Hands and Footpaths
Inspired by events in
Dingboche, Chukhung Valley, Nepal
In this place there are no roads.
Paths, yes – human footpaths, thin and meandering animal paths, and spiderwebbed porter paths used by those ferrying gear and provisions up the valleys leading to Everest. These trails lead to villages, most with a few hundred residents. Almost all infrastructure and commerce geared towards the trekkers and the climbers making their way up. Some all the way to the highest mountain on Earth, some to simply exist among the spectacular vistas, and all of us towards one of our limits.
In a place with no roads, intersections are neither neat nor regular. Paths softly meet and gradually branch away. There is a tenderness to the way the trails and the people on them integrate into the landscape. There’s little forcing, although that may be just the slow progress made by our weary bodies. This way of navigation is wholly different than the bored panic of waiting your turn until the light changes color. That is circuitry, this is handwriting.
“As if the words were secondary, the true meaning being transferred through the whorls in their fingertips. ”
The layout has results in a different kind of contact among the people on the trails. When you’re in a car, it’s rare to recognize the person next to you at a stoplight, and if you do, there are two metal-and-glass bubbles separating you. Interaction is likely limited to a wave and maybe a note to call them later.
Contact on footpaths is personal in a way that was demonstrated many times daily by our guides. One in particular was relatively new and was responsible for directing our small, amenable trekking group by himself for a few days. He was a part of the guiding community, and when someone he knew came along, he spoke in the softest of voices. I didn’t know enough Nepalese to understand him, but imagined he was conveying news of shared acquaintances, perhaps remarking on conditions ahead, maybe sharing a humorous anecdote from our group.
Each time, this chat was preceded by the gentlest of handclasps. As if the words were secondary, as if the true meaning was transferred through the whorls in their fingertips. When their chat was complete, they let go softly, gently, and reluctantly. Our guide and his friend were careful and respectful in their facial expressions, their vocal tone, and their gestures.
“If this contact were made of thread, it would be woven.”
When they did release each other, they continued either up or down the valley knowing they would likely meet again in the other direction. They were physically connected only for a moment, but the way they spoke implied something more deeply embedded.
If this contact were made of thread it would be woven and it would bear a striking resemblance to the way the paths were structured. The mountainous routes enabled connection through human footsteps and human touch and human voices raised no higher than a song. They did this in a way beautifully engineered streets never could. Passersby could speak softly, touch hands, and move aside for those carrying the heaviest loads.
The paths and the humans are affected by the landscape and the landscape is in turn shaped by them. The trails are branching but they going the same direction: up to the sun, to the highest mountains on earth.
Then down, changed forevermore, alongside friends with whom to share it.
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