by Damien Leith
I remembered a summer day in Ireland when Dad had packed us all into the rusting blue Datsun Cherry and driven the whole family to Glendalough. The sun was shining for a change, we all ate ice cream—what more could a car full of kids want? I remembered how my brother John had got saturated after slipping into a nearby rock pool. Dad hung John’s trousers out the car window as we drove so that they would dry, and somewhere between Glendalough and home they came loose and vanished!
But at twenty-eight, I was long past family outings and ice-cream cones, even though the memories were as happy and fresh as if it had all been only last week.
Maybe I’m starting to miss home, I thought. Or perhaps the guilt was beginning to set in.
‘You have nothing to worries about!’
Mani startled me. He’d reappeared unexpectedly and I jumped a little.
He grinned wildly.
‘You’ve changed your clothes?’ I said.
He had replaced his trousers and t-shirt for a pair of faded blue shorts and light hoody-styled top. He regarded me quizzically; perhaps I’d spoken too fast for him to understand.
‘It is Nepali fighting with Nepali,’ he replied, to my confusion. ‘They like tourist, not want harm tourist.’
‘Who? What are you talking about?’
‘The Maoist! They only fight with Nepali. If I wear combat—you know combat?’
I had to think for a second. ‘Ah yeah, you mean like army clothes?’
‘Yes!’ He was pleased I understood. ‘Like army. If I wear combat then Maoist they are shooting at me, maybe make me deaded. But if I look like guide-porter, no problem.’ Mani ended his sentence with a questioning pout, his large lower lip slightly overlapping his upper.
He had been fidgeting while he spoke and there’d been a nervous tremor in his voice, so I guessed his words of reassurance were not entirely for my benefit. No doubt in his life he’d witnessed his fair share of crazy things but the Maoist threat was new territory. The assurance that he’d shown in the taxi, I noticed, was receding a little now we were actually in the mountains. Clearly the Maoists did worry him.
‘Do you think that we will meet them?’ Mani’s anxiety was a little contagious. ‘The taxi driver said that they are asking for money.’
‘Ahh, I think—!’ He suddenly became stony-faced and looked as though he was about to lay bare his stratagems. I gazed at him with interest.
He didn’t reveal a plan; he didn’t say anything at all. Instead he broke into a fit of uproarious laughter.
‘What is it?’ I asked, feeling unsure.
Mani continued to laugh, so much so that tears began to well in his eyes. I couldn’t help myself from joining in. It was too amusing to watch him, his eyes gleaming like a madman as he guffawed.
‘What is it? Share the joke.’
Mani abruptly stopped, his tone serious but his face still grinning. ‘Ah, it’s okay, no problem for tourist.’
‘No problem for tourist!’ I wasn’t convinced and he could see I was nervous.
‘No problem, no problem,’ he reiterated. ‘Eat breakfast and have good time!’ His tone became sterner, and he gestured at the table. Breakfast had arrived.
We both munched quietly on our food, although my appetite had faded. Now I ate out of necessity rather than desire. My spirits had been dampened a bit and the Tibetan bread tasted bland.
The words of an ex-girlfriend came into my mind: ‘Smile like an eejit,’ she said, ‘even when you’re pissed off. Eventually your brain gets the message to cheer itself up.’ I forced my lips into a smile and, yes, moments later I felt much better. Maybe that was what Mani did, too.
Revived, we started off again. Within a hundred metres or so we came to the huge stone anchors of a rope bridge. Below it, a powerful, gushing river flowed. The bridge looked unsteady to me until I watched five cows thunder past us. Under the unwavering direction of their whipping master they crossed the chasm with Mani and me close behind. Moments later we were all safely on the other side.
Mani led the way to a cottage not far from the bridge. There was no sign on the door, but the small queue of fellow backpackers was sign enough that this was the trekking registration point of Birethanti. Inside was only one room, and apart from a few maps taped to the walls, there was just a large bound logbook on the centre of an unsteady wooden table. Since the room was not staffed, Mani pointed out what to do.
A couple of signatures later we were really on the trek. Mani seemed so enthusiastic that I felt it rubbing off on me. I recited a short prayer, and thankfully got it correct the first time. Thumbs pointing up, eyes looking to the sky, toes pointing in a vertical manner inside my boots as I teetered on my heels—what an ordeal! Still, I was pleased that my mind had obliged so agreeably.
I’m not actually a religious person—the whole praying concept was something I’d developed as a crutch to lean on when I was worried or bothered. But over time, the more I did it the more I’d come to rely on it and now, after twenty years, the prayers had become almost as necessary to me as breathing.
Doctors had told my parents that this was a form of OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. In the same way that there are people who can’t leave their houses without turning the light switch off and on a hundred times, my praying placed similar mental demands on me. It was never a case of simply praying; it was much more than that; it was about perfection. Every syllable of every prayer had to be recited precisely and only at that point, when my mind was entirely satisfied that there were no errors, could I feel content enough to stop reciting. It sounds crazy and I suppose it is.
As our journey became decidedly uphill, Mani, showing his experience, powered off in front, leaving me straggling some distance behind. It was too early in the day to be lagging. I quickened my pace and was soon following closely at his heels. As I walked I thought about the registration in Birethanti.
Who would find you out here? The countryside was vast and secretive, a short stray from the trekking path would surely lead you, unsuspecting, into depths of forests that you’d struggle to resurface from. I shivered at the notion that the registration centre represented a final record: if you went missing, the only proof that you were ever here was your name in a book in Birethanti!
I wondered how many people got lost every year? What a stupid thought! I was angry that I was thinking this way. I’m not praying about this, you can forget it!
I managed to put these thoughts aside and concentrate instead on hauling my legs up the steep slope. The walking was intense, and maintaining a steady pace became more important than appreciating the surroundings. When I did stop for a breather, redirecting my eyes from their hypnotic focus on my feet, I found that we had walked for an hour and in that time the landscape had become much more open and farmland was dominating the view. We’d climbed at least a thousand metres.
3. Caterpillars and Dhanyabaad
My brother John was older than me by three years. Even as a child he was tall and sturdy for his age and it was no surprise that as soon as he hit high school he was a popular team member in most sports. Whatever he put his hand to he was a natural at. Along with his gift for the usual sports of soccer and athletics, John was adventurous—he also gave extreme sports a go: rock climbing, parachuting, bungee jumping; he did whatever came his way. He was very much my older and wiser brother and there never seemed to be anything too difficult or out of reach for him. When we were kids together, he would take me across railway tracks and down by old quarries; everything we did seemed, through my young eyes, to be dangerous but so exciting. He watched over me and inspired me at the same time.
John and I had drifted apart as we got older. Our lives had moved on from the common interests of childhood to solo paths. John was focused on his career and settling down with a partner, while I was, in my own way, still fancy free and trying to find myself. Holidays and trips abroad seemed a thing of the past for John. Nepal would have thrilled him, but I couldn’t imagine him ever coming here. T
oo many chains were wrapped around him.
Mani stopped abruptly. We had walked up what felt like five hundred steps and he needed a break. So did I.
I hadn’t expected it to be so hot. It wasn’t quite midday yet but the sun was strong. The green cotton vest I wore had become uncomfortable and clung to me in a heavy coating of sweat. Patches of dense forest tempered the heat but so far they’d been in short supply. For the most part we’d trekked through unsheltered hillsides.
Don’t start moaning, I told myself. Enjoy being here. Nepal is like a dream. Each time I told that to myself, it gave me a jolt of energy. I was out of breath, thirsty and sticky all over, but all in all, at that early stage of the trek, I was pretty good. A long journey still lay ahead, but my legs were feeling strong.
‘Where you come from?’ asked Mani, sitting himself on a fallen tree trunk as I gulped water from my canister.
‘Ireland,’ I replied.
‘Holland?’
‘No, Ireland.’ After so many years living abroad, I didn’t sound Irish any more than I sounded English.
‘Ah, island,’ he deciphered. Despite his pronunciation being incorrect, I could see he’d understood. He looked away thoughtfully, the backpack released from his sturdy shoulders. He seemed relaxed but distant.
‘Would you like some water?’ I held the flask in front of him.
‘Ah.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, Dhanyabaad.’
‘Danye?’ I couldn’t pronounce it. ‘What’s that?’
‘Ah, it means thank you. Dhanyabaad—thank you.’
‘Oh.’ I repeated it. ‘Dhanyabaad.’
‘Yes, dhanyabaad, thank you, very good.’ He was pleased and glowed like a proud teacher.
I repeated it a few more times to myself. Dhanyabaad, Dhanyabaad, DAN—YOU—BAT. I never really liked cricket, but picturing some unknown friend Dan being pushed up to bat seemed to be the best way of remembering the word. Better than visualising it, which was the other way I usually memorised things. I have always tried to make a point of remembering as many details that come my way as possible; names in particular.
Dhanyabaad. It was firm in my mind.
‘Okay, we go.’ Mani secured the backpack to his shoulders and, with a heavy sigh, lifted himself to his feet. I watched as the veins protruded from his short legs. How strong was this little man?
Mani didn’t have one ounce of fat on his body. He was almost all muscle, like an extremely athletic boy. His physique, I thought now, could have only been achieved through years of hard graft and many a day without sweets and delicacies. Now, as I watched him leaning forward, controlling the weight of my bag while at the same time tackling the steep incline, I couldn’t imagine how he felt, though I knew he’d done the trip countless times before and must have been used to weights far heavier than mine.
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. I paused. And Mani with the backpack.
That was a bad sign. It was only my first day and already my mind was introducing new additions to the ritual. I had promised myself before I arrived in Nepal that I was going to battle this sickness, make a huge effort not to pray, or, for that matter, not to worry. Already I was departing from the plan!
And Mani with the backpack! What an idiot. I was disappointed with myself.
No doubt Mani knew every aspect of trekking like the back of his hand. What could my few words possibly do to help him? He seemed capable and he’d survived well enough up until that point without my assistance.
Mani doesn’t need to be in my prayer, I thought, and I don’t need him there either. I’ve enough problems of my own without worrying about his! He’s just another name to torment me.
As my irritation increased I felt a sudden urge to recite the prayer again. I pointed my eyes, fingers and toes to the sky and hoped for no interruptions which would require me to start again. It was awkward and uncomfortable walking on my heels like this—a ridiculous position for trekking.
It’s just typical! You can’t cure everybody else’s problems, you’re a fool if you think that you can. We’re all masters of our own destiny! I’m not including him—
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.
The words melted away as we neared a small village and I was obliged to greet some travellers heading in the opposite direction.
‘Namaste!’ I said cheerfully. Now I had to silently repeat the prayer again. 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 and Mani with the backpack.
It was perfect but it left an ill taste in my mouth. I shouldn’t have been so weak.
‘Alright, mate.’ He was British and was in front of his porter and his guide. All three appeared to be in a hurry.
‘Where have you just come from?’ I asked.
‘Came straight from Ghorepani today. Bloody Maoists are everywhere up there!’
‘Really, are you serious?’
‘Bloody right, mate. I’m not hanging around in these mountains. It’s just a matter of time before the little bastards start taking tourists as hostages.’
His voice was full of scorn, and while I didn’t doubt there were Maoists up ahead I remembered my dad’s words again: ‘Always look like you’re prepared when you’re travelling—people are more accepting of you when they think you’re one of their own.’
The Briton was dressed entirely in expensive North Face hiking gear, which looked brand-new. He must have bought it all just before he left England. An oversized Nikon ultra-zoom camera dangled ostentatiously around his neck, and printed on his hat was the slogan ‘I conquered the Annapurna’. His bum bag was bulging.
Dad was right. My own most frightening moments when I started travelling had all been when I looked out of place or acted like I was better than other people.
‘I was a sitting duck if I stayed,’ the guy continued.
‘Did you have to pay them anything?’ I asked, trying to bat away his fear from me.
‘Nah, I didn’t stay long enough. No one’s getting a penny out of me, I’m telling you!’ He wiped sweat from his forehead, his skin blotchy red under the heat. ‘Hey, if I were you I wouldn’t go up there. It’s a death trap!’ His voice was intense and for a minute I was swayed by it. Mani broke the spell.
‘I think we better go, keep moving! Maoist no problem!’
The British guy was appalled.
‘Maoist no problem? Have you got bleeding cement between your ears? They’re a big bloody problem. They’re going to put you boys out of work, for one thing!’
He was speaking fast and I could tell from the glazed look in Mani’s eyes that he didn’t understand everything the bloke was saying.
‘Do you think tourists are going to bother coming up here if their lives are at risk? No bloody way! When I get back to England I’ll be telling my government all about this, and believe me, nobody will be coming here then, mate!’
Mani interrupted this speech abruptly, turning away as he spoke. ‘We better go, no problem!’
The British traveller didn’t hide his disapproval and I saw a certain anger creep in. Mani was disregarding him and he wasn’t impressed. I followed Mani.
‘Suit yourselves, mates, but don’t expect me to be part of your search party when you go missing!’ He was terribly rattled.
Stealing a quick glance back, I watched as he bad-temperedly nudged past both his guide and porter and sped down the hill, then finally disappeared around a bend. Mani, on the other hand, had begun singing softly to himself. At first I thought it was a smug song of victory but on nearing him I realised that he was quite contentedly singing for the simple pleasure of a tune. It was contagious. Before long, I found myself humming a song as well. Music had been my lifeline for years back in Irela
nd. When I sang and played, my spirits lifted and I felt open to the good life had to offer.
The path ahead was still very exposed, with little shelter from the scorching sun, but the views were enthralling. Expanses of green stretching high into the clouds, clinging tightly to white water washing over falls and becoming frantically flowing rivers below. It was painterly but there was also a realness to the countryside that was quite unlike anything I’d seen before. Nothing was fabricated, nothing was false; it was all natural and engaging. A part of me wished for little more than to stop what I was doing, find a patch of grass to sit upon, and simply close my eyes and listen. There was so much of nature on display and I could not give it my full attention.
We continued at a steady pace for about four miles until at last we found ourselves walking beneath a patch of trees. Up ahead a large number of children in school uniforms were coming towards us, and to clear the path for them we took a break. I swigged from my water canister and greeted the children as they passed. Mani offloaded my backpack from his shoulders and I was amazed to see steam emanating from its surface.
‘They go to school in Birethanti!’ Mani must have been reading my mind.
‘All the way to Birethanti?’ I gasped, a little higher pitched than I intended.
‘Yes.’ He started to giggle. ‘Long walk!’ His giggle developed into convulsions of laughter, just like earlier and I suddenly felt like the shy kid who never caught the dirty joke at school but laughed anyway.
Yet how amazing it was that these children made such a trip to school, and wearing only a pair of flip-flops. There I stood in my heavy boots and all my hiking clothes, while they skipped by in school uniforms and next to nothing on their feet, calling ‘Namaste,’ their eyes glowing in their fresh handsome faces.
