I was further advised to do my homework. “You need to know the big events … the epochal events” because “if you don’t know your stuff, she will arch her eyebrows.” I was told that when I asked a question, a typical response would be for her to turn the question around and make me feel ridiculous for posing such a silly question. I was repeatedly instructed to “never, ever, call her anything but Miss Hawley.” Friends cautioned me to be emotionally prepared for a belligerent, antagonistic, rude woman. I was urged to be patient, to work with her, to not go on the offensive. Many advised me to bring whisky.
But there was positive reinforcement as well. Lady Hillary urged, “Just be yourself.” Elizabeth had called the Hillarys about this project, and, despite being reticent in the beginning, was now said to be somewhat “chuffed” about the idea. Elizabeth was flattered, but still couldn’t understand why I’d want to do it and wondered aloud who on earth would want to read it. Sir Edmund encouraged me by saying that it was high time her story was told, and he was confident she would cooperate.
Climbers regaled me with stories about how, upon their arrival in Kathmandu, they would no sooner be checking into their hotels, or unpacking their bags, or jumping into the shower, when they would receive a call from Elizabeth Hawley asking to set up a meeting as soon as possible. I found this to be encouraging – maybe she’d be eager to meet me too. But the difference was that they had something she wanted – information about a climb – and I didn’t. Yet she had something I wanted – her life story.
I left my home in the Canadian Rockies and started the long journey: Calgary, London, Frankfurt, Bangkok and, finally, Kathmandu. A couple of days of bad meals, long lineups, important bits of paper, cramped seats and ever-rising temperatures. The Kathmandu airport was crowded and steaming. I crammed myself into a taxi and rumbled off to my hotel, located conveniently near Elizabeth Hawley’s residence. I was in the hotel just long enough to unpack my suitcase and brush my teeth when the phone rang – it was her! I took it as a good omen.
She gave me directions to her house and wanted to meet immediately, so I stuffed the whisky into my briefcase and headed out. I didn’t follow her directions well enough, though, and ended up walking an extra hour in the late-afternoon monsoon heat. The streets were packed with postage-stamp-sized shops selling everything from bathroom fixtures to silk fabric to aspirin, while vendors crowded the sidewalks hawking fresh vegetables and roasting corn. The pungent smells were overwhelming – a sensation intensified by unrelenting traffic and billowing clouds of black diesel smoke. Two narrow driving lanes were choked with rattling buses and sleek SUVs, as well as what seemed like thousands of clanging motor scooters, all pouring into town with horns blaring. The sidewalks presented an obstacle course of unexpected drop-offs and ankle-bending steps, piles of rotting garbage, and giant open sewage holes. Attractive, traditional, three-storey brick buildings stood juxtaposed to four- and five-storey cement monstrosities. Beautifully carved, ancient wooden doorframes leaned into the street, providing stark contrast to their aluminum and concrete neighbours. It appeared a cityscape in transition, from the traditional to the modern, from medieval times to the twenty-first century. It bordered on mayhem.
At last, I came to a gated black iron fence on the north side of the street. To the right of the open gate was an official-looking brass plaque reading “Himalayan Trust, Miss Elizabeth Hawley, Honorary Consulate of New Zealand.” The sign suggested order in a world of chaos. I walked through the gate, greeted the guard, wandered down a slight incline and found myself in a courtyard surrounded by flowering trees and shrubs and a small plot of green grass. Everything was suddenly, unbelievably, quiet.
Within the courtyard were several houses. Elizabeth Hawley’s home for more than 45 years occupies the central position. A ground-floor entrance leads to the headquarters office of the Himalayan Trust, an organization founded by Sir Edmund Hillary to provide educational and health support to the Sherpas of the Khumbu region of Nepal. I walked around to the left and up a short set of stairs leading to an unlocked screen door adorned with a string of bells, presumably to announce visitors.
On the other side of the screen door, a steep set of stairs ascended to a small landing, from where it was possible to see into a neat, orderly office. And there she was, at her desk playing solitaire on the computer.
Glancing over her reading glasses, she turned her head to greet me: “Did you get lost? Don’t worry, everyone does.” She rose from her desk and strode over to shake my hand, still peering over her glasses. She was smaller than I expected, thin and well groomed. Her 80-year-old eyes were clear and dark, never wavering as she looked me over. We moved to the sitting area, where she offered a cool drink. Within the first half hour of meeting Miss Hawley, she asked me to call her Elizabeth. And so we began.
CHAPTER 2
Encyclopedic Mind
The puzzle remains unsolved, and her tenacity won’t allow her to let it go.
The next day, I watched as Elizabeth, Sherpa Pemba Dorje and two companions engaged in the kind of investigative cross-examination that perpetuates Elizabeth’s reputation as being honest, relentless and not easily fooled. Pemba, a wiry, sun-blasted, super-confident athlete, perched on her couch like a coiled spring, there only as long as it would take to convince her of his latest climbing feat, which was being contested by other climbers.
For the 27-year-old speed climber, this was a matter of pride, as well as his place in history. He had made a splash in the climbing world, appearing in the “Breaking News” section of Rock & Ice magazine, as well as in Gripped. But was this new exploit true? Did Elizabeth believe him? Pemba claimed to have climbed 3500 vertical metres from base camp on the Khumbu Glacier to the summit of Mount Everest in 8 hours and 10 minutes during the night of May 20–21, 2004. He climbed alone, using artificial oxygen above the last camp at around 7900 metres. The announcement of this astonishing climb was met with skepticism from other climbing Sherpas, however, and was challenged by his rival Lhakpa Gelu Sherpa, who had beaten Pemba’s time from the previous year.
It did seem amazing that Pemba could lop four and a half hours off his time from just one year ago, and it was this that Elizabeth was probing. But he had a plausible explanation for her: on May 16, just a few days before his historic climb, he had climbed the mountain completely without bottled oxygen. That ascent had prepared him mentally and physically for the May 20 speed ascent – with bottled oxygen. Others on the team said he had used oxygen intermittently on the earlier climb, however, and any discrepancy in his story aroused Elizabeth’s curiosity.
One of the problems with his claim was that he reached the summit in the middle of the night, on a night when nobody else was on the upper part of the mountain. Since his camera malfunctioned, there was no summit photograph. She asked him what he could tell her that would prove he was there. He answered that, when he was on the summit, he saw headlamps coming up from the north side. She double-checked his statement to ensure she had heard it correctly, making a note to cross-reference her other sources and records.
After an hour of questions, answers, repeat questions, more elaborate answers and copious note taking, Elizabeth concluded with, “Congratulations, you have made an admirable effort.” Pemba and his team stood up with an audible sigh of relief and bade this formidable, investigative force of a woman goodbye. For Elizabeth Hawley, this was but the first of many interviews concerning this ascent. It would occupy much of her attention and sleuthing abilities during the weeks to come.
Before we settled into a serious interview session of our own, Elizabeth showed me around her home, pointing out items of interest. Her office is filled with mementos, photos, mountaineering books, and two paintings by Khumbu Sherpas. Most of the furniture is made of wood and simply built. A small sofa and two upholstered chairs appear a little worn. Fully one-third of the room is taken up with a large desk, a smaller table, upright wooden chairs and the usual office equipment. This room, functioning as both he
r office and living room, is all hard surfaces – there is not much soft about it and it feels a little severe.
Old-fashioned wooden cabinets stuffed with mountaineering files stand against the office walls. Every climb Elizabeth has covered is documented in a file organized by year, mountain and route. Each file has an arrival form, bio forms for each expedition member, a return form, letters, photos and route drawings. On an interesting or unusual climb, she makes notes regarding exact locations of camps, landmarks, distances, times between camps, oxygen information and anything of interest. If any letters or photos are supplied to her, she attaches them to the file. In some cases, she asks the expedition leader for a detailed, blow-by-blow, day-by-day account of the climb. There are thousands of such folders. The history of Himalayan climbing in Nepal is contained within these files. Upon closer examination, I realize that all of the bookcases and file cabinets are firmly attached to the wall, the computer is chained to the wall and the fax machine is chained to the table on which it sits. “Earthquakes,” she explains. “They’re not uncommon here. We’re due to have a major one any minute now,” she adds with a grin.
Adjoining the office is a dining room, lovely in its simplicity. A wooden table with ample seating space for six occupies the centre of the room. On it lies a small notepad. A china cabinet holds her dishes – and that’s it, very simple. Tall French windows open onto a shallow balcony. I imagine Elizabeth holding court at the head of the table as famous mountaineers and adventurers regale her with their stories. This is the kind of dining room meant for interesting people, languid lunches, stimulating conversation and laughter.
A hallway leads to a curious little bathroom – nooks and crannies peek out from the walls, each with a specific purpose. A large nook housed a water heater in days gone by; another is an alcove for towels; on a small shelf rests another notepad. The toilet features an old-fashioned, elevated, water tank dangling a long slender chain for flushing. The tub looks barely big enough for a leisurely soak, but luckily Elizabeth is a small woman.
In her bedroom, nothing is king-sized, queen-sized or even double-sized. The wardrobes are conservative, the dresser is small and the proportions of her canopy bed are elegant but diminutive. Draped with mosquito netting in the warm months, the narrow mattress looks functional but hardly comfy. Another notepad is handy on a small bedside table.
Passing from room to room, I notice that all the walls are similar shades of ivory, though Elizabeth points out slight differences in hue, each selected by her. It’s a sensory shock, then, to walk into a screamingly bright, mustard-yellow kitchen. Did she choose this colour, too? “Oh, Lord, no,” she scoffs, “my cook chose this colour. He’s the one who spends all his time in the kitchen. I certainly never do.” It’s a tiny room, but looks well organized and efficient.
Four massive truck batteries sit on her balcony, standing by, ready to power various pieces of equipment when the power goes off, which it frequently does. In addition, she has rechargeable battery-operated lamps close at hand to navigate the rooms not connected to the truck batteries. The wiring in her apartment is an eclectic mix of two-pronged plug-ins, narrow three-pronged plug-ins, fat three-pronged plug-ins and plug-ins for both narrow and fat prongs, a representative collection that tells the history of the evolution of electricity in Kathmandu.
Finally, I ask about the notepads. A distinct twinkle in her eye suggests she’s been waiting for that question. She explains she never knows when she might think of something, and she detests the thought of losing an idea, or a detail, or a to-do item. “I’m full of systems,” she offers. “When you went into the bathroom, everything was neat and tidy, and that wasn’t just for your benefit, you know.” We return to the bathroom so she can explain her bath towel system: “When I get out of the bathtub, I take my towel and divide it into quadrants. Each quadrant is carefully used for a portion of the body, ensuring that, at no point, will I be drying myself with a wet towel.” As a postscript, she points to the notepad within easy reach of the bathtub.
Although her mind is robust and agile and she is clearly having fun at my expense, Elizabeth appears fragile and thin. She wears a light, cotton, short-sleeved, pastel, patterned frock. Her hair is neatly done up and those reading glasses still rest on her nose. Her legs are slender, bare and tan. At about 1.6 metres, she isn’t as tall as I expected, but she may have been taller at one time. Her eyes are dark brown, large and clear. It appears she’s wearing eye makeup, as well as a bright shade of lipstick.
The tour ends and, back in her office, the phone rings frequently. Her response varies – sometimes she’s smooth as silk, other times she’s impatient to the point of rudeness. Her voice can be rather sharp, a marked contrast to the conversational tone I’ve enjoyed so far. Occasionally, someone from the Himalayan Trust or one of her staff comes in; she speaks sharply to each one. The only exception is her driver, a handsome young man named Suben, who confers with her about a metal part somewhere in the depths of her car’s motor. It is not working and he is attempting to get it fixed. He seems to know what he’s doing, so she agrees he should keep doing it and gives him money to pay for whatever he needs. Maybe it’s due to her lack of expertise in auto mechanics, but he’s the only one who escapes reproach this afternoon.
A painting she cherishes has fallen off the wall and leans against a file cabinet. She explains that it was hung probably 40 years ago on a string that finally rotted. A staff member and a carpenter arrive to make it right, and she barks out orders, which are followed by considerable banging and scraping. Soon the painting is hanging again, but at a sharp tilt. She fumes that the only way to get anything done right is to do it herself.
She describes a typical Hawley day, which starts with an early breakfast and a thorough read of the two local daily papers. Meetings begin at 8:00 a.m., when Ang Rita from the Himalayan Trust comes upstairs to discuss funds he needs for a school or hospital project he’s working on. Elizabeth doles out money from the trust account and confirms what needs to be done.
Next, she calls climbing expedition leaders and makes appointments for interviews. She prefers to go to their hotels because they can’t easily find her (I’m relieved to learn I’m not the only one who gets lost). She does one or two interviews in the morning, with her driver delivering her from hotel to hotel. The locations vary from elegant, expensive hotels to mean hostels, depending on the expedition.
Back home, she eats an early lunch in the dining room, noting, “It takes me two minutes to get from my desk to my lunch.” She has an excellent cook who prepares a light meal, such as a soufflé or shrimp with rice. Then it’s time to take the information she gleaned from the expedition interviews and type it up in the afternoon, into the evening if necessary. During the afternoon, she calls trekking agencies and hotels: Is the expedition coming tomorrow? Have they checked in yet? Have they changed their plans? She knows when the daily Thai Airways flight arrives, so shortly after touchdown she’s on the phone calling expedition leaders at their hotels to arrange meetings for the following day.
Dinner is at 5:30 p.m. Evenings are a good time to phone people she wasn’t able to catch during the day, as well as for more writing. Although her work is computerized, she prefers to do some things manually. She keeps lists of trekking agents, hotels and expeditions, which are organized by mountain, leader’s name, hotel name and expected arrival and departure dates. To best organize her time, she creates a document that lists the chronological order of the expeditions’ arrival dates. Several times a week, she revises this five-page schedule because plans change constantly. But she resists doing it electronically “because it would take a lot longer.” She describes the task as “a great evening’s entertainment.”
When Elizabeth stops working, at around 9:00 or 10:00 p.m., she reads the International Herald Tribune, a daily ritual begun in her early days of travel, as well as an Indian daily paper. To relax, she does the Tribune’s crossword puzzle followed by perhaps an hour of solitaire on her co
mputer. Then it’s time to shut down the computer and place her backup files in a locked tin trunk beside her bed – in case of an earthquake she can escape with it out the back stairwell. Finally, it’s time to choose her clothes for the next day and then retire. Sixteen-hour days are normal.
But there are a few diversions; for example, Thursday morning is her weekly hairdresser’s appointment. In addition to getting her hair done, she catches up on local gossip, and since she uses the same hairdresser as the queen of Nepal, there’s always something interesting going on. “It’s pretty good entertainment for a Thursday morning,” she says. On Saturdays, the telephone rings less often and there are fewer interruptions. Weekends are her time for writing end-of-month reports for the adventure travel company Tiger Tops, working on the seasonal mountaineering report and tidying up any leftover accounting for the Himalayan Trust.
The Tiger Tops report is a kind of “state of Nepal” analysis that includes political, economic and tourism news which she writes for the company’s executive director. In preparation, she clips anything of interest from the daily papers and saves it for the weekend writing exercise. She claims to actually hate writing, but she loves the research.
She tells me there is virtually no day that she doesn’t work, even at age 80. On reflection, she concedes that every once in a great while there comes a day – usually a Saturday, maybe near the end of July – when she doesn’t have anything pressing to do. On that glorious day, she luxuriates in an all-day read of a murder mystery. She hasn’t indulged herself for a few years now, she admits, but remembers a day such as that some time ago, and it was wonderful. She prefers murder mysteries because they are full of problems and puzzles, and she loves problem solving.
Keeper Of The Mountains Page 2
