Extraordinarily written account of life as Sherpas serving the Everest expedition culture and the many tendrils this (exploitative?) business weaves through villages, families, and consciousnesses. Brought me back to my research and filming days in the Himalayas, and the same trepidation about what right and responsibility I had to be there.
JEMIMA DIKI SHERPA
When there are gatherings in our valley, the women sit with the women and the men sit with the men, and the children tear about evading adult arms that reach out to obstruct their fun. The men form a long line on low benches along the front wall of the house, patriarchs sitting at the end closest to the fireplace with the wide-legged weariness of ageing masculinity; down through the established householders with their roars of laughter, past the young fathers bouncing sticky toddlers on their laps, through the self-conscious new and prospective grooms, to the awkward youths who cram together and snicker and mutter and jostle each other.
Everyone wears down jackets.
In such a line as this, a gambler would have good odds that any man, picked at random, has stood atop of Everest; chances better still that he has been partway up the mountain…
View original post 2,915 more words