The night air was hot stepping off the plane at the Kathmandu International Airport. My luggage was lost, (which I was not surprised to learn was a common occurrence). I was told to lie and say that I was there on vacation instead of charity work. Both were equally true, but I had been tipped off that a luxury pass would be cheaper and involve less scrutiny from customs officials.

I was directed out to a line of taxis, and I watched a monkey drink a Sprite out of the trash like a seasoned vet. The rally car took me to a hostel in the heart of the city. It was obvious that my skim-milk ass was heading for the tourist district. The people were lovely, and my bag was promptly returned to me the next day. I had a few days to wander the city before I claimed my ticket for the mountains.

Don’t eat Nepalese pizza: it just makes you yearn for the real thing. Kathmandu is one of the longest-inhabited cities in human history, and it shows in the best way. English was widely spoken, and I was aware of basic customs, so I’d like to think I didn’t make a complete ass of myself. I did some Christmas shopping. Haggling is fairly commonplace, and I’m sure I underpaid for some knockoff Oakley sunglasses and overpaid for prayer flags by local standards. You’d pay four times the cost at some Southern California yoga studio. “The worst thing about San Diego is that LA found out about it.”

The next day I arrived at the Kathmandu “bus park” with directions to head to the village of Thulo Pakhar. One man looked at me curiously when I mentioned the name. The only reason some white boy is heading up to the mountains is to take a crack at Everest, and the Sindhupalchowk District is a good shot away from base camp, but I suppose another man knew of the charity. He must have explained it to him in either Hindi or Nepali. The curious man gave a knowing nod. The earthquakes had destroyed a fair amount of schools, and I figured helping build one was as good enough of an excuse for a vacation as anything else.

The bus ride from Kathmandu was packed full. It took hours of rocking back and forth to travel less than one hundred miles, but it was amazing. I didn’t even care to hear that a bus would go over the side of some ledge once a week. You’ve gotta pay to play.

The driver and everyone else on the bus knew exactly what my stop was. There was no other reason for a guy like me to be hitching a ride. They thanked me as I departed. I will always love the Nepalese people for their demure but proud demeanor, but the people of the mountains are of a different breed.

I stepped off the bus to a ramshackle convenience store. The building was made of corrugated metal, but then I was immediately informed of the wi-fi password as I bought a coke and a candy bar. I was told that the work camp was just up the hill. The technological whiplash of internet without indoor plumbing.

The sun was setting as I walked down into the camp. Everyone else must have just gotten back from work. I checked in and found my tent site. I set up the bivouac (bivvy) bag I had used during my hike on the Appalachian trail and walked back to headquarters. It was like stepping into the rowdiest UN meeting ever conceived. There was a dance party breaking out, which I would come to understand was a daily occurrence.

I learned a few names and sat back, knowing I had established zero credibility.

I was approached by an Australian woman (my own personal kryptonite) who cracked a beer for me on the corner of a table and introduced herself. We spoke. She had been in-country for some time.

She asked to dance. I soon learned how the camp and work schedule functioned. I made enough friends to walk down to the Nepalese 7-11 for supplies. I met a pair of English boys who were there backpacking together. They were fresh off the bus as well. Proper well good lads, still miss those guys.

The next day we paired off in different trucks to the two job sites at play. Nepal needed schools because many fathers were off working in another country while the mothers tended to the family farm. This left the children without general care or education. I was told in passing that one does not need a passport to cross from Nepal to India, making human trafficking a very simple and lucrative endeavor.

We were so high up in the mountains that shipping heavy equipment was nearly impossible, so the vast majority of work was done by hand. There was a cement mixer, but it had broken long before my arrival. I was not in-country nearly as long as some of the others. There was a Welsh builder who had gained the love of all of the Nepalese (a well good proper lad).

The Australians and English worked well, as did the Americans and the occasional Canadian. The Irish worked well and were always good for a bit of banter. The French were… interesting. The charity was also training local Nepalese to be masons. They are a modest but strong people, equipped with the kind of stoic toughness that comes from a life that knows no other way. The national saying of Nepal amounts to “what can you do?” They are a people experienced in picking up and moving on after calamity.

I would run after work, and it became a local fascination. I was a curiosity. I would rip down the hill from our campsite like a wild mustang on open plane. The air was thin, but I was acclimated by then. The area is called “the roof of the world”, and I understand why. I would pass by houses and people would yell and yip at me. I would scream and howl back. Sometimes the kids would run out and chase me. Some would laugh and lose interest quickly. But then you could see the fire in certain eyes. Sherpa blood. Sherpa blood will never die.

The job was hard. The concrete was mixed with hand tools. The work on the school was difficult but predictable, a glowing testament to our managers and workers, but it took its toll. Some were bused out to hospital. The pieces of half-mixed concrete found their way into my gloves and boots, like shards of glass. The lacerations mounted up. I spent a day off entirely in a hammock. My boy from Miami said, “you needed that shit”. A lovely woman from Sweden offered her bed in the bunkhouse while she took a tent from someone who had just left the camp.

I healed up and went back to work. One of the schools was nearing completion. The Nepalese men and women who were training as masons would come into camp once a week to have dinner with us. Another disco started up, but I generally liked playing cards with the boys between songs. The Nepalese and I spoke of sports and my running. Cricket is the only sport I still don’t fully understand (but up Liverpool, “you’ll never walk alone”).

A French woman came up to ask me for a light. It was always a good idea to keep a lighter on you. You never know when it might come in handy.

“And then you come dance?”

“Yeah, maybe later.”

I returned to the card game.

There was an infamous hike down into one of the worksites. The Chamuna Trail. Supposedly some semi-professional triathlete had set the record for racing back up it. If I ever meet the man, I’ll buy him a beer and tell him to go fuck himself. I gave it a shot one day along with a French ski instructor. I missed the mark by a second and change. I collapsed on the ground, heaving and presenting my stopwatch. I promptly vomited next to the truck that was to take us back to camp. The locals asked if I was sick.

“He ran the hill.” Someone replied.

They immediately understood. I was in a daze as we drove back. The burning lava fields of Hawaii were more painful, but the Chamuna Trail was a close second.

One of the men jammed a finger into my sternum and growled into my ear “Sherpa blood.” We clanked beers at camp later that night, and I hugged him for the compliment. The Nepali name for Mount Everest is Sagarmatha. Goddess of the Sky. The Mother of All. I felt anointed by the roof of the world.

I worked the Chamuna site a few days later. They brought us flowers. We were on break, and I was collapsed on the floor in the shade. The summer in Nepal is like a tropical Colorado, in both climate and scenery. The little girls recognized me by my aviator sunglasses and Philadelphia Eagles hat I would run in. People were passing out flowers, but the children formed a line in front of me.

Most were eager, but some were terrified, all but throwing their handfuls of wildflowers into my lap. I was that wild beast their fathers had some reason to run out of the house to yip and cheer at as I passed by, urging the pitbull through the final unforgiving minute of the last round. I ran far harder than I should have many of those days.

“Dhanyabad! Dhanyabad! Dhanyabad!”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

I put the flowers in my hard hat as a set of Australian boots arrived next to mine.

“I’m not crying. You’re crying. Shut up.”

“They love you.”

“I think I’m more of a zoo exhibit.”

“No. They love you.”

Right back atchas Nepal.

I tried to keep those flowers for as long as I could, but it was futile. This is not a place for delicate things.

It was time to leave the mountains. Everyone who leaves gets to say a few words. I broke out the line about being invited to the rowdiest UN meeting. I don’t mind saying I stuck the landing. I climbed the hill and waited at the bus stop with my pair of proper well-good lads. We boarded the bus. I’m still upset that I lost the video of our bus rocking side to side on the journey back to Kathmandu.

My first time in the city I knew how to not be an asshole. Now I knew how to blend in. I was flattered when I stopped getting the white boy’s price for things, and I then knew not to eat the pizza. Lovely people. Terrible food. If you’re ever in Nepal, go to the Everest Bar. I promise you’ll have a good time.

The boys and I bought Dhaka topis. It’s a very simple hat, but we were educated on the subtle ways to wear it properly. University students on gap year will slap it on their head, but wearing it right will infer a level of respect for Nepali culture. You will legitimately score street cred just for learning which side the seam goes on and how far up to wear it on your brow.

I took a rickshaw to the airport. There was a funeral pyre burning by the river. My flight to the UAE was delayed a bit, but it gave me time for a nap. As I approached the security checkpoint the guard politely asked if he could remove my topi. It’s an important cultural symbol. I agreed as he cautiously removed it and patted down the rest of my body. Luckily he had no use for the M4 slung across his back. The flight to Dubai was filled with myself and Nepalese gentlemen traveling for work. It was sparsely populated, and many of us were able to sleep stretched across an entire row of seats. Sure beats a bivvy bag.

It was the start of Ramadan in the Middle East, meaning that observant Muslims would fast during the day. Good luck getting a cheeseburger past sunset. Between the jetlag and malnutrition, it passed in a blur. I wish I could have seen Dubai from more than just the air.

Touchdown in New York City. JFK airport was a situation. I was once again a stranger in a strange land, but I treated myself to a steak. People asked me where I’d been. My boots still had Nepali dirt on them, and I was wearing my trusty keffiyeh. I had bought it for the AT, and it proved itself again in Central Asia. I was hot with it draped around my neck, but the truth is that I just didn’t have any more room in my pack.

I got back to San Diego in the middle of the night, but the time of day was of no consequence at this point, and I lived within walking distance of the airport (love youse OB). I woke. I didn’t have any sailing lessons to teach for the next couple of days. My friend asked me “what are you going to do today?”

“I’m going surfing”.

I love you Nepal, and I hope it’s not the last time I ever see you, but I really wish you had more beaches.