Their work done for the day, one of the porters with both hands behind his back sauntered to the center of the clearing, grinning. When Dorje finished setting up the dining table, the porter yelled something in Nepali, whipped one arm out and flicked his wrist, releasing a blue Frisbee that sailed high over the sirdar’s head. Dorje raced after it, leapt several feet off the ground for an incredible one-handed catch, and spun around tossing it hard and fast to another porter. Three more joined in, all playing with the energy and precision of professional athletes.
“Get pictures,” Beth told Eric excitedly. “Pictures of Sherpas playing our games.” Her reporter self took over with a flood of questions. What other western ways had they adopted? Were we altering their culture and beliefs? Their economics? As she watched their faces and body language, different personalities emerged and they were no longer collectively the porters. Enamored of these gentle men and boys who every day hauled gear up and down the mountain and crossed swaying bridges in bare feet or flip-flops without complaint, Beth wanted to know their names and called Dorje over. Pointing to each one, he identified Pasang, Phurbu, Lhakpa, Gyeljen, Jamgbu, and Tuchi and explained that many parents name children after the day of the week when they are born: Nima for Sunday; Dawa, Monday; Mingma, Tuesday; Lhakpa, Wednesday; Phurbu, Thursday; Pasang, Friday; and Pemba, Saturday.
“And you. What does Dorje mean?”
“Thunder bolt.”
Her eyes traced his lips and perfect white teeth. “So you are very powerful and can light up the sky.”
“And knock down large trees with one blow,” he said grinning.
Where had this man with an enticing smile that could win the heart of any Sherpani gone last night and stayed until just before dawn? “What else do Sherpas do for fun?”
His eyes searching for an answer, Dorje shrugged. “We dance and sing, drink chang.”
“Where?’
“Sometimes outdoors. Most of the time in our houses.”
“And if a man and woman want to be alone?” Dorje shifted his weight to the other foot and appeared on the verge of departure. Once again, she’d gone too far. Damn prying tongue. Change the subject. “Will you show us Sherpa dancing?”
“We don’t have a drum,” he answered simply before turning away. A few minutes later, she saw him talking to the porters. The youngest, a boy of fifteen named Gyeljen, and Phurbu, who was very proud of his Snoopy T-shirt, left immediately. She thought little of it until they returned an hour later giggling and concealing something. Dorje, the other porters, cooks, and two kitchen boys quickly gathered around them and advanced as a unit towards the tourists. Beaming with pride, they presented Ruth with a birthday cake baked at 12,700 feet using a crude rock oven and firewood.
The little lady with tight gray curls who was first across the perilous bridges and had climbed the Namche and Tengboche hills with such courage and gusto broke down and wept. This, her sixty-ninth birthday, would be the most memorable of her life. “Tell them, Dorje,” she said through her tears. “Tell them I will never forget this day with my new friends. I am so happy to be here.”
Watching Ruth and seeing the joy in the Sherpa faces, Beth blinked to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks too. Dorje had to be responsible for this. No one else could have known. Even she didn’t. “Thank you,” she told him. “We will all remember this night. Do Sherpas have birthday cakes too?”
“We do not know the month or the number of the year. I only know I was born in the year of the rat, so I am either eight, twenty, or thirty-two.”
While a kitchen boy sliced and served the cake, young Gyeljen revealed another surprise, a madal. Sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, he supported the drum between his knees and began slapping the parchment ends. By now the other porters had consumed a fair amount of chang and were in a giddy, singing mood. Dorje and Pasang pulled the most outgoing porter, Topkie, to his feet and pushed him to the center. Shooting nervous glances at Dorje who returned a stern look, the porter began to dance with his arms upraised and flowing freely. Another couple of swigs of chang and he lost all inhibitions, swirling and dipping so loosely it seemed as though his limbs weren’t connected to his body. After ten minutes of this continuous motion, the other Sherpas started giggling and then erupted in riotous laughter that lasted another five.
“What’s happening?” Beth asked Dorje who was barely in control himself.
He explained that Gyeljen had finished the song but Topkie wouldn’t sit down so Gyeljen had to keep singing. “He is making up funny words about weak mikarus who cannot carry a doko up the hill.”
Observing the activity, Beth became aware that her journal notes were merely those of an outsider looking in, which anyone could do. Exploring the intimacies of the Sherpa heart and soul would take time. While she watched Dorje summoning the others to form a line, Beth spoke to Eric. “I’m fascinated by them. They’re quite amazing, don’t you think?” He nodded with a look that said he knew she was heading somewhere. “I’m especially curious about what influence we’re having on their culture.”
“So get to the point.”
“I want to stay longer.”
“What?”
“Only a few weeks . . . . a month at most. That’s the only way I can get to know them.”
“And what about me? You know I have to shoot that job in the Galapagos. We’ve been planning the trip together ever since I got the assignment.”
She placed her hand on his. “Yes, Sweetie, I know. But we’re here together now, and it’s been good, hasn’t it?”
Removing his hand, he crossed his arms and stared straight ahead, his knee bouncing.
Beth rubbed her leg up against it. “Please try to understand. It’s only for a short while.”
“No public displays of affection allowed,” he said in a reproachful, dispassionate tone and then rose. “Do whatever you want. You will anyway . . . always have.” Eric marched to the line of Sherpas and pushed his way in beside Dorje. “So what are we doing here?”
“Follow me,” said Dorje.
Arms linked around their waists, the Sherpas shuffled forward a few steps and backwards, ending each phrase with a stomping motion. Eric looked tall and awkward among them. Beth hoped he wouldn’t humiliate himself as he’d done with the doko. She imagined the porters singing about the clumsy American who can’t carry a basket or dance. Seeming intent upon humbling Eric, Dorje added more complicated footwork until even the Sherpas struggled to keep up. Eric didn’t stand a chance and was lost in a flurry of dust churned up by Dorje’s flying feet, but he refused to concede. It became a duel with only two men remaining—one of them touching heel and toe, moving forwards and back, stomping the ground as hard as he could with split-second timing; the other staggering and lurching off balance like a drunken giant. Angry at Dorje and embarrassed for Eric, Beth wished he would walk away before falling flat on his face. Finally, at least Gyeljen was kind enough to end the song.
Eric strode past her with sweat coursing through his dust-caked face. “That bastard. I’d love to get him on my turf. You think they’re so damn interesting. Then stay here. Sleep on the ground, wash with a cup of water, and piss in a hole. But not me. Not any longer.” He dragged his sleeve across his forehead to wipe his face before throwing open the tent flap and crawling in.
Beth was furious at Dorje now. There was no excuse for this aggressive behavior; he had just refuted all western images of Buddhist Sherpas as smiling, enlightened people desiring only to please. When she glanced back at him, he immediately turned and walked away with no apparent regrets, and she would not forgive him for that.
Beth and the ladies drank hot tea and chatted until it was too cold to stay up any longer. Shivering and hoping Eric had settled down by now, she joined him in the tent. “Are you all right, Sweetie?” she asked and began to remove her boots.
Lying on his back with one arm folded under his head, he said, “Leave them on. We’re going outside.”
�
��Now? Why? It’s freaking cold out there.”
“We won’t be long. Come on.”
Eric led her away from camp to the far end of the clearing. “Look at that moon. There, beside your favorite mountain.”
Still shivering, she inched closer until completely enveloped in his arms. The moon hung just above Ama Dablam illuminating the glacier. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for bringing me out to share it.”
His thumb massaged her neck. “I want to apologize for earlier. I admit to being upset when you first told me. You caught me by surprise and I was thinking only of myself. Of course, you have to stay. Your career is on the line and I can’t stand in your way. Besides, it’s your nature to do everything the best you possibly can. It’s one of the things I love most about you.” Leaning back to look at her, he added, “And I do love you. I hope you know that.”
Almost out of habit, she answered, “Yes, and I love you too.”
“Good. That’s what I needed to hear. Sometimes I’m not sure.”
She nodded, knowing that she hadn’t always expressed great passion for him, but right now she felt warm and comfortable in his arms. And perhaps that’s what love was all about. Her head resting against him, she listened to his heart beating faster as his chest rose with a deep breath before he spoke again.
“I was so upset because I’ve been saving something for our Galapagos trip, thinking it would be a romantic interlude.” Curious, she looked up at him and Eric laughed quietly. “But hell, you probably think this place is more romantic, standing before a Buddhist monastery at 12,700 feet in the freezing cold with Everest and Ama Dablam as your witness.”
She drew back and stared at him. “Witness to what?”
“My proposal. I’ve wanted to marry you from the first day I met you on that ferry going across to San Francisco.”
“It was cold then too and oh so windy.”
“You’re evading the question.”
“And just what question is that?”
With one finger, he tipped her chin up to look at him. “Will you, Beth, marry me, Eric?”
It all seemed to flow so easily and naturally that she heard herself saying, “Yes,” without really thinking about it. But maybe that’s how it was supposed to be, just responding and moving forward with one’s life. No more questions or searching. “Yes,” she repeated, “I, Beth, will marry you, Eric.”
CHAPTER 12
Shortly after midnight, a loud cry ripped through camp, shattering the silence. Beth grabbed Eric’s arm. “What was that?”
“Don’t know, Babe. Probably a drunken porter.” He yawned. “Go back to sleep.”
Propped on her elbows, she unzipped the door and peered into the darkness, listening to other sounds: someone vomiting, another cry, scurrying feet. A ray of light stole along the ground and disappeared into the ladies’ tent. Watching shadows play on the wall and hearing muffled voices, she feared something awful had happened. On her hands and knees outside the ladies’ door, Beth whispered, “What’s going on?”
Dorje almost bumped her on his way out. “Helen is sick this high. I must take her down.”
“Right now? In the dark?” she asked as he prepared the doko.
“It is too dangerous for her to sleep here. I have seen stronger mikarus die.” After wrapping Helen in a warm bag, he lifted her into the basket, strapped the doko on, and pushed to his feet. “The cooks know what to do. They will take you back to Namche tomorrow.”
“But how will you see?” she asked as he quickly strode away from her. “And what if a yeti . . . ?”” she started to add but realized he was already out of earshot. Feeling helpless, all she could do now was attempt to comfort Ruth left alone and scared on her sixty-ninth birthday.
After a fitful night, Beth woke to a crisp, cloudless sky and watched the sunrise over the mountain bathing the monastery in amber light. From the main gompa came the penetrating, unearthly tones of a pair of ten-foot, telescopic horns, dung-chens, calling the monks to Morning Prayer. The deep and powerful sound of the long horns resembled the singing of elephants. Eager to see Helen, Ruth chose to stay just long enough to visit the monastery so Eric could take pictures for her ailing friend. One of the cooks led them up the wide stone steps and signaled for them to remove their shoes and remain quiet. After bowing and presenting a white silk kata to the presiding lama, he showed them into a dimly lit room permeated with the aroma of butter lamps and juniper incense.
“Amazing,” Eric whispered as he quietly took photos of the ceiling and walls decorated with brilliantly colored images of Buddha, various gods, lamas, and mythological scenes. From intricately painted rafters hung rectangular, cloth thangkas of intense colors and incredibly fine detail depicting deities and other elements of the Buddhist cosmology. Creating a visual safe place, a large square mandala illustrated a cosmic fortress filled with gods and goddesses. At the far end of the room hung two parasols and a large flat drum. As they walked the perimeter, Eric photographed the different meditative poses of Buddha set in recesses alongside shelves containing hundreds of Tibetan scriptures.
Sixteen monks sat cross-legged in two rows facing a center aisle as they recited from the single sheets of scriptural narrative lying on low tables in front of them. Under the soft light of butter lamps, they chanted prayers in a sustained monotone. The close-throated and deep-pitched sounds appeared to emerge from the depths of the soul rather than mere vocal chords. An ensemble of wind and percussion instruments accompanied the intonations with the moaning of a pair of dung-chen and the quiet insistent beating of a drum acting as an undercurrent. Punctuating the music, cymbals, hand-held bells, and smaller drums of indefinite pitch marked off sections of the service. Having heard the monks at dusk the previous night, Beth had learned from Dorje the importance of chanting aloud so that the gods living in the trees, rocks, houses, streams, and mountains can benefit from Buddha’s teachings.
Reluctantly, they slipped away and started back to Namche accompanied by the cooks. On Dorje’s advice, they had left shopping in the small villages for the return trip rather than add weight to the climb. In Sanasa, they enjoyed a short stop to examine the Tibetan souvenirs laid out beside the trail: turquoise and silver jewelry, yak tails and bells, woolen mittens and scarves. Eric squatted to examine a collection of rings. Calling Beth over, he asked, “Which do you like best?” She selected a silver one with a small turquoise inset. “Then it’s yours.” After much bargaining with wild hand gestures and facial expressions, Eric made a grand display of placing the ring on her third finger.
“Are you engaged?” Ruth exclaimed.
Looking at Eric, Beth saw the love radiating from his eyes and hoped it was strong enough to hold them together if she faltered After living through her mother’s four acrimonious divorces, she didn’t know if she had what it took to make a marriage work. “Yes,” she answered with a quick kiss on his cheek. “Casanova proposed in the moonlight last night.” An expert negotiator now, Eric purchased two more pieces of jewelry for Ruth and Helen.
Waiting for them at the north entrance to Namche, the small man with large ears from the market place managed to convey through gestures and a handful of English words that Dorje had taken the sick old lady even lower. Beth, Eric, and Ruth were to rest for the night and meet Dorje and Helen in Lukla two days from now. Beth saw no reason to accompany Eric and Ruth all the way back to the airstrip and then have to climb the Namche hill again. In those four or five days, she could record more village life, visit the Hillary School in Khumjung and the Khunde hospital.
After retiring early because it would be their last night together for weeks, Eric held Beth close with his lips to her ear and whispered, “I don’t feel right leaving you here alone. Too many things can happen.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“But look at Helen. We don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
Rolling onto her side to face him, Beth said, “She’s seventy and just finished chemo. Nothing’s going to happen
to me. I saw a sign in English advertising a place with a good bed and good food. I’ll stay there.”
“Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Trust me. I’ll be back before you know it and we’ll share tales of our adventures. I hope you understand that this story will not only save my career but earn me a reputation as a premier student of cultures.” As his long exhale brushed her cheek, Beth knew she had disappointed him. “Sweetie, we have an entire lifetime together. Please give me these few weeks.”
Beyond the summit: An Everest adventure and Romance Page 11