‘Bara Sahib, he’s a robber, not a porter! He wants to be paid four rupees for the march! And where is his load, I should like to know!’
My Brahman, seeing that I was inquiring about him, came up, jabbering incomprehensibly. Angtharkay went on:
‘Bara Sahib, he says he worked as he went along, that it tired him greatly, and that it is only natural he should be compensated for his trouble.’
‘Give him two rupees.’
He was bitterly disappointed.
We were nearing Tansing and there was now no danger of the porters deserting us; they all wished to go to the ‘big town’, and trotted along briskly.
‘There’s Pansy!’
‘Can’t be!’
Pansy, who had been gone a long while and about whom we were beginning to feel concerned, came up quite unruffled, with his usual pleasant grin, as though he had only been away a few moments. Everyone rushed to greet this splendid Sherpa who had just completed a nineteen days’ march with only one halt, at Delhi. There he had stayed for forty-eight hours.
‘Here’s the post!’
‘Any letters?’
It was almost unbelievable; for the first time we were going to get news from France. The letters were soon distributed and faces disappeared behind sheets of notepaper.
‘My wife’s not very well,’ Ichac told me, ‘the last letter was written some time ago. I wonder how she is.’
‘I say, there’s going to be another Himalayan expedition!’
This was surprising news.
‘Well they must be feeling tough!’
‘How many are going?’
‘Where are they going?’
There was a cross-fire of questions and answers. Not everybody received good news; some of the party looked worried or anxious as they resumed the march.
In the distance a green hill appeared. Sarki pointed with his finger:
‘Tansing, Bara Sahib, Tansing!’
Were we nearing the end?
Next day, after a heavy shower, though we had to go down a very muddy path full of potholes, the porters no longer walked, they flew. Tansing was only a few hundred yards away; already we were on the outskirts. Here again were the little stalls, the motley and inquisitive populace. We crossed the town and came out at last on a wide level place where we pitched our camp. Terray shifted the loads about eagerly and sang at the top of his voice – a good sign – the one and only song he knew: ‘Au son joyeux des balalaikas.’ Everyone had taken fresh heart.
Just for a change Oudot did some operating that afternoon. During this session I lost my second big toe and the thumb of my right hand. It began to rain and I was taken into a tent, where for over an hour I listened in terror to Lachenal’s cries as he underwent his first amputation. I was terribly upset by his sufferings, especially when I heard him protesting: ‘No! No!’ as though he could not resign himself to losing anything so precious.
Next day the ‘authorities’ were received at the camp. The Governor, who impressed me most favourably, seemed very well disposed towards us. Why should he not help us to recruit coolies? He promised to do so at once. It was now the morning of July 4th and in a few hours’ time porters would be at our disposal – a great relief. Officially, G. B.’s assignment would come to an end in two days’ time, at Butwal, but I wanted him to accompany us as far as Katmandu. There was no doubt he would be very useful to us there, but I was chiefly concerned with giving him a richly deserved reward. G. B. was agreeable, and promised to make the necessary application to the Maharajah. A few hours later he burst into the tent, his face wreathed in smiles, and announced that the Maharajah had given permission for him to go to the capital.
Before leaving for Butwal, our last stage, I wanted to spruce myself up a bit. I asked for a barber, for I had a beard like an ancient prophet. G. B.’s orderly undertook to go and fetch one, and he returned soon after accompanied by a Gurkha with a hang-dog air and revoltingly dirty. I was apprehensive as he approached, but I hugged the thought of his razor which would skim my cheeks so delicately. Water was brought and my Gurkha began to soap me. He used some primitive stuff which was not soapy, nor did it lather, and he rubbed my face with it vigorously. All ten fingers as well as his palms were energetically employed and the massage became painful.
‘Bechtari, Bechtari!’ I said, ‘Gently!’
But the man seemed quite determined. Soon the beard was ready. He rummaged in his box and drew out an instrument which I did not at all like the look of. It was a small steel blade, very short, fixed between two bamboo sticks. The whole thing looked most peculiar. The barber seized hold of my face roughly with his smelly hands and began to ‘shave’ me. The blade dragged the hairs and with his fingers he plucked them out one by one most conscientiously. I yelled blue murder, but he scolded me and took not the slightest notice of my protests.
Oudot poked his head into the tent with an almost triumphant expression:
‘I’d rather have an amputation,’ I shouted, ‘than the attentions of this savage!’
After an hour my cheeks and chin were more or less presentable. Now for the moustache! I was most particular about its shape. He started and I could feel the blade, which really did cut this time. I pursed up my lip – there was nothing left at all! The session was over. My tormentor had the effrontery to demand an exorbitant fee. Marcel Ichac gave him three rupees in a lordly manner and told Sarki to send him packing.
Lachenal was sent on to Butwal in the first contingent, in charge of Rébuffat. I followed in the second. Everything around us was so green that I did not recognize the route by which we had come three months ago. Towards evening we topped a hill. Ichac was beside me:
‘Look, Maurice!’ he said.
He asked the Sherpas to place my stretcher so that I could look back at the country we were leaving. Everything breathed an indefinable melancholy at this twilight hour. Did this feeling come from the sight of these high valleys, of the vast mountains which we could see on the horizon, or from the memory of our almost incredible struggles up there; or was it because we could feel reality already changing imperceptibly into dream? Ichac and I gazed in silence.
In a few minutes we should be back in contact with the world outside. The wonderful adventure which linked us to these mountains would soon belong to the past. Already the porters were preparing to lift me up: the long procession must resume its way. With my forearms I tried to touch my face, which felt all wrinkled – and surely my hair must be quite white. My heart was full, and I looked away; jolting along in silence, we went in search of shelter for the night.
Before getting to Butwal next day we met Noyelle, who had returned from his mission to Gorakhpur:
‘Hallo, boys!’ he called out from a distance, directly he saw us, and it was not long before he was with us.
‘How are you? Is it hot in India?’
‘Terribly enervating – like a Turkish bath.’
Noyelle told us the carriers would be at Nautanwa station on July 6th – that was next day. There was no time to be lost. In a heavy storm and a deluge of rain we arrived at our old camp at Butwal, where we found Lachenal. The latter part of the day was given up to more operations, and often I nearly fainted.
All the loads were assembled. But the question was whether the lorries would be there next day to take us to the terminus of the Indian railway where we were due at 10 o’clock. I begged G. B. to do what he could. So off he went at once, in the middle of the night, through a stretch of thick and unhealthy jungle, to reach Bethari. On the morning of July 6th the lorries arrived! It was a triumph for G. B. and I congratulated him warmly. We paid off the porters and embarked for Nautanwa. The jungle was full of monkeys, who were not in the least alarmed by our presence. One of the lorries had a burst tyre, and the one I was in broke down. However, it all turned out all right, for out of the two crocks we made one sound one.
At last we came to Nautanwa and settled ourselves into the two palatial carriages reserved for us. By early
afternoon all the loads were aboard and the train moved off towards Gorakhpur. All sorts of plans were brewing. Everyone wanted to get back to France without delay. All the members of the party, who for three months had shown exemplary courage and patience, were now ready to do anything to gain twenty-four hours. But the various individual wishes were hard to reconcile. As far as I was concerned, I intended to make every effort possible to keep the promise I had given at the start to visit the Maharajah of Nepal. Oudot would accompany me to Katmandu, and Ichac and Noyelle would come too. The others would go on to Delhi and wait there a few days. Lachenal, to avoid the heat, would go up to a hill station, such as Mussoorie.
While these plans were being debated, Oudot was busy at his job, scissors in hand, trimming feet and hands yet again in spite of the temperature – 113° in the shade – and the swarms of mosquitoes. We were nearing Gorakhpur. Now for Lachenal, and look sharp! In another two hours the Expedition would split up, and for nearly a week he would be deprived of our M.O.’s care.
In the carriage we were shaken about like dice in a box and it was difficult for Oudot to operate: he took advantage of the stops to perform his amputations. Between stations everything was made ready: the dressings had to be unwrapped, things sorted out, chemicals prepared, and the scissors held out for Oudot to start work the second the carriage was at rest.
‘Come on, your turn, Biscante!’ said Oudot hurriedly. ‘Sarki …’
He made a vague gesture that meant: ‘Clean up all the muck round the Bara Sahib.’
With foresight Lachenal had removed his dressings himself and presented his first foot to the executioner ready for the sacrifice. At the station before Gorakhpur two toes from his right foot went. The three others would have to be done at Gorakhpur itself.
‘Gently, Oudot, please, gently!’
‘I swear I’m doing everything I can, Biscante. I can’t do more. Come on, quick!’
Lachenal held his foot with both hands. With his eyes starting from his head, he pleaded with Oudot.
‘Gorakhpur,’ said Schatz, ‘we’re there!’
The train slowed up. Couzy, Rébuffat, Schatz and some of the Sherpas got ready to jump on to the goods wagon. All the equipment had to be rapidly loaded into other trucks which were coupled to the Lucknow train, due to leave in an hour.
Great beads of sweat were pouring off Oudot. He trimmed and trimmed again without paying much attention to poor Biscante’s cries: there was only half an hour and he still had another toe to cut. Altogether it made a considerable number since he started. This time the scissors were too big.
‘Quick, Matha, the little scissors.’
The train stopped at this moment with considerable jolting. ‘Damn!’ The scissors had fallen down inside the window-slot! Oudot was at his wits’ end.
‘While I go on, try to get them.’
‘It can’t be done. You can’t take a great door like this off it’s hinges all in a minute!’
This was not at all to Lachenal’s liking; but that big toe had to be done.
‘But I don’t want you to do it! Gently, gently …’ he said between sobs.
Natives appeared at the doors.
‘Get the hell out of here!’ roared Oudot.
They did not understand what he said, but they obeyed, which was the main thing.
‘No, Oudot, please!’
This time Oudot was at the end of his patience. He stopped and looked at Lachenal:
‘Really, it’s a bit much! You might be a little more obliging.’
This left Lachenal speechless. If it is a matter of being obliging, he said to himself, he can cut off both arms and both legs!
The train was due to leave in a few seconds. Crowds were moving about all the time on the platforms, and getting in our way. The moment the bandages were on, Terray seized Lachenal and carried him off. We just had time to call:
‘Goodbye, Biscante! Cheer up! See you in Delhi!’
Things had to be cleaned up now; the nauseating smell drove even the natives away. Sarki and Phutharkay set to: they opened the door wide and with a sort of old broom made of twigs they pushed everything on to the floor. In the midst of a whole heap of rubbish rolled an amazing number of toes of all sizes which were then swept on to the platform before the startled eyes of the natives. Whistles blew, the carriages jolted, and amid cries and shouts the train started. We drew out alongside a mass of humanity. I just had time to spot Terray, who waved us goodbye with a pair of boots.
Lulled by the rhythmical song of wheels on rails, my thoughts turned to that remote capital whither we were bound, a city indeed of the Thousand and One Nights.
20
There are Other Annapurnas
IN OUR COMPARTMENT of the Indian O.T.R. Company train Ichac, Noyelle, Oudot and I lay silently on the long seats, refreshed by the cool breeze blown on us by the fan. Our thoughts wandered and gradually darkness fell.
After a twenty-four hours’ journey across the plain of the Ganges, in what for us was unheard-of-comfort, we arrived at Raxaul, on the frontier between India and Nepal. The transfer of our baggage at the Nepalese station was quickly effected under the supervision of Sarki and Pansy, who were accompanying us to Katmandu. Sarki had not left me for an instant since Annapurna, though it had not been an easy job for him. I often thought of his great thirty-six-hour march to establish the liaison upon which the whole fate of the Expedition depended. Katmandu was for him a dream city of which he scarcely dared to think; he had earned this reward a hundred times over, and so indeed had Pansy, a Himalayan veteran whose devotion and quiet good-nature made him a most lovable character. Our Sirdar, Angtharkay, had not been able to come with us: huge floods in his home district had made him very anxious, for he had a large family, so he had asked us to let him go direct to Darjeeling. The farewell scene at Gorakhpur had been most touching, when the Sherpas received, in addition to their pay, generous baksheesh as well as their personal equipment, a matter of considerable value – even by European standards it was the very latest thing. Each in turn had come to salute me, with hands joined together, Indian fashion. Some of them, like Phutharkay, bowed slowly with a gesture of respect, then, touching me with one hand, they placed their foreheads against my clothes. For all their satisfaction at being through with this expedition which would remain for them, as for us, a great memory, they looked sad, and their regret seemed quite genuine.
The Maharajah had detailed an officer to look after our comfort and bring us to Katmandu. But there was bad news: the train would not leave till the next day. We were disappointed, but not surprised: the Nepalese rolling-stock consisted of only three engines! Happily the delay was cut short, thanks to the initiative of our three liaison officers – Noyelle, G. B. and this Nepalese officer. General Bijaya, Minister of Foreign Affairs, and son of the Maharajah, had telegraphed for a wagon-de-luxe to be put at our disposal, and this would be coupled to a goods train, which was due to leave at 3 A.M. next morning.
In the middle of the night and to the accompaniment of the piercing noise of crickets, insects and other creatures, we settled ourselves as well as we could in the luxurious compartments. The others were already sound asleep when the train drew out; there was such a jolting that I was afraid of being shot out of my bedding. The track had a gauge of two feet! The tiny coach balanced precariously, pitching and rolling enough to make one sick, and I could not sleep a wink.
We crossed a particularly dense and unhealthy jungle, and in the morning reached the terminus where the Maharajah’s officer ordered a really nourishing breakfast for us. Outside, a Chevrolet lorry was waiting for the baggage, and an American station-wagon for ourselves. I was put in the front of the car. It was the first time I had sat up for a month, but I was so thin that I could not appreciate the comfort as much as I should have hoped. It should only have taken a few minutes to travel the nineteen miles to Bhimphedi; actually it took over two hours. The road was narrow, but good, and we crossed numbers of rivers by prefabricated bridg
es. This is the only road in Nepal and the inhabitants are extremely proud of it; it is, in fact, an important arterial route and the only means of reaching Katmandu. We climbed up gradually, followed by the lorry with the delighted Sherpas perched on top; here and there the road ascended in zigzags. Many of the houses had corrugated iron roofs – the ugliest boon that western industrialism has conferred on these remote people. At 11 o’clock we reached Bhimphedi where horses and ‘dandies’ – a sort of sedan-chair – were awaiting us. The road went no further. To get to Katmandu, where we were due to arrive in the evening, we had to follow a mountain path unfit for cars. Oudot was tired out and suffering from some very painful boils, so he chose a ‘dandy’ rather than a horse, and so did I.
The path zigzagged up a steep slope, but the coolies were wonderfully skilful and adjusted their steps so that we felt not the slightest jolt, and the bearers changed over without slowing down the pace. All day long we continued. The ‘dandy’ was too small for me and I was obliged to curl myself up while trying to protect my bandages. I could not remain seated for long, and Oudot gave me injections of solucamphor to help me bear up. Rest-houses, at the disposal of the guests of the Maharajah, were spaced out along the route. At 1 o’clock we came to a fort manned by Gurkhas, a Vauban-style building of which the Nepalese were very proud. After a quick lunch in the rest-house, situated in the top of the fort, we set out again; we still had a long way to go, and two passes to cross, to reach Katmandu.
My position became unbearable; the only thing was to do what I had already tried during the dark days at Lete – to sink into a kind of stupor and try to forget my present suffering. There was a pass at about 6500 feet which would take us over the hills that blocked our view. Looking up I saw huge cables going right across the valley and wondered if it could be a cable railway. So indeed it was, the longest in the world, I learned, measuring nearly nineteen miles. It provisioned Katmandu and the surrounding neighbourhood, a population of some hundred and fifty thousand people.
Annapurna Page 28