JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi Daniel Linden (feel good novels txt) 📖

altitude after takeoff, fell 20 meters and landed hard. Djorje was killed, then.”

I did not know what to say. I was counting on Djorje to lead the trek up to Gokyo Ri and then Tengboche Monastery. He had been with me during the many weeks of my previous visit and I had come to trust him, respect him and like him very much. He had been my business partner when I had started a company that had imported khukuri knives into the United States and we had both done very well in our enterprise. I counted him as a friend. He had been married only a few months before. I did not know how this would affect our journey, and knew it was not the time to ask, but Mr. Pasang took me by the arm and led me inside and quietly got me a beer.

“I know you prefer this to tea,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

We spoke of Djorje then and about the things in his life and mine, and of our time together. I asked if he would be willing to carry on as my business partner in the khukuri venture that we had operated over the last ten years and he acknowledged his acceptance. He then talked about our trip.

“I have made arrangements for your trek as Djorje would have done. I have four porters, two Sherpa guides and another Sherpa guide named Bim for your Sirdar. If you wish we can have a cook and several kitchen boys as well. They will meet you the morning you leave. Do you wish the kitchen?”

“Yes, and if we could have a fourth porter who could carry a few small tents and a small amount of food that could be prepared in an emergency, perhaps that would be the best. Would that be all right?”

“As you wish.” He nodded and got up from the small table and left for a few moments. When he came back he was carrying a document and small bank bag. We discussed the price, the length of time we would need the porters – I wanted them to stay on retainer while we would be in Namche Bazaar – and accommodations. When everything was done I paid him and he left to arrange a taxi to take me back to Thamel. He had offered to drive me himself, but the sadness had returned and I wanted for him to be with his family and for me to be alone.

On my first trek here four people had died during the long weeks on the trail. None from our group, but it seemed as if each new group of climbers coming along the trail had stories of death and terror in the high places. Despite all the best planning and preparation there are circumstance here that cannot be altered. We must pass across many suspension bridges that are used by every single creature with business on the other side of the raging torrents they span. If a yak train begins to cross, people must wait. It’s that simple. Yaks have killed many trekkers over the years and sometimes they do it for no reason at all.

The worst part is that most of the deaths due to injury would not necessarily be fatal anywhere else. But here there is no way out except by foot or by being carried. Altitude hinders helicopters for the most part and even the runway to Lukla is pretty iffy on any given day if you can reach it. Helicopters often cannot land or take off and medical help is often as far as a week by footpath away. Death is a part of life. And death is a part of this country in a far more primeval way than in the United States, where we are sheltered from the details like children from a storm.

This land is no stranger to death and each year there are people who do not come back from the mountains. I was deeply sorry that Djorje had been claimed by the high Himalaya. He was one of the best people I had known here and I would miss him.

***

Kitipur scares people who encounter it unprepared. It is, somehow, desolate in the very busy city of Kathmandu, high on a hill surrounded by squalor and third world, city life. High up on its walls hang the cutting implements that were used to slaughter the peoples who resisted the unification of the Kathmandu valley many centuries prior. These are long, curved, vicious-looking implements that resemble swords and farm implements at the same time. If you look at them you can see the scythe shaped potential of destruction and the nasty little hooking edges and curlicues that would rip one’s body apart. All around the temple there are ancient wooden sculptures of death and devastation and often blood sacrifice. The overall feeling is that you are a long way from home.

We walked around and acted like tourists the world over, snapping pictures and posing in front of statues of Kali and Ganesh, the elephant god of Hindu mythology. Later we took a taxi to the temple at Swaymbhunath and saw the monkeys, the statues, the temples to various gods, statues of Khaila Bhairub, all black and lion like, and we posed in front of the magnificent Buddha at the base.

“What are these?” Chris asked.

“I think they’re prayer wheels.” Curtis responded. “I think the deal is, each time you spin one completely around, it’s like a prayer sent off to the Gods. So they get a bunch of them and get them all spinning and with each revolution you get to have said another prayer. So if you walk down the way and give each one a spin you can get maybe twenty-five or thirty all praying for you at the same time. It’s a good deal, I guess.” He walked on and Chris and Christian looked at each other and then at