"I’m just going home … up there,” the lean, grey-haired man said in a gentle, friendly voice, pointing down the railway track. He knew that we were wondering, even startled, at how he had suddenly appeared alongside us, his steps matching ours tie to tie, although his were more nimble by far.
“What country you from? The standard question. “We’re from Canada.” “Ah Canada. Good country.” He smiles, opening a mouthful of missing and stained cooked teeth. We walk on, side-by-side, in silence.
Then … “Ella’s Rock?” our companion asks – as in, “Are you walking up Ella’s Rock like every other traveller on these tracks?”
“Yes we’re hoping to climb Ella’s Rock,” I say. “Have you been?” “Sometimes,” the man says. “I know this place. It’s my home.”
A woman and child emerge from a wooded path onto the track. It seems the three know each other and are soon deep in conversation. Betty and I continue to follow the track as it curves through the forest, the threesome eventually disappearing from view.
Twenty, thirty minutes pass. Then – already forgotten, after all we had only met him once – suddenly here he is again, the same lean, grey-haired man, walking alongside us, steps in sync with our own.
We exchange Hello’s. Me: “You met a friend.” He: “They live in my village. I know many people here.” Silence. Me: “It’s very hot today.” He: “Yes. Middle of the day. Always hot.” Another easy, crooked-tooth smile, the same patience in his voice, even when faced with a dumbly obvious remark.
We continue on together, talking about how people live in the villages in these parts, exchanging names – his is Mr Gindasa – until another acquaintance appears, more chin-wagging, and again the figures shrink, then vanish behind us.
Another thirty or so minutes pass and we arrive at the turn-off towards the base of the Rock, or at least we think this is where we are. Then …
“Not that one. Many leeches. Better to take the next one. Down here. Follow me.” Mr Gindasa of course, except this time he is ahead of us on the track, waiting. How does he do this – lagging so far behind, chatting it up, vanishing, then suddenly poof! right here, like a wiry forest yaksha.
We hesitate, look at our guidebook and hand-drawn map, think we are at the correct turn, then again hear that patient, now cautioning voice. “Too many leeches. Better way up there. Come. Come,” he says smiling, his head beckoning us to follow. Not convinced – but with memories of one dreadful leech encounter nipping at our crotches – we follow Mr Gindasa. And he’s right: it’s a pleasant path alongside village gardens, and there are no leeches.
“I take this way to my house,” Mr Gindasa says at a fork in the path, waving goodbye and vanishing again. We move down the trail … but it isn’t long before we are again uncertain of the way ahead. We ask a village family, find we can’t understand each other, move further along, hesitate, stop, look at our map … when – yes, of course – Mr Gindasa re-appears around a bend in the trail, like an attentive angel. He’s rolling a cigarette.
“This way, this way,” he says, relaxed, easy, licking the cigarette paper. The man has a way of instilling confidence; his advice seems offered without conditions. “Come.” – his voice so completely without any hint of our own helplessness. And we follow, past more gardens and cottages, until we reach another side path. “My house,” he says, pointing down the trail, slowly turning away. “Thanks so much for taking us this far,” we say.
Mr Gindasa stops. We all stop, arms dangling, quiet, nonchalant glances towards the paths and woods. The briefest tableau. Then … “Difficult path,” says Mr Gindasa.
We have been reading about men who approach travellers in these parts: their tales of a “difficult path, impossible to follow on your own,” their offers to guide for a fee. And indeed the way can be confusing, as our experience has already shown. In fact we have already turned down the pitches of a couple of guides, believing we can make our own way.
“I can walk with you.” That quiet, take-it-or-leave voice again. The man has the patience of a person who knows things will sooner or later turn their way.
“If you want to walk with us you can,” Betty finally says, “but no money, you’re not our guide. Another silence, then Betty repeats what she has said. We do need a guide, I think to myself, and of course we know that you pay to be guided. More silence, then “Okay, let’s go” says Mr Gindasa, who sees the future and that it belongs to him.
Up we go, along forest paths, up steep rough “shortcuts” (Mr Gindasa’s word) among eucalyptus forests, then a more level track, another shortcut, slipping on scree, pulling ourselves upward branch by branch, gulping for air, soaked in sweat. That is, we – Betty and I – are soaked in sweat and trying to catch our breath at increasingly frequent stops. Meanwhile, there’s Mr Gindasa, “I’m sixty-two years old,” always just in view up the mountain, standing there in his flip-flops (“They last four months.”), looking down, attentive, another roll-your-own in his fingers, enough time to break off walking staffs for us, then seeming to study the forest, enjoying the familiar surroundings. It’s his back yard after all.
We start off again, one eye on the rubble beneath our feet, another on Mr Gindasa’s plum-coloured shirt. He, not the path, was now our way, our guide, to the summit.
Hours later, rain drenched and sore, here we are again at the foot of Ella’s Peak and a familiar divide in the trail. “This is the way to my house. I go home now. That is your way. The track’s just along there,” says the ever-helpful Mr Gindasa.
Another of those momentary tableaux, then I ask our guide what is a fair payment for taking us to the summit. More silence, then “1,000 rupees,” Mr Gindasa says, in his quiet way. Although I have little idea what is “fair” in this situation, I have reckoned a figure based on what I have told is a good day’s wages for a tea picker. “How about 500?” I suggest. Agreed – and with “Thanks” all around.
We turn into our pathway home and soon reach the track, just as promised.
And Mr Gindasa? Perhaps he was already stepping from tie to tie alongside other walkers headed to Ella’s Rock … appearing as if from nowhere, like a neighbour walking home, asking where you are from, where you are going ….
No comments:
Post a Comment