Authors: Linda Leblanc
Back in her tent, Beth waited for the tea and warm wash water that announced the beginning of another day. “How do you feel?” she asked Helen at breakfast.
“Okay but really disappointed because I wanted to walk all the way to Tengboche and now I won’t even get to see what I came for.”
“I’m not so sure. The doctor said you could probably go if transported.”
Fifteen minutes later, a
doko
appeared at the dining tent door with the top half of the back cut out and stuffed with Helen’s bag and pad for a seat. Eric laughed. “Methinks your taxi has just arrived, My Lady.” And so had the driver. After getting Helen settled and reassuring her she was not too heavy, Dorje adjusted the
naamlo
and slowly rose to his feet with her on his back facing away from him. The air resounded with cheers from everyone. Although Beth was also pleased at Helen’s good fortune, her presence precluded any personal conversation with Dorje on the trail. Since he had avoided her since the night of the yeti, perhaps Dorje planned it this way.
The trail led them to the very spot where Dorje had brought Beth two nights earlier. She wanted some acknowledgment that they had shared a moment there, but he never looked in her direction. Instead he focused on the ladies, identifying Everest, Nuptse, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, and a speck on a dark ridge that was Tengboche. When he showed them the photo rock, Beth wanted to say,
but that’s ours where we sat together.
Posing them with Everest in the background, adjusting his lens, and teasing to elicit just the right smile, Eric was very good at what he did and Beth admired that. They could build a comfortable and exciting life around work and travel. So why did her entire being grow faint when she glanced at Dorje and caught him watching her? Not turning away this time, he fixed his eyes on hers as if to say,
I remember our night together. It meant something to me too.
.
Eric broke the moment when he asked Dorje to take his picture with Beth. Standing with her arm around Eric’s waist and his on her shoulder, Beth felt something was missing as if the photo would develop in black and white. When Dorje returned the camera, Beth couldn’t let go of that night. “Dorje,” she said quietly as he started to help Helen into the
doko,
“I want a picture with our sirdar to take home.”
“Great idea,” said Eric. “You two get up there.” On watery legs, Beth posed beside Dorje, not touching, barely able to breathe, but knowing the photo would print in blazing color.
Continuing the trek, they headed out on a contouring trail high above the Dudh Kosi, called the milk river because of its glacial flour. Then they moved along a steeply plunging hillside through forests of blue pine, fir, black juniper, and colorful mountain rhododendrons. Sparkling micas, mosses, lichens, and azaleas lined the path. Ruth spotted two Himalayan tahr and Eric shot half a roll on the national bird, the Impeyen Pheasant. Gleaming in the sunlight, the male revealed its iridescent, multicolored plumage while Dorje explained they were downhill flyers and could only walk uphill. Overhead a lammergeier with a ten-foot wingspan soared on thermals.
Descending 1,100 feet to the river, the group reached the small village of Phunki Tenga next to a series of water-driven prayer wheels with the mantra
Om Mani Padme Hum
carved on the outside and printed on parchment inside. Dorje explained that all who touched the wheel receive
sönam
or merit towards a better incarnation. Sitting in front of her house, an elderly woman spun a hand-held prayer wheel made of a hollow metal cylinder attached to a handle with a lead weight on a chain to aid rotation, each turn equivalent to reciting one mantra. Simultaneously with her other hand, she fingered rosary beads counting her recitations with each prayer earning merit.
After resting half an hour, they began the 2,000-foot ascent on a trail that initially climbed steeply along the right flank of the ridge, narrowing to single file at times above cliffs that dropped hundreds of feet to the river. Dorje regularly urged them to go
bistarai, bistarai
and drink more water, so they rested often. Eventually the trail grew more gradual and the trekkers marveled at the lush canopy of scarlet rhododendron, pine, magnolia, and birch. The dark forest contrasted sharply against the soaring white mountains.
Three hours from Phunki Tenga, they reached a covered gateway with brightly painted scenes of local deities and forms of Buddha adorning the walls and arched ceiling. Built by the monks, the
kani
cleansed people of evil spirits before entering the sacred grounds. Passing through and then around a large
chorten
, the group entered a clearing surrounded by dwarf firs, sweet smelling incense scrubs, and colorful rhododendrons. Perched on a ridge at 12,700 feet and ringed by spectacular peaks, Tengboche sat in the most stunning natural setting Beth had ever seen. To the left, a broad stone stairway led to the main
gompa
, its whitewashed walls and red shutters rising against a stark blue sky where yellow billed choughs and black ravens played on the winds.
While the Sherpas set up camp in the clearing, Eric took photos of the ladies and Beth with Everest and Ama Dablam, the Matterhorn of the Himalayas, in the background. “That has to be one of the most photographed mountains in the world,” he said, pointing to the latter. “Look how the steep slopes and curving ridges draw your eyes to the glacier on the summit.”
Their work done for the day, one of the porters with both hands behind his back sauntered to the center of the clearing, grinning. When Dorje finished setting up the dining table, the porter yelled something in Nepali, whipped one arm out and flicked his wrist, releasing a blue Frisbee that sailed high over the sirdar’s head. Dorje raced after it, leapt several feet off the ground for an incredible one-handed catch, and spun around tossing it hard and fast to another porter. Three more joined in, all playing with the energy and precision of professional athletes.
“Get pictures,” Beth told Eric excitedly. “Pictures of Sherpas playing our games.” Her reporter self took over with a flood of questions.
What other western ways had they adopted? Were we altering their culture and beliefs? Their economics?
As she watched their faces and body language, different personalities emerged and they were no longer collectively
the porters
. Enamored of these gentle men and boys who every day hauled gear up and down the mountain and crossed swaying bridges in bare feet or flip-flops without complaint, Beth wanted to know their names and called Dorje over. Pointing to each one, he identified Pasang, Phurbu, Lhakpa, Gyeljen, Jamgbu, and Tuchi and explained that many parents name children after the day of the week when they are born: Nima for Sunday; Dawa, Monday; Mingma, Tuesday; Lhakpa, Wednesday; Phurbu, Thursday; Pasang, Friday; and Pemba, Saturday.
“And you. What does Dorje mean?”
“Thunder bolt.”
Her eyes traced his lips and perfect white teeth. “So you are very powerful and can light up the sky.”
“And knock down large trees with one blow,” he said grinning.
Where had this man with an enticing smile that could win the heart of any Sherpani gone last night and stayed until just before dawn? “What else do Sherpas do for fun?”
His eyes searching for an answer, Dorje shrugged. “We dance and sing, drink
chang.
”
“Where?’
“Sometimes outdoors. Most of the time in our houses.”
“And if a man and woman want to be alone?” Dorje shifted his weight to the other foot and appeared on the verge of departure. Once again, she’d gone too far.
Damn prying tongue. Change the subject
. “Will you show us Sherpa dancing?”
“We don’t have a drum,” he answered simply before turning away. A few minutes later, she saw him talking to the porters. The youngest, a boy of fifteen named Gyeljen, and Phurbu, who was very proud of his Snoopy T-shirt, left immediately.
She thought little of it until they returned an hour later giggling and concealing something. Dorje, the other porters, cooks, and two kitchen boys quickly gathered around them and advanced as a unit towards the tourists. Beaming with pride, they presented Ruth with a birthday cake baked at 12,700 feet using a crude rock oven and firewood.
The little lady with tight gray curls who was first across the perilous bridges and had climbed the Namche and Tengboche hills with such courage and gusto broke down and wept. This, her sixty-ninth birthday, would be the most memorable of her life. “Tell them, Dorje,” she said through her tears. “Tell them I will never forget this day with my new friends. I am so happy to be here.”
Watching Ruth and seeing the joy in the Sherpa faces, Beth blinked to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks too. Dorje had to be responsible for this. No one else could have known. Even she didn’t. “Thank you,” she told him. “We will all remember this night. Do Sherpas have birthday cakes too?”
“We do not know the month or the number of the year. I only know I was born in the year of the rat, so I am either eight, twenty, or thirty-two.”
While a kitchen boy sliced and served the cake, young Gyeljen revealed another surprise, a
madal
. Sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, he supported the drum between his knees and began slapping the parchment ends. By now the other porters had consumed a fair amount of
chang
and were in a giddy, singing mood. Dorje and Pasang pulled the most outgoing porter, Topkie, to his feet and pushed him to the center. Shooting nervous glances at Dorje who returned a stern look, the porter began to dance with his arms upraised and flowing freely. Another couple of swigs of
chang
and he lost all inhibitions, swirling and dipping so loosely it seemed as though his limbs weren’t connected to his body. After ten minutes of this continuous motion, the other Sherpas started giggling and then erupted in riotous laughter that lasted another five.
“What’s happening?” Beth asked Dorje who was barely in control himself.
He explained that Gyeljen had finished the song but Topkie wouldn’t sit down so Gyeljen had to keep singing. “He is making up funny words about weak
mikarus
who cannot carry a
doko
up the hill.”
Observing the activity, Beth became aware that her journal notes were merely those of an outsider looking in, which anyone could do. Exploring the intimacies of the Sherpa heart and soul would take time. While she watched Dorje summoning the others to form a line, Beth spoke to Eric. “I’m fascinated by them. They’re quite amazing, don’t you think?” He nodded with a look that said he knew she was heading somewhere. “I’m especially curious about what influence we’re having on their culture.”
“So get to the point.”
“I want to stay longer.”
“What?”
“Only a few weeks . . . . a month at most. That’s the only way I can get to know them.”
“And what about me? You know I have to shoot that job in the Galapagos. We’ve been planning the trip together ever since I got the assignment.”
She placed her hand on his. “Yes, Sweetie, I know. But we’re here together now, and it’s been good, hasn’t it?”
Removing his hand, he crossed his arms and stared straight ahead, his knee bouncing.
Beth rubbed her leg up against it. “Please try to understand. It’s only for a short while.”
“No public displays of affection allowed,” he said in a reproachful, dispassionate tone and then rose. “Do whatever you want. You will anyway . . . always have.” Eric marched to the line of Sherpas and pushed his way in beside Dorje. “So what are we doing here?”
“Follow me,” said Dorje.
Arms linked around their waists, the Sherpas shuffled forward a few steps and backwards, ending each phrase with a stomping motion. Eric looked tall and awkward among them. Beth hoped he wouldn’t humiliate himself as he’d done with the
doko.
She imagined the porters singing about the clumsy American who can’t carry a basket or dance. Seeming intent upon humbling Eric, Dorje added more complicated footwork until even the Sherpas struggled to keep up. Eric didn’t stand a chance and was lost in a flurry of dust churned up by Dorje’s flying feet, but he refused to concede. It became a duel with only two men remaining—one of them touching heel and toe, moving forwards and back, stomping the ground as hard as he could with split-second timing; the other staggering and lurching off balance like a drunken giant. Angry at Dorje and embarrassed for Eric, Beth wished he would walk away before falling flat on his face. Finally, at least Gyeljen was kind enough to end the song.
Eric strode past her with sweat coursing through his dust-caked face. “That bastard. I’d love to get him on my turf. You think they’re so damn interesting. Then stay here. Sleep on the ground, wash with a cup of water, and piss in a hole. But not me. Not any longer.” He dragged his sleeve across his forehead to wipe his face before throwing open the tent flap and crawling in.
Beth was furious at Dorje now. There was no excuse for this aggressive behavior; he had just refuted all western images of Buddhist Sherpas as smiling, enlightened people desiring only to please. When she glanced back at him, he immediately turned and walked away with no apparent regrets, and she would not forgive him for that.