by Damien Leith
To the loves of my life, Eileen, Jarvis and Jagger
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Dedication
1. Mani Lama
2. Registration
3. Caterpillars and Dhanyabaad
4. Three thousand steps
5. Spasms
6. The Maoist
7. On the run
8. Hansel and Gretal
9. A bump in the night
10. The race
11. Card sharks and ghosts
12. Something terrible
13. Serena
14. A blast from the past
15. Time to go
16. Leaving
About the Author
Copyright
About The Publisher
1. Mani Lama
Two-door cars never make for a grand entrance, especially for the person in the back, and after a moment of fumbling to find the latch under it, the front passenger seat flew forward and a man surfaced from the car. I could hardly believe my eyes.
There was no way he’d be able to carry my bag!
‘This is my cousin Mani Lama. He will be your trekking guide.’
Dressed in a pair of combat trousers, worn-out white trainers and a plain black t-shirt, Mani looked no taller than four feet, and was as thin as an average twelve-year-old. Tiny. His leathery brown skin marked a life outdoors, and although he looked relatively young, his closely cropped hair was greying. How could he guide me up some of the steepest slopes in the world?
Mani reached out and greeted me with a firm handshake. His manner was strict and teacher-like yet I felt a little anxious as I returned his grip and wished him good morning.
‘Will you be able to carry this backpack?’ I asked, describing with my hands what I meant.
Mani seemed surprised by the question. ‘Easy!’ he replied. Obviously he understood me. That was good. Mani was confident and so perhaps I should be too.
‘I promised to you that I would get you good man and here he is. If you have any problem, Mani will help you. Now enough talking, I think it is time to leave! You enjoy trek. Taxi will take you to starting point at Nayapul. I will see you when you finished!’
Cousin Om was straight to business—just as he had been when I’d entered his trekking shop, the day after I arrived at Pokhara, still dazed and confused after the 24-hour bus ride from the Indian border.
‘You have to go to Pokhara, it’s heavenly.’
Her words had never left my mind, and a month after she’d spoken them, I’d taken her advice. The chances of meeting up with her there were slim, but secretly a part of me hoped it would happen.
Pokhara was indeed heavenly. The small town, lush and green with surrounding forest, nestled quietly beneath the towering snow-capped Annapurna Mountains. The air felt clean, the streets and shop fronts looked quaint, and a general sense of contentment seemed to reside amongst the locals.
On the calm waters of Fewa Lake, tourists paddled in rented canoes, and locals fished from its grassy banks. In the centre of the lake was a small island, scantily treed and home to an old temple. Temples are common in Nepal but this was the first one I’d seen in such an idyllic location.
I was keen to explore Pokhara, but on that first day I decided instead to take some time to unwind and relax. I lay back on a grassy patch on the bank. The sky was a brilliant blue and, in contrast to the lake, dazzlingly bright. I closed my eyes and listened: a mish-mash of sounds, all of them soothing, none of them threatening.
Om’s trekking shop was the one nearest to my hotel and it was when I passed it that I got the idea to withdraw further from the chaos of life and go right up into the mountains—away from people, away from responsibility. I’d never undertaken anything as strenuous before but it was just the retreat I needed—bracing, cleansing.
Over the course of an hour one day in Om’s trekking shop, he managed to part me of five thousand rupees for a guide-porter and six thousand rupees for the clothing and equipment he insisted I’d need. I bought everything he told me to buy. Boots, water canister, rain-proof clothing, sleeping bag. He even chose the type of trek I should do—a ten-day round trip to the Annapurna Base camp.
Now standing in front of the small blue taxi, which periodically coughed black smoke and seemed a little too heavy for its flattish-looking tyres, Om was firmly directing affairs again. It was important to begin early, he insisted. It looked like it was going to be a hot day and walking in such heat would be gruelling.
Heaving the backpack in front, Mani and I squeezed behind it into the back of the taxi and gave a final glance towards Om, who briskly waved farewell. Then, with introductions to our driver, Umesh, over, the taxi pulled off in the direction of Nayapul.
For the next ten days I was going to do something many others only dream of. This is what life is all about, I thought. Taking the chance that’s offered us. The weather was sensational, I was reasonably fit, and whatever Mani lacked in physique he seemed to make up in confidence—everything was just perfect!
Suddenly the traffic came to a standstill.
‘Roadblocks, they are everywhere now in Nepal!’ Umesh explained as he wound down his window and began to gesticulate like all the other drivers ahead of us. ‘You know about the Maoist?’ he went on in good English.
I had heard about the Maoists but I could tell from his tone that he intended on teaching me more.
‘The Maoist fight for the poor people of Nepal. You know that we still have our King Gyanendra? But he is not interested in government.’ Umesh’s tone became fiery, more intense. ‘Politics in Nepal is nothing but arguments between the king and the government and all the time it is the poor people who suffer.’
He looked to Mani for confirmation but Mani didn’t appear to understand quite what he’d said and acknowledged him with a confused smile. We advanced to second place in the roadblock queue.
People had warned me about the Maoists before I’d left for Nepal. The leader of the Maoists was a man commonly known as Prachanda, meaning ‘the fierce one’—apparently he was something of a ghost, rarely seen or photographed, forever in hiding. In their early days, I knew, the Maoists had been seen as the hope of the indigenous people of Nepal. But the government hadn’t taken their small faction seriously. Now, ten years down the track, the Maoists were supposed to number more than fifteen thousand and be heavily armed. The Maoists had become a force to be reckoned with.
‘If Prachanda orders for all businesses to strike, then that is what will happen. He has the government frightened and nobody wants bombings!’
Bombings? I wasn’t aware of any bombings, and Umesh could see that their mention disturbed me.
‘Yes, bombings! Prachanda has bombed government, even royalty. The last time that he ordered a strike in Kathmandu, he attacked and bombed businesses that didn’t do as he told. It is a very bad situation—and now it involves tourists too.’
I’d read up on Nepal’s history in a guide book in India before coming, but I could see it was the present-day activities that I should have looked into.
‘They will approach you in the mountains while you trek. They will be heavily armed! They will want money from you, a donation.’
‘But that’s crazy,’ I growled, ‘A donation is something you give because you want to, not because you’re being threatened.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ Mani interrupted, apparently now following the conversation. ‘Maoist no harm, they common man with family. No problem.’
‘It doesn’t sound like no problem,’ I persisted.
‘You no worry,’ replied Mani with ease.
We reached the head of the queue. The sight of five soldiers in combat gear armed with machine guns unnerved me. The elation I had felt a
s we set off had dampened. Now, despite Mani’s assurances, I felt doubtful, pensive. In fact, what did I know about Mani and Umesh in any case? They could both be dangerous terrorists for all I knew.
The soldiers stopped the car and asked Mani and the driver to get out.
Dear Holy God—
Through the backseat window I could see one of them take some papers from Mani and study them. Then a new thought occurred to me: I hoped they wouldn’t take it into their heads to have some fun with us. I recalled my last incident with officials when I crossed the Indian border into Nepal.
‘Fill in this form,’ the Indian immigration officer had grunted.
I had riffled through my bag for a pen but I knew already that I didn’t have one. It was mid-afternoon and the scorching heat was draining in.
‘Have you got a pen that I can use?’ There was one in his hand.
‘No, you must use your own.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘What can I do, you must have your own. This is not my problem.’
‘But I don’t have one.’ My voice was becoming louder. ‘Can I not borrow yours?’
‘I need mine right now. Maybe you should look through your luggage once again. Under this bright sun maybe your eyes are not so good.’
It was monsoon season in India, and the streets were mucky with scattered puddles and nowhere for me to lay my backpack down. This was absurd, I thought.
‘You know what? Keep your pen. If it’s that bloody well precious to you. I wouldn’t want it anyway.’
‘Sorry, I cannot understand a single word that you are saying. Can you speak English?’
I’d felt tiny, stupid and infuriated.
One of the soldiers at the checkpoint moved towards the car and leant in the door. I moved to get out from the back. ‘No please, sir, stay.’
It surprised me. For all he knew I too could be a Maoist sympathiser smuggling weapons to the enemy. I sat back while two soldiers made a brief inspection of the car’s interior.
All satisfactory, it seemed, and a few minutes later we were on the road again, although Umesh continued to peer into his rear-view mirror. I looked back as well. The roadblock was a depressing sight in a country otherwise so blessed with natural beauty. Although the soldiers had been polite and unthreatening, it was confounding, as always, to be held up and searched by men with guns.
Not until the roadblock had disappeared did Umesh relax. He turned on the radio, maximum volume. Craning round to Mani and me as he drove, he shouted, ‘No more roadblocks. This music is good, yes?’
It was six o’clock in the morning and pounding through our humble little car now came the haunting sound of a Nepalese folk tune: sitars, bongo drums and a foreign musical scale. The use of so many minor notes in a popular duet was discordant to my ear.
The trip to Nayapul would take us more than an hour, Om had told me, but Umesh must have taken his morning dose of speed. To the accompaniment of the blaring music, he set about gaining pole position on the narrow dirt road. We swerved monkeys, dodged buses, skidded past people on bicycles and honked the horn at fellow lunatic taxis, and I felt my hands clutching for dear life to the base of my seat.
As the road wound higher and more precipitous, the traffic thinned, allowing Umesh to speed up further. Torn between viewing the plunging drop down the mountainside—towards which we veered all too frequently—and oncoming lorries forcing us to give way on the narrow road. I shut my eyes.
‘Dear Holy God, please protect—’ massive swerve—female vocalist shriek—need to start again.
‘Dear Holy God, please protect Mam, Dad—’ another swerve—my thumbs not aiming in an upward direction—need to start again.
‘Dear Holy God, please protect—’ didn’t feel right—had to start again.
‘Dear Holy God—’
‘It’s okay? You happy?’ Umesh asked, taking his eyes off the road again to catch my eye.
I took a deep breath and struggled to reassure him. My lungs filled, my chest rose. You can do this! I thought. But it was useless. The prayer hadn’t been said correctly and we wouldn’t be safe until it had. I took another deep breath, this time holding it for a short while before finally releasing it with a gasp.
Dear Holy God, please protect Mam and Dad, John, Sarah and Sam, Benji and Rusty, all my friends and relatives and everybody who needs your help today.
On that journey to Nayapul, perfection was elusive. The erratic driving, pounding music, conversation, my own early morning tiredness, all conspired to make forming the perfect prayer near impossible.
I caught myself muttering out loud and darted a guilty look at Mani. Had he heard me? Perhaps the music was a blessing. If he’d heard something he didn’t let on.
But day one had moved on to the wrong mental foot for me.
2. Registration
Mani and I stood on the edge of the road and watched the taxi speed away from us, the pounding music dissipating to a gentle hum and then finally nothing. It was very quiet.
Umesh had completed the drive to Nayapul well within the predicted hour, even though the route had wound steadily uphill for most of that time. While we drove, towering trees had surrounded us in every direction and when the taxi had finally come to a halt and Umesh had plonked us down, we were in the depths of the forest. Other than a few rickety food stalls on the side of the main road, Nayapul was nothing but a gateway to the trekking path.
Mani occupied himself with my backpack.
‘Sorry if it’s too heavy,’ I said ineffectually.
‘No problem, it’s only little bit heavy,’ he acknowledged with a cheerful nod, and within moments he had the bag on his shoulders.
‘We go Birethanti first and then some breakfast. You little hungry, maybe need eat now?’ He looked at me cagily.
I was starved. ‘No, I’m fine for now,’ I answered. I figured that it was best to make a start sooner rather than later, and walking on a full stomach would probably just slow my progress. Mani turned away from me and took the first steps of our journey together.
Ah, I thought, here we go!
With the food stalls behind us, Mani led the way to a steep embankment not far away. We climbed down the embankment and reached an even, stony path. Within minutes the Nayapul road was behind us and out of sight, replaced by beautifully lush and vibrant countryside. It felt exciting: heading into the unknown, shaking off the anxiety of the speeding taxi and giving in to a sheer sense of release. Not as dramatic as when I’d upped and left Ireland, but similar.
The morning air was cool, its taste crisp and clear. Vibrant colours caught my eye, and I hungrily absorbed the sights and smells and sounds. Though it wasn’t windy, the gentle sway of the trees shushed over the sounds of cattle grazing nearby and distant voices of people starting their day. A sweet, pleasant scent filled the air, surprising, as most of the intermittent clearings were used for farming.
Surrounded by huge trees and a deep undergrowth of greenery I felt invigorated. Everything was so close and so present—not so different from landscape that I’d experienced before, but with a unique and indescribable feeling in the air, as though I’d stepped back in time.
The walk to Birethanti was gently downhill for the most part. Advancing down the terraced foothills, snippets of history were revealed in every direction. The mountainsides of Nepal had looked like they’d barely changed since the days long ago when trekkers first discovered their wonders. We passed through tiny villages and were greeted with curious, cheerful eyes and the optimistic Nepali welcome, Namaste. Even small children hailed our arrival with sweet and high-pitched namastes a hundred times over, as we walked past them. It was difficult to comprehend the hardship I knew lay within this world; the children all seemed oblivious to it, carefree.
‘You don’t know how good you have it,’ my mother would say with a raised finger pointed in my direction. ‘Think about the poor children in Africa!’
The authoritative finger was a good move a
nd Mam always knew just when to use it. When I was very young the raised finger was one step away from getting smacked and despite the fact that the smacking stopped as I got older, the fear remained. If Mam raised her finger, we all listened. And here, in the last few minutes I had observed many young children taking responsibility for their siblings while their parents worked all day—children as young as ten, carrying younger brothers or sisters on their backs. Mam would be satisfied with this lesson.
Mani suddenly stopped and waited for me to catch up. ‘We eat here.’ He gestured towards a small village visible ahead. We had been walking for just over thirty minutes and had reached Birethanti.
Once in the village, Mani found us a humble little home that doubled as a ‘teahouse.’ He was quietly welcomed by an overworked-looking young woman who discreetly turned away from my view. Disappearing behind a screen, she re-emerged with a man—her husband, I presumed. The man welcomed Mani heartily in Nepali, casting pleased looks in my direction. It was obvious how important guides such as Mani were to the sustenance of the villages along the trekking route.
‘Namaste,’ the man said to me. ‘You like milk tea? Yes? Yes?’
I ordered some milk tea and some Tibetan bread, which I had never tasted before.
‘Good food. We have very good food. And you have very good guide,’ he said, slapping Mani over the shoulder. ‘Like a brother to me,’ he continued. ‘Very strong.’
He left to prepare the morning meal. ‘Yes, you get good food here,’ Mani said. ‘Many, many teahouse in Birethanti,’ he went on. ‘Everybody make their home place to eat and place to sleep for tourist. If they are lucky tourist will stay with them. But here the best.’
While we waited for our food to arrive Mani excused himself and slipped out of sight. I sat contentedly at the table and enjoyed the beauty of my surroundings.
We were located in the centre of the village and from where I sat, I had a great view of everything. It reminded me of a tourist village named Glendalough back home in Ireland. Famed for its eighth-century monuments, Glendalough was one of the most inviting places in Ireland. I think it was the timelessness of both places that made them seem similar to me: both had stone houses, small and practical, bundled together in close proximity and cobbled pathways throughout. A sense of little having changed since people first put up dwellings there hung over each place.
