Himalayan Diary

3

Landing on a clandestine, Colombian jungle airstrip to pick up a ton of coke has to be less stressful than flying into Tenzing-Hillary Airport, Lukla. Pilots require special training to make the trip, and I doubt they make half as much as a coke runner.

Our plane turned right once we were in the air, rounding a mountain shoulder that overlooked the airport. Below us, the rainfalls had carved a wide riverbed with canals that looked like stretch marks over the earth, merging and separating throughout the valley. We gained altitude and flew over hills thick with rainforests, slashed by zigzagging dirt roads that connected otherwise unreachable villages.

The sun burned red through a hazy sky. What looked like clouds through the cockpit became the snowy peaks of the Himalayas standing still in front of us, dwarfing our plane. My mind struggled to grasp their scale.

The passengers gasped, tugged on each other’s sleeves, and pointed out the windows. I distinguished my father’s excited giggles from the others on the back of the plane. He was filming with his phone, narrating the scene to his grandson back home.

The plane barely cleared a mountain ledge before beginning its descent. In the distance, a short stretch of runway buried itself into the hill. A small town clung to the slopes that surrounded it. The co-pilot flicked switches and pushed buttons all around the cockpit, while the pilot adjusted his sunglasses and gripped the yoke like the reins of a wild horse, pulling and pushing, turning it left and right as the wind rocked the plane from side to side, trying to line it up with the diminutive strip of concrete below.

They say everyone’s an atheist until you have to land in Lukla. And yet, a plane crash wasn’t even in my top five Himalayan-deliverance prayers. Landslides, stomach infections, altitude sickness, broken bones, a Yeti encounter, and an old man’s heart attack seemed like more pressing matters of divine intervention to me.

Weeks before the trip began, my father and I had a serious discussion about him dying up there. I told him that, at most, I could maybe pay a guy to carry his corpse on the back of a mule to a lower altitude and then burn him in a pyre alongside perhaps some of the trash the locals might need to get rid of. Depending on the cell connection, I would try to FaceTime the family so they could watch the process and have a type of closure. Then I would smuggle his ashes inside a Sprite bottle — or would he prefer Fanta? — through customs, back to México, and place them somewhere around the house where we wouldn’t forget them, and the cleaning lady wouldn’t throw them out.

He said he was okay with whatever brand of soda bottle was available as a coffin since corpses can’t be choosers.

Mum hated all our semi-sarcastic death talk, even though she would happily murder my father herself any day of the week and wouldn’t even bother with the mourning rites. The one who seemed least concerned about his possible death was he, which confused everybody, since it didn’t fit his usual self-absorbed personality, that I fear, after a thorough examination of the family’s finances, might be my sole inheritance.

My father’s strange attitude towards his possible death made sense just the day before we left. He sat on the living room couch, looked at me with a straight face, and told me he “had been thinking,” if he died over there, the guys at the gym, the guys at the office, once they learned how he died in the Himalayas, they would consider him to “be a fucking legend.”

This all wouldn’t be half as amusing if my father had, in fact, died in the Himalayas, which he didn’t; I just saw him cross right in front of me wearing nothing but his underwear and carrying a colossal bowl of cereal. That is not to say that there were moments when he almost died, and many others when I wished to kill him myself.

Our plane landed with a loud thud, the creaking of inner plastic panels, clapping, and relieved sighing of the passengers onboard. The runway was so short that it had a pronounced incline to help reduce the speed of a landing aircraft and boost the acceleration of a departing one. The pilot flicked switches overhead again, grumbled into his headset, then turned back to the air stewardess and gave her a thumbs-up.

A short slope, green with grass, rose from the runway into a stone road fenced with chain-link topped with barbed wire. People leaned over and watched us from behind the fence as we made the short walk from the plane into the airport.

The inside of Lukla’s airport wasn’t much different from the one in Ramechhap. Smaller, but adorned with the same chaotic ambience of semi-comedic confusion and foreign frustration.

Outside the main entrance, dozens of guides and porters waited for their clients, like parents picking up their children from school. We walked past them and followed the stone road into town. The airport was surrounded by tea houses teeming with hikers who, as we were later told, had been stranded for over a week due to bad weather, unable to fly.

That day, at eight in the morning, the sky was clear and the sun heated Lukla. The town was restless with the beginning of the high trekking season. Stores sold all sorts of souvenirs. We dodged running children, porters, mules, sleeping dogs, and big groups of sunblock-smelling hikers speaking familiar-sounding languages.

The few rupees we had exchanged at Kathmandu’s airport were running out, so finding a money exchange became our first objective. We found a small one tucked between two stone buildings, knocked at the door, and peered through the glass, but saw no movement inside.

Facing the money exchange store, on the other side of the street, a small man sat on a colorful, knitted-together stool, cupping his hands around a mug of steaming tea and squinting at us.

He had a round face with strong Asian features, leathery sun-tanned skin, a broad nose, and smiling eyes. A different ethnic group was clearly predominant in the region.

The Sherpas, or Shar-pa —Tibetan for “Easterner”—had migrated over generations through the high mountain passes from Tibet into Nepal. The movement likely began around the 15th century and had been relatively recently accelerated by the Chinese invasion of Tibet in the 1950s. They were so romanticized by climbing communities that the ethnic group’s name had almost become an interchangeable term with mountain climbers around the world, sometimes at the expense of their many other facets as a people.

My father approached the man, asking if he knew when the store would open. The man stood up and offered to exchange currencies with us. Dad asked about the rate, naturally. The man peeked over our shoulders at the exchange store. The daily rate hadn’t yet been updated on the chalkboard, but he offered one better than yesterday’s.

The man then invited us into his shop, where he sold souvenirs, maps, and climbing gear. We asked if he could exchange a thousand dollars. He walked over to a small desk in the corner, pondering for a moment, then pulled an old calculator from one of the desk’s drawers. He tapped in the digits, did the math, and then shouted something at a door next to him.

A small girl with the same facial features came out of the door. They spoke in what I assumed was Sharpa, which derives from old Tibetan and has no written form; it sounded different from the modern Nepali in Kathmandu, which derived from Sanskrit. The girl disappeared back through the door. The man smiled at us.

“I can do thousan dollar, yes. She is going to bring,” he said, pointing at the door. “Please wait.”

Dad asked him questions about the trail, towns, and the weather forecast for the week. They chatted. My father made the man chuckle while I rummaged through the store and got us a beaten map of the Sagarmatha area; the colors of the map had been eaten by the sun. There were newer, fancier ones (waterproof even), but this one had an old-school mountaineering look, last updated before I was born.

The girl came out again, holding two big bundles of rolled bills tied with rubber bands. The man undid one of the rubber wraps, licked his thumb, and began counting the money under his breath, giving a small nod each time he hit a mark.

“Okay,” he said once he finished counting, then turned the calculator to us. He erased the previous sums. The digital screen went back to zero. He explained the math like an elementary school teacher, tapping numbers, multiplying, adding. In the end, the calculator showed the alleged amount of rupees we would get for our dollars. Just like in elementary school, I hadn’t paid that much attention and understood little of what I was being explained.

“Did he do the math right?” Dad asked me in Spanish, avoiding any unpleasantness that the questioning of the man’s mathematical acrobatics might bring.

“What? Didn’t you just see it?” I asked.

“So it’s right?” Dad asked.

“It seems to me… doesn’t it?” I said.

“You don’t fucking know, do you?” Dad muttered under his breath. We argued about it. In the end, tired of our bickering, the nice man lent us his calculator so we could do the math ourselves at a slower pace.

After both parties agreed, Dad pulled the dollars out of his fanny pack while I counted the rupees. The bills were beautiful; each had a different animal and color: white elephants, gray tigers, blue snow leopards, green rhinos, and a red yak. I kept getting distracted by them, losing track while I counted, starting again from the beginning.

When I finished, Dad looked at me questioningly. I nodded in response, and we handed over the dollars. The owner smiled and bowed as he received the exchange. He shouted at the door, and the girl came out, grabbed the bills, and disappeared. We divided the rupees between us; there were so many that we both struggled to zip our fanny packs shut.

“Is it safe to carry this much cash on the trail?” Dad asked the shopkeeper.

“Yes, you keep in like this.” He pointed at the fanny packs.

“No robbery? Assault?” Dad mimicked a gun with his hand.

The shopkeeper laughed. “No, no, in Nepal, this no problem, no problem.”

We were skeptical but didn’t show it, thanked him, and before leaving, asked where a good place for breakfast was.

“Breakfast? Yes,” said the man.

We followed him out of the store. He took us two houses down the main street. It was a nice cafe that also served as a lodging house. Probably owned by him too.

We ordered by pointing at the menu, which was in English. Dad asked for fried potatoes with two fried eggs on top, sunny side up. I had veggie chow mein.

After a few minutes, steaming plates of food were in front of us. Dad cut half a fried egg; the yolk trickled down to anoint the potatoes and vegetables in golden yellow. He speared a small piece of potato and a strip of green capsicum, mopped them in a puddle of yolk, and ate them. His eyes went wide. He shook his head in disbelief, swallowed, and repeated the process. I hadn’t even touched my food when he said, “Try this,” pushing his plate toward me.

I forked a couple of potatoes, a piece of onion, and peppers, avoiding the eggs. Bringing the fork close to my nose, I took a whiff. The onion was caramelized, the potatoes browned in all the right places. I put the food into my mouth and chewed slowly. A second forkful was needed to verify what my taste buds were already signaling. The familiar flavors were there, only intensified, like a twenty-seven-year-old baby trying potatoes for the first time.

“Those are the best fucking potatoes I’ve ever had in my life,” Dad concluded, dragging his plate away from me.

He sometimes abused superlative declarations, especially when it came to food, so I usually dismissed them, but in this case, I had to agree with him. Those were the best fucking potatoes I’ve ever had in my life too.

We devoured our food, asked for two black coffees and two slices of carrot cake, which is still to this day the best carrot cake I’ve ever had, in my superlative opinion.

We later found that each village grew its vegetables, at least the ones on the lower altitudes, far from Monsanto or any other genetically-modifying evil company. The ingredients in each meal were then, for the most part, locally sourced, organic, and part of a people’s ancestral diet that knew how to cook them well. The menu rarely changed from then on through the trail, likely for logistical reasons, given the crops you can grow in the mountains and the arduous task of outsourcing the ones you can’t.

We did find bakeries and tea houses way up with pizzas, cakes, and cookies. One tea house even offered an aberration of a quesadilla, which managed to food-poison two Israelis. Meat, although of dubious provenance and, unless brought by helicopter, several days old, was available. The wise went vegetarian for a couple of weeks or faced the imminent shits. Nepal, due to its Hindu/Buddhist population, is predominantly vegetarian, although people draw the line in different species depending on the particular branch of Buddhism and Hinduism they follow. Most would never dream of eating a cow, others draw the line with chickens, and some only eat goat or buffalo.

After our meal, I pulled out the map I’d just bought for us and studied the trail. The map hung over the sides of the table. Dad stained it with a few drops of coffee. Neighboring tables watched us. We had a digital map on my phone with a 3-D model of the route and whatnot, but the archaic method of guiding ourselves with a physical map brought us the comfort of appearing as if we knew what we were doing to our fellow hikers.

I pulled a pen from my pocket and circled the town of Monjo, thirteen kilometers away from Lukla. A heavy first day, since we aimed to be doing six-kilometer hikes on average, that is, without taking into account elevation gains, which of course were the crux of the matter.

There was another option, a town somewhat halfway called Phakding. We knew beforehand that a lot of hikers chose to have a lighter first day, followed by a harder second one, which involved a significant elevation gain to reach Namche Bazaar, the largest and most populated town on the trail.

We agreed to decide once we went through Phakding and see how we felt about it then. Stay the night if needed.

When we stepped out of the café, more hikers were flooding Lukla’s narrow streets. The good weather had allowed planes to land all morning.

A cool mountain breeze swept through town, persuading stray dogs out of the shade of the stone buildings to lie in the sun and warm their fur. Prayer flags flutter above them. Against the backdrop, Mount Karyolung (6,511 m) rose.

Dad tried out walking poles in one of the many shops on the main street. I sat on the concrete steps outside the store, watching the sunlit dogs. They slept undisturbed by their surroundings, as if they were reincarnated ascetic men on the last journey before attaining ultimate wisdom. Just as they were close to achieving it, a clanging of bells came down the street. The noise belonged to a long line of dzos carrying gas tanks fastened to their bony sides. They moved slowly up the street. People stepped aside to let them pass. A young Sherpa boy behind them gave a piercing whistle to keep them going.

One of the dog’s ears twitched and turned like a parabolic antenna toward the sound. He half-opened an eye, realized what was heading his way, and went back to sleep. The dzos noticed the dogs and went around them. Their hooves came uncomfortably close to the dogs’ tails and paws, but the dogs didn’t flinch. The beasts of burden continued up the street and out of sight, while the boy’s whistling faded, along with the clinging of the bells.

Dad came out of the store with a pair of bright yellow trekking poles. We headed in the same direction the dzos and the young man had disappeared, also going around the holy, sunlit dogs.

We bought our permits just as we left Lukla. I stood in line behind a guide holding seven red passports in his left hand and a fat roll of rupees in his right. A woman behind the sliding window went through each passport, recording names and nationalities in a computer. The guide paid the woman and received a stack of paper talons stamped with an official seal. When it came our turn, the lady went through our documents much faster.

We followed the trail along the side of the mountain, walking slightly downhill, drawing ever closer to Dudh Koshi, the “Milky River” on our left. Patches of forest shaded us from the late morning sun. Porters passed us carrying loads with a broad strap worn across the forehead, wearing flip flops and ragged shorts. The loads varied in size and shape. Some carried four or five duffel bags tied together with rope; others had a cone-shaped basket filled with supplies of all kinds, mostly dry goods destined for the tea houses along the trail.

There were big groups of people wearing colorful hiking clothes, sporting logos of European brands we’ve never even heard of. Some of the groups were so large that more than two guides looked after them. Their porters were a long way ahead of them, starting hours earlier, carrying things their clients didn’t need, but insisted on bringing anyway.

We stopped every time we heard the bells, a whistle, or a shout, knowing that a line of mules or dzos was heading our way. We’d step aside and watch them pass, kicking up dust behind them.

Their legs stepped with uncertainty when they went down slopes of jagged rocks, carrying whatever was necessary for the 30,000 people who walked around these parts of the world each year. The trail was mined with their excrement. Life in the mountains, tourism, and mountaineering in the region were possible because of their forced labour. Many of the comforts we enjoyed were owed to them.

We walked past half a dozen small villages with well-kept vegetable gardens, lodges, and shops. Outside the tea houses, pots of marigold flowers and various other colors decorated the porches. Children came out of doorways and watched us go by. The younger ones still held some fascination when they saw us; the older, surely accustomed to hikers, dismissed us.

Phakding (2,610 m) had some of the largest lodging houses we had seen so far, wellness retreat-style centers with large wooden decks, reclining chairs, and umbrellas. Neither of us felt tired enough to stop there for the day, and we decided to push till we reached Monjo.

After Phakding, we kept the Dudh Koshi river on our right side and began gaining elevation. The sky became gray, though it didn’t look like rain. We came across two singing Sherpas walking in the opposite direction to us. One was old, the other young. They were both quite drunk. The young one supported the old one by the shoulder and helped him walk. Once they got close enough to us, the old one swung his arm off the younger one, pressed his hands together, and bowed.

“Namashhte,” he said, grinning. “Where you from?” he asked.

We told them. They both swayed in place for a moment. Then the old man shook his head and apologized for being so drunk. He told us they were celebrating a Nepali festivity. He bowed several more times, pressing his hands together every time he did, and laughed. They went on their way just as they came, the young supporting the old, both singing.

We arrived at Monjo (2,835 m) just as it was getting dark. We were both exhausted, but my father was in a foul mood, complaining about his knees. I went ahead and looked for a decent-looking tea house to spend the night. I found one halfway across town, run by a hardy-looking Sherpani who included the wifi password with the price of the room, two hundred and fifty rupees, which, at that time, was around two US dollars.

She handed me the key and led me upstairs to a small room with two single beds. The bed on the right side had a small chute on the upper part of the wall. I took off my boots and socks. The socks were soaked through with sweat. I stood on the bed to open the chute. The river’s sound came in, and cold air filled the room.

I set the socks on the ledge for them to dry. My shirt was also soaked in sweat, streaked with long white lines of salt across the lower chest and back. I decided to change all my clothes and pass a wet wipe through all the places of my body that I feared might soon start smelling funny. It was futile; showers would become a rare luxury, and the constant smell of armpits a commonality for the next couple of weeks. Much like a 19th-century Victorian lady, the many layers of clothing somewhat helped conceal bodily odours, although it hardly mattered when everyone around you smelled just as bad or worse.

The sun had completely set. The room became dark and cold, and we lay on our beds, exhausted and hungry. My father complained about his knees. We argued, shouted, and, knowing myself, I decided to leave the room before it got any worse. I went downstairs and sat in the dining room, sipping honey-lemon-ginger tea. It was our first day on the trail, and I was more than tempted to leave him to his fate in the mountains. We still had a long way to go, and it would only get harder from there.

He came down for dinner. Both our quick tempers slowly dialed down, and we managed to communicate simple, declarative sentences that got us to decide the plan forward.

The map came out again on the table. Our next destination was Namche Bazaar, about four kilometers away, but with a substantial altitude gain. Dad said he was okay going uphill. It was going down with irregular terrain that “fucks his knees up.”

We both felt calmer after dinner, went back to the room, left the chute open, and the river lulled us to sleep.