A little English perspective

Humbled

Prayer flags, birds, forests, waterfalls, animals, people. I take pictures of anything. I playfully spin the prayer wheel that is placed on the side of the trail. Everybody else is doing it, so it must mean something. I feel the culture seeping into me, and one night I drift off to sleep imagining myself as an intrepid explorer, throwing caution to the wind and living on the edge. I am Lara Croft, I am Indiana Jones, I am untouchable.

Within a few days, the trek becomes brutal and I struggle. From the corner of my eye, an old man appears with a walking stick carrying what must be up to 40kg worth of beer crates on his back. He is stooped over to carry the load better, which makes him appear defeated. Up close however, his face is defiant, the withered lines and crevices holding seeped in dirt that is brown, brittle and hard. I can’t look him in the eye as he walks up beside me on a steep incline.

We walk side by side. I look down at my newly broken in hiking boots and then glance over at his worn sandals that with each step dig solidly into the earth. I match his step stride for stride and mirror his pace. For a while, all I can hear his steady breathing, calm and measured next to my rasping gasps. We walk like this for hours, blending into the dust.

The daylight is fading and my feet are cut and beginning to blister. My breath rises into the frosty air and I have to stop to rest, defeated by the rugged and unforgiving terrain. The old man stops in front of me and extends a calloused hand. His expression is one of compassion and understanding. He helps lift me to my feet. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as the old man keeps a hand on my shoulder reassuringly and we climb a crest together.

It suddenly appears through the darkening landscape. Everest is blood red and glistening in the sunset. The mountain is powerful and dangerous. I feel insignificant. The old man has stopped to marvel and settles comfortably on the ground. I sit next to him and offer him a biscuit. He takes one gratefully and we eat quietly. No one speaks. Just the silence and the distant jagged peaks.

I remember the sweat, blisters bound with duct tape, aches, grit, dust, rocks, donkeys, yaks and dung. I remember swaying suspension bridges, many steps, temples, monks, prayer wheels, back packs, tea houses and porters.

But I’ll never forget the day I first saw Everest.
I’ll never forget the old man and his beer.