Three Cups Of Tea Part 14

Mortenson expected to be alone in the Deosai, since the high pa.s.ses of this fourteen-thousand-foot plateau bordering India were still snow-covered. But both driving toward the Kargil Conflict and retreating from it, convoys of double-cab Toyota pickups, the war wagons of the Taliban, were wedged full of bearded fighters in black turbans. The warriors in pickups on their way northeast waved their Kalashnikovs and rocket-propelled grenade launchers as they pa.s.sed. The wounded heading southwest brandished their bandages proudly.

"Apo!" Mortenson shouted over the engine, after four horn-honking convoys had forced the Land Cruiser to the side of the road in as many minutes, "have you ever seen so many Taliban?"

"The Kabulis always come," Apo said, using the local term for the outsiders he despised for the violence they brought to Baltistan. "But never in such numbers." Apo shook his head ruefully. "They must be in a big hurry," he said, spitting a long stream of the Copenhagen chewing tobacco Mortenson had brought him from Montana out the window, "to become martyrs."

Skardu was gripped in war fever when they arrived. Bedfords rumbled in from the front lines, filled with coffins solemnly draped in the Pakistani flag. Dull green helicopters buzzed overhead in numbers Mortenson had never seen. And nomadic Gojar shepherds, the gypsies of Pakistan, coaxed flocks of skittish goats through the heaving military traffic, herding them on the long march toward India, where they would feed Pakistan's troops.

Outside the Indus Hotel, two black Toyota double-cabs with distinctive light blue United Arab Emirates plates and the word surf inexplicably stenciled on the doors were angled up to the entrance, their tailgates jutting out and blocking the progress of jeep drivers who wouldn't dare to honk their horns. And in the lobby, over their shoulders, as Mortenson hugged Ghulam the manager and his younger brother n.a.z.ir h.e.l.lo, he saw two large bearded men drinking tea at one of the plank tables. Their clothes, like Mortenson's, were covered with dust.

"The bigger guy looked up from his tea and said, 'Chai!' 'Chai!' waving me over," Mortenson says. "I'd guess he was in his fifties and he must have been six-six, which stuck in my mind because I was used to being the biggest guy in Baltistan. He had, howdaya call it? Jowls. And a huge belly. I knew there was no way he had been climbing up eighteen-thousand-foot pa.s.ses, so I figured he must be a commander." waving me over," Mortenson says. "I'd guess he was in his fifties and he must have been six-six, which stuck in my mind because I was used to being the biggest guy in Baltistan. He had, howdaya call it? Jowls. And a huge belly. I knew there was no way he had been climbing up eighteen-thousand-foot pa.s.ses, so I figured he must be a commander."

With his back to the men, Ghulam the manager raised his eyebrows at Mortenson, warning him.

"I know," Mortenson said, walking over to join them.

He shook the hand of both the big man and his companion, who had a straggly beard that hung almost to his waist and forearms corded like weathered wood. As Mortenson sat down with the men, he saw a pair of well-oiled AK-47s on the floor between their feet.

"Pe khayr raghie," the man said in Pashto, "Welcome." the man said in Pashto, "Welcome."

"Khayr ose," Mortenson replied, offering his respects in Pashto, which he'd been studying ever since his eight-day detention in Waziristan. Mortenson replied, offering his respects in Pashto, which he'd been studying ever since his eight-day detention in Waziristan.

"Kenastel!" the commander ordered, "Sit." the commander ordered, "Sit."

Mortenson did, then switched to Urdu, so he could take care not to misspeak. He had a black-and-white-checked kaffiyeh kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, the sort a.s.sociated with Yasir Arafat. He'd worn it to keep the Deosai dust out of his teeth. But the men took it for political affiliation and offered him tea. wrapped around his head, the sort a.s.sociated with Yasir Arafat. He'd worn it to keep the Deosai dust out of his teeth. But the men took it for political affiliation and offered him tea.

"The huge guy introduced himself as Gul Mohammed," Mortenson says. "Then he asked if I was an American. I figured they would find out anyway so I told them I was." Mortenson nodded almost imperceptibly at Faisal Baig, who stood a few feet from the table on full alert, and the bodyguard backed away and sat with Apo and Parvi.

"Okay Bill Clinton!" Gul Mohammed said in English, raising his thumb up enthusiastically. Clinton may have failed, ultimately, to forge peace between Israel and Palestine, but he had, however belatedly, sent American forces to Bosnia in 1994 to halt the slaughter of Muslims by the Christian Serbians, a fact mujahadeen mujahadeen like Gul would never forget. like Gul would never forget.

The enormous man rested his hand appraisingly on the Ameri-can's shoulder. Mortenson was. .h.i.t by a wave of body odor and the aroma of roasted lamb. "You are a soldier," he said, rather than asked.

"I was," Mortenson replied. "A long time ago. Now I build schools for children."

"Do you know Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Smith, from Fort Worth, Texas?" the leaner man asked. "He was an American soldier also. Together we crushed Soviets like bugs in Spin Boldak," he said, grinding the heel of his combat boot into the floor.

"Sorry," Mortenson said. "America is big."

"Big and powerful. We had Allah on our side in Afghanistan," Gul said, grinning. "Also American Stinger missiles."

Mortenson asked the men if they'd come from the front and Gul Mohammed seemed almost relieved to describe what he'd seen there. He said the mujahadeen mujahadeen were fighting bravely, but the Indian air force was inflicting terrible carnage on the men trying to hold hilltop positions ever since they learned to drop their bombs from above the range of the were fighting bravely, but the Indian air force was inflicting terrible carnage on the men trying to hold hilltop positions ever since they learned to drop their bombs from above the range of the mujahadeen mujahadeen's missiles. "Also their Bofors artillery is very strong," Gul explained. "Sweden says it is a peaceful country, but they sell very deadly guns."

The men questioned Mortenson closely about his work and nodded in approval when they learned he was educating four thousand Sunni Afghan refugees in Peshawar as well as the Shia children of Baltistan. Gul said he lived in the Daryle Valley, not far from the bridge mujahadeen mujahadeen had blocked five years earlier, when Mortenson was riding the Korphe School up the Karakoram Highway on top of his rented Bedford. "We have a great need for schools in my valley," Gul said. "Why don't you come back with us and build ten or twenty there? Even for girls, no problem." had blocked five years earlier, when Mortenson was riding the Korphe School up the Karakoram Highway on top of his rented Bedford. "We have a great need for schools in my valley," Gul said. "Why don't you come back with us and build ten or twenty there? Even for girls, no problem."

Mortenson explained that the CAI operated on a small budget and all the school projects had to be approved by his board. He suppressed a smile as he imagined making that particular request, then promised to bring the subject up at the next board meeting.

By 9:00 p.m., despite the charged air in the Indus's lobby, Mortenson felt his eyelids drooping. He'd had too little sleep during his dusty trip across the Deosai. With the hospitality dictated by Pashtunwali, Pashtunwali, the commanders asked Mortenson if he'd like to share their quarters for the evening. Ghulam and n.a.z.ir kept a small, quiet room at the rear of the hotel available, always, for Mortenson. He told the men as much, and bowing, with his hand over his heart, took his leave. the commanders asked Mortenson if he'd like to share their quarters for the evening. Ghulam and n.a.z.ir kept a small, quiet room at the rear of the hotel available, always, for Mortenson. He told the men as much, and bowing, with his hand over his heart, took his leave.

Halfway down the hallway to his room, a skinny red-haired apparition with bulging blue eyes burst out the swinging kitchen door and clutched Mortenson's sleeve. Agha Ahmed, the Indus Hotel's unbalanced kitchen boy and baggage hauler, had been watching the lobby through the door's slats. "Doctor Greek!" he shouted in warning, loud enough for the entire hotel to hear, a bubble of saliva forming, as always, at the corner of his mouth. "Taliban!"

"I know," Mortenson said, smiling, and shuffled down the hall toward sleep.

Syed Abbas himself called on Mortenson in the morning. Mortenson had never seen him so upset. Ordinarily, the cleric carried himself with a grave dignity and released words with the same measured regularity with which he fingered his tasbih, tasbih, or string of prayer beads. But this morning, Syed Abbas's speech poured out of him in a torrent. The war was a catastrophe for the civilians of the Gultori, Abbas said. No one knew how many villagers had been killed or maimed by Indian bombs and artillery, but already two thousand refugees had arrived in Skardu, and thousands of others were waiting out the worst of the fighting in caves, before coming to join them. or string of prayer beads. But this morning, Syed Abbas's speech poured out of him in a torrent. The war was a catastrophe for the civilians of the Gultori, Abbas said. No one knew how many villagers had been killed or maimed by Indian bombs and artillery, but already two thousand refugees had arrived in Skardu, and thousands of others were waiting out the worst of the fighting in caves, before coming to join them.

Syed Abbas said he had contacted the Northern Areas Administration and the United Nations' High Commission for Refugees and both had refused his pleas for help. The local government said they didn't have the resources to handle the crisis. And the UN said they couldn't come to the aid of the Gultori families fleeing the fighting since they were internally displaced refugees who hadn't fled across international borders.

"What do the people need?" Mortenson asked.

"Everything," Abbas said. "But above all, water."

West of Skardu, Syed Abbas drove Mortenson, Apo, and Parvi to see the new tent city of sun-faded plastic tarps that had sprung up in the sand dunes bordering the airport. They left the road, took their shoes off, and as the French-made Mirage fighters of Pakistan's air force screamed overhead on patrol, they walked over a dozen dunes toward the refugees. Ringing the airport, antiaircraft gunners sat in their sandbagged emplacements on high alert, tracing arabesques with the barrels of their guns in the sky over India.

The refugees had been shunted to the only land in Skardu no one wanted. Their encampment in the middle of the dunes had no natural water source, and they were more than an hour's walk away from the Indus River. Mortenson's head throbbed, and not just from the heat reflecting off the dunes; he contemplated the immensity of their task. "How can we bring water here?" he asked. "We're a long way uphill from the river."

"I know about some projects in Iran," Syed Abbas said. "They call them 'uplift water schemes.' We'll have to dig very deep to the groundwater and put in pumps, but with Allah's help, it is possible."

Syed Abbas, his black robes billowing, ran ahead over the bright sand, pointing out places where he thought they might probe for groundwater. "I wish Westerners who misunderstand Muslims could have seen Syed Abbas in action that day," Mortenson says. "They would see that most people who practice the true teachings of Islam, even conservative mullahs like Syed Abbas, believe in peace and justice, not in terror. Just as the Torah and Bible teach concern for those in distress, the Koran instructs all Muslims to make caring for widows, orphans, and refugees a priority."

The tent city appeared deserted at first because its inhabitants were huddling under their tarps, seeking mercy from the sun. Apo, himself a refugee whose ancestral home, Dras, abuts the Gultori, on the Indian side of the border, wandered from tent to tent, taking orders for urgently needed supplies.

Mortenson, Parvi, and Syed Abbas stood in a clearing at the center of the tents, discussing the logistics of the uplift water scheme. Parvi was sure he could convince his neighbor, the director of Skardu's Public Works Department (PWD), to lend them heavy earth-moving equipment if the CAI agreed to purchase the pipe and water pumps.

"How many people live here?" Mortenson asked.

"Just over fifteen hundred now," Syed Abbas said. "Mostly men. They have come to find work and set up shelter before sending for their women and children. Within a few months, we may have four or five thousand refugees to deal with."

Ducking out through the flap of a tent, Apo Razak bore down on the talking men. If there was one constant in Baltistan, it was the jester-like leer on the face of the old expedition cook who had spent his life providing food and comfort for large groups in inhospitable places. But his face, as he approached, was uncharacteristically grave, and his mouth was set like a vein of quartz in granite. Like Lear's Jester, he had no trouble pointing out hard truths to his so-called superiors.

"Doctor Greg," he said, taking Mortenson's hand and leading him toward the tents, "enough talking. How can you know what the people need if you don't ask them?"

Mullah Gulzar sat under a blue tarp in a black skullcap and struggled to his feet after Apo led Mortenson in. The elderly cleric of Brolmo village clasped Mortenson's hand and apologized that he didn't have the means to make tea. When they were all seated cross-legged on a plastic tablecloth that covered the warm sand, Apo prodded the mullah to tell his story.

The bright light filtering through the blue tarp reflected off the mullah's oversized gla.s.ses and obscured his eyes as he spoke, giving Mortenson the unsettling impression he was listening to a blind man wearing opaque blue lenses.

"We didn't want to come here," Mullah Gulzar said, stroking his long wispy beard. "Brolmo is a good place. Or it was. We stayed as long as we could, hiding in the caves by day, and working the fields at night. If we had worked by day none of us would have survived, because there were so many sh.e.l.ls falling. Finally, all the irrigation channels were broken, the fields were ruined, and the houses were shattered. We knew our women and children would die if we didn't do something, so we walked over the mountains to Skardu. I'm not young and it was very difficult.

"When we came to the Skardu town, the army told us to make our home here," Mullah Gulzar said. "And when we saw this place, this sand, we decided to go home. But the army would not permit it. They said, 'You have no home to go back to. It is broken.' Still, we would return if we could, for this is not a life. And now our women and children will soon come to this wasteland and what can we tell them?"

Mortenson took the old mullah's hand in both of his. "We will help you bring water here for your families," he promised.

"Thanks to Allah Almighty for that," the mullah said. "But water is only a beginning. We need food, and medicine, and education for our children. This is our home now. I'm ashamed to ask for so much, but no one else has come."

The elderly cleric inclined his head toward the sky the blue tarp imperfectly sheltered him from, as if casting his lamentation directly up to the ears of Allah. From this new angle, the glare vanished from his gla.s.ses and Mortenson saw the mullah's eyes were moist.

"And we have nothing. For your mal-la khwong, mal-la khwong, for your kindness in fulfilling our prayers, I can offer you nothing," Mullah Gulzar said. "Not even tea." for your kindness in fulfilling our prayers, I can offer you nothing," Mullah Gulzar said. "Not even tea."

The first uplift water scheme in the history of northern Pakistan took eight weeks to build. True to his word, Ghulam Parvi convinced his neighbor to donate the use of earth-moving equipment. The Director of Skardu's PWD also donated all the pipe the project required. And twelve tractors appeared on loan from the army to move stones. Mortenson patiently returned again and again to the Public Call Office until, finally, he reached San Francisco. He requested, and was granted, permission to spend six thousand dollars of CAI's funds on the project.

Mortenson ordered powerful pumps and Honda generators from Gilgit. With all the men of Brolmo village laboring around the clock, they constructed a huge concrete tank, capable of storing enough water to supply a settlement of five thousand people. And after drilling to a depth of 120 feet, they found the groundwater to draw up and fill it. Now the men of Brolmo could start building mud-block houses and transforming the desert wastes into a green new home for their families. But first their women and children had to survive the journey to Skardu.

During their time in the caves, Fatima Batool couldn't stop crying. And Aamina, who had always been the one to comfort her younger sister, wasn't capable of caring even for herself. Aamina's physical wounds from flying shrapnel were slight. But the damage had been driven deeper than the skin. Ever since the day the artillery sh.e.l.l had landed near her by the mouth of the cave, after she had screamed once in fear and pain and collapsed, Aamina had said nothing. Not a word. Some mornings, huddled in the cave with the others, when the sh.e.l.ls fell with especially brutal regularity, she would tremble and produce a sort of pleading whimper. But it was an animal sound, not human speech at all, and it gave Fatima no comfort.

"Life was very cruel in the caves," says Fatima's friend Nargiz Ali. "Our village, Brolmo, was a very beautiful place, with apricot and even cherry trees, on a slope by the Indus River. But we could only glance out at it and watch it being destroyed. We couldn't go there. I was a little type of girl at the time and other relatives had to carry me quickly inside whenever the sh.e.l.ls began to fall. I couldn't leave to play outside or care for the animals, or even to pick the fruit that we watched ripening and then rotting.

"During rainy days, or, for example, snowfall, it was very difficult to cook or sleep there. But we remained for a long time, because only over the nullah nullah was India, and it was too dangerous out in the open." was India, and it was too dangerous out in the open."

One day, Nargiz says, returning to the caves after searching through the rubble of his home for supplies, her uncle Hawalda Abrahim was. .h.i.t by a single sh.e.l.l that fell without accompaniment. "He was a very loving man and we wanted to go to him right away, but we had to wait until nighttime, until we were sure no more sh.e.l.ls would fall, to carry my uncle inside," Nargiz says. "Normally, people would wash the body after death. But he was so shattered, we couldn't wash him. We could only gather him together in a cloth."

The few men remaining in Brolmo held a jirga jirga and announced afterward, to all the children like Fatima and Nargiz, that the time had come to be brave. They must venture out into the open, and walk a long way with little food, because remaining in the caves could not be considered a life. and announced afterward, to all the children like Fatima and Nargiz, that the time had come to be brave. They must venture out into the open, and walk a long way with little food, because remaining in the caves could not be considered a life.

They packed what little they could scavenge from their homes and left in the middle of the night, walking to a neighboring village that they considered sufficiently distant from the Indian artillery to be safe. That morning, for the first time in months, they took pleasure in watching the sun rise outdoors, out in the open. But while they were baking kurba kurba for the journey over a fire, sh.e.l.ls began to fall, marching toward them up the valley floor. A spotter on the ridges to the south must have seen them, Fatima believes, and was directing fire their way. for the journey over a fire, sh.e.l.ls began to fall, marching toward them up the valley floor. A spotter on the ridges to the south must have seen them, Fatima believes, and was directing fire their way.

"Every time a sh.e.l.l exploded Aamina would shake and cry and fall to the earth," Fatima says. "In that place there were no caves, so all we could do was run. I'm ashamed to say that I was so frightened that I stopped tugging at my sister and ran to save myself. I was fearful that she would be killed, but being alone must have been more frightening to my sister than the sh.e.l.ling, and she ran to join the rest of the village."

For three weeks, the survivors of Brolmo trekked to the northwest. "Often, we walked on paths that animals had made, paths that were not for people at all," Fatima says. "We had to leave all our kurba kurba behind in the fire when the sh.e.l.ls started to fall, so we were very hungry. The people cut the wild plants for food and ate the small berries to stay alive, even though they made our stomachs hurt." behind in the fire when the sh.e.l.ls started to fall, so we were very hungry. The people cut the wild plants for food and ate the small berries to stay alive, even though they made our stomachs hurt."

After surviving their odyssey, the last residents of Brolmo village arrived, exhausted and emaciated, in Skardu, where the military directed them to their new home. Here in the dunes by the airport, Fatima and the other survivors would begin the long process of learning to forget what they had endured and starting over. All except Aamina Batool. "When we reached our new village, Aamina lay down and would not get up," Fatima says. "No one could revive her and not even being safe at last with our father and uncles seemed to cheer her. She died after a few days." arrived, exhausted and emaciated, in Skardu, where the military directed them to their new home. Here in the dunes by the airport, Fatima and the other survivors would begin the long process of learning to forget what they had endured and starting over. All except Aamina Batool. "When we reached our new village, Aamina lay down and would not get up," Fatima says. "No one could revive her and not even being safe at last with our father and uncles seemed to cheer her. She died after a few days."

Speaking about her sister's death five years later, the anguish in Fa-tima's face looks as raw as it must have felt that day, as she allows the memory to bob to the surface briefly, before pushing it back down.

At her desk, in the fifth-grade cla.s.sroom of the Gultori Girls Refugee School, which the Central Asia Inst.i.tute constructed on sand dunes by the Skardu airport in the summer of 1999, at the height of the Kargil Conflict, Fatima Batool, fifteen, lets her white shawl fall over her face, taking refuge within the fabric from too many questions.

Her cla.s.smate Nargiz Ali, now fourteen, picks up the thread of the story, and explains how she came to be sitting at this desk, under a colorful relief map of the world, caressing her own brand-new notebook, pencil, and sharpener provided by a charitable organization headquartered in a place she has tried and failed to find on that map, Bozeman, Montana.

"When we arrived after our long walk, we were, of course, very happy to see all our family," Nargiz says. "But then I looked at the place where we were supposed to live and I felt frightened and unsure. There were no houses. No trees. No mosque. No facility of any kind. Then Syed Abbas brought a large Angrezi Angrezi to talk with us. He told us that if we were willing to work hard, he would help us build a school. And do you know, he kept his to talk with us. He told us that if we were willing to work hard, he would help us build a school. And do you know, he kept his chat-ndo, chat-ndo, his promise." his promise."

Fifth-grade students at the Gultori Girls Refugee School, like Fatima and Nargiz, lag behind most of their peers. Because their formal education began only after they had fled from their ancestral villages, the average age of a fifth-grade student here is fifteen. Their brothers walk an hour each way to the government boys' schools in surrounding villages that took most of the male refugee students in. But for the 129 Gultori girls who might never have seen the inside of a school, this building is the lone bright spot at the end of a long tunnel of fear and flight.

That's why, despite how much talking about her ordeal has taken from her, Fatima Batool brushes aside her shawl and sits up straight at her desk, to tell her visitors one thing more. "I've heard some people say Americans are bad," she says softly. "But we love Americans. They are the most kind people for us. They are the only ones who cared to help us."

In recent years, some of the refugees have returned to the Gultori, to the two schools the Central Asia Inst.i.tute has since established there, carved into caves, so that students will be safe from the sh.e.l.ls that can still rain down from India whenever relations between the two countries chill. But Nargiz and Fatima are staying in the new village outside Skardu. It is their home now, they say.

Beyond the sandy courtyard of their ochre-colored five-room school, neat rows of mud-block homes now march toward the horizon, some equipped, even, with that ultimate symbol of luxury and permanent residence, the satellite dish. And shading these homes, where the unrelenting dunes once stood, cherry trees, nurtured by an uplift water scheme, grow thick and green and lush, blooming out of the sand as improbably as the students who walk home after school beneath their boughs, the girls of the Gultori.

CHAPTER 18.

SHROUDED F FIGURE.

Let nothing perturb you, nothing frighten you. All things pa.s.s. G.o.d does not change. Patience achieves everything.

-Mother Teresa

Setting up the two hundred chairs was taking longer than Mortenson had expected. At most of the potlucks, outdoor stores, churches, and colleges where he gave his slide shows, someone was on hand to help. But here at Mr. Sports, in Apple Valley, Minnesota, all the staff members were sorting inventory for an after-Christmas sale, so Mortenson worked alone.

At 6:45 p.m., with his talk due to begin in fifteen minutes, Mortenson had unfolded just over one hundred tan metal chairs, arranging them in neat rows between the racks of unfurled subzero sleeping bags and a locked case displaying valuable electronic GPS devices, altimeters, and avalanche beacons. He pushed himself to work faster, jerking the chairs open and slapping them into place with the sense of urgency he'd felt while working on the Korphe bridge.

Mortenson was soon slick with sweat. He had become increasingly self-conscious about the weight he had gained since K2, and was reluctant to remove the heavy, shapeless green sweatshirt he wore, especially in a room that would soon be packed with fit outdoor types. He smacked the last chairs into place at 7:02 and strode breathlessly along the rows, placing a Central Asia Inst.i.tute newsletter on each of the two hundred seats. At the back of every photocopied pamphlet, a donation envelope was stapled into place, addressed to CAI's post office box in Bozeman.

The harvest he reaped from these envelopes made the slide shows just bearable. With the CAI's finances dipping toward insolvency, Mortenson was now averaging one talk every week he wasn't in Pakistan. There were few things he loathed more than getting up in front of a large group of people and speaking about himself, but the difference even one bad night's take, typically a few hundred dollars, could make for the children of Pakistan kept him hauling his overnight bag to the Bozeman airport. Mortenson was now averaging one talk every week he wasn't in Pakistan. There were few things he loathed more than getting up in front of a large group of people and speaking about himself, but the difference even one bad night's take, typically a few hundred dollars, could make for the children of Pakistan kept him hauling his overnight bag to the Bozeman airport.

He inspected the old slide projector he'd recently repaired with duct tape, to make sure the correct carousel was slotted, patted his pants pocket, checking that the laser pointer he used to highlight the peaks of the Karakoram was in place, and turned to face his audience.

Mortenson was alone with two hundred empty chairs.

He'd put up posters on local college campuses, pleaded for publicity with the editors of local papers, and done a brief early-morning interview for the drivetime segment of an AM radio station's morning show, and he expected a full house, so Mortenson leaned against a rack of self-inflating sleeping pads, waiting for his audience to arrive.

He smiled broadly at a woman in an orange Gore-Tex parka with long gray braids coiled on top of her head as she approached. But she ducked her eyes apologetically, inspected the temperature rating on an eggplant-colored polarfill sleeping bag, and bundled it away toward the register.

By 7:30 Mortenson was still staring at a sea of empty chairs.

Over the store's loudspeaker, an employee pleaded for the bargain hunters sifting through the sale racks to occupy some of the two hundred empty seats. "People, we have, like, a world-cla.s.s climber waiting to show you gnarly slides of K2! Go on, check him out!"

Two salespeople in green vests, having completed their inventory, took seats in the last row. "What should I do?" Mortenson said. "Should I still give my talk?"

"It's about climbing K2, right?" said a young, bearded employee, whose blond dreadlocks, stuffed up into a silver wool hat, made his head look like a cooked package of Jiffy Pop Popcorn.

"Sort of," Mortenson said.

"Sweet, Dude," Jiffy Pop said. "Go for it!"

After Mortenson showed the requisite images he'd taken of K2, and detailed his failed attempt of seven summers past, he segued awkwardly into the crux of his presentation: He told stories about and showed photos of the eighteen CAI-funded schools now operating, lingering on images of the latest: two schools in the Gultori Valley, built flush with the entrances of caves, so that the sh.e.l.ls still falling-now that the Kargil "Conflict" had officially ended- couldn't prevent the thousands of villagers now returning to piece together their shattered homes from sending their children to study in safety.

As images he'd taken just a month earlier, of Fatima, Nargiz, and their cla.s.smates, smiling over their textbooks in the newly built Gultori Girls Refugee School, flashed across the screen, Mortenson noticed a professorial-looking middle-aged male customer leaning around a corner, trying to un.o.btrusively study a display of multifunction digital watches. Mortenson paused to smile at him, and the man took a seat, letting his eyes rest on the screen.

Buoyed now that his audience had grown by 50 percent, Mortenson spoke pa.s.sionately for thirty minutes more, detailing the crushing poverty children in the Karakoram faced every day, and unveiling his plans to begin constructing schools the following spring at the very edge of northern Pakistan, along Afghanistan's border.

"By building relationships, and getting a community to invest its own land and labor, we can construct and maintain a school for a generation that will educate thousands of children for less than twenty thousand dollars. That's about half what it would cost the government of Pakistan to build the same school, and one-fifth of what the World Bank would spend on the same project."

Mortenson wrapped up the evening by paraphrasing one of his favorite quotations from Mother Teresa. "What we are trying to do may be just a drop in the ocean," Mortenson said, smiling warmly at his audience of three. "But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."

Mortenson appreciated the applause, even from six hands, almost as much as he was relieved to be done speaking. As he switched off the projector and began collecting CAI pamphlets from the empty seats, the two employees bent to help him, asking questions. "Do you, like, have any kind of volunteer deals over there?" Jiffy Pop's coworker asked. " 'Cause I've worked construction and I could, like, come over there and pound in some nails."

Mortenson explained that with CAI's limited budget ("more limited than ever these days," he thought), it was too expensive to send American volunteers to Pakistan, and directed him toward a few other NGOs working in Asia that accepted volunteers. American volunteers to Pakistan, and directed him toward a few other NGOs working in Asia that accepted volunteers.

The bearded boy with the dreadlocks fished into his front pocket and handed Mortenson a ten-dollar bill. "I was going to go out for a couple beers after work," he said, shuffling from foot to foot, "but, you know..."