Just Another Mountain

by Sarah Jane Douglas

  After a full night’s sleep the nausea seemed to have passed. I managed a small bowl of porridge for breakfast, then Paul, Neil, Jangbu and I set off for Namche Bazaar – Jangbu carrying my daypack because I was too weak and pathetic. We walked slowly along: up, down, up and down again, on the stony and dung-littered trail that followed the Dudh Kosi river. I needed to dive behind rocks twice on our way. An Australian girl had already gone up a trench in the hillside. I planned to try to wait till she vacated, but succumbed once more to the gastric urge.

  ‘I’m not looking. Not looking. Just passing. Sorry! I just gotta go!’ I called as I rushed past the squatting lass.

  ‘No worries!’ she yelled sympathetically.

  The highest of two long, steel suspension bridges swayed as we crossed it and I paused briefly to look down at the dizzying drop; the river’s roar, deadened by distance, was now a mere purr. It was beautiful. And I felt like utter shit. But I knew that if I could get myself to Namche I would be able to push on with the rest of the trek. I had to!

  After two and a half hours we arrived at Namche Bazaar, the Sherpa capital, at a lofty 3,440 metres. On first impressions, as I toiled up stone steps avoiding herds of laden donkeys, the town looked far more built up than it had been when the 1975 Nuptse expedition had passed through. White adobe buildings with pink, green and blue rooftops were crammed together; built on stacked terraces, they were linked by winding steps and narrow, cobbled paving. It was a natural amphitheatre – like a Nepalese version of the view from inside the Colosseum. Yak-dung smoke filled the air. I felt queasy but kept quiet. We passed chattering locals standing in shop doorways. Somewhere nearby a school bell rang and we heard joyous shouts and cries of children as they rushed out to play. The campsite we were using was on a high terrace on the back wall of this scooped-out bowl. We dumped our backpacks into tents that were already set up. Clouds swirled and funnelled upwards from the valley far below as I sat outside enjoying the afternoon warmth. It was good to rest.

  Paul had disappeared but came back minutes later with a tube of Pringles. ‘Thought you could try these. You need to get something inside,’ he said as he handed them over. I took them from him with thanks, not because I wanted to eat them, but because his thoughtfulness made me feel cared for.

  Neil, Paul and I had been sitting for a while before the others appeared. ‘You guys! You’ve made it! You have no idea how happy I am to see you all. I really missed you!’ said Matt, a film producer from London who had signed up for the trek on a last-minute whim. We’d hit it off from the start.

  ‘What do you reckon, do you think his tolerance of his tent mate may already be wearing thin?’ Paul commented. We laughed.

  After I managed to eat just a little of my lunch, Paul, Neil and I were taken on a short twenty-minute acclimatisation walk with Jangbu Sherpa above Namche. This was when the high-altitude flatus expulsion reared up. I hung back, letting Neil and Jangbu walk ahead, my eyeballs practically popping their sockets as I felt gas rapidly increase in my stomach. ‘I shouldn’t have had the Coke,’ I groaned to Paul as wind exploded out of my butt. Neil and Jangbu turned round, disbelief on their faces, while mine was full of apology.

  Neil and Jangbu bailed, leaving Paul and me alone. There then followed a constant stream of wind as we made our way all around the narrow streets that wound around Namche. I was helpless. It was the horrendous flight from Juliaca to Lima all over again, but my audible suffering did at least cheer some people up as I was given the thumbs up from one American woman passing by.

  The clattering of hooves alerted us to the presence of donkeys, and interesting trekkers of all nationalities, in their puffy down jackets and colourful woollen hats, chattered gaily in small groups. It was fascinating to meander along the narrow, cobbled paths. Tables set up either side of darkened shop doorways all sold similar wares: Tibetan prayer wheels, Buddha statuettes, prayer flags, masks, knives, knitted headbands, pretty bead friendship bracelets, rings and necklaces.

  Mostly concerned with replenishing my already dwindling supply of baby wipes, we found a small pharmacy, and then stocked up on powdered juice and plain Pringles. It didn’t matter that prices in Namche were three times higher than anywhere else in Nepal. After witnessing the enormous loads local porters had to bear to bring the goods there in the first place I wouldn’t have grudged having to pay five times the amount. Suddenly, warning cramps creased across my lower abdomen.

  ‘I gotta get to a toilet.’

  ‘Let’s go in there then.’

  Paul pointed to a café and we trotted up the stairs. We stayed there for a while. Two documentaries were being screened. The first was about the real heroes of Everest, the Sherpa. The second film, incredibly, was about the avalanche that had killed the sixteen climbing Sherpa during April. I was surprised it was being aired just weeks after the tragedy. The Discovery Channel’s crew were at Base Camp to film the American Joby Ogwyn, whose plan it was to jump from Everest’s summit in a wing suit and land at Base Camp. Filming had started two weeks before the avalanche and had documented the puja ceremonies and the camaraderie between Sherpa and Westerner, then footage of the disaster was caught on film.

  Helicopters flew in to what they call the football pitch – a flat area of snow the size of a putting green – and were operating at their very limits for the rescue operation. Although they can fly at greater altitudes, they are unable to hover because the air is too thin. Corpses were dug out and airlifted off the mountain, but three still remained undiscovered. The last body to be recovered by rescuers was recorded on film. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The lifeless leg and foot of Dorje Sherpa stuck up out of the snow and the team dug out his body. It was harrowing, but my eyes remained transfixed to the screen. When it finished Paul and I sat in a stunned silence for a moment. ‘I wonder how the families of the dead Sherpa will survive?’ I said, trying not to cry.

  I was ill, and now my spirits were even lower. I felt weighed down by the sadness of everything. I thought about the avalanche victims and their families, I thought about all the people who must have died and been left on the mountains, I thought about Gerry, and I thought about my mum.

  The sickness had stopped, but none of my dinner was digested; instead it passed straight through me. After sharing high and low points of the day with the rest of the group, Paul and I went off to bed. I read some of Greenvoe by George Mackay Brown, the only book I had brought with me on the trek. My eyes didn’t stay open for long, but sleep didn’t last. Like gumballs being released from a vending machine, one fart was followed immediately by the rattle and rumble of the next; it was relentless. After an already upsetting day I started to feel even more down and pondered whether there might be such a thing as death by farts. I looked across at Paul, he hadn’t stirred. With only my thoughts and the long-drop toilet for company it was a long and dreadful night.

  Kongde’s crisp, snowy outline against the blue sky was dazzling as I unzipped the tent. I admired its vast scale, but it didn’t take long before clouds started to conceal the view, yet again making the mountain seem theatrical and full of visual trickery.

  At breakfast Mara gave us a briefing. ‘I’ve received an updated report. The weather conditions aren’t conducive to our original planned itinerary, so I’ve decided to reverse our route. Instead of trekking to Gokyo we will head for Chukhung. If anyone else suffers early illness there are more opportunities for recovery with an option to regroup further along on the trail.’

  That seemed a logical plan, but I also felt a private sense of elation because going to Chukhung first meant that I might be able to deliver my mum to Gerry on the exact anniversary of his death. I’d chosen to do the trek in May because it was the same time Gerry had been here and I’d understood our route would take us past the Nuptse valley, where his body still lay entombed in its icy grave, a couple of weeks after 9 May – the day he had died. But now the change of itinerary meant that I might reach the valley on the anniversary itself, which
would make the scattering of Mum’s ashes even more meaningful and perfect.

  En route to Deboche at 3,820 metres, we travelled in a northeasterly direction, a gently ascending traverse. Sitting at the side of the trail on a white plastic chair was a Tibetan lama, a Buddhist monk. An open box sat on top of a table into which a ‘non-obligatory’ obligatory donation was made by each of us – for this, we received his holiness’s blessing for our onward journey. I willingly paid my dues, figuring I needed all the help I could get.

  A short distance further along the dusty trail, and fenced off, was a large, white Buddhist shrine, known as a chorten monument, crowned with a golden top and shaped like a giant Tibetan meditation bell. It was built for all Sherpa and in honour of the Nepali mountaineer Tenzing Norgay. A Himalayan griffon soared on the thermals in the sky above.

  Birdsong filled the air as we descended through birch draped in old man’s beard. Rhododendron forests were in bloom with delicate pink and white flowers.

  I waggled my camera at a local lad, who let me take his photograph.

  ‘I can’t wait to show this picture to Marcus and Leon,’ I said to Paul. ‘How old are you?’ I asked the boy.

  ‘Fourteen,’ he replied, before strapping three pieces of plywood onto his back that were more than one and a half times his height, and the width of a large doorway. The boy set off, always remaining ahead of us along the trail. It was impressive but also humbling to witness.

  As we passed through more rhododendron forest I soon saw that these load-bearing skills were developed from a young age. A sturdy-legged eight-year-old in a worn black down jacket torn at the armpit, muddied cotton trousers and a pair of rubber open-toed sandals scuttled past. He was bent almost double under the weight of a large sack, which was attached to his back by a cloth sling fixed around his forehead. Dawa told me the boy was preparing for a future as a porter, with aspirations to become a Sherpa and one day a Sirdar. Meanwhile a few thousand miles away Marcus and Leon are probably bending their forefingers and thumbs out of shape on their Xbox consoles. These Nepalese youngsters were living a hard but honest life and I couldn’t help but feel inspired, even though their futures probably held the dangers of work at high altitude.

  We stopped for lunch. It was noodle soup and beans. ‘If you eat the beans, stay away from me,’ Paul said, with a look of such consternation it made me laugh. He needn’t have worried. I couldn’t eat anything other than the Pringles.

  From our lunch spot it was an hour-and-three-quarter slow-paced walk, under the cover of low cloud, up to Thyangboche at 3,860 metres. We crossed another high and lengthy suspension bridge, which sagged in the middle as it supported the weight of a yak caravan carrying expedition holdalls, barrels and other gear. A sliver of silver far below, the Dudh Kosi frothed, its rapid flow hushed by steep valley walls supporting stands of aromatic pines. As we continued high on the trail in single file Paul, who had been walking in front of me, suddenly turned round and virtually winded me with a punch in the stomach.

  ‘Check that out!’ he said excitedly, ‘it’s like a giant barn owl. You see it? On the rock ahead. Look!’

  ‘Wow! What is that?’ Closer inspection revealed it was only the kitchen porter’s load resting against a rock. Muppet.

  As the trail climbed high and dropped low, many chortens dotted each side of the trail and a never-ending stream of laden yak made their journey alongside the river. Thyangboche, one of the most famous monasteries in all Nepal, was shrouded in cloud when we arrived. It felt mystical. Digging out the diary from its place in my rucksack, I looked at a photo of this spot from 1975. Before I’d left Scotland, John Peacock had emailed photographs of the expedition’s journey to me and I’d printed them out. My plan was to take photographs from the same places so that on return I could show John how things had changed – or perhaps how they had stayed the same. In comparison with the photograph, the monastery was unrecognisable. I had to double-check we were actually at the same place, so I asked Dawa. ‘Yes, this is Thyangboche,’ he answered.

  Prayer wheels were built onto the top of a wall flanking each side of an ornate gateway. Beyond the courtyard, at the top of several narrowing flights of steps, the temple sat squarely. Heavy brown curtains, hung down over the pink brick walls, parted to reveal the way inside. We took off our boots and entered the garishly coloured place of worship with its many carvings and massive central statue of Buddha. We watched as a lone Tibetan monk in burgundy robes finished chanting, rose from his cross-legged position and left: I felt like I’d intruded. I was fascinated by how dramatically different the monastery was and wanted to find out about the changes. Stepping back outside, I felt the cold. Paul and I went to the nearby bakery, where a warm drink didn’t help to heat us up much, but our Sirdar, Chote, was sitting at one of the tables. I showed him my photographs.

  ‘What happened to the monastery?’ I asked.

  ‘When was this taken?’ Chote queried, studying the images.

  ‘1975.’

  ‘Ah, well. The monastery was reduced to rubble during an earthquake in 1933 and was rebuilt. Then in 1989 it was destroyed again by fire. All historical and spiritual treasures were lost, but the Sherpa people came together, like they did before, and gave their labour and craftsmanship to rebuild it,’ said Chote. I was yet again impressed by the people, their faith and resilience. In the face of loss and adversity they did not give up. Their determination was something I felt I understood.

  As we left Thyangboche the clouds broke up long enough to afford a fleeting view of Lhotse but, like unwrapped gifts, Nuptse and Everest remained hidden from sight for now. Our lower campsite for the night was at Deboche, half an hour’s walk from the monastery. Feeling super-tired after dinner, Paul and I called it a night. Although it was only half past seven it was already dark as we snuggled into our sleeping bags.

  ‘Hey, Paul,’ I whispered.

  ‘Hey, Sarah,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Night night, sleep tight, mind the bed bugs don’t bite!’

  Talk about famous last words. I woke the next morning with rapidly swelling and ragingly itchy welts that were spreading over my body right before my eyes. Unbelievable! Every scrap of food that passed my lips was still exiting faster than a Fedex delivery; I had suffered smelly and incessant attacks of knicker-staining flatulence; and now it seemed I was being ravaged by fleas. After I’d already gone to the effort of packing up my sleeping bag and mat, both now had to be unrolled, beaten and aired. My infested clothing was bagged up and, using bowls of water, I had to wash my entire self from head to toe – it did feel bloody brilliant to have clean hair and put on fresh clothes though. I should have spun those prayer wheels harder.

  The altitude began to have its effects. Paul had woken through the night feeling as if the back of his head had been whacked by a cricket bat. My headaches came and went, and we both felt mildly sick and floaty. The trail was not technically difficult as we followed its age-old route, but the thinning air slowed our group and silenced all. In single file we made tracks above the Imja Khola river, where a large metal bridge lay collapsed and broken. Paul disappeared behind it.

  ‘Paul, what are you doing?’ Mara asked.

  ‘Errrr . . . I really gotta go,’ Paul tried to explain.

  ‘Can you try to hold on? This place isn’t safe, there’s objective danger of rockfall here. It’s best to keep moving.’

  Paul obediently complied, but as we continued on the steep, narrow trail contouring high on the valley hillside, and because he was ahead of me, I noticed he was walking funny.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope. I think I’ve shat myself and I can’t check ’cause there’s no fucking rocks or bushes to go behind.’ I felt so sorry for him – but also slightly relieved that at least I didn’t have to feel so embarrassed about my own display of bodily functions.

  There was not much in the way of distraction from our symptoms; billowing white clouds obscured any morning views of big mount
ains, and valley hillsides began to shed their colour as we climbed higher up out of the treeline into a monochromatic landscape of greys and browns. The Imja Khola zigzagged along the V-shaped valley floor and, like the paths of lava flow from a volcanic eruption, massive rockfalls scarred the opposite hillside – a lasting memory of previous monsoons. A man was negotiating his way along the lower scree slopes on the opposite hillside, while another drove a herd of yak across a higher path. Watching them travel temporarily took my mind off how grotty I was beginning to feel.

  After passing yet another chorten and admiring a long line of tilted mani prayer stones, I thought it would be a good time to talk to our trek leader.

  ‘Hey, Mara, I know you’ll have been told that I have asked for the trek to be tailored for me and I was just wondering how that’s going to work.’

  ‘Yeah, I read in your application that you wanted to go find Nuptse Base Camp. Was it your father that was a climber?’

  I explained my relation to Gerry, about his summit bid and how he was meant to marry my mum but the accident had claimed his life six weeks before their wedding day.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll speak with Chote Sirdar and we’ll get your trek arranged. You know, my boyfriend died on Annapurna’s south face. I can totally relate to your sense of needing to go to the place where Gerry’s body lies.’