Breaking Free

by Jeffrey Vonk

  Jubilant of our achievement we begin to discuss how we will climb this baby illegally. Our good mood soon turns into sorrow though. People at Base Camp are exceedingly sad and defeated. The late spring of 2006 would be marked by the season with the most deaths, seventeen in total. Because of excellent weather conditions too many risks are taken by too many inexperienced and experienced climbers alike. Teammates of the fallen are spread out with their heads in their hands. Furthermore, through walkie-talkies the coordinators of a certain expedition connect a lost climber to his wife back home, to whom he is saying his last words to. This man ended up somewhere on Everest in an undisclosed location; undoubtedly death will set in soon enough. It is an unrealistic and emotional moment, and a harsh reality-check that this is no game.

  Out of respect we set up our tents with a relative distance from theirs. Doing so with a light breeze and falling snow. I hope that things will change for the better tomorrow.

  * * *

  The misty morning hours shows the silhouette of a guy at one of the nearby tents – time for a little chitchat. My eyebrows rise when we find out this two-meter tall beefcake is only fifteen years of age! The blond Australian desired to summit Everest as the youngest person ever. This morning he returned without standing there. Disappointed by his failure, he sighs with a certain relief in his voice: “Well, at least I’m still alive.” Right he is. The adolescent daredevil hired a complete camera crew and writer to document his adventure. He continues, “Half of my crew is missing and yesterday the writer sadly lost his life.” We reply: “Is his name Lincoln Hall?” The boy wonders how and where we got this information. His face becomes pale when we explain to him that we overheard him say goodbye to his loved ones. This is the gruesomeness of Alpinism. Going our separate ways, we wish him well and set mind to matter. After all, we have our own things to worry about.

  Climbing with terrible headaches, fever and a bruised ankle is one thing, going up without oxygen cylinders will become a guaranteed problem. Moreover, we do not have time to acclimatize before our rations run out, so I guess it is a race against the clock. Making preparations we are granted a sack of apples by a Russian climber. The poor guy has no face anymore; absence of such a simple thing as sunscreen has strands of skin hanging down his head, utterly burned by the insane bright sunlight reflecting from off the snow. Concrete boxes acting as bathrooms are atrocious by sight and smell. Six feet deep holes are filled up to the edge with shit, and more. Feasting upon the human waste it truly is a paradise for the flies. Equipped with instructions from skilled people in the camp and coupled with our own experience, our under-qualified ascension begins.

  With ground level already at seventeen thousand feet we’re gasping for breath. Every step we take the body rejects, a feeling known to me from other climbs. A rotting yak corpse produces odors that make you want to puke, even from a distance, the stench is intolerable. It probably succumbed to exhaustion by carrying heavy loads. Herds of the animals are used to re-supply expedition camps, led by Sherpas. Via a returning group we find out that Camp 2 is beyond today’s reach, and you will not have a summit view going up. Acknowledging the fact that we are poorly trained we try our luck on the opposite site. Hiking next to Rongbuk Glacier a large rock stands out with the appearance of an altar from former times. Always remaining youthful in nature, I strip naked and pose on the rock despite of the freezing cold, with Everest in the background. Steve is making sure the moment is memorialized on camera. The timing is perfect, by the time I’m tying my shoelaces a handful of Sherpas arrive with a herd of yaks. The glacier itself stands glorious. Thirty feet tall columns of blue ice are shoulder to shoulder, a frozen army of giants, lost in time. The unspoiled elegance holds mystical energies in this unexplored vastness. Days pass until we stumble upon an unknown camp, toward the route of the West Ridge, for those planning to take the French Cole.

  Each night we set up camp with rocks around its edges, preventing howling winds from penetrating our tent. We decided to both sleep in the same tent to maximize our chances of staying warm. Meals are made on a portable gas stove in the entrance of the tent which consists of mainly canned stews and pastas, which are often if not always half cooked. Steve rightly mentions: “This will possibly be diarrhea.” In between meals we nibble on a piece of beef jerky and some bone-dry bread, not providing nearly enough energy that our bodies yearn for.

  On one of these nights I leave my sleeping bag for a special assignment. Years earlier I wrote in a poem that I would bury the engagement ring of my ex fiancé on the world’s highest mountain. Since the time she had sent hers back in an envelope I was carrying both rings on a string around my neck. Being a man of my word, I dig a hole in the frozen ground until dirt heaps under my fingernails. I keep on digging until I can’t feel my hands anymore, which is only about a foot deep. Wailing stars bear witness as I abandon the gold, never to see the light of day again. Trifling ice crystals form in my lashes in this personal ritual to close off with things from the past, in order to no longer hinder me. Surely one of the many advantages of traveling is having plenty of time to complete certain processes that otherwise would have been left undealt with.

  Advancing our cause, we quickly run out of food. Furthermore, our altimeter was sent into the afterlife, unfortunately never again able to tell us our altitude. The risk increases exponentially when oxygen levels drop, that is when it’s time to go back. Living to see another day holds more value than gambling your life for the purpose of pride. A returning climber invites us to join him to West Base Camp for a cup of hot chocolate. Arriving at the scene it becomes much more than that. We are being stuffed with tuna, cheese, hefty meals of macaroni and pretty much all we can eat. Sitting in a large circle we introduce ourselves and share stories with the overly generous group. They will not be easily forgotten, the amicable climbers of the British Army Expedition of 2006.

  After placing the bi-colored flag of my hometown on an inuksuk (piled rocks placed by different individuals) of which a picture actually makes it into a Dutch newspaper after writing to the mayor, we move along.

  As of yet I was completely unaware that three months from now, standing close to the highest place on earth, in the cold, I will coincidentally be at the lowest place on earth, in the heat, surrounded by salt, ash and sulfuric fumes, being at the Dead Sea at approximately four hundred fifteen meters below sea level.

  Acuminate rocks with snow are our trail. Equipment is starting to get heavy on the shoulders. At one point, we have to cross a savage river. Water gushes down through pure ice on eroded rocks and our only possible option of reaching the other side is by a naturally formed ice bridge. It is basically a mini glacier. Even if it were to partially collapse, we would perish. Footprints of yaks makes the passage somewhat trustworthy. Many hours in search of more oxygen passes until we are close to where we began. On the path we catch up with a man with a big professional camera. Bingo, this has to be one of the crew members hired by the enterprising Australian boy. While inquiring about his experiences he brings fantastic news: “Lincoln, the writer, lives!” Since we heard him die over the walkie-talkie we do not believe it at first and assure him that he must be mistaken. After turning on his camera, he shows footage of this very morning, Lincoln carried by Sherpas and later sitting on the back of a yak, alive! Here’s how it happened: over twelve hours after last radio contact surprising news enters Base Camp. Another team, just ascending, finds him sitting on a rim suffering from hypothermia, altitude sickness, cerebral edema and snow blindness. His coat open and half-uncovered he says: “I can imagine you are surprised to see me here.” He had spent a whole night without oxygen, without a tent nor any proper protection. Surviving this is truly a miracle. Immediately this expedition team takes action and instructs the coordinators from Base Camp who on their turn alert a team of Sherpas to rescue him. What a story!

  The three of us share merry moments as we hike back to Everest Base Camp. Well what do you know? Once there, we are invited to
have dinner at the big orange tent of Seven Summits. When food is served Dutch climber Harry Kikstra himself sits next to me, but we exchange but a few words. He just lost his client on the mountain. The German Mister Weber lies forever in the treacherous white abyss. Understandably, a sacrifice that weighs heavy on the man’s shoulders. Having lost someone for the second year in a row, he realizes his career as a professional guide has taken a nasty turn, perhaps even jeopardizing the legitimacy of his company. Having said that, I would still blindly follow someone with so much experience, trusting him with my life. Grim faces turn themselves to bed leaving Steve and I alone at the table. Out of respect we agree not to sleep in their tent tonight.

  It is already around midnight and we are too tired to set up our own tents. Recalling the presence of Tibetan yurts with a fireplace only half a mile away, we set out to spend the night there. Lights of the mini village enticingly call out our names. So close to comfort yet so far removed. First, large pebbles slow us down, later we are halted by a fierce river that was just a tiny peaceful stream a week ago. Melted ice from the unforgiving Himalaya is our enemy. Do not think the black of night intends to lend a hand. With rolled-up pants we enter the ice-cold river that rapidly reaches our hips. Supporting each other by the arm, strong currents try to gulp us to the underworlds. Head torches guide us thirty feet across to the other side. While we are shaking from the cold we seek shelter in one of the yurts. The owners, an old married couple of which the woman is doing all the work, are surprised to find us at this hour and in this moist condition. Here we can allow our soaked clothes to dry, and the consolation of warm blankets put an end to this crazy adventure, and hopefully, to my pounding headache.

  Before resuming the journey on the motorbikes I need to visit the bathroom. The nearby concrete shithole facility lacks toilet paper, which means a creative solution has to be found. It is a bit raw on the sphincter, yet the chance of a lifetime. Currency is worth almost nothing you know. Today I reckon myself a millionaire with adequate shame, holding contempt for the poor. How many people can say that they have wiped their ass with money? It is far from recommendable but it certainly does the trick.

  During the day, sand wave roads bring us to dead end town Tingri. It is here that we fill our tummies with greasy pork, the only thing on the menu. Our dirty plates are full of fat and bones and it appears that no one knows where the actual meat goes. Our beat-up tires continue to spin further south as we get to see mesmerizing Lhotse, the third tallest mountain, and of course the connecting Mount Everest from another angle, towering above all its surroundings.

  As the day progresses we are driving on an endless straight dirt track, brownish in complexion. Unsuspectingly a prodigious event occurs. It starts with white dots appearing on the horizon. Slowly but steadily it becomes clear that the highest peaks reveal themselves one more time in full glory. Engines stop to dwell in the moment while ancient winds breathe life into our nostrils. On the opposite side of the valley the entire Himalaya range is revealed one more time, the clear day introducing resplendent chromatism differentiating from the virgin snow. In all its might it is unexpectedly also a spiritual experience. Who knows if there is much more to the sages that were written thousands of years ago. Not necessarily agreeing with them but I sense a deep understanding on why this far-away culture worships the mountains of sovereign allure. They can discern the love and greatness of the divine Creator in their own way. Regardless of religion or my own set of beliefs one thing is certain: standing here on the desolate plateau, you just know that there is more between heaven and earth. Perhaps, yes perhaps, because here those two lie closest to each other.

  5

  Nepal

  These days different shades of grey grace the palette of the outstretched heaven. Brave rays of light pierce the natural blanket of condensation, fighting to save the zeal. Majestic Tibet, once honored by being a country of its own, now a province of communistic China, is about to wave farewell. Make no mistake, although it feels like leaving a trusted friend behind, the magic is not planning to end. In fact not at all.

  It is always a challenge to find a place to crash when you are so tired you can barely stand. Except for now my mate Steve and I end up staying at the moldy diner where we just finished our evening meal, ensuring a roof above our heads. Brown tiles of the freezing floor force us to grab our sleeping bags and try out the timber benches, usually reserved for customers. A thermos with the highly addictive beverage of chai tea is the only comfort in another sleepless and rainy night. We had promised the owner to push the motorcycles out before he opens. In doing so giving him enough time to set everything back in order. Not to mention getting rid of the fumes of gasoline. Being true to our word the day starts very early, yet another day of breathtaking beauty has her waylay.

  Descending the world’s highest plateau the most amazing thing happens. A tree appears! I never knew you could appreciate a tree so much. Soon more follow until we really leave the bleakness behind. For at least a month we were trapped in rocks and ice, expelled from warmth and colors, far removed from liveliness. The further down we go the more the temperature rises. Bird sounds have never been so vivid and expressive, it does not take long before everything turns green and even into lush jungles with waterfalls and wildlife. It is truly indescribable to witness the birth of life again as in the first days of creation itself when the first stems sprung up. Finally, we can remove some of the layers from the outfits we are wearing. Moving along the following scene certainly stirs the cultural senses. If it wasn’t for the tropical climate to spill the beans the border is near, for sure the sudden tin string of unending traffic now is. Driving on a dirt road, we pass ridiculously embellished trucks as well as American school busses, hardly recognizable due to the multitude of decorations and surplus of bright colors. Local men are wearing funny hats; local women are wearing beautiful dresses and have adorned themselves with jewelry and hemp tattoos on their hands. Slaloming nimbly between vehicles we reach border control.

  Our good mood changes swiftly when we are bound to wait for four damn hours. Of course, Customs smell money thinking we are illegally exporting the motorcycles. Which in fact we are doing, but they do not need to know that! We tell them that we will return to China within a month and to avoid a scene we sign some dodgy documents to confirm that. Moreover, they find it rather peculiar that we cannot show them an entrance permit to Tibet, it was a streak of luck that Customs were not bothered by that too much. Literally on the other side of the fence there is a time difference of two hours. Who has that? Going through no-man’s land, a hazardous muddy race track, littered with fist-size rocks, leads to our prize. Full of excitement we show up at the border of the Kingdom of Nepal!

  Changing the currency from renminbi to rupees is not a problem but actually getting into the country proves to be difficult. Customs are not amused with the absence of license plates on our bikes. By Customs I mean blue-camouflaged soldiers, roughnecks armed up to the bone. Machine guns, barbed wire, concrete bunkers with watchtowers and sandbags. What is going on here?

  To make things worse, in the office an angry-faced man is pointing at my tattoos. Turns out having a sleeve in this culture pretty much equals a few years jail time. Judging from this alone they reckon me as some sort of a hard case. The rotating fan on the ceiling somewhat cools my nerves. A sweaty man in a white shirt, too tight for his posture, also smells money on us thinking that we are planning to illegally import our bikes. Just to add, that is exactly our plan, but again he doesn’t need to know that! He is willing to declare our entry on one condition alone: to be gone in fourteen days. By now, it is almost a habit to avoid their ridiculous demands, so we lie that we will leave the country in no time. Again, we sign some dodgy documents. At this particular moment in my life, I am so naive I do not even care to watch my back in the next couple of months I spend in Nepal. I guess boys will be boys.

  Crossing foxholes and roadblocks, we leave the border behind and penetrate deeper i
nto lands that I know nothing about. A week prior to today I didn’t even know that I would be here right now. That sure spices things up a bit! The oncoming traffic immediately intimidates us by dangerously driving on our side of the road. People yell and scream, almost deliberately wanting to start a fight. Some ghost-riding guys on a moped also try to hit us. This is getting crazy! By the time a huge truck almost flattens us in a curve the penny finally drops. Shit it’s us driving on the wrong lane! What do you know? This is how we find out over here they drive on the left side of the road.

  Serpentine trails continue the rest of the day through green hills. Large fields of cornstarch are everywhere as well as basic straw huts for people to live in. Grey cows, looking very different from the ones I am used to, appear skinny. A clear blue sky and intense sun certainly lift our spirits. Even the armed soldiers seem to be getting friendlier at the passing of each frequent check post. Very slippery mud roads with deep truck tracks are a pain in the ass though. At one point the vibrations of the road actually become too much for my Jialing to handle. Suddenly my backpack is dragging along through the mud. Chinese iron is just too weak; my entire luggage rack on the back has broken off. Seriously? Although it sucks, at this point it is not even surprising anymore when something breaks. With certain effort some cable-tides do the trick. At least as long as it lasts.

  When evening falls we are treated on a visual spectacle as hundreds, if not thousands, of joyful fireflies fizzle about. Nighttime grants asphalt again, and with it a chaotic number of lorries without particle filters, cars, motorcycles, tuk-tuks, and weird motorized vehicles, collectively responsible for an insane pollution. Our lungs are in hot pursuit of oxygen and our faces are left blackened from fumes and dust. When my scarf is fully congested I feel the sand grinding between my teeth. The purest of nature from before has now given way to a suffocating urban complex. Until finally, later than expected the capital Kathmandu shakes our hand with its sweaty groin. Without navigation, a road map or knowing the way in the first place, it is crazy to know that we drove precisely where we wanted to go. It must be written in the stars or something. In a city completely new to us we arrive in the touristy part, characterized by canopies on the facades, the dirty abandoned streets of Thamel.