The Nepali Flat

by Gordon Alexander

  I lay there, shivering and unable to move for three hours, before a very drunk Nima stumbled into my room and laughed while he apologised. I frowned at him, grabbed my sleeping bag, and in one swift movement I was inside, instantly warmer. Nima stammered something that made no sense, walked into my wall and almost fell over, and fumbled for the door handle before finally exiting the room. I heard him clatter his way down the stairs. Subash came in two minutes later to apologise profusely on his behalf.

  *

  I woke up in Nunthala with a terrible pain in my stomach, and I knew immediately that something was wrong. I had diarrhoea. Worse than that, I had severe food poisoning. I went to the toilet three times before I was able to leave the guesthouse that morning, and the whole travelling group had already left by the time I was ready. I stumbled across everyone, having a break after about one hour.

  ‘Ah you are behind us, we thought you must have left early this morning,’ Said Andy as he saw me round the corner.

  ‘Nah I was on the dunny,’ I said.

  ‘What did he just say?’ A Canadian man that I had never seen before asked.

  ‘Oh dunny,’ Replied Dale. ‘It means toilet. We have our own language.’

  After a good several-hour slog, we pulled into a small village for lunch, but food was the last thing on my mind. Subash, however, forced me to order a bowl of vegetable noodle soup to keep my strength up. I was half way through it and had to stop. I needed the dunny again.

  I could see Bupsa, our destination for the night, suspended high up on a mountain ledge, way, way above us. It was a daunting prospect.

  ‘Come on zam zam!’ I said to Subash, as I just wanted to get going.

  We walked for about 35 seconds - we weren’t even out of the same village yet - before a massive stomach gripe had me doubled over in pain. Subash noticed and called over to a woman sitting on a rock ledge by the side of the trail, who pointed down a dark, narrow alleyway between two old-looking, moss-covered stone buildings. I waited while Subash went to investigate. He returned moments later and waved me in. What greeted me was pretty disgusting. Pretty horrific actually, but it didn’t matter, I needed to go.

  Ten minutes later I was sitting outside near the woman on the trail, sweat dripping from my forehead. I reluctantly sipped on my bottle of water that I knew would terrorise my stomach in minutes. There was nothing for it, I had to keep moving. It seemed like hours went by as we climbed up to Bupsa. The path was rocky; sometimes loose, sometimes fixed, sometimes breath-takingly steep, and at other times gently climbing, but never did we go downhill. The gripes started almost immediately after setting off, but there was simply nowhere to go. On one side there was a terraced field of barley, and on the uphill side a farrow, steep incline exposed to the track that snaked upwards.

  It seemed like the climb took hours, but eventually Bupsa became visible as we rounded a rock buttress. There were a few nervous moments coming into the town, but I was soon reunited with the toilet.

  I did a whole lot of nothing in Bupsa. I had managed to secure the room right next to the toilet. I laid in bed at 3pm that afternoon, and didn’t get out of it until 8am the next morning. I ate and drank nothing, giving my stomach no fuel to add to the fire. I laid there in the afternoon, while it was still light, and gazed out the window. I wasn’t lonely, but content, just staring and staring at the world that was so foreign to mine. A crow flew into view and circled above the guest house a few times, before sitting right on top of a large spindly pine tree, as though he were the angel on top of a Christmas tree.

  The dark green of the pine and the black of the crow set against a perfect ocean-blue sky would have made an excellent photo. I looked at my camera bag. It was within an arm’s reach. I looked back at the crow, and watched for a few minutes more. I barely had the strength to move. I closed my eyes for a few minutes. If he is still there when I open my eyes, I’ll get a photo of him, I thought to myself. I opened them slowly. The crow was still there, but I was still too weak to move.

  ‘Excuse me very much, excuse me very much Mr Alex.’ I heard Subash at the door, awakening me from my slumber. ‘Morning man, how many times you went to the toilet last night?’

  ‘None man, but probably only because I haven’t eaten since those noodles yesterday for lunch.’

  ‘This is a very good thing man,’ he said, enthused.

  ‘I don’t think so mate.’

  ‘What you is wanting for your breakfast?’

  I made a noise of utter disgust and looked away.

  ‘You must be eating some things man,’ he insisted.

  ‘Alright bring me a packet of dried noodles and a snickers bar for later.’

  We left Bupsa after I had forced down some noodles and water. It didn’t take long before the stomach noises began and I was once again forced to stop. The path began as it had left off the day before, climbing up gradually until it reached the pass. I became fatigued beyond belief. After about an hour of climbing, I was literally climbing for 20 metres before needing a break. Progress was tediously slow. By the time I reached the top, it was lunch time, and I was a spent force. Every step was agony.

  We rounded a bend just below the pass and took in a glorious view up the valley with interlocking spurs stabbing down a few degrees from vertical, culminating in the epic frame of Cho Oyu on the distant horizon. I was beginning to feel incredibly ill. Way down below I could see a few settlements speckled at intervals along the trail.

  ‘I’m not going to make Khare,’ I said to Subash.

  ‘I know man,’ he replied. ‘I think maybe today you should have rested.’

  No shit.

  We now entered the most dangerous part of the trek between Jiri and Lukla. It was a steep descent on a trail that was muddy and scattered with loose stones. Often the mud in the middle of the trail was so deep that it was necessary to walk right on the edge above a drop to unknown depths, on stones that looked like they wanted to throw you off the trail. Often we shared the trail with mules and hybrid yaks that cared not one bit for our safety.

  As I began descending, my condition deteriorated rapidly. My head became light and I felt dizzy. My legs began to feel as though they didn’t belong to me. It wasn’t ideal given the state of the path. I plodded on, out of breath, even though we were going down-hill, getting dizzier and dizzier as the hours rolled on. Cruelly, Puiyan, our destination, dangled itself right there in front of us like bait on a hook. But it’s hard to gauge scale in the Himalayas, and Puiyan was a long way away. We came across a group of porters huddled around having a chat, and I just kind of slumped down beside them on a rock. I think I sat there for a long time, but I’m not sure. Their voices, although right next to me, sounded like they were a million miles away. We were sitting right next to a waterfall, but it seemed to make no sound. After a time, Subash summoned me to my feet and we walked slowly on.

  Subash was an expert at staying out of the mud. His boots were lined with probably one millimetre of mud up the sides, as were every other local’s on the trail. I had long since given up on agility and with my lack of control my boots were completely submersed in mud. The inside of my trousers all the way up to my knees were covered in mud and mule shit. I hadn’t the strength to care. I knew everyone I passed was talking about me. The Nepalese have no shame in talking about you to your face, especially when you don’t understand their language. In fact, you can catch them when they think they are being subtle just by bursting out laughing when they do. I did that a few times and received some mortified looks in return.

  Eventually I reached a stage of utter exhaustion. My head felt like I had devoured half a bottle of rum in seconds. I felt drunk, but not in a good way. We crossed a metal bridge and then I sat down at the foot of the town. I was almost there, but I wasn’t moving for the next 15 minutes. Then we secured a room at the Beehive Lodge, which was a brick-like cottage set-up.

  ‘I have to go look for Nima,’ Subash said.

  ‘You don’t think he will
come?’

  ‘Maybe coming, maybe no. Like yesterday long time coming. And I worries man, because he saw his friend up there and maybe drinking.’

  ‘Ok,’ I said, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. I don’t think he had even left the room.

  I awoke at 5pm – I had been out for about two hours – to the sight of Subash carrying my backpack into the room.

  ‘Did you find Nima?’ I asked, a little dazed and confused.

  ‘Yes found him. Nima is a drunk. I find him all the ways back at the beginning of paths. When he sees me he is a very scared.’

  ‘Ah, again. Can you pass me my sleeping bag please?’

  I was freezing cold and I had started to shiver without my clothes. Two days in a row. Nima was in the bad books.

  ‘Come man, you must eat something.’

  ‘Just give me 10 minutes,’ I said, needing to warm up before going outside.

  I soon joined him in what would have been a pleasant courtyard had I not been in such a state. I sat down and together we watched the path from where we had come, looking for any signs of a bag-less Nima. I ordered dinner (I think it was some kind of potato dish) and a cup of ginger tea.

  *

  ‘Can you please bring my dinner to the room man?’ I asked. ‘I need to go lay down.’

  I was suddenly overcome with a wave of sickness. I stood, and took a step away from the bench I was sitting on. It felt like the blood in my feet began to boil, before the sensation shot upwards towards my head. I had taken probably six or eight steps towards my room, when my head was overwhelmed by the sensation. I remember falling. I had fainted.

  I was out for a matter of seconds, as Subash, who was sprinting towards me, had not yet made it to me.

  ‘Are you okay man, are you okay?’ He asked with a very worried look of his face.

  ‘Not really.’ I remember saying as nausea took control of my brain.

  Subash grabbed my hands and started to rub them furiously with his, as though this were some kind of Nepali cure for fainting. I sat on the ground for a long time.

  ‘I can’t believe I just fainted.’ I said, realising it was even weirder that I could remember the whole thing, from the sensation in my head, to hitting the deck. I must have realised I was going down, because I landed with arms outstretched, as if to protect myself. I was remarkably unharmed seeing as I fell into a kind of drain, slightly lower than the surface of the courtyard.

  At long last the nausea passed. Subash helped me to my feet, but instantly the same, sickening feeling engulfed me, and I fell forward, this time onto the table, but again with outstretched arms that somehow managed to support my body weight. I lowered my head onto the table, still standing, and shut my eyes. If that table had not have been there, I would have fainted twice. I felt strong arms grab me and guide me onto the stone steps where I sat with a thud.

  Sitting up I still felt sick. So I laid down on my back, eyes closed, and willed that god-awful feeling away. I opened my eyes and Subash had opened a Snickers bar, broken off half of it, and was trying to force feed me.

  ‘Eat!’ He demanded.

  I did eat. And I did feel better.

  ‘You not eaten anything in two days man!’ He said. ‘How you going to walks in the Himalaya like that? Maybe we should be flying back into the Kathmandu. You have insurance, I know this. I have your insurance papers. Maybe we get the helicopters back to the Kathmandu.’

  I shook my head, unable to formulate words. I was in a bit of shock. I can’t recall ever fainting in my life. Before I had fainted I was really cold and looking forward to getting back into my sleeping bag. Now I was dripping with sweat and boiling hot. The cold air actually felt revitalising on my skin. The next thing I knew I was in bed and a plate of potatoes cooked in turmeric had been shoved in front of me.

  Mule trains became more and more common as we approached the Khumbu Highway…

  Chapter Nine

  Joining the Khumbu Highway

  I had severe stomach cramps all night and needed to use the facilities on three separate occasions. You don’t realise the ordeal until you need to get out of bed, get layered up, find your head torch in the utter blackness of night, put on your boots, leave the room and walk to the communal toilet, squat down and try not to squirt on your clothes, before doing it all in the reverse order once back in your room. Repeat that a few times in the night in a weakened state and you’ll end up frustrated, I assure you.

  As the morning light began peaking in through little holes in the door, my eyes opened and I stared at the ceiling. All things considered, I didn’t feel too bad. A gentle knock at the door announced the arrival of Subash.

  ‘Excuse me very much, excuse me very much, Mr. Gorong.’ I heard him call. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Come in.’ I called to him, having deliberately left the door unlocked for this very reason.

  ‘Mr Gorong, how are you?’

  ‘I think I’m ok.’

  ‘Maybe we should be having the rest day, like in the Bupsa when we didn’t be having the rest day.’

  ‘No way mate. I am sick of the sight of this room.’ I replied using some kind of an idiom.

  ‘You is sick, so we should be having the rest day.’

  ‘No, it’s a saying. It means I don’t want to see this room ever again!’

  ‘Ok so if you can eat some things, we will go slowly to Khare.’

  ‘Ok mate, I’ll have two pieces of dried toast.’

  ‘Ok so two pieces of toast, some Tibetan bread and an omelette.’ He negotiated.

  I laughed for the first time in days.

  ‘I’ll meet you half way. I’ll have toast and the Tibetan bread.’

  ‘Ah, the Nima has come.’ Said Subash who was looking over his shoulder to the courtyard. We watched as he approached the room, eyes firmly fixed on the floor and pushed opened the door a little wider to enter my room. I was still lying in bed, watching him. He shuffled ever so slowly into the room, which instantly took on the aroma of a brewery. Then, quick-as-a-flash, he covered the distance between himself and me, grabbed my hand, dropped to his knees and began pressing my hand to his forehead.

  ‘So a sorry sah, so a sorry sah, so a sorry sah.’ He said repeatedly for over a minute as I watched in interest. After a time, I put my other hand on his shoulder and asked him to stop. He looked at me with blood-shot puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘Nima, don’t do that again ok. I was very sick.’

  ‘So a sorry sah, so a sorry sah.’

  ‘It’s ok, just never again, ok?’

  A small smile returned to his face and he jumped up and began frantically packing my things for me into my backpack. When he finished he left the room without a backward glance.

  ‘The Nima thought you would be a firing him.’ Subash said in a matter-of-fact kind of way. ‘If he is losing his job, maybe his family won’t be eating, so very important the Nima is keeping this job.’

  ‘Well the Nima better not get drunk and not show up again.’

  ‘He won’t be doing this again, trust me.’

  *

  I ate the breakfast and waited anxiously for a backlash, but to my astonishment it never eventuated. We walked along level ground for a time, ‘a little bit up and a little bit down’, as Subash would say. A black dog came running around the corner, spotted us, then just sat down on the path and waited for us. He was typically hairy and very wise-looking. As we approached he turned around 180 degrees and walked with us for a short while, and then satisfied we knew the way, he let out a single bark, announcing his intention to part ways, turned around and continued on his original path. It was bizarre.

  The descent to Khare took three hours and it was all down. We checked into the first lodge we came across, even though it wasn’t even midday. It was a sunny afternoon and we decided to relax in the garden, sitting with four Sherpa women that ran the lodge. An elderly lady sat there, holding a Buddhist necklace in her right hand, while constantly chanting the mantra, ‘Om Mani P�
�dme Hum’, over and over again, for hour after hour. I was enthralled by her dedication, but wondered if perhaps she hadn’t slightly lost the plot. I took a little wander around the lodge and saw some of my clothes that had been filthy from the mule shit day, were sparkling clean and hanging from a makeshift clothesline.

  ‘This is the Nima saying sorry.’ Said Subash.

  We went inside where there was a television about the size of a microwave that looked like it was one of the first ever invented. It projected a grainy picture of some Nepalese people prancing around a field and singing in the most ear-piercing of voices.

  ‘What is this bloody song about Subash?’ I asked him, realising he was singing along too.

  ‘What all Nepali songs are about man.’ He answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It is about love.’

  ‘It sounds like someone is dying.’

  Suddenly the channel changed and I breathed a sigh of relief. A small boy, with the attention span of a newt, was in charge of the remote control. Suddenly the channel changed again. Then again. My god, he was a flicker. I bloody hate a flicker. He would be watching something, would burst out laughing, and then mid-laughter he would flick the channel. Surely that amount of raucous laughter at least deserved a few more minutes on that channel. I wanted to reach over, snatch the remote and donk him on the head with it.

  *

  The next day brought us to Monday the 10th of March and it was time we busted a move. I woke up at 4am with the realisation that I needed the toilet. Everyone has suffered from diarrhoea, I’m sure, so you will understand the post-traumatic stress that is involved every time you need the loo afterwards. So it was with some form of apprehension that I closed the distance between me and the hole in the floor. I needn’t have worried.