Last Tango in Toulouse (32 page)

In our Sydney hotel room I sleep the sleep of a soul totally drained of all energy and emotion. David is concerned about me because I seem so flat, but by the next day I am feeling more bouncy and start to repack for the evening flight to Nepal. We have a delightfully happy day together: we go out for lunch and walk along the foreshore of Botany Bay and spend the entire afternoon in bed. David has recovered from his dramatic jaw infection but is understandably doubtful about my change of heart in seeing the man from Toulouse one last time. He will need plenty of reassurance and love from me to regain his confidence. I don't think I fully appreciated just how shattering this whole experience has been for him; I realise it is going to take a long time for him to trust me again. He may never do so.

I am amazed that I'm not feeling sad any more: not about the man from Toulouse nor about my sister. I just feel a great sense of relief. It's as though I have been walking on a long tightrope and I'm now, finally, back on firm ground. Although I am here
in Australia with David for just this brief moment, I know that in two weeks I will be back home for six whole months at the farm and that life will somehow get back to normal.

As we doze together on the bed in the afternoon before leaving for the airport, I think about the thirty-one years we have been together. It hasn't all been bad – in fact, a lot of it has been terrific. David is a good man. He loves me and together we love what we have created: a large and happy family. For perhaps the first time I can acknowledge properly his role in making it all work – a very different role from mine, but no less valid. We have survived this long together, and we will stick with it until the end.

For the third time this year I am to meet up with a tour group. This time it's a small band of trekkers and two of them, Helen and Rose, have been on a Himalayan tour with me before, so it's a bit like a family reunion. This will be my first time in Nepal; my other treks were in the alpine valleys of northern India, so I am looking forward to seeing a different region of this flora-rich mountain range. There are six women and one man on the trip and we meet in Kathmandu two days before heading off to Pokhara and then, on foot, up towards the Annapurnas and Machapuchare, a sacred mountain also known as Fishtail because of its unusual pointed shape.

One of the group, Cheryl, is an Englishwoman who has booked through the travel company's London office. This is a first for me, because all my previous groups have been from Australia. As usual, I have moments of concern, in the first day or so, about the ability of the group to become cohesive, but these fears are quickly dispelled as we start to climb and get to know each other a little better. Another of our band, Ros, is seventy-one years old. This is not all that rare. I have trekked to
quite high altitudes with keen bushwalkers in their mid-seventies. However, it's difficult to tell just how well each person understands how challenging the trek will be at times. Helen and Rose are well aware that walking uphill for seven hours a day, at altitude, is pretty hard work – and several of the others have also done difficult walks before. People who book on these trips are usually highly motivated individuals who like to push themselves a little and aren't afraid of stepping outside their comfort zone. Aching limbs, blistered feet and freezing overnight temperatures are all part of the experience and usually it's mental fortitude rather than fitness level that gets people through.

Our local trip leader, Rupan, is enthusiastic and everyone takes to him immediately. The sherpas and porters and cooks are also very friendly and seem to be enjoying themselves in spite of the huge packs they carry all day and the work that's required of them when camp is set up every afternoon. We carry just day-packs, with a bottle of water, a camera, loo paper and the odd packet of boiled sweets. All the rest of our gear is carried for us, and by the time we reach camp, usually mid-afternoon, the tents are up, the kettle is on and afternoon tea is about to be served. For an ‘adventure' holiday it's about as comfortable as it gets.

It's a good thing for complacent middle-class Westerners, such as us, to visit countries like India and Nepal, to remind ourselves of how most of the rest of the world lives – basically, in poverty and hardship. Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world, and for many of the people we encounter on the trek, living in small villages dotted along our walking route, life is pretty tough. As we walk up the mountain tracks together we talk a lot about all these issues, about local politics, ethics, the environment, medical and health issues and general humanity. It's
an integral part of trekking in a third world country. Instead of sitting in an air-conditioned bus and seeing the broad sweep of a foreign country, you are down at ground level, walking through villages and beside fields of wheat and potatoes and stopping and meeting and talking with people and really getting a feel for the place. This is enriched by the relationships that naturally develop between members of the tour and also with the local crews. It's a sort of bonding: we are undertaking something that is essentially challenging, and we are sharing the experience. For example, the sherpa guides immediately recognise that Ros is older than the others and two of them stick to her like glue, offering moral and physical support as we climb. She's a cheerful person and never complains once about the difficulties or the tough terrain.

Rose has just spent a month visiting family and friends in England. When one friend heard that she was heading off to the Himalayas on a trek, she commented in awe, ‘How thrilling! And tell me, are the Himalayas steep?'

‘Only about 28,000 feet steep,' was Rose's reply. And it becomes the catchcry of our little team. Every time we arrive, puffing and panting, at a small clearing we look at each other and say, ‘Are the Himalayas steep?

Helen and Graham are a married couple having their first long overseas trip together without their teenage children, so it's quite special for them too. There's a period of about ten days when we are totally out of range of any form of communication – no email or phones high in these mountains, and it's hard to be completely out of contact with your family. Especially if it's the first time. The last member of the group, Diane, has a fairly high-pressure job back in Australia and the trek is
for her a real escape from normal life. Unfortunately she develops a serious cold on the second day that will make the climb more difficult for her than for the rest of us. The air thins as we climb and we all need as much oxygen in our lungs as we can get, so having her nasal passages blocked and inflamed makes it really tough going.

On our third day of walking, Rupan asks if we object to making the day a little longer by setting up camp in an alternative site which is about an hour further along the track from the original site designated in our trip notes. We have a little meeting and, although I am concerned about Diane having to walk the extra distance when she is so unwell, we agree to the change. I am also a bit worried about Helen, who injured her back in Kathmandu before we set out. She saw a physiotherapist in Pokhara who recommended that she really shouldn't do the walk at all, but she's a feisty woman and doesn't want to miss out. One of the sherpas is carrying her day-pack to make her progress less painful. After lunch we continue walking and, as the hours pass, I wonder when we will reach the camp. We have passed through the original ‘forest camp' and, instead of continuing up the side of the mountain, we seem to be descending. By four o'clock alarm bells are ringing in my head and I detect a certain tension between the lead sherpa and those in the middle of the group. They are shouting back and forth to each other in Nepalese and I have a strong sense that there is a heated disagreement about the direction we have taken. Our leader suddenly calls for us all to stop. There's a lot of talking and dashing back and forth along the track, which is very poorly defined. Eventually, we have to acknowledge among ourselves that we are well and truly lost.

At this stage we are sitting in a tiny clearing, and as the light fades the temperature drops dramatically. All we are wearing are our day clothes, which are fairly lightweight because walking, even through the vast rhododendron forests, can be hot work in the middle of the day. We all have water bottles although these have been pretty much drained because of the extra hours of walking, and we have all carried a warm jacket or waterproof coat in case of rain. Other than that, we have nothing. No food (apart from half a packet of sultanas and nuts which I found in my pack and some English sweets carried by Cheryl), no spare water, no torches, no thermal underwear, no sleeping bags, no tents. Most of us don't even have torches, but Helen, our most experienced trekker, has carried waterproof matches and a whistle. We light a fire and huddle around it, every so often blowing our whistle and calling out ‘COOOOOEEEE' pathetically into the darkness. Our sherpas are still scurrying hither and thither trying to find the right trail, but without success. We have obviously walked so far from the correct route that they won't be able to find it in the dark. I have a short meeting with Rupan and we decide that we can't stay here all night. The clearing is too small and we are becoming damp as the overnight mist sets in. There is a rough shepherd's hut, just a thatched roof on four poles, further back up the track and we decide that we should walk back to it so that at least Ros, Diana and Helen can be made as comfortable as possible.

What follows is a nightmare. There are only four or five torches between thirteen people and the strongest beam must be given to the sherpa who is leading us back up the rough, ill-defined track. We hold hands and walk in a chain, very slowly, often slipping and falling and struggling in the dark. I cannot
see my feet at all, and the only way I know where to place each foot as I climb is by watching the white sandshoes of the sherpa in front of me. I am the second in the chain. I am clinging to his hand for dear life, then clutching Rose, who has a wonderfully wacky sense of humour. We try, somehow, to keep this journey as light as possible, singing songs such as ‘You'll Never Walk Alone', and cracking jokes and generally keeping our spirits up. But it's an arduous climb and I sense, further back down the line, quite a bit of fear. We could be walking like this all night if we take the wrong path again, and there's the added element of the sheer drop on one side that we remember from having walked down the mountain during the afternoon. Helen and Graham, in the middle, support Ros and Diane and Helen, who are finding the going very tough indeed. Diane in particular is struggling for breath. She can't even wipe her nose because we have all linked hands, so she is having to endure the situation with her nose and eyes streaming. The sherpas and Rupan are doing all they can to support us – they obviously feel very bad about getting us into this situation.

It takes a full two hours for us to reach the shepherd's hut in the dark, and there are tears of relief when we stagger into it. Exhausted, slightly dehydrated and freezing cold, we immediately light a fire and find whatever we can that's warm. There are two sleeping bags – some of the sherpas carry their own with them in their day-packs – and a silver space blanket in the emergency first aid kit. We wrap up as many people as possible and then wonder what we are going to do with ourselves until daybreak. It's 10 pm and the sun will not rise until just before 6 am. It's too cold to sit on the ground – within minutes the extremely low soil temperature seeps through our lightweight
pants – so we have no alternative but to stand up. All night. Rose suggests we light a second fire, just outside the hut, and the sherpas do so. Legally, we are not allowed to use any of the timber in the forests for fires. There is so little left and what remains is essential for the local village people, but this is an emergency. Without the two fires we would be suffering even more discomfort, and I am seriously concerned that Diane may develop a secondary respiratory infection if she suffers from exposure.

It is the longest night of my life. I have stayed up all night before – for New Year's Eve parties in my youth – but that involved eating and drinking and dancing and snogging and sitting down a lot. This night is spent trying to remain upright and warm with dense wet smoke blowing into our eyes. Five of us remain this way all through the night, occasionally sitting down to rest momentarily. The Nepalese, tougher and more accustomed to the climate, manage to sleep fitfully on the cold hard ground by the fire. I don't know how they can do it. I can barely remain seated for five minutes without needing to jump up again and get warm. Helen, exhausted and with her back causing a lot of pain, also manages to sleep a little while Ros and Diane, warmly wrapped under the shelter, seem completely out to it. Very few jokes are being cracked and there are no cheery singsongs. It's just a matter of getting through it.

At sunrise we revive a little, build up the fires again and talk about how good that first cup of tea is going to taste. We talk about long hot baths and massages and toast and Vegemite. Our sherpas go out again looking for the track and they return, very quickly, with scouts from the main camp, who have been desperately worried and searching for us half the night. They walked all the
way back to the last village in the dark and were very alarmed when the villagers said that three Maoist terrorists had been seen in the forest several days beforehand. Convinced we had been kidnapped, they fell upon us with cries of relief. Sadly, they are carrying no water or tea, but they do know the way to camp and so we pack up as best we can, trying not to leave too much mess for the shepherds, who will no doubt wonder who has been lighting fires inside their hut. Exhausted and, to some extent, suffering from exposure, we shuffle back up the track, relieved to be heading at last in the right direction. It's about two hours of walking but within forty minutes three of the cooking team suddenly appear with pots of steaming hot porridge, milk, tea and sugar and water. I realise that I can't face eating or drinking anything except water. I feel quite nauseous and, even though it would be a good to eat something, I believe I would throw up if I did. So I sip water and hope for the best.