Authors: Linda Leblanc
When the monsoon ended, they’d have to start over again this year and the year after that for the rest of their lives. He couldn’t do it again and nor could Nima. They would leave in the fall when trails were passable again and the downed bridges had been repaired. Dorje begged his mother to come, but she claimed at thirty-five to be too old to start over. Ten years of struggling to survive on that pitiful plot of land had aged her. Once youthful and strong, she now walked bent forward under the weight of her doko, her gait slow and heavy and with her hands gripping the straps to ease the load. Even her feet revealed the toil. Her heels had grown thick and cracked from walking barefoot on the parched earth in the dry season and through ankle-deep mud during the monsoon.
Her image followed Dorje everywhere as Marty’s father went with him. He would never forgive himself for leaving her and now wondered if he’d made a horrible mistake in bringing Nima here. Worse yet, maybe he should not have come himself. The air had the same ominous feel it did then.
Unable to sleep with so many thoughts racing through her head, Beth tried everything, even visualizing them stuffed in a box with the lid shut. Unfortunately within minutes, a corner rose and guilt about Nima slipped out and crawled down the side. Had she subconsciously flirted with him for some unknown reason? A boy six years younger? Surely not. She was simply experiencing the childhood she’d never had. Kick that one out of the way. From under another corner slid the anxiety specter about keeping up with those strong, healthy Norwegians. Get rid of that too. Coming from Colorado, she’d probably walk them into the ground. Beth beat her parka into a pillow, buried her face, and tried again. Then Eric demanded his time. Was he all right? Did he really understand her need to stay? When and where would they get married? Then there was the big question not so easily disposed of: did she really love him? That was a permanent poison-ivy-type itch under the skin. Beth pounded the parka again, pulled the sleeping bag over her head, and tried clearing her brain by picturing nothing but a wall of flat, blue ice. It worked intellectually. What kept her awake the next two hours was an unsettling sensation that had begun when she stood close to Dorje that afternoon.
The next morning when Dorje appeared instead of the expected porter, she momentarily forgot how to breathe. Pemba met him with an angry exchange, most likely a diatribe against this woman who destroyed lives.
Please don’t listen to him
, Beth whispered to herself as her eyes traced the lean, muscular body of this twenty-year-old Sherpa genius.
“My bag is there,” she said when he stood before her with a slight flush to his brown skin. She rose and took a long, deep breath before heading out behind him. “Where are the others?” she asked when he took the trail north instead of returning to the Norwegian camp.
“I sent them ahead to take pictures with Everest behind them.”
“Where we sat together that night,” escaped unexpectedly, but she didn’t care if he knew the memory lingered.
His mouth turned up in a roguish smile. “And were chased by a screaming yeti.”
“Was there really a yeti or were you just teasing me?”
“You heard the yells and footsteps.”
Yes, but they could have been anything.
Rather than impose western skepticism on his beliefs, Beth changed the subject. “The Norwegians look strong and eager.”
“But they are more trouble than the old ladies, especially the big one, Hamar.”
Dorje unloaded her gear onto a Sherpani porter who was already carrying a huge duffle. Beth felt pathetic next to this hardy girl with a square face and dark almond eyes, an equal to any of the men whom Beth already considered super heroes.
“Here, take a group picture,” Royd said handing the camera to Dorje before pulling Beth to the photo rock. Standing beside the Norwegians, she felt more allied with the Sherpas after being here this long. Then Royd told her to stand still as he insisted on a picture with the Sherpani and
sirdar
. Her insides a bit quivery, Beth stood beside Dorje and took another deep breath. “Closer,” Royd ordered, waving his hand. “And now, Dorje, put your arm around both girls,” he added with no concept of cultural impropriety. Dorje obliged. The warmth of his hand sent a flush all the way through her. Another photo in blazing color.
Before departing, Dorje lectured the Norwegians about not straying from the trail, going
bistarai,
and drinking plenty of fluids. Beth wondered how many times he’d said the same thing and how many times foreigners who thought they knew it all had failed to listen. Hamar’s seemingly disjointed body left first with arms and legs out of sync. The other two followed. Beth watched Dorje herding them to the uphill side of the path when a yak train approached. As he pointed out a pair of wild Asian goats and an Impeyen pheasant with its iridescent plumage, she became so immersed in Dorje’s world that she momentarily forgot about Eric and home.
Intrigued by the Sherpani, Beth dropped back to walk with her and learned that Lhamu lived in Khumjung. Although that was extent of their verbal conversation, Lhamu’s expressions suggested a young woman full of life. At the first rest stop, she leaned back with her basket resting on a rock shelf designed to take the weight off porters’ backs without forcing them to remove the
doko
. When Hamar shambled over and offered her a bottle of water, the Sherpani giggled with a smile flirtatious enough to drop the strongest man to his knees. Tipping her head back, she drank by pouring rather than touching the bottle to her lips. Then she offered some to Beth who gladly accepted, having been too caught up in thoughts of Dorje to bring enough that morning. When Hamar’s companions yelled at him to come, he reluctantly departed. Even more fascinated now, Beth pointed to Lhamu and Hamar with a questioning look of attraction. The young woman rolled her eyes in a
yes
and astounded Beth by indicating the same about her and Dorje. How could she know? Caught completely off guard, Beth smiled and rocked her head slowly from side to side forming a bond between two women who shared a secret.
When they reached Sanasa where Tibetan refugees were selling jewelry and wool, Royd insisted on shopping. Waiting for them, Beth unconsciously ran her thumb over the empty ring finger. Eric’s purchase here a week ago was too tight and uncomfortable, or maybe it was just the idea of marriage that was a little too snug. She should be missing him more right now. Observing how Lhamu’s eyes followed Hamar, Beth realized she rarely looked at Eric that way. He was comfortable and supportive but didn’t elicit the same response as this hulking, lumbering man who offered to carry part of the Sherpani’s load. Smiling, Lhamu wiggled her hands side to side, palms down.
“It means no,” Beth explained. “She’s probably afraid of not getting paid.”
“Now look who wants to get laid,” Royd said nudging Kirk in the ribs.
After an angry look at his companions, Hamar started out with Lhamu, both of them chatting and neither understanding a word. Suddenly realizing their departure, Dorje ran after the pair to turn them back because they had missed the left-hand trail out of Sanasa. Instead of dropping to Phunki Tenga and crossing the Dudh Kosi to Tengboche, he intended to remain on the west side of the river all the way to Gokyo and visit the monastery on the way down.
Curiosity about Hamar and Lhamu gave Beth an excuse to walk with Dorje and ask about Sherpa marriage customs in order to continue her research.
While climbing a steep ridge, he explained in a limited vocabulary what she paraphrased in her notes. Parents arranged most marriages and the first step was a
sodene,
or asking, where the boy’s father presented
chang
to the girl’s family. Acceptance meant the couple was engaged and could sleep together, but both were still free to have other relations. Children born to them were illegitimate, but no one considered it a disgrace. The second step, the
dem-chang
or beer tying, put the relationship on firmer footing even though the couple continued to live with their parents. Since it required a great outlay of cash, the ceremony generally didn’t occur until several years later. Although the partners still had no exclusive rights, children were considered legitimate. The third step, the
zendi
or final wedding rite, might not occur for another several more years because it required an even greater expenditure. After the
zendi
, if either partner strayed, the other was entitled to collect a fine from the person known to have slept with his or her spouse.
Hearing about the sexual freedom and long periods between rites, Beth wondered how anyone reached the third step and if they stayed married. She explained divorce and asked if such a thing existed in his culture. After having rambled on so fast she could barely take notes while walking, he grew silent. His fluid gait turned awkward as if his mind and body were no longer communicating. She had touched something deep inside and for once had enough sense to leave it alone.
“My parents divorced when I was five,” she said, deflecting the subject from him. He merely glanced at her before moving forward as if needing to speak to the Norwegians. Left alone, Beth hiked accompanied only by memories of her fifth Christmas Eve. For weeks, her mother had spent the days slumped in a chair with the curtains drawn, one cigarette dangling from her fingers with long ashes about to fall, another still smoldering in the tray. In a dirty robe tied loosely at the waist, eyes red and swollen, no makeup, hair unwashed, she just stared for hours. At times like this, Beth tried coaxing her out into the sunlight. That failing, she made up silly stories to make her mother laugh, but nothing worked. It was the same day after day. Alone and feeling her childish helplessness, Beth played by herself waiting for her father to come home.
Arriving later than usual he picked her up and swung her in circles with her head back and arms out to the side. “How’s my sweetheart? Have you been good?”
“Yes, very, very good so Santa will bring me presents.” She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck, playing with his thick, black hair as he carried her to the living room.
He stood before her mother with Beth’s cheek pressed against his warm, light-brown skin. “You could have at least dressed for tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake.”
Hands clenched with restless fingers, her mother cried, “You don’t understand how hard it is, how hard I try.”
“You’re right. I don’t get it. And now I suppose you’re drinking again?”
“No. I promised I wouldn’t.”
He set Beth down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Go, Sweetheart, it’s time for bed. The sooner you sleep, the sooner Santa can come.”
Afraid of the angry words and yelling about to erupt, Beth wanted to leave but her stomach ached from not eating all day. “I’m hungry.”
He glanced at the clock and back at her mother. “Eight thirty and you haven’t fed your daughter? Get out of the damn chair and go fix something.” When her mother didn’t move, he yanked her out and a bottle hit the floor. “You goddamn liar. Twice I’ve spent a fortune trying to dry you out and this is what I get?” He grabbed the bottle and another from behind the seat cushion, marched to the kitchen, and began pouring their contents down the drain.
“No,” she screamed, running after him. “Those are mine. You can’t do that.”
“The hell I can’t. I’m sick of this crap. I can’t keep going through this. Not again.” When she grabbed for the bottle, he threw it in the sink where glass shattered. “I’m getting rid of every damn drop in this house if I have to tear the place apart. Where are you hiding it? In the toilet tank like last time?” He flung open the cabinets and swept his arm across the shelves knocking dishes and glasses on the floor, exposing hidden bottles. Tears running down her cheeks, Beth covered her ears.
“Bastard!” Her mother rushed at him with a skillet, swung, and grazed his head.
Reeling against the counter, he yelled, “You’re insane, a mad woman. And if I stay here any longer, I’ll go crazy too. That’s it. I’m done and can’t take this anymore.” He went to the bedroom, threw a suitcase on the floor, and started packing while Beth watched in horror.
Her mother ran at him, screaming, her fists raised. “You can’t leave me.”
“Watch me.” When she struck him, he grabbed her wrists and held them, glaring at her. “Careful, woman.”
“Go ahead, hit me, hit me!”
After pushing her away, he threw clothes and toiletries into the suitcase until it barely closed. Standing in the bedroom doorway with the most awful pain in her stomach, Beth watched the person she loved most in the world preparing to abandon her. When he headed for the door, she barred it with her thin five-year-old body and cried, “Daddy, please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”
“I’ll come back for you in a few days, Sweetheart. You’re my beautiful, special girl.” He lifted her and held her tight as he whispered, “We’ll go explore the world together, just the two of us. Okay?”