Daisy: March 2020

I’m all ready to leave tomorrow morning, having packed and repacked my bags several times. With time on my hands, I return to the Garden of Dreams to spend time among the jasmine and roses. I sit on the bench beneath the marble plaque and read the words of the verses again. This time, it’s the first one that speaks to me most clearly:

One moment in annihilation’s waste,

One moment. Of the well of life to taste –

The stars are setting, and the caravan

Starts for the dawn of nothing – oh, make haste!

Well, Mr Omar Khayyam, no one can say I’m not seizing the moment, stepping far out of my comfort zone and on to the middle way of the unknown.

A feeling of serenity descends over me as I sit gazing out across the neat lawns and the beds overflowing with colour. I get to my feet at last, and take one final walk along the path that circles the outer edge of the garden. In the far corner, I notice a gate I haven’t seen before. It’s as finely wrought as the others punctuating the garden walls here and there, embellished with ironwork scrolls and the heads of lions. The word ‘DREAMS’ is picked out in gilt along the top, just as it is on the entrance gate at the other side of the garden. But as I draw closer, my sense of serenity evaporates when I see what lies on the other side of the railings. It’s a scene of total devastation. Heaps of rubble and splintered wood are piled there haphazardly, as if a whole building has collapsed. It must date from the last earthquake, five years ago. I stand before it, shocked by the juxtaposition of the wording above the gate and the annihilation beyond it. Dreams in ruins , I think. How apt. It’s a sobering reminder of the forces of nature that are capable of racking this country without warning. My confidence wavers again, but I turn away and walk briskly towards the exit before anything else can shake my resolve to carry on with this misbegotten trip. If someone’s trying to tell me something, I’m not listening.

On the way back to the hotel, I stop in at Himalayan Java again, now my favourite café, and have one last cinnamon bun and decent cup of coffee. I know such luxuries will be hard to come by in the mountains. Just as I’m picking the final crumbs from my plate, my phone rings. I answer it, expecting it to be Tashi Sherpa calling to confirm the pick-up time for tomorrow and the arrangements for getting to the airport in time for the first flight to Lukla. But it appears our plans have been stymied once again.

Tashi tells me there are no more flights to Lukla for tourists. Because of the developing situation with the virus, as of today internal flights in Nepal are to be used only for transporting essential supplies.

I clutch my hair in exasperation. Perhaps the universe really is trying to tell me to abandon this trip and go home. But then I think of Violet, how she never had the luxury of bailing out even when her own dreams lay in ruins. And I remember Mum’s words: This trip is your chance to find what you’ve lost ... not just searching for Violet, searching for the Daisy you used to be. I feel a new surge of determination. ‘So is there anything we can do?’ I ask Tashi.

‘Should be no worry, Mrs Daisy. We can walk to Lukla. Five more days trekking, maybe six. But maybe too a good way for you to climb more slowly. Sonam and I meet you at hotel tomorrow, seven in morning.’

Should be no worry. But I think of the dwindling bundle of cash in my money belt. I’ve already had to pay for my extra days in Kathmandu. And now there’ll be five more days on the trail. Or maybe six, Tashi said. But still, no worry. And then I realise he’s right. Somehow, here in this extraordinary country, where everything I once thought I knew about time has evaporated and the ability to feel in command of my plans has been removed by forces far outside my control, deadlines and schedules no longer seem to matter. After all, according to the increasingly alarming news flashes, the world outside has become equally as chaotic, so perhaps I’m just as safe staying in Nepal. I’ve been trying to cling on to the last shreds of agency I once thought I had over my plans, but that seems laughable now. What’s the point? To my surprise, I find there’s a huge sense of liberation in finally letting go. Perhaps this is what the monk at the stupa meant when he talked about the middle way. I rub the length of red string tied around my wrist between my finger and thumb.

All I know for sure now is I’m going to take a leap of faith. I will walk into the mountains, on the path of the warrior, putting my trust in a pair of strangers. I’m doing it for Mum. I’m doing it for Violet. But most of all, after so many years of putting others first, I’m doing it for myself.

I pay for my coffee, stepping out of the café and back into the frenetic hustle of the city’s streets.

Despite my efforts to discard anything non-essential, my backpack still feels awfully heavy when I test it out in my hotel room in the thin light of dawn the next morning. Reluctantly, I pull out a bottle of moisturiser, my deodorant and a spare fleece top, and set aside the comfortable slippers I’d imagined putting on my tired feet at the end of each day. I’ll just have to wear my socks and smell. The loo rolls add to the bulk, but have to stay in, obviously. I try the backpack again. If anything, it seems to feel even heavier now. How can that be possible? It’ll have to do.

I ease my feet into my hiking boots and tie the laces firmly, then manhandle both my pack and the bag I’ll be leaving at the hotel downstairs to the lobby. I force myself to eat some breakfast. The altitude pills I’ve started taking add to the dryness of my mouth. It’s an effort to swallow the toast and honey I order, and I gulp it down with cups of milky chai.

Perhaps Tashi and Sonam won’t turn up though, I think, and I’ll be able to book myself back into my room and spend the rest of the day arranging my flights home. The hotel is half empty and the waiter at breakfast told me they’re receiving more and more cancellations because of the virus, so I know accommodation won’t be a problem if I have to extend my stay by another day. But from a mirror on the dining-room wall, my reflection looks back at me, its frown lines deepening as if it disapproves of this defeatist attitude. I stand, shouldering my pack with a grunt, and push open the door without a backward glance.

Tashi and Sonam are already waiting outside the hotel when I emerge. I raise a hand in greeting, hoping my smile disguises the churning of my stomach and the final pang of regret I experience at the realisation that I’ve run out of excuses, and am now actually going to have to do this. Sonam takes my pack from me and swings it with ease into the back of the jeep that will take us to Shivalaya, where we’ll pick up the trail into the hills. I climb into the back seat, where he joins me.

‘All ready, Mrs Daisy?’ Tashi asks from the front seat.

‘All ready,’ I reply.

I ask again what I owe him for the trip, but he dismisses my question with a wave of his hand, saying, ‘Later, later.’ I just hope my scant budget is going to cover it.

The driver turns the key to start the engine, with a cough and a splutter, and we jolt forward into the morning traffic.

Despite the early start and a lack of traffic on the roads out of Kathmandu, we end up not doing any walking at all on the first day. At first we sail along, the wheels of the jeep humming over the tarmac until we reach the town of Jiri, where we stop for lunch, five hours later. But then the road becomes an unmade, potholed track. We make slow progress and I’m tired, hot and thirsty. Every bone in my body hurts from the jouncing and swerving (to avoid goats, cows and people, not just potholes).

‘All okay, Mrs Daisy?’ Tashi asks from the front seat. I nod and smile and give him a thumbs up. ‘Only few more miles to Shivalaya. No worry.’

I’m longing for the car to stop, and then all of a sudden it does, in the middle of nowhere, behind a large truck that has its back wheels stuck in a deep pothole, completely blocking the track. Dense bushes line both sides of the road, hemming us in. Our driver, Tashi and Sonam jump out and go over to talk to the truck driver, so I ease my stiff legs out of the jeep too, and stand in the dust, thankful – at least – for the opportunity to stretch.

After an animated discussion and a couple of failed attempts to push the truck out of the hole, our driver comes back to the jeep and cheerfully pulls a long, machete-like knife from the boot. I go over to see if I can lend a hand. He begins to hack at the bushes and Tashi and Sonam start pulling the cut branches away. ‘No, no,’ they tell me, insisting I go back to the relative comfort of the jeep, showing me the vicious thorns on the stems of the brush.

Darkness is beginning to fall. I take out my phone but there’s no signal. Half an hour later, the men return to the car, having cut a way through the thorn bushes and hefted several large rocks out of the way to form a new, makeshift track. ‘We can go now,’ says Tashi, as calmly as if we’ve stopped for a rest rather than a stint of road building.

‘But what about the truck?’ I ask.

‘No worry. We will send tractor from Shivalaya in morning.’

By the time we reach the village the sky is pitch black, studded with a million stars. We drive slowly along what appears to be the main street. Only one or two houses have a light in their windows and the few teahouses appear to be shut.

‘Is there anywhere for us to stay?’ I ask. I want the driving to stop. I want to be able to wash my hands and face, which are covered with dust. I want to change out of my stale, sweat-stained clothes. I want to lie down on a bed and stretch out my aching body. Such luxuries as food and sleep seem extremely unlikely, but I don’t even care any more.

Tashi’s smile gleams from the front seat. ‘My cousin has teahouse just here. We will stay there tonight, no worry.’

And we do. And there is a room with a narrow bed that seems like one of the most comfortable things I’ve ever lain on. Not only that, there’s also a shower with a trickle of warm water, and a dish of lentil dhal and rice that’s one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted. I can hardly keep my eyes open as I stumble up the stairs to my bedroom and I fall into my bed and a deep, deep sleep.

I wake to the sound of rain. I’m used to Scottish rain – everything from a drizzle to a downpour – but this has a different quality to it. It sounds like the roar of the ocean in a storm, crashing on the tin roof of the teahouse and engulfing us from all sides. I pull on my clothes and hurry downstairs. Tashi and Sonam are already sitting at the table, cups of steaming tea before them, and the cousin who owns the teahouse sets another one down in front of me.

‘No walking today, Mrs Daisy,’ Tashi says, his smile undimmed as he shares this news. ‘The rains should be stopped by now, but very late this year. So we stay here and keep dry. Leave tomorrow, no worry.’

‘Do you think the rain will stop by the morning?’ I ask, taking a sip of my tea. While I’m disappointed by yet another delay to stop us getting going on the trek, my aching body could certainly do with another night’s rest in a comfortable bed. And Tashi’s cousin’s wife is an excellent cook, too. I take a spoonful from the bowl of some sort of vegetable stew that’s been put in front of me for breakfast, relishing the taste of garlic and herbs.

‘For sure,’ says Sonam. ‘Shouldn’t be raining now anyway. But the climate’s changing here, like everywhere else. We’re at the very tail end of the winter rains now though. This won’t last long.’

After we’ve eaten, I settle myself on a pile of cushions by the iron stove in the corner of the room. It’s not cold – in fact, it’s still pretty muggy – but the dampness pervades everything, and the glow of warmth from the stove helps dispel it a little. I feel strangely contented, cocooned in the teahouse with the sound of the rain, overlain by the noises of pans clattering in the kitchen and the murmur of the men as they talk quietly around the table. There’s no internet here, no phone signal, nothing. So I curl my feet beneath me on the cushions and take out Violet’s journal.

I reread the pages detailing her studies at the gardening school – she continues to struggle with chemistry but enjoys her time working in the Herbarium at the Botanic Garden as winter gives way to spring. She describes the first colour appearing. And as the snowdrops emerge and the early rhododendrons begin to bloom, her relationship with Callum blossoms too.