Originally from South Africa, I have been in Australia since 1986. My family and I have lived for a time in a number of other countries – Swaziland, Namibia, USA, India and Papua New Guinea. I often draw from these diverse and rich life experiences when writing short memoir-type pieces that perhaps one day will eventuate in a compilation “for the kids”.
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On the Top of the World - Published in Seniors' Stories Volume 5 in 2019
Nima Sherpa had been recommended to me as a guide by an American couple I met in Delhi and I had prearranged the entire trip by email, so was a bit apprehensive that all would be properly organised. I need not have worried. Nima met us at Kathmandu Airport and after sorting out trekking permits and other formalities with the least amount of fuss, we were on our way to Pokhara – the starting point of our hike. Our trekking party consisted of myself, my sister Elaine, and my son Murray. Nima had suggested we fly which was certainly preferable to the return journey which we opted to do by bus - a most terrifying trip. Elaine spent the whole way on the edge of her seat, exclaiming loudly ‘Oh my hat!’ or, ‘Goodness, he’s mad!’ at every death-defying bend of the precarious mountain road. My sister doesn’t swear. And so the three of us with Nima and two porters to carry our bags, set off on the Annapurna trail. The scenery was breath-taking, as were the long ascents – up, up and up some more. It is a very popular trekking route, and, in some places, long flights of steps have been built to make the climb easier. Murray soon tired of staying back with the ‘old ladies’ and often went ahead with the porters – those sure-footed men in flip-flop sandals, carrying our heavy packs. Overnight stops were at the locally run tea houses. These varied in luxury – classified by me as to the ablution facilities. If I had to risk my neck in the dead of night down a slippery slope to access a muddy toilet room, it was definitely a 1 star. Of course, none were of a ‘Western’ design, and squatting with wobbly, tired-out thigh muscles is no fun. Many times I wondered whether I would ever straighten up again. A rail, or handle strategically placed, would earn another star in my rating system. Being the start of the trekking season, the trail was not very busy. The monsoon rains were in their last throes making some days’ walk rather wet and the paths slick. Wooden suspension bridges slung across fast-flowing streams, and at times hard against rocky mountain sides where the run-off cascaded down in rushing waterfalls, made for precarious crossing. Negotiating one of these Elaine slipped, nearly dropping her fancy camera into the chasm. She put it into the relative safety of her backpack after that and only brought it out at rest stops. I had to rely on a basic ‘point and shoot’ to try and capture some of the splendour. But, the best and most enduring pictures are those in my memory. And so we hiked on, taking it fairly easily. Other more energetic people passed us on the way, only to be caught up that night around the communal dining table of the tea house. At bedtime it was difficult to leave the warmth of these places where a fire burnt under the table and a drying line, strung at our knees, dried out our wet socks as we ate and chatted. The menu surprised me. I had imagined eating Dalbhat – the Nepalese staple of seasoned rice, most nights. But things had obviously been much influenced by Western tastes. Pizzas with improbable toppings were high on the list, as well as the nauseatingly sweet Fried Mars Bar, a chocolate bar dipped in batter and deep fried! Nima kept pressing us to order more food – it was all included in the cost, and he couldn’t understand our small appetites. I concluded that most of his clients were big-eating Americans. The highest point on our trek was the Annapurna Base Camp. At 4130m, I definitely suffered a little from the high altitude. We had spent the night at the Fish Tail Guest House at Machapuchare Base Camp and arose before dawn to climb the last 400 metres. As the sun rose, the incredible snow-capped mountain panorama gradually emerged, and along the path, tussocky Alpine vegetation and bright flowers delighted. We were in a remote and beautiful place, pristine and mostly unscathed by the outside world. It felt untamed and free. And then we heard. While enjoying a welcome hot breakfast the appalling news came through on the Emergency radios. The date was September 11, 2001 and the world had been thrown into chaos. We couldn’t at first believe the reports, but during the next few days, as we wended our way down from the mountains, we heard more details from those coming up the trail. A young American related how his father had escaped from the second Tower. He contemplated an immediate return, but his family had urged him to stay in Nepal – possibly one of the safest places to be. We had to agree. How lucky we were to be here. The return trip through the tiny villages; children playing in the dusty streets, farmers toiling in their precariously terraced food gardens, and women going about their daily chores. I felt glad that their lives were untouched from wider threats. By now the tourist season had started in earnest and we met large groups trekking up the trail. Many of these were camping outfits and a huge number of porters carried their gear - from food and cooking pots, to tents and even toilet seats. I realised sadly that my earlier assessment was totally inaccurate. With their fragile economy so dependent on Western tourism, these people would all be severely impacted. Back in Kathmandu we visited a Buddhist Stupa and as I rolled the prayer wheels I determined to live each day as if I too might have no more to live. And then we left. Back to our real world. But a part of me yearned to stay a while longer in that place of stunning scenery where faded and tattered prayer flags flutter in the wind. An older piece: My Dad’s Signature was big – just like him. It was also bold and in a way beautiful with lots of loops and flourishes. It was carefully executed, usually without hurry and took up more room than it should have, often too big for the allotted space on a document. It seems that it was always a part of my life. I remember my dad’s signature on notes for school and on the cheques he and my mother wrote out on the kitchen table at the end of each month. They kept the bills on a paper spike on the dresser – the weekly grocery bills from Harry Parr the Grocer, a friend of Dad’s from Prisoner of War days, and the butcher’s bloody edged invoices, stabbed through their middles along with those from the Florida Shoe Shop and John Orr’s, the grand Department store in Johannesburg. My mother would sort and add up the figures, checking against the accounts, which had all arrived in brown window envelopes. Dad had a fountain pen which needed to be filled with the dark blue ink bought in a wide necked bottle so that the pen could fit down into the murky depths and a little pump operated to pull the ink up into the rubber bladder. Once the nib was wiped and he had tested it out on one of the brown envelopes, Dad was ready. The cheques were written and finished in a flourish with The Signature. I imagine the young boy long ago sitting awkwardly at his school desk, always too big for regular furniture, scratching out trial signatures on scraps of paper, maybe in the margins of completed homework – experimenting with a sign of himself which would mark him out from other men in years to come. How would he put his stamp on the world – how would others recognise him? I wonder what ambitions lay behind this almost flamboyant mark? What dreams and visions were captured in this inky stain? Did my dad sometimes wish to break out from his allotted life of breadwinner, husband and father – restricted by circumstance, to escape into the loops and swirls of his own undiscovered desires? Looking back I think I was always proud of My Dad’s Signature – it was so confident, so unmistakable. I didn’t consciously compare it but I realised it stood out from the rest. My dad stood out from the rest – in stature, in integrity, in generosity of spirit - all captured in a mark on paper, indelible and lasting. SMOKING Is the old adage “All nurses smoke,” really true? I tried it for a while – anything to help keep awake during the long night duty hours – cup of coffee, couple of biscuits, smoke a cigarette, do a ward round, don’t put your head on the desk, you’ll fall asleep, watch out for the night supervisor, smoke another one – hour after sleepy hour. Those were the days when patients had ashtrays on their bedside lockers and the duty room was a smoky haze, especially on frosty nights when all the doors and windows were shut tight. No-one had heard of passive smoking! I quite liked the taste of cigarettes and I must admit, while dangling a Cameo from languid fingers, inhaling rather daringly and blowing smoke nonchalantly, I rather fancied my sophisticated self. However I did not enjoy the stale smell of spent cigarettes, and loathed the sight of lipstick-kissed butts squashed into grey ash in yellow-stained ashtrays. The ritual of: smoke cigarette, wash hands, open window, breathe in fresh air, throw out butt, wash ashtray, clean teeth, all became too tedious and hard work, so I gave up almost as soon as I started. That was my second foray into smoking. My first attempt was as a ten-year old sneaking a cigarette or two from the packets my dad bought to give out to the postman, dustmen and other deliverymen, as part of their “Christmas box”. Why this was deemed a suitable gift, I’m not sure, but it was certainly part of the Christmas ritual to hand out a few cigarettes with their bonus. I wonder whether my goodie-two-shoes-friend, Lynlee remembers our hiding in the chicken coop, excitedly lighting up a cheap smoke and puffing, coughing and choking on our daring. My brother and his pals had another smoking hideaway – at the back of the Dutch Reformed Church at the end of our street - until they were caught and ordered off by the Dominee or caretaker. Despite these childhood adventures and my abortive attempt at sophistication while a student nurse, none of my family smoked. My father would tell us of his Prisoner of War days when he would swap his Red Cross package cigarettes for food. He could never understand the cravings of his fellows for a smoke, in preference for a packet of biscuits. My grandfather, who lived with us until he died when I was eight years old, did smoke a pipe. I used to love the smell of the tobacco as he tamped it into the bowl and the smoke curling up as he smoked. But the memory is tainted by the putrid dribble aftermath, his yellow-stained moustache and sour-smelling breath. And then I married into a smoking family. When I first met them, all my in-laws smoked, although my fiancé had thankfully given up when we started going out together. I suspect my aversion to kissing someone with smoker’s breath was a sure-fire incentive. My sister has not been so fortunate, her husband persevering in his smoking, despite his two daughters’ outrage: “Yuk, Dad, you pong!” being a mild expression of their disapproval. The activity of smoking has been around for a very long time and despite all the attempts to dissuade and scare smokers into stopping, there will always be those who persist. Who would have believed that this leaf which was initially popular for its supposed healing properties – it was believed to cure almost anything, from bad breath to cancer and was used to dress wounds, as well as a pain killer, is now known to be a major cause of disease and death? I remember a sketch by the comedian, Bob Newhart as he imagines a telephone conversation with Sir Walter Raleigh calling home to England from the colonies. The recipient is incredulous as Sir Walter explains the use of tobacco. “You do what? Roll it up in paper and set fire to it? And then you inhale the smoke?” How bizarre. |