boy was it ever welcome. As soon as we started walking I could feel every ounce of my pack bearing down on my legs and shoulders. I spent a long time adjusting pack straps to no avail, so I sucked it up and plodded along.
And there we were! We reached Kyanjin Gompa in just under two hours. Krissy and I were impressed with the pleasant setting of the village, which really only consists of a cluster of guest houses that are open seasonally to cater to tourists. However, it being at the foot of impressive snowy peaks in a grassy meadow, it is something to behold.
We dodged some locals who tried to wrangle us into their hotel. We found the one we wanted, the Yala Peak Guest House, dropped off our stuff and headed straight for a bakery that advertised "good coffee." I've certainly had worse.
We were disappointed to discover that the cheese factory is not yet open for the season. We tossed around the idea of visiting the alpine lakes that were only an hour away but neither of us felt like walking anymore. We even vetoed the idea to play hacky sack. Really, we just felt like being lazy. So for the entire afternoon we sat in the sunshine watching crows and chickens fight over morsels of food in discarded dishwater.
Clouds rolled in and stole the sunshine so we both headed up to the room. Krissy took a three hour nap and I read a dozen chapters of Anna Karenina. It was just a nice lazy day.
The only other thing that is worthwhile to note is yet another bizarre culinary experience. Krissy and I both ordered dal bhat which is dependably ordinary in the flavor department. However, as
we finished our first helping, a woman came from the kitchen and filled our plate with more rice and our bowls with the soupy dal. She also asked if we would like pickle. I eagerly held out my plate and emphatically nodded and said "Yes please!"What she spooned onto my plate was a pale orange, creamy substance with unidentified objects in purgatory. The pickle I've grown accustomed to is a little more solid, closely resembles relish, has an oily texture and a spicy, vinegar flavor. Unhesitating to try some, I scooped up the goop with rice to give it a taste. I couldn't put my finger on the flavor at first: I was merely able to tell that it didn't taste good. I didn't want to show my disappointment by not finishing it because I had been so excited about it at first and this was obviously something the woman was proud of.
As I kept eating, I finally figured out what the mystery flavor was. "This tastes like fish," I
announced to Krissy."That's what it is," she said. Then she started to stir around the pickle on her plate with her spoon.
She held something up in her spoon and, amidst laughter, said "Oh my God. Look at this!"
It was a dead little fish. No more than a half inch long, it was staring up at us with it's dead fish eyes. I dug through my own pickle and made the same discovery.
Oh well. It wasn't completely terrible and it was certainly much better than Mustang Coffee.*
*Refer to the post "Ill Fortunes."
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