October 12, 2021
As we headed across the Rio Grande into Mexico a couple weeks ago, with our duffel bags slung over our shoulders, my migration mate and I gazed at the smattering of people crossing the bridge in both directions. Here we all were, on a beautiful peaceful borderland morning, getting on with our lives; each changing country for various reasons.
As we walked into Ciudad Juarez from El Paso, I thought about the recent changes in reproductive freedom on each side. How might they affect some peoples’ reasons for crossing? Abortion has long been illegal in Mexico, but on September 7, Mexico’s Supreme Court of Justice declared the criminalization of it unconstitutional. And almost simultaneously, Texas passed a new law criminalizing almost all abortions.
“Turn left,” I told my friend as we got to the other end of the bridge.
We continued down a side street for a few blocks, then crossed a parking lot and entered a nondescript office where we could get legal. As usual, no one else was there. We were the sole travelers standing at the window.
Plenty of United States people migrate to Mexico of course. They just don’t do it in this fashion. Many fly in for tourism, and it’s a lesser-known fact that many fly in for tourism of the medical variety. Mexico is second only to Thailand as the preferred international destination for United States folks to get affordable healthcare. In 2019 alone, about a million Americans crossed into Mexico for procedures ranging from gastric bypass to rhinoplasty to breast implants to knee/hip replacements to heart and lung surgery to chemotherapy to organ transplants. I don’t think this number included all the multitudes who came for dental work.
“Now we’re good for the next six months,” I said to my mate, as a woman behind the window stamped our passports.
We continued our walk into town, through relaxing morning streets that were just waking up. We walked past bar, pharmacy, restaurant, pharmacy, towards the marketplace and the stop for local bus 1A.
Why all the pharmacies? Price, of course, in comparison to USA prices. And while it’s true that Mexicans have traditionally gone north for abortion services, that doesn’t mean borderland American women haven’t crossed the bridge south for similar reasons. Here, for about $20, you can get a 28-pill box of misoprostal, an abortion-inducing medicine that is endorsed as safe and effective by the WHO, which is not readily available in Texas but sold over-the-counter in Mexico as an ulcer treatment. For many years this has been a welcome solution for women who are willing to have an abortion outside a healthcare setting, and/or who can’t afford the up to $1,500 out-of-pocket cost for an abortion in Texas, and/or who are seeking any solution at all amid tightening legal restrictions which have made abortion services in Texas almost nonexistent. By 2017, 96% of Texas counties had no abortion clinics. El Paso was an exception up until the start of the pandemic, when the Planned Parenthood physician who flew in twice a month stopped coming.
Voluntary abortion is still listed as a crime in the State of Chihuahua; the next step is for its Congress to change the penal code to comply with the Mexico Supreme Court’s decision. It will take some time to train the healthcare system and to lay the foundation, but with abortion now decriminalized throughout Mexico, El Pasoans needing to end a pregnancy may soon be able to rely on Ciudad Juarez for more than abortion pills. Texan women may soon be able to walk across a bridge, get on a bus, and visit a safe clean and legal Chihuahuense clinic for more than a nose job or a gastric sleeve.
We boarded Bus 1A, paid our eight pesos, and sat on a comfy perimeter bench amidst gently pulsating music. Within thirty minutes we were at the central terminal, where we changed buses and headed off to the marvelous city of Chihuahua and beyond.
Meanwhile, five days later, a U.S. district judge temporarily blocked the Texas abortion ban. A few clinics reopened, but Planned Parenthood in El Paso did not. There was concern over being sued retroactively once the law went back into effect (as it most certainly would), not to mention the trauma patients might feel if they obtained appointments and were then forced to cancel.
Sure enough, the injunction lasted all of three days. It was lifted this past Saturday by a circuit court at the request of Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton, who hailed the development as “great news.”
So now Texas’s near total ban on abortions is back in effect, replete with its provisions of making no exceptions for pregnancies caused by rape or incest, and empowering everyone to sue anyone who helps someone get an abortion.
Good luck suing Mexico, y’all!
As I like to say, if you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly. Where are you, American anti-abortionists? Why so feeble in your convictions? Why so weak and timid? Why aren’t you in Mexico City right now, marching in the Zocalo?
And similarly, why haven’t you been protesting in China or Vietnam for the past fifty years? Millions, billions of detectable heartbeats have been lost, orders of magnitudes more than in Texas, and you haven’t cared enough to lift a finger.
September 12, 2021
My car Ruby has only a few months left to live. I’ve known for a while that something was up with her engine health; she’s been burning oil for several years, and recently acting up from time to time while still always getting me where I need to go and back. But when I returned from New Mexico this past month I knew it was time to take her in.
“That’s so sad,” my friend told me, when I texted him the news of Ruby’s terminal diagnosis.
But that’s not what I was feeling, at all. He hadn’t yet gotten my drift.
I stared out my front windows, and a passage from Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés’s essential, indispensable book, Women Who Run With the Wolves, which I’ve recently read for the first time, came to mind:
“What must I give more death to today, in order to generate more life?”
Dr. Estés goes on: “What do I know should die, but am hesitant to allow to do so? What should die today? What should live?”
“It’s not sad,” I wrote back. “I will enjoy her for whatever time she’s got left. And today, I’m enjoying feeling so much gratitude and so many memories. From being picked out in Puerto Rico in 2007 by a two-year-old girl, to getting me there and back on this recent trip to New Mexico. And so much amazing life in between.”
“That’s right,” my friend replied. “So much amazing life in between. Ruby is a legend and always will be. We’ll all miss her when she’s gone. Ah, sweet memories.”
Look, I know Ruby is just a car. But her end is sort of like the end of a friend, or a relationship, or a dog. The feelings are richer and more complex than just sadness. It’s the throbbing of love, of LIFE, and the life-death-rebirth cycle. I mean, Ruby and I spent some serious time together. So much life, lived together.
This got me thinking of another Pinkola Estés quote. It’s about what we tend to knee-jerk do when apparently unfortunate things happen in our lives. We can ask ourselves the wrong questions. Such as: What went wrong? What did I do wrong? Who is to blame?
When instead we might ask:
“Where is the soul in this?”
When it comes to Ruby, the soul is everywhere. There’s a souvenir rock in her passenger side door pocket; thrown threw her window one day while we were on the beach near Rincon, Puerto Rico, in 2007. The alarm went off and I chased the guy down, and searched through his backpack for my wallet (which was still hidden beneath Ruby’s seat, it turned out). “I’m just here looking for my horse,” he claimed. “You ASSHOLE!” my incredible, chutzpah-filled ex-wife yelled at him as she arrived in Ruby, sitting in broken glass and setting the brake, after leaving our son in the waves to watch his two-year-old sister. I’ve kept that rock in the door pocket ever since. This is just the beginning of the memories.
These past few years, when I’ve looked in Ruby’s rearview mirror, sometimes what I’ve seen is this: My two small children (who are now grown), asleep in the sun in the backseats, their heads thrown back, their mouths open.
Then there’s the fact that it was Ruby who got me to all those hundreds of trailheads and back when I was researching Base Camp Denver. Without incident. And this is saying something. I took Ruby on some roads she had no business being on, including to Grays Peak and High Lonesome. In those days I frequently hiked three days a week, two or three trails a day. Many times I’d be staggering back in the near-dark, way beyond exhausted, with my feet sore as hell, and Ruby would appear through the trees. Her rich red paint glowed comfortingly in the twilight. “Oh Ruby!” I’d call. “I’m so happy to see you!”
She’s aptly credited in the acknowledgments page of Base Camp Denver and elsewhere. Yes; Ruby is a legend.
She’s had a blemish on the left side of her face for the past three years, ever since the deer hit her. It was dark, on a country road, and the deer came out of nowhere, striking her left front and doing a full somersault over the hood. I never saw the deer again. A hoof splintered the windshield, which I replaced, but it didn’t make financial sense to repair the dent thanks to this insane business racket/Ponzi scheme known as American auto body repair.
Ruby isn’t gone yet. Like I said she has some months left to live. And I don’t need to use her very much; I only need her for trips involving freeway driving. I still have Trusty Rusty, my beloved 1990 jalopy, to get me around town and to the grocery store (he’s a whole other story). As long as I keep feeding Ruby her oil and being tender to her, she’ll last a little while yet.
“And when the time comes, I’ll let her go,” I said on the phone last week, to the girl (my daughter) who picked Ruby out on the Puerto Rico lot when she was two. This amazing young woman will turn seventeen in a few weeks. She’s the captain of her high school field hockey team, and applying to universities (first choice: Boston College).
Last week Ruby and me went hiking, just like old times. It was time for my annual pilgrimage to Wild Basin, and specifically to its high near-terminus of Snowbank Lake. As this is quite a long walk (especially because I still use the ‘closed’ Allenspark portal), Ruby and I left well before dawn. Just like old times.
She of course did great. And so did I, more or less. But I fell asleep at the lake, and it was getting pretty late by the time I was on mile 20 of the 21-mile round trip. I was totally exhausted, stumbling through the woods in the twilight.
Then Ruby appeared through the trees. I felt such a surge of emotion, knowing this was probably the last time she’d be waiting for me to get back from Snowbank Lake. This understanding made the moment all the more special.
Yes there is soul, in this.
“Oh Ruby!” I called. “I’m so glad to see you!”
August 15, 2021
The terrain of the USA is full of surprises. I spent some days last week backpacking through one of the lushest, greenest, coolest summer forests in recent memory. This wasn’t in my old home of the Pacific Northwest, which was once again breaking all-time temperature records. Rather it was in New Mexico. And not only that, it was in southern New Mexico, only a few score miles from the border.
These are the lonely Sacramento Mountains, located between Alamogordo and Artesia. A swath of rolling peaks topping out in the 9,000-foot range, about 90 miles long by 40 miles wide, here the rainy season runs from July to when snow begins to fall in October. This time of year makes for lovely backpacking because the abundant rain comes in the form of afternoon downpours from thunderstorms, lasting only an hour or two. If you get your tent pitched before, say, three in the afternoon, you can watch the show through your open tent door. Afterwards you can lay in a flower-filled meadow in the returned sunshine until it dips behind the rise.
It’s hard to tell there are any mountains out here at all as you drive west from Artesia. After passing through the hamlet of Hope (population 90) the hills slowly begin to rise, and an hour later you are in a whole new world. Being a fault-block range, the mountains drop down much more sharply on the other side into the rift valley of the Rio Grande. Here you can enjoy a hot soak riverside in Truth or Consequences.
I’m talking about a place: Truth or Consequences. Incorporated in 1916 as “Hot Springs, New Mexico,” in 1950 it was the first town to rise to radio host Ralph Edwards’ challenge and change its name to that of the popular game show. In return, Ralph aired the 10th anniversary broadcast from town. He liked it so much there that he returned every year during the first week of May for the next 50 years, to participate in a still-recurring event that came to be known as Fiesta.
I liked Truth or Consequences and its hot springs all right, but probably not as much as Ralph, and my heart remained up in the lush rainforest of the Sacramentos. I also felt a little haunted while in “T or C” (which is how it is abbreviated to fit on road signs) because I ate a burrito in the adjacent town of Elephant Butte, which has its own claim to fame. This is where the “Toy-box Killer” David Parker Ray parked his soundproofed truck-trailer in the 1990s and tortured and murdered as many as 60 women. His horrific exploits came to an end in 1999 when Cynthia Vigil escaped from the trailer and ran down the road wearing only a slave collar and chains. But that’s a different story.
The Endurance of Dumb Things
July 14, 2021
Why do I water my lawn? Why do I have a lawn?
The facts are damning. The most-grown crop in the USA is something we don’t eat. We just look at it. And it consumes staggering amounts of resources, and severely harms the environment.
Approximately 70,000 square miles of lawn is under cultivation in the USA, an area larger than Texas. There’s about three times as much irrigated lawn as irrigated corn. When it isn’t raining, a lawn needs about an inch of irrigation water a week—more in arid and evaporating locales such as mine. In most municipalities, 30-60% of the filtered, treated, piped, drinking-grade water is dumped on lawns.
Also dumped on American lawns are 70 to 90 million pounds of fertilizer per year. These are synthetic products; manufacturing them produces carbon dioxide, nitrous oxide, and methane. A key ingredient is ammonia, much of which is extracted from fracked natural gas. And after fertilizer is dumped on lawns, any nitrogen not taken up by plants is converted by microbes to nitrous oxide, a greenhouse gas 300 times more powerful than carbon dioxide. Let’s not even talk about the problems of nitrogen runoff.
We also dump pesticides and herbicides on our lawns: about 80 and 90 million pounds a year respectively. Pesticides are made from petroleum products.
About 3.5 billion dollars of lawnmowers are manufactured and sold in this country each year. Estimates differ on how much gas is consumed mowing, somewhere between 0.6 and 1.2 billion gallons a year. About 17 million of these gallons are spilled while refilling; far more than Exxon Valdez. And then there’s the emissions! Hour for hour, a gasoline-powered lawnmower produces 11 times the pollution of a car.
Americans spend more than three million hours a year mowing. Many do it every weekend. But do we enjoy it? I actually kind of do; about twice a month. However 58% of those polled by Consumer Reports in 2008 said they didn’t enjoy mowing.
But wait: don’t lawns redeem themselves by being carbon sinks? Don’t they soak up carbon and put it in the ground? The answer is a resounding “No.” Taking into account all the factors, standard lawns emit five to six times the carbon they absorb during photosynthesis. And if the clippings aren’t left on the ground and instead sent to landfills, which still happens in way too many places, they decompose anaerobically to produce methane, a greenhouse gas 80 times more powerful than carbon dioxide.
So why the hell do I have a lawn?
The answer, which I’m not proud of, is, “Because it’s there.” It came with my 1970s, Brady-Bunch style house. And for more than 20 years I’ve procrastinated ripping it out.
But why did my 1970s, Brady-Bunch-style house come with a frigging lawn? In frigging Kentucky bluegrass no less, which is terribly difficult to grow in Colorado? The grass isn’t even native to Kentucky; it’s from Europe and the Middle East. Once people brought it, it spread rapidly through Appalachia on its own. But not to Colorado on its own!
Perhaps we can thank George Washington and Thomas Jefferson for this fiasco. In the spirit of Versailles, vast lawns were cultivated at Mount Vernon and Monticello, giving wealthy Americans something to copy and aspire to. Lawns were slow to be embraced by the general homeowning population (key word: “wealthy”), but after World War II the trend really took off. The federal government financed low-cost mortgages, and builders created blue-collar tract suburban housing. This low-cost housing often featured lawns in order to mimic upper middle-class dwelling spaces.
And so here we are in 2021: with dumb harmful lawns the size of Texas, because that’s the way it has been, and that’s the way we think it needs to be. I admire the few neighbors of mine who have caught a clue, done the work, and xeriscaped their yards. In every case, what they have is to me far more appealing and calming to look at than a lawn. And I cringe when I see vast new housing tracks coming up, all with lawns, and public planting strips and green spaces endlessly irrigated and manicured.
What other dumb stuff can we stop doing in the USA? Changing our clocks twice a year certainly comes to mind. Please, can we cut that out?!
Then there’s the concept of “retirement” and what needs to happen during the four decades prior to it. Fortunately I can expunge these silly ideas on my own. In this recent American myth, which everyone seems to regard as age-old fact, you are supposed to work your ass off until age 65 and then stop. Never mind what you are going to do with your next 40 years! And much more importantly: never mind how you would prefer to live your previous 40 years, perhaps taking time to enjoy more of what life has to offer.
Like lawns and daylight savings time, “retirement at 65” is a recent fabrication. It didn’t come into vogue until post-World War II. Before then we worked until we croaked, which incidentally was right around age 65.
June 15, 2021
Question: What mountain’s summit is farthest from the Earth’s center?
I was on a bus in the Ecuadorian highlands a couple Thursdays ago and it came into view. I wasn’t expecting it. The first time I came through here, seven years ago, everything was socked in with clouds. But there was Chimborazo, soaring above us on our way to Riobamba, and it kept on soaring as we changed buses in said town and wound higher up its eastern flank.
Although this glorious, glaciated four-summited double volcano is only the 39th highest peak in the Andes, it is higher than anything north of it including Denali. And yes: it sticks out into space farther than any other point on Earth, including Mount Everest (Huascarán, in Peru, is a very close second).
This is because Chimborazo is located on the equator (actually, one degree south) and because our planet is not a sphere; rather it’s an oblate spheroid, about 27 miles fatter in the middle than at the poles. Known as the equatorial bulge, this is a result of the spin’s centrifugal force.
This means that although Chimborazo, at 20,549 feet, is about 8,500 feet closer to sea level than Everest, it sticks out into space about 7,000 feet farther than Everest.
It also means that when we were up above 13,000 feet earlier in the week, on our way to visit the iconic crater lake Quilotoa, we were as far out into space as the top of Mount Everest! Woo-hoo!
The highest of Chimborazo’s graceful four summits, Whymper, is a pretty wimpy name if you ask me. It got that from the British dude who led the first summit party, in 1880. The two Italians with him didn’t get anything named after them. An opportunity was missed later that year, when folks didn’t believe Whymper actually made it and he went up again, this time with two Ecuadorians. One of them was Francisco Campana, which means bell in Spanish—a much more suitable name for Ecuador’s (and the Earth’s) apex, in my opinion.
Chimborazo’s next two summit names make little sense: Vientimilla (20 mile?), which at 20,450 feet should be Vientimil pies, and Politecnica (polytechnic?!) at 19,094 feet. Things get better for the fourth and final summit: the 18,274-foot promontory was named for the Ambato resident and early-20th century mountaineer Nocolás Martinéz. Nic was mostly a scholar and educator, but among the books he wrote is 1905’s “Algunas montañas volcánicas.” Nic also lived to be 96, so he was doing something right.
Back in Quito, I was glad to see that the barbershop tucked into a cubbyhole beneath the Carondelet Palace was still there. I was astonished, when I visited in 2014, to find such a business operating beneath the President’s residence and workplace. Moreover, I loved getting my haircut there, by a friendly barber-woman who had a mane of curly auburn hair.
“How often does Correa come in here?” I joked with her then as I sat in her chair, speaking of then-President Rafael Correa.
“Aw, he doesn’t come here,” she grinned. “He’s got everything he needs upstairs.”
She did a great job in 2014, and to boot, she gave me a Correa cut. Seriously! She cut my hair in exactly the same style as Rafael Correa, which he and I both had enough hair for back then.
When we got to Quito this time, it was the weekend and the barbershop was closed. Now it was Monday morning on our last day, 9 A.M. We needed to head to the airport at 11:00. I sat in Plaza Grande and affixed my eyes on the barbershop entrance.
At 9:27, I spied a woman with a mane of curly auburn hair enter.
I waited a few minutes for her to get situated, and went in. “Are you ready to cut me?” I asked, and she nodded.
“Like you did seven years ago?” I showed her the pictures on my phone.
“What a nice surprise!” she exclaimed, not remembering me of course but thrilled nonetheless. “Have a seat.”
“Make it ‘the usual,’” I joked, as she wrapped me in neck tape and a cloak.
“Being a barber is lindíssima,” Susana (her name) told me with twinkling eyes, as she took her time and gave me a wonderful cut. “It’s like I get to travel the whole world from beneath Carondelet Palace. Last week I cut a man’s hair who was from China.”
Susana also told me that she had cancer a few years ago and lost all her hair. She’s better now, and her hair is coming back, but it’s not as thick as it used to be. Of course her life and business has continued to be challenging, what with the virus and all; they were shut down for months and people are still not coming back because hardly anyone in Ecuador is vaccinated. Susana, being frontline, has received her two shots, but she understands if people don’t want to come. And then there’s the fact that business gets affected whenever there are protests (and there have been many in recent years) as Plaza Grande is ground zero. But that’s all part of the fun of working beneath the Presidential Palace.
As Susana removed the tape and applied warm shaving lather to the back of my neck, an indigenous group assembled outside and demonstrated for sustainable agriculture.
“Last time I was here, you gave me a Rafael Correa cut,” I told her. “And I’m happy to say I still have enough hair for it! Unlike Rafael.”
“Poor guy,” she replied, speaking of the former President, who remains in exile after finally leaving power in 2017, especially now that he’s been convicted of corruption and sentenced to prison in abstentia. “He’s left with only a little muñeca in front. The rest is almost gone.”
To be fair, Rafael has a year of age on me.
“What about Moreno?” I asked. “Did he ever get his hair cut here?”
In answer, Susana scoffed through her facemask.
“How about Lasso?” I asked. “He’s got a ton of hair.”
We agreed we’ll have to wait and see if Susana ever gets a crack at President Guillermo Lasso’s locks. He was sworn in just a few weeks ago, on May 24.
May 16, 2021
(While listening to the Spanish-language podcast Radio Ambulante this past month, I experienced my favorite among all their episodes. I offer my summary-translation here, with a little of my own research thrown in. The photos are mine (except the first one), taken during the last trip I made to Bolivia, in 2008.)
When Lidia Huayllas was growing up in the 1960s and 70s in El Alto, the low-cost indigenous suburb on the high plain above La Paz, Bolivia, she stared at the mountains. El Chacaltaya and Huayna Potosi were often in clear view, like you could reach out and touch them. She imagined what it was like up there, and traveled there in her mind. But she knew that going there was only a dream.
Lidia’s father delivered newspapers and her mother cooked and raised the children. When she was four, robbers killed her father, leaving her mother to raise six kids alone. Times were hard. Lidia helped her mother, went to school, and played football in the barrio. And she kept staring at the mountains. She would run home from school to watch Superman on TV. She wanted to fly like him, and view the world below her. She used to climb walls in the neighborhood and jump from them. She loved that rush of adrenaline.
Lidia’s mother sold cooked food in the local market twice a week, a garlic pumpkin dish. It was a simple stall with a place for a kerosene stove and a single table for clients, beneath an awning that sheltered them from the sun, which could be strong at this altitude of 13,600 feet. Lidia and her siblings helped. She learned to cook, and spoke Aymara, which is the second-most spoken language in Bolivia. And she dressed accordingly, in the traditional manner.
Lidia was and is a Chola: someone in a long skirt called a pollera, worn over a petticoat, along with a sweater and, classically, a bowler-type hat so small it’s held on by a pin.
Calling this “traditional dress” can be misleading unless you are more specific about the tradition. The current look evolved from the colonial era, when Spain imposed its culture and customs on Andean people. By decree, Spain instructed women to use “characteristic dress,” which meant they had to wear woolen tops, full skirts (polleras), and head coverings. Even the parting of hair down the center was a requirement for women, decreed by Viceroy Don Francisco de Toledo. However, the viceroy certainly did not decree that Bolivian women shall wear bowler hats.
Bowler hats weren’t even invented until about 1850, in London, and they were designed to be worn by men. The tradition of Aymara women wearing bowler hats goes back to the 1920s. Rumor has it that some expatriate merchant in La Paz ordered too many, too-small bowler hats for Europeans, and the surplus hats were adopted by local women. Another rumor is that bowler hats enhance fertility. Two facts appear certain, however: (1) The bowler hats really caught on with Aymara women, and (2) they are more about fashion than utility. One element of the style is the size: The hats must be too small to fit around the person’s head.
Back to Lidia: This form of dress was and is central to her Aymara identity. But she couldn’t wear it much of the time. It was prohibited in school, for example, where she had to wear a uniform of pants and a jacket. Other places she couldn’t go in Chola garb were to offices or anywhere important, or to the city’s plazas. No formal law forbade this; it was just a taboo in society up through the 1980s.
When Lidia had to leave her pollera behind, she felt like she was leaving a part of herself. “I had very strong roots as a Chola, no?” she says.
When she was 15 she met Elio Gonzales at a local carnival. He was 21, a musician, and also Aymara. He too grew up gazing at Huayna Potosi. Things moved fast, and within a month he’d asked Lidia’s mother for her hand and they’d moved in together into their own house in Al Alto. They married a year later; Lidia had two kids and quit school. By age 17 she was working in the market with her mother, while carrying a baby on her back.
Elio joined a band that became fairly popular, and asked Lidia to sing with them because her voice was good and the pay was decent. So, Lidia cooked and sold food in the mornings, and practiced and performed shows in the afternoons and evenings. Very quickly she became the center of attention, to the extent that when the band got interviews, the media only wanted to speak to Lidia. Elio didn’t like this and ordered her to quit. Which she did. “He told me to stop, so I had to stop,” she said.
She set up her own place in the market, where she sold about 400 plates per day of traditional food. Elio became a driver, taking tourists to the mountains. Then he trained as a mountain guide and, in a way, achieved her long-held dream. She continued cooking and taking care of the kids.
Fifteen years went by. Finally, she dared to ask Elio, “Can’t you take me to the mountain? Because I also want to go.”
Elio thought it would be a good idea if she cooked for the tourists. And so, Lidia became a cook at Campo Alto, the final climbing refuge on Huayna Potosi, 900 meters below the 6,088-meter summit.
It was 2001. Lidia was 35. She finally got to know the mountain she’d gazed at since she was a little girl. Each week she’d walk up to Campo Alto with her aguayo (shoulder bag) containing her cooking equipment, while chewing a little coca leaf to help with the altitude. She describes feeling a very beautiful emotion ever since the first time she hiked up there: a sense of freeness, while admiring the glaciers, the view, the cracks, the precipices. She loved it all, including the lung-straining air.
At the refuge, she prepared breakfast for tourist climbers from all over the world, who left for the summit at 1:00 in the morning. But she never accompanied them. And she’d have food ready when they got back. And they’d come back looking so happy, so content! She felt shy back then, to talk to them and ask them about it. She was also afraid they wouldn’t like her food. But this was hardly the case. “Great food, Lidia! Do you have more?” they’d say. And little by little, she became more comfortable with the tourists.
She also became more comfortable with her fellow Bolivians, who throughout her life had often mistreated and discriminated against her, saying belittlingly, “You are a woman of the pollera: an indigenous woman.”
But the tourists never discriminated. They accepted Lidia’s dress, asked about her pollera, asked about her culture. They made her feel welcome and she enjoyed talking to them. And they always had the same question: “Do you ever go up the mountain? You live here, you see it. You have to go up it.” And she’d say, “No! I can’t do it. The equipment is costly.”
This was true, but only part of the story. As her curiosity increased, and her long-held desires surged forth, she began to say, “One day I would like to go. I would like to see what is there.”
Another 15 years went by.
One afternoon in 2015, when her kids were grown and she was almost 50 years old, Lidia said: “Yes. I want to climb the mountain.”
Reaching this decision had been a process. True, she was getting older and felt like it was now or never. But there was more. After witnessing and experiencing so much discrimination during her life, getting to the summit became to her, in a way, and act of protest: a way of showing that women like her, the Cholas, could do it. Because really, she was so beyond annoyed with the discrimination against women, the racism, not to mention the femicide. In Bolivia men kill at least one woman every two days. The violence is brutal, and Aymara women suffer it more than average.
Lidia had it relatively good. Although Elio made all the decisions about her life and career, he treated her well and respected her. But it wasn’t the same with everyone she knew; many were mistreated by their spouses. One case of violence involving a close friend marked Lidia more than any other. Her friend was stabbed in the leg by her husband, and when Lidia advised her to leave the man, she couldn’t get the woman to react.
And it occurred to her that the best thing she could do would be to break this idea that women of the pollera must be obedient. “I decided I could do the work of a man,” she said. And she decided to do it from her place: the mountain. And she decided to do it in the clothes she was wearing.
She began planning a trip to the summit with her friend Domitila, who worked with her at the refuge, who said, “Of course, yes. I want to go.” They recruited four more women who also worked on the mountain, who also wanted to know the summit and only needed a push. All were Aymara who would climb in their polleras, petticoats, braids, blankets, and typical hats.
Lidia’s husband doubted she could make it, because, as she says with a laugh, “I’m a little fat.” But she told him she felt she could, being as she was adapted and acclimatized. She received resistance from other family members as well, including her mother who long ago patched her scraped and bleeding knees after she jumped off walls in El Alto. “Always with your craziness, no matter how old you get,” her mother said.
Elio finally agreed to serve as guide for the group, and Lidia set to work organizing everything: transport, as well as rental of boots, crampons, and ice axes. The women took a basic survival course, learning how to use crampons and perform self-arrest.
They departed El Alto on December 16, 2015, each woman carrying her own equipment in her aguayo. They also brought a little liquor to pour on the top make to a challa. They wore their polleras, as they had wanted, and brought long stockings, helmets, and polarized sunglasses. When they got to Campo Alto, Lidia was stunned when more and more women arrived—11 in total, who did not want to miss this chance.
They left the refuge at 2:00 AM on the 17th, by the light of their headlamps. They had to cross a glacier in the dark. The women encouraged each other. Then the sun began to come up, and the landscape Lidia had dreamed of now presented itself to her up close: pure snow, and below, the landscapes that had stayed beneath.
They had 500 meters left to climb to reach the summit. Fog had formed beneath them. And then an airplane went by—lower than they were!
By 7:00 AM, all they had left to do was walk the knife-edge final ridge to the summit, in single file. And suddenly they were there, touching a crest which all their lives they had thought was unreachable. They shouted and hugged; they were at the point of crying. So many emotions flowed through each of them. Lidia felt like she was in paradise. She felt like she was a condor, or an eagle. She felt like the freest woman in the world. She felt like she didn’t want to leave the mountain. She wanted to continue.
Going down in the warming, melting conditions was a little dangerous. But now they felt they could do anything. Tourists usually make this climb over three days. The Cholas had done it in two. At a celebration meeting the following day at the refuge, Lidia said, “Now that we’ve done the first mountain, why not do the second mountain?”
Her team accepted immediately, happy for the new challenge. Elio proposed a more ambitious goal: climb eight mountains all over 6,000 meters high, a classic mountaineers’ challenge. The Cholas loved the idea, and so on December 18, 2015, Las Cholitas Escaladoras, “The Climbing Cholitas” was born. There goal: to climb the six highest peaks in Bolivia, plus Aconcagua in Argentina, plus Everest.
The second summit proved more complicated. In addition to being more technically difficult, they had started getting pushback from some of the male guides. “How can a woman of the pollera climb mountains? Always she has to be in the kitchen,” they said. They were also not happy about the media attention the women had started to get.
But it’s because of these comments that Lidia had to climb Huayna Potosi in the first place. Instead of discouraging her, they gave her extra motivation. “Don’t pay attention to the foolish things people say,” she told her team. “Let’s go! The mountain is for everyone, not just a few.”
So, they began to prepare and save money for Acotango, a 6,050-meter volcano bordering Chile, which is regarded as a sacred Inca sanctuary. To climb it they needed permission from local village elders, who thought it a more-than absurd idea. “If a woman goes up dressed in a skirt,” lamented one, “I don’t think it will ever snow again on this mountain.” This is in line with other superstitions that endure in Bolivia and elsewhere in Latin America: Women bring droughts, make wells go dry, make snow disappear. This was nothing new to Lidia.
But this time her response was different: “Don’t discriminate against us. We just want to climb, wearing our clothes.”
After an hour of negotiation with the elders, Lidia obtained permission. She had an ace in the hole: she promised to promote the mountain in her next interview with the press. By now the notoriety of the Cholitas was increasing. The story had been picked up by the Associated Press.
The climb of Acotango went off without a hitch. And Lidia was pleased, to be breaking traditions a little bit. But when they got back to El Alto, conflict with the male guides deepened. Much of their ire was directed at Lidia, who they blamed. “How can we allow her to do this to women? We didn’t expect this little project to open doors for them, and make them want to do a lot more things.” Las Cholitas Escaladoras was a threat to their concept of family; the Chola was supposed to stay in the house and cook and care for children. The men were also upset that the women’s successes had come rather easily, without them having to take guide courses etc. like they’d had to do. Some of Lidia’s women, under pressure from sometimes violent husbands, left the group. Only 6 of the 11 women remained.
Elio supported Lidia, and practiced with her for the next ascent. But this brought him problems as well. He got bullied by other guides for constantly being with his wife. They considered it his fault that the women had gone up in the first place. Elio lost his post as president of the local guides’ organization, and more significantly, he lost work. Obtaining guiding jobs is an informal process based on who you know, and Elio became shunned in the network.
Lidia began to doubt whether she should proceed with the Cholitas. But just when she was on the verge of abandoning the project, she received some news: A Spanish producer had arranged funds to finance an expedition for the Cholitas to Aconcagua, and make a documentary.
Without thinking twice, the Cholitas went for it. Lidia and four others got on a plane for the first time, and left Bolivia for their first time, in January of 2019. They reached Aconcagua’s upper refuge in non-ideal conditions, where they played football, cooked, danced, and sang while waiting for the mountain to let them climb. After seven days, conditions improved enough for them to go.
Only two of the five made it to the top; Lidia wasn’t one of them. About 200 feet below the summit, she came down with some serious altitude sickness. She had some tears over it, but said she was happy to come as far as she had come. Indeed, at age 53 she had reached 6,700 meters. And this wasn’t about her getting there, it was about her group getting there.
The climb brought them more fame, including an admiring tweet from the president of Bolivia, congratulating, “Our 5 sisters…They are a pride for Bolivia.”
Now when tourist come to climb in Bolivia, more than a few of them want to do it with las Cholitas Escaladoras. Some of the women are now working as guides. The resulting visibility has helped to decrease the friction with the male guides; increased visibility has been good for business and therefore good for everyone working on the mountain.
Things are different now. Lidia is different as well.
No longer is she the quiet, obedient woman she used to be. “Now that I’ve started climbing, I’ve done a lot of things, right? I don’t think the same way now…One day I made the decision to say, ‘No, I can’t do just what you want. I am going to do what I want, too.”
Woman of the pollera are still being marginalized in Bolivia. But there is a movement to overcome this, and the Cholitas have contributed to this movement.
In a school in La Paz, there is a mural of Lidia. This is a school that once banned the wearing of traditional Aymara clothing. But in this mural, Lidia is dressed in her pollera. She’s also wearing a helmet in place of her bowler hat, and has a flashlight, a rope hanging from her shoulders, and is wielding an ice axe. Accompanying the mural is a phrase she often repeats: “La cima es para todos.”
"The top is for everyone."
Today the Cholitas number 16 women, and have climbed 7 of their 8 mountains. The next project is Everest.
In addition to being an alpinist, Lidia has become a political leader. In January 2021, she ran for city councilperson in the City of El Alto, and won. During her campaign she promised to continue fighting for the rights of women of the pollera. Her term began two weeks ago, on May 3.
April 14, 2021
On this cloudy April morning in Colorado, I’m reminded of a different, misty cool April twelve years ago. My son and I were on our 9th month of a 13-month journey around the world when we happened upon…
Darjeeling (April, 2009)
Our original plan was to head up to Sikkim, the Himalayan kingdom wedged between Nepal and Bhutan which became a state of the Indian Union in 1975. Along the way, in the Shiwalik Hills of the lower Himalaya, we arrived at Darjeeling.
It was abundantly clear that we did not need to go anywhere else. We were seduced in the traditional manner, like so many before us. It was our own little replay of the 1830s, when some tired British soldiers passed through Darjeeling while on an official errand. They looked at the peaceful wooded hillside and the icy Himalayas soaring in view, and they said: “Sanitarium.”
Like the British officers, we were tired. We’d been hitting the trail pretty hard for two solid months, ever since leaving Kenya. We set our bags down in the comfy Hotel Dekeling, and later that evening went out for a stroll. Everything whispered to our spirits: “Stay awhile and rest. Breathe some fresh, cool air. Get some exercise. Play. Don’t even think about going anywhere else for a while.”
My son gazed across the mountainsides and said, “Baba, this looks like a smash-up of so many other places we’ve been.”
“Bolivia, Argentina, Chile, Puerto Rico, and Colorado.”
The immortal massif Kangchenjunga, which means “The Five Treasures of Snows,” forms an elusive backdrop in the mists above town. Assumed to be the world’s tallest mountain until 1852, it is actually a system of five major peaks, four of them exceeding 27,000 feet. The highest of course is Kangchenjunga itself, at 28,169 feet. It is the third highest mountain on Earth, bested only by Everest and K2. Everest too is visible from points in town on very clear mornings, as a tiny point on the horizon.
Your best chance to catch a view of the Kangchenjungas is in the early morning before the clouds and mists build. A good plan is to head along the path around Observatory Hill from Chowrasta Square, which is located in the saddle at the top of town. If Kangchenjunga is showing, it will be right in your face and tinged with orange morning rays.
Then you can climb to the Buddhist and Hindu shrines on top of Observatory Hill as the sun strikes the evergreen trees from the east. Thousands of prayer flags will be draped through the trees above you, flapping and mixing with the smoke and incense rising up through them. Worshippers will arrive, huffing up the path. They will ring the bells over the gateway as they enter.
It is really too lovely for words.
You can be content in Darjeeling doing almost nothing except sitting by a window with a book or a laptop. Get a cup of famous tea and gaze out across the moody hillsides. Or go for a walk, even if it’s cold and drizzling in an Earl Grey fog.
There is an excellent zoo out along the hillside that you must not miss. It makes a nice walk from Chowrasta. There you can visit Himalayan Black Bears, Snow Leopards, Tibetan Wolves, Siberian and Indian Tigers, Red Pandas, and Grey Langur Monkeys.
Above the zoo you’ll find the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, where people come for mountain climbing training. The Institute was built in honor of Darjeeling resident Tenzing Norgay who, along with Sir Edmund Hillary, first reached the summit of Mount Everest in 1953. Sir Edmund was knighted in England for his efforts, and Tenzing became perhaps an even bigger hero in an independent and grateful India.
Back down in the zoo you’ll find a lovely aviary containing some awesome birds. One of our favorites was the Golden Pheasant, which looks like a 1980s glam rocker. And in this aviary resides a particular member of the Hill Myna species who just might steal your heart.
He hung out on a perch, inches away from the mesh, and blinked at us. He tilted his head. “Happy birthday to Lolo,” he said.
We congratulated Lolo on his birthday, and stayed and talked with him for half an hour. We were transfixed by his magnetic personality. Lolo sat on his perch and patiently taught us how to whistle his eight-note song. He winked at us some more and gave us his impersonations of the other birds. He also did his version of a car siren.
Finally, we bid goodbye to Lolo and hiked back towards Darjeeling. We huffed and puffed it up the switchbacks towards Chowrasta Square. At one turn along the trail, my son paused.
“Lolo made this walk worthwhile,” he said through his smile and heaving breaths.
On our last full day in Darjeeling we went back to the zoo. Lolo saw us coming and immediately flew over to talk.
“Hey, what’s with you?” he asked.
“Happy birthday, Lolo,” we replied.
“Happy birthday to Lolo,” he agreed. “Could you, would you?”
A woman standing next to us laughed. “He’s gotten so much nicer, now that he’s older,” she said. She was wearing the red jacket of the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He’s cleaned up his language. He used to shout, ‘Who goes there!’ and then hurl abuse.”
“What kind of abuse?”
“Swear words in Nepali,” she replied. Then she turned to Lolo and said, “Could-you-would-you?”
“Couldyouwouldyou!” shouted Lolo, tilting his head and winking.
“What does that mean in Nepali?” I asked.
“It means, ‘What time is it’.”
We hung out with Lolo for a while. We didn’t want to leave him. We sat next to his cage and did a little of my son’s school work. We whistled Lolo’s eight-note song with him, over and over. Finally, we got up to go.
“Goodbye, Lolo,” we said.
As a going away present, Lolo gave us his impersonation of a car alarm.
We hiked back up the ridge towards Chowrasta. Through heaving breaths, my son asked, “Baba, how long do they live?”
I paused. “Hill Mynas? I don’t know. Quite a while, I think. Maybe thirty or forty years?”
He wiped a tear from his cheek.
Then he smiled. “Well! When we come back here, we know exactly where to go.”
March 14, 2021
It’s official: after 74 years, McElligot’s Pool has reached the end of its publishing road. You might have read this past week that it is one of the six books Dr. Seuss Enterprises announced it has stopped publishing due to racist and insensitive imagery. It has drawings that “portray people in ways that are hurtful and wrong,” according to the company’s statement.
I go way back with The Pool and I’m sorry to learn it’s getting pulled. It has been one of my favorites nearly my entire life. It enchanted me as a child from page two, with its the beneath-the-surface depiction of the junky contents of the Pool where Marco is fishing. It is one of the few select Seuss books I resurrected as a parent and read with my children over and over and over again. Another good thing about it is its hardcover size: McElligot’s Pool makes a great lap desk. My copy is holding up well, but it’s been so thoroughly used as such that I doubt it will ever be a collector’s item.
Problems with Seuss have percolated for a while, and have been getting quite a bit of academic attention in recent years. Examples include Mr. Nel’s 2017 book, Was the Cat in the Hat Black?: The Hidden Racism of Children’s Literature and the Need for Diverse Books (it’s been pointed out that said cat might be in blackface), and a 2019 paper by Ishizuka and Stephens, “The Cat is Out of the Bag: Orientalism, Anti-Blackness, and White Supremacy in Dr. Seuss’s Children’s Books.” It’s true that the also-pulled And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, Seuss’s first children’s book from 1937, has a drawing of a yellow-faced, slanted-eyed “Chinese boy who eats with sticks” (adjusted in the 1970s to be a white-faced, still slanted-eyed “Chinese man who eats with sticks”).
What’s the problem with The Pool? Nothing jumped out in my mind when I read about this. I had to go and look.
All is smooth sailing until pages 22-23, when “Some fish from the Tropics, all sunburned and hot, might decide to swim up! Well they might…might they not? Racing up north for a chance to get cool, full steam ahead for McElligot’s Pool!” In doing so, these overheated fish chug past a palm-tree island on which a guy in a sombrero-like hat, a red vest, and cowboy boots reclines in the sand with a gigantic margarita.
Problem? Perhaps, but I don’t think so. However, on the next page things gets more serious.
“Some Eskimo Fish, from beyond Hudson Bay, might decide to swim down; might be headed this way!” Here we have a guy in a fur-lined hat holding a spear. Judging by how white and friendly-looking the guy’s face is in contrast to the darker-faced, more indigenously-featured fish, I suspect he was altered in the 1970s along with Mulberry Street’s Chinese boy. Perhaps the spear remains the problem, or the fur-lined hat, or the use of the outdated term “Eskimo” (which I grew up using)? Or maybe it’s the ethnic fish themselves? To which I have to say something similar to what my friend’s workmate said recently, when Disney got backlash for casting a black actress to play Ariel in the live-action version of The Little Mermaid: “Guess what? She’s a fish.”
The only other potential problem I can detect comes near the end, on pages 42-43: “Or I might catch a fish from a stranger place yet! From the world’s highest river in far-off Tibet. Where the falls are so steep that it’s dangerous to ride ‘em, so the fish put up chutes and float down beside ‘em.” And what these fish are floating down beside is a cane-holding man in colorful clothes and a pointy hat standing outside his entirely-Seussian dwelling.
But the man doesn’t look Tibetan to me. He looks like a Trump supporter.
So you be the judge. I’m not qualified to determine The Pool’s demerits, due to my longtime emotional experiences within its pages which make it hard, if not impossible, for me to see how it can be offensive or hurtful. Did it merit being pulled for the reasons Dr. Seuss Enterprises claim it was? Or is something else at play here? It should be noted that, after the announcement was made last week, Dr. Seuss books have re-stormed the Amazon charts.
Books go in and out of print. The Pool came out in 1947. It barely sells anymore; nothing close to Seuss’s more celebrated works. I wish they’d just quietly discontinued it, and left it to keep whatever place in the cultural record.
Day of the Hearts
February 14, 2021
Today is the 1,525th feast day of Saint Valentine, the patron saint of epilepsy. Martyred circa AD 270, he got his day in the year 496 thanks to Pope Gelasius. It wasn’t until much later, in 1868, that Cadbury introduced its heart-shaped chocolate box as a new Valentine’s Day era was gaining steam. Before that, at least in Italy, it was much more common to give little gold keys on this day (especially to children) in efforts to ward off epilepsy.
Word is that Singaporeans now lead the world in spending on Valentine’s Day. In the Philippines they too love them some Valentine’s Day; in the lead up to araw ng mga puso (“day of the hearts”), flower prices skyrocket and cathedrals get booked-out for weddings.
Elsewhere in Asia, Feb. 14 is not such a big deal for various reasons. Places like China and Vietnam are too preoccupied with Tet, the climax of which was this past Friday night. But retailers don’t need to worry because we now have White Day, March 14, to more than make up for it. White Day actually got its start in Japan in the 1970s, after a botched rollout of Valentine’s Day there a few decades earlier gave the mistaken impression that Feb. 14 was a day for WOMEN to give MEN chocolates, and not just to their boyfriends and husbands but also to their coworkers. To make up for this unfairness, March 14 was established as a day for men to reciprocate with white chocolate, marshmallows, et cetera. South Korea takes it a step further; if you did not get chocolates on Feb. 14 or white candies on March 14, you can go to a restaurant on April 14 and eat black noodles by yourself (and fortunately, not have to file your income tax until May 31). In fact, South Korea has a designated love—or lack thereof—day on the 14th of each month of the year. I like October 14: that’s wine day!
Latin America is big on Valentine’s Day of course, except for Brazil, which isn’t hip on it because they’re too busy with Carnival. Plenty of other countries are decidedly non-hip on Valentine’s Day and even have government regulations against it: much of the Muslim world for example, plus India. In Finland and Estonia the day is more about appreciating friends than lovers.
For Valentine’s Day, like other festivals with Christian connotations, I find myself wondering what thousands-of-years-old pagan practices got usurped. In Rome at least, though many academics claim it wasn’t intentional, the usurped festival was Lupercalia. Prior to Pope Gelasius designating Feb. 14 as Saint Valentine’s Day, February 13-15 was all about ritual cleaning and sacrifice in the name of Roman hygiene. In fact, februa is Latin for “purification.”
But it turns out Lupercalia had a Valentine’s Day element to it!
At its focal point, rites were performed at Lupercal Cave on Palatine Hill, the site where Romulus and Remus were suckled by the wolf according to legend. As a part of these rites, a male dog and goat were sacrificed. According to Plutarch, the skin of these animals was then flayed into pieces and given to young noblemen, who took off all their clothes and ran around the base of Palatine Hill, anticlockwise. Well-to-do women wanting to get pregnant purportedly lined up along the course, and held out their hands to receive a slap of dead dog fur from a buck naked noble-boy.
The earliest form of Valentine?
January 15, 2021
High in the Indian Himalaya, in a gorgeous lonely glacier-scooped cirque, sits a tarn called Roopkund. Hindi for “beautifully shaped lake,” it is about 130 feet across and 10 feet deep. It’s frozen most of the year, but when it thaws you can see plentiful human skulls and bones lying on the bottom.
I haven’t made it there, but I’d love to try someday!
Hundreds more bones and skulls dot the shoreline, which trekkers have arranged into cairns and patterns. In 1956, an expedition brought some of these remains to Calcutta for study. Carbon dating, then in its infancy, indicated they were between 500 and 800 years old.
Roopkund sits at over 16,000 feet, and is an arduous multi-day trek from Wan, the nearest village. It probably wasn’t a popular spot for picnickers of yore. However, the tarn lies beneath a soaring ridge which is along a longtime pilgrimage route honoring the goddess Nanda Devi.
In 2005, a multidisciplinary team collected additional bones for study. The Roopkund remains had long been picked over and mixed around by trekkers, but a recent landslide had exposed a fresh cache. Researchers estimated that between 300 and 700 peoples’ remains were at the lake, and determined that most had been healthy, unrelated women and men between the ages of 18 and 35. Among the recently-exposed bones were bits of leather slippers, bamboo parasols, and bangles of shell and glass.
The DNA proved, unsurprisingly, to be South Asian in origin. Carbon dating was tightly clustered in the 800s, indicating perhaps a single event. Two distinct groups of people emerged from the bone analysis: tall individuals with long heads, and shorter ones with round heads bearing the marks of forehead straps–i.e. Brahmans from the plains, and their mountain porters.
A fairly clear picture emerged: of ninth century pilgrims and porters, perhaps not well fitted with mountaineering gear, getting caught in a blizzard or hailstorm and dying of exposure. Over the centuries, landslides and avalanches rolled their bodies down to the lake.
The mystery appeared solved; the puzzle pieces fallen into place.
Or so we thought.
More recent studies have yielded some extremely puzzling information. As Douglas Preston explains in the Dec. 14 New Yorker, a significant portion of the Roopkund bones, up to a third of them, do not exhibit the DNA of South Asians. Rather they are from the eastern Mediterranean. And they died much more recently.
The closest match is Crete. Backing this up is bone collagen data, which indicate these folks ate a typical Mediterranean diet in the ten years preceding their death (the South Indian bone collagen, on the other hand, showed a diet typical of India). Carbon dating is now more precise; the South Asians died in 3-4 incidents between 700 and 950 AD. The Mediterranean group, on the other hand, perished in a single event sometime between 1650 and 1950. The highest probability is that it happened in the 1700s.
When these results came out, the researchers sort of hoped someone would come forward with information about a lost group of Greeks in the Himalayas sometime around 1700 or 1800 (and explain why they were making a Hindu pilgrimage). No one has.
Anthropologist William Sax, a longtime Roopkund afficionado, has spent years in the villages below the lake. He has heard not a whisper of any story or legend about a party of foreigners coming in the 1700s or 1800s, let alone dying at Roopkund.
Were the bones mixed up with others in their Kolkata storage locker? Not likely. If that had happened, the DNA would be all over the map. Else we’d have to explain why a bunch of Greek bones remarkably consistent in age, type, and diet ended up in a vault in India.
The mystery persists.
And its answers may lie on the muddy floor of Roopkund.
Beneath the clear water, which is frozen most of the year, are human remains untouched by meddlers. They are better preserved than their shore counterparts, and contain soft tissues.
And perhaps artifacts.