Daisy: March 2020

Kathmandu has always conjured up images of a mysteriously remote and exotic city, but nothing I’ve read has prepared me for the noisy, crazy, colourful chaos that engulfs me each time I step out of the doors of my hotel. The air is filled with dust and traffic fumes, and the stench of raw sewage makes me gag as I cross a bridge over a murky stream. Madly haphazard loops of electric wiring run above every pavement, and I wonder how often people are accidentally electrocuted. I snap a photo and send it off to Jack, adding the tagline Just one of the hazards on the streets of Kathmandu. Probably a faster and less painful way to go than being run over by a hundred scooters though . There’s no reply, but then it’s still the middle of the night in Bermuda, which was the last place he texted me from. He’d said he was fed up with sailing yachts for other people and was looking for a more modest boat of his own to buy.

The sense of overwhelm I feel as I attempt to navigate my way through the city streets is compounded by the drip-feed of news of the pandemic. Here in Nepal a few people are wearing paper masks, but most seem to be carrying on their lives as normal. News flashes come through sporadically, when the Wi-Fi is working in the hotel. The prime minister has said all non-essential travel should be cancelled, so I feel guilty about being here. But it’s too late now, and maybe flying back would just help spread the virus more. Some people are saying it will take twelve weeks to turn the tide of the virus. Nearly three months ... that would be a long time to be stuck out here. But surely things will get better before then? Most people seem to think it’ll only be a couple of weeks at most.

I woke this morning to find a message from Davy, saying Mum’s doing okay. She’s still in bed, sleeping for much of the time, but her temperature’s coming down and her breathing is getting a little easier. Don’t worry, I’m looking after her for you , he’d typed, and I had a sudden yearning to feel his strong arms around me, looking after me as well. He may be my stepfather, but he’s all the dad I’ve ever needed.

Do you think I should come back? I asked him, forgetting it must still be the middle of the night there and he’d sent the message hours before.

But even so, after a few minutes his reply flashed back: No, do your trip. She loved the pictures of the Garden of Dreams. It’s helping her to know you’re carrying on. We love you.

I’d felt a lot happier knowing Mum seemed to be on the mend and had managed to eat a hearty breakfast earlier that day.

I’m supposed to be meeting a guide this afternoon from the company we’d booked the trek through, ready to confirm all the arrangements for my departure tomorrow. The last email I received from them was a week ago, so I’ve been assuming the plans haven’t changed. I check the address of the office again. This is definitely the place, but when I try the door, it seems to be locked. I peer in, but the lights are off and there’s no one inside. Then I notice a piece of paper stuck to the inside of the window. Scrawled on it is a brief message: Closed due to Covid-19. Please call for refund.

I feel the panic rising in my chest. Now what? But I can’t lose it completely, here in the middle of a busy Kathmandu street, so I make myself take a few deep breaths (trying not to choke on the mixture of dust and petrol fumes), and walk back to find a café where I can sit and try to gather my thoughts.

Miraculously, the café has Wi-Fi as well as excellent coffee, and I manage to connect. After a moment’s hesitation – and calculating that it’s mid-morning in Scotland – I call Davy’s number, needing to hear his voice. I attempt a video call and catch a glimpse of his face before it cuts out again. He looks thinner, grey with exhaustion, and suddenly both my parents seem old and vulnerable. He rings back immediately – without the video – and the voice call connects.

‘It’s so good to hear from you, love. I’m here with your mum,’ he says. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll put you on speaker ...’

She chimes in, ‘How are you getting on, Daisy? All set to start the trek tomorrow?’

I swallow hard, as the emotion wells up at the sound of their voices, at once so familiar and so distant.

‘There’s been another glitch.’ I explain about the sign in the trekking company’s window. ‘So I’m thinking maybe it would be best to try and arrange a flight home ...’

There’s a silence at the other end, followed by the sound of coughing. I hear a brief, muffled conversation and then Mum’s voice comes through loud and clear.

‘Daisy Laverock, don’t you dare give up yet. This trip is your chance to find what you’ve lost ...’ She draws a wheezing breath. ‘You’re not just searching for Violet, you’re searching for the Daisy you used to be. That’s why I was so keen for you to go. In fact, I only agreed to come along because I knew you wouldn’t do the trip otherwise.’ There’s a pause while she coughs again. ‘At least try to find out a bit more about where Violet went. And while you’re at it, try and find out what’s happened to the fearless, audacious girl you once were, so full of dreams.’

Tears are running down my face now. Suddenly, I can see how right she is. I’ve lost my own sense of self and have come looking for Violet by way of a distraction, to avoid admitting that fact. But now I’m stranded here alone I’ll be forced to come face to face with myself. And perhaps that’s what I fear the most.

The thousands of miles between us are filled with a silence loaded with pain and fear and love. For a moment I think the connection’s dropped again, but then I hear Mum’s voice, gentler and softer this time. ‘We love you, Daisy. Do this for me, please. And I’ll be with you in spirit, every step of the way.’ Her breath seems to catch, and I can’t speak either.

‘You okay, love?’ It’s Davy’s voice this time, and he steadies me. I imagine him holding Mum’s hand and the pair of them reaching out together across the distance that separates us to hold me and support me as they always have done.

I swallow hard. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll see what I can do. You’re right. After all, it’s taken half my life to get here and who knows when there’ll be a chance to come back again. I’ll keep you posted,’ I promise. ‘And I’ll send some photos from the mountains.’

I don’t know where to go or what to do to try to find another guide. But I realise I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so I decide to go out into the city again and look for a restaurant. I wander aimlessly, letting my feet lead the way. I find I’ve joined a river of people walking along a wide avenue and allow myself to be carried along, letting go of any last shreds of purpose.

It feels like I’m surfing, carried along on a wave, and a memory flashes into my head of Jack teaching me and Stu to surf on a white sand beach many, many years ago. ‘There’s no point trying to fight it,’ he told us. ‘The sea is way stronger than you’ll ever be. Let it take you where it wants to. Just try to stay balanced, feel the play of the water and go with it, not against it.’ I remember the grace and power in his body as he showed us how.

When the wave of people breaks, spilling out into a wide square, I find myself standing in front of a vast temple. A pair of piercing, brilliant-blue painted eyes stare down at me from the golden spire that sits on top of its white dome. I recognise it immediately from the pictures in my guidebook. It’s the Boudhanath Stupa. One of the most sacred sites for Buddhists in Nepal. Skeins of prayer flags flutter in the evening breeze, scores of pigeons wheeling between them on air heavy with the smell of incense. I think there must be some sort of ceremony going on, judging by the stream of people still arriving in the square.

A whirlpool of humanity swirls around the stupa, everyone moving in the same clockwise direction, so I step into the stream and am swept along in the flow. Some people walk in silence, reaching to spin the prayer wheels set into the stupa walls, while others recite mantras as they walk. There are monks in earthen-coloured robes, pilgrims wearing traditional clothes striped in brightly coloured silk, and tourists, like me, in my ordinary dress. The all-seeing eyes painted on the four sides of the stupa’s golden tower scrutinise the walkers below.

At the top of the square there’s a brightly painted temple with a vast prayer wheel in the entranceway and a huge bronze bell hanging in a golden frame in front of it. People pause here to light butter lamps, which burn brightly, the flames dancing in the evening breeze. Incense smokes in bronze cauldrons and more pigeons swoop through the haze, coming in to land in a section cordoned off by ropes where bowls of seed are provided for them. Back home we’d consider them pests, but here in Nepal they are sacred – as are all living things. I perch on the temple steps for a while, watching the scene unfold.

A pilgrim wearing a garland of marigold flowers stops to talk to a red-robed monk sitting next to me and I pluck up the courage to ask them if this is a special ceremony. The monk replies in perfect English, with a hint of a German accent, that it’s just a normal evening. ‘In fact,’ he says, ‘it’s quieter than usual. People are staying away because of the virus, and many who live in Kathmandu are leaving the city to return to their families in the countryside, where it’s safer.’ He asks me where I’m from. ‘Ah, Scotland is a great place.’ His face crinkles in a smile. ‘You will be missing your mountains, I suppose. But we have some here in Nepal too, you know.’

I nod. ‘I was supposed to be going there, but my plans seem to have fallen apart. So I’m not sure what I’m going to do now ...’

Instead of sympathising, he smiles again. ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Because it’s only when we stop clinging on to the plans we’ve made that we step on to the middle way – the way of the unknown. We call this the sacred path of the warrior.’ He must notice the uncertainty in my expression because he reaches into a pocket beneath his robes and brings out a length of fine red string. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘You tie it around your wrist. This is called a sungdi . It will bring you strength, love and luck. It will also give you spiritual protection. And I think you may be in need of a little of that on the journey ahead. Remember, you are never alone.’

I look down at the thin red bracelet I’ve tied and then begin to thank him, but he’s already rejoined the tidal swirl of the crowd, his terracotta-coloured robes disappearing into the throng as it surges on its way.

I ponder his words. I don’t entirely understand their meaning, but somehow the simple moment of connection – and the gift of a length of red string – has made me feel less alone. And that makes me a little braver. I complete my own circuit of the stupa, but don’t want to tear myself away from the square just yet. The sun is setting, bathing the sky in a glorious pink light, and the breeze has dropped now so that the thousands of prayer flags flutter more gently, then become still. I climb the stairs to a restaurant’s roof terrace and take a seat at a table overlooking the stupa. There’s only one other occupied table in the whole place, two men who are tucking into heaped plates of rice and lentils, scarcely glancing in my direction. The waiter takes my order and brings me a cup of mint tea, which I sip as I take photos of the golden tower against the glow of the evening sky. I feel more at peace than I have done since I arrived in Kathmandu. Perhaps the monk was right – letting go of my carefully laid plans might be liberating after all if I can just accept there’s nothing much I can do about it. And now I have my red string sungdi to protect me, bringing me strength and love and luck – things that have been missing from my life for many years now. I touch it with my fingertips and smile.

I eat with more appetite than I’ve had in the past few days. The two men at the table in the corner have finished their meal now and seem to be having some sort of argument. I can’t understand a word of what they’re saying, but the older of the two raises his voice while the younger one shakes his head vehemently and leans back in his chair, his body language exuding a stubborn refusal of whatever his companion is urging.

I’m concentrating more on my supper than on their conversation, when suddenly I hear a word that makes me prick up my ears. Phortse. The name of the village in the mountains that is familiar to me from Violet’s journals. At first I think I must have misheard, or be misinterpreting some other word, but the older man says it again and the younger one repeats it, shaking his head again, speaking more forcefully too now. Then he catches me looking across at them and smiles ruefully.

‘I am sorry,’ he says, his English fluent but heavily accented, the consonants soft. ‘My father and I are disturbing your meal with our argument.’

‘Not at all.’ I take another sip of tea, and then, emboldened by the sungdi tied round my wrist, I say, ‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but are you talking about the village of Phortse? A Sherpa village in the Khumbu?’

The older man turns to look at me. ‘You know Phortse?’ he asks, surprised.

‘I was supposed to be going there,’ I say. ‘But everything has changed and now I don’t have a guide.’

‘Why do you want to go there?’ the younger man asks. ‘Surely you’d rather go to Everest Base Camp, like all the other tourists? Even I don’t want to go to Phortse, and I live there! That’s what my father and I are speaking about. He wants me to come home with him and I want to stay in Kathmandu.’

His father turns to him, exasperated, and says in his broken English, for my benefit, ‘Stop to keep arguing, Sonam. Now is not good time to stay in the city. Can’t you see what’s happening in the world? There will be no work for us here. Everyone leaving. We must go home and help your mother. Is going to be hungry times ahead otherwise, for all.’

His son slumps in his chair and reaches for the bottle of water that sits between them, pouring more into his glass.

The older man looks across at me again. ‘But why do you want go to Phortse?’

‘I’m following in the footsteps of a long-lost relation. I had a great-great-aunt who lived there nearly a hundred years ago. I’ve always wanted to see where she went. My mother was supposed to be here with me, but the virus stopped that ... and now I’m here on my own and everything has changed and the guide I’d booked has cancelled ...’ I stop, aware that my explanation must sound increasingly garbled to them. I touch the red string bracelet again for courage and take a deep breath. ‘So if there’s any chance you’re going to Phortse, please can I come with you?’

He looks at me appraisingly. ‘What your name?’

‘I’m Daisy Laverock. Daisy – like a flower.’

‘And this relation you follow? They have name?’

‘It’s Violet Mackenzie-Grant. Also like a flower.’

He repeats it, almost as if it’s a surname: ‘Violet Like-A-Flower?’ The man’s expression doesn’t change but he nods, then stands and comes across to my table, placing the palms of his hands together in front of his heart in the traditional Buddhist greeting. ‘We are Sherpa. My name is Tashi, this my son, Sonam. Our work cancelled now because all the climbers and tourists are not coming, so we will take you to Phortse.’ He says something to his son in their own language and, with some reluctance, Sonam seems to give in, because he slowly gets to his feet too and comes to stand beside his father.

I scramble to my feet as well, excitement rising in my chest. ‘That would be wonderful! I’m so grateful. You have no idea what this means to me. How much would you charge?’

‘Is not an easy journey,’ Tashi warns, ignoring my question. ‘We will fly to Lukla and then it take four days trekking to reach Phortse. Do you know this?’

I nod. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been preparing for months. And I already have a ticket booked for the flight to Lukla.’ I have it in the plastic folder in my bag. I pull it out to show him. It’s unlike the plane tickets we’re used to at home as it doesn’t actually specify a time and date, it’s just a note stating that we have paid for seats on a Yeti Airlines plane flying from Kathmandu to Lukla – a tiny airstrip on the side of a mountain, which has a reputation for being the world’s most dangerous airport. I scribble down my phone number and the name of my hotel on the back of the sheet of paper and hand it over.

He reads it carefully, then folds it and puts it in his pocket. ‘OK, Mrs Daisy. Then is agreed,’ he says. ‘We have few things to sort out here, but we will be at your hotel in two days’ time. No worry now, you travelling with Sherpas – number one best mountain guides in the world. I give you my word.’

‘ Namaste ,’ I say, placing my palms together in front of my heart as they have done. And then I watch them leave, wondering whether I’ll ever see them again and only realising, when it’s too late, that I don’t know how much it’s going to cost. I’ve also handed over my air tickets to a pair of complete strangers and I don’t have any way of contacting them. But I head back to the hotel with my spirits a little higher than they have been in days. Something in Tashi’s face makes me believe in his promise to guide me into the Khumbu. I’ll worry about the money later.

With a surge of excitement, I send an email to Mum, Davy, Stu and my girls to let them know the good news. I just may be able to follow all the way in Violet’s footsteps after all.

I lie down on my bed, twisting the thin red bracelet around my wrist. The fluttering of the prayer flags and the flickering flames of the butter lamps beside the stupa seem to enfold me still as I reach for Violet’s journal and begin to read, reminding myself again of the origins of her story and the path she eventually trod: the path of the warrior.