by Bill Doyle
The yak was enormous—but apparently pretty sensitive. It let out a little grunt of pain. One of the men yelled something in Nepali at me, but they kept walking.
“What just happened?” Maura asked.
“Nothing.” If Maura was going to keep secrets, than I decided I had better do so, as well. I tucked the yak hairs into my pocket for safekeeping.
We continued on our way through the tiny village, which was really just a group of small houses and businesses. The blue-and green-painted roofs reminded me of the wild-flowers we’d passed on our trek. Thankfully most of the signs in the village were written in Nepali and English, so we could read the one for the Mountain Inn and Lodging. It was a two-story stone building, which had been painted a dark pink.
Inside the tiny lobby of the inn, there were several groups of other Americans here for the night. Each group was being led by one or two muscular men with smooth brown skin. These must be Sherpas, I thought.
ABOUT THE SHERPAS
The first Sherpas migrated from Tibet to Nepal about 500 years ago. Now there are roughly 10,000 Sherpas in Nepal, about 3,000 of them in the Khumbu valley. Their skills and physical strength at high altitudes are unmatched, and Sherpas are usually a vital part of any successful climbing expedition. Before climbing became such a major industry, most Sherpas were traders.
I walked up to several of the travelers and Sherpas. I showed them a photo of my dad I had taken last New Year’s Eve. His short dark hair framed his good-looking face. And he was giving his trademark toothy grin.
Unfortunately, no one in the lobby, including the young receptionist behind the counter, had seen my dad. But he did say that the inn had two available rooms for the night. We also told us that dinner was now being served in the dining room.
Just the word “dinner” was enough to wake my mouth water. Rather than dropping our bags in our rooms, Maura and I headed straight to the chow.
The lodge’s simple dining room had a long wooden table and equally long benches on either side. We sat with other travelers. My detective’s ears picked up Australian and German accents. Down the table, four people from Japan were celebrating a successful climb up Mount Everest. Maura and I ate in silence.
We ordered a traditional Sherpa stew, “shyakpa,” a meat-and-potatoes dish with vegetables. Normally, I would have loved the spicy beef and vegetable stew, but my stomach was feeling as bad as my head. After we ate, we headed up the stairs to the second floor and our rooms.
As I was unlocking my door, Maura asked me, “Are you sure you’re okay, Nick? Do you want me to get a doctor?”
What was she talking about? Was this some kind of trick? I felt fine!
But I just shook my head. “I guess I must look tired, that’s all. It’s been a long trip.”
“Okay, then,” she said. “If you’re sure. Good night.”
“’Night,” I said.
We went into our separate rooms. Mine was a simple room, with just a bed, a chair, a lamp, and a window that overlooked the dark street.
I told myself it didn’t matter what the room was like. I wouldn’t be staying there.
I gave myself a second to look at the bed longingly. My eyes were burning. I was so tired, and that strange ringing in my ears was now deafening.
But I had work to do. And sleeping wouldn’t help me find my dad.
I unzipped my backpack and removed the slide with a long hair on it. This was the hair that was stuck to the piece of cloth that had torn off the strange man’s coat back in Los Angeles.
I dug back into my pack and pulled out my compact microscope. I unfolded it and placed it on the bed. I compared the slide to one of the hairs I had plucked off the poor yak in the street.
It was just as I thought.
While the hairs weren’t from the exact same animal (one of the hairs was much darker than the other), they had both come from the same type of creature. I had confirmed at least one thing. The hair I’d taken from the torn cloth had come from a yak. The analysis I’d done before leaving home was right.
So now that I was in the right area, I’d just have to find a yak farm to see if I could track down the strange man who had visited my house. And he might be able to lead me to my dad.
It all sounded like too much for me to deal with. …
I looked again at the bed. How great would it be to just curl up and go to sleep?
Or at the very least share my thoughts with Maura.
But Maura had lied to me about what the official had said at the airport. She couldn’t be trusted.
There was a reason, I reminded myself, that Dad had left clues that only I could understand. I would have to head out on my own.
I looked at my pocket watch. It was almost two in the morning. There was no light coming through the window. Was I really prepared to wander off into the pitch-dark night on my own?
It was a gamble, but I didn’t see any other choice. My dad was depending on me.
If I was going to do this, though, I had to disguise my appearance. Otherwise, someone like the receptionist might spot me leaving the inn and inform Maura.
STAR INTERVIEWS
“I was sick and tired of EVERYONE asking me for my autograph whenever I left the house, so I tried different disguises. The ones that work best are the simplest. I slick back my hair or mess it up. I walk differently or talk with an accent. I wear sunglasses or a hat. I never overdo the disguise—like with wigs or weird clothes—that would just draw attention to me.”
—Burt Garrett, MOVIE STAR—
THIS ACTOR IS A FRIEND OF MY DAD’S.
IN THE MIRROR, I LOOKED LIKE SOMEONE ELSE.
After I packed up my microscope and my hair samples, I grabbed my thick down jacket and pulled the sleeves inside out, so it looked like I was wearing a different coat. Then, I turned my hat inside out so that it was gray instead of blue. These simple changes were enough to alter my appearance—or I least I think they were. For some reason, it’s hard for me to stay focused now.
As I get ready to slip out the door and into the night, I realize my hands are trembling and my head is pounding.
I hope with all my heart this isn’t the last journal entry I ever make.
I’m coming for you, Dad!
THE LAST BRIDGE BEFORE NAMCHE BAZAR
June 6, 2007
3:15 PM
Luckily, there was a full moon, and the rocky path was easy to spot. I set off from Phakding and followed the Dudh Kosi river south. Using a small flashlight from my backpack, I constantly checked my progress on the map.
I’d already gone a few hundred yards when I remembered that I should be going north. My fuzzy brain couldn’t seem to get things straight. Back on the right track, I trekked along the west bank of the fast-moving river.
Hiking in the middle of the night in a strange, mountainous country is terrifying. Every time I heard a noise, I couldn’t help imagining that wild creatures were eyeing me hungrily or that bandits were about to descend upon me.
I passed through the small village of Zamphuti, and the path climbed steeply. Now I was walking along a ridge high above the Dudh Kosi. One false step and I would plunge down into the churning waters. I crossed several swaying suspension bridges and passed through two more small towns that weren’t even on my map. After crossing the river one last time, I trudged up a steep hill and finally spotted the much larger town of Namche Bazar.
Though it had been just a five-hour hike, it felt like a lifetime. But I had made it! I walked into Namche Bazar just as the sun was coming up over the mountains. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a sunrise in my whole life. And as exhausted and out of it as I was, I still noticed that the view of Everest was breathtaking.
In the village streets, traders were already setting up their booths, preparing to sell pottery, cloth, and sweet-smelling meats. Tourists were emerging from several of the lodges, looking ready for a day of hiking or shopping. It was a great chance for me to find out if anyone had seen my
dad. He would have had to pass through here if he was being taken to Everest. Maybe someone had seen him.
I showed his photo to several people but always got different variations of the same response. “No” or “Sorry, ol’ chap” or just a shake of the head.
As I talked to different people, I started to feel my mind wander…
What’s wrong with me? I wondered to myself. Must just be tired…
78 • THE ULTIMATE NEPAL GUIDE BOOK
Nepali is one of the languages spoken in Nepal.
Phrase Craze
Not sure which bus to take in Nepal?
Find the phrase you need—and more!—below.
ENGLISH NEPALI
I ma
My name is [your name] mero naam [your name] ho
Yes or I have chaa
No or I don’t have chhaina
Where kata or kahan
Here yaha
Good/pretty ramro
Clean safa
Dirty phohar
Help! guhaar!
Where does this bus go? yo bus kahaa jaanchha?
How are you? tapai lai kasto chha?
I don’t feel well malai sancho chhaina
I speak a little Nepali ma all nepali bolchhur
It was time to get to the real purpose of this visit. Time to track down the yak farmers.
I walked over to a Sherpa who was carrying a basket of potatoes across the small square. Using the vocabulary list in my guidebook, I asked him, “Can you point me in the direction of the yak farm, please?” in Nepali.
I heard someone laugh behind me.
When I turned, I discovered a short blonde woman wearing a pith helmet and a khaki jacket with lots of pockets. She looked as if she was going on safari. She was beaming at me. “Do you know that you are asking for a yak farm?” the woman said. She had an English accent.
THE ENGLISHWOMAN
“Yes,” I said, a little put off by the fact that she was laughing at me. “I know it sounds strange, but I need to find a particular yak farm.”
“How mysterious,” the woman said. “I’m leading a tour of young people from London. But apparently, they’ve decided to sleep in. While I wait, it would be my pleasure to help you. Follow me”
The woman and I walked over to a nearby booth that was selling richly colored jackets. The woman spoke in rapid Nepali, and the trader responded. They were speaking too quickly for me to look up any words in my phrasebook.
The woman translated for me. “The mice man says that there are two yak farms close by. Here, let me show you on your map.”
THE TRADER
I pulled out my map. And as I did, the hair sample and bit of cloth from my porch in Los Angeles fell to the ground. The trader picked it up and, before I could take it back, he was examining the cloth through the clear plastic bag. He turned to the Englishwoman and said something in Nepali.
The woman clapped her hands and smiled and nodded at the trader.
“What did he say?” I asked anxiously, taking back the cloth and hair sample.
“He says this cloth was made on a farm in Konar. I can show you where that is on your map.” She pointed to a settlement a few miles away. “The hike will take about three or four hours.”
I fumbled for the map as she handed it back to me. The Englishwoman asked me if I was sure I was okay. “You look a bit wonky, if you don’t mind me saying.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I told her. “Thank you for all your help.” I looked down at my guidebook, thanked the trader in Nepali, and started off.
I made my way past Tengboche, home of a famous monastery. I was now 13,000 feet above sea level. The view of Mount Everest was even more spectacular from here. It towered over its mountain neighbors, Nuptse and Lohtse.
In just under three hours, I reached the yak farm the woman had pointed out to me on the map. It sat on the side of a gently sloping hill. A simple wire fence surrounded the property, where several dozen yaks grazed peacefully in the sun, their tails twitching lazily at flies every now and then.
About a hundred feet away sat a two-story stone house. A man had just walked out the front door and held his hand up against the sunlight. He was looking away from me.
THE MYSTERIOUS MAN FROM LOS ANGELES WAS HERE!
I quickly closed the distance between us before he could turn around.
“Hello?” I said when I was within a few feet of him.
He jumped slightly and whirled around. When he did, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I had found him!
Here was the man who had tossed the skull at me in Los Angeles. He was wearing the same coat—I could see where he had torn it on the splinter—and he had the same birthmark under his right eye.
“You!” I shouted. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do now that I had found him. My head was spinning, and everything seemed to be moving too fast.
The man eyed me suspiciously. He said something in Nepali. I consulted my guidebook and translated his words into, “Who are you?”
“You know me!” I told him fiercely. “You came to my house in America!”
He shook his head and said something else in Nepali.
It’s one thing to detect that someone is lying when they are speaking English. But I wasn’t sure if my liar radar would work properly when I couldn’t understand what the person was saying! Especially since my head hurt so bad I thought it might explode.
I did know one thing. I wasn’t leaving here until I got some answers.
“Where is my father?” I demanded. “What have you done with him?”
The man looked around and said something else. This time, his meaning was clear. He was inviting me inside.
“No way,” I said.
The man help up a finger as if to say, “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared inside.
I snuck over to the door, but I couldn’t hear sounds from inside. I went around to the side of the house and peered through a window. I was looking into the living room. It was neat and tidy with shiny wooden furniture. A table, a chair, and—
Maura.
She was in the living room, talking with the Sherpa.
I must have made a noise without realizing it, because suddenly, Maura looked over at the window. When she saw me peering through the glass, her face relaxed in genuine relief. She even smiled. Something I didn’t think Maura would be able to fake.
She rushed out of the house and came around the corner before I could even think about running. She grabbed me by the shoulders. “Where did you go? Why did you run off on your own like that?”
MAURA WAS IN THE SHERPA’S HOUSE!
Even more freckles had popped up around her face, and they made her look even prettier. She seemed to have let down her guard, and I could see the real person beneath her icy exterior.
But this wasn’t the right time for making new friends. The Sherpa had also left the house and stood next to us.
I took a step back and glared at them. “You two know each other? What have you done with my father?”
I moved toward the Sherpa. My body was stiffening and I felt my hands turning into fists. Maura stepped between us and pushed me back. I stumbled a few steps but managed to keep my balance.
“Stop it,” Maura said and came toward me. “This man is one of your father’s best friends.”
“That’s a lie!” I shot back.
Before I could wriggle away, Maura placed her hands on my shoulders and put her face close to mine. She spoke very slowly. “Nick, you’re suffering from hypoxia. You’ve got altitude sickness. You’re not thinking straight.”
“That’s crazy!” I cried.
“Is it?” Maura asked. “Think about the way you’ve been acting. You’ve got a huge headache, I bet, and feel really strange. And would anyone in his right mind do what you did last night? Sneak out of the inn in the pitch-dark? You could have fallen off a cliff! Not to mention you almost gave me a heart attack when I woke up this morning to find your room empty and
your bed still made.”
“You’ve been lying to me!” I shouted. “You’re trying to stop me from finding my dad.”
Maura shook her head. “That’s not true. And deep inside you know it. If I wanted to stop you, why would I have flown you all the way to Nepal? I would have simply locked you up in Los Angeles. Or poisoned your food or done one of a million other things. What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. You’re a good detective. Think about it.”
Part of me wanted to push her hands off and fight back. But what she was saving was starting to get through.
I took a long breath. “How did you get here?” I asked, trying desperately to clear my head.
“When I asked the airport official if anyone had arrived in the last day or so, he told me that only one private plane had landed and it had been carrying a Sherpa. His description matched the Sherpa you described in Los Angeles. I dropped Judge Pinkerton’s name, and the official gave me a name in return. All I had to do was call information and come here.”
It made sense. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I demanded. “Why did you lie to me about what the airport official said to you?”
“Because of something else he said,” Maura explained. “I thought it was better not to tell you anything.”
“What did he say?”
Maura took a breath. “He told me that someone had died climbing Mount Everest right before we got here.”
“My dad!”
“No, it wasn’t your dad,” she said quickly, trying to keep me from panicking. “It wasn’t him. It was a man from Japan. But I warded to make sure before I mentioned any of this to you and got you worried.” She shook her head. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have. Maybe I was a little sick with hypoxia, too. But you have to believe me. This man didn’t hurt your dad. He wants to help him.”
I felt my face flush with embarrassment. “Wow …” was all I could say.