Chapter 10

^ ^ ^ ^

We entered the Darcha valley. From a narrow cleft to the north, the main river spilled out across a rocky plain. It was August and the surge of snowmelt had ebbed. Only weeks before the river had been a raging torrent, filling the valley with churning, rubble-filled waters. Now much diminished, it divided into many smaller streams, intertwining countless, barren, boulder-strewn islets—almost delta-like in appearance. From the east and west, two tributaries joined the Bhaga. From the east flowed the Milang out a wide grassy nala. Its calm, pastoral character made it an ideal summer home for the Gaddis and their flocks. From the west, the Barai spilled steeply and violently from a rocky canyon. Our track to the Shingo-la would follow this less inviting direction.

We reached the bazaar by a spidery bridge over the Barai. The real village, Darcha-Sumdo, lies about a mile up the road and then eastward along a trail. But in this level space beside the highway, a number of dhabas, small shops, and hotels had sprung up. I use the word "hotel" in the loosest sense; flat-roofed, dirt-floored, stone huts, not one with more than two or three small, ill-lit rooms. Inside their dark, dust-laden recesses, charpois, rustically cobbled rope beds, occupied all available floor space. For running water, you needed only go as far as the irrigation ditch in the back; the fields beyond served as the loo. Amazingly, there seemed to be electricity, for a few light bulbs hung from dangerously bare wiring. These proved to be more for show than practical use; the generator providing intermittent power was perpetually "kherab."

As soon as we arrived, I sent Gul to find a room. Only one was available, so tiny that it was barely able to contain the double charpoi. Dust lay inches deep, and so were the cobwebs. One look sent a chill through me—my spider’s web nightmare come to life. I decided to test the tent.

Level ground was scarce, so I tried to pitch my tent on the flat hotel roof. Because it was self-supporting, I was able to set it up on the ground, and then, much to the amazement of some nearby Gaddis, pick it up and carry it up onto the roof. The only trouble was that pegging was impossible without holing the roof.

Exhausted from the journey and the high altitude, I didn’t press the issue. Instead, I casually wedged the tent’s stakes under small stones and bits of wood. This activity attracted several layabouts, who gathered to offer, what I interpreted as, advice—although in Gul’s absence, I couldn’t understand what was actually said. Much to my embarrassment I soon found out. With the approach of sunset the winds picked up to near gale proportions. Suddenly, one gust caught hold of the tent and sent it hurtling into the air. After several uncertain moments careening in the updrafts, it finally drifted across the road and landed in a field of ripening barley. Priding myself on my outdoorsmanship, I was aghast. Even more irritating was the smirk barely hidden on Gul’s face—of course he had come just in time to witness the flight.

A deeper concern quickly replaced my wounded pride. The tent was to be my home, my bubble of survival. I depended on it for protection from the elements. What if it was destroyed at the very beginning of the journey? I ran across the more than one hundred yards separating the hotel from the tent’s resting-place and examined the fallen shelter. After seeing the poles weren’t broken, I gingerly checked for tears or holes. That was my lucky day, for this cheap little tent had withstood the flight. As silly as I knew it was, I couldn’t help feeling proud for my new friend. My earlier concern for this seemingly fragile structure evaporated. I now felt confident it could withstand the worst the Himalaya had to offer. Why I thought this little breeze could in any way approximate the forces ahead, I will never know.

After finding a new, more sheltered site a short distance up the Barai, I returned to the bazaar and took my seat on the patio of one of the several dhabas.

This roadside "Darcha" was essentially a truck stop and, as evening descended, a long line of lorries, those plying the route to and from Leh, halted for the night. Of course, Darcha was also the trailhead for the route across the Shingo-la, and Zanskar beyond. In addition to the lorry-drivers, there were many foreign travelers, both members of trekking groups, and more solitary wanderers such as myself. While I was aware this was a well-traveled route, I had no idea of the scale of that travel. The host assembled resembled a small multi-national army. Across the road from the hotels was a campsite. This had been empty upon our arrival, but while I was away pitching my tent, a busload of Euro-tourists arrived. Orderly rows of brightly colored tents now filled the camp. The bazaar that night took on overtones of an Alpine ski resort. Tourists dressed in the latest fluorescent-hued sportswear, loaded down with still and video cameras, mingled in the few chai stalls and mo-mo shops. It was as if suddenly space ships from all over the galaxy had landed, disgorging alien passengers, who went immediately about establishing their own little worlds.

Each group was a community unto themselves—French, German, and Italian. To them everything else, including me, was only a scenic backdrop to peer at, to photograph. The locals too were caught up in this voyeuristic obsession. In this land devoid of mass media, tourist must earn their way as objects of wonder, amusement, and, in rare instances, derision. After a hard day in the fields, small groups of local women, rosy cheeked, flashing eyes, dressed in heavily embroidered wool of earthy red and brown hues, drifted into the bazaar to marvel at the strange fashions and high-tech equipment of the foreigners.

Some of these women were quite attractive. Was it the "Black Dog" rum Gul had so solicitously provided? Certainly, they were more interesting than the Europeans, who exhibited the toll of the road in their generally bedraggled appearance. Unlike their counterparts in other Indian regions where the Islamic innovation of purdah prevailed, these local women were willing to stop and chat, flirt, and tease, if given an invitation. This wasn’t at all out of place this Tibetan-rooted culture. Women traditionally held a strong role, even practicing polyandry by taking two or more brothers as joint husbands. Polyandry, because of the increase in surviving female babies, has been in decline in recent years. However the females of Ladakh, Zanskar, and Lahaul, appear extremely liberated. This was clear from the way they carried themselves, unabashedly making eye contact, evidencing a belief in their own equality, and lack of fear of the opposite gender.

How different this was from Muslim Kashmir. There, a woman was under constant threat in her relationships with men. Not necessarily from men themselves, but from how the society and, more specifically, how the family would interpret the relationship. If a young woman went anywhere with a man who wasn’t a close relative, she was immediately labeled "whore." More than one young man had lectured me on the sorry state of modern women.

"They going with unrelated boys, cinema and shikaras. riding" It made no difference that this was quite out in the open, in a public place; they were, "…putanna, you know Sahib, in Angrez, prostitutes. Thanks be Allah for the militants! They close down cinemas; Insha’Allah they take care of any mens they see fooling around in shikaras."

Despite delusions brought on by the "Black Dog," these local ladies’ bold behavior only demonstrated independence, and boredom, rather than any attraction to me. After all, these were unmarried village girls, who must ultimately guard their reputations—a difficult task in a small community. It was one thing to flirt, but a whole other realm to act on any underlying desire. I would have had better luck hitting on one of the trekkers. Feeling even more alone in the face of the general camaraderie, I let my imagination wander. Maybe there was one mem who, recovered from the Delhi Belly and not yet exhausted from the trail, might be up for a twirl. But though I reflexively thought in these terms—I was quite high—I realized that I wasn’t up to it. Was it the altitude? Was I just getting too old for all that crap? I wondered if I had crossed some watershed. Would I no longer be able to act on my lust? Would my desires only play like a broken record over and over in the confines of imagination?

Grasping the remains of the Black Dog, I retired to the tent. Rum mixed with charas gradually guided me towards sleep. Again I was thrust into the dream of the spider. It mattered not where I slept, for the spider was in me. Yet this time the dream changed.

Not only am I struggling against the webs, but also there is some other unseen force lifting me. I rise above the realm of the spider. The cruel, glass-like threads still cling to me, but somehow I know they are stretched to the limit, that they will soon give way, and my body will survive. Then, as if a testament to my prescience, or to the power of prayer, one after another the strands begin to snap apart. Instead of being drawn back into the web-shrouded world, I break free. So strong is the exhilaration at being free that….

I awoke, anxious for the first luminescent glow announcing the dawn. Now that I was beginning to feel change, I was extremely eager to move. Darcha was a place whose curiosities were easily exhausted in several hours. Despite the beauty of its setting, the bazaar itself was a dirty, diesel smelling, bug-infested dump—a place to pass through, nothing more. I resolved to get ponies and make good my escape first thing in the morning.

Dawn came and went, but I had fallen back into a dreamless sleep. I only awoke when Gul brought the morning kofi, "Two spoons Dad?"

"Today, my son, we need to get the ponies. You find, thik?

"Ji, Dad, no problem," Gul confidently responded, departing almost immediately, eager to get at that commission.

Of course it wasn’t that simple. The concentration of tourist wasn’t only a problem of aesthetics; they also created a logistical nightmare in a region that could support few ponies. And it was essential to find good ponies, for the quality of the ponies…and, let us not forget, the quality of the pony-walas is the quality of the trip. Without ponies there would be no saman, and without saman no food or shelter, no warm clothes, no anything. I envied those few brave souls who went with just a backpack…and their heart. Two Japanese had arrived, took tea, and then hit the trail. No hassle! All of their needs they carried on their backs—not in those huge, high-tech packs of the Europeans, but in small, local-made jholas. I flirted with this approach, but every time I got close to the doing, I found some bloody excuse.

Well, there is always someone faster, someone bolder. Today the back packers, tomorrow, someone without a pack; then, of course, there could always be the sky-clad beggar trip. What the fuck! I am getting old and need my few comforts. Still, I wasn’t entirely at ease. I always feel guilt; it is part of me and, no matter how I reduce my load, it weighs heavily. I could always blame it on my need to photograph, but even this was becoming more of an excuse than a reason—and I knew it.

I settled into my roost outside the hotel, enjoying the sun and one of the innumerable glasses of tea I drink each day—at altitude it is important to keep up the fluids. Two young Zanskari boys approached. One, the more intelligent looking of the two, introduced himself in halting English, employing sweeping gestures to further understanding.

"My name Pal, Sahib, this boy Yosh. We hear you need ponies. We having two. We…Padam to here last night coming. Tourist-sahibs same same you bring. We much doing. We best guides, number one ponies, Zanskari, no Lahauli. Now we go home. You wanting come?"

I liked Pal immediately, for though he seemed young, he looked honest, outgoing and, since he had just come across the pass, was sure to know the way. This was important, for a foot trail, unlike a motorable road, was easily obscured. Taking the wrong nala could, at best, entail a laborious backtrack and, at worst, end in disaster. Of even greater importance was that Zanskar was their home. This made me confident. Surely, they wouldn’t turn tail when conditions became to rough or the trail too rugged, leaving me stranded in some remote location with a pile of saman. They, even more than I, had reason to go on. Porters and pony-walas were known to run-off, returning to the safety and warmth of their homes, while employers and their saman were stranded miles from the nearest civilization. While never deserted, I had been "shaken-down" several times: "Sorry Sahib, porters needing more rupees. Track too dangerous! Saman too heavy!" What could you do if you were halfway up the Baltoro Glacier, except pay? But this and much worse were the stuff of Himalayan travel.

Problem! The Zanskaris became extremely agitated after examining the saman. There was an intense discussion. Then Pal, gathering up his courage, sadly admitted there was no way their two ponies could carry it all. "No way, Sahib. Saman too many. Yosh’s pony too young, only one year; no good for heavy loads. I regretted this decision, and suggested they try to find another pony. With renewed hope they promised and set off to explore the possibilities.

For Gul, as promised, there was no problem, at least as long as I was willing to pay the price. A few hours later he returned with word of a pony-wala and four animals. This local had agreed to carry the luggage to Padam for one hundred and twenty rupees per animal per day.

I knew that three ponies could carry all the baggage and that a fourth pony was excessive, as was the price. After all, that would be four hundred and eighty rupees per day. This was on top of the two hundred and fifty plus I was paying Gul, not to mention the cost of the food. It was time to reign in spending which, because of my illness, had been going out almost unchecked. It wasn’t too soon to begin to economize. One hundred rupees saved might lengthen my life another week. How odd it was. An extra week was becoming important…even an extra day.

Gul wasn’t privy to my financial woes. I was just another over-rich ferenghi mark to be milked, then cut-loose into the CBI-DEA maw. It was preferable for me to spend as much as possible, as quickly as possible. In this way he could maximize his commissions and minimize the time he had to invest.

Despite my reluctance to go with the four horses, Gul convinced me that this pony-wala was the only choice. He was insistent that the Lahauli would refuse to go unless he could take his entire string. "If not, Dad," Gul warned, "he deal with other group." Not wishing to spend the rest of my life in Darcha, I reluctantly agreed, with the proviso that if the Zanskaris came through, I would go with them. It was now Gul’s man versus mine. Here was that Servant thing again. Was this to become my fate? Would I end my days taking care of my new "son’s" needs. Luckily for me, my need for friendship hadn’t completely blinded me to Gul’s nature. Yet I was reluctant to make friction. Gul kept up the attack, insisting there was little likelihood of my pony-walas—they were young and Zanskaris—finding any Lahauli who would cooperate with them.

Pressing his case, Gul brought the Lahauli candidate around, together with his ponies. This wala could speak no English, but both he and his ponies seemed fit for the work ahead. On top of his cash demand, he also wanted to bring his assistant. This set me off. It had been a long time since I had faced the realities of the trail. The thought of taking on an extra mouth to feed obscured the legitimate need for another pair of hands to control the animals and perform the necessary chores. The last thing I wanted was a huge train of men and beasts—I had enough of that in my forays in film and tourism. The rations taken on in Manali envisioned feeding three. Now there would be a forth and a pony which I felt we didn’t really need. Of course in all honesty, my Zanskaris were also two in number—but then they were mine. Although I was unhappy with the prospects, the thought of waiting around in Darcha made me even more miserable. So reminding Gul I had given my word to the Zanskaris, I told Gul it would be a go…if the Zanskaris failed to come through. I could only hope that his Lahauli understood the situation.

To clear my head of all the maneuvering, I decided on a stroll to see a little of the countryside. It was hard to realize that while a few hundred rupees in someone’s pocket was no big deal to me—at least not yet—it could quite literally mean the difference between life and death for a local. No, my head wasn’t into that reality. I had made it to my mountains, and I wasn’t going to waste my time squabbling over a few hundred rupees.

I wanted to test my muscles, be sure that they were still in shape to carry me over the next few weeks of hard walking. I hadn’t done any real exercise in the two weeks I had been in India. Although I had trained on Rokko, I was unsure of my current condition. What a difference 10,000 feet made! I decided to walk up the valley, along the road toward the Baralacha, to a bridge that crossed the Bhaga. Maybe, if I had the juice, I could cross over to the nala on the other side. Paul mentioned there was a "valley of some interest" to the east—that same pastoral Milang Nala which caught my eye on arrival.

Darcha Oasis, the bazaar aside, is an extremely beautiful patch of earth. The many streams that feed into its central plain provide the irrigation for lush green fields. The colors of these streams reveal the nature of the land they traverse. From the north, rocky, falling precipitously from the Baralacha-la, the water is an icy, translucent aquamarine. From the west toward the Shingo-la it is a more ominous coffee brown, a testament to its power to tear the earth. From the east flows a crystalline, spring fed water that sparkles briefly in the intense sunlight, before being lost in the overpowering murk of the west. At that time of the year, the waters were receding and scars attesting to its potential were everywhere.

In the spring, the valley takes on a different look, the melting snows swelling the rivers. The swollen rivers submerge the plain in a wild tumult of mud, rock, and icy water. Unimagined power is released, power to alter the entire valley, power to destroy all life within. But on this day all was well: warm, sparkling sunlight, the chats, redstarts, and dippers carrying on their noisy communion among the stands of willow trees, the occasional shout of a pony-wala urging teams up the dusty rise. Above all was the roar of the river, punctuated by the staccato of prayer flags whipped by the wind. I felt at one with all. An illusion, perhaps, a dream, quite likely, but for a brief moment a sense of peace entered my heart. I was drained of all anger, all hate. In the face of that splendor, I was able to leave myself and all cares that had come to define me.

Walking along the path, I came to a curious structure astride an irrigation channel. At first, I took it for a mill. Then I saw a tangkha hanging on the side of the adobe structure. It was a mandala. Its circular structure depicted the bhavachakra, that "Wheel of Becoming" which the Rangdom Kaushak, so many weary miles in the future, would explain as a map of the human condition. For an instant, even without a spiritual guide, I somehow knew that locked within this most common theme was the gateway to that place the Buddha declared "is the end of pain."

But I was too much at peace to think long on such escape. Rather than continuing on such a lofty train, I was suddenly overcome by the amusing thought that this mandala was some sort of spiritual pizza. Yes, it was predominantly dark tomato-red. Yes, there were the six slices; devils like anchovies, some slices with, some without. God! How long had it been since I had a pizza? Thoughts of food, like sex, popped up at the oddest times, sparked by the most tenuous of associations. What a broiling pot of wants I was—and still am? All that shit, just below the surface.

I fought to bring my mind back, to focus on that present, to see what was before me, rather than what was in me. Although framed by extremely weathered and aged silk brocade, the vibrancy of the colors suggested that the artist had used pigments of powdered semi-precious minerals—lapis, turquoise, carnelian, opal, and gold. Although typical of Buddhist art’s strict traditions, the detail of the characters spoke of both the skill and contemplative dedication of its creator. On the rim of the great wheel were twelve small scenes showing the twelve nidhanas or understandings. These begin not with birth, but ignorance, yet end in death. It is this cycle that gives cause to the various stages of heaven and hell depicted in the six larger scenes within the wheel itself—these scenes symbolically echoed that most ubiquitous mantra of "Om Mani Padme Hum." Though I had heard and seen this phrase time and time again, I didn’t know its meaning until the Kaushak had translated: Om: rebirth as a God; ma: rebirth as a Titan; ni: rebirth as a man; pad; rebirth as a beast; me: rebirth in purgatory; Hum: rebirth in Hell.

The artist must have been particularly concerned with Hell. Its anguish was exquisitely detailed, in both hot and cold environs, with many sadistic tortures such as spread-eagled bodies flayed alive, pots full of human heads reduced to broth by demons skilled in the culinary arts. Most likely it was the result of too many long cold winter nights trying to fend off the calls of the flesh. Other segments depicted a world of animals, a milder purgatory, while on the top were more pleasant, heavenly views. In every scene, Lord Buddha hovered in the clouds, offering escape from the cycle, whatever the stage. On the hub of the wheel were Mara’s daughters in the form of bird, snake, and pig, the root of all suffering—passion, anger, and ignorance. They were in the act of devouring one another. The phrase, "You are what you eat," echoed through my mind.

My eyes, wearying of the incredible wealth of detail, opened to a wider frame. It was then I saw it. I don’t know why it took me by such surprise; I should have expected it. Tradition dictates the wheel should be held by a terrifying beast, snout-nosed, fang-toothed, whose flame red forehead was surmounted by a blazing third eye. It was Mara, Lord of Death, tempter of Siddartha, depicted here as a skull-crowned demon whose cruel talons grimly grasped the wheel.

This wasn’t the only surprise, for then the strangest thing happened. Maybe it was the charas, or my old alibi of altitude, or just a chain reaction to the initial shock—so desperate to assign rational cause—but as I gazed transfixed by the horror of this apparition, its appearance began to change. As the creature, Mara, relaxed its grip, harsh lines began to soften, flaming red lightened to an infinitely more pleasing rose, bulbous forms, particularly in the eyes, reordered themselves into almost sinuous curves. Instead of a monster, I was now looking into the face of a most beautiful…I suppose it must have been a woman, although at that moment gender, or even genus hadn’t much bearing. Horror transformed to beauty, and somehow that beauty "spoke" to me.

"You see Guy! This is what happens when you release. If you hold too tightly…." Here Mara’s grip began to tighten, and immediately the face began to contort into that former horror; then the grip relaxed, and beauty welled back. "I think you see my point Guy. Its really so simple like riding those waves in your faraway homeland. How do you say it? ‘Go with the flow.’"

^ ^ ^

She—for now the beauty was so overwhelming I can only think in terms of "she"—laughed with such a delightful tone. And for a moment, I found myself laughing too.

"You shouldn’t try so hard Guy. You can’t force that wave can you? Its power is too great. Neither should you try so hard to hold on to yourself…or to find me. Ride life like that wave. Remember it is only one of an infinite number. If you fall, there is always another waiting just behind."

I kept looking, expecting to suddenly snap out of a dream. It must be a dream. The smoke, the exertion of the hike, the altitude, I must have sat down and dozed off. In a minute or two I will wake. There will be just the mill, the only Mara, that fearsome image conjured by the artist’s imagination.

"Come on Guy…yes over here." God! Mara had moved, no longer just a two-dimensional figure on canvas. "You know Guy, we’ve met before. Remember back…near Angkor, in another land where I am known…by the Khmer, when that noisy thing in which you humans fly fell from the sky; you were thrown, just before all became flame. Don’t you remember? You looked into my eyes?"

She was right, I had seen her before, only not as Mara. Actually, I hadn’t really know her as anything other than a hallucination, but I wasn’t about to give that up to this…whatever.

^ ^ ^

It was near the end, the autumn of ’74. I had been looking for some work in Cambodia. It was only a matter of weeks, months at the most before the Rouge was going to kick our white-eyed asses. Of course, we never guessed they would kick the asses of their own even harder. For a long time I had wanted to see Angkor Wat, the famed temple complex of the ancient Khmer dynasty. I was afraid this might be my last chance. The Rouge was closing in, and they had a reputation for being rather unconcerned about cultural treasures. What irony, it wasn’t work, but a tourist trip that almost got me. I hitched a ride up on a government chopper ferrying troops in a last desperate attempt to defend Angkor. About five minutes after we lifted out of Battambang, we took some ground fire—I told you the end was near.

The pilot was killed outright. Then the tail rotor bought it, and we went down. I was sitting in the doorway, getting some footage even though I was on holiday—in those days I was always getting footage. Then after the hits, everything began to spin out in slow motion, just sort of looping round and round like a corkscrew then, there was this incredible rush, and I felt myself flying through the air. Being in the doorway, that was what saved me. Slamming into the ground threw me clear. I came down on my Frezzi, it lay hard in my gut. I had just enough time to look down and see that the lens had broken off at the bayonet mount, then all hell broke loose. It was like the whole world exploded into flame, but as a series of still pictures, snap, snap, snap…at, at, at…the flames spreading out in staccato images. Looking back, all I could see was the flame, the rotors still twirling like a windmill in a fiery hell, all the more demonic for exploding pops of 7.62s. I remember seeing in this inferno’s midst a figure come running out, covered with fire. This demon thing—for by that time it was no longer human—came closer and closer to where I lay, all in the flash of frozen frames. I thought this hellish thing was going to leap on me. Its arms were outstretched, as for a final embrace. At the time, I was sure it was one of the Khmer troopers we were ferrying; That was the rational explanation. But as it came on, there was this strange mask-like quality to the face, and I remember thinking, God! I must be in shock. I can’t quite focus. Does this dude have an extra eye? Then I passed out.

^ ^ ^

"Yes, Guy, now it’s coming back to you."

Shit! She was still there. Somehow I was expecting my flight into the past might recapture reality. But I was not to get off lightly.

"And there were other times." Remember on the mountain that’s not far from here, the one that’s home to the consort of Lord Shiva, remember when all the snow came falling down. You saw me, but I went off with your companion."

^ ^ ^

Oh yes, I knew what that was all about. It was that trip with Paul—the one and only trip. There was a reason we had never tripped again. It was an impulse, just Paul, a Bhotia guide, and I. There were some porters to help us up to the Sanctuary, but from there, up on the most sacred body of Nanda Devi herself, we were on our own. It was just a small, impromptu expedition, three of us on the quiet, so we didn’t have to deal with government permission, baksheesh, and all, not even planning to get to the top, just to see how high we could go. We had worked our way up to that great western face. Ahead at about 21,000 was a small col, really nothing but an avalanche chute, but it lay across the only possible route. If we were to go any higher, we must cross. True, there was this big overhanging cornice of snow a couple of hundred feet above; true there was nothing below for a thousand feet or more. But it was only about twenty yards wide and, once across, a most inviting ridgeline promised an easy gain of at least a thousand feet. I was roped between the guide and Paul. Just as the Bhotia, who was leading, crossed the midpoint, there was a tremendous rumble. All hell broke loose! I don’t really know what happened. It was all too fast. I felt a jerk. I dug in with all my might. It was as if some giant grabbed me and tore me off the face. I went flying through the air and smashed back into the ice. One side of the rope, the one leading back was still taut. The other side was slack. Swinging pendulum-like across the jagged face, I looked down into that broiling, snow-filled chasm. I thought I could see the Bhotia slowly cartwheeling through space, But the oddest thing, he wasn’t alone. Instead he seemed to be in the arms of another. For a moment, I assumed it was Paul; they had both bought it. That scared the shit out of me, for it meant I was alone. Then I heard Paul behind me call out and felt a gentle tug on the rope. "You okay Guy? Don’t worry! Hold on. The belay’s holding! I’ll get you in!" At the time I dismissed what I’d seen to the shock of the fall.

^ ^ ^

"I hope you weren’t jealous."

Mara was still there. I kept wondering: How long can my mind hold this fantasy?

"It was his time Guy. Yours will come. It always comes. I thought that maybe it had come…in that place you call…‘NunKun’…the place that many think my home. What a joke, as if I was a mere mortal to need a ‘home.’ It seems like only yesterday. Do you remember? You thought you were so brave to come alone, to try for the top, to conquer. Yes, I knew was in your mind…it was that which conjured me."

Here this Mara gave forth a hideous gurgling giggle.

"Did you see me? Surely you felt my presence; I was watching you. Maybe…we’ll meet again up there…" Her hand, rough nail-like talons now turned into the most delicate ivory tapers, pointed up towards the pass. But was it the pass or beyond? There were so many places to meet Mara in these mountains.

^ ^ ^

"Uuusht, uuusht!" The cry of a shepherd suddenly snapped back the external world, followed by the patter of many hooves and occasional bleat of complaint as the herder drove his flock toward that pastoral nala to the east, across the Bhaga. The flock was large and strung out for several hundred yards along the switchbacks below where I rested. When they approached the bridge, the flock funneled into a compact mass, the bleating becoming more intense, as if the sheep were unsure of the rickety bridge. They quickened their pace, churning up the dry soil into a cloud of choking dust.

I thought about walking down the hill, crossing the bridge, and following on with the flock. But the dust was thick and my breath, unaccustomed to the altitude, still short. The warm sun made me feel lethargic. Better go back and see how Gul was doing with the arrangements. I did want to leave in the morning.

On my return to the bazaar, I ran into Pal and Yosh. Pal had a big smile on his face and even Yosh, who was eternally dour, looked pleased. They had found another pony. Its owner, a young Lahauli Hindu, was in tow, and Pal eagerly introduced him as Ravi. Ravi spoke no English, but he looked squarely into my eyes and assured me, with the help of Pal’s halting translation, that he too knew the Shingo trail well, "Ravi’s ponies make trip much time."

"Ponies?" I asked puzzled.

"Yes ponies, Sahib," replied Pal with a sheepish grin.

The deal was done. The means to move my seemingly endless saman was in hand. Gul had no choice but to accept my will. We spent the remaining hours of that afternoon repacking.

That night Gul and I drank until we could drink no more. This would be our last taste of civilization for many days. We were sitting in ancient garden chairs, in front of what had become my favorite dhaba, aptly named (if somewhat incorrectly executed) the Monteen Veew. A lorry pulled up, its diesel fumes pumping directly into our faces. I was too far gone to mind; so far gone that I was thinking that the fumes flavored the high. I was too much at peace or, perhaps, too numb to really care. It had been so beautiful sitting there, all thought giving way to the night’s sensory embrace: the never-ending rumble of the river punctuated now and again by the clash of boulder against boulder, the sudden rush of the wind in the poplars, village dogs barking. In the far distance…was that the howl of the wolf? It had taken some time to emerge from the shell of civilization. I was only just beginning to live in the outdoors, braving the night’s chill to view again stars, which only the clarity of the Central Asian sky can reveal. My thoughts drifted back to Afghanistan. In myth it was the land of Cain’s exile, but for me it was paradise.

^ ^ ^

I was on the hill behind my house in Shar-i-Nau. I often went there with Mei. During the days we would watch ragged, apple-cheeked youths battle with their fighting kites, their glass-encrusted lines seeking out an enemy, cutting its line, setting it free. And then there were the nights. What magic lay there. Stars, all the colors of a pasha’s jewels, set in the obsidian of a winter night’s sky. With the sparsely lit city beneath our feet, the moonscape of Kabul blanketed by snow, it seemed as if we could look down and see the stars, stars that shone as brightly on the horizon as they did in the center of the sky. You could reach out and pluck them, "Here Mei, this ruby is for you."

I felt that fuzzy, warm glow, the memory of a simpler time. It had been just us against the world. We lived by our wits, gambled, and usually won. Coming from opposite sides of the earth, somehow we had connected in that most remote place. Bundled in down, we rubbed each other’s face, feeling the inner glow of warmth that penetrated wind-chilled flesh. We had been so deeply in love, so focused, so removed from all that was ordinary. I was that wandering merchant prince and she my native princess. It was a fantasy, yet more than a film it was our life, and we willed it true. We felt the power that came from such creation. In our minds there was nothing we couldn’t do.

^ ^ ^

I picked up a torch and stumbled off to my tent. As I crawled into my bag, I felt contented. I was where I wanted to be, on the verge of what might well be a great adventure. That it might be my last only heightened the expectation. The air was chill, causing me to zip up my expedition-thick down bag. How long have I had this bag? Twenty years! A full generation! Though its outer purple and gold covering is stained and mended—so many little holes where the charas has burned through—the nylon is still shiny and smooth as silk, giving it a feel of opulence.

How I love this bag. Here it is today embracing me, warming me as I recount my tale. Even its scars are treasures. They record of some of my fondest moments—those burn marks on the bottom where I snuggled too close to the bukhari; the indelible stains of passion from the innumerable times Mei and I made love, our bags joined as were our bodies…and our heart. Yes, this bag is the closest thing to having a woman, perhaps even better in some ways. What more could I ask than to be warm, dry, and fuzzily high? Ahead, I knew there would be suffering, hardship, pain, but in this bag I had a faithful friend, one to whom I could turn despite the rigors of the day. This was a friend who would keep me warm. This was friend who would keep me alive.

So much has happened since that night, only parts of the dream linger. Perhaps because they are those very parts which extend out from dream into the flow of my waking life. I do remember, as in my web world, I was able to see me. Too high on altitude, adrenaline, Black Dog, and charas, I drifted in and out of a dream, but now the dream, so long mired in those webs, was changing.

Clarity seizes my mind. Like a Zen flash of realization, I hold the truth of this creature. Mara’s hideous face is only a reflection of my fear. All I have to do is to let go—to not be afraid. But that is an understanding held only for an instant, soon lost in the rolling echoes of Mei’s plaintiff cry, "Come down, calm down! Come down, calm down! We must regain the way!" Yet I ignore her warning, climbing higher and higher, on my heels the huge white cat. So close is this creature, I feel its malodorous breath—so cold that it burns. I want to turn and look. But I am too afraid.

Momentarily I awake, or at least I think I am awake, because I am no longer in or with the ibex, but lying in my bag. It is so hot, and though below the freezing point outside, both the bag and I are mired in salty moisture. My mind struggles to hold on to the ibex, to get back to Mara, and the conquest of fear. But in the blackness of the night and the confusion, I have lost my way.

The sound of a zipper stirs new awareness, yet I am so fearful of what I might find that I struggle to see the ibex. But the sound of the zipper surrounds me, absorbs me. All I sense is that the zipper is closing me off from the world, consigning me to a bondage worse than any web the spider can spin, condemning me to an utter void. Fearing I am in Nam, I know such closure comes only from one source. I smell stench of neoprene baking in the hot jungle sun…the suffocating slickness of enshrouding damp.

"Dad! Dad…please wake!

Escape! No Nam, no body bag! Instead there was only Gul unzipping the tent to begin what was by then our morning ritual. Discreetly he slipped through the narrow opening an aluminum tray and tumbler, a packet of instant kofi, and the teapot blackened with the soot from the kero stove. I wondered, why he couldn’t find a cup with a handle? It was always such a chore to hold onto the hot tumbler. Coaxing my stiff joints into a semi-erect position, I went about the business of mixing the morning brew. Drinking this magic elixir eased the stiffness and drove away the night’s demons. I emerged from the cocoon. With my psychic strength renewed, I could face the day and deal with the work of departure.

"Do you want me to roll one Dad?"

I thought at first to say no; I wanted to be clean for the start. Somehow, however, I couldn’t articulate this resolve.

"Ji, shokria, Gul. Make a couple for the road."

"Very good, Dad!"