by Adam Popescu
Daniel nods his head up and down, almost as if he’s praying. Daniel the monk. Ethan coughs and waves a hand, a dismissal that reminds me of Father. With a sigh, Val motions to me to join her, and we walk a few steps ahead while the men keep resting. “How much farther today?” Val asks.
“Two hours, at least,” I reply.
Ethan calls out to Val. What are we talking about? Val calls back that she wants to get a feel of the trail. From Ang. Ang. Every time I hear the name, it’s like my brother’s been resurrected.
“They didn’t know what they were getting into,” Val says to me. “Especially the big one.”
“Are they scared?”
Val shakes her head. “No—maybe a little. The yaks. And the dust, and the altitude.”
“What about you?”
She shakes her head again, chestnut locks whipping from side to side. “I’ve been to Namche Bazaar before.”
Namche is only a quarter of the way to Base Camp. What if they decide to quit? Will I have to return the money, then return home? And then what? If I return with nothing, what will become of me? Will I even be able to make it all the way to Base Camp? What kind of Sherpa will I be if I can’t keep up with the mikarus? I feel it again, that familiar ringing in my ear, strong enough that it must be showing on my face from the way Val looks at me.
“What’s wrong?”
It’s my kan runu, my crying warning. But I don’t know where it’s coming from. Is it these fragile mikarus? Or is it from something happening higher up the mountain, back home? Another ru’? Or maybe Norbu is searching for me. Or a threat from the spirits of the Khumbu, because I took my brother’s name.
“You okay?”
“Sometimes there’s red panda in the trees,” I say. “I’ve seen them before here, with my sisters, I was just looking up for them now.”
Val looks at me funny, her eyes low like a Sherpa’s. She purses her lips. The branches sway with the wind, but I don’t see anything in them. I’ve never seen any forest creatures like that this low on the mountain.
“What about snow leopards?” she asks.
“Higher up, yes.”
The crying in my ear stops suddenly. Val stands with arms folded now, looking me up and down. “And tigers?” she goes on. “Have you seen tigers up here, too?”
“No tiger,” I answer. “Tigers are scared of the heights.” I point to Ethan and Daniel. “Just like those two.” Val laughs out loud. So do I.
We keep moving, not talking much. Turning a corner, we find the river far below us, running under a suspension bridge. Multicolored prayer flags flap from the chain-link handrails, and under the bridge, a precipitous drop of several hundred meters.
“The Dudh Kosi,” I say to Val. “The milky river.”
This far down the mountain, the water is blue like a mikaru’s eyes and white from the melt and the rapids. How fast the water hits the rocks, what power to carve and change the mountain.
Daniel comes to an abrupt stop just before the bridge. He lifts his camera to his eye and trains it. Ethan does the same with his mobile.
“I forgot this part,” Val mutters.
I place a foot on one of the planks, then the other, the bridge isn’t very wide, just wide enough for two, and it rocks slightly. “See? I’ve walked on this bridge many times and many other bridges like it. It’s safe.”
Val comes forward and takes a timid step onto the bridge, then another. She turns to Ethan and Daniel and smiles. “Come on. It’s fine.”
They follow, nipping at her heels like cubs. Next it’s my turn. The bridge sways with every advancing step from the mikarus. I try not to look below, in between the metal slats, where my vision drains into the rush. Keep moving. The sounds of the river, even from this high up, becomes deafening and I can’t even hear what the others are saying a few feet ahead. I run my fingers over the flags, grab one, stop its motion. I let it go and the wind takes it again. I can’t help but look. Far below, the angry water churns and crashes. When I bob my head back up, the bridge seems longer, with many steps to go.
Ethan has his mobile trained, snapping photos. “Andanajowns!” he starts yelling. Then the others repeat it—“Andanajowns, Andanajowns.”
“Just like the movie,” Val tells me, over her shoulder. “Indee-an-ah Jones. You know, Hollywood?”
I know Bollywood, but what’s Hollywood?
A honey bird flies above us, fluttering its wings—a creature so small, yet able to do so much. It flies right up to Ethan, and he holds his mobile up, rolls his shoulder and does a quick turn, the sounds of the river masking his words. The bird buzzes overhead again, pausing in midair, then zipping back and forth, and Ethan shifts his body so quick to keep filming that the force of his weight makes the bridge rock, and I watch as his boot catches in between one of the slats, and he trips forward. The bird shoots away, and Ethan steadies himself. Val and Daniel keep moving forward—no one but me saw—and Ethan smiles in excited embarrassment and keeps moving.
We’re in the middle of the bridge, it’s that long. Val leading, Ethan right behind her, then Daniel, and me a few steps behind.
The honey bird returns again, its wings are green and blue—how can they be both colors?—and its face a splash of red. Ethan brings the mobile back up, and this time Val trains hers, too. And then it happens so fast—Ethan, looking up at the pretty little bird, taking a step too far back and the railing digging into his back. He puts an arm out to steady himself and grabs Val.
They’re about to go over the bridge—they’re about to fall over and I’m too far away to stop them.
My ear is ringing. Val’s feet slip out from beneath her. Then Ethan’s. There is nothing I can do, making it feel too much like what happened to my brother. I can’t stop it. The wings of the bird flutter one beat at a time, just a handful of feathers and hollow bone.
Frozen, I watch as Val tumbles back into the railing and begins to topple over the side, just like my black day, all those years ago. And as I hold still, my feet glued together, Daniel lunges and grabs them—at the last moment he collects Val and Ethan with both arms—and pulls them down onto the bridge. They hit with a thud, the entire bridge shakes, and the little bird has vanished.
The spell broken, my feet are free, and I rush forward across the swaying bridge.
Val’s face is bright red, and she gets up slowly and then vomits over the side of the bridge. Ethan looks worse. He slumps down, stares into the deafening rush of the water below. His mobile’s screen is shattered, and when he sees this he starts to laugh.
“You okay, man?” Daniel asks.
Val puts a hand up. “Give him some space.”
She crouches down and holds the big man in her arms, and begins stroking his face. The way she touches him, softly, calmly—and when he looks at her it’s with absolute trust. She looks back the same way. Is that love?
Finally, Val staggers up with Ethan, each holding on to the railing and the other’s hand.
We walk across the rest of the bridge in silence.
14
THE TEA HOUSE IS SMALL. FOUR WALLS FILLED TOP TO BOTTOM WITH flags makes it feel even smaller. I don’t know any of the countries besides the stars and stripes of the United States and our own flag with three sides. On the flags, I read signatures from earlier climbing teams. Next to them, expedition photos with mikarus and Sherpas, smiling together, lips chapped, faces baked by the sun. All happy. In some photos, the men’s beards have icicles on them. I think of my father, of his own smiling climbing picture. It’s hard to imagine him smiling again.
Lunch is black tea and dal bhat: bubbling yellow-brown curry, heavy scoops of lentils and white rice, I spoon it into bowls and bring it to the mikarus. Their voices and accents clash with the sing-song Hindi that flows from the small television in the common room. A Bollywood film plays, and a shiny metal-faced policeman waves a glistening pistol, but the mikarus are busy glancing at the day’s pictures on their screens. They barely look up when I serve the
food.
“Namaste.”
“Namaste, Ang.”
“Thank you.”
Thank you. That’s a phrase I remembered easily. “Thank you,” I say again as I wait for them to attack the steaming meal in front of them so I can eat, too.
“Potatoes, carrots, leeks, that’s the safe choice,” I told Val before they ordered. “All grown locally.” I had advised against the meat. Meat served on the Khumbu is butchered in Kathmandu, thrown into sacks and carried up on the backs of porters.
I linger a few feet from the table, waiting, then cross back into their world. Ethan moans. His head is only a few centimeters from resting on the table.
“Hey,” Val says. “You have to eat. Today is the easy day.”
I chime in, hoping to cheer them up: “Climb high, sleep low,” words in English I’ve heard many times. All three mikarus stare up at me. I keep speaking, piecing together what I once heard from my father, in English before switching to Nepali for the words I don’t know. “We climb…a thousand feet a day. Safe. You get headache here”—I point to the back of my head—“bad.”
Val explains the parts for which I lacked words.
“He’s right,” Ethan replies. “If you get a migraine at the back of the head, if you’re dizzy, weak, nauseous, you have to come down. Right away. The higher you go, the less oxygen. And your heart works harder. It makes your blood thicker, too.”
Val smiles, pulls her hair back. “Ang, thank you. Please, go and eat your meal. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
I had wanted to impress Val and the others, but clearly, I didn’t impress them at all. A few yards away, just beyond a screen of beads dividing the rooms, I cross into another world. In the kitchen, I wash my hands in cold water in a blackened sink—no soap—layers of dust peeling off. Splashing my face, I taste the cold water on my chapped lips, feeling how dry the day has been. I close my eyes and feel the sun stroke my face, the pain of the day’s steps. Then I finally sit down and warm up with my own bowl of dal bhat. I want to dig in and scoop the rice by hand, but I feel the gaze of Val, Ethan, and Daniel, even from another room.
Next to me, other porters don’t share my worries. Their hands knead clumps of rice, scoop up curry with the balls of rice. The woman of the house comes around with a communal water bowl, and we dip our fingers in, turning the water yellow from the curry. The porters burp pleasurably, and when the lady of the house smiles, her eyes disappear within thick folds of skin. She comes up to me, sees I haven’t eaten, then reaches into a drawer and hands me a wooden tool surely carved by her own hand. Thank you.
I mix the curry and rice with the spoon, mash it all into a paste, and swallow. I’ve used spoons to cook before, but never to eat. My hand shakes, grains of rice dropping back into my bowl. I eat nervously, even though the mikarus can’t see and this woman couldn’t care less about me. We’re the only people in the tea house, the sirdar Lasha is probably waiting for us in Phakding.
“Base Camp?” the old woman asks. I nod. “One of the new generation—a Sherpa who only eats with spoons, too good for the old ways. Modern.”
She takes my bowl, refills it with rice, lentils, curry. I haven’t eaten this much in days, besides the yak meat, but this is something I’m more accustomed to.
“Young bodies are never full,” she says. “You’ve been a guide long?”
I shake my head.
“Didn’t think so,” she laughs. “You look young. Very young.”
Preserve the inner secret while only revealing the outer level.
Another few spoonfuls and my bowl is empty again. I thank her for the food, get up before she can ask any more questions and pass through the screen of beads, from one world back to the other.
Val’s bowl is wiped clean, not a grain remains. I glance over at the others: Ethan’s is untouched, he tosses a metallic wrapper onto the table, leftovers from a foreign treat. Daniel is busy taking a photo of his meal. I don’t understand why he’d rather photograph his food than eat it. I come close and he shows me the camera, pointing for me to put my eye into the small window. I see the bowl in sharp detail, half white, the other half golden, with blocks of potato, pebble-sized lentils. I’ve never looked at food like this before, as a thing of beauty.
“Put your finger here,” Daniel says, taking my hand to show me how to hold the machine, his fingers lightly gliding over mine. “Push down here. Click.”
There it is, captured in the camera’s small window. The bowl of dah bhat looks just as good as it does on the table.
“That’s your picture,” Daniel says, smiling. “You took it.”
I feel a flutter in my chest, not quite sure of all the words the mikarus trade, but I feel as if I am finally impressing them.
“Picture,” Daniel keeps saying. “Good picture.”
Val translates, repeats the word in English. “Picture.”
“Pic-ture,” I say.
“Picture. Photograph,” he says again.
Val leans across the table to look at the image. “Nice. How do you say ‘rice’? Not in Nepali, in your language? In Sherpa?”
“Dray,” I answer.
Val wrinkles her nose so it looks like the top of a mushroom. “Dray. And potato?”
“Sho-gok.”
She tries out the new words on the others. Ethan repeats in a grunt. But Daniel nods his head, listening, then takes out a pen and paper and passes it to me. “Can you write it down? The spelling?”
I haven’t touched pen to paper since I last saw Nurse Lanja. It has been three years. I scribble in our script, and Daniel takes the paper and smiles again. “I can’t read this, but you said ‘sho-gok,’ right?”
I nod, look down, then back, and Daniel is still staring right at me.
“Potato,” he says. “In English. It’s po-ta-to. You try.”
The sounds drag out of my mouth. Ethan laughs and I feel my blood surge. Just a small ring in my ear this time, an aftershock. But Daniel and Val are smiling encouragingly. It’s only Ethan who snickers.
“Time to go,” I finally say, in my own Nepali.
“Guys, let’s pack up,” Val commands.
I collect the plates, deliver them to the kitchen. My neck and back are drenched in sweat. In the kitchen, the woman of the house tallies up the cost. I avoid her eyes as she passes me a slip of paper with the total. I take a breath, cooling off, then part the beads and return to deliver the bill. Each mikaru produces a stuffed wallet, and I avert my eyes, this time out of shame, so much money in those billfolds. What each of you has there, my entire family could live on for one year.
A thousand rupee note with a bull elephant on one side and Jomolangma on the other, a five hundred rupee note with two Bengal tigers sipping from a mountain stream, a one hundred rupee note with a one-horned white rhino strutting through the terai grassland, a fifty note with two blood pheasants preparing to mate, twenties and tens with a rutting stag and a family of antelope. My whole world, right here in crumpled notes, passed to me by snow colored hands that even after half a day on the trail look as clean as those of the royal family. And when I look down at mine, hands and fingers speckled in black bruises and red and rough cuticles.
Val told me before that the pay with BBC is low, but I don’t believe her. She and the others hold their money fearlessly, trusting they will get more. When I hand the rupees to the woman of the house, she accepts the money with a smile and slight bow, then opens a stuffed box and deposits it. The woman is a Sherpa like me, but a different caste altogether, with her new down jacket—shiny, expensive—she’s more like the mikarus than I am. Dozens of travelers pass through her small tea house every day and the tea here isn’t even that fresh. No matter, her eyes say. No matter. Mikarus will keep coming, mikarus will keep paying. And where is her husband, maybe dead? Or maybe she’s rich enough to not need one. No matter. As long as there’s a mountain to climb, they will come. Like a fisherman in the Dudh Kosi, if the waters teem with fish, they will bite regardless of
what bait is used.
The mikarus are rising from the table, pressing their hands and saying “namaste.” There’s no bend to her knees when she bows to her patrons, who smile back.
Smile, smile, smile. The fish don’t even know why.
It’s late afternoon when we finally stop for the night in Phakding.
With food in my stomach, the trail isn’t as difficult as it was in the morning. My blistered feet are getting used to my boots, my shoulders and back to the thirty kilos, my nose to the dust. Val and Daniel are getting more comfortable, too—both have tied kerchiefs over their faces. But stubborn Ethan won’t listen. It still must be silly to him. I cannot catch any of his English, he speaks so quickly and with so many words I don’t understand. But I understand his manner.
Shiny solar panels point skyward along the lodge’s long stone walkway. Solar—cheap to use and expensive to install. More well-to-do Sherpas here. No more than a hundred in this village. Inside, the fading sun shines through the lodge’s dirt-stained glass windows, but even with the sun, it’s empty and cold. I think of my father with his television and solar panels, the prize for my marriage.
Two boys emerge with the jingling of bells on the door, both still chewing lunch. They look barely in their teens, faces small and timid, a touch of down on their upper lips. And beyond them, sitting at a table with cards in his hands, our sirdar, Lasha.
He nods and looks back to his cards, and the boys offer steaming mugs of tea. I’m thirsty, but there’s something about the way he looks at me—as if his eyes see through my jacket, my undershirt. I lead the group to a table, then bow, remove my pack, collect the keys for the rooms, steal a sip from a pot of cold water. I gather the empty water bottles, never stopping a minute. I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to give the sirdar a good look at me.
“Cards?” one of the boys asks. I glance at the table, a pile of dirty rupees in the middle and a half-empty bottle of home brew next to the sirdar. I shake my head and hear the boys chiding me as I step back into the dining area.