A solo journey through Nepal and a sightseeing flight that buzzed Mt. Everest were the planned parts of Jeanne Moore's latest vacation. But what happened next wasn't covered in any brochure. On Dec. 24 the 5 3-year-old special-education teacher from Bakersfield, Calif, boarded Indian Airlines Flight 814 in Katmandu for what she hoped would be a quiet flight to New Delhi to see the Taj Mahal. But roughly an hour after takeoff, five heavily armed terrorists hijacked the plane. "In the first moments, the theme from Gilligan's Island kept running through my head," says Moore, the only American among 155 passengers. "I was on a two-hour trip that turned into a disaster."

Eight excruciating days passed before the hijackers—who killed one hostage—secured the release of three Kashmiri rebels jailed in India and were allowed to flee the plane, which by the second day was grounded in Afghanistan. (The terrorists, opposed to Indian rule in Kashmir, on the India-Pakistan border, are still at large.) A licensed family and child counselor, the twice-divorced Moore survived a lengthy battle with abdominal cancer in the late 1980s and since then has followed her wanderlust wherever it has taken her (she was once caught up in a bloody demonstration in Panama, and wound up in Croatia as war raged in neighboring regions). "I'm sure she will travel again," says her sister Ruth Welch, "though we would prefer she stay home for the holidays." Moore, who has three grown children and lives alone in Bakersfield, described her ordeal to correspondent Lorenzo Benet.

I like going to new places to experience new points of view. I've raised my kids and paid off my house, so I'm in a position to travel. And I'm a cancer survivor. My thinking is, "If you're going to live, go out and do it."

I arrived at the Katmandu airport feeling under the weather. I had been coughing and planned on taking antibiotics and getting some rest on the two-hour flight. But about an hour after takeoff, I heard a lot of noise around me. Then I saw food trays flying everywhere and two men in ski masks running down the aisle towards the back of the plane. They were carrying guns and grenades. Moments later there was an announcement in English over the loudspeaker: "This plane has been hijacked."

It took a few minutes for the reality of the situation to sink in. The hijackers, who all seemed to be fit and well-trained, ordered us to put our heads down to our knees. Trying to breathe while bent over in your seat is very difficult and even harder with your seat belt on. During the first night we took off and landed six times, but the shades were pulled, and there was no way of knowing where we were. Shortly after the hijackers took over, there was another commotion, but my head was down, so I couldn't see. It wasn't until a few days later that some passengers began whispering that a hostage had been killed. Some English-speaking passengers told me they saw a body being taken off the plane during one of our landings, but I didn't want to believe there had been a killing, because that might have encouraged some type of commando raid, which we were all deathly afraid of. We later learned the hijackers had slit the throat of an Indian man on his honeymoon.

All along, however, the hijackers kept assuring us that no one would be hurt. They wanted us to believe that they were kind and gentle, even though at other times they were intentionally intimidating, pointing guns at people's heads and saying, "I will shoot you." Once we were in a heads-down drill when I noticed a roach on my arm. I turned my face and blew it off, and seconds later I was hit on the back of my head by what felt like the butt of a gun. This violence made me feel even more nervous. I began thinking about my family and wondering if they even knew I was aboard. More than anything, I was concerned about how they would react when they found out. But I worked very hard to maintain control and be useful to others. I think my training and experience as a therapist and as a cancer survivor helped me do this.

I even had several conversations with one hijacker, a man referred to as Burger. He could speak excellent English, and we talked for hours about everyday things. I figured that the more we talked, the harder it would be for him to kill me. He seemed to be the hijacker who was most in control, even though the one in the cockpit was in charge. Burger would lead everyone through sing-alongs, passing a megaphone around to passengers. And he liked to crack jokes in Hindi. I didn't understand them, but the people around me laughed a lot.

A couple of days into the ordeal, a hijacker asked me what the English word is for the box that you put a body in. I told him "coffin" and wondered if it was going to be required for one of us. (I later found out that it was for reclaiming the body of a fallen fellow rebel.) By then some of us were convinced that all the hostages would be killed, because we knew that governments generally refuse to negotiate with terrorists.

About three or four days into the hijacking, the smell in the economy cabin became noxious. There was no ventilation, and we could barely breath. We would ask permission and were allowed to use the four bathrooms, but by then the toilets were overflowing and people were tracking human waste back into the aisles. Words cannot describe the smell. Finally the door to the cabin was opened, providing us with some fresh air.

Nor was there any schedule for food. Some days we ate—usually bread or oranges or rice with raisins—and some days we didn't. By the fifth or sixth day, everyone's spirits were way down, and I began counseling other passengers, even though I wasn't doing all that well myself. The hijackers had confiscated my bag with medicine inside, and I started running a fever. Later on I was diagnosed with pneumonia.

These were very hard days, not only because of the conditions, but because our hopes were repeatedly raised by announcements that we would soon be freed, only to have them dashed when nothing happened. On the eighth day the replacement batteries stopped working, which meant no heat or light. Many of us would have frozen to death that night, but then something happened. The hijackers let us raise our shades to get a little sunlight for warmth. We could see soldiers with guns outside, and a lot of trucks. As the day went on more trucks arrived, and Burger announced, "Our released brothers are on the way! You are going home!"

I knew not to let my hopes get too high, but then I saw one of the hijackers on the ground get into a truck. Burger came running up the aisle yelling, "We love you!" and then he was gone. Moments later a man boarded the plane and told us, "It's over." It was eerily quiet in the cabin. I was grateful that we were going out with a whimper and not a bang.

Some passengers shot videos of the cabin, and I took a couple of Polaroids. I was feeling weak and needed help getting off the plane, but everyone was hugging and kissing, we were all so thrilled to be alive. Then they took us all to a second plane, and unlike some passengers, I wasn't at all uncomfortable climbing aboard. We had to fly somewhere and, hey, it sure smelled a lot better.

When wre landed in New Delhi I was met by officials from the U.S. Embassy. I was so ill they took me to a hospital and ran some tests, but I refused to stay overnight. I went to the embassy compound and slept there. My daughter Lisa called me from California and sobbed into the phone. Later I learned that my son Jim was on his way to India to take me home.

Boy, I learned a lot from this experience. Politeness and honest concern for others, even the hijackers, helped me get through this ordeal. Three separate times they told us that we should get counseling once we got off the plane. They also repeatedly asked us for forgiveness. I appreciated their concern, but, looking back, all I can think is, "Please, change careers."