Nepalgunj, on the NepalÕs southern borders with India, is a sweltering, malarial place, smack in the Terai, the broad, tropical band of territory which makes up most of southern Nepal. Glad to get away from the reeking toilets and flies of the airport, we spent the night at a seedy hotel. We sweated buckets in the 40-degree heat and prayed that the nights were cooler. As the sun fell, the thermometers dipped a fraction. The relief was counterbalanced with a swarm of hungry blood-sucking mosquitoes. Suddenly, the owner of the sole can of insect repellent became popular. Bruce shook his head and declared that Nepalgunj was the "armpit of Nepal". The rooms were soon filled with the smell of lit mosquito coils as Mok gulped down malarial prophylactics.
The next day brought us back to the airport. Crammed in a tiny van, we passed paddy fields and small villages, stained with mud. On makeshift shelves, street peddlers hawked cheap, colourful plastic utensils and buckets and all manner of Indian goods. Nepalgunj was scruffy and distinctly Third World. Yet as we bumped over another hastily-made patch on the road, more pleasant distractions abounded. Large posters advertised cigarettes. In the posters, young, successful urban couples smiled and exuded confidence. In my diary, I wondered how locals in these shanty towns reacted to this unattainable world. Other hoardings advertised recent Hindi films. Garishly painted, the posters depicted slightly plump heroes with cosmetically engineered trickles of blood on their lips. Guns were plentiful in these artworks and the equally plump or buxom heroines would decorate the heroesÕ arms. Villains were always distinguished as sneering, thin-mustachioed characters. We left them staring at our backs as we focused on getting our expedition on the road.
We waited for hours as the unfathomable Nepal bureaucracy in Kathmandu decided our fate. In the meantime, clouds began to build. We were told that as landings on grass patches outside Dunai and the approach were done purely manually, any low cloud would mean cancellation. Krishna was fretting quietly in the corner, trying to concentrate on a book. He was a Brahmin, a high caste Nepalese in the employ of the Tourism Ministry. Unlike our excellent Indian liaison officer in 1995, NepalÕs expeditions are often accompanied by underpaid civil servants who will normally demand a much higher daily ÔwageÕ than that stipulated by the regulations. That being said, Krishna was a decent chap and I hoped things would work out. When permission was given for our flight, it was already 230pm and the clouds had moved in. Frustrated, we returned to our lodgings.
The wait ended the following morning with the heavy goods being unloaded from the helicopter. We walked over the blisteringly hot tarmac to our transport. It was a large Russian-made MI17 single-propeller chopper from the Afghan-war era. Since the introduction of these large capacity helicopters a few years ago, many links had been opened up to more remote corners of Nepal. Capable of lifting 22 passengers and a tonne of cargo, they were powerful, dragonfly-like machines.
Cargo and baggage occupied the central aisle whilst passengers were strapped to the sides of the bulkheads. The seats were rock-hard and the parachutistsÕ jump-line cable could still be seen on the low ceiling. Cyrillic writing festooned the helicopterÕs interior and the whole craft smelled of kerosene, sweat and dust. Vibrating and whining, the chopper rolled down the short runway and then, with a slight jolt, lifted off.
I glanced about the cramped fuselage, an aluminium tube dangling underneath the whirring blades. Mok was staring out of a tiny window as we cruised across the rolling ridges that make up so much of NepalÕs land. With us was Yogen, an old friend who was a doctor with some alpine experience. Although he would have been a good candidate for the Everest team, his own studies in Hawaii put paid to any long-term commitment to the project. Bruce would be following his own programme and we would part company near Dolpo. Since Krishna would accompany us up to basecamp, our climbing team was a compact one. Further down the fuselage was Mingma, a climbing sherpa from my first trip to Nepal. A small-framed man, we had had many years working as a trekking and climbing sirdar (or head sherpa). Next to him was Man Bahadur Tamang, a large swarthy sherpa, and Lila. Our Putha Hiunchuli expedition was a testing ground for sherpas we wanted to work with on Everest. Too many recent Everest expeditions comprised large groups of climbers unfamiliar with each other. Their sherpas were also mostly ÔstrangersÕ and often treated like servants. I felt was important to engage these high-altitude climbers to form a more integrated team. We could never match their sheer fitness and strength even if we had an edge in technical skills.
The term ÔsherpaÕ is misleading. The sherpas, as a race, originate from eastern Tibet. Several centuries ago they emigrated to Nepal, fleeing persecution. ÔSherpaÕ is a corruption of shar-pa or "people from the east". With high, defined cheekbones, these people have carved themselves a reputation as tireless high-altitude porters and climbers. But Man Bahadur was not a sherpa, he was a Tamang and did not come from the Khumbu, birthplace of the sherpas. These days, as with the term ÔGurkhasÕ, a sherpa can refer to almost any high-altitude mountain porter. A ÔgurkhaÕ is likely to be one of any number of races typically recruited by the British army. Closer to me in the plane was the tanned Lila Tamang, a distant relative of MBÕs. Lila was a novice sherpa but on his first major peak he climbed Shishapangma, an Ôeight-thousanderÕ, a credit to his strength. MB by comparison, was a veteran campaigner. His first taste of the mountains was when he was 16 years old and he was hired to carry loads on Everest. Now, two decades later, he was a two-time Everest summitter with a much more prestigious climbing resume than Mingma. Yet , since Mingma had been appointed by me as sirdar, MB deferred to the quiet, soft-spoken elder.
A helicopter landing at Dunai must have been the event of the week for the small town. Dozens of children and curious folk thronged the grassy field. The chopper regurgitated us and our belongings and we prepared for a night at the Blue Sheep Hotel, a spartan but decent looking wooden structure. That night, Mok, our gourmet, fished out his precious tin of mooncakes.
"ItÕs the mooncake festival," he explained to Krishna. After dinner, we sat about a small table whilst Mok carefully divided the four pastries. Each round, dense cake was filled with a delicious lotus-seed paste which the sherpas and our cook staff devoured happily. Then, a pomelo was also peeled and divided. How the football-sized citrus fruit survived the journey amazed me. A bottle of Scotch did the rounds. Mok began his animated story-telling session with Krishna translating in Nepalese.
"Well, many hundred years ago when China was oppressed by the Mongols, the Chinese rebels or resistance had to devise a plan to coordinate an attack or uprising."
The sherpas relaxed, spellbound in the flickering candlelight. Mok and Scotch were a good combination. Robert sat in a corner, nursing a large glass of the pungent drink. Swee, a teetotaller, looked about for bits of mooncake left in the tin.
"As all other channels were monitored closely by the Mongols, the Chinese decided to insert the messages in the mooncakes which were then passed around the communities."
MB stirred and asked Krishna a few questions. KrishnaÕs eyes widened and he asked Mok, "MB wants to know who are these Mongols."
"Oh, they are a fierce people from the east ," Mok said impatiently, wanting to continue the tale. In another life. Mok would have been a traditional Chinese operatic performer. He had such a good sense of drama. The sherpas settled down and the story continued.
"So, the Chinese opened the cakes and knew of the time to revolt. At the appointed time, they attacked the Mongol outposts all at once and defeated them. To remember that victory, we eat these cakes during the Lunar seventh month", said Mok, pleased with his story-telling. The sherpas, however, looked a bit glum. Krishna chipped in.
"The sherpas say that they are also from the east and the Mongols are like their brothers."
Chilled in the tent, I inhaled deeply on my oxygen mask. Slowly, a deep, delicious warmth penetrated my toes and fingers. At 7400metres, our final camp on Cho Oyu was perched on a comfortable shoulder of snow but breathing the thin air at that altitude was anything but comfortable. I fiddled with the frosty oxygen regulator as my companions prepared some lukewarm soup from a hissing stove. I grabbed the orange, torpedo-like canister and made sure a special distributor would allow all three of us in the tent to breathe on one canister. Without realising it, I slipped into a deep sleep. I awoke later to a lukewarm mush. Dinner was a packet of tasteless freeze-dried gunk which I forced down. I felt guilty in not having helped with the slow snow-melting process but felt grateful for the brief respite; having been one of the slower climbers coming up to this camp; the third in our series of progressively higher camps.
"You were snoring !", said Alan, " But you had your oxygen mask on so you sounded like a big cat purring. Maybe we should always keep a mask on your face when we share a tent."
I laughed and busied myself in the cramped tent which was really designed for two persons - or three "good friends" as one tent brochure put it. Justin carried a deadly serious look as he checked and double checked all his gear for the summit climb. His head torch had died suddenly and I offered him my spare set of batteries, confident that my existing set would do fine for the morning. Seven kilometres above Tibet was no place to wonder if there was a 7-11 around the corner.
Darkness fell and the three of us slipped into our voluminous sleeping bags, drifting in and out of sleep. A mess of clothing, food packets and climbing gear completed our makeshift home for the night. I wondered how the rest of the team were doing in such miserable conditions. The constant slap of winds on the tent walls a constant reminder that we were sleeping at a point higher than anyone of us had climbed and I mentally thanked our decision to use a bit of our bottled oxygen to sleep on. We set our alarms for 2am.
At 2am, I awoke to a rattle and thump of strong winds outside. The tent shook at each gust. I groaned mentally.
"Oi!", I said; nudging my companions " It`s crappy outside. Should we wait?"
I received mumbled replies to the effect that a little wait was OK. At 230am, it was still gusting. I was, by then wide-eyed, wondering if this wind was going to put paid our summit ambitions. I could hear our two sherpas in the tent a bit higher than ours talking between themselves. Below us, in the third tent, not a squeak could be heard from Roz and Swee. Damn, I thought, I wish their radios were on so we could discuss our situation. At 3am, Kunga ambled down the few metres between our camps and yanked the tent fly open.
" Wind OK!" he said " Wind normal! We go!"
Like schoolboys caught slacking at chores, we busied setting up the stove to down at least some lukewarm cereal before heading out. We joked at whether or not Kunga`s decades of climbing the world`s highest peaks had made his estimation of what was a "normal wind" different from ours.
I struggled to get into my one-piece down suit. Heavy, insulated boots and gloves followed; and then, like a terrestrial astronaut, I made sure my oxygen gear was functioning and the pressure gauge had a good reading. There was only room for one or two persons at a time to get ready and I told the others to go ahead. Finally, like a bright, red Michelin man, I finally emerged. The rest of the team were already on their way; pin-points of their head torches on the icy slopes ahead. I fumbled with the elephantine rubber oxygen hose fitted to my canister of life-giving gas. Setting it at a flow rate of two liters a minute, I was confident of doing well. My heart was pounding from the sudden exertion and frigid air of the night. There was a slight breeze but Kunga was right, it was a great pre-dawn start. The small thermometer clipped to my rucksack zipper registered minus 30 degrees.
Suddenly, the bright beam from my head-torch waned and before I knew it, it had become faint and useless. I strained my eyes to see where the others were. I was now had a serious problem. With my own batteries dying quickly, I stumbled after Lila, our youngest sherpa. Glad that I had him around, I followed him closely, the two of us sharing the light of one precious torch. My glasses had also fogged up the instant my steaming breath emerged from the edges of the oxygen mask. The vapour had then condensed almost instantly on the super-cooled lenses and frozen into wafer thin layer of ice. I took off my useless glasses and stashed them. For two hours, Lila and I inched up, aware of the long drop below us. It was fearful even if the darkness shielded me from the vertiginous views. After half an hour of tentative steps, my eyes became accustomed to the flat light of the stars and a torch became unneccessary.
Dawn broke; first a purplish streak in a charcoal night and then a weak citrus glow. I turned around for the first time; enjoying the expansive views. There is a popular myth that at such altitudes, you can make out the curvature of the earth. Large 7000-metre peaks like Josamba appeared dwarfish below. Yet, this mighty white pyramid of ice had dominated us for weeks as we crept up the mountain, inching our frail bodies up and down its flanks. The northern horizon was filled with small, pointed, white peaks. They were like inverted ice-cream cones, dusted with icing sugar. I spied the bright specks of our last camp but saw no one below our party. Above, another team had already reached the northwest ridge .
I soon caught up with Swee, which surprised me as he had had a big start on me.
" It`s my glasses. They`ve frozen up.I can hardly see without them," he said.
Sharing my own experience with my glasses, I left Lila to stay close to Swee and pressed on. My own myopia was nowhere near as bad as Swee`s and I could climb without glasses. I looked back to make sure he was moving steadily, if slowly.
Our team regrouped on a small rock outcrop; having climbed over a steep but short rock outcrop. A check on our oxygen canisters revealed a healthy balance. Leading without bottled oxygen, Kunga another of our sherpas was eager to stay in that position. Our advantage of supplemental oxygen kept us at his heels all morning. But his stubborn pride forbade him from surrendering the lead. The slope steepened as we climbed to the broad summit plateau. No rope joined us; the ground was technically easy. There was also no fixed rope on most of the summit ridge which was not a problem either since conditions underfoot were good. I concentrated at putting one bulky foot in front of the other and listening to the quiet clicking sound of the valve on my fabric-coated latex mask as I breathed.The moisture vent eventually grew a walrus-like tusk of frozen breath. Every now and then, I`d reach up to snap off the milky white icicle.
A cold breeze from the west swept into us; blowing spindrift down our collars. I tightened by chest zipper. I did not have an altimeter but knew we were close to 8000-meters; the Death Zone. At these altitudes, a human can only survive for short periods. An unacclimatised person, if suddenly thrust into such a rarefied atmosphere would be unconscious in minutes and die soon after. The only sounds were the wind`s quiet roar and the clinking sound of tiny bits of broken ice as they skittered from under our boots. It was almost like the sound of a wind-chime.
Reaching the golden-hued summit plateau was exciting. The weather was holding, the team going strong and I was doing fine. The sun from the east was flooding the football field of a summit plateau and swirls of spindrift underfoot would catch the light The rigorous training and acclimatisation was paying off. Swee swept by. Wearing his recently warmed-up spectacles, he was back to his confident, strong stride. We stopped for a while.
"Only another 20 more minutes!" he said, his voice muffled by the mask.
He pressed ahead. I knew that once he smelled the summit, he`d be off and wouldn`t look back. He would go like a freight train. Alan took off suddenly to the left. Puzzled, I waited until I saw him unzip the specially designed suit. The flap on his backside fell open and he squatted to perform urgent duties. Hah, I thought, a record for answering the call of nature at high altitude.
The slog over crusted snow was uninspiring but my own cynicism of such boring climbing soon evaporated as Everest began to peep from the eastern edge of the summit plateau. I kept walking on the nearly flat plateau, occasionally punching through unexpectedly as sections of the slabby surface gave way. This whole area is a deathtrap in a whiteout, I thought. There was not a single distinguishing feature on the plateau. At a distance, I spied a hump rising slightly. The summit. As I got closer, I thought , " I`m going to make it!"
A group of climbers were at the small hump, all clad in the same puffy suits as mine. Gradually, with broad smiles, we were reunited. There was no marker on the summit except for a single abandoned oxygen cylinder, half-buried by a Japanese team. Kunga, Lila, Roz, Swee were there first. I ambled to them followed a few minutes later by Justin and Alan. . Undoing my cumbersome oxygen equipment, I joined them, took off my glacier glasses and breathed deeply. I wanted to breathe that cold, clean air. Without the exertion of climbing, breathing normally on the summit was not as taxing as I thought. I squinted briefly at the views in the bright morning sun. It was 845am and we were 8201 metres high. The feeling was like a million dollars -- only better.
If the summit of the world`s sixth highest peak was undramatic in itself, the views east were truly magnificent; taking in the Everest-Lhotse-Nuptse horseshoe. It was my first ever clear view of Everest. After years of living the experience vicariously through books and photographs, I was gazing, somewhat dumbfounded, at our ultimate goal. There, flanked by the broad face of Lhotse and the pointy Nuptse was the mountain of dreams. We pointed out the different routes and familiar features on Everest to each other excitedly and posed for the obligatory snaps. Justin ran off metres of video tape on the Sony digital video camera. Our walkie-talkie batteries had failed by then but Justin mouthed some words into one anyway and we kept the camera running. Cinematic licence at 8000 metres, I chuckled to myself.
My own memories of that day are as clear as that indelible view of Everest; a hazy blue-grey, 30 kilometers from us; seemingly afloat on a bank of white clouds. Then, like my own watery eyesight, it becomes hazy, as if from the sun` s glare. I turned to descend, full of awe and wonder.
Cho Oyu was climbed but our task was unfulfilled. Everest remained.
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