Read Online Beyond the Summit by Linda Leblanc - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Leblanc
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crowded with tourists.”
Namche, the social and political capital of the Sherpas, through which most expeditions passed. If he’d said Paris or London, she wouldn’t have been more elated. The story she’d come for was walking right beside her, and she could tell it through his eyes and words. Her job secure now, she had a thousand questions to ask. “Where did you learn English?”
“It is easy. I listen and speak with tourists like you.”
And how many have you charmed? she wondered. Yesterday she had caught him gazing at her several times but today, nothing. That was only initial curiosity perhaps. “Other Sherpas haven’t learned English. Why you?”
“Because I do not want to be a porter or yak herder all my life. For a Sherpa, sirdar is the best a man can do.” With that, Dorje raced up a row of steep rock stairs to join the ladies who had made a water stop at the top. Instead of helping them with bottles from their packs, he herded them to the uphill side of the path gesturing wildly.
“What’s going on?” Beth asked catching up to them.
“There,” he answered, nodding downhill. “You must always stand away from the cliff when they pass because they swing their horns and knock you off.”
Hearing the steady, rhythmic clang of bells all pitched differently, she turned and watched a caravan of yaks loaded with baskets of vegetables and large bolts of cloth slowly winding up the stairs. To maintain speed, they hunched their massive back muscles and thrust themselves forward with their heads lowered. Everyone hugged the hill as the snorting animals passed. Her first yak sighting! Beth found them humorous—these shaggy, lumbering beasts with short hairy legs, bushy tails, shovel-shaped heads, and long curved horns. They resembled little kids bundled up in too many sweaters with their woolly undercoats covered with a coarse outer coat of wiry hairs giving them a bulky look. The beasts’ large, sure-footed hooves scuffed trail dust into small clouds that stung her eyes.
Blinking to clear them, Beth asked, “Where are they going?”
“To the Saturday market in Namche. Tomorrow they will return with empty baskets.”
“And those too?” she asked, pointing to a string of gaily-decorated donkeys following a lead animal sporting a bright red plume on its head and seemingly without a human escort.
“The donkeys are small and cannot carry much but they move quickly and often travel for eight days to get here. Yaks only go in the high places. It is too hot for them below.”
“Eric, get pictures of the donkeys,” she called. Then bouncing back onto the trail and walking backwards to search for more caravans, she added, “And go in front to get the one with a plume on its head. The yaks too.”
While Eric squeezed past the animals, she walked with Dorje, feeling more comfortable in her role as interviewer. “Were you born in Namche and have you always lived there?”
Eyes straight ahead and his jaw tight, he answered, “Yes, but I left at six and did not return until four years ago.”
Her journalist tongue was dying to ask why he’d left and how old he was now, but for once she kept her mouth shut even though she was famous for prying more information from people than anyone else. Those questions could come later. For the present, she’d concentrate on impersonal topics such as the significance of the lofty poles bearing colorful flags.
“Those are Lung Ta, the wind horse,” he said loud enough for the ladies to hear also. “Prayers are printed on cloth with a horse in the middle and four sacred animals in the corners. When the wind blows, the horse carries the prayers to the gods. They bring happiness and good luck to all who meet the air or breathe it, even a bird flying by. When things are not going good for you, your Lung Ta is down. When life is easy, your Lung Ta is up. You can see flags on mountain tops, bridges,
Namche, the social and political capital of the Sherpas, through which most expeditions passed. If he’d said Paris or London, she wouldn’t have been more elated. The story she’d come for was walking right beside her, and she could tell it through his eyes and words. Her job secure now, she had a thousand questions to ask. “Where did you learn English?”
“It is easy. I listen and speak with tourists like you.”
And how many have you charmed? she wondered. Yesterday she had caught him gazing at her several times but today, nothing. That was only initial curiosity perhaps. “Other Sherpas haven’t learned English. Why you?”
“Because I do not want to be a porter or yak herder all my life. For a Sherpa, sirdar is the best a man can do.” With that, Dorje raced up a row of steep rock stairs to join the ladies who had made a water stop at the top. Instead of helping them with bottles from their packs, he herded them to the uphill side of the path gesturing wildly.
“What’s going on?” Beth asked catching up to them.
“There,” he answered, nodding downhill. “You must always stand away from the cliff when they pass because they swing their horns and knock you off.”
Hearing the steady, rhythmic clang of bells all pitched differently, she turned and watched a caravan of yaks loaded with baskets of vegetables and large bolts of cloth slowly winding up the stairs. To maintain speed, they hunched their massive back muscles and thrust themselves forward with their heads lowered. Everyone hugged the hill as the snorting animals passed. Her first yak sighting! Beth found them humorous—these shaggy, lumbering beasts with short hairy legs, bushy tails, shovel-shaped heads, and long curved horns. They resembled little kids bundled up in too many sweaters with their woolly undercoats covered with a coarse outer coat of wiry hairs giving them a bulky look. The beasts’ large, sure-footed hooves scuffed trail dust into small clouds that stung her eyes.
Blinking to clear them, Beth asked, “Where are they going?”
“To the Saturday market in Namche. Tomorrow they will return with empty baskets.”
“And those too?” she asked, pointing to a string of gaily-decorated donkeys following a lead animal sporting a bright red plume on its head and seemingly without a human escort.
“The donkeys are small and cannot carry much but they move quickly and often travel for eight days to get here. Yaks only go in the high places. It is too hot for them below.”
“Eric, get pictures of the donkeys,” she called. Then bouncing back onto the trail and walking backwards to search for more caravans, she added, “And go in front to get the one with a plume on its head. The yaks too.”
While Eric squeezed past the animals, she walked with Dorje, feeling more comfortable in her role as interviewer. “Were you born in Namche and have you always lived there?”
Eyes straight ahead and his jaw tight, he answered, “Yes, but I left at six and did not return until four years ago.”
Her journalist tongue was dying to ask why he’d left and how old he was now, but for once she kept her mouth shut even though she was famous for prying more information from people than anyone else. Those questions could come later. For the present, she’d concentrate on impersonal topics such as the significance of the lofty poles bearing colorful flags.
“Those are Lung Ta, the wind horse,” he said loud enough for the ladies to hear also. “Prayers are printed on cloth with a horse in the middle and four sacred animals in the corners. When the wind blows, the horse carries the prayers to the gods. They bring happiness and good luck to all who meet the air or breathe it, even a bird flying by. When things are not going good for you, your Lung Ta is down. When life is easy, your Lung Ta is up. You can see flags on mountain tops, bridges,
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