by Andrew Greig
Like a wind out of nowhere, these gusts of absence brushed us all from time to time.
After lunch we visited the Sera monastery, more a village than a building, nestled into the brown foothills near Lhasa. Jack told us it was some 500 years old, but had been ‘partially destroyed’ during the ‘Democratic Rebirth’ of Tibet. It had once housed 10,000 monks, who were killed or sent to work on collective farms. But now the Chinese had methodically rebuilt and re-established it as a working religious community of some 5,000 monks, many of them young.
It is at once sprawling and compact, random and ordered. Brilliant white walls trimmed with ochre, golden towers on the flat roofs, a maze of courtyards and alleyways opening on to more courtyards, temples, residences and workshops. In one workshop two very bored Chinese soldiers were helping in the printing of scriptures.
We wandered through prayer halls like dim forests, their wooden tapering pillars hung with tapestries, where a shaft of light from a solitary high window bisected the gloom. Room after room of small shrines lined with paintings, carvings and statues of past Lamas, gods and demons and Buddhas. There were paintings of dragons, snakes and pigs to symbolize the overcoming of the vices of vanity, desire and ignorance. The air was soft and thick with incense and yak butter candles. A solitary monk chanted softly in one corner of a tiny room, another blew his nose. The statues were draped in layers of mouldering prayer-scarves like thick spiders’ webs, through which glistened dully precious stones, paint and gold leaf. It was impossible to tell what was made last year or hundreds of years ago, for the dimness and smokey air made everything seem equally ancient, timeless and unmoving. We spoke in whispers though no one told us to, our camera shutters clicked in the gloom.
Outside we came across rocks with shallow depressions and a runnel down the side. They were for the Tibetan ritual of sky-burials. The corpse is dismembered and laid out on these stones to be picked clean by birds and so returning the body (and spirit) to the sky; the runnels were for the blood. It is still practised, though discouraged. It might put tourists off their lunch. To us it seemed at once gruesome and poetic, no stranger than returning the body to the earth. The sky in Tibet is so big it seems to reconcile all things, including the place of death in life. The need for that reconciliation had obscurely brought some of us to mountaineering in the first place.
Nothing sombre in our musings as we sat on these rocks above the Sera monastery and looked across the plain in the direction of Everest, just a sense of shifting a step nearer to understanding.
We woke once more to Chinese opera and announcements on the tannoy. Jack came in to breakfast, excited. ‘The Russian Chernenko, he is dead.’ He raised his thumbs, grinning broadly. ‘Three in two years!’ We received the news with casual interest; we were focused on one thing only – getting to Everest and having a crack at the North-East Ridge. It’s irresponsible but something of a relief not to read the papers, scarcely to think about politics, money, scandal, world events. The things left behind are part of the pleasure as well as the pain of a long expedition.
We went to visit the Potala. To the Tibetans it must have been Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Whitehall and the Houses of Parliament all in one, for it fulfilled all those functions. Now it has none of them, and the result is an oddly empty, museum-like feel. As yet unacclimatized, we struggled slowly up the zigzag steps to the entrance. Mal lit a cigarette and, feeling slightly dizzy, threw it away, reflecting that extra time spent here waiting for our gear would at least give us more time to acclimatize.
Kurt and Julie were filming us, so our progress upwards was slow. Sometimes we had to descend and start again. It was with some relief and banging hearts that we finally entered the interior dimness.
Much of it was like the Sera monastery, only scaled up and uninhabited. We were the only visitors. The Potala is said to have 10,000 rooms, most of them dating from the 17th century but we saw only a fraction of them. The same dim chanting halls with immense tapering wooden pillars hung with rich thankas, religious silk paintings. Behind the halls were a series of small shrine rooms, each devoted to earlier Dalai Lamas, their cross-legged statues draped with prayer-scarves and studded with beaten metal, turquoise, rubies, lapis lazuli. Dozens of smaller figures lined the walls, each as richly decorated, each individual. In large vats of yak butter burning candles floated, and horizontal prayer-wheels spun silently in the updraught. A distant tinkling of wind-chimes, a muttering of prayers from some unseen source.
We could not take photos; we had to look and experience and remember rather than consume with our cameras. In the room dedicated to the last Dalai Lama we stood a long time in silence, just looking and smelling and thinking in the flickering dimness. We were all touched by something in this alien but palpable holiness. I felt curiously out of myself, looking at our faces in the candlelight: Bob serious, eyes closed and fingers linked; Rick thin-faced, rapt and abstracted; Dave Bricknell solemn but calm, absolutely still. I was not the only one wordlessly praying for our safety through the weeks ahead of us on the Ridge.
We moved from room to room, up one flight after another, thirteen in all, connected by old wooden ladders, past the brightly painted quarters of the Dalai Lama, and came out finally on the roof, into the dazzling light. A sense of elevation up there, looking out over Lhasa, across the plain to the distant hills and tranquil river. The power of the place is in this elevation and the simple purity of its colours. Most of us sat there marvelling, while the others were roped in for more filming. Again, a sense of deep peace, the fullness of the present movement buoying us up as the air buoyed up the solitary buzzard drifting overhead.
Back to lunch and harsh reality. Danny Lewis suddenly collapses from altitude and exhaustion, after toting round film gear for the last couple of days, hurrying after Kurt, not drinking enough. He looks pale and in shock as Urs attends to him. ‘I told them so,’ Jon says.
Worse, our gear has still not turned up. We’d been assured it had all arrived at Lhasa airport last night, so why is it not here? As usual, the CMA evade the question and thus fuel our mounting paranoia. ‘Phone the airport and find out what’s happened to it.’ Ah, but the lines are down. They don’t seem very perturbed. Dave Bricknell tries again: ‘If all our gear’s arrived in Lhasa Airport – and because you assured us it has, we know that must be true – why is it not here now?’ Perhaps the trucks have broken down, they suggest. Three trucks, all broken down? Come off it.
Round and round in circles as the Chinese deflect our questions. Even Dave is visibly tense and angry. The CMA ask us again what our second plan is if the gear doesn’t arrive. What are they trying to prepare us for? ‘We have no second plan,’ Mal says finally. ‘Our second plan is we go home.’
They suggest again that we go on to Xegar where our gear will catch up with us. We propose instead to take a jeep to Lhasa airport to find out just what’s happening. At this point Jack looks embarrassed, Mr Luo unhappy and the CMA man worried. ‘I think someone’s been telling little porky pies,’ Jon murmurs.
And they have. Mal is finally allowed to talk directly with the CMA in Peking. They admit that not all our gear is at Lhasa airport; in fact some of it is still in Chengdu. We look at each other, all thinking the same thing – if it’s the gas and oxygen and they’re refusing to fly it, we’re done for. Mal blows his top and says quite directly he doesn’t like being told lies. He hands over the receiver to Dave before he loses his temper completely. Dave gives them such a firm and powerful statement of our position and intentions that, listening, we feel quite cowed. He extracts and has repeated several times a real, total, absolute assurance that all our gear will arrive here in the next two days. If that does not happen, we will turn round and go home and raise hell with all the publicity we can command. We will stay only if the gear, all the gear, arrives on time, on the understanding that we are not liable for the extra expenses in so doing. He gets another promise, but they fudge on the financial responsibility.
Now all we can do is wait. We’re tired and anxious, and it takes a typical altitude-affected remark to release the tension. The conversation comes round to silly names. Mal ‘Zowie Bowie – what a name to give a kid.’ ‘That’s nothing,’ Andy Nisbet mutters through his beard, blinking as he sits on his hands, ‘There’s a doctor on the West Coast whose name is Donald Duck.’
‘Wow,’ says Mal, ‘it’s sadism calling your kid that!’
‘No,’ Andy replies seriously, ‘the whole family were called Duck.’
A pause, then the laughter broke. ‘Summit material!’ the cry goes up. ‘Send that man to the top!’
Late that night, two trucks turned up. When we finished unloading and checking them next morning, one load was still missing. It included the vital gas and oxygen. Had they overlooked it, or refused to fly it? We dared not ask directly. After further phone calls, we were assured the last load would arrive at Lhasa airport the following day. We were beginning to wonder if this was simply bad organization by the Chinese, or a deliberate ploy to keep us here longer and so extract more money from us. The four-man Basque team bound for the North Col route had left here only a couple of days earlier, after a similar delay.
Sandy The day drifted by; Jon, Bob, Jack, Luo, Rick and I went to shop, to the Bazaar. Photos click click click. The mood of the shoppers was very tense at first, everybody wanting to stick their oar in, trying to tell each other that we all knew what we were up to. People seem to find it necessary to remind everybody that they are good at their jobs. I walked in silence, close to the walls, trying to take up little space as Jon and Rick and Bob analysed my shopping list. Once I’d bought a few things they seemed to be much more friendly, realizing perhaps that I did know what I was up to. We bought kettles, spoons, fish-slices and candles, searched for whisks and tin-openers to no avail, drums for fuel, etc., and a couple of sharp knives.
Bob returned to the hotel with a loaded rucksack and the rest of us wandered about, buying odds and ends. Bob bought me a prayer-scarf, a white one, it was a nice and decent gesture. It’s impossible to say if we’re on the same line or not!
Buying paraffin stoves continued to be impossible. After some bullying, two Red Army petrol stoves turned up. We were nervous of these cast iron Molotov cocktails which sprayed pressurized petrol in every direction but the intended. One refused to work at all. Perhaps we could find some spare parts in Xegar, the CMA man said, not looking too bothered either way.
A game of French Cricket in the courtyard. ‘You lot are definitely Summit Material,’ a lounging Tinker observed. ‘You’re all fucking crazy!’ And Urs added, ‘Medically this is not a good idea, but I hear you laughing, and this is good.’ He was fitting in well despite his language difficulty: observant, conscientious without fussing, humorous. We were beginning to pull together as a group; people were still being careful with each other, but there were no troublesome character conflicts. The extra days in Lhasa made time for chat and laughter and exploration. And being here for a purpose saved us from the unease of travelling only to gawp at other people’s lives.
Time also for homesickness. Tony still found himself thinking more of his Kathy than of Everest, and hoped that would change when he finally got to the hill. Watching the tall, graceful Tibetan girls laughing as they played basketball reminded us all too much of what we were missing. We envied Mal and Liz, Nick and Sarah. ‘If I had Dominique along’, Sandy confessed, ‘I wouldn’t bother leaving Base Camp!’ and he wondered how it would affect the others’ commitment.
Sandy We spun some golden prayer-wheels today, ommanipadmehum under my breath, feeling at ease in that place, but weird and watched. Prostrated persons, brains numbed with faith, can’t help but wonder why.
Long chat with Mal after lunch. We get a lot said in times like this. Andy G. strums and sings, green cap on his head; dust clouds round the hills, cool breeze wafts ethnic Tibetan scents. Danny recovering, actually washes, Bob struts around in his 10 -gallon hat. Buds on the trees turning greener by the day, folks at ease, Expedition at a stop. Waiting for gear to arrive – some must come tonight. But life’s okay. Drift in a set direction, we’ll get to BC eventually.
Could not help but notice quite a few hoarse voices as people called out box numbers to Dave B. My own throat is sore and red, and my nose runs profusely. I hope this all clears up before we depart or go higher. Spent the afternoon packing my gear. Lists made, more lists, expeditions are made of lists. In and out of rooms, checking people out – feeling at home, semi-getting around to talking. But there’s a wall around me you can’t even see …
Sarah I can’t get over the sheer beauty of the place. I think I love the mornings best as the sun lights the hills, gradually warming up, a sharp clarity. Nick and I went through the bazaar eyeing the carpets – then on past the Potala up the hill opposite, on which used to stand the old Tibetan Medical School. Puffing hard to get up there, some really interesting carvings on the rock.
Nick is really taken with the scruffy dogs. The children at the Potala were swinging from his hands all the way down the steps. He is persevering with my flute tonight – it isn’t easy, being made from wood – I find it difficult.
I guess it’s inevitable that people should question my role and purpose here.
No more gear arrived that night, nor the next morning. Writing letters, reading, drinking tea, wandering the intricate alleyways of the old city with no purpose other than being there, alternating between acute frustration and simple delight.
Then it was crisis time again. All our remaining gear had been promised to arrive at Lhasa airport that day. Mid-afternoon we were told that not all of it would arrive. By tea time this had deteriorated to none of it, and no promises as to when it would materialize. Mr Luo seemed genuinely embarrassed and powerless as tempers rose. Chinese promises and guarantees had proved worthless; we insisted on one of us flying to Chengdu, finding out what was going on there – had our gear ever actually left Peking? – and return with it if possible. The CMA were dead against this, which made us even more suspicious. We made our strongest threat, essentially that we’d go home and raise hell about it; they refused to say yes and refused to say no. ‘Well, what do you think, Jack?’ Jack made a face, pushed his spectacles up his thin nose. ‘I’m just Jack,’ he replied neutrally.
While Mal, Sandy and Dave were locked for hours in a showdown negotiation, the rest of the Expedition let off steam in an impromptu party. We’d been storing up beer and frustration for days, and now let it rip. Jon was the Mad Ringmaster, exhorting, cajoling, producing an endless supply of beer from his barrel. ‘More beer! Give that man another beer! Sweet as a nut … Get it down your neck!’ As Reggae crackled from tiny speakers, Allen Fyffe told yarns of Scottish climbing in the early ’60s, then others tried to cap them with tales of escapades in Chamonix, death and destruction, fiascos, of characters like Slippery and the Black Knight, Hands and Dirty Alex, of tragedy and comedy on the borderlines of anarchy, Kurt began building a column of empty cans from the floor to the ceiling; the project caught on, it was of the utmost importance that it should succeed. Accelerated drinking provided more empty cans. The more cans we had, the less capable we were of putting them together. Super glue was suggested, but ruled out as an unethical aid. Finally five of us managed to jam a column between floor and ceiling. Not tight enough … We inserted Bonington’s The Unclimbed Ridge, a cassette, five Everest postcards. … The tensioned column swayed, buckled, was corrected … and held.
Rapturous applause. A metaphor for the trip so far Jon thought, tottering but still together.
Then a seven-foot-high pink rabbit crashed in through the door, pogoed frantically for a minute, posed beside the cans for a photo session, then ran amuck outside, chasing Mr Luo across the courtyard. The noise level was now deafening and the whole scene was beginning to make the Who trashing a hotel room seem like a flower-arranging class. When the ice-axes came out for mooted tree-climbing, it must have been obvious to the Chinese we were gettin
g out of hand, for at 1.0 am they finally agreed to let Dave, Sandy and Luo take the jeep to Lhasa airport to fly to Chengdu.
They drove through the night, Luo shaking with anxiety as they kept the pressure on him. They broke down twice, were stuck once, then blocked by an accident. They reached the airport at dawn, then spent three hours trying to get on a flight. No one had enough cash, the airline refused to take cheques or a credit card. The whole future of the Expedition hung in the balance as Sandy and Dave bullied and threatened and finally Sandy’s credit card was accepted as collateral for tickets for Luo and Dave, and he practically pushed them on to the plane before Luo could change his mind. Some collateral! The card alone was worth nothing, and besides, Sandy’s financial motto is ‘To die in credit is to die disgraced’, so he is always heavily overdrawn before setting off on expeditions.
He waved them goodbye, and turned back to the jeep, suddenly weary. This would have to work.
I woke hungover, but forced myself to get up and go with Liz and Sarah on an acclimatization clamber up one of the ridges outside Lhasa. Most of the lads had already been up it to the braided ropes strung with prayer flags across the pinnacles at the top. Now it was our turn.
We took it slowly and steadily. I was reassured to be breathing heavily but not desperately, no altitude headache. I measured myself against Liz, who’d been to 5,000 metres on Mal’s first Nuptse West Ridge expedition. We all do that – not always competition, just having someone to measure one’s condition against. The young lads in a hurry, especially Jon, Rick and Tony, sped along eyeing each other for weakness and concealing their own. The older lads like Allen, Bob and Mal plodded along at their own pace, getting there just the same.