EVEREST, THE ULTIMATE TREKKING REGION
January 4-16, 2001
Nepalese Trekking Equipment
For the Everest trek, we'd planned to buy real down expedition sleeping bags, as we expected cold night temperatures in the tent. Such bags, we figured, would be very easy to find in this the world's primary country of expeditions. Not so. Every so-called expedition item or trekking gear we saw was a sloppy North Face copy made somewhere in Kathmandu. It was as difficult to find an original piece of clothing in Kathmandu as it is difficult at home to find a copy. The poor quality of the copies was obvious even from a distance, so there was no real risk of getting ripped off.
This miscalculation had us change plans and skip the tent idea. We rented the best sleeping bags there are in Nepal, a local brand called Sherpa (which are quite good even by Western standards), and contacted a trekking agency for a guide and a porter. We brought the tent with us anyway to keep some freedom of action and possibly to justify its dear price. In vain, it turned out later, but it still felt good to have it available in case of an emergency.
Domestic Airport Routines
First on the itinerary was the transportation from Kathmandu to the mountainous regions of the Everest massive. A local aircraft would take us to Lukla at 2800 m altitude, whereto no roads lead and the only ground-level means to get there is trekking for a week. We'd heard quite a lot about the local flights in Nepal, so this mountain flight we're about to do made us really nervous. The lack of sleep and a crazy taxi ride at 6 a.m. through a thick fog to the Kathmandu airport was a bad start of the day. Airport security existed but was merely symbolic and our bags were pulled by hand through some kind of x-ray machine that most probably didn't work. Check-in was done by weighing the goods on a very optimistic scale, which showed implausible figures to make travelers pay a few Rupees extra (which is the local currency), followed by piling everything in a big heap on the floor. Especially interesting was the stack of egg cartons under some other bags that looked far too heavy to be supported by eggs.
Then there was the for Nepal mandatory delay call, stating that the weather wasn't suited for take-off and departures would be postponed till later. Our down jackets were, of course, already checked-in and it was too cold to sleep, so all we could do was to drink tea, shiver, and try to look interested in our guide's endless stories about high-altitude "relaxing" with English ladies (he meant female clients between 20 and 30 years of age). One wonders how suitable the term "relaxing" is at above 6000 m. Making love at high altitude must be worse than running a marathon.
The Kamikazes Revived
Finally, after a four hour long delay, it was finally time for take-off. This four-hour delay wasn't that bad, we learned later. Other people we met on the trek had had to wait for up to three days on their plane! Our plane was small, dirty, and had a "Fasten seat belt" sign painted on the wall. The chairs seemed to be made for western school children (or Nepalese adults). On my right was Marcus and a cockroach, on my left sat a Nepalese woman who looked absolutely horrified by the flight. She prayed constantly to her gods and held onto the seat in front of her. We didn't want to know whether this was because of her superstitions or her actual knowledge of flight statistics.
The pilots skillfully maneuvered between the clouds, just passing above sharp mountain ridges. In Nepal, the pilots say, it's important not to fly into clouds as they tend to have rocks in them. Through the cockpit window, we saw the miniscule landing strip ahead of us. It didn't look small because it was far away but because it was tiny. In fact, it was a gravel runway of about two hundred meters (length, not width), inclined so the plane could get to a rest before the natural stone wall that was at the end. We both hope we will never be that close to a crash landing again. Fortunately, we would go back by helicopter as they were about to close this nightmare in order to build a better airport.
The Life of a Porter
At Lukla, our guide picked up one porter that would go with us all the way to our goal Kala Pattar at 5545 m (approximately 18200 ft). Our spontaneous reaction when we saw him, before we knew he would be our porter, was that "this guy is a creature". Such a thing should never be said about anyone, but sadly enough we were right. We soon suspected that he was mentally retarded. He said he was 30 years old, looked like 15 and behaved like five. Later, our guide was told that our porter had been dropped on his head when he was a baby and became stupid ever after. A very sad story but a very happy porter. This was our first encounter with the porter phenomenon.
This cast, or profession - I don't know which - is one of the lowest educated in Nepal. The majority is illiterate, but it doesn't matter much as all they do is to carry incredible loads in and over the mountains. Typically they are extremely poorly clad, usually in torn cotton trousers, dirty t-shirts, and sometimes a light jacket. Hats, gloves or warm socks are not worn, as such things are too expensive. Our porter had none of this, of course, so we asked him (the guide translated) how he would make it to Kala Pattar. After all, 5545 meters is a considerable altitude in January. We were well informed that the Himalayan winter is cold, often down to -25 degrees Celsius (below -10 degrees Fahrenheit) at night, so it couldn't be physically possible for him to make do with virtually no clothes! All he said was that he didn't need any more clothing than what he already wore. Contrary to this, we sent our guide to equip him with gloves, a hat, and socks for 4 USD. Almost a ridiculous bargain, still he got very happy. The gloves we never saw him use. Instead we suspected that he had sold them in order to buy chewing gum. His and the other porters' poverty made us feel rather silly, almost guilty in our down this and Gore-Tex that, probably costing them several years of salary.
Normally, a porter carries "only" 30 kg, while the best porters sometimes carry 100 kg. The record that we saw was ten 24-packs of Coke and beer (240 cans). Not only is the weight a killer itself. First, their loads are carried in baskets on the back by a bandana-looking strap around their foreheads or skulls, i.e. with no hip-belt or shoulder straps! Second, the typical kind of footwear is flip-flops, you know the kind of 2-dollar beach sandals worn by pale, over-weight Germans on Mallorca. Third, the load is carried up and down steep trails that sometimes require ski poles just to keep one's balance, even when there is no snow. The route on which we saw the heaviest loads goes from a place called Jiri to Namche Bazaar, a Sherpa village at 3440 meters. The walk takes a good week and if one adds up all the uphill it results in over 9000 meters, which is more than from sea-level to the summit of Everest. Tragically, for this the porters are paid 40 cents per kilo.
The porters who are employed by trekkers are more well paid, up to twelve USD per day. They even get to sleep inside the lodges. Those who are not so fortunate get to sleep in drafty barns or even simpler shelters. In many places we saw caves and rock overhangs with camp fires in the middle. "That's for porters and goats", our guide explained.
The other means of transportation in the mountains are the yaks. The real yaks are long-haired, beautiful cattle found at altitudes above 3000 meters. They are said to get low altitude sickness if they go below 3000 meters, so there the loads are carried by more low-altitude-resistant buffalo and cows. Our guide claimed that he, too, gets physical problems when he goes back to lower altitudes. Not very likely.
Approaching the Summit, Slowly
In a lodge at 4200 meters, the drinking water we got from the kitchen had lumps of ice in it. As a consequence, the chlorine treatment didn't get to all the germs. Fortunately, I drank none of this but Marcus drank a few mouthfuls and noticed the ice too late. This was enough to cause a rather serious water poisoning (considering our remote location and the altitude). Despite this, we continued up to 4900 meters to the final lodge before our summit bid the next day. Actually, "summit bid" might not be the appropriate term, as the mountain we were about to climb looked like a little hill compared to the surrounding mountains. Seeing it in a distance, we realized there wasn't even snow on it. It made the climb much easier, but I must admit that it was a little disappointing. The view, on the other hand, was absolutely spectacular.
On the way up, our porter got such a bad headache that he had to turn around. Luckily, and as one should expect, the guide felt in good shape and encouraged us to go on. Very tired, we reached our goal Kala Pattar. The air felt very thin and breathing was hard. At this altitude, 5545 meters, the oxygen content of the air is roughly half of that at sea level, making every step a considerable effort. But it's worth every lost calorie. The view from this point must be one of the world's most spectacular that can be reached without climbing equipment. This "little hill", although 700 meters higher than the Mont Blanc, is surrounded by a magnificent mountain scenery, including the Mount Everest, Lhotse, Nuptse, Pumori, Ama Dablam, and countless other mountains that are all higher than the highest peaks in Europe.
Except for the grassy hill we were standing on, there was no sign of any living organism around us, just a barren and unfriendly ice and rock landscape. Being in the midst of it all, it is not easy to decide whether this environment is truly beautiful or ugly. Aside from Pumori and Ama Dablam, which are definitely among the most beautiful mountains on earth thanks to their symmetric shapes, these young mountains are unsymmetric and pointy with sharp teeth sticking out everywhere. Looking at the immense faces of almost vertical ice and rock, one really wonders what makes people want to go up there. If comitted to the idea of suicide, I could understand the choice of, say, executive place, but only then.
Mountain Luxury
Just for fun I had brought a Coke to the top of Kala Pattar to see what would happen with the carbonation at such a low air pressure. The bubbles are released much faster and in the mouth it feels more like bubble bath foam than liquid. Once the Coke was finished and the necessary pictures taken, my head pounded heavily and my stomach churned loudly, saying that it was time to begin a rapid descent on my part. Marcus on the other hand felt no serious effects of the altitude. Instead the three days without solid food had begun to take its toll and the descent became very heavy both physically and mentally for him. This is where it was especially useful with a guide, as I could run ahead and Marcus could walk at his preferred pace, accompanied by the guide. Despite the more than 4900 meters, we slept very heavily that night, exhausted but satisfied.
Going Down
The way down went by quickly, as there is no limit to how fast one can descend (well, within reason). It is very unlike going up, where one should not gain much more altitude than 300-400 meters per day above 3000 meters. Many people do, sometimes with severe side effects or even death, but as long as one keeps to this basic rule, there is no serious health risk. Though, physical comfort doesn't seem to exist at high altitude. We have both realized that high altitude activities, say above 5000 or 6000 meters, require very good health and equally an acceptance of prolonged discomfort and often disease. Real mountain climbing we leave for those who have a greater need for adrenalin and fear death less.
Self-Observations
One learns a lot about oneself while trekking. Take the personal smell, for example. When the daily, hot shower is exchanged for a weekly bucket of lukewarm, over-charged water, you realize how nature actually intended your body to smell - a discovery that would probably be shocking to many Westerners. So, after ten days since the last shower, we were craving for hot showers and clean clothes. The shower would be provided at our lodge in Namche Bazaar and we imagined the clothes could be washed in the sink and dried in the sunshine. We imagined.
When we finally arrived at Namche, the weather was freezing cold and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The sink and toilets were frozen solid and worst of all, the pipes to the water heater were as well. Stoically, we realized that we would have to postpone the hot shower another four days. "Nepal!" we thought and went down to the kitchen to have two pizzas each. I could write a lot more about personal hygiene on the trek, and probably a doctorate thesis in microbiology, but you have probably got the point already.
Buddhist Country
In the lodge back at Lukla, we were lucky enough to arrive the day of the annual buddhist ceremony. Six or seven monks from some nearby monastery had come to bless the house in a day-long ceremony. A temporary temple room had been arranged and beautifully adorned with religious artefacts. A buddhist trumpet sounded every now and then, followed by a gong and then the murmuring songs of the monks. The atmosphere was in all very peculiar. In the beginning it felt like we had entered a sacred and forbidden territory, worthy of more respect than we could offer. Suddenly they started throwing rice around - still looking dead serious - and spoke in tounges (or was it Tibetan?). Traditions are indeed variable. We left the monks and settled by the dining hall heater. Less interesting but at least 20 degrees warmer.
Many hours later, the ceremony stopped and the monks came to the dining hall for supper. The tourists' conversation died out and we silently looked at the incoming procession, which was solemn and tired after a long day's chores. They spread themselves out evenly in the room, one monk at each little table. I later understood that this was for a practical reason: They ate with their elbows even more widely spread out than western men. Perhaps because their generous love handles (Buddha forbid!) allowed no other pose? The hostess brought in steaming garlic soup and some bread. They started eating. Not a word was uttered during the meal, although this was compensated by their rather noisy eating. Then, as a jovial surprise, one of them started belching loudly. Nobody laughed or even looked up at first, so we figured this was normal. In fact, it was the sign to the other monks that the meal was over and they all came over to us by the heater.
One of the monks ordered Coke. Apparently it was too cold, so he put the mug on the heater to make hot Coke. I'd say that it didn't taste very good, but his emphatic burps indicated true satisfaction nevertheless. The eldest of the monks seemed to have a predilection for alcoholic beverages. With the garlic soup he had had a full glass of the local destillate rakshi, a home-made rice liquor similar to Saké with a taste worse than oxidized Italian trebbiano. For dessert he guzzled down a 20-cl bottle of Mount Everest Whisky, resulting in a broad smile and a distant look. These monks obviously didn't deny their more mundane needs. Instead they proudly showed off their aquired tastes of American and Scottish sophistication.
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