Walk in the Woods

“There is a baby buried under this rock, Sir.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. Babies are not burned; they are buried.”

“But how do you know it’s under this rock?”

“I know, Sir.”

Jigme stood quietly and watched me as I absorbed the information. We were deep in the forest and I had to ask several times if they were certain we could find our way home. Oh, yes, Sir! they all shouted.

Today, Jigme, Kuenga and their friend, Sonam, took me on a hike. The sun was warm (what sweet relief) and the forest smelled of hot pine needles. The boys are as nimble as goats in their flip-flops, skipping over slippery stones to navigate a rushing river, and scaling abrupt inclines to find another favourite path. They showed me three of their preferred swimming holes, and as hard as they tried to convince me that the water temperature would rise come summertime, the glacial water prevented me from believing them. But they know that Sir is often cold.

When we approached a small, cultivated field, we loaded our pockets with rocks to throw should the big dog appear who is given to chase and bite scenarios. It was serious business and they wouldn’t allow me to proceed until I had sufficient munitions. Then the three of them ran quickly ahead, forgetting their promise to stick close by so I wouldn’t get left behind and lost. I ran as fast as I could through the newly ploughed field with a killer rock clutched in each fist.

Far above a secret cave where the charred overhang gave evidence of nighttime fires, the boys pointed up to the location of a large bee hive. A thick, three-metre-long stripe of waxy yellow white stuck to the vertical rock face below the entrance to the hive. Kuenga found a long bamboo pole nearby that had once been used as a torch to smoke out the bees. If the effort had been successful, I have no idea how the hive could have been reached and the honey removed.

I taught the boys how to use my camera and occasionally we stopped to take pictures, to drink some water or to eat an orange. But just when I would catch my breath, the boys would insist that we keep moving on; there were so many things to show me.

It seemed to me that they saved the most important sight for last: a small spring of holy water that trickled from a chorten over mud and shining rocks. They instructed me to fill my hands and drink. They assured me that the water was clean and would, in fact, prevent illness. After we each drank, I followed their example of closing my eyes and pouring a small amount of the water over my head. The simplicity of their gesture stirred my heart; their joy of adventure fed me until bedtime.