“Nope. As long as you can catch them at the right moment, they’re not too bad to deal with.” Jay grinned and winked at me, enjoying the reactions he was getting from Steph. “Seriously though, it’s the dracunculiasis that are really awful. They fester under the skin and you have to dig ‘em out. If you pull too hard, they just break and keep growing, so we’ve got to pinch one end and tie it to a stick. You end up having to roll it up slowly, twisting it just a little more each day. Sometimes it can take up to a week to get one out. And those ones hurt. But the Loa loa worm, now those…”
“And there he goes again. I’ve never even heard of these kinds of bugs,” I said, hanging on his every word.
“Well, the Loa loa filariasis is a skin and eye disease. You get it from the bite of a deer or mango fly, which are the vectors for the Loa loa worm. They’re pretty nasty. If they reach the tissue in your eyes, you can literally see the silhouette of them crawling behind the eye. Luckily, they don’t affect the victim’s vision, but they’re extremely painful, especially when they squirm around or move from one eye to the other across the bridge of the nose.”
This morbid conversation took place in the open dining room over a dinner of dal bhat: lentil soup with rice, certainly not the best of circumstances when the stories naturally morphed into discussions about diarrhea and other symptoms of various diseases he’d encountered.
“I swear I’m never going to Africa after hearing these horror stories,” I said, then nudged Ammon. “You know that’s a continent, right?”
“Doctors Without Borders, eh?” Mom said. “That sounds like something you might like, Ammon. You’ve been talking about maybe going to medical school.”
“Yeah, that could be really cool. I’ve heard of Doctors Without Borders. They provide free medical care in about seventy countries around the world.” Ammon talked to Jay for a long time, getting as much information about the program as he could.
By this point Bree had turned all kinds of colours and I was afraid she might start re-enacting her Kyrgyzstan theatrics. I leaned over and whispered to her, giggling, “These poor other trekkers are probably thinking, ‘Those dang Canadians. Don’t they ever shut up?’ ”
Looking around the lodge at the other trekkers on the trail, my new peers, I noticed how old most of them were. The average age was somewhere around thirty-five and up, so I was easily the youngest foreigner around. Sometimes I felt awkward in the lodge, surrounded by so many older people, not because of a lack of common interests, but I wondered if they were asking the same question I was. What had this fifteen-year-old girl done to deserve this amazing opportunity? Many of them had planned this trip their whole lives before they finally got a chance to fulfill their dream. I was beginning to feel like one very fortunate young woman, and I marvelled over how much my attitude had changed. In just a few short months, I’d gone from feeling resentful and being mad at Mom for dragging me away from my friends and pets and school to having a sense of wonder about everything around me and feeling truly grateful for what she’d given me.
We adopted a rhythmic routine during the trek, something we’d lacked thus far. It felt surprisingly good to be able to anticipate the day’s events. We got up around 7 a.m., had breakfast, and started hiking by around 8:30 a.m. or so. On average, we trekked about five hours a day, up and down and around, through villages and mountains. We could have hiked longer, but by then we’d generally gained enough altitude for one day, and clouds would often start to roll in later in the day, trapping the whole village in a foggy veil.
By 6:30 p.m., it was dark, and most of the lodges just used candles for lighting. After a normally uneventful but extremely social dinner with Sherpas and other trekkers, we’d retire to our beds sometime between 7:30 and 8:30 p.m. We were usually the last ones to surrender to the night.
The first night of the trek, Ammon had slept alone in one room, while Mom and I paired up and the best friends shared another. But the next morning, Ammon had admitted, “I was a bit freaked out by all those sounds in the night. Did you hear them? It was way too creepy and lonely to do that again. It’s pitch black at night here.” We girls couldn’t let that pass without a ton of razzing about our ‘fearless leader’ being afraid of the dark. Despite our teasing at his expense, he shamelessly insisted he wouldn’t be able to stand being alone for weeks, so we had to come up with an alternate plan. From then on, Mom shared a room with him, and the rest of us had a slumber party every night. This worked out better anyway, because we only had to pay for two rooms instead of three. In order to stay warm, especially at the higher altitudes, Bree, Steph, and I would push the two single beds together so the three of us could snuggle up to share body heat. Though this most often solved the problem of being cold, it posed other problems.
The various rooms we stayed in were often so small that our door wouldn’t close anymore with the beds pushed together. Rather than sleep apart, whenever that happened we agreed to sacrifice one of the sheets to hang over the doorway for privacy of other trekkers and Sherpas.
We typically indulged in girl talk, making lists of kids’ names, designing wedding dresses, dreaming of our Prince Charmings. Snuggled up on the wood-frame beds we’d eat our Canadian candy until we were so hyper we would cry. Sometimes we wet our pants laughing about old jokes and funny memories; other times we laughed our way into forgetting just how stiff and dirty we were.
About halfway through the trek we spent a night in a recently repaired room that felt like we were sleeping in a large cardboard box. The floor was bouncy and felt really unstable, which made us question our safety and wonder if they’d had to fix it because it had collapsed at some point. That only put us off our usual night-time shenanigans for a few minutes, though.
“I think I laughed more today than I have in the past five months put together,” I said, wiping the tears from my cheeks.
“Yeah, but sometimes I wish I had brought my own sleeping bag,” Steph said, peeling off a clump of long, black hair from the thick woollen blanket. “These are really disgusting.” To avoid fighting over Stephanie, Bree and I always made her sleep squished in the middle of the bed.
“Oh man, I know,” I said, continuing to giggle. “It’s these blankets. They smell so bad. I bet they’ve never been washed – ever. And then all they do is spray air freshener all over them.”
“And that makes my head ache,” Bree said.
“Oh, stop making me laugh. It’s hard enough to breathe up here,” I said, my cheeks sore from smiling.
When we’d finally settled down, our usual night-time conversation was almost always interrupted by tossing and turning and complaining.
“I’m so cold, come cuddle with me,” I’d whine, rolling over and throwing my arm across Stephanie and pulling her closer. Even with five or more blankets over me I could never seem to retain enough heat.
“I’m so squished, I can’t breathe,” Bree groaned, thrusting an elbow into Steph’s side.
“Ouch, stop it. You’re hitting me.”
“Well, I can’t breathe so move over.”
“I can’t move over on this side, I’m falling off the bed,” I shouted over Steph at Bree. “You move over!”
“I’m crammed against the wall, I can’t move over, either.”
“These blankets stink,” Steph moaned between us, half asleep.
“My stomach hurts.”
“Pass the water, please. My throat’s really dry.”
“Stop kicking,” Steph said, while tugging at the blankets.
“I’m just trying to get closer. I’m still cold.”
“Who’s snoring? Is that you, Steph? Shut up.”
“No. You shut up. It’s someone in another room. I’m falling through the beds. We need to push them back together.”
“Okay, fine. Get out and push them together.”
“No way. It’s too cold. I’m not going out there.”
“Well, I’m going to go through the wall into the other room if we don’t do some
thing quick,” Bree said.
After we got up to push the beds back together, Steph said, “I have to pee, someone has to come with me. Bree?”
“Not me.”
“But you have to. It’s too dark and scary out there. It’s like The Blair Witch Project, times four.”
“Okay fine… You’re such a baby.”
“Whoa, wait for me. You can’t just leave me in here alone. I’m coming, too,” I said, as they both trampled over me to get out of the bed.
We’d finally settle down, but we went through pretty much the same routines every night. Getting a good night’s sleep didn’t happen too often…
Sherpa Chaperone
38
A wake-up call from outside our cardboard-thin walls and a tap on the ankle woke me. It was Mountain Dendee.
“Come. Eating breakfast. You ready? We go,” he whispered ever so gently. Waking up to his soft voice and good looks was much easier on the eyes and soul than Ammon’s typical “Get up!” or, worse yet, the “Passport! Passport!” greeting we got from the two stern Russian soldiers on the train.
Stepping into my flip-flops and dragging the girls out of bed, I made my way with them to the communal area for breakfast. The views from the big windows were a perfect motivation to start the day. The sun was freshly ascended in the sky, making the snowy mountain backdrop sparkle.
“I’m so sick of this porridge,” Bree said. “Actually, I never even liked porridge to begin with.”
“After surviving mutton, I think I can handle a bit of porridge,” I said, “though it would be nice to have something else for a change.”
“Are you kidding me? This stuff is awesome. I love it,” Ammon said.
“Because it’s filling?” I asked.
“Or because it’s the cheapest thing on the menu?” Bree said, taking the words right out of my mouth.
“Both. And because it’s healthy and gives you lots of energy.” Taking a big spoonful of crystallized brown sugar from the pretty, glass jar on the table and sprinkling it in his bowl, he added, “Plus, I love this big, grainy sugar. And obviously, you can’t go wrong by eating what the Sherpas do.”
“I love it too,” Mom said. “And I never even liked porridge before.”
“But I’m not sure I want to eat the same way as them,” Steph said, referring to how the Sherpas scooped their meals into their mouths with their right hands. Despite our minor complaints, Mom convinced us to get yet another bowl of oatmeal down for breakfast before starting a long day.
“Everyone always says you lose weight while trekking. They even have adjustable jackets because of it,” Ammon said, showing us the belt on his rented one. “But I’m sure I’ve gained weight. This food has been amazing.”
“Yeah, you could use a bit of fat on you, but I’m gaining weight, too,” Steph protested.
“Well, you have to keep eating,” Mom said. “No dieting allowed. We need to stay strong and healthy for this. And don’t forget to put your hard boiled eggs in your pockets for later.”
By 8 a.m., we were putting foot to dirt on the trail. The crunch of brittle leaves was softened by the morning dew. The higher up we went the colder it got, especially in the mornings. Luckily we all had great quality, light-weight clothing we’d chosen especially for the climb. Despite the chill, once we started walking I quickly warmed up in the sun. Throughout the day we were slowly able to peel off more layers of clothing. The cold air on my face early in the morning made me feel good – fit and healthy. I was beginning to see the upside of exercise in the fresh morning air, something I’d never experienced in my former life. So many unknown aspects of my character were exposed on this trip. Things were changing for all of us.
“Bree,” Steph snapped. “Why do you always have that thing in your mouth? Stop it.”
“I always brush my teeth on the go. I do it to pass the time.”
“Always? Well, I’ve never seen you do it before, and I’m your best friend, so I would know. I know every one of your habits, right down to how you pick and eat your scabs,” Steph said, crinkling her nose. “Obviously this is a new one you’ve picked up.”
“Yep, it is,” she said. “That’s ‘cause I never had so much time to kill in my life. Music and brushing my teeth helps.”
“You’re so weird.”
Ammon and I, on the other hand, spent hours in our world classroom. His latest lessons for me were all about the theory of light, sound waves, and gravity. I loved that he always had an in-depth answer to any question I came up with, and he had someone who was determined to learn from him. He is a teacher at heart, so that gave him a great deal of satisfaction. I really looked up to him as a proud little sister, and we were able to bond more than we ever had before. Walking the trail with its gorgeous mountain scenery, smelling the fresh earth, and having such great company was the best classroom I ever could have imagined.
Our Sherpas were busy singing away together with some of their friends we’d picked up along the way. They sang a mixture of English and Nepali songs that drifted past the parade of yaks and hikers like flower petals over the water. Their favourite song was “Sometimes Trekking, Sometimes Rafting,” and we’d had it stuck in our heads since day one. Each day we’d add new lyrics to their melody like “Sometimes Eating, Sometimes Farting.”
Some of the other trekkers’ Sherpas we had only seen once; others had reappeared again and again. We’d see them passing us on the trails, bump into them at a little cabin where we stopped for lunch, or chat over a cup of hot chocolate in a guesthouse at night. It was difficult to memorize our new Nepali friends’ names, so Bree insisted on finding a temporary moniker for each and every one of them to distinguish them on our two-week trek.
“He’s like an adorable cross-eyed fish. His name is definitely Bubbles,” Bree said, and then tilted her head toward one who was often picked on by the rest, “and he’s Outcast.” Someone had just smacked his hat from his head, sending him running down the path to catch it.
“That one is so like Pinocchio,” Bree continued. I chuckled. As always, I appreciated her enthusiasm, but I personally didn’t see the connection between Pinocchio and a man with such a cute button nose.
Bree was on a roll now, pointing at each one in turn. “And he–
“The one on the black yak?” I asked.
“Yeah, him. He looks like… He’s the Mad Hatter!” she declared.
“Wait. Fish eyes – which one is that again?” I said.
“Weren’t you listening at all? Hmmm, the one… Right… Okay, you’ll see him as soon as we get round the next bend. He’s got a blue hat on.”
“Are you talking about Pinocchio?” Steph asked.
“No. He’s the one three ahead of us. And that one looks like Grady, mixed with Teak from the Ewoks movies.”
“No he does not,” I protested. “Grady doesn’t look like a freaking Ewok.”
“Okay fine, I’ll just call him Teak. And whoa, now. That one’s so cute. He looks like Orlando Bloom.” Bree was making us all dizzy from spinning around to identify them all.
The Creepy Guy and Turtle moved effortlessly past us. Turtle turned around and waved to us as they passed, smiling as he sang along with the others. So far the only person allowed to keep his original name was Dendee, because she thought the comparison between Crocodile Dundee and Mountain Dendee made him appear fierce – a characteristic I would never associate with the sweet Dendee I knew.
Bree spotted the last two behind us on the trail that day and promptly dubbed them Dopey and Saruman, but I never found out why….
The higher we went, the less comfortable our lodgings became. There was some variety in the lodging prices, but the quality was always about the same. There wasn’t really a way to provide luxuries when everything was brought in on the backs of people or animals. Electricity was rarely available, so we had to use lots of candles at night. It also kept getting colder, and hot water was nothing more than a vaguely remembered luxury.
“A hundred and fifty rupees for twenty litres (5.2 gal) of warm water for the shower? That’s three times the price of the room itself, and way more than it cost lower down the mountain. I knew I should’ve taken one then,” Steph said. She wasn’t quite clear on the conversion rates yet, so she didn’t realize that a hundred and fifty rupees only came to about two dollars and fifty cents, but even so, the rate had definitely gone up. Her shock at the increased cost made me laugh, though. It was amazing how quickly our financial conservatism had rubbed off on her. “I can’t believe that,” she continued, “but I can’t stand it anymore. I’m so dirty. I haven’t had a shower in, like, four days, and we’ve been sweating like crazy. Super gross!”
“See, I told you you’d learn to appreciate the little things with us,” Bree said.
“There’s only one thing left to do,” I said. “We’ve got to split the shower three ways.”
Given that there was no sewage or piping, our warm water was poured into a big bucket placed on top of the wooden, outdoor shower hut. The water then flowed quickly from the shower head within, so we couldn’t afford to spare a second or a single drop. The three of us barely fit into the small space, and we were literally tiered, one under the other, to make sure we caught every drop. While I scrubbed the shampoo onto my head, Bree was busy rinsing hers out, while Steph scrubbed both our faces with soapy hands, saying, “face wash, girls, face wash!” Stepping from the warmth and waiting between turns was pure torture. To prevent the water from freezing on our skin we squealed as we jumped up and down. Vulnerable and nearly naked, we giggled from both the sheer cold and the absolute absurdity of our situation.
In the small, wooden shack, it was hard for the three of us to manoeuvre without knocking our clothes off the tiny nails we’d hung them on. Shirts and socks dropped onto the soaked concrete floor. Whenever an article of clothing fell, we’d shriek and pick it up as fast as possible, sometimes bashing heads in the process. Because there was no room for each of us to have a dirty and a fresh set of clothes, we had to put our old, now-wet clothes back on. To top it all off, we only had one towel between the three of us.
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