One More Time

by Damien Leith

  ‘And in Ireland,’ he continued, ‘do many people do the same like you?’ Mani began to rub his hands together to demonstrate what he meant.

  At first I didn’t know what to say. He’d thrown me. When had he seen me? But I was being foolish. I knew what a slave to them I’d become!

  ‘Oh that…’ I began awkwardly. ‘That’s not very Irish, that’s just me!’

  ‘Why you do that?’ Mani’s eyes were intense and curious.

  ‘Because when I am very bored, it makes time pass faster for me.’ How lame.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Mani spoke suddenly, and instantly I felt defensive.

  ‘It’s true. I’m not lying.’

  Silence fell on us both, and I hoped it would remain. But no.

  ‘I think that maybe, like I am not so lucky, you are not so happy!’

  ‘I’m happy!’ I began to fight in my corner. ‘I’m very happy. Who wouldn’t be happy, especially being in such a beautiful place like Nepal? This is the happiest I’ve been in years.’

  Mani wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t convincing myself either.

  ‘When I am happy I want to stay happy. Sometimes life is too short.’ Mani spoke wistfully. ‘If you are so happy then why lose so much time with your eyes closed and so in pain with your head?’

  I ate the rest of my lunch in silence, a silence that Mani respected. If I could have found a hole in the ground to bury my embarrassed face in, I’m sure I would have done it. It was frightening to be discovered for who you really are.

  We nearly all live our lives in some kind of disguise. Some people make it their life’s mission to be open and honest about who they are, to reveal too much about themselves; they often come across as ‘trying too hard’ or ‘weird’. Most of us struggle to be honest with ourselves! It’s not that we don’t want to; it’s that the mechanics of life don’t allow us to. Life is built up of yes and no seesaws: yes you can go shopping; no you cannot steal; yes you can eat as much as you like; no you can’t become fat; yes you can act crazy for amusement; no you can’t actually be crazy! Most of us hang out in the middle, in disguises. It’s our only way of being ourselves without anyone ever knowing our secrets.

  I paid for lunch and we set off again. The afternoon sunshine was beautiful and refreshing. It dried our saturated clothing and took the grind out of the trek. Chomrung was only a few hours away and, despite our conversation earlier, a feeling of contentment had settled over me. I’d somehow managed to put Akio, the Maoists and my rituals to the back of my mind, perhaps by thinking about turning back to Pokhara the next day. Mani wouldn’t be pleased if I cut the trek short. It would mean less money for him, but with the threat that hung over us, I didn’t think it was an unreasonable request.

  There were three of them, two guys and a girl, all equipped with strong English accents. We were about one hour from Chomrung when we bumped into them. They were taking a short break and had found some rocks to sit on. As we passed them one of the guys spoke. ‘Hello, mate, you’re Irish, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stopped and looked back. ‘Which part of England are you from, then?’ Two could play at that, though I had had the advantage of hearing the guy speak.

  The girl cut in, ‘Oh, we’re all from London.’

  ‘Cool. How’d you know I was Irish?’

  ‘You look Irish,’ the first guy replied.

  I wasn’t sure how to take that so I decided to cut the chat and continue trekking. ‘Alright then. Sure I’ll see you all in Chomrung!’

  We walked for about half an hour before things changed. Mani and I didn’t realise we were in a race until I heard a loud voice beeping us from behind. Looking back down the path I was surprised to see the three trekkers only metres away from us.

  ‘Hey, look Mani,’ I said loudly, acknowledging the challenge. ‘Some loafers are hanging around behind us!’

  ‘Come on, Irish, you’re not getting tired now are you?’

  I laughed. There was no malice in his words as he passed.

  ‘Just thought I’d let you catch up!’ I called jovially after him. ‘Wouldn’t want you to feel like you got annihilated.’

  The other two in the group passed us, also beeping as they walked.

  ‘Come on, Mani, we have to speed up!’ As soon as I’d spoken I knew it was wrong. I shouldn’t be pressuring a sick man. The competitive side of me had galloped ahead.

  ‘Is it a compete?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We try be champion!’

  The English travelled at a healthy speed and within minutes were slipping out of view. Already it looked like I’d have to be noble in defeat.

  ‘You see three people?’ Mani stopped and pointed ahead. Was he trying to rub our defeat in? The trio had disappeared.

  ‘No, I can’t see them, they’re too fast for us!’

  Mani turned to face me with a cunning look.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Today I think maybe we are lucky.’ It was good to see Mani shake out of his nervousness, to see him scheming up a plan.

  ‘Come!’ he beckoned and, instead of continuing along the track, he veered to the left, into the depths of the forest. Not only was there no longer a path to follow, but we were climbing uphill again, something we hadn’t had to do for most of the afternoon.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I shouted.

  Mani looked back at me with a cheeky grin. ‘The track, it go round hill.’ He drew a semicircle in the air with his finger. ‘But we, we go over hill, come out same point, maybe I think, faster!’

  Ah! I acknowledged, thrilling to the challenge. ‘Mani! I like your style, my man, I like your style.’

  He didn’t understand the words but he saw my satisfaction. We continued upward, and in no time at all were over the ascending section and heading down the hill. But there was no sign of the track, Chomrung or the three Brits.

  ‘Are we lost?’

  ‘Lost? No, look over there.’ Mani pointed. The path was only metres below us, camouflaged by trees. After days of trekking, everything was looking similar!

  Mani suddenly became excited, like a child in anticipation of a new toy. Laughing in a high-pitched tone and jumping slightly on the spot, he gestured towards further down the track. There they were, the three of them unaware of our presence, hurriedly walking directly into our view. Mani let out another burst of laughter.

  ‘Ssshh,’ I instructed cheerfully. ‘They’ll hear us.’

  ‘We have to hurry.’ He was tugging my arm and again leading the way. We were in the hot seat now.

  Ahead, the track took another turn while our route remained straight. It wasn’t long until we were separated from them again. I could see why people didn’t generally walk this way: low-hanging trees and prickly branches, along with the uneven ground, made trekking very difficult.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Mani signalled back at me, his spirits still elated.

  Minutes later the denseness of the forest lessened. Soon we entered a clearing through which Chomrung could be seen in the distance.

  ‘Yes!’ I clenched my fist in victory. ‘We’ve got them beat.’

  ‘Not yet, still much hard walking, not win so fast!’

  As usual, Mani was right. When we rejoined the path, I saw that although we were about fifteen minutes from glory, we still had a staircase to climb, not unlike the first day’s three thousand steps to Ulleri.

  ‘Come on,’ I yelled boldly, ‘we can do this.’

  There was no sign of the other three but it wouldn’t be long until they caught up.

  Step after step, we drew closer and closer to Chomrung. Our energies were sucked almost dry, our will to win challenged by the simple desire to sit down. It was only a short distance, but there was no denying the drastic strain on our bodies.

  ‘They’re in front of us!’ The voice came from behind and it could only be one of the three Brits. Neither Mani nor I looked back. The voice sounded distant, we still had a chance.


  ‘Come on, Mani, we can beat them!’ He was staggering upwards.

  ‘We’re catching up, Irish!’ The voice sounded closer. They had made some ground.

  Mani stumbled slightly, then regained his footing. He was breathing heavily and his body was arching over, weighed down by the heavy backpack.

  ‘Looks like you’re slowing up there, Irish.’

  I looked back. Suddenly they were right behind us.

  ‘Only, one, two, three—’ he was counting the steps that separated us ‘—ten, eleven steps away from you, Irish.’ Mani looked back now too, exhausted.

  ‘Come on, Mani.’ I put a hand underneath the base of the backpack so that I held half the weight that was on his shoulders. ‘Let’s show those guys who can trek the fastest.’

  The words seemed to jolt Mani back into life. Step by step suddenly became two-step after two-step. I could hear the breathing of the three behind us, they were maintaining a steady chase at our heels but Mani and I were energised.

  About a hundred steps to go. We passed by a number of teahouses. But until we reached the sign saying ‘Welcome To Chomrung’ the contest wouldn’t be over.

  My legs felt as though gravity was dragging them down by the ankles. Ten steps to go! The last stretch is supposed to be the easiest—but it’s a lie! Those last ten steps were torture.

  ‘We did it!’ I cried as we passed underneath a welcoming banner and collapsed onto the ground in a tired heap. ‘We did it!’

  I looked up at Mani, who was gazing back upon the steps, with a triumphant grin painted across his face.

  ‘I think maybe we did it very good!’

  Mani’s words were cheerful and, looking down the steps myself, I saw why. ‘Come on, you lazy bastards!’ I shouted to the trio, who’d found themselves a place to rest about fifty steps below. They took defeat admirably, raising a middle finger to us, which, in the spirit of all good contests, I returned with satisfaction. What a victory!

  11. Card sharks and ghosts

  Chomrung was another sign-in post, another point of entry. I produced my permit and signed my name in the trekking register. It was surprisingly comforting—adding my signature to the list of other visitors. Then Mani and I made our way to our guesthouse, the Fishtail.

  As I plunged onto the hard mattress, I had never felt so relieved. The pains eased from my body and the day’s events played back enjoyably in my head; I was pleased.

  My room was smaller than earlier ones I’d found myself in, but it could have been a cupboard and I would have been happy. I lay there—just resting on my back and staring upwards. Should I have a shower or not? The water would probably be freezing…

  Faces from back home, familiar faces of my family and my friends, were hidden in between the splinters of decaying wood and mould in the ceiling. I wondered, if I were to describe to someone what my imagination found in the woodwork above, would they see it as well? It’s the strange thing about being away, especially when you leave suddenly like I did, almost everything sparks a memory. Perhaps in this case it was remorse, too, about disappearing, or maybe just homesickness, but almost everything I looked at evoked an image or an emotion.

  Once again, looking up I found myself wondering what everyone back home would be doing right now? It was five in the evening in Nepal, so it would be morning in Ireland—they’d all be waking up! Actually not Mam and Dad; they’d have been up already. More than likely they’d be sitting in the kitchen, talking about work or the mortgage. A good night’s sleep for them now was about six hours; usually they’d be lucky to get five.

  ‘Look at us two old fogies and we’re up before you lot in the morning and asleep after you at night!’ Dad couldn’t understand how his children could sleep so long. ‘We’d have half a day’s work done before you lot would show your heads.’

  I needed a distraction from remembering home. Quickly I rummaged through the backpack, found my damp and overused towel and, with a heave, dragged my sore body out of the room and towards the shower next door.

  When I knocked, a voice called, ‘Just a minute, finishing up!’

  I knew immediately who it was. When the door opened, all I could do was smile.

  ‘You might have beaten us, Irish, but I beat you to the shower!’

  I nodded cheerfully. ‘Ah, I’ll give you that much. So what’s your name?’

  ‘George. What about you?’

  ‘Sean. Good to meet you.’ I shook his hand. ‘Pity you guys couldn’t keep up.’

  George wagged his finger at me. ‘I don’t know how you did it,’ he grinned, ‘but there’s something not right about how you and the little man beat us!’

  ‘We’re just too fast!’ I replied smugly and closed the shower door behind me with a definite thud. There’s nothing more satisfying than winning against a neighbouring country. I’m sure George would have felt the same if the roles had been reversed.

  The water was surprisingly warm and felt great, my muscles loosened, my body relaxed and soon the day washed off me. It was another chilly evening so I dressed in warm clothes before making my way to the dining area. The view from there was spectacular. Below the room was the countryside we’d just passed through and above were majestic mountains.

  ‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’ Her voice, behind me, was warm and friendly.

  ‘I’m Jess, George’s sister.’ She approached and shook my hand. ‘He told me your name is Sean.’ Jess spoke in a thick cockney accent, but she looked delicate and regal.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I replied.

  Jess sat down at the table with me. She had gentle honest eyes, long dark brown hair; her face was nicely bronzed and she had a pleasant, engaging smile. She brought with her only herself, no disguises, and I felt none of my usual awkwardness when meeting people for the first time.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ Jess slid a cigarette from a box and waved it in my direction.

  ‘Nah, never really took to them. Work away yourself though.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Lighting the cigarette and putting it in her mouth, Jess sucked in an voracious drag—it seemed to be just what she needed, and the expression on her face said it all.

  ‘So how long have you been trekking for?’ It was the standard question, but it was conversation.

  ‘Only one day.’ She took another drag. ‘We came directly here from Pokhara. Decided against Ghorepani because of the Maoists—not that I’m worried about the Maoists, mind, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. What about you?’

  ‘This is my fourth day. I did go by Ghorepani—’ I paused for effect ‘—and I met the Maoists.’

  She didn’t seem impressed, more interested in her own story. ‘Yes, Eric wanted to go through Ghorepani—he’s the other bloke, you haven’t met him yet—but George and I didn’t like the idea.’ She began to laugh. ‘Can you imagine our parents’ reaction if they got a message that George and I had been abducted and killed by the Maoists? They’d be shouting, “They were what?—killed by mice?’”

  I smiled out of obligation. She was a strange girl, Jess, certainly confident. As I listened to her talk about her family, her friends, the people of Nepal, the hair dye she recently got, in fact a multitude of different topics, I found myself wondering if she had an off switch. She clearly loved to talk. It was refreshing to see somebody self-assured and honest.

  ‘So who’s your little man, the guy who was carrying your bag?’

  ‘Ask him yourself, he’s behind you.’

  Mani had just entered the room. He was washed and fresh looking and his still-wet hair was brushed back flat to his head.

  ‘Ah, now Mani feel good,’ he exclaimed with a smile, slapping his hands optimistically together and making his way towards us.

  Jess rose from her seat and stopped him.

  ‘Wait a minute, stay there.’ She gestured to him. ‘How tall are you?’ Poor Mani didn’t know what was going on, especially when Jess asked him to stand with his feet flat to the groun
d, then pressed her back against his.

  ‘Sean, who’s the tallest?’

  Jess looked like a giant compared to Mani, and her glee was uproarious. She was a live wire. Mani looked startled too, but the pair seemed to hit it off after she told him that great goods came in small parcels.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she continued, ‘or women would have no fun, if you know what I mean!’

  The menu here was as limited as elsewhere. There was, however, a chicken dish, and I ordered it excitedly, relieved to have the chance to eat something other than dal bhat or noodles. George and Eric had come in and, settling down, we reviewed the day’s race.

  George didn’t resemble Jess in any way. He was heavy-set, ginger-haired and rosy-cheeked. He also had a slight upper-class accent and was a little choosier with his words than his sister. As for Eric, he had your typical pot-head university look, slightly grubby in appearance and spoke with the drawl that comes with two or three joints of an evening. He also seemed slightly feminine. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had feelings for George, although I couldn’t imagine George returning them. Either way, all three were good company and, as the conversation became more relaxed, I found out that Eric and George were final-year history students at Cambridge, while Jess, who had opted against college, was a store manager in a food market in central London.

  ‘I hate working in a bloody store. I should have gone to college, got a degree, and shacked up with some rich bloke. I could have been rightly set up.’

  ‘What’s stopping you from shacking up with a rich bloke now?’ Eric seemed to utter the words in slow motion.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ she said. ‘What rich bloke will be shopping in No Frills Food Market?’

  ‘You never know,’ I put in. ‘Rich guys are tight as hell.’ Jess contemplated this. ‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘what do you want a rich guy for? Where’s the happiness in that?’

  ‘Don’t get her started,’ ordered George.

  ‘I’ll tell you why.’ Jess was energised.

  ‘Uh-oh, too late!’

  ‘The reason why I want a rich bloke is because there’s no such thing as love, there’s just sex. Couples say they’re falling in love but that’s because they’ve got a bloody good sex life, probably experimenting and everything. But the minute his lad goes limp or she gets bored, the relationship goes down the drain. I bet if you asked any psychologist why couples break up, they’d tell you it was because of sex. And therefore, when people say they love each other, what they’re really saying is that they love having sex with each other!’ She took a breath. ‘So, what I’m saying is, since it’s just about sex, I may as well aim for a rich bloke and set myself up, rather than be stuck with some poor bloke who can’t afford fish and chips on a Friday night! Anyway, rich blokes are better in the sack because they get it more often and have more practice.’