascinating if we turn from shadows on the wall to see real, flesh and blood figures, walking in the broad daylight.

But it takes steadfastness to keep looking for reality. Distractions are easy. It is hard to remain amazed with clouds rolling over mountains. We let our wonder grow old, until it dies and we need to replace it with something else. TV is just one road that leads people towards apathetic lives.

Meanwhile, the Nepalis are watching an elf on the screen with neon green eyes warp children magically into fantastical lands.

Drew

12 July 2006, Action-Man, Kimche, Nepal

The eagle looks down and laughs as we toil up the hill. It's a thousand-meter climb today, from Nayapul to Ghondruk. Thousands of stony steps snake up through hundreds of rice terraces. The local women descend the steps from their mountain villages to the markets below, then carry everything back up again in baskets with cloth straps, resting the weight on their heads. Children with runny noses clamber down the rocks in bare feet.

It rained hard this morning. We taxied to Nayapul, a small village where the road into the mountains ends. We began our trek to Annapurna Base Camp under the downpour. Midmorning we stopped in the gorge for daal baht (rice and lentils) and raksi (a local drink that warms the bones). Now we are stopped in Kimche, over half-way up. The sun breaks through the clouds now. A strange wind lifts them off the mountains like someone whisking a handkerchief off a covered dish.

The guesthouse owner here has a wall of painted flags. They represent the homelands of climbers who have made it this far. They are old--among them are East and West Germany and Zaire. He sips milk tea and chats with our friend Yogya, looking out over the deep valley.

The mountain springs gush forth water down through the stony paths. The monsoon season is in full swing. We'll keep hoping for patches of light.

Drew

10 July, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

Even in these modern days of 2006, some countries still preserve many ghostly remnants of the distant past. Insulated and unalterable Nepal is one of those countries.

Through my window, I see a rice field. A yoke of black oxen are dragging a plow through knee-deep mud. The farmer is standing on the plow, prodding and steering. The oxen shuffle back and forth and the mud becomes liquid. In the next paddy are four women, hunched over, each with a sheaf of green sprouts in hand. They draw their red frocks up to their knees and bend over to stick the sprouts in the gorund. Meanwhile, the farmer goes on scolding and driving the beasts as he prepares the ground for the planters.

I think Nepal is primitive. Yet, what is the definition of primitive? That's the question the doctor on the airplane asked. Who is to say that we rich Americans have it better? Nepalese people seem happy and content with their way of life. Is Western prosperity the ultmiate goal for a nation like Nepal?

Perhaps, Nepal will benefit from the economic boom of its giant neighbors China and India. God's blessings brings wealth. But his blessing is more than material. Pray, pray that America would not forget or exchange the inward blessings of joy and spiritual life for money. Christians all over the world are praying for us to turn to God. The world is watching America; what a witness that would be for the leader of the world to stand for God!

Sam

10 July 2006, Color-Man, Pokhara, Nepal

I listened to a man on a flight to India say some things that ticked me off. He was adamently against "nationalistic flag-waving," countries having boundaries, and all forms of foreign occupation. He said that no occupation had ever benefitted the occupied (i.e. Britain in India, the U.S. in Iraq). He was an elegant speaker and knew his history facts. In fact, he even had his Ph.D. But he beat around the bush in our conversation.

Sam brought up British and French occupation of West Africa. "How did that help?" asked the doctor. "Well," said Sam, "those countries were primitive..." The Indian interrupted. "What's your definition of primitive? That's just your perspective. Did the Africans really need that help?" But he never really let us answer.

I'd like to answer him now. Those countries were primitive. The West is better in many ways. The people who argue about American imperialism are, in fact, often enjoying the benefits of Western civilization. The Indian Ph.D. was a democratic thinker arguing, in English, against the effects of democracy. Ironically, those who hate the West often flee to it. I've listened to immigrants to the U.S trash our government. But they love our culture and opportunities. Somehow, to them, those two are disconnected. They'll eat up our language and books and movies and music, but despise the hand that makes these all possible.

The world needs America. It's kind of like Superman; the world hates him because he makes them dependent. But if he were to disappear they'd all cry out for a new savior. America extends its graces to hundreds of countries that need our help. We have the sanitation and medicine and language and technology that everyone else wants. Most importantly, we have a vibrant church family that is spread across the world in missions. AIDS-ridden Africa needs that. They are primitive, and are suffering for it. Overcrowded, poverty-stricken Asia needs that, in many places. Look at the Western influence on South Korea. Look at their technology and booming churches. Look at the mere fact that they have power and hot water. That's more than their neighbors to the north can boast.

America's pride could kill her. But who else would we have leading the world? I'm tired of people being thankless for America. I love hot showers, and even Walmart. I love clean food and filtered water. I love the U.S . Army. I love freedom of speech. I love Johnny Cash and the American Revolution and sweet tea. Maybe I've just been in a blackout country too long, but I must not be alone. Why have millions left their homelands to go to the States? Why do they still? There must be something to the land of the free.

Drew

9 July, Action-Man, Kathmandu

Mountains surround Kahtmandu on all sides. Huge clouds and thick fog settle and shift on the peaks The city itself reminds me of a West African capital--busy, dirty and struggling. But Kathmandu is cooler than West Africa and the green mountains give it inviting warmth. And the Hindu shrines and priests and Brahmin priestesses in red provide color. But brick, I think, adds the most to this city. Huge, cone-shaped brick kilns tower in the valleys and piles of clay bricks everywhere wait to give a classy exterior look to shoddy concrete buildings.

Kathmandu is also full of alcohol advertisements, painted on the walls of houses and shops. These beers appear: San Miguel, Tuborg Gold, Iceberg, Tiger, and Oranjeboom. And I see these whiskeys with their mottos: Bagppiper ("Nepals' largest , world's no. 3), Kingfisher Premium ("King of good times") Playboy ("Play safe, drink safe"), and Gill Marry ("More joy, more happiness"), Caravan ("A good friend in hard times").

Kathmandu is dirty, too. Cows roam and defecate. Temple goats and wild monkeys and dogs make their own mess. But the real culprits are humans, littering and spitting and urinating in public spaces. Humans neglect sewage and water drainage, road and building maintenance. Humans neglect the cows and dogs. I know what Paul meant when he wrote, "Creation waits with eager longing for the sons of God to be revealed?" Creation is eagerly waiting for people to step up, take care of it and cherish it. Its greatest hope for good stewardship is in the sons of God. And we are the children of God.

Finally, yesterday, Yogya led us to a Buddhist temple. On both sides of a dirty river were shrines and idols. All the worshippers had gloomy faces. Families burned the bodies of loved ones on pyres by the river. I saw feet and heads through the flames and logs. Nearby, monkeys gathered and quarreled. They're nasty animals! They pick at each others' orifices and gnaw each others' tails. I saw a melon fall from the top of a tall tree. When it hit the ground, it burst. The monkeys screamed and feverishly took pieces for themselves betweeen their little fingers. What an insult to say that we came from such brutes!

Sam

8 July 2006, Action-Man, Kathmandu

As I write, our friend Pusa is busy in the kitchen. The ladies here at the YWAM base are unstoppable. They sing as they work. Across from me, a lady named Sabina feeds her children. They hungrily share a breakfast of bread and milk tea. Like all kids, they bicker. But mostly, they share. Adurs is seven. He dips his bread in his tea. Sundes is five. He scampers around barefoot and throws crumbs to the dogs under the table. Ayusa, baby of the three, watches me as she sucks up tea in her 18-month-old way--lips pursed and bobbing back and forth. Her big brothers take good care of her. When she was just one month in the womb, the Maoists killed her father. They attacked his bus as he rode to a gathering of Christians in the outlying villages of Kathmandu. Everyone here at the base speaks well of him; he was a mover and a shaker in the community. Sabina pointed to her side as she told me the story: "They hit him here with...grenade, because he was Christian." She abounds in joy most of the time, but tears well up as she remembers. Yet she remains strong. And she has a family of young Christians here at the base who love and care for her children.

Now they've trapped a bird in the room. They chased it around as it crashed into clear windows, weakening with every hit. Finally, one of them caught it behind a curtain and grasped it with two hands. A successful hunt! Dinner, perhaps?

Drew

8 July 2006, Action-Man, Kathmandu

Yesterday, Yogya (our Nepali guide and friend), Drew and I were walking in Kathmandu, when I noticed a big white gate and crowds and music on the other side. Yogya said that it was the front gate to the king's palace, and since it was the king's birthday, the people had come to honor him. We asked a police officer if we might see the king. We could, but like everyone else we needed a flower for his majesty. It was drizzling and there was no place to buy flowers.

At that moment, a woman offered me flowers. So I took them and passed through the gate and a metal detector and found my place in the long line of people. The king provided his waiting birthday guests with tents for shelter from the rain and tables with cups and drinking water. Some guys had the gumption to pick the king's flowers and to throw their plastic cup on his pavement.

The rain picked up and everyone dispersed for shelter. We huddled under some trees, where I could hear the music of bagpipers and drums. The drummer kept a steady, but pleasant beat with the bagpipes. When the rain stopped, everyone crammed into new lines to see the king. I was packed between thick Yogya and a short Nepali man, who gave me some evergreen sprigs to boost my meager bouquet. Farther back in the line, Drew and I noticed a tall man with red hair and freckles and a baseball cap, an unmistakeable American.

Finally, an usher let our line through. We walked ahead and faced the front of the palace. The walls are high and pink stucco. Near the entrance is a tower with pipes like a huge church organ. Four black statues sit on the wide stone staircase leading to the entrance. First, on the bottom stair, is a a big catfish, and second a horse with its front hoofs in the air, and third an elephant, and fourth a tiger-god. The four huge front doors are engraved with images of Buddha and swastikas,

There were soldiers in camouflage and officers in dark green and ushers in gray. Two bands played--one with bagpipes and the other with brass. Gold and black bands criss-crossed the tromboners' chests. Shining medals marked their shoulders and red clasps held their collars.

Then our line turned toward the king. A soldier with a stoic face pointed us towards the king's table. The soldier had a pistol and other leather holsters. I caught sight of the glinting hilt of a curved Gurkha knife. Our line passed quickly before the king and my turn was coming up. In half a second, I deposited my flowers on the table, folded my hands and bowed to the king. Sadness, or maybe loneliness, disfigured his face. I went my way and the line continued. But when I looked back, the king was looking at me.

Sam

7 July 2006, Action-Man, Kathmandu

The king of Nepal is a sad, sad man. In the past three months he has lost his kingdom and all his power. The Nepalese people wanted freedom and democracy; he wanted otherwise. The people won out. They rallied in the capital streets in April and May--thousands of them. I can see why they won out because today I stood in those same crowded streets and felt the pushing and shoving of these small but powerful people. They will have their way. They had had enough war, so they rose up together against it. And when an entire people revolts, what can the government do? Their own heart is against them. Today I watched the royal guards' futile attempts to organize the crowds into lines at the king's palace. Strangely enough, the people came out to see him on his birthday, bearing flowers. Though they've stripped him of his power, they still regard him as a figure. I suspect, though, that even that will be taken from him soon enough.

I, too, gathered in the lines to see the king outside his palace. Yogya and I had no flowers to present when we entered his courts, so we swindled a few out of some young girls in exchange for coconut cookies. Then we picked more from the king's own garden to complete our bouquets. When I bowed and delivered my gift, he seemed to be having the worst birthday of his life. The drooping pile of flowers before him was wet from the rain. A long line still waited to greet him late into the afternoon. What a sad, sad, man.

Before we saw the king, Yogya took us through the Hindu temples in Durbar Square. Prayer wheels spun and incense burned. Goats waited for the slaughter. Nepal alone hosts 33 million of the Hindu gods, and the pantheon must be pleased by sacrifice.

After he took us through his country's temples, we took him to ours--the cinema. Superman was showing near the palace for 175 rupees. That's a high price for most Nepalis (about three bucks), so you'll find only the most elite at the theaters. When we stepped in, apart from bits of Nepalese chatter, we had entered the West again. During the movie I completely lost my sense of place. We ate popcorn and downed cokes. We watched Clark Kent save Lois Lane and New York City, all in English. But when the doors opened at the end, we entered eastern streets again, grit and cows and all. We ate daal baht (rice and lentils) and momos (dumplings)--Nepal again.

Drew

Thoughts after the Middle East

In Mafraq, Jordan at the hospital where Aunt Collyn Schmidt worked, an old Christian couple hosted us for the afternoon. The husband was born in the West Bank, and we pummeled him with questions. "Why is the West Bank talked about so much and why is it shaded differently on the map?" I asked, simply. He smiled and said, "That's a hard question." He told us about spending joyful Christmases as a boy in Bethlehem in the Palestian West Bank. All the hotels would be full, he said, so European and American children would pile into his house. Now, he said, nobody wants to visit the West Bank.

He went on: the peace and prosperity of the Middle East depend on Israel. Israel is give up the West bank. That would solve most problems, he said. As for the war in Iraq, he warned us, it won't end soon, so long as America supports Israel. Eagerly I asked about the fall of Islam, and he assured me, "It will fall soon, like Communism fell--maybe in the next ten or twenty years."

Certainly, the mindset of Muslims is changing. People are tired of Islam's restrictions, and they want to be rich and free. Also, the West's relativism makes Muslims more tolerant of all religions. MTV lures the youth away from radicalism. Terrorism, one pastor told me, is only a reaction of fear against the encroaching West.

But Drew objected to the old man's comparison. Islam isn't like Communism, he said. It's older and deeper. And Islam is religious in a way that Communism never was, and that makes its roots go deep. Millions of people set their whole lives on Islam; it is an empire of hearts and minds. Yes, Islam's roots are deep like the roots of an old oak tree, but Christians all over the world are praying for it to fall. One day it will.

Sam