Kathmandu

Our flight from Dubai entered Nepalese airspace in the late afternoon of 22 November as the sun began its majestic evening ritual of setting over the Himalaya. Though the Kathmandu valley was insulated in a thick covering of feathery cloud, the dying embers of the autumn afternoon still pulsated on the molten skyline of the mountains.  Off the port wing I caught a brief but satisfying glimpse of Mt Everest, her summit pyramid glowing with all the sanctity and refinement of a celestial altar.  My heart skipped a beat.

On my last visit to Nepal, I was hesitant to immerse myself too much in its capital city, seeing it as a place to be tolerated rather than celebrated; a stepping-stone to adventure rather than the adventure itself.  This time though it was different - even despite the pace and manic intensity of a city which, if you were not prepared for it, could sweep you away in a bewildering torrent of traffic, dust, filth, smell and of course, teeming humanity.  It is, I suppose, the same with any third world city.

As our taxi crossed the bridge over the Bagamati River we encountered a particularly unpleasant aspect of Kathmandu.  Here, demarcating the gentle arc of a stream so sacred to Hindus, funeral pyres blazed at the foot of the great Pashupatinath temple complex, which along with its counterpart in Varanasi India is one of the holiest sites in the Hindu religion.  Indeed, devotees consider cremation here to be the ultimate send-off.    The following afternoon we visited the temple (now one of three UNESCO World Heritage sites in Kathmandu) and though access to the sanctuary was restricted to all but Hindu pilgrims, we were allowed to observe the spectacle and take pictures from a vantage point across the river.  A number of cremation ceremonies were underway and dark billows of smoke rose from the platforms and hung lugubriously overhead. 

While I found the ancient architecture and antique stonework of Pashupatinath somewhat captivating, the squalor – inexplicably abject for a place considered so holy - detracted significantly from the visit.  The river itself was black with pollution, its banks braided with litter.  I was also dismayed by the opportunism of the locals who plied their respective trades there.  The complex, for example, is well known for its “sadhus” (Hindu holy men) who are an attraction in their own right.  Besides being outrageously cadaverous, sadhus are known for their unruly facial hair, garish body paint and meagre loin coverings that perform an alarmingly tenuous containment of the private parts.   It struck me however that not all sadhus were especially “holy” and I soon learnt to distinguish between an authentic sadhu and a “business sadhu” - the latter being little more than a fancy dress begging specialist who makes money by charging tourists who want to take photos of him.  There’s no doubt that some of these guys are entitled to their keep:  I’d read, for example, of a sadhu who can sling a 50kg boulder over is penis and lift it off the ground.  Sadly though I could not locate him on the day of our visit – perhaps he was at home on sick leave or something.  The temple complex is also known for a particularly menacing troop of red-faced monkeys that stalk you at a distance, waiting for you to drop your guard so they can snatch food from your bag or pocket.  They are considered sacred by the Hindus so not much is done to restrain them.  A few days after we left, one of Madan’s clients was bitten on the leg by one of these loathsome primates and had to undergo a course of injections for Rabies.  All things considered, amongst the sites I visited in Kathmandu, I enjoyed Pashupatinath the least. 

Yes, that's a body down there

Stepping into the river of city life on Sunday morning, I mused over the irony that a mere 36 hours previously I’d been window shopping in the frenetic emporia of Dubai International’s duty free where a bottle of French perfume or rare single malt scotch can dent even the heftiest of holiday budgets.  Nepal on the other hand, (and at the risk of stating the obvious) is disturbingly impoverished, a condition that is amplified by the cramped, chaotic confines of its capital. 

To escape this confinement, we drove out to the ancient city of Bhaktapur in the eastern corner of the Kathmandu valley.  At its apogee in the 15^th Century, the place was a city-state that lay on the principal caravan route between India and Tibet.  As such it boasts an meticulously preserved complex of palaces, pagodas, ponds and temples – not to mention an imposing array of beautifully preserved statues and carvings.  What makes Bhaktapur special is that people still live there so the experience is a lot like walking inside an exquisitely conceived museum diorama.

The intricacies of Bhaktapur’s architecture and woodwork are mirrored in the sacred art of Thanka – an excruciatingly detailed blend of brushwork and gold overlay that expresses the core principles of Buddhism.  We visited a Thanka school to see masters and students hard at work on creations both large and small.  Since it is not uncommon for a single artist to labour on a painting between 8 to 12 hours a day for a whole year, a Thanka painting from a renowned practitioner can command a king’s ransom.

The Tibetan Bhuddist influence on Nepalese culture is not only limited to Bhaktapur.  We had lunch at the great Boudhanath Stupa, built during the 16^th century  (though re-modeled and renovated many times since) and one of the largest of its kind in the world.  The stupa is located in a serene city square that is accessible only to pedestrian traffic and which is surrounded by brightly painted shops, apartments, hotels and rooftop restaurants.  It is well frequented by locals, tourists and massive flocks of pigeons that, every hour on the hour, are startled into flight so that visitors can get an unusual photo of the dome.  Our time there was a welcome relief from the chaos of the city.

Boudhanath Stupa

Above and Below - Street Life in Kathmandu

Sightseeing only went part of the way towards unveiling the magic that was Kathmandu.  In the 1960s, western hippies poured into the city in pursuit of cheap drugs, Buddhist teachers and Hindu gurus.  They brought the gift of rock and roll and, with artists like Cat Stevens among them; a rich culture of live music was soon flourishing.  On my final night in Kathmandu, I went on a musical pub-crawl with an Irishman I’d met on the trek and encountered bands singing pitch perfect renditions of songs from bands like Pearl Jam, Collective Soul, the Beatles and more.  Mercifully beer was so expensive that the temptation to make it a late night was an easy one to resist.  Just after midnight, I said goodbye to Patrick and set off on foot to my hotel.   During the day it was hard enough to navigate around the maize that is Thamel though I eventually learned to make landmarks of the diverse merchandise that by day was arranged on the street pavements.  But now that all the shops were closed, it took me a while to get my bearings and my midnight stroll through the darkened backstreets became a memorable if not unnerving game of hit and miss.  After losing my way a few times, I eventually recognized a small Hindu shrine, stubs of candles and incense still burning, and with relief realised I was only a block away from my hotel.

Chillin' with some of Kathmandu's ridiculously talented Musos

In a city that receives and entertains such a diversity of international travellers and pilgrims – many of whom are by nature avid readers - it was no surprise to learn that Kathmandu is famous for its used bookstores.  I spent hours in these dusty cubbyholes, books piled to the roof and overwhelmed not just by the vast array of mountaineering titles (a cottage industry in itself) but by the diversity of other titles too.  After browsing for a while I selected some books, haggled over the price with the merchant (but got nowhere) and then retreated to a quiet garden restaurant called “The Lazy Buddha” where I whiled away the afternoon reading and drinking fruit lassies, (an excellent Nepalese beverage made from milk curd).  Here I met two Australian bankers and their young sons about to embark on Everest trek as a “coming of age” experience for the two lads.  I discovered they had just arrived on the Qantas midday flight and were staying in the same hotel as I was.  They had dozens of questions and were brimming with excitement though when I saw them the next day at breakfast the excitement had waned somewhat.  Both lads were down with food poisoning from a meal the night before and one wanted to go home to his mum.  I thought about them often over the next week or so, particularly as the bad weather brought deep snow to the Solu Khumbu region. 

Dhal Bhat - a typical Nepalese meal

Having a shave after the Trek

When the time came to leave on Sunday evening I felt a strange blend of sadness and relief.  Since our arrival from the Everest region 3 days earlier, my time in Kathmandu had been quite a lonely one.  Perhaps there was an element of anticlimax after the trek – perhaps it was because I didn’t really have anyone else to share it all with.  Whatever it was, as I write about it now, I think of the lyrics to a famous Cat Stevens song:

Katmandu, I'll soon be seein' you

And your strange bewilderin' time
Will hold me down

The Journey Home

The annual Tenzing Hillary Marathon follows the trekking trail from Base Camp to Namche Bazaar and is probably the toughest trail run in the world – particularly the 2014 edition the first 20km of which was run in 4 feet of snow.  A friend of mine ran it this year to raise funds for charity and experienced firsthand the hardship that comes with running above 3500m.  The winner – a Sherpa – finished in a staggering 3 hours and 52 minutes.  My friend took 11 hours and 30 minutes having three hours added to her time for overnighting in a village – it was the last of 8 marathons she would do on 7 continents in 2014 (including one on the Great Wall of China, another in Peru and a third in Antarctica) and she would later describe it as the toughest.   Though I was grateful not to be running the route, I was intrigued to see what all the fuss was about.  True, we weren’t going to walk as far as Namche Bazaar but we were hoping to reach Pangboche before nightfall, a hike of about 25km.  

Gorak Shep from Kalapattar

I will not dwell too much on this leg suffice it to say that my spirits, which had been so elated the previous day, now sunk to a gloomy low.  With hindsight, it was probably due to two factors.  The first was that we had climbed to the top of Kalapattar before breakfast, (an ascent of over 350m) which meant we were already running on empty long before the return journey even began. Secondly, I broke my 4L water rule and drank only 1L the entire day - which meant I was probably dehydrated by the end of it.  I managed neither lunch in Pheriche nor dinner at Pangboche where at 3pm, after 5 hours of almost constant walking, I staggered into the lodge, knees aching, head swimming and running a serious temperature. 

The Road to Pheriche

Mercifully, I slept that night for 12 straight hours and woke up feeling suitably restored – though this condition was temporary in light of the next leg; the so-called “descent” to Namche.  This consisted of a 200m descent, a 200m ascent, a descent of 600m followed by another climb of 250m.  It was hot, dusty and ultimately soul destroying with even the promise of a comfortable lodge; a good meal and a hot shower (we hadn’t showered for 7 days) doing little to lift the spirits. 

But the comforts of Namche and the Yak Hotel turned out to be adequate reward for our exertions after all.  That night in the Liquid Bar, we met up with fellow trekkers and the friendly owner laid on free popcorn and yet another movie about mountaineering disasters.  There was much laughter as we all compared notes and pretty much everyone vowed never to try anything like this again.  Marcus, the Australian who’d undressed on top of Kalapattar, was also there though was not really himself having heard reports that the Army had a warrant out for his arrest.  With hindsight, I think this was a rumour the guides had concocted to scare him because in the end, as far as I know, he made it back to Australia without experiencing the comforts of the Nepalese prison system.

The next day as we descended one last time into the Dudh Khosi valley for the final haul up to Lukla, we were reminded once again that there are no easy sections to the Everest Base Camp Trek.  There were quite a few trekkers still coming the other way, all looking fresh, hopeful and excited.  I felt no excitement for them, particularly as it had grown discernibly colder the previous three nights - even at the lower altitudes.  I guess that by then I was just ready to go home.  Not for the first time that trip, I called to mind that opening scene of Platoon.  One trekking party was a team of Peterhouse students celebrating the end of their O Levels.  We stopped and chatted for a while – they were cheerful, rosy-cheeked, respectful young people and were pleased to meet a fellow Zimbabwean – until they found out I’d been educated at St Georges.     

We spent the afternoon in Lukla nervously contemplating the weather as the village became slowly socked in with thick cloud.  Would planes be cleared for landing the following morning?  Or would we be forced to bear the additional expense of a helicopter flight to Kathmandu?  I wandered down the high street and found Lukla’s version of the Hard Rock Café where I relaxed with a book in a deep leather armchair and drank hot chocolate as the melodic strains of ACDC roared over the sound system.  From that surreal vantage point I kept half an eye on the airport's deserted apron as phalanxes of cloud rolled up from the valley.  If nothing changed that night, it was unlikely we'd get out the next day.  After evening drinks in the local Irish Pub, I went to bed.

High Street Lukla

Dawn broke crisp and clear as the last of the clouds scudded over the eastern skyline.  Sipping on a cup of lemon tea I watched with growing elation as the first plane of the day began its approach.  So relieved was I to board that I was overcome with drowsiness and nearly dozed off.  Indeed, the excitement of takeoff and the beautiful views off the starboard wing were largely lost on me such was the consolation at being homeward bound.

Though I didn't know it at the time, the weather window that had blessed us with such excellent trekking conditions was slowly creaking shut.  Two days later; Colin, Chris, Jeff and two Sherpas returned from the summit of Island Peak (6140) to advanced base camp in a blinding snow storm.  By the time they reached Chukhung a day later, the prospect of the three day trek to Lukla was so unpalatable that, after a night in a lodge, they chartered helicopter and flew back to Kathmandu in style.  At roughly the same time, Madan and two Australian clients were struggling their way up to Namche Bazaar in four feet of snow.  Our timing had been perfect.

A tribute to the Mountains

Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord?

    Who may stand in his holy place?

The one who has clean hands and a pure heart,

    who does not trust in an idol

    or swear by a false god.

Psalm 24

When Mallory saw Everest for the first time he described her as a “prodigious white fang, an excrescence from the jaw of the world”.  There’s something in that word “excrescence” which is used to describe the sort of growth that results from disease or abnormality.  It is an entirely appropriate term when you see the mountain up close.  Of course from a distance it is another matter because when you first see Everest from a viewpoint just below Namche Bazaar, it appears to be smaller and more recessive than peaks like Lhotse, a whole 400m lower than itself.  It is all a matter of perspective. 

Everest (Left) and Lhotse

But perspective is a funny thing.  Because when you finally stagger into Base Camp after the 90-minute up-scramble through the rocky turmoil of the Khumbu Glacier – you find that due to the vista’s astronomical scale, perspective is nothing more than an abstraction.  The utter silence is enough to totally recalibrate the senses, almost as though all of creation were waiting to exhale.  You are finally, as F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in the closing lines of The Great Gatsby, “face to face with something commensurate with (your) capacity for wonder”.  Strangely, Everest itself is not a part of this experience because you can’t actually see her from that particular vantage point, the legendary summit pyramid secreted beyond a gigantic amphitheater formed by Pumori, Khumbutse, the Lho La and Nuptse. 

As a result, many describe their visit to Base Camp as anticlimactic.  At this time of the year the place has little to show for itself besides a giant cairn festooned with graffiti and a tangle of frayed Bhuddist prayer flags that crack noisily in the wind.  For all intents and purposes it is just a dot on the map.  There’s also very little to herald its presence other than the telltale twist of the icefall as it heads uphill towards the Western Cwm.  Periodically, avalanches plummet off the surrounding peaks, their menacing hiss only reaching you five or more seconds after the whole affair is over.  Yet it is what Base Camp had borne witness to that intrigued me.  It captured my imagination long before arriving there and will no doubt continue to do so long after my leaving:  record setting ascents, vicious storms, the rise and demise of heroic personalities, dramatic rescues, helicopter crashes and other unspeakable tragedies too numerous to mention here.

I could not imagine a more menacing and inhospitable place.  How, I wondered, could even the most determined climber make a home of the Khumbu’s flinty sprawl?  It is a deadly, mercurial combination of rock, gravel, ice and water that is constantly on the move – so much so in fact that if you listen carefully you can hear the ground groaning and sighing beneath your feet.  How yak trains and donkeys make it through the screes that separate base camp from Gorak Shep is a mystery.  Indeed I found the walk tortuous: one lapse of concentration and you’re likely to twist an ankle or worse still.  I’ve heard stories of people simply being swallowed up in crevasses that weren’t there the day before.  I would not have spent a single night at Base Camp nor would I have found a 2-month stay as part of a summit expedition even remotely conscionable.  How one progresses from that sort of discomfort to then climb Everest boggles the mind! 

All things considered, the 20 or so minutes I spent at base camp (it was too cold to linger any longer) will remain a memory forever.

But what drew me here in the first place?  What could take me back again?  The high drama I’ve found between the covers of the books I’ve read?  A fascination with the nation of Nepal and its people?  Something deeper? 

It may be simpler than that.  When I was younger, I had a double page pull out picture of Everest’s southeast face that I found in an outdoor magazine.  I looked at it often, mesmerized by the violent contrasts of jet-black rock and frosty whiteness, her spidery striations and ghostly couloirs.  I would consider the mountain’s beguiling abnormalities; the menacing seracs that guard the entrance to the Western Cwm, the incongruous “yellow band” that ramps east to west towards the summit ridge – and (on the day the picture was taken) the mountain’s crowning glory – a wisp of lenticular cloud hovering precariously over the summit in the inky wash of the lower stratosphere.  That one image embodied everything that drew me for a second time to Nepal.  I came to stand cheek by jowl with mountains like that - acts of creation conceived of and executed on a scale so stupendous that their purpose could only have been to point to someone bigger than us mere mortals. 

But though the ostensible purpose of the trek was to reach Everest Base Camp (or, more colloquially “EBC”), the mountain occupied only a very minor part of the experience.  My last real sight of it came on the morning of our departure from Gorak Shep.  Waking early, we staggered upwards through the frigid dawn to a rocky viewpoint on the summit of Kalappattar (5550m), a gently sloping mountain that sits at the feet of Mt Pumori (7161m).  Here you can enjoy the best views of Everest and its sister peaks.  It was another awe inspiring moment – the icy serrations of the Hillary Step gently glowing in the early dawn and a dainty “doek” of cloud perched deftly on the summit.  While Everest looked almost comical, I couldn’t help feeling that even amidst all this grandeur, the mountain relies on sheer thuggery to make its mark.  For good and bad reasons, Everest is the strongman of mountains – pure grit and muscle.

The amphitheatre of Everest Base Camp 

Which brings me to Ama Dablam, a mountain that dominates the eastern sky for much of the trek. Unlike Everest, the peak neither muscles nor manhandles though her impression is no less indelible.  At 6856m she is not an especially high mountain though she is regarded my many as the Himalaya’s most beautiful.  Her southern face is so sickeningly vertical that Edmund Hillary once declared her “unclimbable” – though since that pronouncement over 1800 people have stood atop the summit (often as a practice run for big brother Everest).

The Beautiful Ama Dablam - Dudh Khosi (Milk River) in the foreground

While Everest bullies you with bluster, Ama Dablam romances you with spellbinding elegance.  And as though her beauty isn’t enough, she is winsomely generous too, offering such a feast of breathtaking photo opportunities that pictures of her lavish form made up the vast majority of my photostream.  It’s almost impossible to leave Nepal without a great keepsake of her.  She goes out on a limb to be remembered and adored.   

Ama Dablam in Nepali means “Woman and necklace” and as you draw near to the village of Dingboche you begin to appreciate the aptness of the name.  The mountain, which when you first see her outside Namche Bazaar seems so lonely and monolithic, actually boasts two shapely summits.

Declared "unclimbable" by Hillary, Ama Dablam is now one of the most popular Himalayan peaks for climbing

On the afternoon of our rest day in Dingboche, I looked down the valley towards the wooded ridge upon which was perched the Monastery of Tengboche.  A mass of cloud had boiled up from the valley below and was now barreling up towards our lodge.  By 2 o’clock the place was shrouded in a thick, oily fog.  So unnervingly funereal was the gloom that my spirits, already dampened by the effects of altitude, plummeted.  Moods, for some reason, are strangely erratic when trekking in the high Himalaya and it’s important to have some sort of distraction lined up when conditions deteriorate – a good book, a pack of cards, music, whatever. 

In this instance, I chose to retreat into the comfort of my sleeping bag for the afternoon.  I began to read but soon dozed off.  When I awoke an hour or so later the cloud had vanished and the valley was bathed in wash of golden sunlight.  On the western side of our valley, a now glowing Ama Dablam was the towering centerpiece of what would turn out to be a memorable afternoon.  I considered a stroll over the ridge to the village of Pheriche but instead scrambled up to a nearby chorten and sat for a while, drinking in the beauty.  A young British couple with similar intentions sat nearby smoking a massive joint.  Down in the valley, cows mooed.  Above, ravens squawked and darted playfully through the chorten’s prayer flags. 

Presently, the fragile peace was shattered by the whup whup whup of a bright red helicopter which labored up the valley, banked steeply over the flood plain and landed on the outskirts of the village.  Two stretchers bearing stricken trekkers were hastily loaded and just as quickly as it had come, the helicopter lifted into the thin air, banked to the left and disappeared down the valley.  As evening slowly fell, the chimneys of lodges and homes simultaneously coughed into life as ovens and fireplaces were kindled for heat and cooking.  I wandered back to the lodge and sat for a while on a large rock, overwhelmed by the peace and enchanted by the beauty.  Though the valley was now almost completely dark, the surrounding peaks pulsated in a cheerful rosy glow that defied the onset of night. 

Nightfall at Dingboche

There was indeed more to the EBC trek than Mt Everest.

Death in the Mountains

But not all trekkers are as lucky as (or is it as tough?) as Miles.  Which brings me to the subject of death in the mountains.  Much of my trek felt faintly morbid as I encountered signs and stories of how the mountains always have the last word.  While climbers might love the mountains, the mountains don't always reciprocate.

On three separate occasions, I saw “missing” posters that chilled me to the marrow.  The format was pretty much the same on all of them – some wraithlike, hollow-eyed figure stared out from the bill – a photo from when the person was last seen alive – with words below to the effect that he had last been seen in the vicinity of village x heading for village y.  Since then no word had been received nor trace of him found.  Any information leading to his recovery (living or dead) would be greatly appreciated.  I shuddered when I considered such cases – of the lonely, freezing demises they must have suffered.  Of heartbroken parents sitting at home waiting desperately for news.

Then there was a chat I had with my guide Madan the night before we left Kathmandu.  This was his 91^st  outing to the Everest region and he had recently returned from a trek on the Annapurna Circuit.  Nearly six weeks after a cyclone had killed over 42 people in a single night, Madan and two clients had discovered the body of a Nepalese herdsman behind a rocky outcrop on the Thorung La.  The route, which had seen so much tragedy, was still littered with jettisoned gear – a chilling reminder of the terror and tragedy that accompanied that panic- stricken retreat from the summit.

Yet the most piercing reminder of man’s utter vulnerability to the whim of the mountains (and, I suppose, to his own unfettered ambitions as well) came 6 days out from Lukla when we arrived at an exposed outpost called Thukla.  Wedged between a trio of 6000m peaks and with sweeping views of the Lobuche Khola, Thukla boasts a single lodge with a tearoom.  We stopped there for a glass of lemon tea before undertaking a tortuous climb up the pass to the village of Lobuche.

The climb comes to an abrupt end on a serene meadow whose grassy expanse is heavily punctuated with cairns and memorials to mountaineers who have died on Everest.  I’d read much about the Mountaineers Memorial and was looking forward to seeing it.  But now that I was there, things didn’t feel right.  You could argue this is all part of the mountain’s history – that for decades a lot of very brave and sometimes reckless adventurers have accepted the risk that comes with climbing and that such risk all to often results in death.  Yet Deaths on Everest – certainly the ones I’ve read about – have a tendency to be almost tabloid in their ability to capture the public’s imagination. I couldn’t fight the feeling that I was somehow bingeing on the misfortune of the dead not to mention intruding on the collective grief of the loved ones who’d been left behind.

View east from the Mountaineers Memorial atop the Thukla Pass

When I came to the memorial stone of Scott Fisher, a one time commercial guide on Everest and, some would say, one of the greatest climbers of his generation, I couldn’t bring myself to take a photo.  If you have read John Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air”, you’ll know all about Scott.  His death in a killer storm on May 10 1996, as well as that of his friend and competitor Rob Hall, serves as a reminder of all that is wrong with Everest.  Rampant commercialism, reckless ambition and a desire to summit no matter the cost or moral compromise. 

I also came across the heartbreaking epitaph for the legendary Sherpa mountaineer Babu Chiri.  His epitaph remembers his achievements three of which are records (and will probably remain so for the foreseeable future):

·      Reached the summit of Everest 10 times

·      Reached the summit twice in 2 weeks (record)

·      Spent 21 hours on the summit without oxygen in 1999 (record)

·      Fastest summit on Everest – 16 hours and 56 minutes (record)

Babu Chiri died after a fall into a crevasse on 29 April, 2001.

For the remainder of the walk to Lobuche I pondered whether mountains like Everest were supposed to be climbed in the first place.  At very least, I thought, Ed Viesturs’ famous admonition to climbers should be immortalized alongside the other cairns in that lonely meadow:  “Getting to the top is optional.  Getting home, mandatory”