JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi (15 page)

This is extreme ukemi; going into the unknown. This is how it feels for a very good uke to attack a shihan he has never before seen or trained with on the mat. He has no way of knowing what is coming and can only hope that his experience and skill – or the good will of the shihan – will keep him safe from harm. To be a stranger in a strange land is the same thing. We can only hope our skills and training will suffice in the face of all we encounter and hope for the good will of the people we will meet.

Warm rain fell and turned the early morning light into a million sparkling points of brilliance. Our van was ready and we offered out gear to the driver to stow as he wished. We took our place inside and then I told the driver to stop.

“
I can’t do this. I’m too big. I need more room or I’ll be very unhappy very quickly.” I turned around and looked at the rear of the small van and tried to figure out if there was a way to make more space inside the vehicle. “Look,” I said, “If we take this duffle and put it up here we can move Christian’s seat back and then I can move my seat back. Is that all right? Can we try that?”

Everyone got out and we tried to move the gear around, but the driver was very reticent to shift anything. I finally told Chris to empty the van and to find us a vehicle that we could use that would be more comfortable. At this the driver became very animated and finally got everything arranged and stowed. I had only about four more inches of legroom, but I knew that it would be enough.

“
Sensei, were you really going to make us get another van?” Curtis asked from behind my right ear.

“
No. That was the honesty technique.”

“
Oh.” He laughed.

Kathmandu rolled by quietly and the rain became a mist that cleared as we slowly made our way out of town. Traffic was light, but becoming heavier minute by minute. By the time we reached the outskirts of town we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic and the sun had burned most of the moisture off the steaming ground. Chris started talking about beer and although I rarely drink anything strong while the sun shines I had to admit it sounded pretty good just then. We were facing a long day of switchbacks, steep canyon roads, dusty wind, hot asphalt, and cramped conditions.

“
God! Look!” Christian’s arm shot forward and pointed across the highway.

“
I don’t believe it.” Curtis said quietly, under his breath.

Across the highway, approaching, was an Indian elephant. It walked with a hugely tired gait as if it had seen all the cares of the earth in its many long days. A man was guiding the elephant with a long stick. He sat perched on its neck, a foot touching each huge, fan-like ear. Across its broad back it carried a massive burden tied in place and covered by a cargo net into which had been stuffed all manner of things which stuck out and protruded precariously and gave it the appearance of an enormous distorted turtle. We started scrambling for a camera.

“
Curtis, give me my camera!” I shouted.

“
Wait, I’m trying to get mine out,” he said.

“
Christian, move over a bit so I can get my…”

“
Don’t push so hard, I…”

“
Sensei, I want a picture, please..,” cried Celine. Esra was hanging on her arm, laughing and trying to push her aside to see.

“
Driver STOP!” We all shouted.

“
I can’t,” he said.

I looked around and realized that there was no shoulder and no place to pull over with any hope of ever getting back into the fray. The elephant slipped past and was suddenly gone and we all looked at each other and realized that we would need to be a hell of a lot better prepared than this if this was going to be a successful trip.

“
I’m sorry guys. I should have warned you to have a few things handy. A camera and a bottle of water are important: Swiss Army knife, flashlight and extra glasses, stuff you should have already thought about and prepared yourselves with. But this was a good lesson. From this moment on, you have to think of yourselves as completely responsible for yourselves. Don’t expect anyone on this trip to help you or carry you or be responsible for you. You have to do it all. From now on, you are taking ukemi.” I grinned. “And you are all my ukes.” I didn’t mention that I was an uke, myself. I was the leader of the attack on the mountains and my job was to make it seem harmonious.

That bought a moment of silence and then a few smart remarks and then a joke or two and the elephant was forgotten. But I remembered it later and would have occasion to remember it again.

We were finally leaving the valley when we stopped at a gas station to fill the tank. We all got out and made use of the spot behind the squat building and then bought a few soft drinks. Chris got a couple bottles of beer. I bought the driver a cigarette. It cost two rupees, about a penny and a half, but he grinned and smoked it happily and with obvious great pleasure. I almost bought him a pack, but then realized he would want to smoke them in the van and I restrained myself from this gesture. Our sirdar, a man named Bim who had remained quiet in the shot gun seat the whole way eyed the cigarette with obvious lust, and I got him one as well. No one was going to die of lung cancer in this country where you purchased cigarettes one at a time.

The sun was high and we were headed out of the valley. On each side of the road there were fields with soil turned under and harvested vegetables being carted one way and another. After a short time these fields turned into steep slopes that were terraced and being worked by one or two individuals with hand tools. They used short hoes and forked, wooden rake-like implements. After a half hour we came around a tight curve in the road and saw the entire expanse of the Himalayan Mountains spread out before us without the smog of the Kathmandu valley softening the hard edges.

They were breathtaking. The highest towering peaks on earth are strung out in a chain that stretches east to west across the continent like dragon’s teeth striking at the sky. The air was crystal clear and the sun high enough to allow easy looking, but still it was early enough for good quality light. Cameras began to click and I was careful not say anything. I did this myself the first time. After a while the unbelievable panorama of mountain majesty becomes so overwhelming that you are finally able to give a little perspective to the vistas seen everywhere, constantly, and begin to ignore shots that would have taken your eyes out a few days before, but your first vision of these peaks lasts like the memory of your first kiss; sweet, strong and eternal. Little did I know this would be the last time we would see these peaks for a long, long while.

The driver made a few noises to let us know it was time to go and we climbed back in.

It took about two hours before the first time we almost died of fright.

Looking over the edge of an enormously deep chasm gives me vertigo. Doing it while careening around a bend at speed while diverting out of the path of an oncoming, overloaded bus takes vertigo to a place where it seems almost pleasant. Sheer, stark terror is closer to the feeling we were experiencing as we sped down the narrow, hairpin turns of this alleged highway.

At times the road got so narrow that an oncoming vehicle forced our van to back up until a wider spot on the road allowed the driver to get far enough over for the other vehicle to pass. In fairness it was always a large vehicle that wanted to get by and as we were actually one of the larger vehicles on the road it was just the way things were. I believe that two of the tiny, normal-sized cars in this country could pass each other nearly everywhere that the road existed, it was only when we encountered a bus or truck that we exceeded the twelve or fifteen feet of pavement on certain hairpin curves.

Knowing this did not make it any better when I saw a bus bearing down on a tight inside drop and our driver not slowing one bit in his approach. We seemed on a collision course with neither driver willing to back off and be the one to back up. We were outweighed in this contest by about fifteen thousand pounds, though, and finally Bim said something to the driver and he veered way out until I was sure that the wheels were actually over the ledge and the bus moved to the inside. They passed so close to us that if I had held my hand out the window the full length of my fingers, I am sure I could have touched the side of the bus. I saw a brief flurry of faces above me and heard the tiniest ping – I don’t even want to know what that noise was – and then we were passing them and veering back to the mountain side of the road and the driver uttered a few short sharp words to our Sherpa and Bim was saying something to him. There was another quick exchange and the driver rolled his window down and spat. He rolled it back up and then the discussion was over. Bim turned around and looked at me.

“
I told the driver to be more careful. You are my responsibility,” he said.

I didn’t realize that Bim spoke any English, but I was careful not to show any surprise. I did not realize he would be our Sirdar, but should have. That is, unless we would have two English speaking Sherpas. I should have realized that if he were accompanying us to Jiri he would be the leader of the expedition. The last time he had been with me he was a porter and had not spoken more than a few words. I had assumed that Mr. Pasang had sent him along as a porter for us out of politeness. I was wrong. He had grown up a bit and I looked at him more closely and could see that he was now a man and had assumed an air of command and responsibility.

The way an expedition works is simple. The leader of the expedition is the Sirdar and he will have a number of Sherpas with him. These are the guides that handle all the daily details. Next there are porters and if you have a kitchen there will be Cook – who is equal but just barely – to the Sirdar, and his kitchen helpers and porters. The first time I came we had twelve trekkers. For that journey we had a Sirdar, four Sherpas, eight porters, Cook, and about twelve kitchen helpers and porters. So, a staff of twenty-six for a group of twelve. We needed every one of them.

The day begins with the Sirdar deciding how far the group will travel. He will then send a Sherpa down the path to notify the appropriate restaurants and hotels that we would be arriving and to make arrangements for our meals and our accommodations. Then the porters take off and finally when the trek begins for the day the Sirdar, unless he has chosen to go ahead and make the arrangements himself will lead off down the path. The trekkers are next and the last Sherpa will bring up the end of the line. This way as the fastest walkers move forward the lead Sherpa stays ahead of them. As the slower walkers trail behind, a Sherpa brings up the rear and no one gets lost and left behind on a snowy glacier’s ledge to freeze in the night.

There are many other aspects to the trekker’s day and many other duties of the staff, but that is the gist of it. Bim and I spoke casually as the van drove us through the Nepal countryside. He told me he had been promoted from porter to Sherpa guide and then to Sirdar and this was his third trip as Sirdar. (
Author’s note: Sirdar was a rank in the 19
^th
century British army, a commander’s rank.)
He told me he was glad to be with me again and although I wondered for a few minutes whether he could possibly remember me, he asked about my wife Laurie and actually remembered her name. After a minute he took out a beautiful pair of Nikon binoculars, small and compact and very good.

“
Bim, you still have them!” I was touched. “I will tell Laurie and she will be happy that you kept them and found them useful.” Laurie had given them to him after our last trip and I had told her he would probably just sell them, but she said she didn’t care. I felt a little ashamed as I remembered that, but I was happier that my wife had done something nice and that it had been appreciated.

Many years ago during her first trek in Nepal she had taken another young Sherpa man under her wing and helped support him through medical school. When I first met her I was surprised to see the amount of money she would send in equipment, microscopes and such, and thought she was merely wasting it until I met the man who had become one of the first modern Nepalese medical doctors. He was visiting the United States and came to pay his respects to her. The Nepali people are some of the most intelligent, industrious, and persevering people I have ever known and I found myself feeling a bit of pride that Bim was moving up.

We stopped for lunch. As we waited in the small restaurant I watched the people come and go and saw them go to the corner to wash their hands both upon entering and then as they left.

“
I see why you told us to bring spoons.” Curtis said to me in a low voice.

“
We won’t need them here. I’m sure they will bring us utensils of some type. We’re not the first foreigners to visit and they know we don’t eat dahl bat with our bare hands like they do.” Dahl bat is a puree of lentil beans and whatever else is nearby the cook. This mixture is served over rice and can be quite good, mediocre and sometimes just plain bad depending on the cook and what was available. The locals eat it by scooping it up in curved fingers and then pushing it into their mouths with their thumb. It is a quiet efficient method of eating and once used to it, you really don’t notice. I’ve tried it, but after nearly 60 years of eating with knife, fork and spoon, well, old habits are hard to break.