JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi

by Daniel Linden

  “God, why?” Christian asked.

  “Because they were ordered to,” I said. “The general who ordered the shooting was relieved of command, but the Ghurkas were never reprimanded. The British understand that if they order these men to do something, they follow orders and will fight to the death. You need to be very careful where you point a deadly weapon, but once you do, you can’t blame the weapon if it kills. You can only blame the person pointing the weapon.”

  Curtis nodded and the others joined in. We headed back toward the hotel and suddenly I was tired as I could be. Jet lag and crossed time zones were catching up with me and I knew I needed to eat, drink a beer, and then go to bed. I also knew that adrenalin and curiosity would keep my companions going until the bars closed.

  “Guys, I’m heading back to the hotel. Just remember that you are staying at the Kathmandu Guest House and if worse comes to worse, get in a cab and they’ll bring you back. There are a couple good drinking places where climbers and trekkers hang out right down this street and there are restaurants everywhere. Be careful what you eat and drink, but you have to try what you have to try and I would never suggest you not taste this wonderful and strange country to the fullest. I will see you all for breakfast tomorrow in the courtyard. We can go out to Kitipur. See you then.”

  I walked off without looking back so that they would not feel the need to accompany me. I was really tired. I had a couple things I wanted to do and did not want the guys with me during negotiations. I think it was the first time I lied to them, but maybe not. What the hell.

  ***

  The next morning we met in the courtyard over tea (good), coffee (bad), and a pretty good granola, eggs and a very nice breakfast soup.

  I was very sad, still tired, and still not adjusted to the upside down time being twelve hours distant from home, but curiosity and excitement are great stimulants and I was ready to go exploring.

  The night before had not been as late as it was trying. Bad news and changed plans needed to be addressed and it takes time here. Patience does not come easy to me and it is really a tribute to many years of practice that I have been able to stifle my normal desire to crash ahead full speed and replace it with a calm I rarely feel, but know I must display. I had returned to the hotel and then arranged for a taxi to take me to see an old friend. When I arrived at his home, knocked on the door and asked for him the old woman who had answered closed and bolted the door in my face.

  After a few moments I knocked again, more for the reason that I did not have a way back to the hotel and needed to have the family arrange a taxi for me than for any desire to find out what I might have done to offend them. This time my friend’s uncle answered the door and his greeting was more in line with my expectations. He opened the door wide for me to enter and greeted me with the traditional “Namaste”. It means, roughly, ‘I salute the divine within you’. I placed my hands together in front of my chest and returned the greeting, then shook his hand. He was very grave and I understood that something was badly wrong.

  “Where is Djorje?” I asked, deferentially.

  “Djorje is dead,” he told me.

  I felt my eyes fill and quickly turned away. His uncle found something interesting to look at in the small mandala on the wall of the foyer. After a moment he said, “I am sorry.”

  “I am, too. How?” I asked.

  “A helicopter crash up at Sagarmatha, Everest base camp. It could not get to altitude after takeoff, fell 20 meters and landed hard. Djorje was killed, then.”

  I did not know what to say. I was counting on Djorje to lead the trek up to Gokyo Ri and then Tengboche Monastery. He had been with me during the many weeks of my previous visit and I had come to trust him, respect him and like him very much. He had been my business partner when I had started a company that had imported khukuri knives into the United States and we had both done very well in our enterprise. I counted him as a friend. He had been married only a few months before. I did not know how this would affect our journey, and knew it was not the time to ask, but Mr. Pasang took me by the arm and led me inside and quietly got me a beer.

  “I know you prefer this to tea,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  We spoke of Djorje then and about the things in his life and mine, and of our time together. I asked if he would be willing to carry on as my business partner in the khukuri venture that we had operated over the last ten years and he acknowledged his acceptance. He then talked about our trip.

  “I have made arrangements for your trek as Djorje would have done. I have four porters, two Sherpa guides and another Sherpa guide named Bim for your Sirdar. If you wish we can have a cook and several kitchen boys as well. They will meet you the morning you leave. Do you wish the kitchen?”

  “Yes, and if we could have a fourth porter who could carry a few small tents and a small amount of food that could be prepared in an emergency, perhaps that would be the best. Would that be all right?”

  “As you wish.” He nodded and got up from the small table and left for a few moments. When he came back he was carrying a document and small bank bag. We discussed the price, the length of time we would need the porters – I wanted them to stay on retainer while we would be in Namche Bazaar – and accommodations. When everything was done I paid him and he left to arrange a taxi to take me back to Thamel. He had offered to drive me himself, but the sadness had returned and I wanted for him to be with his family and for me to be alone.

  On my first trek here four people had died during the long weeks on the trail. None from our group, but it seemed as if each new group of climbers coming along the trail had stories of death and terror in the high places. Despite all the best planning and preparation there are circumstance here that cannot be altered. We must pass across many suspension bridges that are used by every single creature with business on the other side of the raging torrents they span. If a yak train begins to cross, people must wait. It’s that simple. Yaks have killed many trekkers over the years and sometimes they do it for no reason at all.

  The worst part is that most of the deaths due to injury would not necessarily be fatal anywhere else. But here there is no way out except by foot or by being carried. Altitude hinders helicopters for the most part and even the runway to Lukla is pretty iffy on any given day if you can reach it. Helicopters often cannot land or take off and medical help is often as far as a week by footpath away. Death is a part of life. And death is a part of this country in a far more primeval way than in the United States, where we are sheltered from the details like children from a storm.

  This land is no stranger to death and each year there are people who do not come back from the mountains. I was deeply sorry that Djorje had been claimed by the high Himalaya. He was one of the best people I had known here and I would miss him.

  ***

  Kitipur scares people who encounter it unprepared. It is, somehow, desolate in the very busy city of Kathmandu, high on a hill surrounded by squalor and third world, city life. High up on its walls hang the cutting implements that were used to slaughter the peoples who resisted the unification of the Kathmandu valley many centuries prior. These are long, curved, vicious-looking implements that resemble swords and farm implements at the same time. If you look at them you can see the scythe shaped potential of destruction and the nasty little hooking edges and curlicues that would rip one’s body apart. All around the temple there are ancient wooden sculptures of death and devastation and often blood sacrifice. The overall feeling is that you are a long way from home.

  We walked around and acted like tourists the world over, snapping pictures and posing in front of statues of Kali and Ganesh, the elephant god of Hindu mythology. Later we took a taxi to the temple at Swaymbhunath and saw the monkeys, the statues, the temples to various gods, statues of Khaila Bhairub, all black and lion like, and we posed in front of the magnificent Buddha at the base.

  “What are these?” Chris asked.

  “I think they’re pra
yer wheels.” Curtis responded. “I think the deal is, each time you spin one completely around, it’s like a prayer sent off to the Gods. So they get a bunch of them and get them all spinning and with each revolution you get to have said another prayer. So if you walk down the way and give each one a spin you can get maybe twenty-five or thirty all praying for you at the same time. It’s a good deal, I guess.” He walked on and Chris and Christian looked at each other and then at him, and then at me. I shrugged. That sounded good enough and Curtis is never wrong about anything. You have to give him a little leeway though because he is not above pulling your leg.

  “We’ll see them now and again as we cross through the high country,” I said. Often mountain passes have a small temple perched near the summit and at least one that I know of is built directly over the road so you are compelled to go through it on the way down. This one is lined with temple prayer wheels and they are perhaps twelve to sixteen inches tall and quite heavy. As you walk through you are compelled to get them spinning. You just are.

  We sat down on a bench near the spot where we were to be picked up and returned to Thamel. I said, “Do you guys want an extra day here? We’re scheduled to leave for Jiri tomorrow morning, but we could delay for a day so you can visit the City some more. I’ve been here and I think it’s one of the most exotic places on earth, but I’d kind of like to get going. The weather is supposed to be perfect and we can always try to get back a little early, if you like.”

  “I want to go back to the Khukuri House before we go, but other than that, I’m ready,” said Christian, but he shivered and I hoped he wasn’t getting a cold.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” said Chris

  “Me, too,” added Curtis.

  “Well, let’s go back to the Khukuri House, then,” I agreed.

  Chapter 11

  First Light

  The Lobby of the Kathmandu Guest House was quiet and dark when we entered it at five the next morning. When walking through a strange land at a strange time a person often becomes acutely aware. We were all experiencing this as we passed the locked doors and darkened windows on the way to the lobby.

  This is extreme ukemi; going into the unknown. This is how it feels for a very good uke to attack a shihan he has never before seen or trained with on the mat. He has no way of knowing what is coming and can only hope that his experience and skill – or the good will of the shihan – will keep him safe from harm. To be a stranger in a strange land is the same thing. We can only hope our skills and training will suffice in the face of all we encounter and hope for the good will of the people we will meet.

  Warm rain fell and turned the early morning light into a million sparkling points of brilliance. Our van was ready and we offered out gear to the driver to stow as he wished. We took our place inside and then I told the driver to stop.

  “I can’t do this. I’m too big. I need more room or I’ll be very unhappy very quickly.” I turned around and looked at the rear of the small van and tried to figure out if there was a way to make more space inside the vehicle. “Look,” I said, “If we take this duffle and put it up here we can move Christian’s seat back and then I can move my seat back. Is that all right? Can we try that?”

  Everyone got out and we tried to move the gear around, but the driver was very reticent to shift anything. I finally told Chris to empty the van and to find us a vehicle that we could use that would be more comfortable. At this the driver became very animated and finally got everything arranged and stowed. I had only about four more inches of legroom, but I knew that it would be enough.

  “Sensei, were you really going to make us get another van?” Curtis asked from behind my right ear.

  “No. That was the honesty technique.”

  “Oh.” He laughed.

  Kathmandu rolled by quietly and the rain became a mist that cleared as we slowly made our way out of town. Traffic was light, but becoming heavier minute by minute. By the time we reached the outskirts of town we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic and the sun had burned most of the moisture off the steaming ground. Chris started talking about beer and although I rarely drink anything strong while the sun shines I had to admit it sounded pretty good just then. We were facing a long day of switchbacks, steep canyon roads, dusty wind, hot asphalt, and cramped conditions.

  “God! Look!” Christian’s arm shot forward and pointed across the highway.

  “I don’t believe it.” Curtis said quietly, under his breath.

  Across the highway, approaching, was an Indian elephant. It walked with a hugely tired gait as if it had seen all the cares of the earth in its many long days. A man was guiding the elephant with a long stick. He sat perched on its neck, a foot touching each huge, fan-like ear. Across its broad back it carried a massive burden tied in place and covered by a cargo net into which had been stuffed all manner of things which stuck out and protruded precariously and gave it the appearance of an enormous distorted turtle. We started scrambling for a camera.

  “Curtis, give me my camera!” I shouted.

  “Wait, I’m trying to get mine out,” he said.

  “Christian, move over a bit so I can get my…”

  “Don’t push so hard, I…”

  “Sensei, I want a picture, please..,” cried Celine. Esra was hanging on her arm, laughing and trying to push her aside to see.

  “Driver STOP!” We all shouted.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  I looked around and realized that there was no shoulder and no place to pull over with any hope of ever getting back into the fray. The elephant slipped past and was suddenly gone and we all looked at each other and realized that we would need to be a hell of a lot better prepared than this if this was going to be a successful trip.

  “I’m sorry guys. I should have warned you to have a few things handy. A camera and a bottle of water are important: Swiss Army knife, flashlight and extra glasses, stuff you should have already thought about and prepared yourselves with. But this was a good lesson. From this moment on, you have to think of yourselves as completely responsible for yourselves. Don’t expect anyone on this trip to help you or carry you or be responsible for you. You have to do it all. From now on, you are taking ukemi.” I grinned. “And you are all my ukes.” I didn’t mention that I was an uke, myself. I was the leader of the attack on the mountains and my job was to make it seem harmonious.

  That bought a moment of silence and then a few smart remarks and then a joke or two and the elephant was forgotten. But I remembered it later and would have occasion to remember it again.

  We were finally leaving the valley when we stopped at a gas station to fill the tank. We all got out and made use of the spot behind the squat building and then bought a few soft drinks. Chris got a couple bottles of beer. I bought the driver a cigarette. It cost two rupees, about a penny and a half, but he grinned and smoked it happily and with obvious great pleasure. I almost bought him a pack, but then realized he would want to smoke them in the van and I restrained myself from this gesture. Our sirdar, a man named Bim who had remained quiet in the shot gun seat the whole way eyed the cigarette with obvious lust, and I got him one as well. No one was going to die of lung cancer in this country where you purchased cigarettes one at a time.

  The sun was high and we were headed out of the valley. On each side of the road there were fields with soil turned under and harvested vegetables being carted one way and another. After a short time these fields turned into steep slopes that were terraced and being worked by one or two individuals with hand tools. They used short hoes and forked, wooden rake-like implements. After a half hour we came around a tight curve in the road and saw the entire expanse of the Himalayan Mountains spread out before us without the smog of the Kathmandu valley softening the hard edges.

  They were breathtaking. The highest towering peaks on earth are strung out in a chain that stretches east to west across the continent like dragon’s teeth striking at the sky. The air was crystal clear and the sun high enough to
allow easy looking, but still it was early enough for good quality light. Cameras began to click and I was careful not say anything. I did this myself the first time. After a while the unbelievable panorama of mountain majesty becomes so overwhelming that you are finally able to give a little perspective to the vistas seen everywhere, constantly, and begin to ignore shots that would have taken your eyes out a few days before, but your first vision of these peaks lasts like the memory of your first kiss; sweet, strong and eternal. Little did I know this would be the last time we would see these peaks for a long, long while.

  The driver made a few noises to let us know it was time to go and we climbed back in.

  It took about two hours before the first time we almost died of fright.

  Looking over the edge of an enormously deep chasm gives me vertigo. Doing it while careening around a bend at speed while diverting out of the path of an oncoming, overloaded bus takes vertigo to a place where it seems almost pleasant. Sheer, stark terror is closer to the feeling we were experiencing as we sped down the narrow, hairpin turns of this alleged highway.

  At times the road got so narrow that an oncoming vehicle forced our van to back up until a wider spot on the road allowed the driver to get far enough over for the other vehicle to pass. In fairness it was always a large vehicle that wanted to get by and as we were actually one of the larger vehicles on the road it was just the way things were. I believe that two of the tiny, normal-sized cars in this country could pass each other nearly everywhere that the road existed, it was only when we encountered a bus or truck that we exceeded the twelve or fifteen feet of pavement on certain hairpin curves.

  Knowing this did not make it any better when I saw a bus bearing down on a tight inside drop and our driver not slowing one bit in his approach. We seemed on a collision course with neither driver willing to back off and be the one to back up. We were outweighed in this contest by about fifteen thousand pounds, though, and finally Bim said something to the driver and he veered way out until I was sure that the wheels were actually over the ledge and the bus moved to the inside. They passed so close to us that if I had held my hand out the window the full length of my fingers, I am sure I could have touched the side of the bus. I saw a brief flurry of faces above me and heard the tiniest ping – I don’t even want to know what that noise was – and then we were passing them and veering back to the mountain side of the road and the driver uttered a few short sharp words to our Sherpa and Bim was saying something to him. There was another quick exchange and the driver rolled his window down and spat. He rolled it back up and then the discussion was over. Bim turned around and looked at me.