by Adam Popescu
“I thought this was our rest day. Isn’t that what Ang said?”
I learned what “rest” means, and everything else, I can guess. The one who whines it all is Ethan.
“Climb high,” Val gasps, “sleep low.”
They all laugh, they all look at me—am I one of them now?
The mikarus push on, faces behind polarized sunglasses, sipping water. From time to time Ethan stops, rubs his left knee. Is that an injury I didn’t notice, or merely fatigue?
The land flattens and we step over dry scrub invaded by empty plastic bottles. The ground has long, straight markings, tracks from huge wheels. A lone horse grazes among the brush. There’s not much to eat here, and he uses a hoof to sift through the dirt, kicks cans and rocks, trying to scrape the hard layer to get to the shoots and seedlings.
“Syangboche airstrip,” I announce to Val. “Built by a very rich Japanese to take tourists to his Hotel Everest View.”
I step on blackened pieces of rubber, metal shards, broken glass, a bush strung with yellowed papers. Rusty aluminum cans, singed and flaked from sun and snow. EVEREST BEER. Man’s plastic touch, everywhere.
“This is the closest airplanes can fly to the summit.” My father told me all about it, years ago. Built for the Japanese to snap photos. Just to take photos for the day and leave.
“How high are we?”
No way I can miss the meaning of that. I rummage through my memory, recalling Father’s stories. I once memorized all the heights along the trail. What was it here, above Namche? “Three thousand, seven hundred meters,” I finally remember.
“That’s close to fifteen thousand feet,” Val calls to the others. Her hands are shaking as she walks, and not from swaying her arms. All of their hands are shaking, I noticed it when they were drinking water a few moments ago. They took a white pill—probably the Diamox they keep talking about. That’s what makes them shake.
Twenty minutes later, we climb a long stone staircase to get to the top of the hill and the door of the Hotel Everest View. Carved stone, carefully cut trees, a flat roof, it all looks entirely foreign. A plaque reads ALTITUDE 3,880 METERS.
We push open a heavy oak door and step inside. More stone, spotless floor-to-ceiling windows, a roaring fireplace.
“Irasshaimase!” a small woman wearing a red sashed dress says as she bows almost to her knees. She doesn’t speak Nepali or English, just bits and pieces. She leads us through a long entrance hall and opens a sliding door to an outdoor seating area and a table facing the goddess, clouds swirling her peak like apsara dancers. We sit at a simple wooden table. No one else is here. No sign of Norbu or his mikarus.
“Just front of Everest,” the little woman says in her accented English, bowing again as she distributes menus.
“There she is.”
“And the peak of Nuptse.” I point. “And to the right of the summit is Lhotse.”
“Fourth-highest mountain in the world,” Ethan adds, as if reading from his guidebook.
A flock of birds flap their wings hard in the direction of the peak, as if they will fly all the way there. Val takes out her mobile and films them as they change their mind, the whole flock all at once, struggling against air and wind.
“Are we done acclimating for today?” Val asks me, pulling her hair back and tying it with a clip. It’s after the meal. Ethan and Daniel have moved from the table, playing with cameras and phones.
“I’m up to seeing more. For my story. What else should we see around here?”
She’s caught me off guard, and I draw a blank at first. Then I have a vision—of rich gold-and-red mandalas and a giant Buddha shrine. “Tengboche Monastery. I want to take you to Tengboche Monastery. The yeti hand is at Pangboche, but Tengboche is much more beautiful, and Sir Edmund Hillary High School, my old school, I really want you to see it. Don’t worry, it’s on the way.” I smile. “And mostly downhill.”
I’d be so proud for Nurse Lanja and Val to meet. Could she really still be working at that school? She’d be so surprised to see me working as a climbing Sherpa. I hope she won’t be disappointed in me.
“Wait, did you say a yeti hand?” Val asks, a touch of salt to her words. “I think we can skip that one.”
I don’t know what to say—I’d already recommended we skip it. So I say nothing. I’m embarrassed. I don’t believe in the yeti either, not really, but the way Val spoke—I cannot tell who she is mocking. The mikarus begin talking among themselves and I’m left to stew like a fool. I think of Lasha—maybe he’s planted something in her mind.
We stare up at the goddess.
“Do you think you’ll ever climb to the top?” Val asks me suddenly. “To the summit?”
“Not all women are meant to be conquered,” I say.
My father spent a whole life watching the goddess from afar, never climbing her. Of course, I don’t say that, and Val gives me a half smile: “If you had a chance to go up, would you?”
“Wouldn’t you?” I ask. She nods. “The risk is an honor for Sherpas. It’s in our blood.”
“We’re all obsessed with getting to the top, but that isn’t the story I want to tell. The real story is the people along the way.”
I shake my head uncertainly—what kind of story is that?—the story is in front of us, I tell her. “The mountain has power, she speaks with the wind, the rain, the snow, the ru’. She always makes her voice heard.”
“Good point. So what about your voice? Will you leave the mountain when this is all over?”
Once more, such a direct question. I look over at Daniel and Ethan, busy taking photographs.
“There are other ways for a woman to make money,” Val goes on. “Ways besides working on the mountain.”
“I know,” I answer, though I’m not sure what she’s getting at. So I go out on a limb: “One moment I want to stay here, to show everyone that I can do it without a mask. As a free woman.”
“And then?” she asks.
“Then I think how much easier life could be in the capital. It is, isn’t it?”
“In certain ways, yes.”
I tug at my knit cap and adjust my hair beneath it. “The other Sherpas know who I am now.”
Val looks at Ethan and Daniel, then back at me. “Still, maybe it’s best to keep quiet.”
“Why?”
But Val doesn’t answer. The way she looked at the others, I’m certain Lasha has said something to them. They must think I’m a joke. Or worse, a liability. The girl who fled down the mountain and left a jilted groom.
“There should be no difference,” I begin, “even here in Nepal. Right, Val? Isn’t that what equality is all about, to be the same, even if we pretend?”
Val takes in a deep breath. But she doesn’t answer.
Ethan turns to her. “Ready to go?” he asks.
Val looks at me, then looks down and takes out her wallet for the bill. She places rupees on the table and starts packing up her gear.
The hills are purple and pink and white, flowering despite the drought. Our boots step over the flowers, from one life to the next. I’m a little girl again, gazing at the peaks we pray to, the same ones that give and then take it all back. Soon we’ll be at the monastery and then my old school. I think of Nurse Lanja and my heart quickens. If she’s there, I’m going to reveal myself. She’ll know who I am anyway, I’m sure of it.
Suddenly, a company of Nepali soldiers in olive green run up the mountain. The sight of them makes us all freeze, reminding us of the two acne-faced boys who almost took our lives. But these ones fly by us, not looking back, none of them the soldiers from the day before. Two runts bring up the rear, struggling to keep up. And then they disappear with the rest of the company.
We go down one hill and back up another, stop at a mani stone wall with flat rocks inscribed in Tibetan, piled eight feet high. Prayer flags stitched with the Tibetan wind horse Lungta flap and flutter in sacred gallop: white for air, red for fire, green for water, yellow for earth, blue for sk
y.
“Hail to the jewel in the lotus,” I whisper to myself, steering the mikarus past a long line of prayer wheels. “Always pass to the left,” I caution, spinning the wheels as I go. Val and then Ethan and Daniel add to the spin, wheels chiming loudly from our combined energies. We weave on, wordless and dizzy, and Everest comes into view once more. Not a cloud shields her now. The mikarus take out their cameras yet again. I’d like to be so excited to see the goddess again, to jump from rock to rock and up and down the hills, but I feel something else. A gentle discouragement: I’m here. I’ll be here today, tomorrow, and all the coming days. I’ll be here for every day of your life and for all the lives that will spring out of you.
At a higher bend, an old man is sitting cross-legged on a plastic chair, hood low over his face, bony black hands strumming prayer beads. He wears a multicolored jacket and windbreaker pants, every piece of them torn and restitched. He looks up through wirerimmed glasses held askew on his nose.
“Namaste,” he murmurs. “Tashi delek.”
Next to him, on a thin sheet of metal held to the ground with wooden pegs, an inscription in English. Daniel raises his camera to photograph it. The man nods, each eye aiming in a different direction.
“What does it say?” I ask Val.
“Appeal for donation,” Val reads. “Dear Visitors, this man Pasang Lama Sherpa has been doing a social work to build mend and maintain the main trail to Everest Base Camp with high spirit, solemn determination. Hearty appeal all the visitors requested to make a small donation to support and encourage this devoted man to continue this sacred work.”
There’s a box and a ledger to sign. Val writes her full name—Valerie Garcia Jones—puts a hundred rupee note into the box. Then she takes out her notebook and pen and tries to speak to the old man, first in English, then in Nepali. Nothing. He keeps stroking his beads, staring off into the distance. His skin is as dark as the dirt, he’s been sitting here for so long. Pasang Lama Sherpa. He’s here, but he’s not. Namaste for all time.
On a wall, there’s a klu-mo, a woman demon with the body of a serpent, a growling face in her chest, a body of coils and scales. We’re in the dokhang, a prayer hall filled with red pillows, blankets, and empty rice bowls, everything under the gaze of a life-sized statue of the Buddha. Beside the statue is a raised seat with a gold sash and a small microphone. The head lama’s seat. And this monastery’s top man, he’s smiling, talking to the Westerner with the hair the same color as his robes. His own hair is trimmed to the scalp, splotches of pink and brown all over his head. He wears glasses set on a flat nose, and his lips smile even though they’re not curling up.
“The wall paintings,” Val remarks. “They’re blackened. From fire?”
“Yes, yes, from the fire,” the lama answers, insisting on speaking English. “Some paintings were saved. They peeled off from the heat, and we were able to…reapply them, yes? Yes. We reapplied and then painted over in many places”—he points—“as you can see here and there and here again.”
Val scribbles notes. “What happened?”
“Many come here to Tengboche instead of Khumjung, or they come after they see the yeti scalp or the Pangboche hand.”
“Is it a real yeti?” Val asks sincerely.
The lama smiles without moving his lips. That all-knowing smile of the divine. “Who am I to say? Many things special here. Tengboche Monastery was built in 1916, by Lama Gulu. Construction begun by Ngawang Tenzin Norbu, the reincarnation of the great Lama Sangwa Dorje, the fifth in a line of reincarnation going back to the ninth century, before Sherpas left Kham.” He raises a finger for emphasis. “In 1934, everything destroyed by earthquake. Lama Gulu died, too. Then we rebuild. A second monastery was constructed on top of the ruins, and in 1989, all destroyed again—this time by fire—electrical short-circuit burned everything to the ground. So, once more, we rebuild, stone brick by stone brick, with the generous help from Sir Edmund Hillary and the Himalayan Trust. Much history tied to this place. Sacred history. This is why we stay. When Sherpas first settled in the Khumbu in the 1400s, there was a powerful lama named Pachen. He lived in a cave on the eastern slopes of Kongde. One night, a group of ghosts came and lit a large fire at the entrance to the cave. But he was in a deep meditation, so deep he was able to escape right through the mountain rock. Pachen flew across the Dudh Kosi, leaving his footprint in solid stone where he landed on the other shore. That place, which still bears his mark, is called Phurte, from the word for flight, ‘phur.’ You can still see it, when you pass.”
Val smiles, repeats: “Flew across the Dudh Kosi.”
“Lamas today don’t travel by flight.” He curls his lips. “At least, we don’t talk about it, if we did.”
“Wouldn’t that make people believe?” Val wonders aloud.
“Belief doesn’t come from seeing. Belief comes from inside. From knowing. You don’t need to see to know.”
“So why study—why spend your whole life here?”
“The true fulfillment of knowledge is overcoming mental obstacle, gaining insight into one’s own truth and self. Ours is but one world of many, one plane of existence. The great field of knowledge is as tiny as the universe is a speck. This is Buddhism. This is why we believe.”
20
SO MANY GREAT MEN IN OUR HISTORY: MILAREPA, LAMA SANGWA Dorje, the Dalai Lama, Tenzing Norgay. But where are the women? If our path to enlightenment is the same as men, if we are truly equal, then why must we always be seen and never heard? We are like a vast unknown. Watching Val, I know that’s not the case in her country. The way she moves, she talks, it can’t be.
I am a woman—I have little power to resist danger.
Because of my inferior birth, everyone attacks me.
If I go as a beggar, dogs attack me.
If I have wealth and food, bandits attack me.
If I do a great deal, the neighbors attack me.
If I do nothing, gossip attacks me.
If anything goes wrong, they all attack me.
Whatever I do, I have no chance for happiness.
Because I am a woman, it is hard to follow the Dharma.
It is hard to even stay alive.
These are the words of a great woman, told to me by a sacred woman who didn’t let on how deeply she thought and felt—my mother. Could it be that these words were taught to me for a reason, lessons to feed my mind and soul, and perhaps find a riddle in them, a guide to this mandala maze we call life? Walking down the hill towards my old school, I am filled with sudden regret. How silly, how small it must all look to her. This is what I was so proud to show Val?
I want to hate her, living so removed from my troubles, but I can’t. I want to trust, I want us to be friends, and those desires consume me, no matter what nonsense Lasha or whoever else has said to her. We’ll talk when we’re alone. I’ll set her right and she’ll understand. It’s that simple. Right now, her face looks twisted, as if in great pain, and I can’t help but be concerned.
“How’s your stomach?” I ask.
“It’s my head. Migraines. I used to get them sometimes from reading on my iPhone. I can’t focus, and I can’t write when that thing keeps buzzing. By the end of the day, my head is pounding. That’s how I feel now.”
I reach in my bag, pull out a plastic pack, rip it open. “Take this, put it on your tongue. Herbal root.”
I dump some of the bag in Val’s hand. The root looks wormlike, brown and dry, tiny chips like pencil shavings. “Take it with water. It’s all natural, and good for head and stomach pains.” I put some in my mouth to show her. “Don’t think like a mikaru, think like a Sherpa. It’s good for your story.”
Ten minutes later, we arrive at my school. It doesn’t look any different from how I remember it, just a few dusty old buildings made of splintered wood and flimsy plastic. Except, instead of children, there is a group of weathered men sitting in front of my school like a bad joke, their faces so tanned they look mummified.
I don’t kno
w how it’s survived the wind and the snow. We march past the old men, who pay no attention to us, through a yak gate and into a courtyard, towards a smiling man made of bronze surrounded by solar panels and a plastic trash can. The bronze man wears a fedora and a sporting sweater. SIR EDMUND HILLARY, 1919 TO 2008, FOUNDER AND PATRON OF KHUMJUNG SCHOOL. The solar panels I haven’t seen before. I’m surprised no one has stolen them. Probably too heavy. The only thing impressive here, I realize, is that statue. But Val walks right by it. The school is empty, no students here, no children. Is it a holiday—is it already Mani Rimdu? No, it cannot be, the monastery would have been celebrating.
“Where are the children?” I ask one of the living dead slumped at the entrance.
“Work,” says one with dark sunglasses and an ugly black mole on his left cheek, a long strand of milk-white hair growing from it. “Most children are working this season. Thank the drought. And the price of yartsa gunbu!”
I know his face—another bad man from my past. One who touched me when I was a child. He was such a monster then, a monster that sent chills through me. And now, he’s nothing. He only wears the skin of a man, a wrinkled, dirty husk that’s left to rot under the cold sun. I walk past him without looking back, searching for traces of the school girl me amid the cheap wood and plastic buildings. How fast the years have flowed since the last time I visited Nurse Lanja. No telling where she is now. She gave me the confidence to come back here, to lead three mikarus into this ramshackle place.
Nima, you’ve learned so much. And on your own.
I’m standing in front of a building, a shed really, it’s inscribed CHILDREN’S ART GALLERY.
Despite the sign, I recognize the place. It’s the old infirmary. But remodeled. The one structure here that seems different. Khumbu’s lone female nurse, erased. Was it the doing of the monster with the mole, that lazy tshera lang dozing at the entrance?
Where there were once medical books and supplies there are now dozens of crude drawings stuck to the walls, pasted to old wooden desks, strewn on the floor. Nurse Lanja is gone. In her place, mountains, yaks, snow leopards, gray with white specks, orange tigers, huge elephants, pictures made by children, free to dream. I never made pictures like that—certainly nothing displayed on the walls. Things have changed, and maybe not all of them bad. In the corner, two old worn chairs—where Norbu held my hand for the first time; where I sat and watched my father die and be reborn into something less than a man; where I promised myself to leave this place. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror hanging tilted on the wall. My face is so thin—the cost of freedom. Nurse Lanja could be speaking to me through Val, even if she isn’t here.