Small Wonders:

As different as people and traditions are around the world, sometimes it’s the similarities that sneak up on us and surprise us the most.

For three days and three nights I’d been stuck in this village, a day’s hike from the airfield, a week away from Kathmandu and ages from home.

Centuries old, Dunai sits at the crossroads of several primary trekking routes in the lower Dolpo region of Nepal, a frontier land reachable only by plane. The only highways are dirt roads, the only traffic infrequent trekkers, beastly yaks and brilliantly ordained cows. The freezing, jade-hued glacial waters of the Bheri River carve this deeply cut Himalayan valley, and I cannot leave here until my Sherpa feels the autumn weather is right for us to move on.

I’m the only Westerner staying at our lodge, the Blue Sheep Hotel. Though the accommodations are far too rustic to really be considered a hotel, it’s the nicest place I’ll see for weeks to come. I may be the only Westerner in the entire village, actually. Or at least that’s what it feels like as I walk through the town’s cobblestoned streets. Never have I felt so alone among so many people.

Tall, white, blond hair, blue eyes. I stand out among the ruddy, Mongol-Aryan villagers with their earthen skin and straight, coal-black hair. Casual strolls to consume idle time become awkward as every eye locks upon me, the unknown and exotic stranger in a place where the unfamiliar becomes a spectacle and reason for crowds to come running.

I’d become so uncomfortable with the gawking attention of the villagers, I spent most of my time sequestered within the compound of the lodge. On this, the first sunny afternoon since I’d arrived, I took a chair from the dining hall and sat outside trying to while away the enemy time by enjoying a book or writing in my journal.

In the Himalayas, time is tracked not on a clock, but by how far you can walk in a day and by watching the sun cast a crawling shadow upon the sheer mountain walls. The escaping light bounces off the bronze-colored canyon and powdery clouds overhead, changing the landscape minute by minute. Blink and you’re looking at a new painting of the same scene, like Van Gogh’s haystacks.