Published on: May 22, 2024
As promised by the guide the trek across the landslide was tricky. Loose shale and rocks under foot. Dorge said two houses had been swept away by the avalanche.
"No one was killed. One man still missing."
He said this with resignation to the danger of living in the Himalayas.
Another trekker Miriam picked her way across the wasteland. Her feet were bleeding and her partner, an older German, didn't look in any better shape.
I slid a couple of times as did Lance.
The porters handled the damaged trail like mountain goats.
Reaching the bottom of the valley we crossed the river on a derelict hanging bridge. The current was ever fierce. Falling into the water meant drowning and I was glad to have safely negotiated the span.
At the next village an older woman greeted our passage by sticking out her tongue. Another trekker Dice aka Todd commented that maybe it was part of mating ritual. Our guide Dorge corrected him, "Here we know that devils have no tongue, so villagers stick out their tongue to show that they are not demons."
"There are demons here." Dice laughed at such an idea.
"Everywhere on my travels across Asia, everyone had warned about the devils in the next valley or island. Upon arriving onward the people of the island or valleys warned their neighbors were evil. magic was everywhere. The worst demons are the royal troopsin Kathmandu repressing the democratic uprising of the people, but those are human.
"All the wooden masks in the villages are of demons." Dorge stuck out his tongue.
I've never seen any demons other than in human forms, but I have seen ghosts."
"You have???" Dorge was alarmed by this admission.
"I have and I'll tell you a ghost story this evening." Ghost stories work better around a fire in the dark. A glass of whiskey helped too.
A crowd of villagers waited by the school and motioned for my approach.
"They ave heard that you have medicine. None of them have seen a doctor in this life."
"I'm not a doctor."
Dorge shrugged with little concern for my being charged with malpractice.
"You have medicine. Only medicine here. Tiger balm."
I agreed to the deception and treated infected eyes and hands and feet with antiseptics. I lanced small wounds swollen with pus. They bore the pain without a whimper. I gave a bottle of antiseptic ointment to the teacher, who expressed his gratitude with a solemn bow.
"How much medicine did you bring?" asked Dice. He had attended Cornell for Hotel Management. I had attended Boston College. My major had been Economics and graduated sin laude, but my grandfather had been a Maine doctor. My Irish namesake had been a trolley man in Boston. My only medical training was at Boy Scout camp in New Hampshire. Thankfully no one had any broken bones or anything really serious.
"Enough to handle a hypochondriac's ills." I had enough to last me till the return to Kathmandu.
LATER
Resting by a prayer wall at another villager. I was a doctor again. Dorge explained that we are stopping too often, so I cut my clinic short by only tending to the children. Babies with coughs I gacve them a droplet of sweet syrup. They smile and wash their grimy faces. One old gent complained about a tooth ache. He opened his mouth to reveal rotten stumps. I gave him cloves for the pain and advised that he suck on them. He made a face tasting them, but upon my departure smiled with relief. They waved good-bye.
Ganchemao is the monster peak rising above the valley. Snow clumped in glaciers on the peak. The sun is torching my lips. Dice lends me lip balm.
"I have to take care of the doctor."
"Then you can be my nurse."
Later
I walked ahead of everyone. Even the porters. I want to be alone. The wind, the scent of pines and flowers, the world of sky peaks. I sneak peeks, because I am trekking on a narrow trail and pay attention to where I put my feet rather than trip and fall into a deadly valley. Lots of rocks. Twisting an ankle would be a disaster this far from the road. I stop and rest, regaining my breath. Our porters pass smoking cigarettes. I wait for a lagging trekker. Dieter is suffering from dysentery. He appears after fifteen minutes, looking like shit. I advise him to hire a porter. We are dismissing one at the next village. His pack is empty.
"You shits are only get worse."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look it, but up to you."
Miriam appears that she has abandoned the Sherpa way and is wearing her boots. A wise decision, but I can tell by her gait that she really savaged her feet. I offer to clean them and binding them with tape. She shakes her head not willing to admit she was wrong. Lance looks at me and we both shrug with no comment.
Best to let people do what they think is best.
LATER
We stopped for an afternoon tea. Each step up this valley transports us further back into medieval times. This could be 1452 AD. Yaks, the Sherpas' beast of burden lumbered up and down the trail under heavy loads of up to a hundred-fifty pounds. Three times more than the Sherpa porters. I'm carrying about ten pounds and every step is a struggle. Dice is much younger than me and is handling the ascent to Langtang glacier with ease. Lance and I are in the same shape.
Crap.
I had to switch pens. I gave away two to young boys.
This is as faraway from civilization as I have been in my life. Far from Boston. Far from New York. As soon as I put my boots on the trail I was transported to the 15th Century. No telephones, no radio signal. No electricity other than our flashlights. No subways. No bagels. No diamonds on 47th Street.
Dice, who retired from Wall Street at 30, joins me in a squat on a boulder, and asked, "What do you think these people think of us. Trekking through their villages without stopping for more than a cup of tea and sleep."
"They think of us a cash cow. Without us life would be even harder. They have been thinking the same as all travelers since before time. In good times lots of people. In bad times fewer and most of them bad."
"And these are good times?"
"Be more trekkers, if Kathmandu was quiet."
"My guide, Porterhouse, says nothing that happens in Kathmandu affects up here. Do you think these are good times?"
Nothing is burning and we don't see any dead people. I had seen the soldiers shoot into a crowd in Kathmandu. They weren't aiming over their heads. It's peaceful up here. Normal times. Nothing special."
We were surrounded by Rhododendrons. The huge flowers flourish in the high altitudes. I had won one in high school from a church raffle. The only thing I had ever won.
I looked up to the mountains, squinting in the high glare off the snow peaks. These villages weren't flush with money. They never had any. Bad things happened. Bad things happened a lot. A sick child. A sick parent. A sick cow. The King opened Nepal to foreigners in 1951. The 50s hadn't hit Langtang Valley yet. This trek isn't too popular, since it dead-ends at the glacier. There is no crossing into the neighboring Helambu Valley.
"Maybe in ten years this valley might improved, but the only transport are by your feet, on the sherpa's back, or a yak. These people are shackled to poverty, they are slaves to the lower altitude people, but they proudly live their lives as had their fathers and mothers. And do they want our lives?"
"I don't, which is why I quit Wall Street."
"Not after making a fortune."
"I was lucky and left the casino before I gambled it away."
"All the porters play cards. For their pay."
"To be blessed by luck."
"As are we all."
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