Jiri to Khumbu with Tendi

I've been trying to think of ways to encapsulate my trip to Solu Khumbu in writing, but so much happened over the course of the month and it's difficult to include it all in one blog entry. From the perspective of my research, the best part of the trip was forming a friendship with Tendi, who is deaf, and going from being conversational in Nepali Sign Language to being relatively fluent. We spent time in his village, and I got to know his family and stay with them, and the whole experience provided a great deal of material and inspiration for my writing.

From a personal perspective, it was one of the best trips I've made in my life. The long days of walking were the kind of physical challenge that I enjoy. In villages between Jiri and Chaurikharka, I asked about and met deaf people in the area. We had fabulous views of some of the world's tallest mountains, including Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and Cho Oyu (that's four of the top six). At lower elevations, the rhododendrons were blooming-- lovely red, pink and white blossoms. At Tengboche monastery, in the shadow of Ama Dablam, I went to morning and evening pujas, and had a crowd of curious monks watching Tendi and I curiously while we signed in the courtyard. All along the trip I marveled at the way Tendi was able to communicate with other people, and how willing many others were to sign with him. It wasn't Nepali Sign, but more basic gesticulation, and yet he was able to communicate so much. Perhaps the most important aspect of that communication is a sense of camaraderie and community, which can be so difficult for many deaf people to attain in the hearing community.

Tendi's community extends well beyond Chaurikharka; while he knows few people along the route between Jiri and his village, he has many friends throughout Khumbu, from his village all the way up to Gorak Shep, a small outpost a few hours away from Everest Base Camp. From Jiri, the walk goes through valleys of pine forest and terraced wheat fields, through villages of stone homes and gompas, past long rows of mani walls and porters carrying goods between Jiri and the market town of Salleri. Working our way to Chaurikharka, the valley becomes steeper and narrower, with pine forests extending high above us. It's a one day walk from Chaurikharka to Namche Bazaar, a large Sherpa town that has been profoundly affected by tourism. This stretch to Namche has been overdeveloped. An unsustainable (or soon to be so) number of visitors visit each year; about 35,000 people visited Sagarmatha National Park (Sagarmatha is Everest's Nepali name; the Tibetans call the mountain Chomolungma). While the number is nothing compared to places like Yellowstone, there are water and food shortages in the high country. Long trains of porters and yaks are constantly carrying supplies up to the villages and beyond, and the Everest expeditions literally need hundreds of tons of goods brought up each year.

Beyond Namche and then Tengboche, which is half a day's walk further, the walk moves into the high country, above tree line, where scrubby junipers prevail and there are fabulous mountain views. Above 15,000 feet, it becomes harder to breathe and to walk long distances without being exhausted. Though I never had problems with AMS, by the time I was above 18,000 feet, I felt like a dead man walking.

Because we began our trip so early in the spring season (late February), we were finished before the mid-March-April rush of trekkers. When I went to the morning puja at Tengboche, I was only the westerner there. During the long days of meditative (and often exhausting) walking, I had insights into the stories I was working on that I wouldn't have had otherwise. I wrote longhand in the evenings since I didn't have my computer with me.

The mountains seemed like gods rising above me, each with its own distinct presence. There is Ama Dablam, which reminds me of a wizard, perhaps the most anthropomorphic mountain I've ever seen, but which from a different angle turns into a gorgeous jagged peak. There is Cholatse, which looms over the valley, leaning forward ominously, as if about to fall at any moment. There is Island Peak, which sits calmly by itself in a valley, and near it, Lhotse's south face, which is one of the biggest and steepest in the world, and is covered with luminous veins of limestone. Nuptse, viewed from Lobuche, looks like an immense crouched creature with wide shoulders. From a slightly different aspect, it appears that there is a black throne in the mountain, covered with pale veins, which looks lovely at sunset. Pumori, not far from Everest, is an elegant cone, and nearby is another mountain which has a band of white stone around its midriff, as if it's haloed in light. And then there is Everest, a black pyramid rising above the snowy peaks around it. There is something ominous in its lack of snow, reminding me think of the Zen koan mentioned in The Snow Leopard: "All the mountains are covered with snow, why is this one bare?"

In the case of Everest, the wind is blowing so hard that the snow never has a chance to settle. So the black pyramid of Everest, at the roof of the world, always seems to have clouds trailing from the summit, as if it were a volcano, the wind knifing away snow and cloud in a long, elegant plume.