FAR ON THE OTHER SIDE of the lonely, cement-walled dining room of our Soviet-style monstrosity, Hotel Manisha, the Chinese are whupped, cradling their heads on the palms of their hands, while we partake of a warm pot of home-brewed rice wine that tastes more like kerosene than sake. "Here, take this," says Kharkhar, refilling my eight-ounce glass. "Raksi gives good power. It's mountain medicine."

"Don't drink too much or your basket tips," Gopal cautions, drunk.

We wait wait wait, drink drink drink. Porters always eat last, and by the time the Chinese are done forking à la carte, I'm tipsy and famished. We haven't eaten in eight hours. When our turn finally comes, I scarf as much as the guys: two cups of watery lentils, three handfuls of curried vegetables, and 64 metric tons of rice, all of which is consumed with piggish glee. It's enough to make the requisite "daal bhaat baby" in my belly. Out of nowhere, Kharkhar says, "In Nepal, the mountains and the roads and the government and the hotels are always the same. Only the people change. We are glad to have you."

Burp!

The next morning, it's the sober Chinese who look hungover. Dragging ass worse than ever, they stretch four miles through a strafed rhododendron forest into an all-day affair. Even worse, the basest local etiquette escapes them: They pass to the right of Buddhist chortens, point, fail to receive tea and meals with two hands, haggle over the price of set-rate hotels, encourage begging by giving children pens and candy, touch Nepalis on the head, and flaunt their wealth. Prada, concerned that Hari might develop dry skin, gives him a pressurized blast in the face with an Evian mister that cost more than he will earn all day carrying it. He smiles through a cringe.

I, for my part, should increase the weight in my dhoko-naamlo, but my neck says, No, that can wait.

When we arrive at Tadapani, it's covered in three feet of new snow. Kharkhar, Gopal, Hari, and I grab a seat with the dozens of other porters trying to warm their soggy sneakers and socks at an outdoor fire. Soon Shiva shows up, literally dragging a sobbing Red Jacket through the stinging fog. He has short-roped her all afternoon.

Prada approaches us: "Excuse me, Hari."

Hari swivels around. She knows my name?

It turns out Red Jacket is "sick" with a headache, and Prada would like Hari to carry her tomorrow. How this would work is hard to picture (anti-gravity belt?), and Hari demurs as best he can. But Prada has anticipated this.

"I have a rope for you to ..." She makes the motion of tying a sling.

"We can try," Hari says, and sits back down after she leaves. The porters resume their conversation—nothing but a crazy client—and I ask Hari, "Could you really carry her?"

"No, I don't think so," he says.