Aftershock: One Man's Quest and the Quake on Everest

by Jules Mountain

  One of our Sherpa guides walked past me and saw me appreciating the spectacle. He pointed up.

  “Chomolungma,” he said.

  Chomolungma is the Tibetan name for Everest, which straddles the border between Nepal and Tibet. It means ‘goddess of the universe’.

  As a race, the Sherpas have great respect for the mountain, believing it to be holy. A huge amount of superstition and ritual has developed within their society, centred on appeasing the protective deities of the mountains they worship. If they failed to carry out these rituals or respect the mountain, they believe tragedy would befall them all.

  Perhaps because of this, their relationship with Westerners hoping to climb their sacred Chomolungma can be tense and difficult. The Sherpas usually sleep and eat separately from the Western climbers – they are expert mountaineers who are paid well to guide us up the mountains, but our contact with them is generally quite minimal.

  In 2013, a group of a hundred Sherpas attacked three male Western climbers – Ueli Steck, Simone Moro and Jonathan Griffith – who were climbing Everest solo. The Sherpas brandished ice axes and a violent scuffle ensued, with stones and punches being thrown. The trio only managed to escape when a female climber intervened and stood between them and the Sherpas.

  The details of what actually happened are murky, but it seems the Sherpas had been laying ropes between Camps 1 and 2, for the benefit of climbers, when the unaided Western group had continued past them. The Westerners claim that they didn’t interfere with the Sherpas or cause them any disrespect, but the Sherpas claimed that as the Westerners climbed past and above them, they dislodged ice and snow on to them, endangering their lives.

  The confrontation ensued at Camp 2, later in the day.

  It was an ugly scene – a near disaster – though fortunately nobody was hurt. But it showed just how tenuous the relationships between the Westerners and the Sherpas could be at times.

  “Chomolungma,” I said back to the Sherpa.

  A smile broke out across his weathered face. He continued on ahead of me.

  The Sherpas in our expedition, however, were a lovely bunch. They didn’t speak much English, but they were professional and clearly knew their trade well. I trusted them.

  Everest has had a death-rate of one in every 60 or so climbers throughout its long history, so the Sherpas were vital to the safety of our expedition.

  I tore my eyes from the summit of the mountain and continued on towards Namche Bazaar.

  We arrived at around three o’clock, checking into our lodge and dumping our gear.

  Namche was a fascinating place, the last real stop where it was possible to get supplies before Base Camp.

  The village was built into the mountain, with consecutive semi-circular terraces rising up the valley side. Buildings with brightly coloured roofs were crammed on to these terraces, creating an intricate and complicated path system – it was very easy to get lost.

  There were lots of shops packed into tiny little streets – some no more than a metre across – all selling camping and hiking supplies, but a lot of the stuff was knock-off – we came to refer to the goods from these shops as ‘North Fake’.

  I still needed a downing jacket for Base Camp, so I went in search of one – a real one. I located a seller named Sonar who sold RAB equipment. He showed me all the import tickets for the goods, and I could tell from the stitching and materials that it was the real deal. I chatted to him for nearly an hour and he invited me up to his ‘hotel’ lodge that evening.

  I headed back to the lodge – it was finally time for a shower.

  We had been informed by the lodge staff that there were hot showers, and I suspected the hot water supply might be limited, so I didn’t want to leave it too late.

  There was no electricity, so the shower was solar powered. A pipe jutted out of the wall, with a tap and a jubilee clip on it. A small bit of plastic shower matting was stuck on the cold floor tiles, which made my feet freeze.

  I turned the tap on… Nothing happened. I looked up into the hole and suddenly a stream of cold water fell into my face. Namche was a cold place anyway, so to take your clothes off and stand under a tiny stream of water that wasn’t even lukewarm was an ordeal.

  I was aware that a queue was forming outside…a queue of people waiting to try this delightful experience. They wouldn’t have to wait long; I wasn’t planning on hanging around.

  I rubbed on some body wash, shampooing as fast as I could. When I stepped into the stream of freezing water, I let out an involuntary howl.

  “You OK mate?” said a voice from outside.

  “Yeah, fine,” I replied. “Just a bit cold.”

  “I thought it was hot?”

  “Yeah… So did I.”

  I quickly rinsed and left the shower free for the next lucky traveller.

  In spite of the chill factor, it did feel good to have a wash.

  I headed over to Sonar’s lodge, taking him up on his invitation to look at his collection of climbing gear.

  The room was like a mini-museum, with hundreds of artefacts on display in wooden cabinets along one wall, protected by glass.

  He pointed out a pair of very baggy old tracksuit trousers.

  “Hillary expedition,” he said. They certainly looked old enough.

  Next he pointed out an ice axe with an incredibly long, wooden handle.

  “Hillary expedition,” he said again.

  I had my doubts – how anyone would be able to lug that cumbersome axe all the way up there was beyond me. I smiled, nodded, taking pictures.

  Sonar’s enthusiasm for the history of the mountain was clearly evident.

  I headed back to the lodge to eat. Spirits were high that evening. Everyone was having a good time, so we relocated to a nearby bar.

  Even here, in one of the remotest parts of Nepal, there was a bar.

  On the advice of our expedition doctor, Angelica, we decided to carry out an experiment into the effects of alcohol at 3,440m. Studiously, we diligently consumed increasing amounts of alcohol, and mentally logged the impact it had on our cognitive and bodily functions.

  We discovered, much to everyone’s amusement, that it caused us to have a humdinger of a night.

  This was our last chance, really, to have a good party in a proper bar before the serious work began.

  The bar had posters and flags lining every wall. There was a mismatched array of chairs in front of a huge plasma screen TV, which showed sport. A sound system pumped out very loud rock music. It was like being in an après ski bar – fantastic, alcohol-fuelled fun.

  Here we were, at some incredible altitude, drinking lots of beers and then popping a few shots, compliments of Paul, the ex-fighter pilot. We were all of us on our dream expedition, trying to conquer the highest mountain in the world, and we were all having a blast while doing it.

  There’s nothing in the world quite like having a good beer in a pub to help bond with people properly. That night really brought our group together as a team. We got to know each other, our stories, our reasons for putting ourselves through this gruelling expedition. It was a much-needed blow-out.

  * * * * *

  I woke early, the sun beating down through the curtain-less window. I sat up cautiously, fearful of upsetting my delicate body and head.

  I unzipped my sleeping bag and stood up, stretching and letting out a groan.

  I felt fine… I mean, I felt like I’d had a drink, sure – but I was fine, it was unbelievable.

  I chalked it up to the altitude and got ready for the day ahead.

  It felt like a new day, the start of the trip proper. I had felt a lot of tension in the group at the start of the trip; no one knew each other, and we were all in a completely alien environment.

  After our night in the pub, a lot of the stress had gone. I felt far more settled, more
relaxed in my surroundings. We’d gone from being a group of strangers to an actual expedition team.

  Outside, my heavy bags were strapped to the nearest available yak, who continued munching potatoes as if nothing had happened. I then began the three and a half hour trek to the next stop, Khumjong. This is where our expedition diverted off the normal Khumbu Valley route because our Sirdar (chief Sherpa) Purba Tashi had a lodge at Khumjong and had invited us all to stay. Khumjong village also produces the largest number of climbing Sherpas for Everest. They are all brothers, cousins, or uncles of one another.

  The Sherpas are a large family group who were chased over the mountains from Tibet around 350 years ago and, finding themselves in the fertile Khumbu Valley, they settled there. They are like a race within a race, because they are Nepalese but they are also all from the Sherpas tribe/race/family.

  It was a lovely day, the sun was shining, and everybody was in a positive mood. I chatted to others in the group as we steadily made our way onwards, crossing metal suspension bridges en route.

  I saw Angelica, the friendly expedition doctor, up ahead, and soon caught up with her. Many of the expedition team were taking various types of drugs – Diamox, Aspirin, Paracetamol, Ibuprofen etc – in order to help them acclimatise to the altitude. It hadn’t crossed my mind to do this, so I thought I’d ask Angelica’s advice.

  “There’s loads of differing views on this,” she told me. “Some people swear by it, others insist it doesn’t make any difference. I’m of the latter camp – your body is naturally adjusting; it’s better not to interfere. If something goes wrong, you know where you are.”

  “What happens then?” I said.

  “We can do a few things if you’re suffering from altitude problems such as HAPE. I’ve got lots of Viagra with me.”

  I looked at her.

  “Sorry?”

  “Viagra.”

  “Viagra?”

  “Yes, Viagra. It relaxes the blood vessels, which is how it helps give you an erection, as blood flows more freely through the vessels. This also means blood flow can be increased at higher altitudes, reducing the risk and severity of some of the disorders associated with changes in elevation.”

  “Viagra?”

  “Yes, Viagra,” Angelica repeated. “Actually, last year, one of the guys – at least, I’m assuming it was a guy – nicked all the Viagra from my kit bag; took it all home with him. I haven’t got quite as big a stash this year, because of that…so don’t get any ideas.”

  We chatted for a while longer about health problems faced by climbers, about high-altitude headaches, pulmonary and cerebral edemas. Once I was suitably concerned, she looked up at me and smiled.

  “I wouldn’t be too worried – I have plenty of Viagra,” she said.

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  We arrived at Khumjong at around four o’clock. The village was situated in an extremely remote area of Nepal, with no roads, no hospital, no sewage or mains water, and access by foot only. But there was a school, a reasonably solid structure, where we were welcomed.

  There was a small ceremony in front of the school in which we were all given silk scarves – a traditional gift in this part of the world. They gave us tea and biscuits and welcomed us to their village – it was very touching.

  We were told that the school was actually built in 1961 and was founded by Sir Edmund Hillary himself. The original school was a tin shed made in New Zealand, where Edmund Hillary came from, and flown to KhumJong. The shed only had two rooms, and it is still going strong today, some 50 years later, but many new buildings have been added, through kind donations, to support children who now come from the outlying villages to be educated here.

  The school is run entirely by voluntary donations – the government doesn’t pay for it. These children’s education depends solely on the support of Westerners. Some of the children trek for miles, boarding in the school for the week, and then trekking home at the weekends. It is an arduous journey for them to take each week, in order to receive a proper education.

  It was a touching experience, and we all gave as generously as we could before heading to Phurba Tashi’s lodge to dump our bags. Tashi is something of a celebrity in the climbing world. He holds the world record for the total number of ascents of mountains over 8,000m, reaching these peaks a staggering 30 times during his career. This includes 21 summits of Everest.

  There are many great stories about him. Supposedly, after Mark Inglis had successfully become the first double-amputee to summit Everest, Phurba Tashi carried him on his back down from the summit to Camp 4. Most people struggle to carry themselves above Camp 4, but to carry another human being? The endurance required to do that, just to make sure that this man made it back down the mountain, is unimaginable.

  On another occasion he’d been employed to help a climber named David Tait in his attempt to become the first person to ‘double traverse’ Everest. The plan was to climb up from the Nepalese side, and then down the Tibetan side, before carrying out the reverse trip after a few days’ rest.

  Tait and Purba Tashi traversed Everest from Nepal to Tibet, but Tait called the expedition off after they had reached their Tibetan base, because none of the ropes had been laid on that side.

  Phurba Tashi’s legend had preceded him, and I was honoured to be able to stay in his lodge in Khumjong.

  I’d heard rumours that there was a yeti skull on display in Khumjong. I thought this was probably an attempt at a tourist attraction, but having trekked all this way, I just had to find out if there was any truth in the story.

  I meandered through the village, weaving along wobbly paths that wound around the white stone cottages and barns. It felt very remote, with no real roads or tracks. The paths were only just wide enough for one person to walk along.

  The supposed yeti skull was kept at the Tengboche Monastery, which stood on a ridge of land, with a panoramic view of the village and the Imja River below. It was an old-looking building, not spectacular but striking, standing tall against the structures surrounding it. It was the only building painted a faded, dusty red.

  The monastery was surrounded by ancient-looking mani stones, which are flat stones inscribed with the Sanskrit legend ‘Om mani padme hum’. I’d seen this mantra before, adorning prayer wheels throughout Kathmandu – it is believed that spinning these wheels has the same effect as chanting the mantra over and over.

  The phrase has no literal English translation, as the meaning of it lies beyond the construct of the words, but the central part roughly translates as ‘jewel in the lotus’.

  Prayer flags, similar to the ones adorning the countless suspension bridges I had crossed to get this far, flew from the tops of the higher stone collections, flapping in the wind. Their bright colours denoted the traditional elements of the Buddhist religion – earth, wind, fire, water and consciousness.

  I approached the monastery and spun the prayer wheels outside it – I wasn’t sure that they’d bring me good luck, but there was no harm in shortening the odds.

  I walked through the entrance gate, an old, intricate square structure with a pagoda-style top, and intertwining patterns in gold, red and green tessellated across the facade. Two ornate golden lions sat one on either side of the gate, baring their sharp teeth at those wishing to pass through.

  I crossed the worn paving of the courtyard and sat on one of the many benches. Nobody else was there – it was just me and the silence.

  In front of me was the Dokhang – the main prayer hall.

  Above the doorway, five large, rectangular windows overlooked the courtyard, with ornate Nepalese decorations surrounding them. The entrance was between two thin pillars that had once been colourfully adorned, but which now looked faded. Oddly, there was a collapsible metal gate at the doorway that marked the divide, which seemed very out of place in the antique building. It was pulled open, so I wa
s able to get inside.

  A man appeared on the balcony above me, dressed in deep red monk’s robes. He was old and moved very slowly towards me.

  I stood up and walked over to him, putting my hands together and bowing as I drew near. He bowed back.

  “Do you have the skull of the yeti here?” I asked.

  He approached the edge of the balcony and shuffled down the stairs. Without a word, he walked over to the prayer hall door and turned, beckoning me with a wrinkled hand.

  I felt a pulse of excitement – was he going to show me the skull? Did it actually exist?

  I followed him into the prayer hall; a riot of colours covered the walls and roof. I removed my boots and walked slowly across the creaking, well-polished floorboards.

  The old man put out his hand, pointing to his palm. I was prepared for this – I had been warned in advance that it was necessary to ‘cross the monk’s palm with silver’ to get a glimpse at the skull, so I handed him $5. Still, I was amazed that even here, at this remote Buddhist monastery, 3,867m above sea level, a business opportunity is never missed.

  The monk bowed and led me to a metal cabinet in the corner of the room. He felt in his pocket and took out a key, with which he opened the cabinet.

  Inside was a wooden box, with glass on each side. A hefty padlock hung from the side – there was certainly a lot of security for this skull.

  I peered closer, looking through the scratched glass.

  There it was, in all its glory; the yeti skull of Tengboche…

  The domed skull was covered in thin, dark hairs, jutting out at awkward angles. The strange item looked as if it could be part of the skull of a strange monkey, or half a coconut. It was fascinating to see – I had read that experts from around the world had visited this monastery to study this scientific curiosity, but nobody was quite sure what it belonged to… So, hey, perhaps it was the yeti – aka the “Abominable Snowman”!