We all knew we would have to overcome many such challenges to reach Everest Base Camp. I looked behind me and saw that Ammon kept his eyes fervently on the solid land ahead and never loosened his grip on the metal siding. This would be the biggest obstacle he’d face on this particular journey, but his desire overpowered his fear. He approached the problem with little fuss, and though white-knuckled, he stoically made his way across.
I took timid, careful steps to cross the first few bridges, testing to see if the wood pieces were loose or cracking before moving forward, but eventually, even Steph was skipping over them carelessly, joyously raising her arms high to feel the wind.
From certain viewpoints, we could look back and see how far we’d meandered through the vibrant green hills that had taken us from village to village. What a treat it was to watch the rivers sparkle as they manoeuvred between the layers of mountains, like eels through rocks.
Ammon’s eyes widened as he watched a small, surefooted man pass us carrying a snooker table on his back. “Sherpas are known in the international mountaineering world for their endurance and hardiness at very high altitudes. Now I know why.” Absolutely everything got carried up to the various villages on the backs of either humans or yaks after being flown in to Lukla or Namche Bazaar, which is where we were headed. Instead of carrying loads on top of their heads, as is done in many cultures, they supported the weight with a strap secured across their foreheads. Not only were the loads extremely heavy and awkward, but the path was hazardous, filled with holes and strewn with protruding roots.
It was tough enough getting ourselves up the mountains, but being passed by old men carrying more than their own weight uphill was both amazing and slightly discouraging. They hauled pool tables, generators, helicopter parts, and food and drink (sometimes along with the entire fridge). They were no taller than we girls, but their size did not hinder them. We even saw a few women carrying giant boulders balanced on wooden L-shaped boards strapped to their backs, a load I would only consider loading onto a strong ox.
“Some say their climbing ability is the result of actual physical genetics, things like special hemoglobin-binding enzymes and doubled nitric oxide production.”
I blinked. “Whoa, slow down a minute there, brother, if you’re going to go getting all scientific on us.”
“So they literally have, like, superhero powers?” Bree said.
“All I know is, I can’t believe how incredibly strong they are. I only have this little bag and I’m exhausted,” Mom said, as Dendee ran past us effortlessly after stopping to help an older woman get her heavy woven basket remounted on her back. Most of the Sherpas carried multi-purpose, T-shaped walking sticks called a tokma to rest their loads on when they needed to take a break. Others used the high benches that were placed along the route to help with unloading and reloading.
“Hired porters are allowed to carry up to thirty kilograms (66 lbs) each. Our baggage doesn’t come anywhere close to that and we could’ve easily hired only one for the two bags,” Ammon said. “But we are supporting the economy this way, and it’s nice to have two of them along.”
“We couldn’t possibly have made them carry two,” Mom said. “That wouldn’t seem fair.”
“I just wonder if our tiny loads embarrass them in front of their friends,” Ammon suggested. Because our Sherpas’ loads were much lighter by comparison, they skipped the entire way and never took a single break. They tromped along practically barefoot in flimsy plastic sandals, their thickened calluses having long ago become mere extensions of themselves after all these years on the mountains. Like Snow White’s dwarves, they were always busy and hummed away as they marched. Seemingly immune to the high elevations and rough terrain they were truly the heart and soul of the trekking community.
Trekkers, on the other hand, often came completely decked out in their entire-life’s-savings worth of equipment. Like an ad for North Face, they wore both fake and name-brand clothing and fancy hiking boots with shiny, laced-up buckles. They came adorned in sunglasses, hats, spiffy walking sticks, compact backpacks, and lightweight CamelBaks, water straws at the ready. I could smell the sunscreen mixed with sweat as they passed and felt slightly under-equipped in comparison, sporting not much more than flip-flops and a fresh sunburn.
Except for the parade of short-legged, stalky yaks and Sherpas we dodged along the way, we usually had the trail entirely to ourselves. Half the time, Bree was up ahead with Ammon, so eager to be first that she left her poor friend choking in the dust behind with Mom and me.
“This is killing me! I just… Oh, it’s so hard,” Steph would moan.
“I thought you said you were training every day at home,” I said.
“I was.”
“You said you did the Grouse Grind at home every day, sometimes twice a day.” I just shook my head when she didn’t answer – Steph had been known to exaggerate in the past. We’d often catch her out in her fabrications, but most often she was the one who paid for it, not us.
“Don’t forget that she just came from sea level to about three thousand metres (10,000 ft),” Mom defended her. “We, on the other hand, have had the chance to adjust to higher altitudes for the last couple of weeks. So far, once I get into a rhythm, it’s really not so bad. I think it’s harder if you take a break, because getting your muscles moving again is torture.”
“Yeah, that’s so weird,” I agreed. My body and mind both wanted to stop and rest, but whenever I did, I actually felt worse. I’d huff and puff like I could hardly catch my breath, yet when I was walking my breathing came steadily and easily. I was happy to notice how strong I’d become during our six months of backpacking and that I had much more endurance than I’d ever had in my life. My legs weren’t stiff or sore at all, and my heart and lungs felt strong. It was the breathing that affected me most, and I supposed the altitude was to blame. Whenever we did stop for a breather, mostly to keep Steph company, our Sherpas would wait behind and say encouraging things to keep us motivated.
“Doing good. Is good walking,” Dendee said. “D.L. wants to know, are you hungry?”
“I am Dalai Lama,” the shorter, plumper one reminded us, trying to sound convincing.
Dendee shook his head with a charming smile, then pointed at the junior Sherpa to confirm, “No, Dawa Lobsang is his name. Just D.L. is okay.”
“Dalai Lama,” he said, crossing his arms with a loud hrmph.
“You were right, Dendee,” I said huffing and puffing. “This is the hardest day. I believe you now.” Bree and Ammon were up ahead sitting on stones while they waited for us to catch up.
“Dendee, how much further is it?” Steph asked after a few hours of hiking.
“No, no. Hard part not beginning yet,” he said, his deep dimples and warm eyes smiling at me.
“What? You mean we haven’t even started the hard part?” I said as I saw Steph’s face fall.
“Before we do, let’s eat,” Mom said, calling a well-earned break.
We learned what was best to eat on the trek by following the Sherpas’ lead. The menus, though limited in their selection, were always written in English. For the second time I happily anticipated a bowl of hearty Sherpa stew. A big bowl filled with noodles and big chunks of potatoes, meat, and vegetables was always served fresh. It was a delicious meal I knew I’d look forward to eating every day. Waiting anywhere up to an hour and a half after ordering testified to its freshness.
“Dendee, did they have to go catch the chickens first? It’s taking so long,” Steph joked.
“Yes, catching chickens,” he nodded.
“What?” she said.
“They’re probably just digging up the potatoes. It should be ready any time now,” Mom said.
“No,” Dendee said, playing along. “I think right now they planting the potatoes. Maybe we get food in few months?”
“Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t have ordered that yak burger then,” Ammon said.
When our food finally came Ammon bowed than
kfully and received it with his right hand, left hand placed in the crook of his right elbow. The rest of the family followed suit, knowing that Ammon always modelled the proper etiquette. I’d already learned from other cultures what the left hand was reserved for. I’d become accustomed to the rule of not touching anything with that hand, and ever since we’d spent time in Mongolia, I’d decided to play it safe and always accept my food in such a fashion.
When Steph clumsily took her soup bowl with both hands, I nudged her, “No, no. Only with your right hand.”
“What? Why?” Steph asked, looking quizzically at me.
Bree was already snickering before I told her, “They wipe their bums with the left, so you never touch your food with that hand – or anything, really.”
“Eeew, I would never!” Steph looked at me like I was insane. She promptly dropped her left hand below the table, and Bree laughed so much she nearly choked on her food. It felt good to finally have some answers for once, especially answers that provoked such startled reactions.
Once we’d factored in a lunch break, that day’s expected five-hour hike had stretched to seven. As we hobbled into Namche Bazaar, Stephanie stopped next to a stone wall that was covered in brown patches. “What is that stuff? What’s on all the walls? Those brown circles.”
“It’s poo,” I said.
“What?! Like Poo-poo paddies?” she nearly screeched. “What do they do with them?!”
“They use the yak poop for fuel. For their fires,” I told her.
“Oh, Savannah,” she said in a ‘you can’t fool me’ tone.
“What? You don’t believe us?” I said. “How come?”
“Because I’d be able to smell it,” she said.
“Well, I must admit, sometimes the cold is better than the stench, though we’re kind of used to it by now,” Ammon told Stephanie, who was still cringing at the very idea of burning yak poo. “It’s Bree’s favourite new perfume. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Yeah. Yum, yum, yakky poopy. I love it,” Bree smiled, greedily breathing in a lifetime’s worth of the fresh air. We walked around the corner and found a pile of fresh manure piled high. Steph crinkled her nose and scowled in dismay while visibly holding her breath as we listened to the flies buzzing around.
There was a girl about our age squatting with her hands in the wet dung, skillfully mixing it with hay. Patting and tossing it from hand to hand to flatten the substance into pancakes, she then smacked the muck against a stone wall to let it dry in the sun. The finished product was neatly stacked and stored outside alongside the stone and mud houses like any other stack of wood would be. An older woman was piling the already dried patties from another wall into a wicker basket so she could carry them home on her back. We often saw women and men carrying these large baskets full of processed yak feces.
“Why would they do that?” Steph asked, unable to take her eyes off the busy women. The younger lady noticed her standing there, and she smiled and waved an eager brown hand at us.
“We already told you, but you don’t want to believe us,” I said, waving back and continuing to walk, anxious to find accommodations in the Himalayan town.
“And you know that once they’re finished preparing the yak poo patties,” Ammon said, with an exaggerated pause, “they will go straight into the kitchen to make dinner.”
Steph practically turned blue when she heard that. “Well, I could stand to lose a bit of weight, anyway.”
In the lodge that night, we giggled when Steph asked, “What is that smell? It’s like…” Smelling is believing, and we were finally able to dismiss her doubts by showing her the pile of dried poo patties in a basket by the stove in the middle of the common room. I could see her begin to take much more shallow breaths, as if oxygen were running low. Personally, I wasn’t bothered by it at all. I quickly adjusted to the familiar, rich smell of burning poo and hay mixed with the kerosene they used to light it.
“Steph, I still can’t quite decide if it’s better to breathe it in through my nose and smell it, or inhale through my mouth and taste it,” I teased. Her lips pursed and her eyes widened in disgust. Steph’s constant reactions to all the differences on this side of the world made me remember my naivety. I often recognized my own initial culture shock in her, and it brought back so many memories.
Acclimatization
37
“What?! You’re kidding me, right?” I said, tripping on the uneven, jagged path in my flip-flops and coming dizzyingly close to the sheer drop off.
“I wouldn’t kid you about that, Savannah,” Ammon said.
“We have to hike this exact same path twice?”
“Seriously, it’s to help us acclimatize,” he repeated. “You know, we’re going up to almost five thousand metres today (16,000 ft), and though we’ve been higher before, it’s important to be careful about these things. I know someone who went skiing at just three thousand metres (10,000 ft), and he went completely loopy. You really never know how you’re going to react to the altitude.”
“And you wouldn’t want to have to turn back because you rushed it,” Mom added.
Steph had already started to feel a bit nauseous, so an acclimatizing day was in order, even if it hadn’t been highly recommended by both the guidebooks and the Sherpas. It was torturous to think we literally had to climb all that way up, only to turn around and head back down to where we started. Then we’d have to do it all over again tomorrow! Dendee spoke better English than D.L., so he offered to come along as guide, translator, and porter, even though we weren’t bringing our big packs along. He carried one of our daypacks with sunscreen, water, and Snickers bars, which had become our staple energy snack on the trek. I had an inkling that he liked to keep a close eye on Bree and her buns of steel. Bree, of course, was doing what she does best: flirting. She loved any attention she could get from any boy in her general area, and her latest victim was poor Dendee.
“I did my best to hire the ugliest Sherpas I could find to minimize Bree’s temptations but, as you can see,” Ammon said, nodding his head in her direction, “there’s no stopping that girl.”
Whenever I’d roll my eyes at her, Mom would say, “Oh just leave her be; it’s the age she’s at. We can only hope she’ll grow out of it.”
We’d gained some height on the trail and could see Namche Bazaar nestled below like an eagle’s nest tucked away on the mountainside. I could also see a crashed helicopter, half hidden on its side under a tarp. I wondered how many planes and helicopters had been lost in the Himalayas and then overgrown with trees and eaten by the forest.
Short, husky horses were grazing peacefully when we reached the plateau at the top. The two-hour vertical climb was fraught with steep switchbacks above Namche Bazaar and we’d gone up another three hundred metres (1,000 ft). The views above us were spectacular.
Clouds hugged the surrounding mountains, giving the impression that we’d reached the heavens. We could practically reach out and touch them as well as the stone faces of the mountains in front of us. Stopping to take in the awesome view and catch our breath, we set eyes on Everest for the first time since we’d been in Nepal. We’d caught a brief, distant glimpse of the famed mountain when we were crossing Tibet on the Friendship Highway, but our quest was now even more attainable and Everest beckoned us to venture closer.
When we got back to the lodge that evening, we enjoyed chatting with everyone in the communal seating area. Bedrooms at the hostels along this trek were always just large enough to fit a couple of beds and maybe a bedside table or two. They were only meant for sleeping which encouraged trekkers and Sherpas to hang out together in the lodge’s common room in the evenings.
More often than not we had the trails to ourselves, but the nightly lodgings were generally lively times where we shared meals and mingled with the few other trekkers. One father and son duo, fellow Canadians who had arrived in Namche Bazaar the same time as us, were our favourites. The young man, Jay, had saved up to take both of them on the tr
ek. It was his aging father’s life-long dream to trek in Nepal and lay eyes on the one and only Mount Everest. We admired Jay for giving his father such a remarkable gift and for cherishing the experience with him.
Jay was a doctor who volunteered with the Doctors Without Borders (Médecins Sans Frontières AKA MSF) organization. He had days-worth of interesting stories to tell. Before we knew it, we were leaning over the long trestle table, enthralled by his varied experiences in hospitals all over the world.
“My worst nightmare would be those bugs that hatch and crawl out of your skin,” I said. “I would just die if that happened to me.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the kinds of bugs I’ve seen,” Jay said. “I have enough stories about worms alone to fill an entire book.”
“Eeew. Worms are so disgusting.” Bree squirmed. “Well, not normal worm-worms. I’ve eaten those kind straight out of the garden. I mean the gross ones, like tape worms. Have you seen those? Sometimes we joke that Savannah has one because she always eats so much but never seems to gain any weight.”
“Yeah, tapeworms. The cestodes. They’re pretty bad. The problem with them is they’re hermaphroditic so they breed quite easily. They are usually self-fertilizing. How scary is that?”
“That truly is like out of a horror movie,” Bree said, setting her hot chocolate down, unable to function normally hearing his tales.
“And then there are the whale tapeworms that can get up to about 30 metres long (100 ft), though I’ve never seen a worm quite that big. Probably because those ones only live in whales, and there aren’t too many of those in African villages. And then there are other types where you have to lure them out by dangling a piece of meat in front of the infected person’s mouth.”
“You’re kidding me!” Steph gasped.
Sihpromatum - Backpacks and Bra Straps Page 28