My Secondhand Year

Back in the 90s I went on an epic trip to Nepal. Before we met our friend in Lukla for the trek to the Gokyo in the Mt. Everest region, my other friend and I flew into Kathmandu and hired a guide to take us into the Langtang valley in the northern part of the country. As opposed to the popular and well-traveled Khumbu (Everest) area, Langtang does not see many trekkers or foreigners at all. Walking into the villages in that area was like walking back in time. I could totally imagine that if we had actually time traveled back to the 17th century, the places would not have looked significantly different (although the did have Coca-Cola and bright pink toilet paper).

What on earth does this story have to do with curtailing my shopping habit, you (very reasonably) ask? Well, another thing I starkly remember about my time in that part of Nepal was being incredibly self-conscious about the hugeness of our backpacks. Also, I had the niggling suspicion that I was carrying more stuff on my back (the things — purple Patagonia Synchilla Snap-T, The North Face Mountain jacket and pants, Wigwam socks, Teva’s, multiple t-shirts, a hippie skirt for entering monasteries, old Umbro soccer shorts, a down jacket, Dr. Bronner’s liquid soap, a jar of Skippy, a journal, guidebooks, paperback copies of Seven Years in Tibet, The Power and the Glory, and The Glass Bead Game — I absolutely needed to survive for a couple of months) than the occupants of this tiny village owned all together — if not in terms of the actual quantity of things, then for sure in terms of the monetary value. That Gore-Tex parka from TNF was at the time the most expensive item of clothing I had ever purchased for myself.

And while some of the kids took an interest in the nifty colorful Cordura straps on our Nalgene bottles and our (in retrospect shockingly shitty, and heavy) cameras, they were mostly happy to practice their English, show off their soccer skills (in homemade sandals made from old tires and with a semi-flat ball that had been repaired a dozen times), and laugh at us when we tried to get clean in the icy stream nearby. They seemed happy, and so did their families, who cheerfully cooked us lentils and let us sleep by their cookstoves and gave us prayer flags when we left to head higher into the mountains. I remember reading somewhere that the people who live in these Himalayan villages are some of the happiest people on earth. This may have changed with the disasters — natural and manmade — Nepal has experienced since then, and I suspect kids there now have Jordans and iPhones, but the point remains: Happiness, contentment, and joy are not dependent on things. Assuming you have your basic needs (health, food, shelter, soccer balls) met — and I’d argue a nice view — everything else really is extra.

I know this story is a little trite, but it has always stuck with me. All these years later, I’m finally ready to be more like those villagers. I know I’ve got a long way to go (understatement of the millennium), but the image of those families enjoying their simple pleasures is something that will inspire me in the upcoming days when perking myself up with a cozy new scarf is not an option.