Kathmandu, 1998
Once in the plane,
Time stands still between the first and last lines on my itinerary, but bursts back into pandemonium once we touch down in Kathmandu. Incoming passengers cross the outgoing, with flowing white scarves and red dyed rice stuck to their foreheads, traditional blessings to keep them safe in their travels. Hippies in baggy pants and hikers in technical gear congregate around the tired conveyor belt that indiscriminately pushes out the bags, one by one.
Swarms of young men descend upon the tourists as they exit the airport, proposing rides while simultaneously taking the handle of their suitcases to seal the deal, as thin dogs heard the travellers in the busy parking lot scavenging for food scraps.
Dust blows in from the barren landing strip. I pause to look toward the snow peaked Himalayas, which look like rows of soft serve ice cream. The sun drills down on my face, which is now covered in a warm layer of grit. I’m finally going to do it. Trek through the Annapurna Mountains, where I was told by my college sweetheart that transformation lives.
We climb into the bright green bus, which will take us to the starting point of our 18-day journey. Painted gods and goddesses, inscriptions I cannot decipher and a bamboo tray of offerings and burning incense tell me we are protected, although I have yet to fully appreciate how much divine intervention will be required to keep us safe on the roads which cling to the mountain contours.
The bus begins to growl, spitting out clouds of dark smoke, as she heads down the road, most certainly against her will. She too is tired. An old girl, I’d say, who should have been put out to pasture a while ago. Roaming vendors propose bottles of water and exotic fruit to the passengers stuck in the traffic gridlock, while cows, goats and dogs graze at the rubbish piles on the side of the road. The quickest to advance are those on foot, followed by the scooters, carrying three and even four people along with their daily shopping.
The vibrant jewel-coloured saris fly like flags behind the long, flowing black hair of the women. The pungent smell of decomposing rubbish lingers in the hot, dusty air. I nestle my head into Jérôme’s jacket to breathe in his familiar, comforting scent, and rest my head on his shoulder. A seasoned adventure traveller, he is very happy I accepted our friend Karen’s offer to join this trip, a vastly different experience to the comfortable resorts I traditionally choose.
Open-front shops and squatting vendors line the road out of town, while young boys laugh and skip, randomly hitting trees with their long sticks. One boy is walking with five goats, which are nibbling excitedly on plastic wrappings and other treasures discarded on the side of the road.
“Isn’t that cute?” I say more as an exclamation than a question.
“Sacrifice,” I hear the guide say.
I lift my head. “What sacrifice?” I feel the lines on my face tighten and eyebrows furrow.
“In the temple,” he responds.
“It’s for Dashain,” Jérôme whispers into my ear. “People sacrifice animals to the Gods to receive blessings, good crops, fertility…”
Our eyes met. He must sense my discomfort at seeing meat in its live form so close to death. “It’s their tradition,” he adds.
“Oh,” is all I can muster. I put my head back on his shoulder and close my eyes as hard as I can.
Run, little goats, run!
Slowly, the shops thin and the mountains emerge from the horizon as we advance towards our meeting point where sixteen men, each at a different stage of manhood, are waiting. Some are spry and active, helping the guide prepare the departure, while others appear quite weathered, standing back from the group, waiting to be called to collect their loads. I look around at the tents, tables, chairs, gas bottles, a gas cooker, cooking pots and of course our bags sprawled on the ground, near the open belly of the bus.
The hunched men start down the trail, carrying loads that weigh as much as they do on their backs, held in place by a sling which cuts across their foreheads. I watch my new water-resistant bags bump along the path and eventually disappear. I draw in my courage and breathe out my fear as I hand my travel pass to the park ranger to stamp. It’s official. I’m on the Annapurna Trail.
The track is steep and unrelenting. Pain and discomfort slowly permeate my body. I will later find out that people normally train for months before doing this trek… Although I’m not alone in the group, I quickly feel solitary, walking in a single line behind Jérôme’ bright yellow jacket. It’s me versus nature, and if I were a betting woman, all my chips would be on nature. At the end of the day, I collapse into a blue folding chair by the fire and pull off my boots to let my toes wiggle.
“Would you like some tea?” a kitchen hand offers.
How about a foot massage and a glass of red?
“That would be lovely,” I reply instead.
Afterwards, I go to rest in the tent, where everything’s been set up. The sleeping bags have been unrolled and placed on top of a thin mattress. There’s even a pillow. The bags are in the corner. It’s cosy and it’s home.
Jérôme crawls through the opening and lies next to me, propping himself up on an elbow. “How ya’ doin’, kiddo?”
I feel the tears beginning to pool in my eyes and look away.
“It’ll be fine. You’re a fighter!” he pauses. “You can do this!” All of which he knows is true. I turn back to look at the man I love. He smiles, knowing he can’t say anything more to shift my state. I have to do this.
One day we wake to fog. The clouds are low and full. The cold sprinkle swells into a full-blown downpour towards midday. As we walk, I feel each drop pelleting down on me, eroding my will to continue. Slowly waves of tears roll off my cheeks and mingle with the pearled raindrops on my jacket.
Once at camp, I collapse into the folding chair under the large open tent.
“Allez, chérie! You can do this!”
“I don’t wanna do it anymore. I wanna go home,” I blubber.
“Come on, Sue, you can do it! Where’s that fighter I know and love?” Jérôme asks while wiping the wet hair off my face and the tears off my cheeks.
A porter approaches with a metal plate of food. I hold up my hand before he comes too close. I don’t want curry again. I want comfort food. I want something that would have been introduced into my body during my formative years. A hamburger. Oreos and milk. Mac’ and cheese. Even my mother’s chicken with cream-of-mushroom soup sauce would taste good now.
I can see the trekking crew forming a huddle under the cooking tent. I’m sure they’re talking about me.
“What are we going to do with the big baby over there?” I imagine them saying. “Does she have any idea that the only way out is the same way she got in?” Finally the guide leaves his counsellors and comes towards us.
“Jérôme, can I speak to you, please?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“Alone.”
Jérôme gets up and accompanies the guide to the cooking tent. He stands a good thirty centimetres above the group. Despite their petite frames, they each have the strength of an ox. Their wiry, dry muscles shimmer with the rain on their skin.
I watch Jérôme laugh from a distance. He really has a happy-go-lucky personality. After a few minutes, he comes over and kneels next to me. He takes my hand and holds it between his.
“Chérie,” he starts. Smiling, almost trying to contain his laughter, he looks me solemnly in the eyes. “They want to carry you in a basket.”
“What! Are you serious? A basket?!” I explode. I see myself folded in two with my legs and arms hanging out of the basket strapped to a porter’s forehead. “On their back? No way!”
Jérôme watches me and waits for my emotions to subside. Defeated, I turn to meet his clear blue eyes.
“It’s your only option, sweetheart, if you really can’t walk anymore.”
“A basket?”
He nods.
“Okay. I’ll walk.”
Jérôme smiles. I smile and wipe away the tears. Jérôme kisses me on the forehead. “Thata girl,” he whispers encouragingly.
“Is my lunch still available?”
“Boss, she’ll walk,” Jérôme shouts over to the guide. “Can you bring her some food, please?”
I stand up to pace and shake my arms, like a boxer going back into the ring, without the fancy footwork of course. Too tired for that. I’m up and fighting and that’s about all I can do…
The next day, Kul, the young porter, falls ill. To much of my shock, he had been equipped with only thongs, board shorts and a t-shirt. I give him some panadol, a thermal jumper, a scarf and tennis shoes, for which he is extremely grateful. His gratitude touches me and I soften. The trail feels less arduous. More present, I take in the vibrant colours of the afternoon sky, which move like old lovers dancing. The vibrant orange, like the robes of the monks, the dark yellow, like the carnations used for necklaces, and the very pale grey, like the boys’ shirts which probably used to be white.
The following morning, hands slide two bowls of hot water and two cups of tea through the horizontal zipper of the tent, as they do every morning. “Good morning,” chirp the owners of the thin and calloused hands from behind the blue veil. But this morning is different. When I emerge, there is a family waiting.
“We’re here to see the doctor,” a man says to Jérôme.
“Ah, you must be looking for the boss,” Jérôme replies teasingly.
I see the man’s wife is holding a toddler who has a cut with green puss on her arm, apparently the result of playing with the sickle left lying in the field. So taken by the wound, I didn’t even process that word had travelled though the mountains that a “doctor” was coming.
The trek guide translates enough so that the family takes me to the pharmacy, a small tin shanty, to buy the necessary items to clean and dress the wound. Less than a few dollars for me, but a small fortune for them. We go together to their home to treat the child.
“Tato pani” I say, very proud of my ability to ask for hot water. I show the parents how to clean and bandage the wound. I act out washing my hands with soap and water to show them what needs to be done. Their immense gratitude was only paled by my joy.
On the eighteenth day, our weary travelling circus is preparing to leave the Annapurna, under a layer of low clouds and mist. The same green bus is waiting for us, coughing and sputtering black smoke as she idles.
One advantage of the trek is that no one brought a mirror, so I have no idea what I look like. However, I can easily extrapolate based on the lines of fatigue etched into my co-travellers’ faces. I watch them hobble, trying to support their back, placing their hands on their kidneys as they stretch.
Our guide is holding the same white scarves I saw in the airport. Khatas, a symbol of the giver’s pure heart. One by one, he places a khata around our neck and bows.
“Namaste,” he says. The divine in me acknowledges the divine in you.
“Namaste,” I say as I bring my hands to my heart and bow to honour the divine of this man, of his team, and to express my gratitude for having brought us back safely.
“You are stronger than you think, Sue. Do not fight your surroundings. Mother nature is harmony. Find that harmony. That is where your strength will grow.”
I receive this man’s last gift in silence while our eyes communicate, acknowledging the divine in each other.
“Namaste,” I offer once more before turning to get back into our bright green bus. Depleted yet fulfilled, I rest my head on Jérôme’ shoulder and breathe in his still familiar, comforting scent. Tears of joy, exhaustion and relief slowly roll down my face as we advance back to town. Bright buses coughing out smoke are bringing fresh tourists to the departure point. Do they know what awaits them? I didn’t. I couldn’t have. Each person, exchange, experience, step slowly yet deeply chiselled a new contour to my existence. My college sweetheart was right. I had been transformed.
This trip was the beginning of my love affair with Nepal, its people and their genuine happiness, despite their dire physical conditions. The trip was the pebble that would create new ripples that would take my life in a direction I never would have guessed at the time, but let’s not get ahead of the story.