Annapurna

by Maurice Herzog

  The others, who had good mounts, had ridden on ahead. They would wait for us at the beginning of a carriage road. A carriage road? I showed surprise when I was told that a car would take us to Katmandu. How had a car got there? It certainly could not have come along the rough track which we ourselves had had such difficulty in following. I gathered some scraps of information:

  ‘Cars are brought by coolies.’

  Turning towards Oudot, I said:

  ‘Then they must be manhandled along these paths. But it isn’t possible, just look at the angle!’

  In some places they could not have walked two abreast. And the metal bridge we had just crossed was barely five feet wide.

  ‘They’re not pushed, they’re carried.’

  It was incredible. There were lorries, too, it seemed. But what about those two passes, over 6000 feet high? Then it was explained to me. The cars, without their wheels, are lashed on to huge platforms carried by anything from fifty to seventy coolies. They avoided the greater part of our route by following the river beds, where the coolies walk barefoot. They cross the two passes in the same manner: at such points the track was wider and the zigzags less acute. Marching in step, bent under their yoke, the coolies sing rhythmical chants to help them along. It has thus been possible to construct a network of roads for about twelve miles round Katmandu; and about a hundred cars are in circulation.

  It grew dark and the coolies laboured as we neared the pass, for they had had a hard day. From this point, they said, there is a splendid view of the Himalaya. Below, at the opening of this celebrated valley of Nepal, lies the plain where Katmandu, historic bulwark of the country, displays its hundreds of temples, shrines and palaces. It must be a wonderful view; unfortunately it was dark when we arrived at the pass, the sky was overcast, and I did not know how the porters could see their way. There was no question of making a halt, even though I was so utterly fatigued that I was ready to give up the ghost. My situation reminded me forcibly of the cages in which Louis XI kept his prisoners.

  But there, in the distance, were electric lights! Next day I learned there was a power station on the banks of the Bragmati. The hours went by and the lights were long in drawing nearer. It was pitch dark as we passed through the sleeping villages. I had not even the strength to groan audibly.

  Some time about midnight a small village loomed up. Shadows flitted about, and I felt that this was the end, and so indeed it was: a little further on an old American car stood waiting. The coolies had to be paid, and the baggage loaded on to a lorry, while I took, my place beside Oudot in the car. At this precise moment a puncture was discovered and it took a quarter of an hour to change the wheel before we could be off. A frightful storm caught us en route: torrential rain drummed on the bodywork of the car. It was a bad road, and the springs of our car were broken.

  We went up a drive, passed a Gurkha presenting arms, and at one o’clock in the morning came to the Maharajah’s rest-house. There were shouts of welcome from the others who were waiting for us: Ichac, Noyelle, and G. B. came out to meet us, and I was delighted to see our Minister to India, Monsieur Christian Belle. He was in charge of Nepalese affairs, and, in spite of the absence in France of our Ambassador, Monsieur Daniel Lévi, had immediately decided to come and present the members of the Expedition personally to the Maharajah. This very good friend of ours, who already knew all about our adventures, was shocked by my condition.

  Here, at last, the first time for months, I should be able to enjoy a few days’ rest. There was furniture – tables – a refrigerator! There was even a bathroom. But all this counted for nothing beside what awaited us on the table: a bottle of Alsatian wine! I felt quite giddy and was all set for an orgy – but the dignified turbaned butler dispensed the precious liquid with so much ceremony that I remembered my manners. It was a welcome surprise to hear that I would have a bed. The plan was that we should remain here until July 11th, inclusive: for me this meant three days of rest and good food; for the others, three days of visiting the fascinating capital. All the life of Nepal centres on Katmandu.

  The others got ready to see the sights of the town, but before setting off Oudot trimmed my four wounds, and told me to keep the bandages off my feet and hands for most of the day. This was rather a problem: I must not touch anything, I must keep my four limbs in the air, and be on the look-out for flies and mosquitoes. Time, I feared, would drag while I lay like this, and I had a horror of all these insects that carry every imaginable germ. When flies settle – they are much larger than the European kind and have red bellies – they stick like leeches. My fears were only too well justified: when, later, at Delhi, Oudot took off my dressings he found that my foot was harbouring a lot of wriggling maggots. At the approach of the surgeon’s tweezers, they withdrew into their holes. By the time we reached Paris these maggots had grown huge, and there was quite half a pound of them. At first I was horrified – I was being spared nothing! I never got over my horror, in spite of Oudot’s paternal explanations that maggots would clean wounds more effectually than any modern product. They were even, he said, deliberately introduced into certain wounds.

  The others came back delighted with their sightseeing. They had visited a number of temples decorated with designs of carved wood and some extremely original statuettes. Nepal had once known a period when the arts had flourished greatly.

  Next day preparations were made for the durbar – the audience with the sovereign. Noyelle told us that the ceremony would be held in the late afternoon and would be divided into two distinct parts: the first would be the official ceremony, the second a reception of a far more personal character. We were all most excited at the thought of the durbar – we had heard so much about it. Exact punctuality was called for; we must be not a minute early, nor a minute late; the protocol was very strict. Apart from Monsieur Christian Belle, who would be in the uniform of a Minister Plenipotentiary, we should all be wearing the precious white dinner jackets we had lugged all the way from Paris. We now had to transform ourselves from mountaineers and explorers into men of fashion, courtiers even!

  At the appointed hour, our two large cars entered the palace grounds. At the gates Gurkha sentries presented arms. There was a magnificent approach through a formal French garden, laid out with a lake, round which we drove slowly. Soldiers of a complete mounted unit rode towards us, dressed in red, with long drooping moustaches, and carrying tall spears. We came out on to a concrete square in front of the Maharajah’s palace, and the others quickly got out and ordered me to be carried in on a chair. Soldiers ran up and helped me to take my seat. Mounting the steps of the palace, we were received by His Highness, Mohun Shumsher Jung Bahadur Rana, Maharajah of Nepal. He came forward to meet us dressed in a white uniform glittering with amazing decorations and jewels of inestimable value. His headgear alone was made up of outsize precious stones; there was one diamond in the centre about four inches across. A moustache in the style of the Emperor Franz-Josef added greatly to his dignity.

  He came towards me with a kind and fatherly look, and I greeted him respectfully, Indian fashion, holding my bandaged hands together. He said he was happy to welcome me to his palace and to congratulate me and my friends. We went up the rest of the steps together and entered the great hall ablaze with light where the nobles of the kingdom were assembled in hundreds, and their ranks fell back to make way for us. We went right across the hall to the far end, where seats had been reserved for us near the throne. The Maharajah himself arranged the carrying-chair so that I could follow the ceremony properly. I looked round me in amazement; everyone wore the same uniform as the Maharajah, though of course theirs were not so splendid; diamonds, emeralds and rubies glittered and sparkled. It is astonishing that there still exist such fabulous treasures and courts so out of keeping with our times.

  As we were, after all, a few minutes in advance of the officially appointed time, I had leisure to gaze on the princes of the line placed in order of succession: Baber, Kaiser … these names wer
e always completed by Shumsher Jung Bahadur Rana. About fifteen of them were sitting silent and still. The Maharajah’s official function is that of Prime Minister, an hereditary post that descends, according to well-defined rules and regulations, to his brothers or his sons. The King of Nepal, Tribhuvana Shumsher Jung Bahadur Rana, who is practically never seen, even by his subjects, represents the spiritual power. On the right were further rows of princes, dressed in the same glittering uniforms, and sitting in an exactly defined order of precedence. Then came the ministers, the chiefs of the army, and all the high dignitaries and notables of Nepal.

  ‘How’s it going?’ whispered Ichac, who was sitting next to me.

  ‘Pretty awful. I don’t think I can hold out much longer.’

  In fact, while I kept this upright position my wounds began to suppurate through the bandages. Ichac, too, was embarrassed: the etiquette here was extremely strict – as strict as anywhere in the world. It was not proper for a guest to take photographs. But photography was highly appreciated in this country, and the assembly shut its eyes to slight lapses of etiquette. From time to time there was a flash as Ichac rose discreetly to take a picture. Then he resumed his role of guest. The official court photographers had enormous cameras on tripods which they adjusted with meticulous care, as if they were afraid of losing their heads should the pictures turn out unsuccessfully. They watched Ichac condescendingly, no doubt writing him off as an amateur – photographs could not be taken casually like that!

  Monsieur Christian Belle got up and addressed a speech in English to the Maharajah. He thanked him in the name of France for the special permission granted to us to penetrate into the interior of the kingdom; Nepal now could claim the highest mountain that man had climbed. As a mark of gratitude he presented the Maharajah, on behalf of the President of the French Republic, with a modern Aubusson tapestry. The art is unknown in Nepal, and there was general astonishment when we explained that it was not a carpet to be laid on the floor, but a sort of embroidery meant to be hung on the walls like a picture. The silence which up till then had been absolute was broken by murmurs of admiration.

  Order was restored when the Maharajah rose in his turn and replied to our Minister. He said he was happy to have given us permission, and it could not have been used to greater advantage. This permission, which indeed was something quite exceptional, showed how favourably disposed he was to further the good relations between France and Nepal, which had once bound together his father and Silvain Lévi, the great French scholar and expert on Sanskrit.

  While he was speaking the hereditary princes looked furtively at each other and consulted their watches. Only a few seconds to go, according to schedule: was etiquette going to be transgressed? No! The Maharajah wound up, and after a few courteous words the ceremony came to an end and the dignitaries disappeared as if by magic.

  In a few minutes the unofficial ceremony would begin. Already a number of people had appeared in undress uniform; black suits, hats of trimmed fur, and a single badge – the Gurkhas’ – consisting of two gold kukris intertwined. The Maharajah reappeared in the hall wearing a single decoration – the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour. The general tone had changed: the rest of our party were talking with groups of ministers and hereditary princes who were admiring the tapestry on a large table. The Maharajah came towards me and for a few minutes we chatted together with great cordiality. I expressed my great liking for his country, so little known to the rest of the world, and told him what an excellent impression G. B. Rana had made upon me. Immediately he was promoted lieutenant and his pay doubled! G. B. was greatly moved; diffidently, and from a respectful distance, he made profuse signs of gratitude, and, bending double, saluted the Maharajah in the curious fashion with which we all were now familiar.

  Behind the stiff exterior of these warriors, who, as their history shows, are assuredly not always very gentle, I was surprised to find such gentleness, such kindness towards myself. Suddenly, everyone stopped talking, and people came in respectfully bearing some little caskets. What was happening now! The Maharajah rose; I was carried to the centre of the great hall and the Court stood round us. The British Ambassador and the Indian Ambassador and his attachés, who had just arrived, were also present. Ceremoniously, and with great majesty, the Maharajah opened the caskets and explained to me that he had been instructed by the King, who was ill, to confer upon me the highest Gurkha order in the country, given only to troops in time of war – the Gurkha Right Hand, for valour.

  With deep emotion he spoke these simple words:

  ‘You are a brave man, and we welcome you here as a brave man.’

  No other decoration could have touched me more deeply than that of these valorous Gurkha warriors. Although I was near to fainting in my chair I endeavoured to say a few words. I expressed my thanks for this unexpected distinction, and said that I was but the intermediary and that it was the entire Expedition which had thus been honoured. Immediately the Maharajah congratulated me upon the decoration which I had been awarded. Then the princes of the line, the ministers and the diplomats filed past me with their congratulations. The party broke up into small groups. From time to time the Maharajah and his son, General Bijaya, came up to me to inquire if I was all right or to ask questions about the regions of eternal snow. This Annapurna venture had intrigued and disquieted them. We hoped that if national misfortunes followed, they would not attribute them to us for having infringed the divine law.

  It was time to leave; I could not bear any more; my duty had been fully accomplished. The others realizing this, we said our farewells to our host. His Highness and his son, followed by the other personages, accompanied us with pomp to the great staircase. I was in a fever to lie down, but just as we were descending the steps I heard some brief orders being given, and the cars which were driving slowly up came to a halt. A tune rang out, a kind of waltz which had a familiar sound to French ears. Everyone stood to attention. When the tune came to an end I turned, rather astonished, towards the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and by way of comment, was about to say ‘Nice of you to play us a French tune!’ Lucky for me that I said nothing: the Minister leant towards me and asked in a low voice:

  ‘What do you think of our national anthem?’

  ‘Oh … magnificent, and very moving for us Frenchmen …’

  At that moment the Marseillaise rang out. We were all surprised and deeply touched to hear it in a country so remote from our own. The performance must have involved laborious practice.

  We all fell silent, and the Maharajah bade us a last farewell. We saluted him respectfully and entered our cars. The dignitaries were ranged on the steps on either side of the great staircase. Orders were given, and the cars moved slowly off, while the Marseillaise was played a second time.

  That evening the others dined at the British Embassy and sent off a friendly message to Tilman, who was then in the Annapurna region. Next day after a well-earned rest we visited one of the ancient capitals, Bhadgaon, where we found some Hindu temples whose splendour never ceased to astonish us. In the centre of Katmandu, in the square beside the temple, we admired a statue of Kali the Goddess. The others went to see the renowned Buddhist stupa1 at Swayambhonath, crowned with a tower made of concentric circles of metal.

  The next day, July 12th, we left Katmandu, and according to custom, on leaving the rest-house we were each hung round with a magnificent garland of sweetly scented flowers. The Maharajah, who was full of thoughtful attentions, had ensured that my return should be effected without discomfort or fatigue, and I was borne on a very comfortable kind of litter carried by eight men. The all-too familiar jerky movement began again as we wound up towards the pass.

  G. B. accompanied me as far as the first bend. He had served us most loyally and as an expression of my personal appreciation I made him a present of my revolver which, during all the war years, had never left my side. It is an unknown weapon in these parts and he was deeply touched by this memento, which for the rest of his li
fe would remind him of our joint adventure.

  G. B. could not bring himself to leave me. He saluted me with great emotion, walked beside me for a time, and then gradually dropped behind. The path wound up towards the hill and was soon lost in the jungle. The garland of flowers spread its scent around me. G. B. wore an expression of infinite sadness and the tears ran down his brown face. I looked at the mountains in the blue distance. The great giants of the earth were there assembled in all their dazzling beauty, reaching up to heaven in supplication.

  The others were far ahead. The jolting began again, bearing me away from what would soon be nothing but memories. In the gentle languor into which I let myself sink, I tried to envisage my first contact with the civilized world in the homeward-bound aeroplane, and the terrible shock of landing at Orly and meeting family and friends.

  But I could never have imagined the violent emotional shock that I should in fact experience when it came to the point, nor the sudden nervous depression which would then take hold of me. Those surgical operations in the field, the sickening butchery that shook even the toughest of the natives, had gradually deadened our sensibilities, and we were no longer able to judge the horror of it all. A toe snapping off and chucked away as a useless accessory, blood flowing and spurting, the unbearable smell from suppurating wounds – all this left us unmoved.

  In the aeroplane, before landing, Lachenal and I would be putting on fresh bandages for our arrival. But the minute we started down that iron ladder, all those friendly eyes looking at us with such pity, would at once tear aside the masks behind which we had sheltered. We were not to be pitied – and yet, the tears in those eyes and the expressions of distress, would suddenly bring me face to face with reality. A strange consolation indeed for my sufferings to have brought me!

  Rocked in my stretcher, I meditated on our adventure now drawing to a close, and on our unexpected victory. One always talks of an ideal as a goal towards which one strives but which one never reaches. For every one of us, Annapurna was an ideal that had been realized. In our youth we had not been misled by fantasies, nor by the bloody battles of modern warfare which feed the imagination of the young. For us the mountains had been a natural field of activity where, playing on the frontiers of life and death, we had found the freedom for which we were blindly groping and which was as necessary to us as bread. The mountains had bestowed on us their beauties, and we adored them with a child’s simplicity and revered them with a monk’s veneration of the divine.