A WALK TO THE BOTTOM OF THE TOP
At Tribhuvan Airport, Kathmandu, the gateway to Mount Everest, my light airplane is delayed. The reason: high winds sweeping across the Himalayas into the Tenzing-Hillary Airport in Lukla. A delay is a rule rather than an exception in this part of the world, where weather conditions change rapidly. When we finally take off, the local Nepalese commuters begin to pray. The views provide a reminder of why I am aboard this flight to one of the world’s most dangerous airports. Out of the small windows to the left and right, the perfect blue sky is offset by a line of colossal white peaks.
Twenty-five minutes later, we touch down in Lukla, the first village on the trail to
Everest. There’s a small round of applause.
I now have 10 days of trekking ahead of me and need to gain 2 520m in altitude to get to Everest Base Camp, 5 380m above sea level.
An elderly man approaches me. He looks like he’s climbed to Base Camp a few thousand times. We agree that he will guide me there. He immediately opens my backpack and begins inspecting its contents. Anything he deems unnecessary is, without debate, discarded. We start trekking. I have no idea what lies ahead.
Lukla is devoid of cars. Everything is transported up the mountain either by porters or by yak. A teenager rushes past with a washing machine on his back.
Between Lukla and Base Camp is a series of hamlets, each connected by a well-trodden path, entailing a number of steep rises.
After five hours of walking, I arrive at the first, Phakding. I am given a cup of lemon tea and a bowl of garlic soup. This will allegedly prevent the dreaded altitude sickness.
On day two we start early. I am told to stop only for two things: herds of yaks and tea. Sometimes we talk, but not often. Contemplation is interrupted by the obligatory “namaste” of passers-by.
As we gain altitude, symptoms of altitude sickness begin to show. The evacuation helicopters, passing every few hours, are a constant reminder of the dangers on the path.
I forge on to Tenboche. This leg is steep but beautiful, with immaculate rivers, bright prayer flags and high-hanging bridges.
We plod on to Dingboche, as the threat of altitude sickness become more real. Dingboche claims a few trekkers, for whom it has become too much. I watch the rescue helicopter drift into the distance.
Above Dingboche, the chill sets in and the wind picks up. Our voices reverberate off the steep cliff faces. Ice forms on my sunglasses. I have been walking uphill for five days.
We arrive in Lobuche wind-swept and sunburnt. It is the coldest place I’ve ever been and it’s still a day to go before Gorak Shep, the final hamlet before Base Camp. Extreme fatigue facilitates a good night’s sleep.
On day six we arrive in Gorak Shep. At 5 164m, the place is desolate. Helicopters can’t fly much higher than this. We drop off any unnecessary items, have a quick tea, and continue with the ascent to Base Camp. Rockfalls can be heard in the distance as we get closer to the Khumbu Glacier.
As Everest rises up above me, it feels like I can touch the south col with my index finger. It’s hard to believe that those summitting start right here, heading up into the fog-covered unknown. I, however, now face a three-day descent. I consider playing the sickness card and calling in a helicopter, but instead choose to walk quickly, beelining for the relative warmth and infrastructure of Namche Bazaar.
As the air thickens, and the anticipation of a hot shower grows, I am content to have reached my destination, even if it is the bottom of the top of the world. Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photograph of yourself for publication with the column.