Thieves, Liars and Mountaineers
Page 1
by Mark Horrell
All text and photographs © Mark Horrell, 2011
Thieves, Liars and Mountaineers
1. A western tourist's observations about Pakistan
2. A hair-raising journey by jeep
3. First day of the long walk in
4. Monotonous dusty valley
5. Thoughts on climbing big mountains
6. Onto the Baltoro Glacier
7. Porters, porters, ice and porters
8. Porter strike
9. Concordia and the K2 clean up project
10. Arrival at Base Camp
11. A description of the view from Base Camp
12. Puja at Base Camp
13. Trekkers leave; final team member arrives
14. Up to Camp 1
15. An unfortunate and unusual case of frostbite
16. Injury fears
17. Base Camp politics
18. Knackered again on the climb to Camp 1
19. Up to Camp 2 by the Banana Ridge
20. Hair-raising descent of the Banana Ridge in a blizzard
21. Day 1 of doing nothing
22. Tea with the mountaineering elite
23. Arrival of the jetstream
24. Ever-changing plans
25. Watching the winds on Gasherbrum II
26. The virtues of patience
27. A leg stretch up to Camp 1
28. Kidnapping the cook
29. Ueli Steck goes for the summit; sardine madness
30. Waste management on 8000m peaks; summit nerves
31. Starting the G2 summit push; waiting game at Camp 1
32. A cold climb for some; summit uncertainty at Camp 2
33. Falling off the Banana Ridge
34. Brooding over the Banana Ridge
35. Controversy on Nanga Parbat
36. Curious phenomenon of the magical rising tent platform
37. Base camp boredom
38. Philippe and Ian leave us; more base camp boredom
39. Waiting on the weather
40. A thief on the mountain; more news from above
41. The Iranian garbage incident
42. Death of a climber
43. A light from on high
44. All hope extinguished; Teletubbies and Wombles
45. Iranian garbage incident – the sequel
46. A very determined thief; Sherpa business deals
47. A typical conversation about the weather
48. Veikka Gustafsson’s final summit
49. Focussing on Gasherbrum I; the Iranian team departs
50. Gloomy mood at Base Camp; Veikka’s party
51. Serap Jangbu the Philosopher
52. Ice climbing beneath Baltoro Kangri
53. Total exhaustion on the first day of our summit push
54. Studying the Japanese Couloir; summit decisions
55. Retreat from Gasherbrum I
56. Michael and Arian retreat; summit confusion
57. Michael and Arian return; more summit confusion
58. The final word on summit success … or is it?
59. Preparations for departure
60. Starting the trek out in driving rain
61. A day of boulder hopping
62. Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink
63. Return to civilisation, in theory
1. A western tourist’s observations about Pakistan
Thursday 11 June, 2009 – Skardu, Karakoram, Pakistan
Well, we made it to Skardu in one piece, even if we didn't arrive in the manner we'd intended. After two cancelled flights from Islamabad we made the collective decision to drive up the Karakoram Highway instead, and arrived stiff-limbed and sore-necked at 1.30am last night after two full days on the road. We have a rest day here to stretch our joints before continuing our journey in jeeps tomorrow.
Despite the heightened security situation since my previous visit to Pakistan two years ago, I've found it more relaxing this time around, probably because I'm getting used to the country now. Perceptions of Pakistan in the West is that they hate westerners here, but in my view I've found the people nothing but friendly, if a little curious about foreigners.
Foreign tourists are certainly something of a rarity here. Since our arrival last weekend, Cassidy and Anna, two of the K2 trekking party, have been asked by a woman in a restaurant in Islamabad to have her photograph taken with them. Then at the Daman-i-Koh viewpoint above the city the following day, we were all given the same treatment when a man asked for his photo taken with all of us. Cassidy was then subjected to some intensive staring by a passenger in a bus while waiting in a traffic jam in Rawalpindi – the poor chap had probably never seen a bare-headed woman in short sleeves before, and the effect produced may well have been similar to that of a topless woman sitting in a traffic jam in New York. Funniest of all was when we stopped for fruit at a roadside market in a town halfway up the Karakoram Highway. We'd been advised to keep a low profile, but the bright orange trekking tops and lime green shorts worn by Arian and Gorgan perhaps didn't fit into this definition and are rarely seen at markets in North West Frontier Province. Our driver decided this was a suitable moment to carry out some routine repairs to the vehicle, and half an hour later we were feeling liked caged animals in a zoo as a hundred strong crowd of beggars, hawkers, curious onlookers and at least one police officer gathered round to peer at the exotic wildlife inside our bus. Everything felt pretty relaxed, though, and at no point have I felt in any particular danger.
Islamabad feels more liberal than the other parts of Pakistan we've visited so far. A brand new city was planned and built on a grid system in the 1960s, rather like Milton Keynes, with tree-lined dual-carriageways bounding rectangular blocks of rectangular buildings, divided into commercial and residential sectors. During our drive up the Karakoram Highway women were seen very rarely, and those that were always wore long sleeves and had their heads covered (although full burkhas covering all but the eyes seem to be extremely rare), but in Islamabad women walk around openly. On the Karakoram Highway, the shalwar kameez is the standard clothing for both men and women, but in Islamabad western dress is common, though perhaps less so for women.
In Islamabad we stayed at a standard tourist hotel in one of the commercial sectors. Although there was an armed guard outside it, I felt confident enough walking around the various shops and restaurants in our block. Women there appear to be comfortable conversing with men without shame or embarrassment, though I don't remember ever speaking to a Pakistani woman outside of Pakistan's capital city. In one restaurant in Islamabad a waitress even felt confident enough to take the piss out of Phil Crampton, our expedition leader, when he asked for a medium steak.
“Do you want it half-done?” she asked.
“No, I want you to cook the whole thing!” he replied. He didn't realise that by ‘half done' she meant ‘medium'.
She started laughing at him. “But of course we will cook the whole thing, sir, but how long would you like us to cook it for?”
The drive up the Karakoram Highway is long but picturesque, becoming gradually more dramatic as you progress northwards. Beginning on green fertile plains and wide carriageways around Islamabad, the road heads north into the mountains, passing through towns and villages as it climbs through alpine pine forests, before eventually reaching the banks of the wide Indus River and contouring high along its gorge. For the first eight hours of the drive the road is heavily populated, creating a problem for Cassidy and Anna, who are unable to get out for a pee for fear of attracting an audience.
We stop for the night in the town of Besham in the district of Swat. This is one of the areas of Pakistan currently con
sidered a security risk as Government forces are fighting a war against the Taliban nearby, but we arrive after nightfall, stay in a secure hotel behind a guarded compound, and are away by 6am the following morning.
Beyond Besham the terrain becomes steadily more arid, and the mountains more jagged and dramatic. Sadly, by the time we pass Nanga Parbat, the 9 th highest mountain in the world, towering 7km vertically directly beside the road, the sky has clouded over and a dust storm is brewing. Although I had good views of the mountain last time I came this way, this time we continue past grabbing only occasional glimpses. At 7pm we turn off the main highway and continue to follow the Indus to Skardu. The gorge has narrowed considerably and the rocky hillsides hug us more closely on both sides, but night falls quickly, hiding this impressive terrain for the remainder of the journey.
Briefly exploring Skardu
After lunch today we spend an hour or so repacking our kit and arranging porter loads for the trek. I rearrange my two kit bags so one is full of climbing kit which can go straight to Base Camp. The maximum porter load is 25kg, but porters are paid the same wage regardless of the size of their load, so we spend some time optimising our loads so that none of this porter quota is wasted, since we'll be having over a hundred porters transporting all our equipment to Base Camp and it would get considerably more expensive if we didn't do this. I have a 3kg Poisk oxygen cylinder thrown into my bag to bring its weight up to 25kg.
Afterwards I wander around Skardu with Ian, a friend of mine from a previous expedition to the North Col of Everest, and Gordon, a diminutive self-deprecating Canadian with a fine line in sarcasm. Skardu, like Leh in Northern India, is a trekking and climbing centre lying in a very picturesque setting on the banks of the Indus River, an oasis of poplars and eucalyptus trees in the desert, surrounded by high, rocky mountains. Unlike Leh, however, the shops are a bit more ropey, selling all sorts of junk but little in the way of decent trekking and climbing gear, there are no restaurants and, of course, no bars in a country where alcohol is illegal. This place has plenty of potential as a buzzing tourist centre serving the Karakoram, and there are a few things to do in the surrounding area, such as visit some nearby lakes, or a fort up on a cliff above the town, but this potential has not yet been realised, and it doesn't look like happening any time soon. Today, it's hot, dry and dusty, cars hare up and down the single main street, and it's not a particularly pleasant stroll. I decide to go back to my room at the Masherbrum Hotel and read my book.
In the evening the clouds draw in, the wind picks up and it's noticeably colder. Something I've eaten has disagreed with me, and just before dinner I start vomiting. I'm unable to force down any food at dinner which doesn't come straight back up again, but the positive side is that if I'm going to have funny things happening to my stomach it's best to get them out of the way right at the beginning of the trip.
2. A hair-raising journey by jeep
Friday 12 June, 2009 – Askole, Karakoram, Pakistan
It's our last day in vehicles today, and for the rough dirt track to Askole we switch to Toyota Landcruisers. Ian and I share an open-sided soft top with Bob, a tall, softly spoken retired gentleman from California who has come to do the K2 base camp trek alongside our expedition team. The drive doesn't get off to a good start when our driver opens the bonnet of the jeep at the very first checkpoint, not half an hour out of Skardu, and discovers that we're leaking brake fluid. Gorgan wanders over from another vehicle for a look.
“It's leaking all over the road,” he says, peering cheerfully into our back passenger seat. “But don't worry. It's better not to think about it.”
“We have no brakes?” I ask the driver when he gets back in the vehicle to drive away.
“It's OK,” he says. “I once drove all the way from Askole to Skardu with no brakes, and no problem!”
This isn't the most reassuring thing he could have said, and Arian's suggestion before we pull away that we should carry our ice axes to arrest the vehicle in the event of a fall isn't helpful, either.
We pass through irrigated villages lined with avenues of poplar and fields of rice. We're now passing through an area populated by Ismaelis, followers of a less strict and more relaxed branch of Islam from the rest of Pakistan. After seeing hardly any women at all for the last three days, the area is now full of women in colourful clothing walking along the road and working the fields.
As we ascend to Askole the track becomes rougher, and narrows to a single track road winding high above a river gorge. Several times we have to stop and reverse when we meet vehicles coming the other way. A one point we have a stand-off with an army vehicle at a particularly precarious section. Our driver won't reverse, and neither will theirs as the two drivers stop and eyeball each other for a moment or two. Then a soldier carrying a big gun gets out of the back and walks over to remonstrate with our driver, who maintains his cool and refuses to budge. The soldier slowly struts behind us to examine the road. Then he walks back to his own vehicle and examines the road behind it, before getting back inside. A moment later the army vehicle reverses and we nudge past it. I decide our driver must have balls of steel. A few minutes later, with a sheer drop just inches to our left, a waterfall tumbles down from the cliff to our right and soaks the vehicle, sprinkling a liberal quantity of mud inside. The view out of the front windscreen is now almost totally obscured by a muddy film, but undeterred our driver keeps going alongside the precipice to our left. A couple of minutes later, when the track widens, he stops to clean the windscreen again.
Gorgan was right: it's better not to think about it, but we arrive safely in Askole at 5.30, eight hours after leaving Skardu, and drive into a campsite behind a walled compound. The village sits a few hundred metres above the Braldu River on a sloping hillside, and is walled in on both sides by high, rocky cliffs. It's dry and dusty, though the village is well irrigated, and there are plenty of trees and lush green fields between the dust slopes. Phil described Askole as a ‘shithole', so I was expecting a rural village spoiled by western commercialisation in the way villages at trailheads so often are: crowded tin and concrete shacks selling all manner of plastic junk, inhabited by aggressive salesmen. Although the children have been tainted by tourists dishing out rupees, sweets and pens, and beg unpleasantly, the village itself is quite authentic and unspoiled. Flat-roofed mud houses with square compounds have been built one on top of another on the dusty slopes, and irrigated water channels flow alongside narrow passageways between houses. Our trekking guide Salman takes us to a small heritage museum which has been set up inside one of the houses, enabling us to see what they're like inside. Wooden pillars hold up the mud roofs, and a wooden ladder through a trapdoor leads down into an underground level where the family lives in winter, when temperatures can reach as low as -20ºC. It feels more like a stable than a home, with a hay-lined area sectioned off by a low fence. This is where the family sleep, and a mud brick stove and pots in one corner of the chamber signifies the kitchen area.
This is our first evening camping, and the food in our dining tent this evening is good. The meal is memorable for an incident when Gordon puts too much food in his mouth and quite literally takes ten minutes to finish chewing it, during which time Ian, Arian and Cassidy are rendered incoherent by fits of giggles.
3. First day of the long walk in
Saturday 13 June, 2009 – Jhola, Concordia Trek, Pakistan
The first day of the expedition starts at 6am with 130 porters assembling in the compound and fighting over our loads. We stand and watch for some time, but at 8am I get bored and decide to start off on the trail with some of the rest of the group. Today's walk is best described by three words: sun, dust and sand. For six hours we walk along the wide desert gorge of the Braldu River, sometimes on a path carved in a cliff face above the river, sometimes across stony ground, and mostly across flat sandy plains. Most of the time I amble along at my own pace, although the presence of our 130 porters and those of other expeditions bound for K2, Br
oad Peak and the Gasherbrums means that the path is full of traffic and never quiet. Occasional views of snow-capped peaks are glimpsed between clouds from time to time, but most of the big mountains are further along the trail.
I walk for a time with Gordon and Arian. Gordon has brought a bright orange umbrella in Skardu to keep off the sun, and when he first brings it out Arian and I can't avoid laughing at him. Arian is a French environmental student who tells me his main focus for the expedition is not the summit of Gasherbrum II like the rest of us, but to clear Camp 4 of the detritus of previous expeditions. He's brought a handheld video camera with him, and films monologues of himself to camera as he walks along. At one point I see him filming a stream where lots of litter has been dropped onto its banks, and decide to make my own contribution to his film.
“F------ disgraceful, isn't it,” I shout as I walk behind him and clap him on the back before continuing on.
I look back, but the dark expression he gives me suggests this may not make it onto his final footage.
Rock hewn pathway approaching Jhola campsite
Jhola campsite is built into sandy platforms above a major tributary of the Braldu River at 3150m altitude. It can be recognised from afar by the numerous grey plastic portaloos which pepper the area alongside camp. I arrive at 2.30 but have to wait another two hours for all our tents and kit to arrive with the porters. Salman our trekking guide is having trouble with his knee, so Gordon, a paramedic, summons Gorgan, an osteopath, to take a look and give it his considered opinion. It doesn't take Gorgan long to realise the injury is not a serious one, and he concludes it can be treated easily with a poultice doused in alcohol tied around the knee joint. There's just one problem: we're in Pakistan, and alcohol is not so easy to come by. I've not so much as had a whiff of it since arriving in Islamabad. While Gorgan goes off in search of the remedy I let Gordon know that a few members of the team have much the same problem as Salman, and if any alcohol can be found then it might be wise to obtain quite a lot of it as a precaution. Unfortunately I don't think he treats my request with the seriousness it warrants.