by Junko Tabei
Bribery seemed second nature in India. Even public servants used it as a starting point in conversation, looking to receive anything from a pen to tobacco. Upon arrival, we answered the constant pleas by saying “we have none” and passing the locals by with a pleasant smile. As climbers, we refused to succumb to bribery, and in later years, I still never gave in to it while negotiating costs to climb mountains in China. I have heard people whisper behind my back that as women, we were second rate because of our inflexibility with bribes. To me, it was a matter of principle. In the event of an emergency, however, I would concede and exchange a bottle of whisky for a seat onboard a plane or helicopter.
I had visited Calcutta on the way to Annapurna III, and my familiarity with the embassy and required documentation for expedition travel helped us efficiently complete the necessary jobs this time around. An unexpected bonus was that the employees from the transportation company that we hired for Annapurna remembered us. For Everest, they miraculously arranged four trucks to transport our 11 tons of equipment to Nepal – all organized on schedule and before the Christmas holidays, with no bribery required. On January 1, New Year’s Day, 1975, we waved goodbye to the convoy packed full of our boxes and covered in tarps, heading towards Himalayan soil. Taneya and I then flew to Kathmandu, reserved a room in a small hotel, ate a quick meal and collapsed into bed. Relief and exhaustion flooded in – the expedition was truly under way.
We had a taste of home in Kathmandu as our team’s communication headquarters was based at the house of Takashi Miyahara, a Japanese man who lived there and ran his own tourism business in Nepal. Amongst a mound of envelopes that had already arrived for us was a letter from my husband. He told me that Noriko’s tears quickly ceased at the airport after I had stepped on the plane and that she had settled into life with my sister’s family, playful as usual. She even referred to my sister as Mom. “No worries at all,” he wrote. As I read those words, the lump of emotion that had been stuck in my throat since the moment I left Haneda Airport in Tokyo finally dissolved. My daughter was in good hands and happy, and my mind could be at rest. I was suddenly able to fully focus on the task of Everest. Another rush of relief washed over me.
Miyahara’s home office was on the main street in Kathmandu, which allowed us easy access to everywhere in the city. The backyard was large, providing us with enough space to store our load of supplies. Miyahara also had a guesthouse in the back, equipped with a kitchen and room for a dozen guests. Taneya and I shared accommodation with the other ten lodgers, but our host assured us we would have the entire house to ourselves when the rest of the team arrived.
The weeks to come were occupied with intense groundwork, two of the main tasks being to obtain 4 tons of local food and fuel, and to prepare tobacco and local currency to pay porters and Sherpas. We also had to unload all the boxes that arrived from Japan via Calcutta and sort and repack the countless items necessary for Base Camp, an exercise in craziness. And there was still the most important duty to address: the selection of Sherpas. A liaison officer was assigned to our team by the Nepali government, but the sirdar and other Sherpas could be requested in advance by the expedition party. Selection would be based on a Sherpa’s experience with previous Japanese teams, physical strength, personality and ability to speak English. Sirdars and Sherpas with good reputations in the climbing world were quickly booked up, which made hiring them fast enough one of the most critical undertakings for a successful expedition.
We strongly requested Lhakpa Tenzing as sirdar, since he had been on several previous Everest expeditions and had summitted the mountain. Instead, he was assigned the position of liaison officer despite not being a government official. Apparently, there was a shortage of officials to draw from that year due to events revolving around the coronation of Nepal’s King Birendra. We were satisfied with Lhakpa Tenzing as liaison officer; his appointment showed that he was trusted by the government. He appointed to the role of sirdar his brother-in-law, twenty-seven-year-old Ang Tsering. At first, I was skeptical. He was far too young for such a job, especially on Everest. Aside from a muscular build, his big smile and innocent-looking face gave him the appearance of a happy-go-lucky boy. The commands of the sirdar were to have absolute authority over the Sherpa team; the group would have to respond to him without question. I could hardly imagine this youthful lad delivering that kind of control. In addition, there would be many Sherpas older than him, and his style would have to be one of dignity. Furthermore, this was to be Ang Tsering’s first experience as sirdar. The more I thought about it, the more my doubts grew.
Nevertheless, with Lhakpa Tenzing as liaison officer and Ang Tsering having to answer to him, we surmised it would all work out. Immediately, Ang Tsering produced excellent work and responded to our many requests long before we even began the climb. He assigned a team of Sherpas with no fuss, mostly choosing from his own relatives and Sherpa clan, some of whom were from Kathmandu and others from Namche, his home village.
The work day started early in Kathmandu. Bazaars opened at 5 a.m. while the city was still shrouded in a milky morning mist. Taneya and I usually woke at 4:30 to be ready to shop in the wee hours. It was difficult to buy items in large quantities due to short supply, so we would load ourselves up with 5 to 10 kilograms of goods, and then return the next day for more. In particular, fuel was an issue to obtain. There was a limited volume imported from India to Nepal, and the government controlled by permit how much, if any, was purchased. Thankfully, we were issued the necessary permit due to the nature of our expedition, but still, the regulated amount of fuel one could buy per day had us line up at the distribution station with an 18-litre container time and time again.
The total weight of trip supplies quickly increased as a result of our vigorous shopping in Kathmandu. The original 11 tons we had shipped from Japan became 15 tons in Nepal, which seemed ridiculous, but compared to previous Everest parties, it ranked as minimal. The 1973 Italian team was said to have had 80 tons of supplies, including individual tents for each climber and a carpet-laden floor for the team leader’s tent. They enjoyed full-course meals on the mountain, allotted by a budget of roughly 300,000,000 yen – a lot of money at the time. The 1970 Japanese party spent one third that amount. And compared to those numbers, ours was a super-saving expedition at less than half the cost. The Sherpas, however, were leery of our minimalist approach. “That’s it?” they repeatedly asked with a hint of worry in their voices.
It struck me in Kathmandu how important it would be to remain true to myself on this expedition. I had to make decisions based on the goal of the trip regardless of how some members might interpret a given situation. For example, one night, Taneya told me that a teammate had suggested to her that she decline travelling to India with me as part of the initial party to leave Japan. She argued that the extra work would exhaust Taneya before the climb even began. Conserving pre-trip energy had never occurred to me. Then I remembered when Manita said, “I envy you.” She was referring to the fact that I would be paid for my duties in Kathmandu while being able to save my own money. Those two perspectives – a person saving energy for the climb and me saving money while working for the team – surprised me. I realized that the rest of the trip would be like this, that everyone would have different ideas and views on how and why things were done. I was determined from then on to not whine or worry over trivial matters. Instead, for Everest, I would focus on empowering my tanden, my gut strength.
“Memsahib, trouble!” Breathless, a Sherpa knocked on my door one morning. There was an unusual restlessness in the backyard. Wearing only a T-shirt as pajamas, I ran outside to see some of our boxes gone, torn away from the ropes that bound everything together. I immediately knew that a brand-new tent, among other items, had been stolen. My heart dropped – every piece of equipment had been bought with our hard-earned money and represented the amount of sweat we had put into our accomplishments so far.
It had only been the day before that we had removed the
solid wooden frames from around the boxes in order to add to our recent purchases from Kathmandu. My guess was that whoever robbed us had patiently waited until the crates were dismantled, at which I felt nothing but anger. I was mostly mad at myself, though, for not having heard any disturbance in the night while sleeping close by the crime scene.
Shocked and upset, I asked the four Sherpas we had already hired in Kathmandu to take turns standing guard over our supplies each night until we left for Everest. With little choice, we bought a tent that was used by the 1973 Italian party. This reduced our capacity to one mess tent at Base Camp that would house as many as twenty-three of us at a time.
On January 30, the main party of our team arrived in Kathmandu, along with our assigned journalists. Exploding with excitement, Taneya and I welcomed them at the airport. While the two of us were dressed in dusty jeans and native Nepali wool shawls, running around in well-worn sneakers, our teammates stepped off the plane wearing the most fashionable attire. Pantalon suits, long skirts and fancy hats, one-piece dresses covered with floral designs – straight from the boutiques of Tokyo. In a flourish, the Japanese Women’s Everest Expedition brought a big-city atmosphere directly to the tarmac. Travelling abroad was an extremely rare event, so my friends embraced the chance to go all out for the occasion. When the fragrance of their perfume struck me, I jokingly extended my hand from under my shawl and mumbled, “Madam, paisa?” suggesting a meagre donation of less than a rupee.
The guesthouse became lively once the entire team arrived. As the first women’s expedition to Everest, we were invited to several parties held by government officials. As a result, when we left Kathmandu, we felt enriched and well-supported by the Nepali people. Our departure went in stages. The Sherpas and Nasu and Naganuma flew ahead to Lukla. Hirashima and Fujiwara remained in Kathmandu to safeguard the remaining boxes of gear until the last of thirteen flights was under way. Meanwhile, the main party of climbers left Kathmandu on February 9 by minibus for the 80-kilometre drive that preceded our hike, with camping along the way, to Lukla. This served as the first stage of altitude acclimatization. Day after day we climbed passes as high as 3500 metres and then descended to valley bottoms, passing through villages and pitching our tents on the outskirts wherever there was drinking water. As we put distance behind us, the fluctuations in elevation became more tolerable, and after twelve days, we reached Lukla. Poor Mihara had caught a cold, and a stubborn cough led her to be carried on a porter’s back for part of the way.
Leader Gone
The team of journalists flew straight from Japan to Kathmandu to Lukla, and on February 21, the entire expedition was gathered together for the first time. There were twenty-two of us, fourteen women climbers, a female doctor and seven journalists. We celebrated with an official ceremony to greet one another and matched each Sherpa with the team member in his charge. This was common practice to help formalize the team and establish a general safety net, although Sherpas were not expected to remain solely with their partners at all times.
The airport in Lukla was unique. It was built on a slightly upward slope barely scraped out of the mountainside. The planes used the uphill to slow them down when they landed. To take off, they relied on the gravitational pull of the downslope to pick up speed and soar above the sudden space of the valley below. Our boxes were left piled high at the edge of this wild landing strip, alongside a deserted Pilatus Porter airplane (a model known for its short take-off and landing capabilities) that had experienced an unsuccessful arrival long ago. Although under a beautiful blue sky, the barrenness of the scene was apparent to me. We were amidst unforgiving terrain.
The work of nearly six hundred porters was needed to carry the 15 tons of equipment to Base Camp, plus a number of reliable yaks. Lukla itself was a village of very few houses, and thus we were apprehensive about finding the number of porters required. Yet, word of the women’s team had spread from our Sherpas, who had arrived in advance, and an influx of helpers presented itself, some from villages as far away as a two- to three-day walk.
A porter’s job was not only pursued to earn money but also for the rare chance to interact with other cultures, and our women-only Everest expedition added even more diversity to the cause. Despite there being no telephones or organized communication channels from one village to the next, it was unbelievable that news of our trip, and request for assistance, had spread lightning fast and with stunning accuracy – all by word of mouth. I was witness to the same phenomenon on the Annapurna III expedition, and I was no less impressed on Everest. Theirs was a system of communication that could not be beat.
Managing the caravan of people that unfolded was an art unto itself. On the first day, our liaison officer, Lhakpa Tenzing, wrote down the name of each porter and the exact number of boxes we had to transport. The porters who hung around the easier-looking loads were quickly redirected to more suitable boxes by the responsible Sherpas, and number cards were hung around their necks to match them to their specific boxes. Every box weighed approximately 30 kilograms, but some were thought to be easier than others to carry because of their size or shape. When asked for their names, the same list repeated itself: Ang, Kami, Phurba, Tenzing, Kitar, Dorje or Lhakpa. When asked how old they were, most replied, “About 20” – there was no official registration of births in the small villages of Nepal, so no one knew their age. Since not many of the porters knew how to write, we jotted down their names and had them place a stamped thumbprint alongside it. This way, when payday came, we could match the worker to the correct name (thumbprint) and to the loads they had carried. I could only imagine a long meandering snake of a lineup when that time came.
We had already prepared the money for the porters in Kathmandu, and the number of bills and coins was so immense that it filled two Duralumin boxes. Of course, we had to hire porters – the most trustworthy – to carry the special contents. To further ensure security, we marked the boxes with the large kanji character (), meaning money, so only we knew what was inside.
About 10 per cent of the porters were women, dubbed Sherpani, and they often carried their babies’ baskets on blankets atop the 30-kilogram boxes assigned to them. Regardless of weight, they nonchalantly hiked with support bands that connected the boxes to their foreheads. I saw some of the women knit hats while hiking in this manner. They chatted or sang in groups of five or six, quite enjoying the work. This, in combination with watching children run barefoot through villages as we passed by, made me wonder about my daughter in Japan. “How was Noriko?” I asked myself with tender heartstrings, but the reality in front of me snapped me out of that sensitive place.
The procession of our group began at 9 a.m. with the first porter bound for Base Camp, and shortly after noon, the final porters were on their way. By the time the rest of us were walking, a kilometre of distance had stretched between us and the tons of gear being carried in.
Sixteen days after we left Kathmandu, and just before arriving at Namche Bazaar, we saw Mount Everest for the first time. There was no sweeter sound than the porters announcing the mountain to us in Nepali: “Memsahib, Sagarmatha; Memsahib, Sagarmatha.” Their excitement was as genuine as ours. Far in the distance stood a black rock face, sticking high up into the dark blue sky, with a white, triangular, snow-covered peak, casting filaments of persistent cloud.
“That’s it,” I thought, “the Everest.”
It was easy to acknowledge the peak in front of us as the highest place on Earth, yet because we were so far away, I lacked the feeling of being face to face with the mountain we were meant to summit. We stood there for some time, absorbing the enormity of our objective. Meanwhile, I silently prayed, “Please, let us climb it.”
Namche sat in the steep bowl of a mountain slope at approximately 3800 metres in elevation, similar to that of Mount Fuji. At that altitude, the houses were cool enough inside that one would wear a warm sweater at night. We pitched our tents on top of a hill that overlooked the village, while most of the porters disper
sed to their nearby homes. Since they are born and raised at those elevations, it is no wonder how strong and energy efficient the Sherpa people are on the high mountainsides.
On Saturday, in the early morning, the market was set up along the village streets. Vegetables, rice, sugar – whatever we needed was available for purchase. We almost cleaned out the vendor who sold logs, which we bought in anticipation of staking our way through the Khumbu Icefall. We left Namche for Tengboche but stopped part way at the aptly named Hotel Everest View, owned by our gracious host from Kathmandu, Mr. Miyahara. It was impressive that such a quality hotel could be built and operated at an elevation of 3962 metres. Thankfully, the management staff of the hotel was also our communication check-in for the climb. How many hotels offer that service? Once communication was established, we continued on our way. The date was February 27. Our hike descended to the Kali Gandaki River and then up again through forested terrain until we arrived at the monastery in Tengboche. A large grass field surrounded the grounds for animals to graze, and nearby was an elementary school that Sir Edmund Hillary helped build, along with three tea houses that encircled the area.
The village was blanketed in fresh snow as we arrived, and on sunny days, staggered layers of white peaks filled the horizon. Thamserku, Kangtega and Ama Dablam were in the immediate forefront; Lhotse, Nuptse and the southwest face of Everest stood in the distance. Still far away, Everest was immense – an outstanding monstrous massif of giant rock.
It was a four-day hike from Tengboche to Base Camp, but the change in elevation from 3900 to 5350 metres between the two was the precise range where people suffered from altitude sickness, particularly on such an uphill route. To acclimatize, we planned to stay in Tengboche for two weeks and organize training climbs from there. We paid the porters to take the time off and go home. We would see them again in a fortnight.