“Even our monks shed their deep red robes in spring and come back snow-burnt”

Village-born though I was, and potato farmers and yak herders though my grandparents may have been, despite the yearly trips to the Khumbu homeland I am a Kathmandu city girl. Like post-arts degree twentysomethings the world over, I was adrift. With equal parts defeat, hope, terror, self-congratulation and wildly under-informed plans and good intentions, I arrived ‘home’ to live in Thamo, elevation: 3550 metres, population: maybe fifty people on a good day.

Village life. This should be amusing.

That was Spring 2012, on the first of the Nepali year. It seemed a fitting day for a new chapter.

Two weeks later, a first cousin died on Everest.

Family circumstances were such that I hadn’t seen him since we were both infants. My father and another cousin walked to Tengboche to attend the funeral. Grimfaced, they returned. He had a wife and a three-month old baby, and the then-standard five lakh (roughly US$5000) payout for fatalities would not extend far past the death rites.

Read More | “Three Springs” | Jemima Sherpa | Whathasgood.com

When Jason Walks

Through the shaky hand-held camcorder, it looks like a beautiful day on Maho Beach, located on the Dutch side of St. Maarten. Jets fly in low over the cerulean bay to clear the short runway. The lens points up to the sky; the sun bleaches the atmosphere, and a wave of gas shimmers off a wing as the plane descends over the beach.