My Poorest Moment In My Life Essay

On the fourth day of my first crossing from the mountains to Tibet, while I was napping in the tent, after trekking for seven hours and getting a cold bath in the river, I heard my partner crying out my name. I crawled out the sleeping bag in a second, opened the tent and saw him running down a hill, a Nepali woman was running behind him. He came inside, in his arms, he carried a small baby.
We were following the Karnali river, heading along the ancient Salt Trade Route. The Humla district is one of Nepal’s highest and most remote areas, there is no road access and we were already deep into the journey, in the Dumkhot village, four days away from the Simikot airport. Humla is the poorest region in a country which rates the second poorest in Asia, after Afghanistan. In Humla, dysentery is common and has an infant mortality rate of one in three kids. It is a politically marginalized region that had been suffering from a civil war for almost a decade and that, at the time of my first trip to the continent, still had not finished. I, excited and hungry to travel far off the beaten path, I didn’t thought I would see villagers running to the camp to ask for medicines or that just because I took so much care in health information and had a treasure, a full bag of medicines, I would have to become an improvised doctor.
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The owner, an old German actress left everything and move to Kathmandu after she fell in love with a Sherpa man. I used to dine in Bhojan Griha, an ancient palace in Dillibazar, the only place where I stood the taste of alcohol, the sweet but strong rice liquor. The dancers who recognized me each year would take me out to dance barefoot following the drums and flutes, and I would come back after midnight and enter the garden, passed the hidden clay pantheons and the Newari roofs lit by the moon. I felt as I were in Kapilavastu where Buddha was born and