As I shuffle to the edge of the wooden platform and squint
apprehensively up at the alluring peak, I am distracted by a toothless grin,
framed by the encouraging eyes of the Nepali woman who sold me my restorative
coca cola. Her knowing nod gently wills me to carry on. An arduous hike up a
steep incline awaits me. It is a well-worn trail, although thousands of years
of footsteps have made it no less difficult to ascend. I wince through my first
few steps, envious of the sherpas who skip ahead playfully in their barefeet.
They bear the weight of the heavy baskets strapped across their heads as if
merely wearing sweat bands in a game of
tennis. I ignore the cramps in my stomach. Hiking with the purpose of
delivering medication to Tibetan refugee camps scattered through the foothills
of the Himalayas, a bad choice at dinner days earlier now causes me to question
my own abilities. My light-heartedness is the only thing gaining weight now.
But the task is large and we have a schedule to keep. I am not dying after all.
Or so they tell me.
The landscape and the people are our reward. Clouds carelessly spattered across
the landscape support ethereal peaks above, and cast slices of shadow over the multi-toned
brown folds in the earth below. Tiny, ancient houses cling desperately to
dangerous edges whilst donkeys wander beside them, unperturbed. And from one
inspiring refugee camp to the next, our journey joins the dots of fascinating
individuals punctuating our expedition at each turn, mirroring the lines in
their faces that seem to map the many miles they have walked to escape
subjugation and torture. Their faithful optimism quells my own fears and helps
to push me up each mountain-side as my energy levels begin to ebb.
Today is no different. The view from the slow path to Muktinath captivates like
a visual drug. As soon as it enters your line of vision, it grips hold of your
heart and leaves you feeling bare and insignificant within its vastness. Even
the sherpas, who have been here many times before, grow quiet and stare repectfully
out over the valley. It takes will power to re-focus on the path ahead.
Beginning to struggle, I remember an elderly woman who I’d met days earlier on
one refugee camp. She had explained how she had left the country she loved in
order to come to Nepal in search of safety, walking for many days over mountain
tops, through violent weather and over treacherous terrain wearing the simplest
of footwear. The image of her kind, forgiving face carries me upwards to my
awaiting tent, exhausted. It isn’t the pain of the dysentery that keeps me
awake that night, it is the knowledge that the majority who suffer in this way
can’t always comfort themselves with the knowledge that soon they will return
to a warm, safe bed in a stable country that they have the privilege to call
home.
