To jump or not to jump?
We arrived at 3,300 metres altitude at noon. We had walked for 5 hours. Hard hours, mostly uphill. The dreariness of the scenery was only broken by the occasional rhododendron in bloom; beautiful, glorious flowers splashing Paloma Picasso lipstick dashes in the otherwise gray-brown moonscape.
We passed by a rhododendron forest that looked like a primeval scene straight out of Lord of The Rings. Knarled long trunks, growing at an angle parallel to the slope. Too old to have any flowers. I kept wanting to call my guide Sam. Would that make me Frodo? I am sure Tashi would have cast me as Golem by that stage...
The last 500 metres were a steep vertical climb. I had to master all my will not to look down. I even tried to
shut out my peripheral vision to stop bits of extremely extreme heights sneeking
in and making my heart pound-my vision blur-my knees lock-my legs shake-my mind shut down and the terror of heights take over, like an evil spirit of the mountains possessing me and turning me into a terrified, panicked blob of irrational, quivering jello. I could smell my sweat, acrid with fear. My breathing came fast and rugged with the exertion of the climb, the altitude and my dread of falling. Images of tumbling down required great amounts of mental energy to be kept at bay and erased before they even marginally formed.
Not only was I freaking out about going up higher and higher, steeper and steeper, I was also
busy imagining having to come down the same route and kept adding to my
absolute terror. But, I did it! I got to the top. As if I had a choice...The only choice would have been coming down halfway through, and believe me, wild horses would not have been able to drag me to
do that!
At the top, I gleefully gave a high five to Tashi. Hilary could not have been happier climbing Everest than I was at that moment. I whipped out my phone and sent the last, technically possible, text messages before going incommunicado in the complete wilderness of the Himalaya.
I had Tashi take a photo of me staring at the abyss... whilst clinging to a wooden pole. It was a colourless day with great mists floating fast across the mountains and into the valley below. The valley itself seemed deep deep away. For one crazy split of a second, it occurred to me what a spectacular picture it would make if I took a leap into the void. There would have been plenty of time for a succession of shots until I was just a speck, long before hitting rock bottom.
Me, I am normally just scared shitless of heights; plain and simple terror that causes me great inconvenience in avoiding heights. But at that moment, I glimpsed into the psyche of people who say they are terrified of heights because of the strong pull to jump.
Just to prove though that my sanity had not completely deserted me, I evilly and gleefully thought of Tashi's panic and the bored, smug attitude wiped off his face at my jump. That really cheered me up!
The walk after that was fine. Through a valley with snow on the
ground, a smattering of pink flowers brightening the forest carpet and all around a mighty, misty cypress forest. The air felt fresh and I relished the slight chill, the pine aroma and felt truly alive.
The most hideous stay of my trip
The teahouse sits alone in a desolate plain. The soil is grey; whatever vegetation there is, is thorny and a dull green-grey. It looks like a moon crater with a dwarf wooden
construction thrown in at random. Welcome to the tea-house at 3,300m!
We were greeted warmly by the owner, a tall robust Sherpa woman. We were plonked next to the hearth
and served a hearty amount of rice with very watery dhal and curried potatoes,
all washed down by very sweet tea. A snotty, moaning, dirty toddler hovered around, as did a hen. Both were getting perilously too close to the burning fire of the hearth.
I ruefully reflected that the sulubriousness of my accommodation decreased by a
factor of 110. As I have not an iota of a mathematical mind, I have no idea how much that actually is, but I reckoned, it must be dramatically less enough to explain what I mean.
The teahouse is constructed out of very thin wooden planks. Inside was wall papered by posters of movie stars and newspapers. I had an inkling that there was a functional aspect to the decoration, that only became fully clear when I went into the sleeping accommodation. The guestroom has 4 double wooden benches with the dirtiest rugs on them. I could feel the biting cold wind and I could hear the rustling of the wallpaper. So, that was the function of the newspapers! To stop the wind swirling through the rooms. On the floor there were indiscriminate stains that I chose not to dwell on.
There was a saving grace to this dismal place. There is no toilet! Yippie! At least I don’t have to hold my
breath against the stench and balance precariously, hoping I don’t slip and fall in the hole. Looking at trees and grass is preferable to looking at grimy walls, trying not to speculate how the dirt got there. "Nature, here comes my bottom and I!"
There was no shower either of course. At this stage I tried not to smell
myself and I was convinced that my trousers could have stood on their own without me in them; so stiff were they with dirt. Let’s
not talk about hair. I ran a hand on my neck earlier on and discovered a deep layer
of dust and dirt. I can understand perfectly how the locals develop their
permanent patina of grime. Dusty environment
outside, sooty inside, lack of water to
wash and heavy physical work in the fields and breaking stones deposit layer upon layer of grime that gets so ingrained in the skin grooves that no amount of washing gets it out.
Tashi and me clash
By this stage, I also begun to understand why I was not getting any Death stories. Tashi, didn't really understand what I was there for. When I mentioned again, over lunch, like a broken record, that I hoped the nuns have interesting stories for me to write down, he looked puzzled and asked what kind. I explained that even though I am interested in Death, I was now willing to settle for any stories people are willing to tell. He looked even more perplrexed. He then asked if I had told the Director of his organisation that I was after stories. The blood went to my head and I forgot all my woes and miseries of the moment. I mean really! I signed up for an Oral Histories placement. I was asked and sent a list of questions and areas of interest to explore. He admitted he read them but thought that I wanted to learn about Buddhism. I explained that there are plenty and better records on the tenements of Buddhism, than my writing. And I added peevishly, "There is no point in me walking for 3 days if there are no stories to be had".
A frosty silence descended between us. I sat by the hearth fuming and trying to see the funny side of things. Alas, at that stage I was not able find the humour in sleeping with strangers (even though they are my guide and porter) and trekking through boring, uninspiring terrain. I failed to find the humour at eating crappy food that promised to give me dysentry. I failed to see the funny side of blisters and dirt.
What was the point of getting up
at 6am that morning, to get to this godforsaken place at noon and stay here overnight? What the heck was I meant to do till 7.30pm when I would climb into my sleeping back
and try to sleep through the next 12 hours?
Another politely veiled confrontation followed. I said that perhaps we should push on to Bigu that afternoon . "You want to try?” he said patronisingly. “But you are tired and it is hard."
Well, that settled that. It was the same attitude
as with spending more time at the Shaman’s. Earlier on that morning, the real reason for not wanting to spend the planned 4 days at the Shaman's surfaced. The Shaman was expecting 4 visitors
from Germany to train them on Shamanism . Tashi finally told me that
they normally sacrifice a goat, cook it, eat it, drink too much and smoke "herbs" and
they go a little wild. So, here was the reason: the sacrifice, booze and drugs. He also told me that the Shaman had offered to teach
me a mantra and to perform a ceremony. Wow! That could have been very interesting to observe!
I said we should perhaps do that on the way back. I got a "Let's see" response. So, no then!
Quiet Reflection
I tried to go with the flow and stay calm and not be irritated. I tried to appreciate my surroundings. Really, I did.
I was sitting in the teahouse, on the floor, cross-legged, on a disgusting
towel, in front of a wood burning stove with a huge kettle that boils on it
perpetually, just like in every house I have been to here. And I just wondered why anybody would decide to settle here, in the absolute middle of nowhere. And
more than that, why would they open a teahouse? It’s not as if there is passing
trade of anything resembling regularity. I am reminded of someone recently asking, in a passing conversation, why anyone would settle in some God forsaken parts of the world. I had no answer then and despite wondering the same thing time and again over the
last few days, I still had no answer.
I had many hours of sitting by that hearth with no-one to talk to. I thought that while I know that in our Western comfort society we are
still miserable, I have to acknowledge that our creature comforts do make our
lives easier. We flick a switch and there is light 24/7, we turn a knob and gas
flows to cook our food, we run a faucet and clean water flows; heck, clean, hot water
flows. We get outraged if these basic necessities, that we take
for granted, don’t work for a day. I am not preaching going without them. I like my comforts
and I like my luxury. I made a note to myself that afternoon, that it might be useful when I return to my life and occasionally find myself
miserable and annoyed for no reason, or even with a good reason, to remember that my
life could have been exponentially harder had I been born in a place like this.
The most hideous stay of my journey
This teahouse in the middle of
absolutely nowhere, must qualify for the most hideous place I have ever stayed at.
Dirty does not even begin to describe the horrors of it. Grimy is still too far.
Absolutely- extremely- very hideously -horrendously-disgustingly- grimy gets somewhat closer. And very dishevelled. And
did I mention very dirty? Oh, and so very disgustingly filthy?
I am wondering how to describe the impressive scenes that
followed.
Scene 1
The little 2-year old toddler ,with the greasy long strands of hair, is sitting on a small round mat infront of the
hearth. Just like the mat I am sitting on. I am sitting fairly close to him, passing the time by dunking my dry, brittle, very sweet, coconut biscuits in my sweet tea. They dissolve immediately and the game is to try and fish them out before they dissolved into mud at the bottom of my tea cup.
I hear a brlpbrlpblrp sound. I instinctively know what it is and despite myself and I look up to see his pale yellow, runny poo overflowing from his waistband and running down the mat. The smell lagged a few nano-seconds behind.
Scene 2
It is by now dark and very cold outside. The father and his friend arrived and they along with Tashi, the porter and me, are all sitting around the small square of warmth by the hearth. We are waiting for dinner to be cooked.
The mother melts a dollop of ghee in the blackened pot in which a few minutes before she warmed up half a bottle of cheap whiskey for the men. She adds some cooked rice and a small ladle of watery dhal.
She picks up her little boy and sits him in her lap. Aha, I think, dindies for
him. But then, I was very perplexed because she took a big spoonful and shoved
it in her own mouth. She chewed it whilst continuing her chat with the father and neighbours, displaying the contents of her mouth quite adequately. Ok,
I shrug, she is just having a snack herself. Ooooh no she is not! She spits back the
masticated rice onto the spoon and feeds it to the boy.
And so, I obsessively watched
spoonful by spoonful the chewed up rice, leaving her mouth and entering his.
Why?! Earlier on he was munching happily and competently on a hard boiled egg, a bar of chocolate
and a roti.
Scene 3
The little boy is sitting by the fire (read, almost in the
fire) eating an omelette. He picks it up whole and chews on it; he drops it on
the floor and picks it up again eating a chunk of it. He sneezes and a big blob of yellow-green snot blows a bubble at his nostril, before settling just below it. Mama picks up a small dirty towel, wipes it off and
continues to cook my roti.
Scene 4
Her husband arrives from town on his motorbike. He fancies
himself this one. Jeans with a crotch to his knees, hair parted in the middle and those plastic peace bracelets that were so popular a few years ago in Europe. He plonks himself down in front the fire and lights a
cigarette. I asked Tashi what the man's job is. "well, this and that. Whatever he can find". His long suffering wife, brings in a dusty beer bottle which she submerses in the water compartment
attached to the cooking hearth. That is the water she uses to cook with. A while later she pours the warm beer for him. He
spits by his side and takes a large swig…
Scene 5
The little boy is getting tired. He has been boisterous, naughty and demanding all day. Now he is cranky. He wants attention from his father who is only capable of holding him horizontally like a baby and rocking him for max a minute, before setting him down. The toddler wants to go out. They let him and he plays with the big heavy motorbike. No one seems concerned that it is freezing out there or that the bike might fall on him and crash him. He comes back in and starts winging and crying. He picks up plates, bottles, food throws them around. No one tells him off. He toddles to his mother and slaps her across her face. Where did he learn that?
Get me out of here!
It was dreadfully cold up there during the day. At 3pm I went outside wearing a thermal long sleeved jumper, a fleece and a puffa jacket and found myself shivering uncontrollably. At 7.30pm when I was getting ready to sleep, I was grateful for my -40c sleeping bag. I soon figured out the functionality
of the newspapers and posters; wallpaper to keep the wind out. The same with
the tarpaulin on the ceiling. Rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle... all night. For a second, I wondered how I would distinguish the wind rustles from rodent rustles. I quickly banned this nonsense wondering. No sane rat would choose my room than the kitchen with the fire.
I slept badly. Or rather, I stayed awake badly. Every half an hour I put the torch on to
check the time. (The head torch, by the way, became my newest bedtime accessory.
Wrapped around my wrist, it switched side every time I did, lest I need it in a flash. And I toss and
turn a lot!).
Anyway, I woke up every half
an hour worrying about any and all of the following:
- I would die up there and no one would know –
tight sleeping bags in pitch black spaces with low ceilings tend to have a
coffined-in effect on me. The altitude conspired to reinforce this feeling and I woke up a few times really gasping for breath.
i I would get robbed - little did I know at the time how close I came to that one!
S Something dreadful happened while I am
un-contactable.
I obsessed about the names of relatives of my ex-husband that I couldn't remember
-
I worried about getting diarrhoea from this dirty place- Yes I did!
-
I obsessed hat my headache signified altitude sickness
I And I was also annoyed with myself for allowing my guide to park me in that dreadful place since noon that I was hatching
plots on how to fool him-the Asian way- and avoid staying here at all costs on the way back.
At last, at 6am I got up and rushed to the
great outdoor and found a bush.Yes, same colour and consistency as the boy's. Returnig to the house I noticed that my
headache lingered and I had a sore throat. That really did piss me off.
Despite the fact that Tashi said we should only get up at 7.30am, I had him and the porter on the road by 7am.
