Here’s the first chapter of True Nature, my latest book now available on Amazon and direct:
Enjoy the read!
Arrival
Her eyes, like whirlpools, pull me into her. We kiss. I melt into her. Warm sensations flood my body as our lips touch. I run my hands across her breasts. Her skin is soft and smooth and real, as if nothing had ever split us apart.
After, I collapse into her arms. Raindrops pelt the windowpane, and winds sweep through the city streets. I hold her and tell her I love her. She smiles and whispers to me.
“What?” I ask.
I can’t hear anything. Not the sound of my own voice. Not the rain. Not the thunder. Her lips move again, her eyebrows knit together, and her face twists into a grimace. And then the floor crumbles beneath me.
I reach out for her, but it’s too late. Down I go, further and further into a deep dark abyss. All the way to the bottom.
The cabin shakes as our plane touches down, and I wake up covered in sweat. I exhale deeply, grab my daypack, and lift myself up. After twenty-four hours in coach, my mind feels like a blur and my legs feel like wooden planks. But I shake them out and follow Bradley toward the exit.
It’s an early spring day, and a thick humidity washes over me as I make my way down onto the tarmac. Why’s it so hot here? I imagined Kathmandu as sharing the Himalaya’s cold mountaintop climate. A crisp, magical snowfall blanketing the ground. Instead, I gaze up to an overcast sky shrouding the sun and a fog covering the horizon. The Himalayas must be out there somewhere. I blink hard, trying to shake myself from the dream, but everything remains the same.
I look over at Bradley and manage a smile. “We made it.”
Bradley squeezes my shoulder and grins. “We sure did, brother.”
Bradley at the Kathmandu airport
We follow the crowd of passengers into the brick building then shuffle through the airport’s hallways like zombies.
“Next!”
Bradley and I hand our passports to the immigration officer, a man with a blue cap, matching uniform, and bushy eyebrows.
“How long you stay?” His gaze bears down on us, his bushy-brows reaching out to grab me.
“Ninety days,” Bradley replies.
The officer’s eyes narrow. “Long time…”
Ninety days does seem like a long time to travel abroad in some sense, but it’s only half the time we spent on the trail. I can’t help but think we’re in a race against time.
“Trekking?” the officer asks.
“Yes, sir,” Bradley says. “And living with a spiritual teacher. We’re here for enlightenment.”
The man stares at us blankly, and his mind seems to weigh the importance of this information. Then he stamps our visas and waves us through unceremoniously.
“Next!”
As we take the hallway to security, Bradley turns to me and shrugs. “Hey, not everyone’s going to get it.”
Yeah, I guess not. Few people seem to care about enlightenment these days. My interest only developed within the last three years, shortly after the trail.
The Pacific Crest Trail, also known as the PCT or what I now call “the trail,” changed my life forever. Four years ago, I hiked for six months across the United States from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon, and Washington. I made that trek with Bradley—my former college fraternity brother turned lifelong friend.
It was the journey of a lifetime. Together, we struggled through harsh deserts, pristine forests, and desolate wilderness. We hiked an average of twenty miles a day from April to October through heat, hail, sleet, and snow. We met fascinating people, slept beneath the stars, overcame near-death situations, and pushed beyond our imagined capabilities. The trail brought us together and seeded the desire for yet another adventure.
After pushing past security, Bradley and I glimpse our backpacks beside the carousel. Thank God. I’ve put more money into my backpack and its contents than any other material possession in my life. Not to mention an envelope holding a thousand dollars cash. My budget for the entire trip.
It’s not much, but Bradley says we’re living rent-free with the wise woman. All I need to worry about is covering the cost of trekking permits, meals, and hostels for the other ninety days. Avoiding unplanned expenses and living on a shoestring budget is mission critical. We’ve got to stretch the dough as long as possible.
Also, maybe it’s flawed logic, but I figure the cash is safer in my backpack than in my fanny pack where it could easily fall out if I’m not careful. The odds of me losing my backpack seem far less likely. If that happens, I’m already screwed. Might as well put all my eggs in one basket.
I throw my backpack over my shoulder and give it a few good shakes with my knees. It’s heavy, nearly twice the base weight of my backpack from the trail. Did I pack more just than the essentials?
My gear for the next three months
I take mental stock of my belongings: A twenty-degree sleeping bag, a one-person tent, and a twenty-liter titanium cookpot. Two hard-shell plastic water bottles. A toothbrush, a bottle of toothpaste, and a headlamp. A small knife, a titanium spoon. I’ve got the clothes on my back, the sandals on my feet, a rain jacket, down jacket, three changes of clothes, and a brand-new pair of trail runners. Bradley and I started hiking the PCT barefoot, and I’m not making that mistake again.
It doesn’t seem like much, but the little things add up. The added weight must be from thinking international travel necessitates a larger wardrobe, a decision I’m already regretting.
After stopping by the currency exchange, we walk outside. A familiar humid air descends upon us, as does a swarm of tour guides, hoteliers, and taxi drivers.
“Taxi! Hotel! Taxi!”
“I’ll handle this,” Bradley says to me. “Mind seeing what that hostel was called?”
“Sure thing.”
I shrug off my backpack, slide down a brick wall, and connect my phone to the airport’s Wi-Fi. An old friend from the trail had recently visited Kathmandu. Where did he recommend we stay, again?
As I search for his message, I wonder: why didn’t Bradley and I book a hostel in advance? Come to think of it, we don’t have any concrete plans for this trip. I suppose it’s because we’ve been through hell and back together. We’d hiked across the United States, escaped blizzards, nearly died of dehydration in the middle of the desert, and pushed for thirty-mile days to finish the trail—accomplishments I never thought possible for myself in this lifetime.
Ultimately, walking across the country in the face of such challenges reinforced our confidence to problem-solve, brought greater meaning to our hike, and brought us closer together. By this point, we’re like brothers. The need for plans or itineraries is trivial compared to our previous challenges and even takes away the opportunity for potentially magical scenarios. We know what’s important. The details are superficial.
As the thought completes itself, I find my answer.
Check out Zostel, my hiker friend had messaged me.
Zostel. That’s the one. A bit of a ridiculous name, though. Hostel Zostel. Sounds less like a hostel and more like a Dr. Seuss allegory about a hippie’s utopian commune.
I shoulder my backpack and join Bradley in the street as he tosses his own backpack into the trunk of a yellow cab. For being such a tall guy, he must figure he can carry a heavier pack because his is nearly twice the size of mine and takes up nearly the entire trunk. I begin the process of shoving mine in, too.
“This is our guy,” Bradley says. “Did you find us a place?”
“Yeah. How much for the ride?”
“Cheapest I could get him was fifty rupees.”
“Isn’t that less than a dollar?”
Bradley smiles and slaps me on the back. “I told you I’d handle it, didn’t I?”
I slam the trunk closed then nod. I guess our money might last in a place like this after all.
The moment we hop into the backseat, a man wearing sunglasses slides into the front passenger’s seat and introduces himself as our guide. We didn’t ask for this service, but he speaks decent English. Maybe he knows something we don’t.
The man drops his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose and gazes through the rearview. “Where you want to go?”
“Zostel,” I say. “Hostel Zostel.”
The guide relays the request to our driver and the two discuss in Nepali. When we pull out from the parking lot, I scramble for my non-existent seatbelt.
“Don’t worry,” the guide says. “Driving is no problem.”
I’ll soon realize he’s lied to me. But for now, the ride isn’t too bad.
A long stretch of highway carries us over a hill, revealing a city sprawling across a wide valley beneath a hazy sky. Kathmandu Valley. The hive of civilization appears unending. Building after building stretches over an uneven landscape, settled in a smog like the bottom of a murky pool.
We dip into the valley, passing worn-down buildings, shanties, and under-construction shops lining the dirt road. Where the road widens, we’re thrust into the throng of downtown traffic. I stare wide-eyed out the windshield as a flurry of motorcycles, mopeds, and scooters weave frantically around us. Beeping horns, sputtering tailpipes, and revving engines clog the streets, sounds so loud that they feel as if they’re coming from inside my skull.
Kathmandu taxi ride into the city
Our driver slams the brakes, and I clench my teeth. A motorbike narrowly slides in front of our bumper then disappears into the mass of motor vehicles ahead as if nothing had even happened.
Everything is disorienting: driving on the left side of the road, the complete lack of stoplights, signals, and street signs. I have no idea if we’re heading in the right direction, and if laws apply to the roads, they appear to be more like suggestions.
I roll down my window to get a grip on what’s going on, but when a putrid smog pours into the vehicle, I roll it back up. My eyes sting from the foul air.
“Po-llu-shun,” the guide says, glancing through the rearview mirror. “In last five years, lots of po-llu-shun. So many of vehicles.”
“Ah,” I reply. That explains the hazy skies. It’s the pollution, not my dream-world bleeding into reality.
Bradley shakes his head as he gazes out at the smog. “Good thing we shouldn’t be here for too long. As soon as we nail down our trekking plans, we can head out and meet Sajana in Pokhara. Pokhara’s supposed to be a smaller city. So hopefully less motorbikes, less pollution.”
“Air much better in Pokhara,” echoes the guide.
“What about the Himalayas?” Bradley asks, leaning forward and pointing into the haze. “How’s that air?”
“Very pure, very fresh. No po-llu-shun.”
Bradley falls back into his seat and grins. “I can almost smell it from here.”
His sarcasm is dead-on. Even though we must be surrounded by the Himalayas, this foreign, lawless city is a purgatory between one world and the next. Kathmandu feels miles away from that pure Himalayan air.
I lose myself to staring at the passing motorbikes when our taxi turns into an alleyway and stops before a gated building with a marble façade. It looks like a hotel, and one that’s way beyond our price range.
“This nice hostel!” the guide says. “You go inside and see?”
“Is this Zostel?” Bradley asks bluntly.
“No, but very nice. You come and see?”
Bradley and I exchange glances.
“Nah.” Bradley reaches into his fanny pack and hands over some rupees. “Which way to Zostel?”
The driver points down the street.
“Take care,” Bradley says as he exits the cab and shuts the door.
The two of us haul our backpacks out of the trunk.
“What was that about?” I ask. “Why’d they bring us here?”
“Who knows. Maybe he knows the guy who owns the place. That’s the thing about guides, man. You really have to find the right one if you want to get to where you’re going.”
Bradley slams the tailgate shut, and the cab disappears into the swarm of traffic. I guess we’re our own guides now.
“Need money for the cab?” I ask.
“Nah, you can get the next one. Where to?”
I search my phone for Zostel. It’s only a few miles away, the perfect distance for a couple of hikers ready to relive the good old days.
The sidewalk leading downtown is narrow like slot canyons and slick from the morning rain. I jump across puddles wading in the cracked cement and peer down the alleyways. Packs of stray dogs laying in the shadows lift their heads before returning their chins to rest against their wet paws once again.
We soon come to a congested four-way intersection where droves of motorcycles whiz by. My shoulders tense as I search for traffic lights or signs to aid our crossing.
“Now!” Bradley blurts out.
So much for that plan.
We leap off the curb and make a run for the other side, my backpack bobbing up and down and slamming against my back. My heart thunders inside my ears, drowning out the approaching honks. As I leap over the curb on the other side, a fresh wave of traffic closes in behind us.
I catch my breath as the street stretches past a traffic blockade into a flashy well-paved district, then a twisting alleyway thick with wayfaring backpackers, dingy tattoos parlors, massage joints, restaurants, and gift shops. It’s an entirely different realm from the worn-down buildings at the outskirts of town. Here, the shops on either side of the alley advertise travel packages for mountain expeditions via posters tacked onto windows. Knock-off merchandise from the outdoor outfitters spills out onto the streets atop racks, blankets, and boxes. Backpacks, puffy jackets, beanies, socks, hiking boots… everything a Himalayan trekking expedition requires. Had I not wasted so much money on all my fancy gear, I could’ve bought everything here at a fraction of the retail price.
A crowd of hippies, nomads, and vagabonds of all ages walk by wearing zip-off pants, trail runners, and huge backpacks. Middle-aged parents hold the hands of their kids, an elderly couple spends their retirement money, the younger couples our age are probably here to seal the deal. The couple walking in front of us speaks English, but instead of sparking up conversation with them, I opt to revel in the foreign atmosphere. Even though we’re among fellow tourists, I want to feel like I’m on an adventure. A part of me misses the shanties, slightly disturbed to have flown halfway across the world only to wander into the most touristy and inauthentic part of town.
Just past another flashy tattoo parlor, Bradley stops and stares down a dark, stone-walled alleyway.
“Hostel Yog,” he says with curiosity, reading the shadowed, wood-burned signage hung up on the wall. “Let’s check it out!”
I scratch my beard and study the sign’s decorative peace signs, yin-yangs, and flowers. The place is undoubtedly infested with fellow hippies.
“Wait, but what about Zostel?” I ask.
“We’re here, bro. Let’s give it a shot.”
As Bradley turns down the brick-walled alleyway, I sigh. If we’re here, we might as well check it out. A change of plans can’t be the worst thing to happen to us. So I take-off after him, dashing down the alley and following him into the shadows.
True Nature is now available for purchase
Thanks for reading the first chapter. If you want to buy the book, you can do so on Amazon or direct from me:
Much Love,
David
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