Free Beyond the Summit by Linda Leblanc
Authors: Linda Leblanc
temples, roof tops, and outside of every Sherpa house.”
Hurriedly making notes, she asked, “And the five colors?”
“They are for the sky, clouds, fire, water, and earth.”
What an adrenalin rush. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said scribbling it all down. “I never would have figured that out on my own.”
Looking bewildered by her enthusiasm, he seemed amenable to more questions. When they passed a fifteen-foot boulder with symbols carved in relief and painted black, he explained it was a mani stone, or prayer stone, to protect travelers. “Most have the Buddhist words Om Mani Padme Hum . We repeat them many times when we pray to the gods.”
“And what do they mean?” she asked, flipping to the next page in her notebook.
“I do not know your words for them,” he answered simply and then politely extended his hand to persuade the ladies to pass the mani stone on the other side. “You must always go on the left so that when you return you complete the circle of life.”
The four tourists giggling and scooting backwards while looking over their shoulders to keep from running into each other reversed direction and marched forward with exaggerated strides. Pen in hand, Beth corrected a common misconception that the Everest region was covered with ice and snow year round. Rhododendron painted the dark green hillsides in red, pink, yellow, and mauve. The waxy, white flowers of giant magnolias bloomed high beyond reach. Bearing small orange and purple blossoms, bougainvillea climbed naked tree trunks while delicate pink and white orchids festooned the oaks. Lining the path were rocks covered with colorful lichens and mosses. The exquisite aroma of sweet daphnia filled the air.
Pointing to the cliffs above the river, Dorje said to watch for musk deer and wild Himalayan goats with dark brown coats and a long shaggy manes. So intent upon spotting one, Beth almost missed her distinctive blue and green duffel in a doko at the side of the path. Had all their gear been abandoned? Stopping suddenly, she asked, “Where are our porters?”
“There,” Dorje said pointing to a group of Sherpas crouched around a small fire. “They drink only tea before leaving camp and now must rest and eat.”
“And what are they cooking?”
“ Tsampa . Roasted barley flour.” Dorje spoke to a porter who gave him a brown mass that literally looked like a piece of shit. He palmed it in his right hand, rolling it into a ball, and then made an indention with his thumb and dipped the tsampa spoon into a bowl of chilies and garlic. “It is very good and healthy. Sherpas who work for expeditions make a pak ball with tsampa , sugar, and nuts to give them strength. You try it?”
An elderly porter with creases in a face folding around a toothless mouth dropped a warm, brown mass into her hand. Terrific. She was stuck now. With a thank-you smile and bow, Beth began rolling it between both palms as she’d done with cookie dough as a kid. But the look of horror on the man’s face told her she had just committed another cultural offense. Now what? Her eyes pleaded with Dorje who graciously explained that in Nepal one must never touch food with the left hand which was used for toilet purposes and considered unclean. Grateful that she was at least right handed, Beth made a Sherpa spoon and gingerly dipped it in the sauce. Dorje’s lips were trembling as if trying to suppress a smile and a whimsical look danced in his eyes. Having gotten herself into this miss, she couldn’t back out now. Taking a deep breath, Beth plopped the tsampa in her mouth—the most god-awful thing she’d ever tasted and Dorje knew it. Smiling, she could play this game too. “It’s great . . . unique,” she told Eric. “Try some.”
With a raised brow, he took some from the toothless porter who was not nearly as adept as Dorje at hiding his amusement. Obviously all of them knew tourists
Hurriedly making notes, she asked, “And the five colors?”
“They are for the sky, clouds, fire, water, and earth.”
What an adrenalin rush. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said scribbling it all down. “I never would have figured that out on my own.”
Looking bewildered by her enthusiasm, he seemed amenable to more questions. When they passed a fifteen-foot boulder with symbols carved in relief and painted black, he explained it was a mani stone, or prayer stone, to protect travelers. “Most have the Buddhist words Om Mani Padme Hum . We repeat them many times when we pray to the gods.”
“And what do they mean?” she asked, flipping to the next page in her notebook.
“I do not know your words for them,” he answered simply and then politely extended his hand to persuade the ladies to pass the mani stone on the other side. “You must always go on the left so that when you return you complete the circle of life.”
The four tourists giggling and scooting backwards while looking over their shoulders to keep from running into each other reversed direction and marched forward with exaggerated strides. Pen in hand, Beth corrected a common misconception that the Everest region was covered with ice and snow year round. Rhododendron painted the dark green hillsides in red, pink, yellow, and mauve. The waxy, white flowers of giant magnolias bloomed high beyond reach. Bearing small orange and purple blossoms, bougainvillea climbed naked tree trunks while delicate pink and white orchids festooned the oaks. Lining the path were rocks covered with colorful lichens and mosses. The exquisite aroma of sweet daphnia filled the air.
Pointing to the cliffs above the river, Dorje said to watch for musk deer and wild Himalayan goats with dark brown coats and a long shaggy manes. So intent upon spotting one, Beth almost missed her distinctive blue and green duffel in a doko at the side of the path. Had all their gear been abandoned? Stopping suddenly, she asked, “Where are our porters?”
“There,” Dorje said pointing to a group of Sherpas crouched around a small fire. “They drink only tea before leaving camp and now must rest and eat.”
“And what are they cooking?”
“ Tsampa . Roasted barley flour.” Dorje spoke to a porter who gave him a brown mass that literally looked like a piece of shit. He palmed it in his right hand, rolling it into a ball, and then made an indention with his thumb and dipped the tsampa spoon into a bowl of chilies and garlic. “It is very good and healthy. Sherpas who work for expeditions make a pak ball with tsampa , sugar, and nuts to give them strength. You try it?”
An elderly porter with creases in a face folding around a toothless mouth dropped a warm, brown mass into her hand. Terrific. She was stuck now. With a thank-you smile and bow, Beth began rolling it between both palms as she’d done with cookie dough as a kid. But the look of horror on the man’s face told her she had just committed another cultural offense. Now what? Her eyes pleaded with Dorje who graciously explained that in Nepal one must never touch food with the left hand which was used for toilet purposes and considered unclean. Grateful that she was at least right handed, Beth made a Sherpa spoon and gingerly dipped it in the sauce. Dorje’s lips were trembling as if trying to suppress a smile and a whimsical look danced in his eyes. Having gotten herself into this miss, she couldn’t back out now. Taking a deep breath, Beth plopped the tsampa in her mouth—the most god-awful thing she’d ever tasted and Dorje knew it. Smiling, she could play this game too. “It’s great . . . unique,” she told Eric. “Try some.”
With a raised brow, he took some from the toothless porter who was not nearly as adept as Dorje at hiding his amusement. Obviously all of them knew tourists