Читать книгу No Magic Helicopter - Carol PhD Masheter - Страница 11

March 26. Even with the marvels of modern travel, getting from Utah to Kathmandu took three days of long flights interspersed with additional long hours of waiting in airports. After the short flight from Salt Lake, I clumped through the Los Angeles International airport wearing my red and black Millet mountaineering boots, waiting for the midnight flight across the Pacific to Hong Kong. Though the boots were heavy, hot, and made walking awkward, they would be the most difficult piece of equipment to replace if lost, so I wore them. I got plenty of stares. One grandmotherly woman asked whether I was going river rafting. River rafting? Then she said her son enjoyed river rafting. Apparently she was proud of him and welcomed an excuse to talk about him.

Later, two tall young guys asked me to settle a bet. “Are your boots for skiing or mountaineering?” one asked with a friendly grin.

“Mountaineering,” I grinned back.

“I win!” he said to his friend. “Where are you headed?”

“Everest.”

“Hiking?”

“No, I will try for the summit.”

“Awesome! Good luck!” We shook hands. The interest of friendly strangers helped distract me from worry about the closure of the mountain. Their encouragement reminded me of how much attitudes toward women mountaineers have changed in recent years.

After the long night flight across the Pacific, I enjoyed doing yoga in the nearly deserted new airport in Hong Kong. As the sun rose, rain clouds turned smoky orange, then peach, then pale gold.

The next day, during one of my walks up and down the aisles during the flight to Kathmandu, another passenger named Brian remembered me from Aconcagua in early 2007. Brian had climbed Everest a few months afterwards. At 21,000 feet elevation, he developed high altitude pulmonary edema, a life threatening condition, and had to descend to Pheriche, which is at 14,000 feet elevation. He lost 30 lbs. After about 10 days he felt better. He and a guide, Willie Benegas, then climbed back up and summited. He was back with his wife and two young daughters to share a little of his Everest experience with them.

Brian’s accomplishments were impressive and intimidating. I wondered whether I would get seriously sick like him. Would I even get a chance to try for the summit with the current closure of Everest? Questions wheeled like vulture through my mind. I firmly told them to leave. I had prepared as well as I could. Some things, like closure of the mountain, were beyond my control. Worrying about them would not help.

In Kathmandu at last, the lines for baggage claim, customs, passport stamps, and visa approval were as convoluted as I remembered from previous visits. In the crowd, I could hear French, German, Italian, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, and various Nepalese languages. I was part of the international community of tourists drawn to Nepal. It was exciting and exhausting, especially after three days of travel with little sleep. I collected my duffle bags at baggage claim and threaded my teetering cart through customs then through crowds of eager porters and taxi drivers vying for my business.

I spotted a small neatly dressed Nepali man with an Adventure Consultants sign. He and two wiry little porters grabbed my bags and rushed through the airport parking lot to a van. As I tipped them, a third man asked, “Something for me?” I was not sure whether he had helped with my duffels or not. I gave him a dollar. He looked at it sadly for several seconds. When he concluded that I was not going to give him more, he disappeared into the shadows. The night air was mild and pleasant. It felt wonderful to be outside after three days of flights and airports.

As the driver wove through a confusing maze of narrow, dark streets, I noticed how quiet and empty Kathmandu seemed. During previous visits, it had teemed with crowds even late at night. Tonight we passed only a few small groups of soldiers in camouflage uniforms with automatic weapons and one family, a mother in her best sari and two small girls in frilly dresses. I wondered where they were going so late in their finery. The contrast between the vulnerable little family and the armed soldiers was a chilling reminder of the tense political climate and protests about the Chinese occupation of Tibet.

At Hotel Shanker, a tiny aged porter, his face as brown and creased as well worn leather, insisted on wrangling all of my bags, which taken together weighed more than I did. I helped him cram them into a crotchety elevator then we hauled them into my room. I gave him $3. His lined face beamed as he bowed his thanks and left. My room smelled like musty old wood, reminding me of my grandmother’s basement in Kansas. As I settled in bed for the night, party music squawked from a nearby bar. Tired but too wound up to sleep, I read for a couple of hours. Finally I slept from 2 am until 6 am, my longest sleep in four days.

March 29. I got up, dressed, and found the breakfast buffet in the hotel. It included an eye-popping array of local fruits and juices, hot and cold cereals, yogurt, sausage, bacon, eggs, potatoes, curry dishes, rolls, muffins, toast, butter, jam, tea and coffee. A smiling Nepalese chef offered to prepare a made-to-order omelet. This spread was far more opulent than my usual breakfast of oatmeal, sliced banana, and soy drink. I especially enjoyed the fresh papayas, mangos, pineapple, watermelon, and Asian pears.

As I was eating, I saw Mike Roberts, our expedition leader, enter the dining room. I waved. He joined me at a table near a window. Mike looked as fit and strong as when we had met three years ago on Cho Oyu.

“Hey, Mike, you and I have the same haircuts,” I joked, as I ran a hand over my closely cropped hair, while he sat down opposite me. I had my hair cut very short before this trip figuring haircut opportunities would be scarce on Everest. Mike eyed me warily and replied, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I,” I laughed, feeling awkward. I tried again. “How are you? How’s your wife?”

“I’m divorced now,” Mike answered in a tone that was hard to read. Though I had talked to hundreds of divorced people for my research as a university professor, I never knew quite what to say in social situations. I’m sorry? Congratulations? Mike said the divorce was sad but amicable. Trying to sound reassuring, I said being married must be difficult for a mountain guide because of all the time apart. From the look on Mike’s face, it was not the right thing to say. I’m batting a thousand today, I thought ruefully. Mike and I finished breakfast while talking about cameras and photography in the mountains, a safer topic, as he is a terrific photographer.

After breakfast I left the hotel on foot, saying “no thanks” to several rickshaw and taxi guys. Though the smog was worse than anything I had experienced at home and pedestrians must be nimble to avoid being run over, I wanted to walk. I exchanged U.S. dollars for Nepalese rupees, bought bottled water at the Blue Bird grocery store, and found an Internet place to send email to my sister and friends.

On my walk back to the hotel two boys in their school uniforms fell into step along side me and chatted me up in good English. Though this was fun, I knew what was coming from previous trips to Kathmandu. They chattered, “We don’t want money, Misses. Money make people crazy. You like children, Misses? Children need milk. Buy us milk, Mama.” Though it sounded innocent enough, it worked like this. The boys would take tourists to the grocery store, the tourists would buy them a carton of milk at an inflated price, after the tourist and boys would part company, the boys would take the unopened carton back to the store and get a cut of the profits. I replied, “No, thanks. You guys speak really good English. Keep studying in school and you will do well.” When they saw I was not going to buy any milk for them, they drifted back into the throngs of pedestrians, no doubt looking for more gullible -- or more generous -- tourists. I felt a mixture of shame and annoyance, shame that I was too stingy to buy the kids milk, even if they were scamming me, and annoyance about being treated like a bottomless wallet instead of a human being. Walking the streets of Kathmandu sometimes felt like being bitten to death by ducks, ducks who are just trying to survive.