by Damien Leith
‘Sorry to have wasted your Saturday,’ I said sourly, as I made my way to the door.
Don’s voice echoed from behind. ‘That could work!’ He spoke confidently, with excitement. I heard another voice agreeing and I turned to inquire.
‘What could work?’ I knew the answer before it had even left his mouth.
‘That, what was it—?’ He tried to describe it. ‘That mental breakdown thing you just did there. The thing you did with your hands and your feet! Whatever it was you were doing, we could sell that.’
I was shocked. ‘You could sell what? What are you talking about?’ I bluffed.
‘Even better, he doesn’t even know he does it. We could definitely sell that!’ Don was practically salivating at the prospect.
‘I know exactly what you’re talking about!’ I fought back. ‘My problems are not part of the deal!’
‘Think about it.’
Don’s words grated through my mind as I slammed the door behind me. It was misery to think that the worst in me was the only thing that could make the best of me come alive.
‘Owww,’ yelled Akio from behind. I had just reached our lunch village ahead of the others, but ran back to investigate.
‘Leechee,’ he cried. ‘Look, leechee on my leg.’ He pointed to the black slug-like creature sucking at his heel.
‘Pull it off,’ I said.
Akio reached for the leech and pulled at it with his thumb and forefinger. The leech came off with a light spurt of blood and then proceeded to stick itself to his hand, sucking instantly.
‘Now it on my thumb!’
Mani came closer and began to laugh as we watched Akio trying to pick the leech off with his other hand. Each time he succeeded in removing it from one hand it stuck to the other. I found it quite amusing too, and even Akio could see the funny side of it. The leech was ruthless. Finally, with a swift attack Akio managed to lift the leech and send it flying through the air, to a location unknown to us all.
‘Phew, no messing around with that leech,’ I said to Akio with a chuckle.
‘Ah, like a Dracula,’ commented Akio, now tending to the wound on his leg.
‘You have more on your shoe.’ Mani pointed down towards Akio’s feet. Five fat leeches were wriggling through the lace holes of his left boot.
‘Ah shit-o,’ he cried.
Ten minutes and five flying leeches later we were sitting at a table in a small teahouse. Mani would have dal bhat with the family soon. Akio and I awaited our noodle soup.
‘What do you do for work?’ Mani’s question came unexpectedly after all this time.
‘I study, eh, chemistry. Research-o,’ Akio answered, waving his hands as he spoke.
‘Is it good job?’ Mani asked, very interested.
‘It is for me a good job but, I think, not for everybody.’
Our noodle soup arrived and Akio began to slurp into his, as did I.
‘You, Sean, you have good job?’ Mani looked serious.
‘I work on contracts—as an engineer!’ I replied. ‘You know, electricity!’
I mimed electrocuting myself and Mani copied my action, showing he understood.
‘What about you, Mani, why did you become a porter?’ I had wanted to ask the question since I’d met him and now was the right time. Mani’s big eyes glanced at me briefly and then he smiled shyly.
‘When I was a boy, my family very poor. We not so much money.’ He began to laugh; it was becoming clear that laughter was his way of easing around awkward conversation. ‘In Nepal it is difficult—’ he qualified this—‘I think it’s very difficult.’ Mani continued to talk as he looked away from Akio and me. ‘I hear about porter work. My uncle was guide and he give me job. First I work for no money, only dal bhat. I carry bags while my uncle is guide. Now my cousin Om help bring me work and I get three hundred rupees for one week.’
‘Ah, very bad-o money,’ said Akio, shovelling a spoonful of noodle soup into his mouth.
I was surprised by Akio’s rudeness, but Mani seemed unfazed. ‘I give two hundred to my family and rest for dal bhat and saving. It is good, I think! Soon I work for me, I my own company.’ Again Mani broke off in laughter.
When he was called for his lunch, I watched him slip away with the family and felt a mixture of sadness and cheer. You almost always meet somebody who has it ten times worse than you. Mani’s three hundred rupees a week amounted to one large meal for me—or four Mars bars from a stall along the trek path. Yet it was obvious how valued he was by the families we met; always taken into their circle.
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.
How could Akio be so insensitive to such a hardworking guy?
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…and Mani…and Mani.
I couldn’t get his name to feel right, and I needed to or his prospects would never improve. Akio slurped once again from his noodles and wrote a few notes in his book.
I rubbed my thumbs against my forefingers. Mani…Mani.
I rubbed my temples and thought hard about the words. Mani. It worked.
I must be going mad. I can’t change anything about Mani’s life, it’s his life.
I ate my noodles in silence. I was a dickhead.
6. The Maoist
We stayed at the teahouse for about half an hour.
Mani returned full of vigour and we set off again, refuelled and a lot more energetic. I took the lead as I had done earlier. After a short walk we entered jungle. It was almost as though we’d been transported to a different place entirely. All around us were trees, dense, thick and grey—real jungle, far more concentrated than forest and much more intimidating. Only a little light managed to creep in, so it was also much cooler. The path here no longer ran over large stones, but was made up of shards of fallen tree branches. Because of the rain the night before, this was terribly slippery to tread on.
Surprisingly, Mani was the first to fall. He clambered to his feet in seconds, and as of to his hide embarrassment briskly assumed the lead, while I took up the rear. Then, when we had been walking for almost two hours, Akio’s foot caught on a loose piece of wood. Under the weight of his backpack he keeled over. Mani turned swiftly to respond to Akio’s cry, but Akio’s slight stumble had developed alarmingly—over the side of the track and into a steep drop into thick trees and shrubbery below. We could hear Akio yelling in panic as he continued to roll, hands grabbing at whatever they could find.
Under the weight of my pack Mani could gather little speed to reach him. In desperation I threw my arm over the mountainside but Akio was well gone.
‘Ah shit! Shit, shit, shit,’ I yelled. ‘Akio! Akio!’
I peered over the edge, desperately trying to see where he’d landed. The drop below rose up, brought terrifyingly close by the vast covering of branches and leaves below the edge—he could be anywhere. Mani lay by my side, puffing and panting. We called out Akio’s name, but there was no response.
‘Akio, Akio,’ we yelled again, but still no response.
‘Where is he?’ I asked in shock.
‘I don’t know, I see nothing.’ Again we yelled his name; there was silence.
‘Ah, this is insane!’ I groaned, then tried a tremendous shout, ‘AKIO!’
‘I am a here-a.’ The voice was faint but there was no doubting it was Akio. Mani and I looked everywhere below the edge—but we could see no sign of him.
‘He could be anywhere down there,’ I said to Mani. ‘There are too many leaves in the way to see a thing.’
‘Where are you?’ Mani cried out, giving me a signal to be very quiet. Akio’s voice was just loud enough for Mani to pick the direction from which it came. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing off to the right.
‘I’ll go down and get him,’ I said rising to my feet. ‘I need a rop
e or something. Have you got one?’
‘No, I will go down.’ His words were definite and direct. Perhaps this was best; Mani knew this country.
He had already removed the backpack and was making a plan to get down over the edge. At first he tried easing himself over the edge, feeling his way by his feet, but his right foot gave way and I pulled him back up.
‘Rope, maybe we need rope.’
You can say that again. A prayer surfaced horribly in my mind as I rummaged through the jungle trying to find something that resembled a rope. Dear Holy God, please protect Mam, Dad, John, Sarah and Sam, Benji and Rusty, all my friends and relatives, Mani, and Akio hanging off the cliff.
Again and again I repeated the prayer, and although my fingers and toes aimed to the sky as much as they could, I was unable to get it right! This was hopeless. Akio could die!
‘There, at your feet.’ Mani spoke but I was too slow to respond. Not until he was tugging at a large heap of vine-like branches beneath me, did I even see them.
Damn prayers! I felt stupid and angry. And distressed. Now my scolding of the prayers could be the cause of Akio’s falling further and perhaps even dying. I continued to recite the lines in my head as I helped Mani to tie the vine rope around a tree and go over the edge. But then, just as Mani began to descend, Akio called out his name.
With neither Mani nor I noticing, Akio had somehow begun to climb up a vine that hung naturally over the edge to the ground below. Now, with strong tugs and a great deal of energy, he succeeded in coming to his own rescue. Eventually he was standing beside us.
‘Ah, you two, not fast enough!’ He began to dust himself down triumphantly. ‘You two like big girls.’
Mani smiled briefly in relief and took up a squatting position. I wasn’t sure if his look was in pain or dismay.
Akio had hurt himself in the fall and rubbed his head tentatively. I assumed he had been knocked unconscious for some seconds, probably while we called his name. Once he was awake again, it was like nothing had ever happened; he simply climbed back up to the path—in the same strange way a rain shower in Ireland arrives, creates panic, and almost as quickly disappears like nothing ever happened. Nevertheless, we took it easy for the remainder of the walk to Ghorepani. It took much longer than we had hoped, but we made it there in one piece.
The sight of Ghorepani village ahead in the distance revived us all. It was a much larger version of all the other villages we had encountered along the way—the same stony buildings, the same corrugated blue roofs.
The same, except for the atmosphere. Everywhere else we’d passed through, whether big or small, still managed to give an impression of openness, a welcome-to-the-public feel. Ghorepani was the opposite. A sign read, ‘Welcome to Ghorepani,’ but the faces said, ‘Go away while you still can.’
I half expected a tumbleweed to roll by.
‘Somebody must be dead,’ Akio suddenly exclaimed.
‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. It wasn’t that kind of atmosphere; it was more one of fear.
Eerily, for such a large village, not many villagers seemed to be outside their front doors. Occasionally a pair of eyes could be seen peeking from a slit in a curtain, or there’d be that feeling of someone present, of being watched from behind. Even Mani, a fellow Nepalese, couldn’t resist turning sideways, with a glance or two.
The hotel that Mani preferred here was the Basecamp and, true to his previous form, it was at the highest point in the village, which was yet a further ten minutes away. Steadily, we made our way through the cobbled, barren streets until we were within metres of our final destination.
‘Hello, I represent the Maoist. Where you come from?’
Akio let out a slight scream. The fellow had appeared from nowhere. He was a short Nepalese man, young, sallow-skinned, dressed in casual clothes and, most noticeably, brandishing a machine gun over his shoulder. It was surprising how attention-getting the weapon was: I just couldn’t take my eyes off it. Each time I told myself to stop looking at the gun, I’d redirect my attention to his face, but almost as quickly I’d be drawn back to its menacing, steely shape. It was mesmerising.
Mani took control of the conversation, in English.
‘We travel to base camp, come from Ulleri.’
Dear Holy God, please protect—Start again.
‘You stay in Basecamp Hotel tonight?’ the man asked, eyeing Akio and me inquisitively.
Dear Holy God, please protect…please protect…ple…please protect…Can’t get it right! Please protect…Start again…Dear Holy God, please protect…
‘Yes, we stay in Basecamp tonight.’ Mani spoke confidently. I was trying to listen but I had to get the words right or who knows what would happen to us.
…Please protect, Mam, Dad…Damn, not right!…Mam, Dad…please protect Mam, Dad, John, Sarah and Sam…the feeling isn’t right…Sam…still not right…Sam…Shit, say the damn word right.
Akio said something that I didn’t hear. I might have looked as though I was present in their conversation but my mind was at war for their protection.
…Please protect Mam, Dad, John, Sarah and Sam, Benji and Rusty, all my friends and relatives, Mani and Akio, especially Mani and Akio and me right now with the Maoist…with the…can’t seem to get it right, with the Maoist…Mao…
Suddenly everybody was staring at me. There was something I’d missed. What was it? Something they wanted from me. A deathly silence hung over us, and even my mind seemed to be quelled at just that moment.
‘What?’ I said nervously. I had to say something; the look on Mani’s face was beckoning me to speak.
‘You do not understand me?’ The Maoist seemed genuinely concerned, which, for a terrorist with a machine gun, I thought, was a little surprising.
‘Yes, yes, I can understand you. Sorry, I was just…’
I let the sentence hang in such a manner as to imply that I was trying to find simple words to explain myself. He took the bait and, obliged to repeat the question, asked more impatiently, ‘Where you come from, what country?’
…Please protect Mam, Dad.
‘I come from Ireland!’
…John, Sarah, Sam, Benji…
‘Ah, football in Ireland, right?’ He made a kicking motion with his leg; the machine gun swayed randomly.
Fingers aiming upwards, not so much that anyone might suspect, as fast as possible I continued the recitation: and Rusty, all my friends and relatives, Mani and Akio, especially Mani, Akio and me right now with the Maoist.
Success! Cheerfully I could answer, ‘Yes, right, football land, we play lots of football in Ireland.’
‘I like football, I like it a lot!’ His statement hung for a moment and then an awkward silence descended again, we three awaiting his next move.
‘Okay,’ he said in a jovial tone and with a clap of his hands, ‘maybe I come see you all later in Basecamp Hotel. Maybe you like to help with a donation, yes?’
We simply stared back at him.
The preliminaries were over. With a slight step backwards the gunman let us pass and we made our way towards the Basecamp.
There was always a chance that we would meet the Maoists, everybody had told us that we would. But like most things in life, nobody ever wants to greet bad news until it’s sitting in their laps.
We entered the hotel deflated.
‘Ah, not good-o,’ Akio mumbled as he threw his backpack on the wooden floor of the guesthouse.
‘No, not good at all,’ I agreed.
‘There is nothing to worry about,’ said Mani, still confident. ‘Later he will come for money. Give him money and then he leave, no problem.’
No problem, as long as Akio stuck to that plan.
Akio caught my questioning look and turned suddenly to Mani to ask where the bedrooms were.
Mani caught the attention of a fine-looking Nepalese woman I took to be the wife of the owner. She was pretty, with that rare, natural beauty often sought by women back home in lotions, mo
isturisers and facial creams, which pharmaceutical giants present as miracle products. Her jet-black hair was long, straight and tied back from her face, while her figure was slim and attractively delicate. Despite her beauty it was difficult to overlook a certain hardness in her, as she roughly shooed away a couple of small children who peered out from behind a curtained-off room.
‘This is Jagan, our host,’ Mani introduced her. Then, instead of seeking out her husband, Mani entered straight into negotiations about prices and rooms. Business concluded, Jagan withdrew to her kitchen and Mani showed us around the house.
‘Where is Jagan’s husband?’ I asked Mani, curious at finding a woman undertaking the business side of things.
‘No husband,’ Mani replied. ‘Husband die in big fire. This new home. Her old home burn down two years ago with baby inside. Husband go in to save baby, but he die. She widow now and not much money. Plenty bad luck for Jagan. No one to look after her.’
Back in the living area we could hear her small children now playing in the kitchen behind the curtain. To think that such misfortune could befall this young family! A wife without her husband, children without their father, and a lifetime of insecurity and hard work. It was sobering.
We decided on turns in the shower. I was first.
‘I think the shower might be little cold,’ Mani hinted as I made my way there, towel and clean clothes in hand.
‘I don’t care,’ I replied. ‘I’ll take anything that’ll even half wash this day from me.’
I stood naked beneath that icy shower, the blast of water teasing already aching skin, and shrieked my arse off. If anyone heard, they would have thought that I’d lost my mind, but it seemed the natural thing to do. Bollock naked in one of the poorest countries in the world, at an altitude that was too high to support reliable electricity, in a town overrun with terrorists—and my only real concern was for a hot shower. When the shrieks had subsided I imagined myself cooling down, on a hot beach somewhere in Africa.
Harold’s Bay was the place, a small beach hidden quietly away along the garden route at the base of South Africa. With huge cliffs either side, Harold’s Bay was our family’s favourite beach when I was a kid, and we went there every week. We had moved to South Africa for my dad’s work, and I think he took to the lifestyle better than anyone else. He loved South Africa, especially Harold’s Bay. Even in winter Dad took us there. He adored the water and often spent hours out swimming, letting his working week drift away.
