February 15, 2001 Morning. Spectacular afternoon walkup to this village after my three-hour nap on the top of the cargo truck which took me from Hile to Basantapur. Thick Shaggy viney old rhododendron trees with massive trunks, multicolored house-sized boulders. I was led on through the woods by three young child sprites and spent the night at their parent's home after having my opinion taken of every political word in my dictionary by one of the neighbors. Took a photo of the two sprites in the morning - their names are Ranjana and Anjana Ramesh Dahal.

5 hours later. Now I am on top of a rocky peak with a natural worship altar to both Shivaite and Bhuddist beliefs. The trident (symbol of Shiva) is aimed at the mighty Kanchenjunga Himal on the close horizon – a massive block of white chocolate straddling the border with Sikkim at 8586 Meters. I am trying to determine my bearing using my map and the Suunto World Compass and realize: 1) How inept I am with a compass, really. 2) I need to set the declination on the compass for this part of the world and left the declination key in Kathmandu with the rest of my stuff. 3) How inadequate my map is. 4) I am actually going North instead of Northeast straight at Taplejung and Phidim is no where near Taplejung (despite what all the locals said). I am going farther, in fact, than going straight from Basantapur to Phidim according to the map. Huh? I can see the awe-inspiring hump of Makalu off to my left in the near horizon. I am a lucky man. Just Past Nesun February 16, 2001 Afternoon. Just passed the gorgeous green village of Nesun – bouganvellias, fern, boulders and bamboo. Just fantastic. This has to be the greatest variety of landscapes of any hike so far over this past month. I have been nonstop listening to BBC on my short-wave after hearing a show on a man who learned about Inuit (Eskimo) culture first-hand after leaving in Nunavit (the Canadian territory self-governed by the Inuit) for some years and had the rash thought – is it immoral for me to settle in the Americas since I am of Eurasian stock? Guilt? Last night I slept in Gufa Pokhori (meaning Cave Pond though there is no cave there), walked around the pond and stayed at the hotel of a Sherpa family. Very expensive and the family was stingy with everything - very reluctantly serving me my seconds of Dal Baht. The two American Peace Corps Volunteers who live in the hotel were gone – ironically they left the same way I am going a few days earlier to go on a Yak Counting Survey in the mountains (this is how they have to justify wanting to go hiking for a few days). I will expand my map now. Hmmmm… Gufa Pokhori to Gorja was 3 hours, two more to Nesun, and another 1 hours to Dovun.

Dovun February 17, 2001 Morning. Very cute village before the first bridge. Stayed with Sangarman Shrist (Newari) family - good sag (bitter kale dish). Both of the rivers that join here are very pretty - the Tamur River is too violent to swim in, the Maiwa River looks better for that, and both are clean. Hanging over the village like a bald ogre, Swosinala Danda is a large orange rocky outcrop covered in streamers of hanging vines and vegetation. Last night the temperature was 70 degrees F. Warmest night in Nepal so far. Checkpoint soldiers are sandbagged in with heavily armed constant 24-hour guard. I only have to walk three hours straight uphill to Taplejung District town today. Will leave at my leisure. I am sure that John Canti, the Englishman I met staying with the Rinpoches in Halesi, meant this type of place when he spoke of walking his Eastern Nepal beat as a volunteer doctor 20 years ago. A nice trek would be to fly to Taplejung, dip south here to Nesun and back for a four-day spree of authentic village life. This morning when I wanted fresh milk for my tea I learned about "three teats for me, one for the calf" milking technique. Noon. I am resting in the main town area between the two bridges after a swim and a sock washing in the less turbulent Maiwa River. I am enjoying cups of free Chaang (locally brewed "beer" made from the sourish milky juice of fermented millet grains) and handfuls of Chiura (cooked, beaten flat, then dried rice) complements of some older man who wants to give to the community. No, wait... he died. This is like a cheerful all-town wake and they are insisting that I eat and drink . There is a group of interesting bead-wearing women sitting in front of me who I snapped a shot of. The host tells me they are "Bote" meaning real Tibetan immigrants. The Bote ladies made me one of their corn husk cigarettes when I asked.