Just Another Mountain

by Sarah Jane Douglas

  See you soon, my lovely boys.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Early Illness

  Kathmandu, Lukla and on to Monjo, 2—4 May 2014

  I had been especially concerned about carrying the urn with my mother’s ashes into Nepal, unsure of whether it was legal or not, and worried my head with ideas that the ashes might be confiscated. So it was with enormous relief and great elation that we made it to Kathmandu via Delhi with all our kit, including the urn, without a hitch. Stepping out into the intense humidity, confusion and noise of a hundred voices competing for taxi fares, Paul spotted a Nepali waving a Jagged Globe sign. He beckoned us over to his waiting taxi. To my amusement, a local asked if he could take a photo of my holdall.

  ‘Yeah, sure!’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Thanks, lady.’

  ‘No problem, but then you give me one dollar!’ I joked.

  The journey between the airport and our hotel was quite exciting. It was a case of every man for himself, and I learnt that road markings really didn’t matter. ‘They’re just guidelines,’ our driver said breezily, with a wave of his hand and a toothy grin. People and cows strolled across roads among the moving vehicular mayhem, competing with rows of meandering mopeds and rickshaws in a calamitous cacophony of peeps, toots and honks. The sun’s rays filtered through filaments of dust and dirt that hung on thick, warm air, and the overpowering smell of car fumes filled my nostrils. The streets were a colourful, seething mass of humanity. High-rise buildings sandwiched row after row of long narrow corridors in a seemingly endless maze. Black power cables hanging between poles, some slung as low as a skipping rope, were all wrapped in a chaotic mess like giant liquorice wheels on the top of their dodgy wooden supports.

  On arrival at the Summit Hotel we were greeted by Mara. ‘Our extreme tour guide Barbie,’ whispered Paul. I stifled a giggle as she shook my hand and pointed us towards a straw-roofed gazebo outside the reception, where the rest of the trekking team members sat waiting.

  ‘We’ll do a little ice-breaker,’ she said in a lilting American accent, ‘where we’ll take it in turns to introduce ourselves and you can share with the rest of the group what your motivations are for coming to Nepal . . .’

  ‘Why’s she makin’ us tell our reasons for coming out here? She knows perfectly well why each of us has come – it’s on our forms. I’m not telling a bunch of strangers about my mum!’ I whispered in a hushed tone to Paul.

  ‘I’ll go first. So my name is Mara Larson, I’m originally from Oregon. I used to work for NASA studying the effects of altitude on climbers, but now I work for Jagged Globe and am based in Chamonix in France. I’ve come out here to lead our group on the Three Peaks, Three Passes trek. There is a lot of information I need to share with the group about our trek which I’ll pass on as we go, but one important rule we will be following is: walk high, sleep low. On the trail when we arrive at our stops for the night we’ll take a short trip to a higher elevation before returning back down to our camp. This is going to help with the acclimatisation process, but I’ll tell you more about all that later.’ Mara was in her early thirties, and petite. She was as intelligent as she was attractive and seemed lively and interesting. And so the monologues began . . .

  When it came to my turn, red-faced and feeling horribly awkward I garbled my spiel, looking to Paul’s face for reassurance. I felt clumsy and embarrassed at my efforts to speak to the group of strangers, ‘Your turn, Paul,’ I said with haste.

  ‘Hi, I’m Paul and I’m here ’cause of Sarah.’ That was it! Short and bloody sweet! He really didn’t care what anybody else thought about him. Whispering into my ear, he said, ‘Can’t be arsed wi’ all this Americanised ice-breaker pish.’ His was my brand of humour, and being with him gave me extra confidence. I was glad he had come with me.

  At dinner we met three guys from Jagged Globe’s Everest expedition who had just returned from Base Camp. We sat next to the expedition cook, an Australian. ‘The camp has been all but evacuated. There are just porters there now, ferrying equipment and gear down,’ he said. ‘It was hell being there when the avalanche hit. Everyone was shell-shocked when the number of corpses on the mountain kept rising, and even now, back in civilisation, it’s still difficult to come to terms with.’

  I understood his bewilderment and grief. After all, I was here to visit the scene of a tragedy that had unfolded almost forty years earlier whose repercussions had vibrated throughout my mother’s life and mine.

  The hour was getting late, and since we had a five o’clock start Paul and I bade goodnight to our fellow trekkers. ‘Make sure you sit on the left side of the plane when you fly out; you’ll get a great view of Everest,’ the Australian said.

  At the airport the next morning, Mara prepared us for a delay due to poor weather, but after only a short wait we got lucky with a weather window. In a rush of frenzied activity we were herded out onto the tarmac towards a tiny Tara airplane. There were only single seats down either side of the aisle, but I got myself a perch on the left-hand side up front, directly behind the pilot. Any misgivings I’d had because of what I’d heard about the flight were quickly dispelled. It wasn’t at all scary. Paul pointed out the notice fixed to the entrance of the cockpit which warned, ‘Pilots beware, the clouds have rocks in them.’ We grinned at each other.

  The aircraft took us over the foothills, passing through and in between the cultivated high valley walls. Tiny dwellings far below were merely suggestions as a heat haze softened edges and paled the landscape into a palette of pastel shades; higher up, the clouds drifted apart to reveal fleeting glimpses of Everest. I felt a flurry of anticipation. The flight had been thrilling, but the landing was startling as the small plane hit the runway. The landing strip was only 460 metres long – basically, just long enough to apply the brakes, with no room for pilot error. My eyes were like saucers, my knuckles white and my heart was in my mouth as we approached the brick wall at the end of the short runway at a speed that was faster than felt safe, but the pilot turned the plane assuredly and neatly into the holding area where there was room for just four of these small aircraft.

  Disembarking, I was instantly struck by the pure, uncontaminated air here at 2,860 metres. Apart from the aircraft there were no motorised vehicles of any kind here. There weren’t even any bicycles. Dirt track of random rubble cobbled together only supported passengers of the two- or four-legged variety. Modest dwellings, with colourful washing spread out to dry on walls, lay cradled in the arms of this high valley. After a short tea break – while our gear was being divvied up between the porters – we set out on our trek in a northerly direction from Lukla. As we passed down a rugged track through a rocky gorge made damp and dark by overhanging branches, the boulder-strewn Dudh Kosi river churned white and milky. It was enchanting.

  Oblivious to our presence, young local girls dressed in Western clothes were practising a traditional dance routine while boys on a lower terrace played a variation of cricket. I wondered how many balls they must have lost down the side of the valley to another that lay thousands of feet below. Wonderful, musky scents filled my lungs and a porter passed me by in flip-flops with a staggering load tethered to his back; it included a large box of Nestlé Everyday Milk Powder, a large sack of Crown Rice, four boxes of cans of San Miguel and two larger boxes of bottles of San Miguel. I made a pact with myself that I would not dare to complain about the weight in my backpack. We passed some Buddhist prayer wheels. ‘Give them three full spins in the direction of travel to bring good fortune and health,’ said Dawa, one of our Sherpa guides. I later wished I’d pushed those wheels with more conviction.

  The green landscape was lush and teeming with life. A cacophony of bird calls filled the air; one sounded like a whistle blowing evenly three times, while another shrill call came like a warning, ‘Take care!’

  Phakding was at a lower elevation than Lukla and would be our first overnight stop on the trek. We’d only been on the go for a couple of hours and neither Paul no
r I could believe our day’s walking was over so soon, but we realised the slow pace and early stops were part of the acclimatisation process – annoying but necessary. As we entered the small village it was still raining hard. Two tents stood erected on a terrace below the teahouse in which we now took shelter.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Paul dismally, as we stared out from the window down to the orange nylon shelters, ‘I don’t have to go and put up our tent in that, do I?’

  I laughed at him. ‘No, ya tool, the porters put the tents up for us!’

  With a look of relief, Paul returned his gaze to the rainy scene. ‘No wonder they abandoned putting up the rest of the tents.’

  It truly was a torrential downpour, but not an early arrival of the monsoons, we hoped. In the end we spent the night in the teahouse. Our accommodation was spartan, but at least we were inside and dry. After we had consumed a thin tomato and garlic soup, dal bhat (a traditional Nepalese dish of rice and lentils) and some pineapple, Mara asked us to exchange our high and low points of the day. Then we were introduced to our supporting team: kitchen porters, cook, Sherpa guide and Sirdar, the Sherpa in command of all the staff.

  At nine o’clock Paul and I turned in, but I woke in the small hours feeling not quite right. Hoping the sensation of nausea would disappear, I turned over in my sleeping bag and tried to concentrate my worries on any fleas or lice that might be trying to crawl into the bag with me – a nugget of paranoia stemming from a delightfully vivid paragraph in Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air. But itchy bedtime companions were to be the least of my concerns for now.

  I woke feeling like death. Creeping from our room as quickly and silently as possible, I made my way down the creaky corridor and locked myself in the toilet, the first non-Westernised loo of the trip so far. I stared down at the dark, rectangular hole in the floor and swiftly planked my feet either side of the pee-stained wood. ‘Hello long-drop, old friend,’ I muttered as the whole world exploded out of my ass.

  Repacking my belongings in preparation for the day’s trek to Namche Bazaar was a gargantuan and laboured task as I attempted to keep feelings of nausea under control. As ready as I could be, I took my holdall and backpack downstairs into the dingy light of the dining area. The air was stifling and loaded with smells of cooked breakfast mingling with juniper from an early-morning puja, a prayer ritual. I had to get out of there. Sitting on the whitewashed ledge under the window, I held my head in my hands.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Mara asked, as she wandered out from the teahouse.

  I had to be honest. ‘I’m feeling pretty sick and I’ve had diarrhoea.’

  ‘Try getting some porridge down, and let’s reduce the contents of your daypack so you’re carrying less weight,’ Mara said. I agreed to her conditions, glad that she wasn’t banning me from continuing the journey altogether.

  Last to leave the teahouse, I made my way over a short suspension bridge that was gaily adorned with colourful prayer flags, and khada – white silk scarves that symbolise the pure heart of the giver and are presented to bring good luck and fortune. The chain bridge bounced and swayed with every step, my stomach churning and my head becoming dizzy. I made it across, but succumbed to the sensation of sickness. Staggering to the edge of the trail, I noticed the steep-sided drop. There was nothing much to grasp on to as I leant forward. My middle and index fingers pressed into the bark of a small, thin tree growing out from the verge as volumes of warm fluid surged up and forced their way out of my mouth like a violent demon being exorcised from my body. Dawa Sherpa made a call and soon Chote, our Sirdar, and Paul appeared. They walked the trail with me. Dawa and Chote seemed concerned, but Paul took my photograph. ‘I’ve never seen anyone actually look like death warmed up,’ he said, but I wasn’t interested in his attempt to make me smile. Everyone else was waiting higher up. When we rejoined the group they all asked how I was, but I felt so ill I couldn’t muster the energy to give even a monosyllabic answer.

  Hampered as I was by waves of sickness, my progress up into the valley was slow. I made it to the next small village but, without warning, threw up all over somebody’s wall.

  ‘Where’s a toilet?’ I groaned. Dawa pointed me in the direction of the wall owner’s long-drop. ‘Paul, come hold the door,’ I whimpered desperately as I made my mad dash, ‘I won’t get it shut in time.’

  As I raced towards the wooden structure I caught a glimpse of the Nepalese national bird, the Himalayan monal; it was as fast at disappearing into the bush as the shit was at spraying out my ass. It was a mortifying situation, not least because I’d puked over some poor sod’s property, and Paul was now getting to know me really well, subjected as he was to my stinking, noisy bodily expulsions. But at this point I was far too sick to register or care about any embarrassment.

  Managing another four miles of trail over 327 metres of ascent, I arrived at Monjo, where Mara took me aside.

  ‘Sarah, the rest of the group have gone on to Namche Bazaar, but you are going no further today.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, too ill to feel sorry for myself.

  ‘Paul said he’s staying with you, and I’m leaving Jangbu Sherpa here. He’ll keep in radio contact with me. I want you to start taking antibiotics and Diamox. Try and get some crackers down. If you’re feeling better in the morning we’ll see you at Namche, but you must try to get some food inside for energy. It’s a demanding and relentless hike uphill.’ It was all very well her saying that, but anything that passed my lips immediately exited from either one end or the other. Things weren’t looking good.

  Paul was worried about me. He paid for us to stay in a luxury room at the Monjo teahouse. It had a shower – no running hot water – but a shower nonetheless, and a Western toilet. I wondered if it was the toilet that gave it its luxury status or the shower. Either way it didn’t matter; I had little time to muse over the triviality since I spent the entire afternoon shitting and puking simultaneously between toilet and sink. Maybe it’s the mirror above the sink that makes it a luxury room. I lifted my head after the last lot of retching had finished.

  ‘Oh my God! I’m green!’ I squeaked, as I caught sight of my face for the first time that day.

  ‘I know,’ said Paul as he held my hair back with one hand and scooped the plughole clear of my sick with the other.

  ‘I’ll clean that!’ I said, feeling horrified for the millionth time.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said gently. ‘Go lie down.’

  Just then there was a knock at the door and I opened it to see Neil, the youngest member of our group, standing there.

  ‘Paul, look! Neil’s green too!’ I said without so much as a hello and sounding more cheerful than sympathetic.

  ‘What happened?’ Paul asked him.

  ‘I’d continued along the trail with the others but Mara turned me round after I threw up. I’m feeling pretty ropey. I just wanted to let you guys know I’m here. I’m in the room next door. Hopefully it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing. Maybe see you later,’ Neil replied.

  I crossed the room to my bed, lay down inside my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. Though it was a relief to know I was not alone in illness, fear plagued me. If I wasn’t fit enough by morning the trek would be over before it had even begun. I couldn’t let that happen. I would not let my mum down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Onwards and Upwards

  To Namche, Thyangboche, Dingboche, 5—7 May 2014

  I woke to darkness. Looking across the room I could see that Paul wasn’t in his bed. I lay for a while wondering what time it could be. I’d no idea how long I’d been asleep. Crackers sat in their torn packet on the small cabinet next to the bed. Leaning up on my elbow, I reached for them and ate one, then two, a third and then a fourth – this was progress. Do I feel better? I think I might do!

  Hankering after a Coke, craving the thought of its sugar, I sat on the edge of my bed, slid my feet into their boots without bothering to tie the laces and, rising oh so delicately, made my way to th
e teahouse dining room. A chill made me shudder as I walked along the narrow wooden corridor. On my right, single-glazed windows offered shadowy views of tall, leafy vegetation on the valley’s hillside, which dropped away into complete blackness, and a draught sneaked in through ill-fitting frames. Loud chatter, laughter and gaiety filled the brightly lit dining room on my left. Where had all those people come from? And where’s Paul?

  When I opened the door I was almost knocked straight back out into the night by the overpowering aroma of garlic and spices. Keep the sickness down. Find Paul. Get Coke. Leave. Pulling my buff up over my mouth and nose to block out smells, I squeezed my way past rows of occupied seats, my eyes searching faces until I spotted him. I yanked the buff down just long enough to give him a faint smile and ask if he’d get me a Coke. ‘I gotta get outta here . . . sorry,’ I trailed off. My exit was swift, but I’d clocked Neil sitting next to Paul, baseball cap pulled down hard on his head, properly scoffing his food down. Returning to the room, I felt more than a little envious of his evident recovery and wondered why it was that I was still suffering.

  Paul brought me the bottle of Coke. I wanted it there and then, but gave it a good shake before releasing its cap slowly and repeating the process.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Paul asked.

  ‘When I went trekking in Peru, I’d been drinking mostly coca tea and water, but on the last day of my travels, at a place near Lake Titicaca, I bought a bottle of Inca Cola. It was neon-yellow and tasted amazing, and I didn’t think twice about finishing the bottle quite quickly. It was only when I boarded my flight from Juliaca airport that I began to suffer murderous pains in my stomach – pains so bad that, as I rested my forehead against the seat in front, I thought I might actually pass out. The plane took off and my stomach became harder and more bloated, the pain increased – and then the farting started, non-stop, lengthy, windy eruptions all the way to Lima,’ I said, rolling my eyeballs in my head as I recalled the acute embarrassment I’d felt at the time. ‘I was so gassy I could have fuelled the plane all by myself. It was a horrible experience, not least for surrounding passengers, and one that I never wish to experience ever, ever again.’ Paul was laughing, took the bottle from my hand and shook it vigorously, still laughing.