Please visit my new site and join me in Scotland. You will find it here
Avid readers will know that I struggled to blog reliably due to connectivity issues in the Khumbu, as I had last year in Tibet. I suspect there will be similar issues in Scotland on some sections of the West Highland Way which is where I am heading now. Essentially Weebly needs 3G or wi-fi. In light of this I shall in future blog using a new site from Wordpress which allows updates to be sent by email which only requires 2G.
Please visit my new site and join me in Scotland. You will find it here
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It is now approaching 3 weeks since my last blog and I apologise to all those who have continued to visit this site hoping for an update, or closure. This has been a tumultuous period in my life and the lack of a blog hasn’t been through lack of interest but uncertainty about how I felt about what happened on the mountain and what has happened since. However I now have my head sorted and I am ready to write to you once again. Thank you for bearing with me.
We were scheduled to fly out of Lukla on the second Yeti Airlines (I kid you not!) flight of the day, at 8 o’clock in the morning. Advised to get to the check-in hall of Hillary-Tenzing airport at 7 we had just a short walk from our hostel, which was right next to the runway. The morning was crisp, clear and cloudless. We heaved a huge sigh of relief as we saw the first flight depart safely and on time as we made our way to the terminal building. At least there was now a fair chance that we would get away roughly on time too.
The check-in area, a low-ceilinged unlit room (presumably as the power was down again rather than for cost-saving reasons) with makeshift looking check-in desks staffed by people already showing signs of extreme stress even at this early hour, was bedlam. It was completely rammed with anxious trekkers and mountaineers jostling for position in front of desks bearing the names of the various operators: Yeti Airlines, Buddha Air, Tara Airlines and Nepal Air. Hold luggage, typically rucksacks, were weighed and stacked in piles around the outside of the room before being carried outside and piled on the runway apron. No swish luggage transport systems here! Hand luggage also had to be weighed with the inevitable arguments over what constituted hand luggage and what had to go in the hold. Items accepted by the desks as hand luggage then had to be searched by the security team and the jostling for position started all over again. Somehow it all worked though and if you were able to take a step back and ease the tension it was actually quite fun. Eventually all of our team’s hold luggage disappeared, our hand luggage was tagged with ‘checked’ labels, and we headed through the scanner into the departures area. Had I realised then that 3 weeks later I would still not have any of my hold luggage I might have looked whistfully back one last time. However that thought didn’t occur to me as I headed to the refreshment counter. There being no fried eggs I made do with a bag of crisps and a paper cup of black tea.
Almost surprisingly, given the mayhem in the check-in hall and the fact that we were about to be flown out of the airport rated by some commentators as the world’s most dangerous, the departures lounge was remarkably calm. Even more surprisingly we were ushered outside into a queue beside our plane roughly on time, and in due course we boarded. With 2 seats down the left side of the plane and one down the right it was immediately clear why larger hand luggage was consigned to the hold. Even so the stewardess had to climb over several bags in the aisle in order to make her way to the front of the craft handing out a boiled sweet and 2 wads of cotton wool to each of us. If there was a safety announcement I didn’t hear it due to watching as a pile of bags was loaded into the hold. Before you consider this to be good news I should advise that the pile in which our bags had been placed remained on the runway. I was assured this was quite normal and our bags would follow. For all I know they may still be there although I have heard that they made it to Kathmandu about 2 weeks later and there is a sporting chance of them making it to Heathrow around mid next week. You have to laugh. I’m not sure that seeing the pilots wiping their brows just before take-off contributed to a relaxing approach to the runway but at the appointed hour the engines screamed, the propellers whirred, and we headed at breakneck speed down the runway seemingly only at the last minute to take to the air. My view of the mountains unfolding was a little obscured by the engines but nonethess the vista that opened up was magnificent. Green hills, dotted with farm dwellings but otherwise unspoiled by mankind, gave way to serried ranks of magnificent diamond-white peaks of which Mt Everest was but one. Receding quickly during the 40 minute flight to Kathmandu the high mountains gave way to the progressively more populated Himalayan foothills and eventually the lower hills that border the Kathmandu valley. Seeing the progression from sparsely populated uplands to relatively densely populated lowlands at aircraft speed it struck me that this was akin to a human development timeline. At first there were just a few apparently unconnected dwellings, then a few more with some evidence of farming and thin straggly paths between them but still the hills were overwhelmingly green. After a few minutes the pathways were noticeably thicker and the density of houses increased together with the amount of brown flecking the green. Shortly after some terrace farming was evident as the number of farmsteads increasingly outnumbered the plots of flat land and farmers moulded the hillsides to their needs. Later still whole hillsides appeared to have been sculpted by a giant rake scoring the earth with parallel lines. Such intense farming of course needs a network of roads to keep it supplied and to transport produce and, sure enough, the little pathways had been developed into discernible grey ribbons of metalled road. Then all too quickly the ribbons became wider, the houses became bigger, and visibility decreased as we came into the Kathmandu valley itself. Before long we began our descent into Tribhuvan airport and all sight of mountain tranquillity was lost as we bumped safely onto the tarmac. Not needing to wait for hold luggage was in fact a blessing and we were able to head immediately for the minibus that waited to take us back to the city and such luxuries as hot showers and cold beer.
Agreeing to meet up for dinner most people availed themselves of both the above before taking a siesta. My first port of call was a shop to buy some trousers, socks and a t-shirt to replace those in the bag back in Lukla. I would have bought some new pants too but failed completely to find a shop that sold such essentials so made do with shorts. Having availed myself of this new rigout I was able to consign what I had travelled in to the hotel laundry. Given that these had been worn for several days at basecamp and during the trek out I suspect you won’t wish me describe them.
After the most glorious 2 showers (one wasn’t enough) and finding myself quite pleased that the towels provided by the hotel were brown (clearly they were used to grubby mountaineers) I headed down to the bar for a gloriously cold beer to write ‘The Long March’. Who needs a siesta!
At about 5:30 Tim and I headed to the Northfields Cafe where we were to meet up with the others, scattered as they were across several different hotels, at around 6 pm. Thereafter we ate together in the K-Too Beer & Steakhouse Restaurant, and boy did we eat! The food in basecamp was great and that on the trek out was fine too, but neither could quite match the fare on the menu of a good Kathmandu restaurant and we tucked-in! Needless to say there was beer and wine to be enjoyed too and having repaired en masse to Sam’s bar afterwards inebriation, if not actually upon us, could be seen from where we were. Any concept of sobriety, with the exception of one of our number who remarkably was teetotal yet as daft as the rest of us, went completely out of the window when, at being ejected from Sam’s at midnight after 2 of our number tried to set fire to their chest hair, we found our way to the Fire Club. This venue is effectively a bar and disco (old fashioned I know but that’s what it is) with a lounge area with large screen TVs showing football. Needless to say our attention focused at the other end and before too long ‘stuff’ was being strutted in the midst of multicoloured ceiling-mounted lights, the reflections of multiple mirrors and the inevitable 60’s ‘shiny disco balls’. The dance floor was surrounded by what looked lake crash barriers while the DJ appeared to be behind reinforced glass. It was just that kind of place. Before too long some of the local lads attempted to move in on the ladies from our group and the inevitable bundle ensued. Nothing too serious but the point had to be made. At some stage one of our group unaccountably lost his trousers and while he was perfectly decently covered underneath the fact that he remained on the dance floor upset the management and decorum had to be restored, but only after this individual featured in a topless photo with some of the other male members of the group. This part of the evening was drawn to a close when firstly we decided to pin our credibility on the arm-wrestling prowess of one of our team, who promptly lost, and more finally when the arrival of 2 o’clock signalled the end of the music and closure of the bar.
Into the street we poured, with any association with liquid indicated by the use of that word being entirely intentional, with some members still declaring that the night was yet young. This was belied by the complete darkness we encountered; the depth of which was relieved only by the occasional still-lit neon signs suspected at drunken angles from the buildings which seemed to crowd over us shutting out the sky. Then from nowhere appeared a squadron of rickshaws. These 2-person vehicles are based upon sturdy bicycles and typically feature a simple padded seat of dubious cleanliness and a hood similar in construction to that of an old-fashioned pram but more for decoration than protection. During the day these would have been propelled at ludicrous speed around the backstreets of Kathmandu were it not for the nose to tail traffic, the hordes people and the potholes. During the night however two of these are not an issue and given that they are unlit can give the unwary a nasty shock as they appear from nowhere. So it was that seemingly from that very place, and as if by magic, about a dozen rickshaws appeared to help us on our way. The problem was that there was no consensus on where to go. Open bars were at a premium (mercifully) and we had just left the latest-opening club. Then someone suggested a casino which while probably not being a smart idea did achieve a measure of support. As a result there were several rousing choruses of ‘we want chips, we want chips’ from the recently disgorged which sat badly with another group of later-nighters stumbling along the gutter from our right. For reasons which I don’t entirely fathom we ended up getting into a bit of light hearted bother with these folk which could probably have been passed-over in this narrative were it not for a particularly comic incident which ensued. Following an altercation between one of our number and one of the intruders the latter and one of his cohorts leapt into a rickshaw in order to execute a smart getaway. Meanwhile the former jumped onto the rear of the rickshaw to prevent the protagonists escaping, completely ignoring the laws of physics (specifically those of balance) and more importantly ignoring the empty driver’s seat. Thus the contraption tipped backwards depositing the occupants and their assailant into the pitch-black gutter in a big heap of uproarious laughter. That was the end of the argument and the rickshaw driver was passed a modest sum for his troubles. There ensued a renewed call for ‘chips’ at which point the collective mass of drivers assured us they would take us to the casino; or at least that’s what we thought they said before we all jumped aboard and headed through darkened streets. Arriving a few minutes later at one end of a darkened alley we were ushered towards a dim light some metres away at the other end. The braver souls led the way pushing open a heavy door to reveal a clean open space strewn with carpets and cushions. This was clearly not a casino and the more conservative in our group pretty quickly made expressions of discontent. These quickly turned to howls of laughter when the owner appeared branding menus, clearly a little surprised to see such a gathering at this hour in his pizza restaurant! The evening was subsequently drawn to a close with the lead rickshaw driver being berated along the lines of ‘my dear man, we asked for betting chips, not pizza and chips’. Please be assured that I don’t hold this up as an example of good behaviour by visitors to the fine city of Kathmandu and the consumption of alcohol is no excuse (particularly in the case of the teetotal) but at the end of the day (or night) no harm was done, the rickshaw drivers all got paid and had a great laugh at our expense, there was nary a black eye to show for the altercation on either side, and the trouserless one was reunited with his strides the following day.
The days that followed while we awaited our flights home passed without significant incident. We typically took lunch in the Northfields Cafe and Jesse James Bar, dinner in a different restaurant each evening all eating together, and post-dinner refreshment in Sam’s where we became quite well known to the owner Vereena (Sam is her husband) and her staff due to our humour and good cheer. I was delighted one evening in Sam’s to meet Mark Horrell whose books ‘The Wrath of the Turquoise Goddess’ and ‘The Chomolongma Diaries’ had been the inspiration for me writing ‘The Turquoise Goddess; Not Just about the Summit’, which has now sold more than 30 copies. I know that doesn’t make it a best seller but I’m chuffed to bits and a Kindle version is only a few days away.
Tim and I flew out of Kathmandu on Saturday 3rd May, nearly 2 weeks ago to be reunited with our families all of whom shared our disappointment at the turn of events on the mountain, yet were overwhelmingly glad that we had returned safely. The days sinse have given much opportunity for reflection and for reviewing the way in which happenings on Everest were reported in the media. I believe you all know now that there was never any argument between the sherpas and the climbers. Nor did the Nepalese government close the mountain. Nor again was the Khumbu Icefall too dangerous. The mountain was closed by what amounted to strike action by a few militants, enforced by menaces, in support of a better financial deal from their government in the wake of the dreadful avalanche tragedy. When those menaces, more specifically threats of maiming visited on individuals and their families, became widespread and credible and no move was made by the authorities to counter them, expedition leaders had no choice but to act decisively to protect their Sherpa employees and client climbers by withdrawing from the mountain. Do I blame the militants for their actions? No! Despite the fact that the climbing sherpas are among the highest paid workers in Nepal the amount paid to them in the event of tragedy by their government is a tiny fraction of what the government makes from mountaineering. I just wish that a resolution could have been found in time to enable climbers to continue this season. However, regrets are pointless. While continuing to be dreadfully sad for the loss suffered by the families of those killed in the avalanche accident I enjoyed my time in Nepal enormously, and I will return.
I have also not dwelled upon events in Nepal too much since returning home as a result of deciding to leave my present employment. I have worked for my current company for nearly 13 years and believe now is the right time to make a change, not least due to the amazing reaction of you, my readers, to my blog. A number of you have been kind enough to comment favourably upon my writing and this, combined with the immense joy that I found in writing for you, has made me think seriously about pursuing this as a potential new venture. If it all goes horribly wrong then I will return to ‘regular’ work later this year. I certainly won’t be burning my suit just yet!
Next week I am taking a few days in Scotland to walk the West Highland Way, something I have always wanted to do, and I will blog each evening provided I have coverage. Gaining your interest in an expedition to Everest might be considered easy given its prominence in peoples’ imagination. Whether I can keep your interest in a walk through Scotland remains to be seen. Without in any way wishing to be judgemental there is a distinct difference between Everest and Ben Lomond. Let’s see eh? Either way when I return I will write a short book on my experience on Everest, and complete the Kindle version of ‘The Turquoise Goddess’. I shall then set about seeing if there is any future at all for me as a writer. Given that collectively you are my readership and inspiration I want to share this journey with you and will create a new blog for this.
So this really is the end of the ‘Andy on Everest 2014’ blog and it remains only for me to conclude with the focus on ‘today’ as indeed this blog was started back on 1st March with a series of ‘today’s’.
Today I thank my darling wife Clare for her unstinting support for me and my dream to climb Everest. Your consent to try again one day, given freely whilst I was still in basecamp, is beyond expectation.
Today I thank the Himalayan Guides Team 2014, leaders, co-climbers, and the best sherpas in the world, for your hard work and companionship on the Big Hill. Each of you has been an inspiration to me.
Today is my last day in the office and I thank all my colleagues at all levels for your support and encouragement for my endeavours, and especially those who took on extra work to allow me to follow my dream. I hope you get to follow yours one day.
Today I Iook forward with tremendous excitement to whatever, and I mean whatever, the future holds. Today I thank you all, whoever you may be: colleagues, friends, family, occasional readers or schoolchildren. You have given me the confidence to try something new, a remarkable gift unthinkable just a few weeks ago. I will share this with you.
Finally, I repeat my conclusion from one of my later blogs. One which struck a chord with many of you, and which caused a complete stranger to say to me: ‘you write exceedingly well and seem to observe things that other miss - the joy of life’:
Oh sweet heaven how I am blessed this day!
Shortly after the wondrous 'young girl singing' experience of earlier today Tim and Ellis caught me up and we walked the next few miles together. Today our target was Namche Bazaar. The track was broad and clear and in the rising sun we made good progress, initially along the side of the gorge then down into its depth where a new bridge crossed the tumultuous foaming river. This new wooden structure had replaced an earlier metal facility which we found in a tangle a few metres downstream. It looked as though this had been ripped away from its position and twisted horribly by a flash flood, probably last year.
After following the river for a few hundred metres and passing porters carrying heavy loads of sawn wood, the path began to rise and the rhododendrons were coming into bloom so the section of our walk leading up to Tengboche was significantly more colourful than expected and the angle of ascent up to the monastery was relieved somewhat by their beauty. Reaching the top of the hill we took lemon ginger tea at one of the tea houses that accompany the monastery. This restful 20 minutes or so was spent by Tim recalling a couple of amazing episodes from his time in Northern Nepal, in the Dolpo region. One of these related to a time when he was unwell with a seriously upset stomach, as was another girl of the village in which he was staying. After several days Tim was fortunate enough to get some antibiotics which may have begun to fight his infection but the same was not the case for the girl who remained very ill and was actually regressing. After a few days the local healer, an old woman from a nearby village, came by and was asked to look at the pair. After a short examination, sitting them back to back she braided several strands of their hair together; Tim's fair hair with the girl's dark hair. Upon completion she lay her hands upon each of their heads, looked skywards and croaked loudly 'kwok', 'kwok', 'KWOK' throwing her hands forcibly upwards in the final exhortation. Within 48 hours both Tim and the girl were perfectly fit and well. In Tim's case this could of course have been the effect of the drugs but none were taken by the girl. Another, perhaps even more incredible but compelling story related to an unknown affliction that impacted a whole village. He witnessed first hand the healer, in this case a man, gather all those feeling Ill within the village in one section of the communal shelter then while holding aloft a small rice bowl utter an incantation in an olden tongue. As his chanting reached a crescendo he brought the bowl down with a crash as if to trap a poisonous creature within the bowl. Saying 'I have it, I have it!', he then continued to chant for a few minutes. He was unaware that a western friend of Tim's, Michael, had arrived at the entrance to the shelter and at the instant the healer dramatically raised the bowl once more with an exaltation of banishment in a strange and unforgiving tongue, Michael was physically knocked back against the door jamb. He recovered in time to see a blinding ball of light about the size of an egg streak from the bowl, bounce several times around the room then zip out of the door in front of his face and dissipate. By the end of the day the ailment inflicting the village was no more. You may choose not to believe this but Tim assured me of its authenticity. Doesn't it just make you want to go there? Moving on from our break we continued towards Namche Bazaar, once more revelling in the joy of a well made and for the most part not too precipitous track. There were a few sections however that required a little more effort, not least that which descended 600m to the river at the amusingly named suspension bridge at Phunki Tanga before climbing 300m back up to the beautiful hamlet of Kyangjuma. While we were enjoying the lunchtime hospitality of Tashi and her husband at the Ama Dablam Lodge & Restaurant a call came through to the team from our agent back in Kathmandu. The message was straightforward and the implication was profound. There were no seats available on any flights from Lukla to Kathmandu on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. This meant that we had to get to Lukla this evening (Sunday), rather than tomorrow which had been the plan. Thus instead of a steady stroll into Namche over the next couple of hours we now faced a nominal 10 hour trek which had to be completed in order to secure flights on Monday morning. These had been reserved for us but unless we put in a personal appearance at Lukla that evening the seats would be reassigned and we would be stuck. It was then around 1 pm, it was scheduled to get dark at 7pm, and the forecast was for heavy rain from late afternoon. Aaaaaargh! With no time to lose we bolted our lunch, filled water bottles, bade farewell to Tashi who presented us all with kata scarves to keep us safe, shouldered our rucksacks, and shipped out in double-quick time! Tim and I led the charge, with Ellis and Alex, Rob and MK close behind. Heaven only knew where Tim M, Scoot and Chris were but we had no choice but to leave that issue with the agent. ('Scoot' was actually called Scott but his name was spelled wrongly by some clown on the climbing permit and Scoot stuck.) As Paul and Ingo had left base camp the previous day they would already be planning to get to Lukla this day so there was no issue with them, and 'Bulks', Dan and Nigel had paid for the chopper out. Tim reckoned if we got a blast on we could cover the ground in 6 hours rather than 10 but it would be a full-on charge with just a short break every hour. He was particularly keen to get to Lukla before dark and to avoid as much of the rain as probable. I agreed with him but targeted 6:55 as Happy Hour finished at 7! Off down the track we went, no horses spared. We could see Namche Bazaar in the distance and the flat broadly level track that contoured around the hillside towards it. Bustling past trekkers and showing less concern for the meanderings of yaks than hitherto we belted along the well maintained stone-slab path high above the Dudh Koshi river, completely ignoring the last view of Everest, and made Namche in about 1 hour, roughly half the time allowed in most trekkers schedules. Inevitably Tim knew quite few people in the town all of whom seemed to know we were arriving and conspired to delay our progress down the steep slab steps and through the town. Stopping only for as long as necessary not to appear rude we pressed on, via a little shop to take on board supplies of sugary sweets, dried fruit and chocolate bars we continued. Our feet were already complaining of the battering they were getting on the rock and cobbles but that couldn't be helped. It was make Lukla in good time today or be stuck until Friday at the earliest. No thank you! Let's get outta here pronto! Out of Namche the track goes down, down and further down, normally for a full hour before finally reaching the Dudh Koshi river valley. Needless to say we did it more quickly, catching and overtaking Alex and Ellis who had got in front while we were delayed in Namche. They nonetheless kept close to us now and for a while we were a band of 4 loonatics racing pell-mell down the steep and slippery path through the woods, or at least that is how we must have appeared to those poor souls struggling up the other way who were swamped by our dust as we crashed past. For most of the trip down I was in the lead and looking back occasionally the only person I would see was Tim. Then Tim disappeared and I only saw Alex. Next time I only saw Ellis. Strange, I thought. Slowing down at last I realised that while I was on a path it showed less wear than previously. Ellis caught up and we looked concernedly at each other. By this time we were at river valley level. Sure enough we'd missed a turning and looking up we saw Tim over a hundred feet above beckoning us back. 'Are you sure'? A slow and exaggerated nod came back. 'If you're having a laugh there'll be trouble!' A evil chuckle. 'No way! - we're carrying on as there is a path here and it must go somewhere'. A wave of the hand in the general direction we were travelling was his response. So on we went. Sure enough after a couple of hundred metres we came to a suspension bridge festooned with prayer flags and kata scarves. Looking up we saw another many metres higher. We had clearly used the old route, missing the turning for the new route. No harm was done. Reaching the other side and just about to climb up to Tim's level we met a local man who assured us that in the dry season the lower route was quicker. Due to the deepness and narrow width of the river gorge there was no telephone signal so had no way of letting anyone know where we were. So we continued at valley floor level, slipping and sliding over slimy round damp river boulders for an agonising 300 metres or so. At least it was cool down here but that didn't stop the sweat streaking our bodies as we belted along revelling in the richness of the atmosphere. Eventually seeing another suspension bridge ahead a lone figure could be made out just beginning to cross from left to right. Increasing my speed to a near run, almost suicidal in the conditions but essential in order to see who it was on the bridge, I got close enough to see that, as expected, it was Tim and a shout was raised to alert him. After a few minutes I was on the bridge and having crossed took a good water break and some sweets. Ellis caught up after minutes, followed by Alex, who had taken a wrong turning too, 10 minutes later. Off we went together again, with the next targets being the police and Army checkpoint at Jorsale and the entrance to the Sagarmatha National Park at Monjo. By this time the weather had turned and the sky threatened rain, but we were moving too fast and hot to care. With hot feet feet and toes wincing with every knock or twist on the unforgiving pebbles, loose rock and wild paths along which we travelled way too fast, we made the police post by 3:20. I guess we must have approached like fugitives on the run as the soldiers on duty checked our papers very carefully and questioned us closely before relaxing. We of course explained who we were and why we were travelling so fast and were rewarded with big laughs, knowing nods, and a cheerful wave through. Likewise at the park gate which we reached at 3:30. Clattering through Monjo and trying to ignore the pain in our feet we had made good time in that 4.5 hours of trek had been covered in 2.5 hours. But we still weren't even half-way and the path to date had been predominantly either down or gently undulating. Furthermore while there had been no rain it was growing very dark. It wasn't going to get any easier. Leaving Monjo, while the route continued to be heading downward over the long term, it comprised a whole series of quite steep upward sections alternating with steep declines. Up, down, up and down all the time. It was a nightmare. As sore on the toes in either direction the little hamlets of Chumowa, Benkar, and Tok Tok came and went in a blur. Somehow we avoided the rain ourselves but to add insult to injury not all the areas we crashed through had fared as well. The ground was now wet, which meant the rocky paths were slippery and the sandy paths were waterlogged. As it was still hot, Tim estimated around 28°C, it was steamy. In order to maximise my visual accuracy to cope with travelling at a daft speed over ankle-twisting rocks I had kept my glasses on rather that using contact lenses. However with the sweat pouring off my face and the mugginess of the atmosphere I was steaming up. This, added to the growing overcast, made for a dangerous combination and I called to Tim for a short break in the tiny village of Rimjung. Quickly putting my lenses in and grabbing a drink it felt like a formula 1 pit stop and we were off again towards Phakding. My change of visuals proved timely as now the rain did start. Only slowly but rain it did and if anything the route through the hamlets of Ghat and Thado was even more of a switchback than previously; but at least it was still overall descending. From Thado it would go upwards. Nominally a 2.5 hour trek we had around 2 hours in which to complete it. There was a steep section for about 40 minutes, followed by broadly upward undulations for 40 minutes, with a further 40 minutes of straight climb. We were looking ok for 7 but blimey it was hard work. Tim was faster up the hills than me although I usually caught up along the flat, sometimes needing to jog in order to do so. To take my mind off the pain in my toes I was counting steps reaching over a thousand upward steps before becoming bored. There was no time for 'step, breath, step, breath'. This was 'step, step, step, step'. But we were doing ok and mercifully the rain had stopped and the skies lifted a little. As we approached Cheplung I knew that the first steep section was over and we had around an hour to hit our target. Just through the village we came to a natural spring and I was out of water. Tim and I agreed that in light of what lay ahead we should take a decent rest. Gulping water and forcing down grain bars and sugar sweets we stopped for about 10 minutes. This was longer than ideal but necessary to prepare for one last push. Then it was off and within 10 minutes or so we hit the final climb to Lukla Gate. One, step, two, step, three, step, four, step. On and on into the gathering gloom up the path. Still heavily cobbled and increasingly sore at least the path was well made with rock and therefore even though it was getting quite dark towards the end we didn't need our head-torches. Finally we could see Lukla Gate ahead and with a last few steps we heaved ourselves through it. Peering ahead we could see the village of Lukla in the murk. There are no street lights here but our watches clearly showed we had made it before 7. Shaking hands briefly before abandoning that for a man hug Tim and I beamed at each other through the sweat before shuffling through the town like John Wayne with bunions on both feet. We reached our hostel a few minutes later. It turned out to be the last one in the village and as we opened the door the clock on the wall showed exactly 7 pm. We had done it! Tim ordered a tea while I had a cold beer. Never had either tasted better! Then joy of joys within 5 minutes Paul and Ingo came in from having a look around the village and the level of hugging and congratulations had to be seen to be believed. These are such great guys and we were so pleased that they were here. Having refreshed ourselves we checked our feet to find not a single blister. Not even a hot spot. Soreness from the constant bashing on the rocks of course but no damage at all! At about 7:25 Alex came in and the hugs and congrats took off again. Then at 8 we saw Ellis. Though a little later than us his time was amazing as he had taking a wrong turn in the dark and gone some distance out of his way, uphill, towards the monastery above Phakding. Shortly after Rob and MK arrived. Again this was a great performance given that Rob had business in Namche which had delayed him and he was also carrying a heavier rucksack than us. Thus ended what must have been the most expensive trek to Everest base camp and back in history. There will be a few more blogs as I know from previous experience that some of you like to hear about the city and other post-expedition goings-on, however this marks the end of the main part of our trip. Kathmandu here we come! After the glorious canter from base camp to Pangboche I was really looking forward to the next leg to Namche Bazaar. I had always been fascinated by this town; it's name evoked the mystery of the east and it's location, tucked into the hills, looked like a fairy tale. After a great night's sleep despite the hobnail boot wearing elephants who moved into the room (aka plywood box) above me I wolfed down breakfast at 7:30 (you can guess what I had) and headed out. Tim, Ellis and Alex were finishing off bits and pieces and they would follow shortly. Unlike yesterday I wasn't looking for solitude, I just didn't want to stand around in the courtyard of the Sonam Lodge looking all dressed up with no place to go. Up the steps and past an old yak that had obviously checked into the garden suite overnight I turned left onto the track, continuing where I had left off in the gathering clouds yesterday. Behind my left shoulder the sun was up although not sufficiently high to provide much warmth. However it's effect on the land was magical. The little houses in the village were bathed in the most beautiful pale yellow wash. Windows occasionally glinting as I made my way between stone walls, green paintwork and green corrugated iron roofs. Occasionally the track through the village would be split in two by a religious monument or a row of chiselled slabs that also have religious significance and which must be passed on the left. As I was in no hurry, and actually looking forward to walking with company, I dawdled through Pangboche. After a few minutes I passed Rob coming out of his hostel. He would normally have stayed at Gurmen's Sonam Lodge but there was no room by the time he arrived yesterday. He was in deep conversation with a small group of Sherpas yet still raised a cheery wave and smile as I passed, shading his eyes as he did so. The path was smooth sand and well maintained so I could take the time to really look around and take in my surroundings, rather than adopting my customary head down and blast through demeanour. The hostels had wonderfully evocative names such as the 'Everest View Lodge & Restaurant' which advertised hygienic food preparation, telephone, and an inside toilet. Mock not - such luxuries are not that common! It also had a little sunny terrace with plastic chairs and tables with gaily coloured coverings. This idyllic scene made me draw breath and soak up the atmosphere. It was clean and fresh. Maybe the hint of woodsmoke (or yak poo smoke) in the air but otherwise just great clean air. Passing some washing hanging on a line, mostly duvet covers and bed linen, I paused to reflect that this was quite unusual. The lady next door adopted the custom of draping her washing over trees, bushes, and the dry stone wall. What kind of place views a washing line as a new invention? Little by little I was being drawn into the spirit, not just of Pangboche but of the region. The rhythm of life beats to a different drum here. Indeed it is no drum at all. Passing a sign adverting the cold drinks available at the Himalayan Lodge & Restaurant I had to take care as the path swung hard left and went down several rocky steps that required care to negotiate due to their roughness and irregularity. Passing a little shop with various items of potential importance to trekkers; hats, knock-off TNF jackets, water (350 Rupees per litre - about £2.50) and seeing a young porter coming towards me I was reminded again that everything, everything has to be carried in. The porter was wearing a huge rattan basket on his back. The basket had a frame above so that goods could be piled on top of the basket and strapped to the frame giving a load height of well over 1 metre, from about the back of the knee to just over head height. The basket was supported by a broad cloth strap which the porter placed over his head, roughly midway between forehead and the top of the head. Straining forward enabled him to carry this load with the weight going directly down his spine. On either side of the load were straps which he used to maintain stability. As he approached I could see he was in old scuffed trainers, jeans and a red Manchester United t-shirt, and he had buds in his ears listening to some rock music which I didn't recognise. I offered a 'namaste!' but he didn't hear. In front of the shop where this little cameo unfolded was a young woman washing her long black hair in a broad bowl. I had seen her before, doing exactly the same thing on my walk in as I had bought a chocolate bar from this shop. She heard my 'namaste' and thinking it directed to her replied cheerfully, with the distinctive lilt and rising cadence at the end of the word that just cannot replicate. How delightful! Passing the Beyul Ciber Cafe (closed as usual - the network really is suffering this year) I was nearing the edge of the village. The relative wealth of the lodges had gone and in front of me I had a glimpse of an older way of life. On my right a hillside dwelling, stone walled and green painted in traditional style with the window lintels painted red and yellow and blue. To my left a small house, perhaps a farm house, washing drying in the early sun on the walls, with lines of prayer flags steaming from the chimney. Passing down the track I left the village noting a farmer, probably from the house with the flags, turning the deep rich soil in his field with a wooden plough drawn by 2 yaks. While I could see him clearly, dressed in heavy dark yak's wool jacket a trousers, the early morning mist not yet burned off by the rising sun leant the scene an ethereal beauty that I have never seen before. Towards me, coming into the sunlight from a little copse of silver birch, were 2 yaks being herded by a whistling, calling herder. Bells clanging on their necks the shaggy beasts of burden came on, apparently needing constant encouragement not to become engrossed in the vegetation along the way. Each had a saddle or covering of wool over their backs and while well laden did not appear to be unduly concerned by the weight. As the herder approach I saw it was a young woman maybe in her 20s in traditional clothing. Multicoloured headscarf, dark skinned with flashing eyes, large metal earrings, woollen jacket and long skirt with flat chequered apron, and trainers. She carried a stick in each hand and a small rucksack on her back. It was as if I had, in the short time since leaving the Sonam, become super-sensitised to this incredible country. I felt immersed in the this scene of pure rural idyll rather than a passer-by. As the girl approached she smiled a little and placing her hands together made the slightest of bows and offered 'namaste', which I returned with equal deference. Stopped in my tracks I turned to watch her and the yaks ringing and snuffling their way to the village. In so turning I now faced the sun and saw the little village appearing to melt in the glorious golden sunshine, whisps and tendrils of mist rising from the woodlands. The farmer ploughed his field, and the girl in front of the shop dryed her hair. While staring in wonder at such serenity, from my left, from the little house on the hillside, a young girl began singing. I have no idea what words she used and I couldn't see her. But she was singing sweetly seemingly for the sheer joy of doing so on this most beautiful of mornings. Her virtuoso heard by a shop girl, a farmer, a yak herder, and me. Oh sweet heaven how I am blessed this day. Hi everyone, There will be no post today as I am unwell. Nothing to worry about - in these parts with heat and uncertain standards of cleanliness (mine included) it happens. Clearly there is nothing wrong with my typing finger but I don't want to write to you while feeling rubbish as I know it will taint the spirirt of my story. I'll be back tomorrow. Andy Having been told that our expedition was off yesterday morning our part of base camp was a miserable and cold place to be. Indeed the whole of base camp was cold and miserable. Many of the bigger, typically American, expeditions had already declared closure with the clients having headed down the track or having paid around US$1500 for a chopper ride. In many cases the tents remained in place, neglected, yellow or orange domes blowing in the wind, loose guy ropes flailing. Tempers were running high and feelings were easily hurt. I got into a battle of words with one of the other guys that was about nothing really and we were on the same side. I urged care over the making of defamatory statements about the militants and their threats that were based on hearsay. He accused me of ducking the issue and not being prepared to tell the world what was really happening. We shook hands shortly after and resumed a cordial relationship but this demonstrated how feelings can run over. There were other examples. Some people couldn't wait to get away; Paul and Ingo left yesterday afternoon. This was a particular blow to me because after Tim, these two were my closest buddies on the expedition and, truth be told, I knew I would miss their banter and friendship. Both of these guys were incredibly gregarious and every time we met there would be a high-5 or a hug or a merry quip. Paul is a big Frenchman living and working in Singapore and a huge rugby fan while Ingo is Iceland's foremost male adventurer, mountaineer and paraglider pilot. After a cold and snowy night Tim and I were to leave early the following morning. Breakfast was set initially for 7 a.m. In order to enable a 7:30 start. In the event it was pushed back to 7:30 with getaway due at 8:00. Then 8:00 came and went, as did 8:15 and I was getting restless. Once 8:30 had been missed too I told Tim I would see him on the trail. I sought out several others to say cheerio but they were busy on their own stuff so I simply confirmed to Tim that I would see him later, and walked out of camp. Our plan was to try and make it to Namche Bazaar but with a checkpoint at Pangboche (the wedding venue) at 2:30. That is to say whoever got to Pangboche (Sonam Lodge) first would wait for the other and then decide whether to progress to Namche. If the second person arrived after 2:30 we would stay put. Tim was fine with this as while I was probably faster on the flat he was quicker up the hills and we both expected he would catch me after an hour or two. Setting out at 8:30 into the cold crisp air was a joy. Already I was leaving behind me the trials and tribulations of the past week or so and my spirits soared. Of course I would rather have had Tim with me but he had final business to do in camp. Climbing and descending over the slippery boulder field that passes for base camp I soon reached the deserted Adventure Consultants camp (intact but deserted) and then the main track facing the glacier and the ice fall; the scene of such tragedy just over a week ago and indirectly responsible for our early departure. Turning right I headed to the entrance to base camp, around 20 minutes of seriously undulating rocky path, stepping to one side periodically to avoid the dozens of yaks heading the other way, presumably soon to be harnessed and laden with tents, cooking gear, loo seats, and all the other paraphernalia of life at base camp. Meanwhile overhead helicopters made repeated runs through the icefall to collect stores already pre-positioned at Camps 1 and 2 but now unreachable on foot thanks to the threat of maiming or worse made to the Sherpas whose livelihoods has been wrenched from their grasp by the militants. It was time to go and I revelled in the feeling of the rucksack on my back and the crunch of the rock under my boots. Farewell IMG (also deserted). Farewell Mercantile hotspot (no meaningful service for the past 2 days). Farewell Jagged Globe (people still there, including 2 friends of mine, but already declared to be leaving). Past the rocks adorned with prayer flags yet grotesquely disfigured by graffiti with which some of those who trek to base camp feel compelled to endow to the world. Thank God these people aren't allowed into base camp itself! Then down into the gorge and out the other side onto the steep rock and sand track that angles along and up the lateral moraine. Head nervously twitching to the right looking out for the all too common rockfall. Step, breathe, step, breathe, one at a time to the top. Once on the ridge I stopped and looked back one last time to see if Tim was in sight. He wasn't. The sky was a crystal clear blue above the pristine and now familiar outline of Mt Everest and Nuptse. Beneath these was the glacier where I had belatedly found the 3G-Spot which enabled contact with home. Closer still was the ghost town that had been home for the past 2 weeks but which now marked the end of my dream to follow in the footsteps of Hillary and Tenzing. No regrets! Turning my face to the wind I headed out along the ridge of the moraine with a spring in my step. It was not, after all, just about the summit. I was in the Himalaya, the beautiful, vast, Himalaya. I didn't need a chaperone. If Tim caught me that was fine but if not I had around 6 hours of the finest walking in the world ahead of me. Boy I felt good! Crunch went the boots on the rock. Click-click went the walking poles that I always use to give stability, for extra forward traction, to protect my knees, and to ward off yaks. At one point a helicopter roared overhead and I waved at it enthusiastically in farewell to 'Bulks' (the first European woman to complete all 4 desert marathons), Daniel and Nigel. These had each paid US$800 for a chopper to take them and their bags to Lukla. They were in a hurry but I didn't envy them. Though the day was cold I was working hard and perfectly comfortable in my lightweight trekking trousers and t-shirt chuckling to myself at the goretex-festooned big hat wearing base camp trekkers coming the other way. Tut! What do they look like! Click, click, click. Gotta make progress with every step. No matter how slippery or how steep, when a line of plodders or yaks or porters weighed down with all manner of worldly goods (cornflakes, noodles, nails) gets in the way just go round and press on. I was flying and loving it. Maybe I'm made for extreme trekking? After a while I espyed Gorek Shep. Green roofed, stolidly built stone dwellings all geared to providing a service (typically a fairly basic one) to the trekkers, it was bathed in cold sunshine. Ears tingling and fingers, frankly, cold I was delighted to reach this press of people, most (the orientals) with so much sun cream daubed on their sunglassed faces that they looked like Pierrot the clown, in just over an hour. Eschewing the temptation of ginger lemon tea I pushed on to Lobuche. Over spurs and around precipitous rockfalls. Click, click, crunch, crunch. Skipping from one rock to another 'off piste' to avoid the panting masses, or yaks coming on in increasing numbers to assist the dismantling of base camp that would soon resemble Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. Then down to the level of the river, very low at the moment, and after another hour Lobuche was reached. Occasional backward glances revealed no Tim. I wasn't hoping he wouldn't catch me but after weeks of instruction to take it steady it was simply a release to stretch my legs. After Lobuche came Dughla, a further hour along the track. Much of this leg was also high level as the track wound it's way along the side of a rocky gorge, river in low water to my left, but rising to cross the Dughla pass which features memorials to many famous mountaineers who met their ends in this region, for example Scott Fischer and Rob Hall who died in the tragic events of 1996 as recounted by Jon Krakaeur in his book 'Into Thin Air'. After the field of monuments the path drops sharply to the collection of food and drink retail outlets that goes by the name of Dughla. Tempted to stop for a bite? Ugh! Swinging left it was over a rickety bridge then contouring around the snout of a spur then down, down, down towards Pheriche. This is glorious walking. Every step downwards brings a deep breath of ever more rich air. No noise, no pollution, the only sounds are my boots and sticks and the pump of blood in my ears. The sun is getting hot now and my bright red baseball camp is wet with sweat, as is my t-shirt. I'm loving it. Still no Tim and I reach the valley floor and head left to Pheriche, seen vaguely in the distance as a series of metal roofs glinting in the sun. As I approach Pheriche the wind gets up and I am concerned that I may get dust or worse in my eyes. On go the sunglasses recently discarded once I'd left the snow behind, and a buff over my face. Wet t-shirt steaming a testimony to my efforts I continue revelling in such freedom in deeply, deeply magnificent terrain. Pheriche was a pleasant enough little village with the various wi-fi advertising establishments a serious temptation but, no, don't stop. Down the main track I pushed, offering a nod and a 'namaste' to anyone who looked like they might reply, which was most people to be honest. Friendly farmers, or mums with children. Ladies washing clothes in the street or boys or men doing the transportation work normally done in western towns or villages by trucks or the ubiquitous 'white van'. All were treated to a 'namaste!' All responded. Heaven knows what they made of me but what a joy all the same. Reaching Pheriche at 12:30 it was time for a break so setting my back to the wind, I hunkered down against a huge boulder and tucked in to a couple of crunchies and a full litre of water. Peering back up the river valley I still couldn't see Tim so 20 minutes later set off once again. The gorge narrowed south of Pheriche and the way once more became steep and precipitous with the narrow, typically 3 to 4ft wide, rock and sand track winding its way around the side of the gorge. After the pebble and boulder-strewn path typical of the approach to Pheriche this was actually a pleasure to walk on. Over a narrow metal bridge across the raging Lobuche Khola river and up, up to the top of the gorge. Passing a group of puffing trekkers I revelled in the palpable richness of the air and swore I could feel the oxygen-enriched blood now pumping through me. While still at an altitude of 4270m and higher than all but the very highest Alpine peaks I had still descended over one vertical kilometre since leaving base camp just 4 hours previously. The views from this elevated path were stupendous. Ama Dablam to my left was a brooding yet beautiful presence it's shape resembling a white-hooded and robed nun with arms beckoning. Ahead through the valley the clouds were gathering but I could see my target; the Sonam Lodge at Pangboche, at the end of the track, still several miles away. Though vegetation remained sparse whereas previously the track was sometimes hard to follow now the way was clear. A bold sandy track could be seen contouring along the right hand side of the gorge, seemingly protected on either side by the dark green of evergreen low scrub and increasingly by juniper and pine. Swinging along this joy of a track I ate up the miles and soon reached the little hillside hamlet of Shomare. Steeply stepped this tough yet delightful place offered rest and accommodation, food and drink. Old women talked behind stone walls, dressed in the heavy woollen garments typical of the region almost always wearing a headscarf and the traditional flat-chequered apron that I first noticed at the wedding in Pangboche on my way up. However with my lunch destination now only a mile or so away I kept going. The final leg was a relatively straightforward and gradually descending path, although it was not without excitement. This came in the form of several strings of yaks making their way north who were best given a wide berth. Yet such was the steepness of the ground getting uphill of them was tricky while getting downhill would have been suicidal. When walking in single file there was no problem but if they decided to double-up in spite of their whistling or shouting herders they occupied the full width of the path. In these circumstances I found the best approach was to stand on the uphill side of the track (obviously), plant my sticks firmly in front and stare down the front animal. Yaks are fairly docile so any similarity to bull fighting should be put to one side, however their heads and horns are a considerable size and more to the point their burdens are always wider than the animal itself. Even once the head and horns of these dopey beasts have passed it is still necessary to take care not to be smeared along a rock wall by a roll of carpet or box of tins of baked beans or whatever the cargo is. Arriving at the Sonam Lodge at 1:45, quietly pleased with the time I'd made and completely knocked out by the rugged beauty of the scenery, I said (of course) 'Namaste!' to Gurmen the owner, who recognised me from the previous stay. Sipping ginger lemon tea while waiting for Tim, as agreed, I got in conversation (in English) with a group of trekkers from Finland. They were very excited about their day so far and in particular because later that afternoon they were going to attend a Puja conducted by ....... yep, Llama Gyeshe, the man who had conducted the weeding ceremony 2 weeks previous. I learned from Gurmen that he lives in Pangboche. At around 2:45 Tim, Ellis and Alex turned up also having had a great day. By this time the weather was closing in as is often the case in the afternoon so we decided to stay at the Sonam for the night. Ahh. The joys of walking. Fried eggs on chips for 4 please Gurmen! Hello everyone, At 9 a.m. this morning our expedition leader brought our attempt to summit Mt Everest this year to an end. Despite being packed with climbers and guides you could have heard a pin drop as the announcement was made. You will recall that in my blog yesterday I urged you not to believe everything that you read in the newspapers related to this situation. It is widely reported that the mountain has been closed by the government. That is absolutely not true. It is also widely reported that there is a schism between the Sherpas in general and western climbers. Likewise that is not true. I also understand that some papers are reporting Sherpas on strike in memory of their colleagues who fell a week ago. Again: not true. The fact of the matter is that a few militant Sherpas have taken advantage of the dreadful avalanche accident last week to press a claim for a better deal from their government in relation to how the enormous revenue from climbing permits is used, and have intimidated others into supporting their cause. A climbing permit costs every climber US$10,000. I understand this claim was first pressed with the government last weekend and again at a special Puja early this week. At the same time, as a mark of respect, everyone at base camp agreed a 4-day period of mourning for the avalanche dead during which there would be no movement on the mountain. This ended COB Monday after which teams were to continue to climb or prepare according to their own schedules. However when by then no progress had been made by the militants threats were made to the wider Sherpa community that they would be harmed if they resumed movement on the mountain. As these threats were deemed credible all teams agreed to keep off the mountain, especially in light of the trauma already being felt by the Sherpas. When there was still no progress by the militants the threats were extended to westerners too. This escalation brought a considerable concession from the Nepalese government in that the responsible minister from the Nepalese government and other senior officials flew into base camp yesterday morning for a meeting with militant leaders. I was present and can tell you it was a bear pit. The officials, the Ministerlooking frail and using oxygen due to the height, sat on 4 chairs in the middle of a crowd of approaching 200 people. Following an introduction from a senior member of the Nepalese Mountaineering Association, and speeches from government ministers, often interrupted by hecklers, the ministers were addressed, some might say harangued, by one of the militant leaders. Using intimidating gestures and with every point being cheered wildly by rabble-rousers in the crowd this address lasted a considerable time. At one point loud calls of 'Stone him! Stone him! were heard from the crowd directed at the Minister. At the end of the event, which resulted in the government agreeing to the demands but being unable to formally sign it off due the need to put it to parliament, as the Minister and his team made their way to a helicopter they were jostled and someone tried to snatch the oxygen tube from the Minister's nose. Various western expeditions had been becoming increasingly concerned for the safety of their Sherpas in light of increasing hostility, and latterly for that of their clients. Some decided to pull out early, not always citing the real reason for doing so, while other called off late. The real situation is a little more complex than portrayed above due to claims that Maoists were involved, trying to gain control of the significant Everest-related income to this region of the Khumbu. There is also a petition signed by 300 Sherpas that purports to say that the icefall is unsafe to climb, but given the intimidation already described that paper can hardly be considered valid. The joint armed police and military presence that we were told during our pre-expedition briefing would be in base camp never materialised, and perhaps in light of the avalanche the initial militant posturing was tolerated rather than being promptly squashed. However, whatever the rights and wrongs, the could-have's or should have's, we have pulled out to maintain the safety of our Sherpas and their families in light of several several fights and scuffles, and a credible threat of escalating violence. We leave with huge sympathy for the families of those that lost their lives last week and admiration for those whose rapid coordination of the rescue undoubtedly saved further loss. It goes without saying that the entire team are devastated at not even getting one foot on the ice and the need to leave before even getting started. Our excellent Sherpas who would have been happy to proceed will now return home without the summit bonuses that they were expecting. We feel that we have been robbed of our opportunity, for most of us a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to realise our dream, and are at a loss to understand who has gained. Whoever you are I hope you are pleased with your week's work. You will have noticed from your newspapers that there continues to be discussion and uncertainty over the future of this year's Everest climbing season. Some teams have pulled out while others remain in hope that a resolution can be found. There are several factions in the debate and any suggestion that this is simply a disagreement between the Sherpas and the Western companies is well wide of the mark. I assure you my group has not and would not force our excellent team of Sherpas to do anything beyond their will and are acutely aware of their predicament. By way of example of the complexity the Nepalese Prime Minister, First Minister, and other senior government dignitaries flew in to base camp this morning for a meeting with Sherpa leaders. Western climbers were not involved. Given the sensitivity of the situation you would not expect me to join the debate. However I ask that you do not believe everything you read, hear or see in the media. If it becomes clear that no accommodation can be found between the protagonists we will withdraw. Until then we stay in the hope of yet being able to climb the most magnificent Mt Everest. Today we had our Puja. A Puja is a religious ceremony to appease the deity believed in Tibetan Buddhism, which includes an element of animism, to reside in the mountains. The reason appeasement is necessary is that we mountaineers and in particular our ice axes and crampons, are considered 'unclean' and therefore to be defiling holy ground whenever we climb. Thus the objective of this ceremony was twofold. To give thanks for the safety we have been afforded on past climbs, and to ask forgiveness for past and any future 'pollution' of sacred ground. The Puja started just after 9 o'clock. It was based around the chorten a few metres in front of our mess tent. This was a rectangular dry stone structure roughly 1m wide, 1m high and 2m long with a hole in the top to accept a thick pole, on a low stone plinth. Prior to the start of the event the Sherpas had prepared the chorten. This entailed a number of actions. First, placing mats on the ground along the side of the chorten facing away from Everest such that when the Llama and others took their places on these they would face the mountain. Second, hanging a richly-decorated floral cloth down the chorten and placing a tablecloth on the chorten plinth in front of the mats and on this placing plates of tsampa, rice, candles, and various religious artefacts. Third, preparing a flagpole with 3 strings of prayer flags, wrapping other flags and kata scarves around the top 2m or so of the pole and fixing a sprig of juniper to the very top. This structure was leant against the chorten. Fourth, placing nearby a wide selection of food and drink, including the following: beer, wine, coke, lemonade, prawn crackers, fruit and biscuits. When we arrived we placed our 'sharps' (crampons and ice axes) against one of the chorten's short sides, then moved seats from the mess tent to the vicinity of the chorten and took our places. Gradually the Sherpas took their seats behind the mats. A small fire of juniper was lit to one side of the chorten and when the Llama arrived he added his own accoutrements to the tablecloth. These included an ornate hand bell, an ornate metal artefact that from a distance resembled 2 eggs joined in the manner of a dumb-bell, a small (10cm diameter) green double-sided drum mounted on a wooden handle with a swinging ball. When twizzled between thumb and forefinger the ball repeatedly hit the drum on alternate sides. The Llama was in his late 30's, dressed in a thick deep maroon robe with a red and cream mantle. He was deeply tanned with long black hair in a pony tail and wore gold rimmed spectacles. Once he had set up his items on the tablecloth he sat cross-legged on the mat provided and began chanting in a deep voice, head slightly bowed. The words were spoken very quickly yet rhythmically and he seemed to refer to a small booklet in his lap. Periodically he would ring the bell, always held in his left hand, or twizzle the drum. After a while, at about 9:30, our Sherpa chef served black and white tea for everyone. The Llama had a drink too, taking a break from his chant. It seemed to me that this signalled the end of the first stage of the Puja. After 5 minutes the Llama continued. As before he held the bell in his left hand but with his right tossed rice into the air. This was signal for the Sherpa team to erect the 12ft pole festooned with prayer flags and kaya scarves in the centre of the chorten. The pole was wedged ram-rod straight, sprig of juniper proudly atop the pole, while the 3x 10m lines of prayer flags were run out to their full length and firmly secured under rocks. As if on cue the wind rose and the red, blue, white, yellow and green flags, each around 25cm square, danced in the morning sunshine as the wind carried our prayers to the mountain. The Llama nodded in clear approval and redoubled the strength of his chanting and ringing, all the time looking heavenwards and throwing rice with energy and considerable panache. It appeared to me that the Llama's demeanour indicated great satisfaction with proceedings and that our entreaties had been accepted by the mountain deity. In the silence that followed, a silence broken only occasionally by the joyful fluttering of prayer flags, we were all asked to stand. At around 10:00 to the increasing volume of renewed chanting, this time more melodious than previously, we were all given a small handful of rice. This was to be cupped in the left hand, supported by the right. After around 5 mins a crescendo was reached and our rice was thrown 3 times high towards the flagpole with an enthusiastic call of 'soooo' (health) with each cast. At the chorten liquid from a metal vessel was also cast by the Llama. Immediately the chanting and drumming restarted in an upbeat style while at the same time some of the Sherpas assisting the Llama prepared a selection of food from the tablecloth. This was placed on trays for those seated un-shod close to the Llama. For other attendees food was brought round on big trays; pomegranate, orange, apple, tsampa cake, chocolate bars, and biscuits were all offered by happy smiling Sherpas and accepted gratefully by we climbers, always with a bow of the head and a heartfelt 'danyabad' (thank you). While everyone was eating the Llama put away the tools of his trade. Two scripture books were carefully, even lovingly, wrapped in red cloth and secured with a golden cord. The handbell and 'double egg' were each placed into little blue and gold bags with gold drawstrings. The drum, or perhaps on reflection 'small tambourine' might be a better description although it's sound was more drum-like, was likewise placed carefully in a draw cord bag. Then the whole ensemble put in a red duffle. With the Llama apparently packed up, and drinks of both alcoholic and soft nature being served, one might be forgiven for thinking the Puja was over. But no; there were two important elements remaining. Each attendee was offered, in turn, a small cup of strong liquor. I don't believe the brand was important but in fact it was Johnny Walker Red Label whiskey. This was to be received with due ritual, a bow and a steepling of fingers, before being accepted and enthusiastically tipped into our mouths, before returning the empty cup with a sincere 'danyabad'. Once everyone had taken this drink (a sacrament perhaps?) The Llama restarted chanting for a few mins, without the bell or drum accompaniment. Then the Llama turned to his right, facing along the mat that had previously been sat upon. By now it was empty and one by one everyone approached the Llama on their knees, chorten to their right to receive his blessing and make a small donation to his work. On this occasion we all had the pale cream kata scarves already. So the procedure was as follows. Prior to approaching the Llama we held our kata scarves in our hands, donation secreted in its folds. When our turn came we would approach the other end of the mat from the Llama, descend to our knees, and then shuffle in ungainly fashion toward him. Stopping just in front of him we would bow our head and proffer the scarf. The Llama then deftly removed the donation, depositing it in a yellow draw cord bag to his left, before placing the kata scarf back around our neck. He then drew from within his robe a golden knotted cord, blessed by the Dalai Llama himself, and tied it around our neck to bring good luck. Each then bowed to the other, hands together, before the climber or Sherpa made as dignified rearward shuffle as possible towards the end of the mat before standing and returning to their place. Once everyone had received their blessing the Llama picked up his red duffle, and the yellow draw cord bag, he placed both in an orange and black rucksack. After a final bow to the assembled congregation, which we returned, he slipped the rucksack on his back and headed off on trainer-clad feet off to his tent elsewhere in base camp. The Puja had been declared a great success and those remaining chatted in warm sunshine for the remainder of the morning. Many apologies for keeping you waiting for the description of the Tibetan wedding that I was privileged to be invited to attend. By way of recap for any new readers, on Thursday 10th April I was invited to a Tibetan wedding. Due to its complexity I was unable to write it up at the time, but do so now. I should also add, for the record, that I have not researched Tibetan weddings (yes I know I'm in Nepal but the Sherpa people are essentially Buddhists after the Tibetan style as per their ancestry) and I have no prior experience of such. I retell to you exactly what I saw and heard. If in so doing from the perspective of a rank amateur I cause offence in any way then I apologise without reservation and shall be happy to make any changes of a material nature. So it was that at about 4:15 on a beautiful sunny afternoon I and other guests, as freshly scrubbed and clothed as possible in the circumstances, trooped down the rocky track from the Sonam Lodge to the wedding venue. While of course we did our best with our attire we weren't hugely concerned as the groom was also staying at the Lodge and he was still in day-to-day gear until less than an hour before the event. In fact the timing of the event was quite a mystery unlit late on. I think it is up to the Llama conducting the ceremony to say 'when' and until he does then the happy couple, guests, and all just wait, as we had, until getting the nod at 4:15. The wedding venue was a private residence belonging to the Sirdar of the expedition group of which I am part. Upon arrival at the house, more accurately a bungalow in the style of the village of Pangboche although perhaps a little larger than some, we were welcomed by our host and his wife. The greeting was wholesome and warm involving a slight bow and double-handed handshakes in the style that might be extended to particular friends for whom a normal handshake is not enough but a hug would be too personal. We were shown to the lha kang, the deity room, where the ceremony would take place. This measured around 5m x 9m and had one external facing long wall with 3 small windows opposite the corner doorway. The other long wall, adjacent and to the right of the doorway, featured a series of glass-fronted wooden display cabinets bearing fine highly polished metal cookware, blankets, linens and other displays of family wealth. The same was the case for the short wall to the left of the doorway. The lower part of these 3 walls featured wide bench seating covered in richly coloured rugs in front of which were highly polished wooden tables. Along the other short wall, that furthest from the door, was a fireplace. Above the fireplace was a mantelpiece and above this the deity. On either side of this central focal point, which included religious statues and glassware in cabinets and artefacts of religious importance, were more glass-fronted cabinets displaying religious scripts and tests. On all 4 walls was a silken pelmet sash of around 10" width. Along the deity wall the sash was golden while on the other 3 walls it was green. The most venerated part of the room was the corner to the left of the deity wall, that being diagonally opposite the door. In this corner were the most prized religious texts and a small plain table. In the middle of the room cross-ways and about one-third of the way up the room from the deity was a thick supporting pole decorated with prayer flags of blue, green, yellow, red and white, and tasselled sashes of tangerine bearing religious symbols. We were invited to sit wherever we pleased around the perimeter except along the deity wall, in the immediate vicinity of the small table to the left of the deity, or the first 10ft or so to the right of it as these places were reserved. We sat immediately to the right of these places, towards the middle of the windowed wall. Despite the seriousness of the occasion and our unfamiliarity with proceedings the warmth of our welcome and the friendliness of those already present we were soon joining in lively conversations. Indeed one young attendee was eagerly trying, successfully, to find partners for a game of 'Uno'. Shortly ladies appeared with trays of refreshment. We were offered tea with or without milk and sweet biscuits marked 'Nebico Glucose'. In the middle of room, resting again the supporting pole was table bearing beer, wine, sherry (Harvey's Bristol Cream), soft drinks including coke, Johnny Walker Red Label whiskey, beer and a selection of wines. At around 5:15 a hush descended as the high-venerated Llama Gyeshe was shown into the room a across to his place at the small table reserved for him. This deeply tanned, short grey-haired, wizened Llama was of exceptionally high rank and had escaped to Nepal from his monastery in Tibet when the Chinese invaded his country in 1959. Dressed in deep red robes with gold trim and a red skullcap he crossed the room slowly, slightly stooped, greeting those present with nods and gestures; refusing the helping hands offered to him. Upon reaching his seat he produced a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and proceeded to read scriptures while the level of jollity in the room returned to its previous level. Prior to the Llama's arrival and afterwards guests continued to arrive. The men were in normal working clothes probably of yak wool and typically wearing trainers, as were the ladies save that all wore jackets and headscarves, and long aprons in a similar but not identical style; chequered in black, white, and primary colours where the horizontal length of each chequered segment was around 6" and each vertical was around 1/2". Both ensembles appeared to be regular working clothes given a 'Sunday Best' twist. After 10 minutes or so of reading, at 5:25, the Llama began chanting over tea. He produced box of religious texts and having sensed the appropriate mood proceeded to plan the most auspicious ceremony. Note this wasn't a routine matter but proceeding were conducted according to how the Llama felt on the day. At this point conversation around the room adopted a more respectful tone and more tea and biscuits were offered. By this time Tim and I had been persuaded to play cards with the second youngest guest. Meanwhile the youngest, a babe-in-arms dressed in a beautiful little pink and white knitted suit with matching hat and pom-pom, was being proudly yet discretely nourished by her Mum while Grandma looked on adoringly. Towards 6:00 proceedings moved another step forward with the ritual serving of Chang, a traditional strong alcohol made from ground barley. Tsampa was dabbed on one side of the glass and those receiving this (it was not compulsory) were expected to take 3 small sips from the other side of the glass from the tsampa after each of which the glass was refilled. The Chang was accompanied by more biscuits. Meanwhile the Llama was studying a certificate or similarly appearing script. At about 6:15, 6 men in traditional dress arrived with their wives and children. The ladies and youngsters were in regular clothing, ladies with the same style of apron as others already present, but the men wore loose grey robes trimmed at the collar and cuffs with finely detailed silk, each wore a bright waist sash in green, red, blue or yellow, and each wore a hat akin to what I think of as a cowboy hat. These men placed a large grey blanket on the floor next to the deity mantelpiece. Upon this they fashioned 2 'swastika' symbols with rice, each about 18" square and around 3ft apart side by side in front of the Llama. In Nepal this symbol means good health and any other association should be disregarded. Each symbol was the mirror image of the other and in each quadrant of each symbol was placed a little mound of rice. Once the stage was set a election of drinks were placed in front of Llama together with a 18" pole wrapped with prayer flags set in an ornate 6" metal vessel filled with rice. By this time the congregation numbered around 30. At 6:30 a hush descended as the happy couple entered dressed in ornate robes. The bride wore a beautifully regal long chocolate-brown robe with a high collar, cream cuffs and highly decorated embellishments of silk. Down the sides and back of her robe were coloured crosses and bars of blue, red and green. On her head she wore a fur hat with back and sides turned up toppled with an ornate crown. The man was in a rich strident tangerine robe with a cream waist sash. Diagonally across one shoulder was a red sash while across the other was one of cream. He wore a red bowler-style hat with a broad yellow brim. Having placed themselves in front of the Llama, each standing on a swastika the man to the right of the lady, they seated themselves cross-legged. To renewed chanting from the Llama the helpers, the enrobed men mentioned previously, placed ornate metal vessels in front of them containing Tibetan tea. Far from this process being staid or reserved, it was accompanied by much merriment and taking of photos while the Llama chanted on. There followed a period of sporadic handbell ringing by Llama Gyeshe, accompanied by periodic chanting during which more Chang was served. After around 10 minutes the chanting stopped and a longer peal of more strident bell ringing signalled the end of this part of the ceremony following which the Llama meditated while rolling prayer beads between thumb and forefinger. More chanting and bell ringing was ended by a small dull gong being sounded together with gesticulation towards the bride and groom, still seated crossed-legged to his front. Twenty minutes after their appearance, at around 6:50, each time accompanied by a ring of bells and a short chant, the Llama placed each of 4 drinks from his table onto a metal tray held by an assistant. Then rice was placed in the palm of the right hands of all the congregation and the Llama. On his lead this was tossed into air with the words: 'sooo, sooo'. To the accompaniment of chanting the tray of drinks was carried from the room, and returned shortly after with the glasses empty. This was to symbolise having made an offering outside the room. While this was taking place different assistants stood in front of Llama with trays of biscuits and vessels of liquid while the Llama slowly twirled a small hand drum; a drum on a stick with a swinging weight twirled between thumb and forefinger. After a while, towards 7 pm guests were offered dry crackers and raisins, and a drink. This drink was not the same as Chang and we were expected to take some and drink/eat straight away, rather like a toast. The quiet after this symbolic act suggested the arrival of a moment of particular significance. On the stroke of 7:00 Llama Gyeshe addressed the couple in front of him while holding the prayer flag-wrapped pole. Tim explained to me in hushed tones that he was telling them that the green flag symbolised fulfilment of wishes while the yellow meant that dreams might come true. The blue was for protection from harm, red meant superiority, and finally the white would destroy evil. After this the Llama spoke quietly and directly to the couple. I was unable to pick it all up despite its translation to English for their benefit by the Llama's daughter. However the laughter which accompanied this and the snippets understood led me to believe the husband was being told he was lucky to have such a good wife. There was much chuckling around the room at this. At 7:10, after 40 minutes of sitting motionless cross-legged the couple eased their way to a standing position. They gave their names and nationality to the Llama after which the flag-wrapped pole was pushed down back of the lady's robe. Sashes were placed first around his neck then hers, after which they were invited to sit back down. Ouch! There was more chuckling from those assembled as their headgear was removed and butter was smeared on their heads and rice tossed as a blessing of richness. The couple then stood up and the Llama talked to them while writing on cards. These were placed in envelopes and handed to each. At this assistants stood by with yaks tails while the rice-strewn carpet on which the couple had been sat was removed. Finally the bride and groom were invited to lean down towards Llama Gyeshe so he could tie yellow knotted cords round their necks and, nearly 2 hours after they appeared before him, pronounce them married! Yee-haa. Did things kick-off then?! Mr and Mrs ..... er, sorry I missed that bit of detail in among sty the chants and bell ringing (and the Chang) and the assistants danced round the room in a highly flamboyant style waving the yak tails and singing accompanied by clashing of symbols and yahoo-ing and huge laughter. This ritualistic merrymaking was succeeded by lower signing led by older ladies then progressively more raucous chanting while dancing round the room to a crescendo. Then it was time for the photos of course, after which ... more singing. There was a song from the couple and the assistants with much swaying with synchronised foot movements and rhythmic foot tapping. After a minute or two the ensemble was joined by some of the ladies previously seated (the assistants' wives). And then by others until the swaying stamping group numbered over a dozen. There was no music and no 'caller' with all rhythm provided by the dancers. Those not dancing were invited to clap. Only Llama Gyeshe sat impassively in his most reverent seat in the corner, blinking and smiling gleefully at the result of his work, before presenting all the dancers with katag scarves as a blessing. The evening progressed with further traditional singing and more reserved rhythmic movement, women to the left of the couple on the side of the wife, men to the right on the side of the husband, and then more extravagant reeling while the katag scarves were hung round the necks of all guests and a bowl of Chang was brought round. This time we were expected to dip our wedding-ring finger into the bowl 3 times, and after each dip to flick the liquid skywards with a loud: 'soooooooo!!'. After this hugely fun spectacle the newlyweds moved around the room to be congratulated by all guests while some of the tables moved around to form a line down the middle of the room. From the kitchen were brought huge bowls of food: rice, meat, vegetables, Dal Baht, and tomato salad together with plates with napkins and cutlery. On a separate table next to that bearing the drinks was placed the beautiful wedding cake and despite eating the repast to our fill, not to have par taken of at least 2 large slices of cake would have been deemed an insult. Eat and be merry was the requirement as the assistants and their wives plied us with drinks. In the midst of the merriment, at around 8.40 the Llama left, shaking the hands of all saying 'Tashi delek', the Tibetan word for 'greetings' and the broad equivalent of the Nepalese 'Namaste'. After another 30 minutes or so Tim and I left. For my part I was deeply moved by the religious symbology of the wedding and the extraordinary generosity of the couple being married and the host of the event for inviting us to join them. I fear that in my ignorance I have missed much of what took placed, or misjudged its significance. I hope however that I have been able to give you a glimpse into this joyous and inclusive event. This happiest of happy days in the lives of Mr & Mrs......... Doh! |