by Junko Tabei
The date for departure to Annapurna was twenty-five days away.
February 14
Another climber, Chieko Urushibara, who had been helping with expedition preparation all along even though there was no space for her on the team, was unanimously approved to join. She had less than a month to raise money and gather the necessary personal equipment to be part of the trip, and she succeeded. In addition to her vigorous passion to be the official camerawoman for the expedition, her hobby as a photographer and her job with Nikon paid off. Urushibara was going to Annapurna.
In regard to my job, I was surprisingly granted an eight-month leave from work. I had already decided to quit if my request was denied, but not having to do so was a great relief. Masanobu and I were in the midst of drawing up blueprints to build a house, and construction was soon to begin. For me to have employment to return to was a good thing, even though Masanobu had put my mind at rest about our financial state. “Trust me with the goings-on in Japan, and you focus on climbing at your best,” he said.
Departure
February 27
Reiko Sato and Hiroko Hirakawa were the first two to leave Japan, the initial party that would get our expedition under way. They were to reunite with the equipment and food boxes that had been shipped to Calcutta, India, and transfer all supplies to land travel for the remainder of the journey to Nepal. Right up to the last minute, as our friends were about to board the plane, I offered advice about drinking only boiled water in India. “I know, I know,” said Hirakawa as she disappeared through the gate, nervously studying a piece of paper dotted with a selection of quotes from Easy English for Travellers.
Going to the Himalayas, my dream is finally coming true today, regardless of how odd it feels. I’m on an airplane for the first time ever. I also feel more burdened as part of the head-start party rather than being purely excited to go to climb a big mountain overseas. I’ll wear jeans and put on a sun hat in India for the much-concerned business of the overland transportation of our boxes from India to Nepal. What if the driver is a scary guy? In these circumstances, I had almost forgotten that I was going mountain climbing because of the newness of everything I would have to do first. Actually, we had some difficulty going through customs and learned a big lesson about how far away the Himalayas are!
– Hirakawa’s diary
Having cleared the procedure to get the boarding pass quicker than expected, I had time to have tea with my boyfriend. He switched his ring from his right to his left ring finger, remarking that he was now cheat-proof. His commitment to me was steadfast. In later days, he confessed that he had expected a romantic comment back from me, but I was too full of anxiety about whether or not the 50,000 yen, which was to be brought to me by my sister-in-law for personal spending, would arrive in time for my departure. I had no room for romanticism. When she finally showed up, I firmly grabbed the money, still talking with members of the main party about important logistics and being interviewed by news reporters.
Time flew like a second, and before I knew it I was pushed towards customs. When the plane started moving forward, I realized we were actually leaving Japan and I wouldn’t see my beloved for a long time. I thought to myself, “So long everybody,” and watched my boyfriend and others become smaller and smaller in the distance. It made me a bit sentimental, but not a single tear fell. Why not? Because I’ll be able to sleep well now that the trip has started. I genuinely felt relief, in particular by watching the countless lights of Tokyo in the night that reminded me of the limitless numbers of stars I would soon see under the mountain sky.
– Sato’s diary
March 2
The main expedition party, made up of Eiko Miyazaki, Eiko Hirano, Morie Yamazaki and me, left Japan. Any gear that failed to make it in the earlier-sent boxes was left for us to carry onto the plane – down jackets, ice axes, cameras (including a 16-millimetre movie camera) and binoculars were stuffed into our arms as we bid farewell to our families and friends. There they stood, fervently waving to us in the cold wind on the outside deck of the airport, in the dark of night. We waved, too, passionately, until we could no longer see them as we lifted off from our homeland.
We were on our way to the Himalayas.
In the whirlwind of final preparation before we actually left Japan, I asked my husband to do a last-minute shop for the trip while I went to the hairdresser. My perpetually uncared-for hair needed slight attention before months away. The appointment stopped me long enough to realize I had not allowed enough time to speak with Masanobu that day, or, once I thought about it, for the past several months. I had failed to return the favour of him cooking for me all those times, and I suddenly felt awful about his obvious recent weight loss. I wished I could have prepared a hot meal of miso soup and rice for him instead of the tea and toast we shared at lunch. As I sat stationary for a moment, hair trimmed and tidy, I readied myself for the approaching departure to Annapurna. Despite the emotions of the day, I was certain about my goals in the mountains.
My mother travelled the long distance from Miharu to say goodbye. Surprisingly, she shook my hands, a gesture considered highly sophisticated behaviour for a Japanese woman of her age. That was the first time my mother had ever engaged in this form of acknowledgement – the handshake – with me. Funny, as she did so, she looked at Masanobu and asked, “Annapurna is higher than Aizu Bandai, right?” Aizu Bandai, a volcanic mountain in Japan, stood a quarter of the elevation of Annapurna III. My mother’s topography may have been limited to her home country, but I appreciated her interest nonetheless.
Then came the moment when there was nothing else to say. The time had come to board the plane. Despite a two-hour flight delay, our entourage of family and friends remained on the deck in the cold and dark, continuing to wave until the plane began to move forward at 7 p.m. I saw Masanobu smile at me. “Yes,” I said to him, regretful that my sentiments would not be heard, “I’m going now and I will do my best.” To myself, I added, “Please let me land here again, back on the ground of Haneda.” I was frozen in emotion and could not utter another word to anyone for a while as I settled into my seat and the new world of big-mountain expeditions.
Miyazaki sat beside me, and as she put a handkerchief to her eyes, my eyes also sprang tears. I was stunned at my reaction to her subtle yet profound affection, and my heart stirred even more. “Don’t cry,” I thought, making a point of swallowing my tears. “We’ve made it this far despite all the events up till now. Stay strong.” Still, the faces of the ones I loved, their hands frantically waving, remained imprinted on my mind.
“Oh, no, I left the bag!” bellowed Yamazaki from the other side of me. I instantly panicked – what could we possibly have left behind? “The bag with rice cakes and puddings, to snack on. A friend had given it to me.” OK, not urgent. Amusingly, Yamazaki’s outburst was exactly what each of us needed. It brought us back to the whereabouts of our trip and abruptly the four of us opened conversation like never before. The dam of tension had been released and we were truly on our way.
Tabei’s husband sent her off, coming all the way to the customs gate. He, the one who had climbed two of the three biggest faces of Europe, knows mountains. His inner wish radiated strong enough to ring in me when I saw him smiling. My heart filled with a powerful sense of mission to bring his wife back to him intact and by all means possible. And not just Tabei, but everyone. The most important thing is that each of us must stand on Japanese soil again. That’s it.
– Miyazaki’s diary
March 16
The last three of the expedition members, Dr. Kyoko O-no, Chieko Urushibara and Michiko Manita, left Japan. Due to political upheaval in Calcutta, their flight had to change route via Karachi, Pakistan, and New Delhi, India, to eventually land in Kathmandu, Nepal. This was an immediate eye-opener to travelling in foreign countries and added an element of concern to the trip. Nonetheless, everyone safely arrived, and we were a team once again.
The torrential rain that
started this morning has ceased. My fellow teachers and beloved students, mountain buddies and family – I was very glad to have such a surprising number of people send me off at the airport. I must come back in good shape. I hope that Ken-chan passes his exam to be admitted to university; the result will be out tomorrow. After all he strived for in the last two years for that. He may be worried inside even though he put a good smile on his face for me. Don’t give up, Ken-chan, even if the result is undesirable. Look, my dream to go to the Himalayas came true ten years after my longing for mountains began.
– Manita’s diary
There is pleasure in going to an unknown world, liberated from all the annoyances and routine chores of life; although the downside exists, such as my family that doesn’t fully approve, in particular my old and ailing dad, and my colleagues who carry some burden during my absence at the hospital, for whom I certainly feel bad. Somehow, it still makes me grin. It also confirms that I don’t have anybody, at the moment, who tries to stop me with worry, like “It’s dangerous and I’m concerned.” I take this as positive, even a happy and clean way to leave Japan behind for a while.
I had fleeting thoughts about the possible hardships that may be waiting to happen over there, or that we may not come back alive, but my own answer to this, and my normal way of seeing things, quickly kicked in. “Whatever my fate is, let it be.”
The flight took off on time as my face brushed pink with excitement.
– Dr. O-no’s diary
To the Mountains
March 5
With three days of travel and changeovers behind us, we were on the final stretch to Nepal. As the small plane approached, I wondered how long I had been sitting there in awe, my forehead pressed hard against the window that provided a glimpse into another world – the majestic Himalayas.
Yamazaki, also inhaling the view of the giant peaks that pierced the navy-blue and purple sky, announced, as though in a trance, “It’s Kathmandu.” A brown path of pavement scraped into a field of green became visible, and the plane began to descend towards the primitive runway.
We disembarked into folds of fresh air and bright sunlight so different from the dull and sticky feel of Calcutta. Our landing spot was barely large enough to be considered an airport; a pair of compact, two-storey, white concrete buildings was all that stood there.
Yamazaki and I had flown to Kathmandu earlier than the rest of the team due to an urgent issue that arose in Calcutta. Our group had been told that in order to have the expedition boxes officially land in Kathmandu, a trip leader’s signature was required on every single document related to each box. Miyazaki and company stayed back to accommodate said signatures while Yamazaki and I flew ahead to Kathmandu to address other matters that needed attention. This was a new flavour of big-expedition bureaucracy beyond what we had first experienced in Japan.
With our obvious lack of overseas travel experience, Yamazaki and I followed closely behind the few Japanese parties that arrived on the same flight: prominent artist Hisao Yamazato, and two climbing teams – the Kansai University team headed to Annapurna IV and the Kansai Climbing Club going to Dhaulagiri. While we tried to gain our footing in the airport, as small as it was, we were quickly surrounded by four approaching strangers. By their onslaught of questions, we knew they were reporters.
“Are you ladies the members of Annapurna III expedition?”
“How many of you are there overall?”
“Are you going to use oxygen?”
“When do you plan to get the summit?”
“Are you confident of success?”
“Is your doctor a female, too?”
Their letter r was pronounced with a rolled tongue, and the sound lingered in my ear. I was lost in translation, and Yamazaki and I were like deer in the headlights, our answers dazed and confused. They took note of every word we said, and to be honest, I was unsure of how successful that interview was rated in the long run.
“Women alone? Wow! That’s big work. Take heart, ladies,” remarked a nearby Japanese man, offering us little in the way of a mutual conversation. He was Shintaro Ishihara, who in future years would be known for two major accomplishments: as commander-in-chief of the 1970 ski descent of Mount Everest by Yuichiro Miura and as premier of Tokyo Prefecture from 1999 to 2012. After the impromptu interview we had just endured, Ishihara’s words were flattering enough to make us feel that our trip had generated some sort of interest. It was obvious that the arrival of an all-women’s expedition in Nepal was an unusual sight. As such, we were certainly the cause of a large fuss at the airport.
The population of Tokyo Prefecture equalled the whole of Nepal at 10 million people. The size of Nepal was twice that of Hokkaido, Japan’s second largest main island, and the area of snow-covered mountainous terrain was incredibly vast, unlike anything I had seen before. Its capital city, Kathmandu, sat at 1400 metres above sea level, at a similar latitude to Japan’s tropical Okinawa Islands. These combined features made us want to stay in Kathmandu that March day as it reminded us of midsummer in Kamikochi in the Northern Japanese Alps. It felt a bit like home.
A fifteen-minute drive delivered us from airport to townsite, during which the view of the landscape remained much like that of the Japanese countryside – very pastoral. Children ran around barefoot, the curious stare of an old woman sitting on the ground followed our taxi as it drove by, and cows crisscrossed the road. The dark atmosphere of Calcutta had faded away, and I felt a level of relaxation settle in, as though I were in my own country surrounded by a familiar language.
We passed what I guessed to be a college for girls, judging by the group of young women in brown uniform saris. I turned my head to look back at them and was completely taken by their deeply sculpted faces and mysterious eyes. No wonder most of the expeditions to Nepal had been all male up until our trip; these women were beautiful. The royal palace stood out with its large green lawns and mature trees that marked its grounds. An easy ten-minute walk from there led to the New Road, where makeshift shops were jammed up beside one another in the form of a bazaar. The smell of mutton hit my nostrils as I walked past the vendors who sold vegetables and fruits in the square. Nostalgia washed over me when I saw carrots, spinach, cucumbers, oranges and onions piled up on the ground. The array of differences and similarities to Japan made me agreeable to my new surroundings.
Yamazaki and I settled in at the Hotel Laligurans, named after Nepal’s national flower, a vibrant red variety of rhododendron, which, when in bloom, fills the countryside. Our accommodation was owned by a friendly local who put us at ease with his generosity and welcoming nature. This enabled us to immediately set off to our tasks in Kathmandu, where we quickly lost all the comfort from the hotel. It was evident we had no idea what to do first, or how to even begin. Much to our relief, we were rapidly taken under the wing of Ishikawa, the correspondent for the Japanese Everest party, and Takeo, Teramoto and Ichijima, all of whom had been staying in Kathmandu since January as the first members of the Kansai University party to arrive. Compared to these expedition experts, Yamazaki and I knew nothing. Our newly found friends directed us to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to clear paperwork and then to the Himalayan Society to hire Sherpas. The showed us how internal airlines worked and where the post office was located. They kindly escorted us on our first shopping experience, as we had no understanding of the Nepali rupee. Still, even with all their help, the initial five days in this foreign land had me in survival mode. We were busy from dawn until dusk, and into the night with practicing English to the point that my brain was on overload. My tidy pre-trip haircut was a dishevelled mess as I ran around trying to gain footing for our expedition. Each obstacle, like closed offices in celebration of the marriage of Nepal’s prince, had me in a lather. I was never quite able to attain the laid-back nature of the employees who took more than two days to find our trip documents that required signatures. My mind raced and my energy was spent on irritation. I was exhausted, so I took it upon my
self to recognize that when in Nepal, do as the Nepalis – relax.
The Himalayan Society was a type of Sherpas’ guild. We used the guild to hire Sherpas for our trip and draw up a contract for each of them. Nine Sherpas, including a cook, plus two high-elevation porters, two mail runners and a kitchen boy – fourteen in all – became part of our team. Every hired individual was as important as the next, for either their past climbing experience or their unique personality. Tenzing Girmi, for example, at fifty-one, had worked on previous Japanese expeditions; Phurba Kitar, thirty-nine, was part of a German team on Gangapurna in 1965 and had first-hand knowledge of the South Face of Annapurna III; and Pasang Nima, thirty-eight, had climbed on Makalu with a French team in 1960. Others, like Mingma Norbu, thirty-five, a quiet person, essentially discovered mountaineering on our trip; we taught him how to put on crampons.
Then there was Mr. Gopal, our trip liaison officer. He was quite a character, literally as an actor on Nepali television, but also as a comedy writer and a police officer. In 1961 he had spent five months in Japan working with the Japanese national broadcasting company, and was able to greet us in our own language. “My name is Gopal of Nepal. Lady mountaineers are all beautiful. Did you bring oishii-mono?” We had no such Japanese delicacy to share, but we quickly fell into stride with his humour and appreciated his previous Himalayan expedition experience (seven times as a liaison officer since his first trip in 1958 on Himalchuli, six of which were with Japanese parties). He was yet to enjoy the glory of a team reaching the summit, so his sights were set on us for success. His contribution to our trip was to be invaluable, and due to his understanding of Japanese, our leader, Miyazaki, managed to complete the entire expedition without speaking any other language while in Nepal. I, on the other hand, struggled with English and disjointed Nepali for the duration of the trip.
