Backpacks and Bra Straps (30 page)

“What makes this the best time for trekking?” Steph asked.

“Well, the wet monsoon season just ended, and we’re not into the super-cold winter yet. And because of the tourist warnings, we won’t have any problem finding accommodations or picking up a pair of porters here,” Ammon said. That was about the extent of our planning; the rest would just work out somehow, as it always did. We had brought enough cash in the form of rupees to pay for food and lodging and to pay the Sherpas, as there were no ATMs available in these remote mountains.

Deciding it was best to just hang out for a bit while Ammon scouted the town, we four had breakfast in a cute wooden guest house. Its large windows offered views of the stupendous mountains surrounding us and of the single, insanely short runway we’d just come in on. Watching a couple more airplanes take off and land from this angle gave me a new appreciation for the accuracy of the skilled pilots as they manoeuvred their straining, shaking airplanes onto the upwardly sloped runway. Watching them drop off the edge of the cliff and vanish during takeoff was even more terrifying. I grew wary of the idea of leaving the mountain that way. It wasn’t unheard of for planes to fail to gain lift-off and plummet to an explosive death. We could also watch helicopters coming and going, and they appeared to me to offer a safer and much more enticing mode of departure.

Before I could ponder further about how we should best leave the mountain, the small lodge’s wooden door creaked when Ammon returned, with two young, male Sherpas in tow– one named Dendee and one who called himself “Dalai Lama” – aged twenty and eighteen respectively. We went through some negotiations before deciding whether we could “work” effectively with each other.

Before leaving Kathmandu’s “Happy Hostel,” we had packed our essential stuff into two of our five backpacks for the Sherpas to carry and left the rest behind. Each of us had our own individual daypacks with water, sweaters, journal, money, passports, toothbrushes, and a few other personal items that we would carry ourselves.

Once we’d negotiated a price acceptable to all, we surrendered our loads to our two new Nepali companions and headed out and up for our first of many strenuous hiking days to reach Everest Base Camp.

Ch. 31-35 photos
here

Yakity-Yak-Yak
36

I
was amazed to see that there was more than just a trekking trail up in the mountains; there was really a community lifestyle. Children ran around cheerfully with rosy cheeks and bare feet, playing and waving to us as we passed through their small villages. We often saw women out collecting water in the morning or cradling babies in their dim doorways. Everywhere, people went out of their way to greet us. They placed their palms together in a bow with a pleasant ‘Namaste’, which means ‘I greet the God in you’. Each of us would respond with an equally friendly ‘Namaste’.

We made good progress on the first day, but our Sherpas warned us that reaching our second stopping point, Namche Bazaar, would be the longest and most gruelling stretch.

Both our Sherpas had dark features and deeply tanned skin. Dalai Lama was a bit plump and had a very boyish face. He spoke to us sparingly because he didn’t know a lot of English, but he was observant and always smiling. Dendee wore mirrored sunglasses nestled in his short black hair. His eyes were the colour of caramel chocolate, and I knew Bree would have to struggle to resist their warmth. There was no doubt he was endearing with his small, pinched nose and his deep dimpled smile.

Because he spoke English pretty well, Dendee served as much more than just a Sherpa. He explained his culture and the landscape and, best of all, helped us to see into the hearts of the Nepali people. As we hiked he not only introduced us to the Sherpa lifestyle but he also kept our minds off the physical exertion.

“Head is sacred part of body, so never touch someone on head. Also, not children. Pointing with feet, don’t show bottom of foot. Is disrespect. And fire is also sacred in the homes. Never throwing garbage in the fire in someone’s home. Is not good to do.” We had already learned many of these beliefs from Buddhist teachings, but it was all new to Stephanie, and it never hurts to be reminded.

Acknowledging a Nepali man walking down the trail, Dendee told us, “This man, he is having a death in the family. You see it from the white clothes. You must never touch the clothes of person who is mourning.”

“Though eighty percent of the Nepalese people are Hindus, Tibetan Buddhism is very visible around here,” Ammon said, “because of the Sherpas’ religious background. Theirs is allegedly the oldest Buddhist sect in Tibet.” Its dominance was clearly indicated along the path we took up the mountain. The trail was adorned with prayer flags, prayer wheels, and the large, ever-watchful, white stupas. Their squiggle-nosed faces and huge eyes ensured the safe passage of all those who came to experience the beauty of this land. Temples with golden spires standing tall on the roofs acted as gateways arching over the paths. Their colourfully painted ceilings naturally engendered respect as we passed beneath them.

Placed alongside the narrow paths were flat rock tablets stacked on top of each other and giant boulders hand-painted in white local scripts. I felt like I was passing scriptures from an ancient time, and I wondered what the writing meant.

“This is Buddhist chant,” Dendee said, standing next to the artistically displayed stone tablets. “
‘Om manipandme hum’
means ‘be peaceful and compassionate.’ To have good journey, we must always passing on the right.”

“That’s easy enough, since they’re always on the right side of the trail.” I hadn’t noticed that before he mentioned it. It reminded me of the ovoos in Mongolia that were also thought to ensure safe passage; created by those passing by, travellers were expected to circle these shamanistic cairns clockwise three times.

Naturally, the high altitudes created fickle temperatures, and the intensity of the sun beat threateningly on my bare skin. The warm rays streaking the mountainside made hiking in a T-shirt enjoyable, yet whenever the sun dipped behind the clouds, it became noticeably colder; we kept our fleeces close at all times.

The smell of dirt and pine trees was sharp and zesty in the air. We relished a mix of scents from the hemlocks, firs, junipers, birch trees, and even rhododendrons that hung over the trails. Water was plentiful and it rejuvenated the earth. Waterfalls and rivers flowed abundantly above and below, sunlight dancing on their ripples. Rudimentary bridges laced the steep gorges above the rushing waters far below, but Steph was accustomed to much sturdier structures.

Stalled at the foot of the first dangling suspension bridge, she panicked a bit. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. Oh, oh, oh.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mom assured her, taking a noticeably timid step forward herself. “It could be worse. You could be as afraid of heights as Ammon is.” His failure to reply confirmed her declaration. By the age of sixteen, Ammon had completed his accelerated free-fall skydiving course but, ironically, there was nothing he was more afraid of than heights. His worst attack was at the Stratosphere in Las Vegas, Nevada – the tallest free-standing observation tower in the United States. We’d taken the elevator to the top floor in order to ride the Big Shoot thrill ride from the top of the tower. The dizzyingly high view from the observation windows made him literally sit on the floor and crawl in reverse like a crab until he had his back safely against a wall in the centre of the building. He laid his head down on bent knees and closed his eyes. It had caught us all by surprise, but especially Ammon.

I remember Dad laughing at his reaction and saying, “I suppose that means you’re not going on the ride with me then, huh?”

“I feel like I’m being sucked out the windows,” he’d said, refusing to open his eyes. And here we were in the Himalayas, standing at the brink of a bridge suspended high over a raging river. We stepped aside to let a row of heavily loaded, hairy yaks pass. The bridge was only broad enough to accommodate the width of their big horns, but amazingly, it was strong enough to support a whole parade of them fairly bursting with heavy baggage.

“I still don’t get how you can be so terrified of heights. You should be used to it by now,” I kidded Ammon, “since you’re so tall.”

“Do you really think you’re going to fall? Or what part of it actually scares you so much?” Bree asked.

“It’s not that I
believe
I’m going to fall. I know how scientifically improbable that would be, but I just feel like gravity is pulling me over the edge,” Ammon explained. “I know it’s nonsense; that’s why it is so frustrating.” He tried hard to approach even something like fear with a logical mindset.

“Plus,” Mom said, “tons of people go over these bridges every day.”

“I’m not sure if that’s supposed to make me feel better or worse,” I said, noticing how worn the ropes and wood were from all the traffic. The wooden slats were smeared with a layer of dirt from all the boots, flip-flops, and hooves that had crossed before us.

“I’m sure it’s sturdy enough if it will hold all those yaks,” Mom said, “but oh boy, can you imagine trying to cross during a rainstorm?” Despite her rational reassurance, I felt a jittery pulse rising in my neck. The bridge seemed to twist from the illusion of the colourful prayer flags that were tied along its extended length and flapping in the wind. Their shreds of faded, ripped cloth stretched out as if they were trying to reach the sky.

Making my way across, I could see through the cracks under my feet to the white rapids far below. The small crosspieces placed for gripping were soggy and obviously deteriorating, desperately in need of replacement. Parts where wood had fallen off or broken through left gaping holes that were sometimes covered over with flat stones. I wondered how many ankles (human or beast) had been caught or broken in their clutches. To top it all off, gusty winds made the bridge sway unpredictably. It was magically terrifying.

We all knew we would have to overcome many such challenges to reach Everest Base Camp. I looked behind me and saw that Ammon kept his eyes fervently on the solid land ahead and never loosened his grip on the metal siding. This would be the biggest obstacle he’d face on this particular journey, but his desire overpowered his fear. He approached the problem with little fuss, and though white-knuckled, he stoically made his way across.

I took timid, careful steps to cross the first few bridges, testing to see if the wood pieces were loose or cracking before moving forward, but eventually, even Steph was skipping over them carelessly, joyously raising her arms high to feel the wind.

From certain viewpoints, we could look back and see how far we’d meandered through the vibrant green hills that had taken us from village to village. What a treat it was to watch the rivers sparkle as they manoeuvred between the layers of mountains, like eels through rocks.

Ammon’s eyes widened as he watched a small, surefooted man pass us carrying a snooker table on his back. “Sherpas are known in the international mountaineering world for their endurance and hardiness at very high altitudes. Now I know why.” Absolutely everything got carried up to the various villages on the backs of either humans or yaks after being flown in to Lukla or Namche Bazaar, which is where we were headed. Instead of carrying loads on top of their heads, as is done in many cultures, they supported the weight with a strap secured across their foreheads. Not only were the loads extremely heavy and awkward, but the path was hazardous, filled with holes and strewn with protruding roots.

It was tough enough getting ourselves up the mountains, but being passed by old men carrying more than their own weight uphill was both amazing and slightly discouraging. They hauled pool tables, generators, helicopter parts, and food and drink (sometimes along with the entire fridge). They were no taller than we girls, but their size did not hinder them. We even saw a few women carrying giant boulders balanced on wooden L-shaped boards strapped to their backs, a load I would only consider loading onto a strong ox.

“Some say their climbing ability is the result of actual physical genetics, things like special hemoglobin-binding enzymes and doubled nitric oxide production.”

I blinked. “Whoa, slow down a minute there, brother, if you’re going to go getting all scientific on us.”

“So they literally have, like, superhero powers?” Bree said.

“All I know is, I can’t believe how incredibly strong they are. I only have this little bag and I’m exhausted,” Mom said, as Dendee ran past us effortlessly after stopping to help an older woman get her heavy woven basket remounted on her back. Most of the Sherpas carried multi-purpose, T-shaped walking sticks called a
tokma
to rest their loads on when they needed to take a break. Others used the high benches that were placed along the route to help with unloading and reloading.

“Hired porters are allowed to carry up to thirty kilograms (66 lbs) each. Our baggage doesn’t come anywhere close to that and we could’ve easily hired only one for the two bags,” Ammon said. “But we are supporting the economy this way, and it’s nice to have two of them along.”

“We couldn’t possibly have made them carry two,” Mom said. “That wouldn’t seem fair.”

“I just wonder if our tiny loads embarrass them in front of their friends,” Ammon suggested. Because our Sherpas’ loads were much lighter by comparison, they skipped the entire way and never took a single break. They tromped along practically barefoot in flimsy plastic sandals, their thickened calluses having long ago become mere extensions of themselves after all these years on the mountains. Like Snow White’s dwarves, they were always busy and hummed away as they marched. Seemingly immune to the high elevations and rough terrain they were truly the heart and soul of the trekking community.

Trekkers, on the other hand, often came completely decked out in their entire-life’s-savings worth of equipment. Like an ad for North Face, they wore both fake and name-brand clothing and fancy hiking boots with shiny, laced-up buckles. They came adorned in sunglasses, hats, spiffy walking sticks, compact backpacks, and lightweight CamelBaks, water straws at the ready. I could smell the sunscreen mixed with sweat as they passed and felt slightly under-equipped in comparison, sporting not much more than flip-flops and a fresh sunburn.

Except for the parade of short-legged, stalky yaks and Sherpas we dodged along the way, we usually had the trail entirely to ourselves. Half the time, Bree was up ahead with Ammon, so eager to be first that she left her poor friend choking in the dust behind with Mom and me.