Gippsland author Michael Goodison says “we fling ourselves out of the nest, not only to fill in the blanks on our worldly canvas, but so as to view the nest differently upon our return.”
In this piece, Michael recounts a conversation with a Nepalese sherpa. The author goes out looking for new experiences then writes about them, as he did in Muay Thai: Peace, At Last.
What one person takes for granted can be the subject of great fascination by another
By Michael Goodison
Going away and then coming back is not the same as never leaving.
We fling ourselves out of the nest, not only to fill in the blanks on our worldly canvas, but so as to view the nest differently upon our return.
I recall an evening in Nepal spent huddled beside a very poor excuse for a fire, which was in fact a smouldering pile of dried yak droppings. I was in a tiny stone dwelling, and if I was to step outside into the blackness of night, I would’ve been standing amidst the most intimidating mountain range on the planet. As it were, I was a guest in a Nepalese house, and this was simply another evening for them, albeit an evening with a foreign stranger sleeping on their mud floor alongside them and eating their home grown potatoes.
On the night in question, there were seven people on the floor inside that little stone house, all crowded around the yak poo fire. Six Nepalese natives, all of whom had resided on that hillside for the entirety of their lives, and one Australian, who didn’t very much like potatoes.
Communication was difficult.
If conversation was to be attempted, compromises had to be made to deal with the language barrier. An otherwise brilliant story – told by the elderly male of the household – sounded jarring and halting as he tried to convey it in English. But on that night, and for that lone Gippslander, the message got through.
The story was about cars. Those things with four wheels that buzz around on roads.
Now, to an Australian, there’s nothing overly special about cars.
To a Nepalese villager, however, cars are mythical machines that only exist in far-away lands. There are no roads and no cars within weeks of that hillside dwelling. The terrain is too inhospitable.
As the elderly man recounted the tale, the children stopped eating and listened with wide-eyed awe.
Some years prior, as the elderly man told it, he had worked as a specialist icefall Sherpa on Mount Everest. There, he had met a man from New Zealand, whose extremities had succumbed to frostbite, and who was evacuated by emergency helicopter back down to Kathmandu. The Sherpa had accompanied him on the flight, but it was the opportunity to see cars for the first time in Kathmandu that had left the greatest impression.
The Sherpa spoke of sitting in the passenger seat and staring in disbelief at the scenery out the window as it raced past.
“And I ask: can we drive all day?” the Nepalese man recounted with a chuckle.
It was a fine story, indeed.
Of most notable significance to me, however, was the choice of story itself. I am assured in the ability of this wizened old icefall Sherpa to have recounted countless tales of high-stakes danger, tragedy and adventure to his children and grandchildren, but the story that he chose to tell was of that sole opportunity he’d had to ride in the passenger seat of a car. That was the highlight of his life, he said, to ride in a car.
We fling ourselves out of the nest, not only to fill in the blanks on our worldly canvas, but so as to view the nest differently upon our return.
I returned to Gippsland from that adventure with more than just a newfound appreciation for cars and roads. I returned with a new appreciation for Gippsland itself. Gippsland the place, and Gippsland the people.
Who was this Gipp, and why was this land named after him? I’ve no earthly idea… I do, however, know a damn fine nest when I see one.
Gippsland Goodness 