Finding endurance beyond exhaustion
Sheila Naidoo, 53, of Effingham, a banker by profession and avid traveller, launched her book, Higher Ground, recently at the Fig Tree Coffee Shop at the Grace Riverside Church campus in Umgeni Park. It is based on fulfilling her dream of trekking up the Khumbu Icefall at the world’s highest peak, Mount Everest, last May with her husband, Percy, a property consultant. Naidoo will take readers on an adventurous journey of flying into the world’s most dangerous airport, walking for days, crossing sway bridges and trekking in snow over ice sheets to finally conquering the mighty Mount Everest basecamp. Below is an excerpt from the book . . .
THE trek to Namche is considered to be one of the most difficult, due to the steep uphill climb. Whatever altitude we lost yesterday by the downhill walk must now be regained. The walk is strenuous and gruelling and only made possible by the numerous stops.
We walk bistari, bistari – slowly, slowly. All around us is the beautiful, snow-covered Himalayas with lush green vegetation and magical views.
From time to time, the gurgling sound of the river beckons and captures our attention. Like a moth drawn to a flame, our path takes the course of the milky river, sometimes unseen but ever-present, hurling tons of water through the Khumbu area.
We stop for a short water break at a place that is covered in varying sizes of boulders. From this vantage point we watch trekkers scurrying along, hopping from one boulder to the next, intent on reaching their next destination.
Feeling hydrated after a much-needed water break, we too join these mad hoppers, hopping from one boulder to the next. Roger Rabbit would be in his element here, hopping from boulder to boulder. Rather casually, Pemba then draws our attention to two bridges way up in the distance.
Shocked beyond belief, I turn an ashen face towards him. “Please, please tell me we do not have to cross those bridges.”
With a smile he responds: “Cross only one bridge, madam”. I confess at that point my body turned to jelly and my feet became lead. I decide then that I want to give up and leave.
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” hisses Chris. “It’s just a bridge.” I have to bite my tongue at this point and project a calm outer appearance, although internally both body and mind are in turmoil.
The route continues to meander along the river for what seems like hours and gradually, as we gain altitude, we move further inland.
Up, up, up the path goes, demanding more from the weary traveller: more effort, more stamina, more commitment. As with many trekkers who have gone before us, this trail up to Namche is the “make or break” factor. Do I or don’t I go further? Many times along this route I ask myself the question: “Why am I here? Why did I even think that I could do this? I must have been crazy.”
Peter had been right. “I think I’m going to leave this mountain in a body bag.” My legs shake from sheer exhaustion. Coupled with this exhaustion is the throbbing pain underneath my foot. Thank God for good advice and strong, comfortable hiking boots that provide much needed support. I need strong pain medication as well to numb the pain, but at this point it requires too much effort to locate it. It is easier to go without.
Our coping mechanism is the intermittent stops along the way. I am drinking water like a thirsty fish, but gulping water at this rate translates into more toilet stops, which delay us even further. Lower down on the mountain there are more Western toilets available, so I thank God every time I come across one.
Using the long-drop loos is a nightmarish experience. A female requires at least four hands for each visit. With my female urinal device (fud) tucked underneath my armpit, toilet paper in one hand and the other hand available to pinch my nostrils, I cautiously make the trip. After doing my business I need a free hand to draw water out of the storage tanks to wash it away. We also have to mind the wet floors and ensure our pants stay dry. This process is repeated six to seven times on the way to Namche Bazaar. I remember thinking: “If this mountain does not kill me, this toilet business will.”
The path is busy with lots of trekkers either going up or down the mountain. Often, we meet our friends from the plane and stop and chat, encouraging each other. Extreme exhaustion are common words among us. Walking slowly, we meet many trekkers, both young and old, all intent on achieving their goal of reaching Base Camp. Because we share a common goal, people are generally kind and helpful. They, too, are experiencing our pain and hardship. All of us are feeling the strain of the steep incline. Breathe in, breathe out, bistari, bistari…
Added to the strain of this uphill killer journey are the constant interruptions, forcing us to make way for donkeys and horses. With no concept of time or place, the animals haphazardly push ahead of humans and slowly move forward, totally blocking the path. We can do nothing but stand aside and wait.
Kevin, a friendly Australian nurse, stops to say hi. He is on his way down and I ask him for his thoughts on the trek. “Don’t be stupid,” he replies, “and use common sense. Take it easy and don’t rush. This is not a race. Be sure to use sunscreen and keep your ears warm. If you feel sick, descend immediately.”
I guess he emphasised the sunscreen bit because his nose looks like Rudolf the RedNosed Reindeer.
Kevin looks exhausted, but who could blame him? He’d come a long way and was almost at the end. If going up this route was so strenuous, I could not imagine the strain on the knees coming down. Thanking Kevin, we move on, but again we are hampered by the sound of bells.