For
the trekker flying from Kathmandu to Lukla - starting point for treks into the
Everest region - the experience is not unlike a military operation. The deciding factor in its success is the
weather and when that fickle window opens, it’s a mad rush to get as many
planes into the air and boots on the ground as possible. Between the aircraft taxiing to a halt on the
apron at Lukla and its takeoff no more than six minutes later, the plane
disgorges 18 passengers and their gear; bundles of mail, bags of rice and other
oddments – and then re-loads with an outgoing consignment of passengers and
their gear. A minute after that plane is
airborne, the next one is inbound. When
the weather is good (“good” meaning at least 5000m of visibility), Lukla Airport
receives and dispatches over 60 flights – most of them before lunchtime (which
is roughly when conditions begin to deteriorate). When it’s not, I’m told the resulting
bottleneck can last for days. Everyone
obsesses about the weather when it comes to flights in and out of Lukla: at the
start of one’s trek because one can’t wait to start the trip of a lifetime, at
the end because one can’t wait to get back to civilisation.
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| Lukla Apron - pic courtesy of Himalayanworkshops.com |
The
journey to Lukla begins at 5am amidst the darkened, moldering tenements of
Kathmandu’s Thamel District. The city sleeps
late so the streets are eerie and deserted - only the occasional stray is
witness to the nervous huddle of travellers waiting on the pavement for their
taxi. The experience progresses to the
heavily congested domestic terminal of Tribuvhan airport and, weather permitting,
concludes an hour or so later on the gloomy, windswept apron of, (according to
the History Channel), “the most extreme airport in the world”. It is a transformative experience: the senses, still reeling from the chaos and
filth of Kathmandu, are now besieged by the sheer immensity of the Himalayan
massif not to mention the landing itself which, even in professional circles,
is regarded as audacious. Then of course
there’s the clamour of porters jostling like an army of impatient fishermen
hoping to hook a client. There’s the
crisp, thin air and the rolling green hills of the lower Khumbu valley, which,
anywhere else, would easily qualify as mountains. Here they are just hills.
Tenzing-Hillary
Airport, gateway to Everest and the staging area of high adventure. But also of great tragedy. Built in the late 60s and only tarred in
2000, the place has seen its fair share of accidents. Seven of the 10 recorded on Wikipedia took
place between 2005 and 2009, the worst of which led to the deaths of two Yeti
Airlines crewmembers and an entire party of German trekkers. Only the pilot survived. They are remembered on a chorten beside the
path to Phakding just beyond the town gate.
So it
was with relief that we exited the Tara Airlines De Havilland Twin Otter and
stepped out onto the apron – relief and extreme exhilaration because the
landing eclipsed even my wildest memories of roller coasters I’ve ridden. As I paused, I noticed an outgoing group of
trekkers being buffered in the propwash.
Unkempt and with the faces of one or two of them bearing a vaguely
haunted look, the moment reminded me of that opening scene in Platoon in which
the new recruits disembark on the runway at Saigon – all clean and innocent in
their drab combat gear - only to encounter a detachment of hollow-eyed, battle-hardened
grunts. “What horrors lie in store?”
they wonder.
But
there was little time to think too much about it – no sooner had we stepped up
onto the high street, we were ushered into a cozy lodge where a hot cup of tea
awaited us. Half an hour later, after a
few final adjustments to our gear, we hit the trail – destination Phakding – a
small village 2.5 hours walk hence and a descent of about 300 metres into the
Dudh Khosi Valley. We would spend our
first night there.
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