The flying Doctor

"The plane should come tomorrow," Hari was explaining patiently. "It left Nepalganj on time this morning but it had to turnback over Kalikot. The reported visibility there is only five hundred metres in this haze. But they'll try again tomorrow."

"But I want a char ter hel-i-cop-ter." The Italian woman spoke each syllable distinctly, as if to a child. Hari resented her tone. "Please tell me if they can send a helicopter from Nepalganj for us."

"If the scheduled flights cannot make it, neither can the helicopter." Hari was getting tired of this.

"I can pay dollars. I have four thousand dollars to charter a helicopter. You must tell them that, now."

Hari looked out over the runaway, at the kids playing soccer on the dirt strip, at the snow-capped mountains beyond, their outlines now blurred in the mist rising slowly from the Karnali. A couple of griffons circled idly, far below. He tried again.

"Madam, it doesn't matter how much money you have, I can't permit the helicopter to fly. Anyway, now it's gone to Jumla to pick up other tourists. You have to be patient."

The woman was not to be placated so easily. She took off her Gucci sunglasses to emphasise her mood. Rich bitch. Hari smiled easily at her.

"There is a child. A seek child. Very seek." Hari translated rapidly, 'sick' she means. He'd heard them say in town she was a doctor, and she came trekking to Nepal every year, always travelling with the same group of Sherpas from Khumbu. She used to hold impromptu clinics in the villages.

"Today I geeve some medicine. The child get better." She gestured impatiently, gold earrings sparkling in the weak afternoon sunlight that filtered through the dusty windows and cobwebs of the control tower. "But tomorrow may get seek again. Need helicopter to fly to hospital."

Hari weighed this new information. There was a hospital in Simikot, but the doctor hadn't yet arrived, preferring the familiar food and culture of the scorching tarai to the uncertainties of existence up here among the Humli people. Hari didn't blame him. He couldn't wait -to get out himself, to a cushy post at the international airport in Kathmandu. He deserved it. Two years in this freezing hellhole; he'd been very patient, he decided.

"But the situation is very normal now madam. There is no sick child. The Army helicopter can come in an emergency, but there is no emergency now, and conditions are too dangerous to fly." Hari allowed himself a tiny smirk. This isn't Khumbu, lady, with eight flights a day whisking tourists back to Kathmandu.

The doctor's eyes flashed in anger. She placed her palms together, bowed low, in the kind of namaste foreigners make when they first arrive in Nepal. But she'd been here before. This wasn't culturally amusing.

"Thank you, kind sir, for spending your valuable time helping me." She stalked out, quickly followed by the other Italians in her party. They were all exhausted by the heat and dust of the Tibetan plateau, the flies and garbage of Kailash, and the grinding trek up the hill to Simikot from the Karnali, one kilometre below. Their flight back to Milan was the day after tomorrow, for God's sake, and they'd still got to get out of here, and then fan around in Nepalganj in temperatures of 43 degrees.

Traces of rain fell overnight, in answer to the villagers' rain dance performed a few days ago, on the now dry Simikot marsh. The winter barley was desiccating before the grains were fully formed, and even the marijuana which grew wild along the field edges was wilting in the heat, releasing a soft, sickly smell. The villagers had offered a goat to the rain gods, danced, b eaten drums, and partied all night. It had worked. In the morning the conifers on Raniban were covered in wisps of moist clouds, and you couldn't see down the valley to Kalikot. No way was the plane coming this morning.

A mournful crowd of would-be travellers were gathered at Hari's residence behind the control tower, drinking hot tea and peering hopefully through the mist. Hari had been on the radio from the tower since 6 a.m., confirming what everyone could see, the monsoon's arrival in Humla. Simikot was running low on rice, vegetables, eggs, sugar—.you name it. Everything arrived from Nepalganj by air. But the weather had grounded all air traffic. He was sharing this news when a Sherpa from the Italian's camp came in. The sick child needed urgent medical attention, and the doctor had asked Hari to arrange a medical evacuation. The doctor would pay the costs, he added needlessly.

Hari went out to inspect the runway. The rain had barely wetted the surface, no problem there. Bloody woman, now he'd have to try and raise the Army base at Nepalganj. But he had contacts there, and maybe they could throw on a few bags of rice, and maybe the sun would burn off the clouds. Maybe.

At 4 o'clock, the sun was shining brightly and Hari passed along the welcome news that a Nepal Airways helicopter had left Nepalganj with a load of rice for Simikot. The Army rescue mission would follow. The Nepal Airways helicopter would take passengers to Nepalganj, and their office was now open for ticketing. The Sherpas had already broken camp, and the Italians were joyfully planning the next stage of the journey. It would be tight, but they should now make the afternoon flight to Europe tomorrow. Sitting on the ground among the Sherpas' gear was a very dirty Humli woman with a large coral and turquoise necklace cradling a filthy blanket in which, presumably, was the sick child.

In a swirl of grey dust, the orange Nepal Airways helicopter landed. Rucksacks, dokos and bedrolls were quickly loaded and the passengers prepared to board, while a young policeman with a clipboard scurried about noting down their names. The Italian party boarded the Nepal Airways chopper; the doctor and her patient would travel in the Army copter which could now be seen as a speck in the sky down the valley.

Another dust cloud and the Nepal Airways was off in a rhythmic pulse of rotor blades. Yet another, and the Army chopper settled in. The doctor, archly efficient in stratched blue blouse and matching Gortex pants, ushered the Humli woman and child on board and snapped her passport number at the little policeman. She could almost tasted the expresso coffee she'd be sipping in the Lufthansa first class cabin tomorrow, after three weeks of sickly tea and trekker soup. Hari was standing by, chatting with the crew.

"Only one passenger permitted, madam." The Army doctor glanced up at the clouds drifting across the runway. 'We will now be taking care of the child and her mother."

"No! I must go with them. I am doctor. She is my patient. I pay the charter." The taste of Humli 'dust that still hung in the air now masked the expresso.

"Madam, I am also a doctor, and we cannot take any more weight in this weather. We must be off now."

The Italian watched numbly as the rotor blades began to turn. She turned beseechingly to Hari.

"The plane should come tomorrow," Hari smiled at her.