A Himalayan Delivery; from a Writer's Eyes
The second half of my journey through the Himalayas bring me below the looming Annapurna Range without an ounce of technology. All my camera batteries, were as if, the life had been completely drained. Could it be the Universe trying to tell me something because for the first time in a long time, I was forced to write. Documenting my experience through prose was something I had not done in years.
As I write, I sit at the top of the mountain ridge on a narrow cobblestone pathway with a steep drop on one side. Above me welcomes the uninterrupted apex of the snow capped Himalaya while below, across the ravine lay stairs of rice paddy fields in long column terraces intermingled with columns of trees. From the bottom, the sound of rushing water echoes off the canyon wall. I can't see the river from my vantage point, but I imagine sheer cliffs hugging large boulders that have intermittently fallen many a century ago.
A Nepalese girl walks down our stair. She has Tibetan eyes, rosy cheeks, and a blue and maroon stripped shawl over her shoulder.
"Namaste Biani," I say. She replies the same, then disappears within three steps over the ridge on our cobblestoned path.
I feel like I'm sitting on a stairway for giants watching them ascend up the terrace, into the mist while continuing the 18,000-feet more to their kingdoms in the clouds. We, the human is nothing but an ant; making our way over our own mountains and stairways.
I'm briefly interrupted by an elderly man carrying a basket on his back that is strapped to his forehead. Dipak, my Nepalese brother whom I've been hiking with, speaks with the man.
"He carrie Roxy, local wine," Dipak informs.
"Ask him how many kilos," I inquire.
After a minute of calculation, he exclaims, "60 kilo Katie." The teahouses buy a great deal of Roxy for their foreign trekkers who will gladly pay top dollar after a long day's hike.
"Where does he walk from Dipak?' I say quite curiously.
They continue to discuss further in Nepali.
He departs every morning from the bottom of the mountain at 5am, walking continuously up steep stairs until he reaches his destination at 11am in the village of Ghandruk. The tea house gives him one glass of Roxy and pays him 250 rupees ($2.50) for his effort.
The frail man is 5-feet-tall.
Dipak gives him a cigarette and as the old man sits on the stair-ledge with an eternity behind him, Dipak crouches over to him and lights the tobacco. He chats closely with him speaking softly in Nepali. I imagine they are speaking about life and hardships, but also reflecting on the joys of living in this beautiful heaven of the Himalayas.
"Dipak, what are you talking about?" I eagerly solicit.
He stands up with a laughing smile.
"Oh this man he all the time walking 60 kilos. So all the time drinking Roxy. So Katie, what'cha ya do? I say. This man, drinking and walking big problem for you! Even-ing time big problem!" he explains.
Dipak's good heart is trying to convince the man to stop drinking while walking the great Himalaya.
He continues.
"Then he say he has wife; and son in Dubai; and three daughters stay in home. So he working all the time money for family. So Katie, what'cha ya do? I say."
I'm saddened by this man's tribulation. I've just finished walking six hours along this same path with no load upon my back. It's beyond arduous; the up-and-down thousands-upon-thousands of stairs, climbing ridge-over-ridge. I couldn't imagine doing what he does, every day, at his age, for $2.50.
I think life can sometimes be quite egregious. Observing others can allow one to reflect upon their own struggles realizing that we really have none in comparison.
Dipak stands up from his crouching position and informs me that it's time to leave. I want to take a picture of this moment because it has been so special for me, and I'm saddened by my failing equipment.
I'm going to try to turn on my camera, I protest. Pulling all the energy I can muster from my surroundings, I place my hands one last time on my camera. A surge flows from my fingertips.
It turns on; just long enough for one solo picture of Dipak and the old man.
Then, just as the wind carries away the moment, the camera shuts down and the man too picks up his basket and disappears over the ridge to continue on his journey.
