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The Porter

9 months ago, I started planning this trip. 6 months ago, I got fired - from dishwashing, then lost 3 more jobs in a row. 4 months ago, I went broke writing scripts to position myself for this show. 3 months ago. I returned home in debt. 2 months ago, I had a mental breakdown hahaha. (The ha ha's keep it light hearted). And last month, holy fuck, everything I planned and nearly everyone I relied on fell thru. But not until after I got to Nepal....At 4:45am we leave and embark on the first day of official filming.

I had already sweat through my shirt on the way to the bus station. Sprinted 'cause we were late and laid it on the chair in front of me to dry. It'd be the only shirt I'd have for the next 23 days. But I didn't care. I was too excited. Sleepy, but excited.

The path to Everest weaves by countryside houses, farms and stores. Sometimes, you have to ask for directions, because the path isn't so obvious. Or it gets muddled and lost amongst fallen bricks and debris. But luckily, I spoke a bit of Nepali, so I only got lost occasionally.

The first time we really started assembling our audio gear: we never really did get the hang of it. Probably why it took me so long to fiddle with the film afterwards. It truly was a mess.

I love this shot. The twilight was exceptional. Had been in this spot once before, my first time in the area, but got lost at dusk and a bit spooked. Having Babin as company was nice. We didn't know each too well, but it was comforting nonetheless.

No one really walks to Everest. Not from Jiri, that is. So there aren't many places to stay. Come nightfall, instead of shacking up at a hotel, you'll have to knock on someone's door and hope they're taking guests. Fortunately, a tiny shack was, with a black, dimly lit room inside. I can still hear the echo of earth and the wind against its wood. Not empty. Just earthy.

I had a bad night that 1st night. I don't know why. Just did. Couldn't think straight. My mind was running. I wanted to quit and complain so I said I was tired. Lying in bed in a room with newspaper-walls for insulation and wood underneath. We hadn't been gone 24 hours.

It always feels weird when you're in front of the camera. If Babin weren't there, I'm sure I'd feel depressed or down and dreading the hike. But he was. And so I felt purpose. That the more depressed I looked, the better the product would be. But I was lonely. Out there, in the middle of nowhere. With money I raised from others to make a film I had no idea how to make...I mean, of course I love this. But for the goal, not the journey. Or maybe, for the uncomfortability of crickets and a hole in the ground behind as company.

Words don't do this justice. Babies are cute.

I always introduced myself as Tashi Lama Sherpa Tamang: a combination of four major ethnic groups. It gets a laugh because it's absurd. Always helped me get along with others too.

I used the GoPro for these little solilquoys of personal thoughts. Here, I get interrupted by a group of construction workers I asked directions from right before. They wanted me to join them for tea.

Quiet. Empty. But the light in this lunch room was hitting it rather angelically. And there was one boy, alone, studying inside. Making little sounds of craft.

A woman making tea for her family and the earlier construction workers. Calling to her son to let the others know it's ready. He calls down the road. We enter shortly aft

White rice with salt. Lots and lots of salt.

Down and into Bhandar, and then lower Bhandar we went, strolling along until we found a hotel owner who'd let us stay for cheap, and in a local way. He showed us a nice bed. I didn't think it was local.

Invited into the kitchen with the owner's family, I sat inside as his daughters cooked, sang and danced in front of us. Their singing, it kind of blew Babin and I away. So he asked to record them in a different room. Their song is the film's theme.

The mornings were the only real time I could complain. So complain I did. And move as little as possible until I had to get up. And when I did, the air was always cold too. Come to think, I'm not so sure I'm a mountain man. But I had to give it a shot.

We got lost just before lunch — another long day. Then stumbled into an open-air room in a small village. Babin was playing Spanish music. He had a weird taste in tunes. But I secretely loved them. Just never admitted it.

It started raining and I didn't have plastic — a tarp you cover your belongings with. So we stopped to wait. Hoping to buy some up the road. But we wouldn't for another two weeks.

Little cats and Himalayan Mountain Dogs. Babin loved to video them. Unfortunately, I was too stubborn most of the time, or worried aboot money, or the film, or the hike itself so I just wanted to get going.

Mapsme, an offline app, gives your GPS, Elevation and distance at any time. I used it to map out our journey to Lukla. Showing someone at a pit stop house what it looks like. Asking him how far to the next city. And if we could buy plastic along the way. We didn't.

"After 20 days, I will be Bhat." Bhat is rice. I was shrinking very rapidly.

This isn't our breakfast. It's the other tourists'. They ordered a pancake.

This is our breakfast. We ate local food instead. Porridge. It took a long while to get used to, and I'm not sure I ever did. My body suffered harsh sugar cravings and inner convulsions for a few days.

Farm animals roam wild around homes.

I once bought a ticket to Patagonia with a snowboard and saxophone in hand to become a ski bum. I'm not quite sure I suceeded, but I did manage to ski things I shouldn't've. Ever since, I can't help but notice sweet lines through the trees. Especially when there's snow. I have my Dad to thank for that.

The light...I tried 100 different iterations I could to get this into the film. In the end, I couldn't. There was too much walking.

Passing Buddhist monks on the side of a mountain in the Himalaya in two feet of snow. I mean, come on. Some things just write themselves.

Babin snuck out to take a few videos of the nearest Stuppa. He showed me after at the hotel. We were blown away. But once again, I failed to get them into the fiml. Unbelievable.

We always did nightly reviews because I was still planning on hoping to become a Hollywood personality. But in truth, I always felt weird doing them. And always hungry for chocolate too. Starving for it.

One of the more iconic bridges before Lukla. We spent 30 minutes trying to get a good shot. I'm not even sure it made it into the film.

Me...

Life in the country is hard to understand from a glimpse. And in truth, I'll probably never really know. I'm from the Suburbs of Boston. Try hard to spend time in the country but it always feels like exploring to me. I have never worked hard and long and well like farmers all across the world.

Phurba, a friend of mine in Taksindu, let me feed his cows. I always love these opportunities. Even tried to milk a cow once, but that is definitely not as easy as it looks. Plus, it feels very strange.

Invited into a Pujja at 6:30am. A buddhist ritual for prayer a few times a day. I sat in the back and tried to use the techniques I learned from Noble Silence to practice, but I failed pretty badly. A pujja is very, very intense. And most of the time I am fighting to control myself. In fact, perhaps that's the reason for all the loud sounds.

We interviewed the head monk. And as we were chatting, behind him remained this: The frozen robe of the head monk stuck in a sillhouette of his body.

I don't know why I look so angry. I felt so contemplative at the time, but I look very very scary, I think.

We were given a tour after of the Pujja. Of the rituals. Of the backroom. And of the Buddhas preceding. Even interviewed the head monk too, but our audio got messed up and it didn't really work. Still, I'll always remember his emanence. Filling the room with an aura and langour that smoothed you into listening. It was intoxicating. In the best possible way.

Five us in a room setting up an interview with Babu Chirri Sherpa's Parents. A friend of mine, Phurba Sherpa, set this up. Fortunately, Babin knew what he was doing. Because I had no idea.

Pashi Sherpa waved us goodbye. She spoke Sherpa. I did not. Never understood what she said. So I sometimes just repeated it back to her and smiled. I should've known how to communicate.

2 Days in Taksindu. It was nice to relax for a moment and see an old friend. But everyday in the mountains was a day in a world away for me.

Lukla is in sight.

Small islands of monastic scriptures etched in stone dapple the hills. Always walk left. Never right. Counter clockwise. So I tried.

Everyone works. Everyone uses a namlo. I still wasn't.

I felt my fat falling to my stomach. All of it. Off my shoulders and arms and into the pit of my belly. Skinnier every day yet growing in a way.

The closer we got the bigger loads we saw. Slowly creeping up to 100. I wouldn't've even said a word. I hadn't earned any stripes to do so.

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I lost my fleece on the way down a mountainside. Tied it onto my back and it must've just fell off. at this point. I was still operating by an every-dollar comes out of my end salary goal. SO I bargained as harshly as I could. It was a very strange feeling. Bargaining out of necessity to live local life but being treated like a foreigner at the same time. No amount of Nepali could bridge the gap. It is at times inexplicable.

There are donkeys everywhere. Mud and wet donkeys clopping around everywhere. Never pass them on the side nearest the cliff, they say, cause you could get knocked over. I didn't believe it until this.

The sound of donkeys passing through your town is constant.

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