by Ali Gripper
around his knees, 90- year- old Sonam can give an imperson-
ation of the large, upright creature’s high- pitched cry that will make every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
Although almost half a century ago, Sonam’s close encoun-
ters with the abominable snowmen are still fresh in his mind.
‘They were very big but very shy. They scuttled behind rocks
whenever we came close.’
As a travel- hardened salt trader who spent his working
life making the dangerous trip up to Tibet through the
Himalayas, Sonam had plenty of stories for his son when he
returned home. Sanduk would listen wide- eyed with wonder
as his father told him about skirmishes with bandits, using
guns and knives that he kept hidden in saddle bags. He told
his son about the giant cairns of prayer stones, carved with
the ancient Buddhist blessing Om Mani Padme Hum, which means ‘may the guru remain in your heart forevermore’.
His father gave accounts of the elusive snow leopards,
black bears, blue sheep and flying squirrels renowned in the
region. He told him about the ‘little folk’, men less than one-foot high living in remote gorges. And about the yogis living in caves set high up in the cliffs, who had practised meditation for so long that they had mastered the art of levitation.
Sonam shared these anecdotes about his caravan trade
around the hearth of his family’s simple timber house in
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Walung, topped with prayer flags. They were stories of a
unique, almost mythical world which has since disappeared.
Despite the sub- zero temperatures and knee- high snow
throughout the winter, the village had survived for centuries because it was the stepping stone to a trade route between
Nepal and Tibet. Sonam and the other traders would be away
for months at a time, bringing back hand- woven carpets,
wool, turquoise, coral and, most importantly, hessian bags
crammed with salt. On their return, after staying home in
Walung for two or three nights, they would head south,
selling these precious goods in Nepal and further afield in
Calcutta, India. Months later, they would return with coveted possessions from the subcontinent: grain, paint, biscuits, dyes and cooking equipment.
Sonam’s livelihood came to an end after China began occu-
pying Tibet in the 1950s, when the smaller passes were closed and trade was diverted to larger, more official routes near
Kathmandu. But before that, these slow, swaying proces-
sions of yaks and dzos (a Tibetan- bred half- cow, half- yak), were the villagers’ only connection with the outside world.
Like all the other children in the village, Sanduk regarded the traders as swashbuckling heroes; they would arrive wearing
thick mountaineering goggles on their shaggy ponies, bringing clouds of dust and fabulous tales from afar. Their arrival was the main event in town. Everyone would cram onto their
timber verandas as soon they heard the jangling chorus of
yak bells, whistles and shouts that would herald their arrival.
Sonam was the last of six generations who had plied their
trade between Tibet and Calcutta after migrating to Walung.
Like his forebears, he survived through rugged practicality,
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physical strength, and a reputation for straightforwardness in his dealings with everybody.
In 1950, when he was 25, Sonam married a striking,
quietly confident 20- year- old woman named Kasang Doma
Ukyab. Kasang was the daughter of the head of the village,
Goba Dorji Namgyal Ukyab, otherwise known as ‘Goba’.
The Ukyab family had also lived in Walung for more than six
generations after migrating from Tibet.
But, like so many other families living in a remote commu-
nity far from medical care, tragedy struck relentlessly. When Sonam and Kasang’s first son was three years old, an epidemic of diarrhoea swept through the community. Sanduk’s elder
brother was one of its victims. Being devout Buddhists, his
heartbroken parents went to the village monastery every day
to pray for another son. When Kasang gave birth to another
boy a year later, in 1954, they felt he was the answer to their prayers. As she was in labour, Kasang remembers having a
vision of a bright blue sky filled with fluttering white cere-monial scarves. Seeing this as an auspicious sign, she named
him Sanduk, or ‘Dragon of the Sky’. He was to be powerful,
this one.
As was the custom of that era, Sonam, being the second son
in his family, was originally destined to become a Buddhist
monk. He did spend several years steeped in monastic life,
but the death of his elder brother meant he ended up joining
his father as a salt trader instead. Those years immersed
in the teachings and practice of Buddhism made a lasting
impression on him; for the rest of his life, his devotion to
the teachings has remained unshaken. One of Sanduk’s first
memories is waking before dawn to the sound of his father’s
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soft chanting and the comforting clicking of his mala, or wooden prayer beads. Every morning and evening, Sonam
would sit at his small shrine next to the fireplace, praying to the Dalai Lama and his main teacher, Guru Rinpoche, one
of the most powerful figures in the Buddhist faith, revered for bringing Buddhism to Tibet in the 9th century.
Despite the fact that Sonam took his responsibilities as a
father seriously, his relationship with his son was never particularly affectionate. He was much more of a strict, controlling autocrat, someone Sanduk both feared and revered.
‘When I was mischievous and misbehaved—which was
often—Sonam would whip the back of my legs with wet
nettle leaves,’ he says. ‘It stung like crazy.’
‘I was naughty, no doubt about that. When I broke my
right arm, skylarking about on the back of a dzo, the monks
wrapped it up tightly in a bamboo splint. But I couldn’t
wait to throw stones at the peach and walnut trees again, so
I started using my left arm instead.’
Within a week after his accident, Sanduk became ambi-
dextrous, using his left hand for rough or heavy work, and
his right for fine detail and precision—a tremendous occupa-
tional bonus for a future surgeon.
Photographs from that time show Sonam to be a man of
noble bearing, sporting a moustache and a long woollen tunic
and hat, his long black hair tied back with ribbons. On special occasions, he would don gold earrings.
Despite Sonam’s gruffness, he taught his children to be
gentle with all living creatures. ‘He would save the life of
a beetle, or an ant, if he had to,’ Sanduk says. ‘He’d pick
tiny creatures up from stone paths to save them from being
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trodden on. He had an old mule which he patted and kept
downstairs behind our home, even though it was of no use as
a packhorse a
nymore.’
Even more intimidating than his father was Sanduk’s
maternal grandfather, Goba. He was a legendary figure, the
unofficial magistrate of the village. ‘He would deliver justice from the veranda of his house, handing out punishments off
the top of his head. He’d yell out “Give him 50 whips!” to
an accused man brought before him, often with his hands
tied behind him. Or he’d say, “Make him pay this much as a
fine!” We were all absolutely terrified of him.’
Shut off from the rest of the world, life carried on in Walung implacably, as it had for centuries. There was no television, no electricity, no telephone and no radio. And there was no
access to a medical clinic, doctor, hospital, or even traditional healers.
‘If someone contracted a serious disease, they spent their
remaining time waiting to die,’ he recalls. Sanduk’s home
was like all the others in the village; the ground floor was for storing stacks of firewood, giant hessian bags of salt, and dried animal dung that would be used for fuel. A slippery, steep log ladder led to the first floor, where an open fire was always
burning or flickering; at night, the coals were left to smoulder, and the fire was lit first thing in the morning. Kasang would cook potatoes with cheese, porridge, or brew salted butter
tea. To one side was a giant copper jar used to store water,
and behind it was a cupboard for precious belongings such
as new clothes, biscuits, chocolate, and candles made out of
vegetable oil.
On the upstairs veranda, a sprig of juniper would be
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burning aromatically. Once a month Kasang would bathe
Sanduk, gently pouring warm water from a saucepan over
her son as he sat on the veranda.
Every sound Sanduk heard, save the grong- grong of the yak’s bells and the constant chanting and drum beats from
the monastery, was that of nature: the rushing of the Tamor
River, the caw of black crows, the wind in the birch and
juniper trees, the crackle of fire. Elsewhere in the world,
giant technological strides were being made. Russia and
the United States were launching their first astronauts into
space. Wealthy Londoners and New Yorkers were crossing
the Atlantic on the first passenger jet planes. Sanduk and his siblings and friends heard about these great events from the
magazines the yak traders unpacked from their saddle bags
after they had returned from India.
But what his family lacked in material goods and modern
technology was made up for with a sense of being deeply
loved. His mother was fiercely protective of Sanduk because
of what had happened to her firstborn. ‘She brought me up
on biscuits and chocolates,’ Sanduk is fond of saying.
In the winter, as the temperature plummeted below zero for
months on end, icicles would encrust the village houses. The
drinking water would freeze, and the mighty Tamor River
that rushed through the village became grey with melted
glacial water. The days were short. The family would rise at
dawn, spend much of the day sitting on low benches around
the fire, wrapped in quilts and blankets, and go to bed when
night fell. At night, Sonam would sit on the end of his bed by the fire, with a yak blanket around his knees, sipping tongba, a homemade brew of warm fermented millet renowned for
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warding off the cold and altitude sickness. Kasang would
spin wool and weave cloth.
‘She was always dressed in a silk blouse under a tradi-
tional Tibetan tunic, and the striped apron or pangi that all the married women wore. She wore a yak’s wool jumper
in the winter, and her hair was centrally parted, with plaits on either side. She was very dignified and quiet. She was very devoted to us,’ he says.
Sanduk used to share a mattress with her in one corner
of the living room, and his father would sleep in the other
corner. They slept under thick, padded quilts made out of yak wool known as chuktuks. ‘It was very cosy because we’d all be sleeping around the fire, listening to the roar of the Tamor River outside.’
Although they didn’t display their affection, and it was an
arranged marriage, there was undoubtedly love between his
parents. Whenever traders came through the town, Kasang
would bail them up, anxious for news of her husband. ‘Where
did you meet him?’ she’d ask. ‘How was he? Where was he?
Was he in good health?’
Sanduk’s older cousin, Tenzing Ukyab, who grew up with
him in Olanchungola (known locally as ‘Gola’), recalls, ‘She
was a very loving person, especially to me, as well as her own children. She was very confident of herself, just like her father.
She commanded respect from all. She was very good looking
as a young lady and was always dignified and gracious as she
grew older.’ After Ukyab lost his mother, he regarded Kasang
as his guardian and would ask her for advice. ‘She didn’t
receive any formal education but she was extremely intelli-
gent and thoughtful.’
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Sanduk’s maternal grandmother doted on him too. ‘She
called me bhu, which means ‘little son’, and she’d also spoil me with lollies. I remember lying in bed with her as she sang lullabies to me.’
His younger sister Yangla, born two years later in 1956,
was his first childhood companion. They played long imag-
inative games on the rocks by the river, cuddled the toy- like baby dzos or disappeared into the rhododendron forest for
hours. Later, Kasang gave birth to another daughter, Chheng-
jing, in 1959; a son, Ladenla, in 1962; and a third daughter, Chundak, in 1963. But it was Yangla, with her pretty dark
plaits, curious nature and melodious singing, who always had
a special place in Sanduk’s heart.
The Diki Choeling monastery was where the villagers took
their newborn babies to be blessed, where they married, and
where they were cremated. Like most monasteries in northern
Nepal, it was decorated with thangkas or cloth paintings depicting the hell realms and scowling wrathful gods. Sanduk
found it eerie as a boy.
‘When I went inside the monastery, I was always scared
of the sound resonating on the walls of the monks chanting,
and the smell of incense burning. The paintings on the wall
had skeletons on them that seemed to stare right at you.’
But Ruit’s view of the monastery improved when he burnt
his hand badly as a toddler, impetuously plunging his forearm into a pot of boiling water one day, deep in the middle of
winter. He remembers his mother panicking, and his father
carrying him frantically in his arms to the monastery where
the monks wrapped his raw arm in butter and a shawl and
said a special prayer ceremony for him. Their compassion
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and care and their deep faith and conviction in the healing
qualities o
f the prayers left an abiding impression on him.
During the spring festival of Losar (meaning ‘new year’)
and Futuk, when the monks performed traditional dances with
masks outside the monastery, Gola seemed like a heavenly place to the boy. ‘We’d sit in the sunshine in new clothes, spreading out carpets from our home, enjoying picnics, watching the festivities. We looked forward to these special days all year.’
But despite the idyllic simplicity of the mountain village,
there was one major drawback—there was no school. For a
boy with an inquiring mind, this would prove to be a major
problem. ‘I always felt a bit different from other people
because I was so inquisitive,’ he recalls. ‘I’d ask, “Why is the river flowing this way?”; “Why does the snow come at this
time?”; “How do the eagles fly so high?”; “What makes a
plane work?”’
But he didn’t really receive any full answers. There was
very little information from the outside world.
His cousin Ukyab had no idea back then that Sanduk
would go on to become a giant of Asia. What he remem-
bers vividly is the two of them running wild and free on his
family’s farm, picking berries, swimming in the streams, and
playing pranks with a sling shot, as well as bows and arrows, shooting the arrows right up to the roof. ‘He always had a
strong arm with the slingshot in our village,’ Ukyab says. ‘Of course, now he uses it for his lightning- fast operations. We all thought he’d do something far more adventurous with his
life, like become a pilot.’
It didn’t take Sanduk’s father long to see that his son was
different to the other boys. Sonam’s years in the monastery
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and his travels afield to Calcutta and Llasa in Tibet gave him a keen appreciation of the power of education. He organised
for a customs official to teach Sanduk rudimentary Nepalese,
English and maths. Even then, it became clear that Sanduk
was too bright to spend his days as a salt trader.
It was rare for families to send their children away from
the village, but Sonam knew instinctively the village was too small and stifling a place for his son to grow up. He needed
to be enrolled in a proper school. ‘He has to go south, to