Trekking

There is only one thing worse than a self righteous tourist who owes you money and that is the same tourist who has spent years in the finance industry fighting about money.

Our trek in Sikkim began in a gray drizzle that threatened to bring out the insidious leeches lurking in the soil. Once upon a time while trekking in Nepal Suzanne and I had learned the truth of our universe's creation, “On the eighth day God looked at what he had done and decided that man was a mistake and needed to be punished. He thus created mosquitoes, leeches and the Hunta virus.” On that trek Suzanne and I resorted to lit cigarettes and profanity to fend off these obnoxious creatures. Years later, in Sikkim, and despite my initial concerns the weather, altitude and luck kept these blood sucking nuisances where they belonged...out of sight. Our walk from the small village of Yuksom, where we had contracted with our trekking company, to the even smaller village of Tsokha involved none of these creatures.

Our first day's walk passed with a pleasantly demanding uphill climb and ended in the local pub drinking Tungba, a local specialty made from fermented millet and hot water, from large bamboo mugs. At the time I felt certain that this bizarre concoction contained only trace amounts of the alcohol I sought but as my speech grew louder, my wisdom more profound and my steps less certain I began to revise my opinion. On my third run to the toilet that night I recanted this opinion entirely and cursed my stupidity. Overused and unlit toilets were not something I had planned to frequent.

If the village of Tsokha could accurately be described as small, then Dzongri, where we slept our second and third nights, can best be described as the place where someone built a shack. With all the ambiance of a crack house and the cleanliness of a Bombay slum we settled in for a small meal, a day of acclimatization and Suzanne's birthday. Celebrating with Suzanne and I were: our cook, Ramu who produced a cake with magic and an unruly kerosene stove, our guide Baila who claimed to speak English but who I could seldom understand, (he did, however, speak a seductive version of Nepali by which he managed a girlfriend in every village), two French Canadians with whom we had decided to share the costs of our expedition and who taught me some wonderful if offensive French phrases (What will you do for $20?) and lastly our two porters, 'Blister' and 'Shorts'. Blister and Shorts almost never spoke with us and their real names remained a mystery. Blister got his nickname when Baila explained that there had been an accident with the kerosene. It had leaked while on Blister's back and the skin then rubbed off with the help of the wicker basket he used as his carrying pack. Our trekking outfitter had not sent a first aid kit with us and Baila wanted to know if we might be able to help. Blister's blister covered an area the size of my fist and he never gave an audible account of his pain even as we rubbed the raw skin with an alcohol pad to clean it. Shorts got his name from his stunning fashion sense involving tights and down shorts.

The clouds parted only briefly at Dzongri and we were treated to a hint of what the surrounding Himalaya might look like. If the clouds hid the mountains and blocked our view they also provided a perfect backdrop for the rhododendrons as they thrust their spring flowers onto the world. Branches with red scaly bark twisted in and out of the fog and supported little fireballs of color against a backdrop of white mystery.

On the third day, we traded the crack house ambiance of Dzongri for a ramshackle cave-like hut at Tanshing. The rain continued, Blister's blister began to look worse as more dead skin peeled off, the morning porridge seemed to have more water and Shorts developed an abiding love of afternoon naps. Though Ramu the cook always smiled when our paths crossed he diligently avoided conversation. Baila assured us that all around our camp rested the impressive peaks of Pandim, Khangchendzonga, and Kabru. At the time I thought he might be telling me the names of his girlfriends but when the clouds broke and he pointed at looming giants I understood him.

With the cleared weather we resolved to hike to Goecha La Pass. Baila's incomprehensible chatter dimmed as we discussed our plans and he took on a sullen look. We would leave at 2:30 a.m., have breakfast with the sunrise and then lunch on the pass. The thought of a solid hike in the crisp high air thrilled me and I tried to explain the horrors of working in a stock broker's cubicle during tax season, where I became a specialist in verbal abuse. When this irrelevant anecdote from my personal history failed to rouse Baila's spirits I offered to carry the food. With his honor and manliness insulted he declined. Guides carry lunch, tourists carry themselves. This could never be a point of negotiation particularly in the presence of the other guides who had taken up residence with our team.

The following morning greeted Suzanne and Anne Marie, one of the Canadians, with a cold. It greeted Baila, myself and the other Canadian, JP, with blanket of stars close enough to run your fingers through. The moon put in a fleeting appearance moments before dawn and fresh snow bounced the star light in a million directions making our flashlights a pointless nuisance.

As JP and I charged forward into the perfect dawn Baila fell behind. When the sun fired all its glory onto the peaks we sat in a crisply defined shadow and waited for him to join us for breakfast: Two hard boiled eggs and two warm potatoes for JP and me. As I swallowed my ration without pause I noticed that Baila gently peeled a single egg for himself. Baila had brought five eggs and five small potatoes for himself and four tourists. We had intended to leave camp with five people and my persistently empty stomach might have been fed with only half of what it had just engulfed. Thanks to Suzanne and Anne Marie's illness I had some extra food. The real climbing still lay before us and as I finished my breakfast I dreamed of lunch.

The glory of Goecha La Pass knocked me flat. White prayer flags banged in the wind and the snow lay in almost perfect contrast to the flawless blue sky. There can be no poetry to describe the majesty of the Himalayas in full sun. Only profound silence can do justice to things so great and so I sat speechless until JP and eventually Baila joined me. Lunch came in the form of a packet of crackers and an apple. I swallowed my annoyance. Telling Baila of his mistake could serve no purpose. Though he pretended otherwise I knew he had to be even hungrier than I was. A tirade seemed unlikely to produce more food. We descended the pass as the weather rolled in. Under a sky spitting sleet Baila's charm arranged for bowls of soup courtesy of another group's porters. The warm liquid and soggy noodles did wonders for my mood and I forgot my anger as we completed our walk back to camp.

Two more days' walk brought us back to Yuksom. Strolling casually in the sun I struck up a conversation with one of the other guides. Little did I know he had sought me out and had something to say. My conversation with Wang Di was anything but random. For two days he had been giving rice to our team. The food had run out; our porters, guide and cook had all been hungry and he had done what he could to help.

Baila brought all the food he could spare on our hike to Goecha La Pass, Shorts slept all day from hunger, Ramu never met my eyes from embarrassment at the watery breakfasts and skimpy lunches and Blister would never complain of anything. They had all done what they could to keep the shortage of food a secret. They had fed us what they could and let themselves go hungry.

Upon our return our trekking outfitter greeted us with a smile and the happy expectation of the second half of his 28,000 rupee payment (about $700). I am not sure how a Buddhist would balance his compassion for the porters, guide and cook with his compassion for a business man trying to make a good return on his money. I did not find a balance. I unleashed all the scorn, anger and fury I could muster. My body shook when I demanded an explanation. My opponent crumpled into a silent ball as I demanded to know why I should pay him anything after the hunger he had inflicted on his employees. I abused his silence with rhetorical questions and impossible demands. He sat before me quiet and defenseless as a statue as I lashed out again and again. I cared about the people who had gone hungry for my idle enjoyment and in those hours I did everything I could think of to make him suffer more than they had.

That night shaking in my bed I knew that I had done too much.

***SMACK***

Suzanne's hand has just landed on the back of my head. As always her opinion carries the weight of the law and she believes that this little story needs an ending of some kind, there are too many open questions here, "Did I pay the trekking agent?" "What happened to Blister, Shorts, Ramu and Baila?"

• We did end up paying the trekking agent though we settled on an amount 2000 rupees less then our original agreement.
  
• Blister's blister looked better when we parted and I think that he spent several days resting before he again went to work.
• Even after a few good meals Shorts did not seem particularly lively.
• Ramu baked us a parting cake just like the one he baked for Suzanne's birthday.
  
• I think that Baila said good by to us and told us that he was going trekking again tomorrow though he might have said any number of other things including the names' his other girlfriends.
  
• I do not know if our team was ever paid for their work. I had some concerns on this point and it is why I paid the trekking agent any of the remaining money I owed him. Though we made a point of tipping everyone I wanted the tips to be in addition to their pay and not a replacement for it.
  
• I don't know what will happen on the next trek. Perhaps the trekking agent will not want to yelled at again and he will send enough food.
  
• I never spoke with Wang De again
• I wish I had not been such a self righteous ass hole.