Shreeya thought about this carefully, a strange fleeting confusion clouding her eyes.
‘I don’t know if that is possible. You see I do not know if any of us will see him again … nobody really knows if he is dead or alive.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
I didn’t want to push it further; Shreeya was clearly reluctant to talk about her friend and I didn’t want to upset her. But what had she meant? Had he left the village? Gone to study in India perhaps? Or had he been lost on a mountain trip?
It was a mysterious thing to say.
We spent the rest of the morning getting the medical gear down to the clinic. Dhorjee had dumped his rucksack there the previous evening so, miraculously, everything had arrived in one piece.
I was shocked by the state of the place. Paint was peeling from every wall, there was abundant mildew, and two of the windows were cracked.
We spent a couple of hours cleaning dead beetles out of the cupboards before a bunch of local dignitaries turned up to welcome me.
The speeches began.
The sun blazed harder.
It was during this ceremony that I began to feel rough. I shivered as my skin became chilled. The faint desire to vomit began to nag away but I knew I could not interrupt the ceremony and nor could I move out of the sun.
I kept smiling and gritted my teeth.
I was asked to say a few words but my tongue was swelling horribly, my spit thickening in that repulsive way it does just before you are sick.
I stopped the speech and sprinted for the nearest bushes where I retched long and hard.
‘I think I might have picked up a bug in Kathmandu,’ I told the villagers as I stumbled back out into the blazing sun.
It was a bit of a downer to say the least.
By nightfall I was back in my room at Shreeya’s house, wrapped up in my sleeping bag and feeling pretty sorry for myself.
‘You are shivering,’ Shreeya said that night. Her aunt’s watchful eyes stared at me without sympathy.
‘Just some virus,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be alright in the morning.’
I wasn’t alright in the morning. In fact the fever had got worse and I now had deep muscle aches.
Shreeya watched over me as I lay there sweating in the sleeping bag. I treated myself with paracetamol and decided that it was probably a virulent case of flu. Or perhaps a gastric infection I had picked up during the week in Kathmandu.
Then, having been feverish for twenty-four hours, it suddenly got much worse and a stabbing pain started up in my chest.
‘Maybe you need to go back to Kathmandu,’ Shreeya suggested. ‘Go to hospital.’
I knew she was right but there was no way I could trek back out along that path.
The high point that second day on my thermometer was 39.8 degrees, which felt pretty extreme. Shreeya was getting more and more concerned about the state of me and from that moment on she never left my side, holding cool damp cloths to my forehead in an attempt to break down the fever.
The pain in my chest was a give away and I now realised I had pneumonia, a lung infection almost certainly caused by the freezing rain and exhaustion of the trek. Every time I breathed I got this dagger stab of pain which felt like someone was twisting a Kitchen Devil into my ribs.
I was gobsmacked to be so sick. I was young. I was fit. I had never had a serious illness in my life. But my travellers’ medical handbook put me right; you can get pneumonia at any age, it said. Sometimes these things happen.
That night was the crisis. I was really in a state.
It got so bad that Shreeya actually put up a small shrine next to my bed. Incense was lit and she sat cross-legged in prayer as she watched over me.
Then, at the height of the fever, when I was almost delirious, Shreeya did the strangest thing.
She took the photograph of her friend Kami and put it to my chest. Like it was some sort of charm, or held some sort of spiritual power. She held it there tightly, still muttering a prayer as I struggled to breathe.
And the strangest thing of all was that it did have a result. At the very moment she was pressing the photograph to my body I sensed the pain in my chest beginning to ease off. For the first time in many hours I found myself able to breathe properly and the feeling of relief was almost overwhelming.
Shreeya took away the photograph and placed it on the makeshift shrine. Her eyes were glittering with an internal light. She rang the small shrine bell as a way of communicating thanks to the gods and she told me gently, ‘I gave this shrine bell to my friend when he went to Everest. It was returned to me after the expedition, with no explanation about what happened to him.’
Her words haunted me for hours. It seemed terrible not to know the fate of a loved one.
At long last I fell into a weird sleep, filled with bad dreams. In one nightmare I was engulfed by an avalanche on some huge mountain. Buried in the snow I heard scraping sounds. Then came a face, smiling at me. My saviour.
It was Kami – the boy from the picture.
I woke with a start, sitting up fast as my chest muscles tightened up.
I leaned over and picked up the photograph of Shreeya’s friend. I felt an odd connection to him now, and was much more curious than before.
That morning the daily routines of the house went on around me. The buffalo were taken to the fields. The fire was lit in the room next door, the tinder crackling as it flared up. I heard the swish of Shreeya sweeping the floor with a hazel broom.
I thought about how generous Shreeya had been to me. I was a stranger to her really but she had shown me the most incredible hospitality and care, even if her aunt had shown little interest in my problems.
That night a nasty argument flared up between Shreeya and her aunt. I had no idea what it was about but it ended with the sound of a slap or two and I heard Shreeya sobbing. Later, when things had calmed down a bit, I was strong enough to join them for supper.
Shreeya had a dark bruise on her cheek.
‘You’ve been so kind,’ I told her. ‘What can I ever do to repay you?’
Shreeya looked at her aunt, a stare of pure defiance. The aunt just gave her a poisonous look by return and swept out of the kitchen.
‘I want you to make a journey,’ Shreeya told me earnestly. ‘I need you to find out the truth about Kami.’
Chapter 2
It took me quite a few days to recover from my illness, but over the next four weeks the work at the village was done. We did a total refurb on the clinic, whitewashing the whole building and fixing the dodgy tiles on the roof.
From time to time I had been asking around amongst the elders of the village, checking whether they knew anything about the fate of Shreeya’s friend Kami.
But all I got was rumours and half-baked theories. Some had heard whispers about a Sherpa boy that had been kidnapped by ‘djinns’ – the spirits of the mountains. Others repeated the rumour that he was ‘neither dead or alive’.
It was strange how many people believed that.
I questioned Shreeya further about it but didn’t get anything new. Her friend Kami had gone to Everest, something terrible had happened and she had been immediately spirited away to this remote corner of Nepal by her parents.
‘I caused them shame,’ she told me, ‘and they have made me a prisoner here.’
I was pretty sure there was a side of the story that she was keeping from me. To be honest, I was beginning to give up on the idea of helping Shreeya find her friend. Of course that was the exact moment when Shreeya surprised me by producing a scrap of paper with the name ‘Nima Gyaltsen’ written on it.
A clue.
A lead.
‘He lives in Aiselukharka village,’ Shreeya told me. ‘They say he was on the expedition with Kami.’
That was more like it. At least I had something to go on. That night I
checked my map and found that the village mentioned in Shreeya’s note was two hard days’ trekking away.
I was planning to use my free days for a trek anyway, so I reckoned I might as well find a porter, head out to that village, and see if I could track down this Nima Gyaltsen character.
I packed up my rucksack and left the next morning, but only after Shreeya and some of the others blessed my journey with a long and touching puja ceremony. I had only been there for a short while but I was genuinely fond of her and the other villagers.
‘I hope you will be back very soon,’ Shreeya told me, ‘with news of my friend.’
‘I hope so too.’
As the friendly farewell calls of the watching villagers fell away, I soon found I had a real spring in my stride. Getting to the village where I would find the contact would involve a spectacular trek through amazing Himalayan scenery. Even better, I had a great porter with me this time. His name was Pasang and he seemed trustworthy and kind.
One of the main reasons I liked him was that he had a pair of red tartan socks that poked out of a gaping hole in the front of his boots.
At that point I was pretty sure of cracking the mission quickly. This guy Nima had actually been on the expedition with Kami. Surely he would be able to fill me in on what had happened and where he was? All I had to do was find Nima and the mystery would be solved.
At least that was what my brain was telling me.
On the first day we passed through quite a few small villages, almost all of them devoted to forestry and all of them poor. There were no rice mills here, no plump-looking water buffalo, just skinny chickens, fields of stunted beans and bad-tempered feral dogs.
We slept that night in a small tea house on mattresses that were infested with fleas. I itched my way through the night, regretting that I hadn’t pitched my little one-man tent and slept outside. It would have been a better night.
Next day I really felt like we were walking off the edge of the map. The land became even more thickly forested, the valley sides steep and scarred with landslides.
The trek was long and it stretched me, just like the one to Shreeya’s village, but not in such a brutal way. When we finally found the village where this man Nima lived, it was only the second place we had seen that day.
It was a bit of a dump really, an old army patrol post which had been abandoned by the military and squatted in ever since by hunters, berry pickers and brewers of chang – the local rice wine.
Pasang asked around for Nima and we quickly found someone who knew him. ‘He’ll be in the bar,’ a friendly old woman told us, ‘drinking, drinking.’
My heart sank as I heard this; I had already seen the damage that cheap alcohol could do in these small rural places and it seemed I was now in for another boozy encounter.
Pasang asked me to pay off his wages and let him return to his village. I did try to convince him to stick with me for another day but he had work waiting in his fields back home.
After he had gone I walked across to the bar, a rough and ready hovel which smelled to high heaven. There was no electric light, just a couple of candles, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust as the five or six drinkers – all men – blinked at me in surprise.
I asked for Nima and was taken across to the darkest corner of the room where a figure was lying on a bench. He looked to be completely out of it, so I was surprised when he responded, more or less, to me calling his name.
‘Whaaa? Who’s that?’ he cried in English. He lunged up from the shadows and crashed onto a nearby stool.
I could see that he was about eighteen years old, although his face was ravaged by cheap alcohol.
By the light of my torch I then saw something shocking; he had lost all the fingers on one hand and I guessed it was to frostbite. There was a rotten smell coming from him and I immediately suspected that his wounds had gone bad.
I said ‘hi’ in a friendly way but he just stared at me with a blank expression so I changed tack.
‘Can I see your hand, please? I might be able to help you.’
He held out the damaged hand and I almost gasped out loud. The frostbitten fingers looked like they’d been inexpertly amputated, the wounds were weeping and urgently in need of attention.
I’ve seen some pretty gruesome medical emergencies with my dad’s cattle over the years but this was something else.
‘How long has it been like this?’ I asked him.
Nima just shrugged but his friend replied:
‘Since he come back from Everest.’
‘Everest!’ Nima suddenly yelled, ripping the hand away and tucking it beneath his arm.
‘He’s crazy.’ His friend added apologetically.
‘I want to clean up that hand,’ I offered. ‘I have bandages and everything I need. It will help you a lot.’
‘No!’ Nima spun around and lurched back towards the shadows in the corner of the bar. But his friend grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him.
‘Let him help you,’ he told Nima angrily. ‘He can do you some good.’
Nima swayed a bit, stared at me hesitantly, then walked slowly over and let me examine the wounds.
‘Will you let me do it?’ I asked him. He nodded.
I worked by the tungsten light of my headtorch for almost an hour, cleaning up the wounds and putting on a fresh dressing. It was the most complicated first aid I’d ever done, but I reckon it was an OK job.
‘The expedition gave him money to have a proper operation,’ Nima’s friend explained at one point, ‘but he spend the money on something else!’
Hmmm. At least that explained the amateur amputation job. He probably spent that money on booze.
I rummaged in my pack and found the little pot of antibiotics the charity had given me for the trip. I knew they were good for general infections.
Nima accepted the plastic pot with a grunt and I bought him a Coke so he could wash down the first tablet. He seemed to have sobered up quite a bit during the clean-up operation and I now raised the subject that had brought me here.
‘I’m looking for a climbing Sherpa called Kami,’ I told him. ‘He was on an Everest expedition with you.’
‘Kami?’ Nima said softly, ‘I don’t want to talk about Kami.’
‘But you know what happened to him?’
Nima’s eyes clouded over.
‘They took me off the mountain. Halfway through expedition, when my fingers got frozen. Took me to the hospital in Khumjung. I wasn’t there at the end when everything went bad.’
‘But you must know something.’
‘I know the gods were angry. That much is sure.’
‘Was Kami injured? Did he get frostbite like you?’
‘You’ll have to ask the bosses that. The Sirdar maybe, the Westerners, they knew. They didn’t tell us Sherpas anything in the end.’
‘But do you know where I can find him?’
‘Yes. I have heard them say where he is. Kami. The one who did this.’
He suddenly became angry and irrational again, thrusting out his bandaged hand, displaying the sawn-off fingers angrily.
‘His fault! Kami’s fault.’
I flinched at this, wondering what he was really trying to tell me. I couldn’t imagine for a second that Shreeya’s friend might really be responsible for those awful wounds.
Or was he?
And if so, how was he responsible?
I brought out my large scale map of the region and folded it out across the pool table. The bar owner plonked a few candles on top of it, spilling molten wax onto the paper in his drunken haste.
Nima took a few moments to orientate himself to the map, tracing valley systems and finding villages with the shaking index finger of his good right hand.
‘Here. That’s where they said. This valley.’
He
pointed at a remote spot, far from any habitation.
‘But there’s no village. You must be mistaken.’
‘No.’ Nima was insistent, ‘He is here. Sure.’
I stared at the map, wondering whether Nima was taking the mickey. I was at a loss to think what anyone could be doing in such a place.
Then I got an idea.
‘He lives alone? Has he become a monk?’ I knew that there were many thousands of religious retreats dotted all about the mountains of Nepal.
Nima replied uncertainly. ‘Maybe. Maybe.’
It seemed the most likely explanation.
‘How many days’ walk is that?’ I asked the onlookers.
‘Three days,’ came the reply, ‘Two nights sleeping if you are fast.’
I left the bar at about nine and pitched my tent. I was thinking about Nima and what a sad encounter it had been.
I suspected that he knew more about the reasons for Kami’s exile than he was letting on. So many hints and pointers but never that one clear piece of information which would explain the situation. But he had given me a further clue and for that I was grateful.
It was possible that Kami was holed up in some isolated little monastery. If something terrible had happened to him on the expedition then that might be a logical step for him to take. Retreat from the world. Give up his worldly life.
Now I had to make a fast decision. I had eight days of my holiday left.
The clock was ticking.
One thing was for sure: the only way I could really crack this mystery was to meet Kami face to face.
I was up at first light and I quickly decided to make the trek without a porter. The map was clear enough and I reckoned I could trust it.
Going solo was an exhilarating thought; so much so that I was really wired about it. I filled up my water bottles, packed my tent and hit the trail mid-morning.
The pack was a bit of a monster, thirty kilos at a guess – mostly thanks to the extra water – but by adjusting the chest and waist straps I could bear it alright.
The trail rose gently, dead centre on the valley floor, cutting through ancient forests of birch and juniper. For the first time since my illness I felt myself in good shape. My legs were strong and I was taking just five minutes rest for each hour of trekking.
The Everest Files Page 2
