"Spindrift" Mount Everest Travelogue by travelinxs

As I sat in the Heathrow departure lounge I was feeling surprisingly calm considering this was to be my first flight with Biman Bangladesh Airlines. I had been somewhat anxious in the proceeding few days to discover as to why this flight was over two hundred pounds cheaper than the next.

My journey raised other questions. Nepal was experiencing a state of emergency. Less than twelve months previously the world watched in horror as events unfolded almost beyond belief. On 1 June 2001, according to the official account, then Crown Prince Dipendra had a drunken argument with his parents over his choice of bride. He retired to his quarters and emerged with two automatic weapons and massacred King Birendra, Queen Aishwarya and numerous other members of the royal family before turning a gun on himself. Though Dipendra was in a coma, he was declared king in accordance with the 1990 constitution. When he died three days later his uncle, Prince Gyanenda, was enthroned in a hastily arranged ceremony, fulfilling an astrologer’s prophecy that he would be enthroned twice.
There was a great outpouring of public grief for the royal family and complete disbelief that the crown prince could murder his own family. Discontent was focused on he new king and on the prime minister. A curfew was imposed and street demonstrations continued and most tourists left the country.

Training on Dartmoor

Nepal seemed poised for a period of uncertainty with the monarchy, the democratic government and the Maoist insurgents working independently to establish power bases and ignoring the needs of the greater part of the population.

Without access to the Internet I had been unable to contact anyone within the country to gain any first-hand information on the situation. Fortunately David Gower had an associate, Bob Smart, who spent much of the year working in Nepal.
He telephoned his contacts in Kathmandu and was able to re-assure me that the situation was calm, at least for the present time.

The Maoists had decided that in order to forward their cause for national freedom and power for the peasant population that they would attempt to mess up my travel plans as well. A ‘bandh’ as a general strike is known in Asia had been called to start within 36 hours of my arrival into the country and was to last 5 days.
My schedule included the acquisition of a permit in Kathmandu and registration with the British Embassy before arranging a bus ticket for the 188km drive out to he village of Jiri. I had no idea if this was going to be possible of not. I had accommodation to find in the capital, film to buy and culture shock to deal with, all within a very short space of time.

These were immediate challenges, but to achieve my main objective and purpose of the journey over-shadowed all. The trek to Everest.
Most visitors to Everest follow a standard itinerary. Taking a light aircraft from Kathmandu they fly to the mountain airstrip of Lukla at 2800m (feet) to immediately begin a process of acclimatisation, spending a day or two at rest or exploring the immediate vicinity of villages as they gradually ascend to higher altitudes. Some chose to ignore the advice given or skip rest days leading to illness and on occasions worse, but a whirlwind trek to Everest Base Camp and return can be achieved in around ten days to two weeks.

My route would take me overland to Jiri and follow the original trek route of the early explorers and mountaineers who took on Everest from the Nepal side. Taking around twice as long, the endurance required is compounded by a number of high passes that must be climbed which plummet again to lower altitudes each time as the route runs perpendicular, from west to east, to the valleys, which run from north to south.

I walked tentatively through the doors onto the aircraft like someone who had never seen a plane before.
On entering the main cabin an involuntary smile crossed my face, and I paused to allow the reality of this flying machine to sink in. Bright red and orange floral upholstered seats, some of which had been patched with odd fragments of fabric. Signs worn away or missing, blackened windows and a couple of hundred terrified Asian faces staring back at me. But I think it was the floral wallpaper that really blew me away!

Checking my boarding card I quickly found my seat. Perhaps with reason I had been seated next to the only other white face on board, said hi and made myself comfortable.

Desperate for distraction, I dug my guidebook out and went to turn on the over-head light. It was missing. In fact they were all missing, leaving ominous dark holes into the roof cavity. Finding a pair of headphones in the seat pocket, I thought I would test out the on-board flight entertainment instead, but on placing them over my head they snapped in half. I gave up on distraction and instead concentrated on working myself into a nervous sweat as we waited for take-off.

The Streets Of Thamel District

I turned my thoughts back to the trip, considering whether I had adequate clothing to protect against the cold. Agonised if I was fit enough to take on the gruelling hills.

The engines screamed as we lurched unceremoniously forward.
What if I fell and injured myself when alone at high altitude? What if I fell ill? What if the trek proved too much and I was already 100 miles from the road? What if...

The wings of the aircraft flapped like an ungainly flamingo. Everything banged, creaked and shuddered. What if...

Finally we were airborne and I sat back and relaxed. Chatted away to my companion, Ben, who was flying via Dhaka and Bangkok to Thailand to meet up with friends for ‘an indefinite period’ on a Thai island. For a long moment I envied him.

We put down in Paris for two terminal hours sitting on the runway, then off again. A group of four Bangladeshi lads in front introduced themselves. They had been working in London and were returning to visit family.
“I have worked all last year in a Soho porn shop!” one announced proudly and he proceeded to forward explicit details of his best selling merchandise, loud enough for all on board to be lucky recipients of his broad knowledge.

After a further ten hours, like a stone we dropped out of the sky and onto the tarmac of Dhaka international airport, Bangladesh. We shuffled off the plane and walked to the ominous looking airport. Inside I was as equally startled as when I had first walked onto the plane. It was without exception the most smelly, decrepit and anarchic airport I have ever had the misfortune to be stuck at. A wooden desk at one end of the arrivals / departure hall, staffed by two officials without uniform or even a computer between them, controlled all ticketing, checking in and boarding passes. The only screen in the building was at the other end, showing American baseball. The six of us made our way upstairs to the restaurant. Ben bought a coffee for £2. It costs 1p out on the streets. Our friends told of the corruption and crime now rife in Bangladesh. Kidnap was common place.

After a couple hours everyone went on his or her separate ways and I was once again on my own. I boarded another flight and after a little over an hour I finally found myself standing in the wrong queue in Kathmandu airport. This was the rule, not the exception. I always ended up in the wrong queue at a foreign airport. Now I had learnt to accept it as any other niggling formality on arrival.

I decided to deal with my transition through the stargate experience with timid ease. The stargate experience is my terminology for that strange interstellar feeling one has when they leave the familiar western environs of an international airport and step out onto the streets of a strange country. The smell, heat, language, faces. Your senses are bombarded with all that is alien and unfamiliar. So I went to a small information desk where a helpful clerk arranged a hotel room and taxi into the city for $10 (£7.50). I knew I could have probably saved a quid or two had I braved it on my own, but heck, I was on holiday after all. I was entitled to go wild!

Tuk-tuk, Thamel District

Driving through Kathmandu to the Thamel district I was reminded of Sri Lanka. Rickshaws and tuk-tuks (three-wheeled motorcycle taxis) vied with cars, animals and wildly painted trucks for road space and swarms of people.

Squat on the sidewalk with tiny wood stoves heating chapattis and breads or selling anything and everything laid out on hessian. An ancient stared at me as I peered from the safety of my taxi window. He gave a nod and a smile, typical of Nepali civility that I had read of. Dressed in rags, a single bicycle chain was laid out before him to tempt the passing ocean of people.

My driver asked where I was from, confirming as polite foreigners are apt to do that apparently England is a great place to live, how long was I staying in Nepal and was it my first visit?
“Is the bandh (strike) still going ahead?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied soberly, “Not tomorrow, day after. All of Nepal stop. Nepal closed!”
“No buses?” I asked anxiously.
“No. No buses.”
This is what I had feared. I needed tomorrow to arrange a bus ticket for the following day, buy permit and register with the British embassy. I checked my watch. Just after 4pm. There had to be a way. There always was.

I was dropped off at my hotel, the Swangila, and after fending off a persistent manager who tried to sell me a Himalayan tour by telling him I was meeting friends at the (infamous) Kathmandu Guest House, I followed a porter to my room. It was quite decent with en-suite bathroom, balcony and TV. I sat on the bed exhausted and shell-shocked. ‘I so want to sleep’ I thought. But it was imperative that I found out more information tonight. Changing into a clean shirt I set off into the pulsating streets.

I had no street map and forgot in my haste to mark the position of the hotel on the GPS (global positioning system) so set off blindly past throngs of bazaars and gift shops.
I soon stumbled by chance upon the Kathmandu Guesthouse and enquired about obtaining a permit for the Solu Khumbu region. They suggested I buy a permit on-route to Everest rather than the ministry building in Kathmandu as instructed by the Lonely Planet guidebook. This was new to me and thought I had best have it confirmed.

Further up the street I came upon another of Kathmandu's famous haunts; Doodles (40,000 and a half feet) Bar. Inside only women sat drinking at the bar. I pulled up a stool beside them and ordered a beer. Plaques above the bar contained signatures of Everest summiteers; Rob Hall, Ang Dorgy, Guy Cotter and, of course, Sir Edmund Hillary. Some are alive today; many retuned to die on Everest.

I spoke to the guys at the bar with me. They were English and travelling towards Tibet the following day as part of a British expedition making an attempt on Everest from the north side. I could have chatted for hours but I needed information. They thought the information I had been given was correct but if I wanted to be sure, an Englishman running an expedition shop in the city would definitely know.
I thanked them and went out into the street and waved down a bicycle rickshaw. ’Dave’ as I named him peddled me off into the darkness as sheet lightening gave a brief eerie illumination to the city.

The Bus To Jiri

Without an address and only a name, our hunt was long and confusing, stopping frequently to ask directions. Dave, a withering old man who in England would have long been drawing a pension grinned on never the less and with persistence we came across the store still open.

The gruff Grisly Adams shopkeeper agreed that a permit would be available from the army checkpoint south of Lukla, about a week into the trek. He also advised me to stay clear of the Arun Valley that was full of terrorists, stay on the trails and be prepared for snow.

Dave wearily peddled back into the Themal district an hour later and yet still appeared grateful for the measly ten pence tip I gave him on top of the £1 for the journey.

I came across a cheap internet cafe advertising phone calls to the UK for 10 rupees (10 pence) a minute so called M. It was 8pm, or 2.30pm back home and Easter Sunday, so I was not surprised to find no reply as she would be with her parents and I had stupidly not thought to bring their number. I killed an hour by looking around the hops near by so as not to become lost in the labyrinth of alley ways, then tried again but to no avail, so left a message and telephoned my mum to let her know I was safe.

Walking back in what I hoped would be he rough direction of the Swongila Hotel, which, of course, nobody had ever heard of, I heard loud music coming from the ’Irish Bar’. Able to resist all but temptation, I wandered in and ordered a Tuborg, as they didn’t have any Irish drinks.

The Nepali rock band played excellent covers of such names as U2, Santana and Eric Clapton. I chatted to the owner who was married to an Irish girl and he bought me a drink. He spoke mournfully of the current situation. The people were frightened of the Maoists and the future. The tourist industry had collapsed and he may go out of business. About my age, sat beside me in his smart suit, he stared at his glass as he opened up to me. He appeared devastated. So few came to his bar now. He may lose everything and go bankrupt. It was painful to hear.

It took over an hour to find my hotel, which was about two hundred metres from the bar, and after arranging with the night porter for a taxi for 5.30am, another couple hours re-packing my backpack, writing my journal and watching a National Geographic documentary I collapsed into my sack (sleeping bag) at 1am, more than 30 hours real time since I had got up.

The Suicidal Goat (on the right!)

My alarm failed in its fruitless attempts to rouse me and it took a number of rings of the phone before I picked up the receiver and the night porter told me my taxi was waiting outside.

The drive across the city was uneventful as I dosed without audacity in the passenger seat, but on arriving at the bus depot I soon awoke to my full senses.

A hundred buses were jammed haphazardly within a compound of mud and water-filled potholes. I picked my way carefully in my sandals pushing through the throngs of people in unintelligible queues being enveloped in foul smelling diesel fumes. The bus journey to Jiri had a reputation in Nepal as a journey from hell. One Everest summiteer described it as thus; “I would climb Everest again, but never would you get me back on that bus!”

An extremely dodgy looking character saddled up beside me and made me his best friend, meaning he wanted a cup of tea while we waited for a bus. I had missed my 7am bus, so we sat at a dirty teashop making basic conversation until 8am. He directed me to the correct queue and as I waited four westerners arrived laden with giant rucksacks behind me. I listened to their accents as they chatted among themselves and immediately recognised grisly Hebrew. I asked if they spoke English, and not that I was suspicious of my new best friends intentions but asked if I was in the right queue for tickets to Jiri.
“Yes, yes,” replied the most Israeli looking of them all. He glanced around as if looking for someone. “Your friends?”
“I’m alone” I replied. My answer brought questioning looks. A few mumbled remarks were shared in Hebrew. Another turned his attention to me. “You go to Everest? Alone? You have porters? A guide?”
“No, alone.”
He held out his hand and shook mine. “You are very brave,” and added “and very crazy!” This was not what I wanted to hear.

I kept one eye on them as we hung around to check we ended up on the same and hopefully correct bus. I watched as they heaved all their equipment onto the roof of a rusted dinosaur and they offered to padlock my pack to theirs. All secure I climbed inside to find my reserved seat.

This was a mistake.

Nepali buses are designed for Nepali people. The overhead rack was situated so low for my 6’2” frame I could only sit with either my knees hunched on the seat in front or bent over double to stare at my mud-caked feet. I sat crushed for an hour with diesel fumes poring into the solar-heated sardine can before we even left the compound. Due to my enforced contortion all I could se out the window was an equal mix of tarmac and potholes as we bumped and banged our way through the suburbs.

Soon we ground to a halt at an army checkpoint and I disembarked to stretch. The Israelis sat squatting on their gear with 34 Nepali men and a huge assortment of sacks and cases on top the bus in the comparatively sweet fresh air. They waved.
“Any room?” I called.

All The Young Dudes, Jiri

“No, no room at all!” came the reply. My heart sank as thoughts of a further eleven hours cooking on gas mark ten haunted me.

It took an hour to crawl the kilometre to the front of the queue. All Nepali had to disembark, have their papers checked and some were searched. Back on board I persevered for a further hour when the bus pulled over at a small village for brunch.

I joined the Israelis at a table in a nearby roadside restaurant. The speciality of the day, and apparently only dish ever available, was lentil dahl bhatt. I’d read about this staple diet of the mountain people and was keen to try it.
Plates were quickly brought to our simple wood table. I picked at my food gingerly. Something resembling mushy green pea soup with bits in, just less tasty. The excitement was provided by the fistful of plain rice. An aromatic condiment drifted in from the toilets and open sewer through the doors. Apparently I was going to lose some weight in the coming weeks.
Were there any animals up on the roof with you?” I enquired of the guys.
“Only Asis,” joked one, nudging his friend.
“Well you’ve got a few more with you now!” They craned their necks to share my view of a heard of goats stomping all over our packs in search of good grazing.

Back outside I persuaded the guys to find me a few square inches on the roof; I feared for my life should I return to the cremation class and although it wasn’t uncommon for passengers to disappear from the roof into ravines and rivers occasionally, I decided it was a fair risk.

We joined the crush, and with around fifty passengers inside, forty-nine on top and seven goats the archaic rust-bucket belched unceremoniously an atom bomb size cloud of fumes and chugged off up the hill.

We quickly learned that in Nepal electricity cables that span the road are designed to clear the roofs of vehicles, but not the rooftop passengers. Everyone quickly learnt what “DUCK!” means in English as we passed through the villages and cables flew across the roof threatening to take our heads off. The Nepali found our panicked behaviour hysterical.

Climbing high into the hills the side of the road fell away alarmingly. Beautiful valleys with terraces cut at every level snaked away in all directions. Children waved from unglazed windows of wooden shacks. The bus often swerved onto the dirt to avoid an assortment of animals that wandered unconcerned.

I began to learn my companions’ names and draw first impressions. They were apparently all on their first big trip and their enthusiasm was gleefully infectious.
Etai displayed his talent for comedy by encouraging the Nepali to sing traditional folk songs, whilst we were treated to a rendition by him of Bruce Springsteen. Adam and Kobi kept a relatively peaceful profile whilst Asis threw goats around whenever they were stupid enough to get too close to him.
One particular goat displayed an unnatural interest in my crotch, which concerned my friends as much as it did me, yet no sooner had it taken a sufficient snort of my unwashed, dusty torso then turned in apparent disgust and leapt from the bus! I watched horrified as it became airborne and in a single spontaneous movement I leaned far out and grabbed the dumb beast by the scruff of its hind legs, almost going over myself save someone grabbing at my waist and I struggled back on board, both of us safe from an uncertain drop of several hundred feet.

At a high pass hysteria erupted as a short but violent hailstorm suddenly broke. Ice stones like golf balls hailed down painfully and a huge tarpaulin was dragged out from a tin box above the drivers cab and spread out to drape the entire bus.

Ping Pong Kobi

The hours passed by and my journey from hell became a journey made in heaven. Feeling the hot breeze against my face as I sat back against my pack, I became content in thought as the setting sun behind us gave the hills ahead an iridescent glow.

Turning a corner on a pass my breathing stopped and my heart melted, as through the orange hue the snow-capped mountains of the true Himalayas far in the distant became our horizon. Silent forks of lightening played among the peaks. The laughter and chatter died away as this overwhelming view took over. The rush I felt was without compare.

As the cold of night closed in we pulled up in the pitch darkness at an army checkpoint marking our destination of Jiri. We took turns to disembark and register our passports, always aware our gear may prove too tempting for some. Figures with guns prowled in the shadows making me feel uneasy. A number of guys began to hassle us in earnest for their accommodation. I was not at all intimidated by their incessant persistence, quite used to this onslaught from trips to Sri Lanka and Egypt and similar destinations. My Israeli friends however quickly became irritated. I smelt alcohol on the villagers and as we moved off into the darkness among the houses voices became raised. I felt sensed an air of impending violence develop. I jumped in with my diplomatic head on and with gentle body contact and soft words eased them apart. One character in particular spat anti-semantic venom. Obviously drunk, I cohersed him carefully, making it quite obvious to him that I was English to assume neutrality. I rounded the boys up and lead them to the nearest lodge, where we thankfully found peace and solitude.

At 20 rupees (20p) a room, three of us were in one, two in another. Asis thanked me quietly for calming the situation out in the village. He was revealing himself as the one with the short fuse and I had feared he would strike out earlier.
With the lodge to ourselves, the village devoid of foreigners, the atmosphere lightened again and we chatted excitedly about the trek ahead. They had obviously been talking when Adam asked if I would join them for the full trek to Everest. Feeling uncomfortable at rejecting their offer, yet grateful at the offer of companionship and security in this sensitive area at a time of internal conflict, I was evasive in my response, thanking them yet only committing myself to the group for the first day or two.

The Israelis asked Canzar, our cheery host, if he could arrange porters for them. He said he could and after a more fitful meal than the dhal bhatt of lunch we called it a day and retired to our rooms.
Lying in the dark I reflected on the journey so far. In a little over twenty four hours I was already at the head of the trek. So much had happened, all so unpredictable. Being able to carry my own gear without a porter haunted me, but it would be trial and error. I had trained for three hours at a time on Dartmoor, one day a week for several months, with around thirteen or fourteen kilos. Now it would be all day every day with seventeen to twenty kilos including water and provisions, and in the Himalayas.
But neither my concerns nor even Kobi’s snoring could keep me awake for long.

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