by Andrew Greig
She was a tiny, bird-like and aristocratic old lady. She sat poised and upright in the large, cool sitting room while her daughter poured us glasses of milky chang and Urs passed on the latest news of their relatives. There was nothing forced about her dignity; she was shy and eager for news. Quietude seemed to radiate from her into the sparsely furnished room, shadows of the flowers in the window boxes met and parted on the plaster walls as she answered our questions about Tibetan life.
She’d been sent to Darjeeling as a girl to learn English, which she spoke with bell-like clarity, the Raj English of a bygone age. What she returned to again and again was the speed and extent of the changes of the last three years. During the Cultural Revolution destruction and repression were complete. All the monasteries other than the Tashi Lumpo had been sacked by Red Guards. Jack had claimed that many of these were Tibetans – was that true? ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘many of our young people wanted to destroy things – but they were always led by Chinese.’ The same monasteries were now being systematically rebuilt, often with Chinese labour. Even more ironic and surprising, the monasteries are partly supported by the Chinese government.
During the Cultural Revolution all religious practices were proscribed; no shrines, no portraits of the Dalai Lama, no Buddhas, no prayer-scarves. Instead Tibetans had to have a portrait of Mao on the wall, which they hated. Red Guards could walk into any house at any time to inspect it. All foreign literature and contact with foreigners was banned.
I looked round the quiet, sunlit room, at the dozen English books, the chintz settee, the old valve radio, the large portrait of the exiled Dalai Lama. She smiled and said ‘Yes, so much is different now. We are so happy.’ Her smile of joy in a face lined with illness, age and suffering lingered with me many days. She went on to describe, more in sorrow than anger, how it had been. The ‘consciousness raising’ meetings they were forced to attend twice a day to confess to being CIA agents and American spies, people scared to talk to each other, having all their movements controlled. ‘Prison, yes it was like being in prison for ten years. Now everything is changing so fast …’ It is no longer compulsory for Tibetans to learn Chinese at school. Boiler suits are out and national dress is back in. And the same Tibetan Red Guards who once had all the power of Hitler’s Brownshirts to do virtually anything they pleased were now abandoned by the Chinese, were poor, despised and ostracized in Lhasa. A rare case of bully boys getting their just desserts.
Now she could correspond freely with her refugee relatives; they could even come to visit and leave the country again. She might go to Ladakh for a while if her health permitted. Her happiness was moving.
So what’s really going on in Tibet? Is this Chinese window-dressing, to impress the West and develop the huge tourist trade they’re planning? Or a genuine change of heart? Is the Tashi Lumpo monastery a façade, or a thriving religious centre? Any visitors must make up their own minds, but to us it seemed that the astonishingly rapid recent changes in Tibet are probably the product both of practical calculation and ideological shift. One only wonders, as the Tibetans do, whether it will last, given China’s capacity for abrupt changes in direction.
Tibetans do not like the Chinese. They did not ask to be overrun, nor for the ‘Democratic Rebirth’. The continued exile of their Dalai Lama symbolizes that protest, and wearing the Dalai Lama badge is as much a political as a religious gesture. But when we asked our host whether she thought life for the average Tibetan had changed for better or worse since the Chinese moved in, she hesitated for a moment then said ‘You see, I must not tell lies. It is better for nearly everyone now.’ The other Tibetans with whom we had an opportunity to speak echoed her opinion. They recognize that their ancient, feudal and rigidly repressive albeit picturesque society had to change. The Chinese razed the foundations of that society – the absolute authority of the monasteries and the few aristocratic families – but brought education, housing, sanitation, health, social justice, and greatly extended agriculture through vast irrigation projects.
If anything is going drastically to alter Tibet, it will probably be the anticipated huge influx of tourists rather than the Chinese. So we concluded and one by one drifted off to bed to put down a final pint of tea and write up diaries.
Jon In the afternoon me, Rick, and Andy Nisbet went for a walk over all the tops behind the monastery. … Quite windy on top, even did some bouldering. Rick has been the bloke I’ve come to know most about so far – apart from the lads I’ve been on trips with in the past – and I find him immensely likeable with very similar attitudes to me – apart from the fact that he trains!
I am really looking forward to the Ridge kicking the shit out of me – a bizarre ambition if there ever was one …
4.0 am, pitch dark, starry, very cold as our trucks start up and we stumble aboard half-asleep. Then across the Tibetan plateau in the mauve and turquoise bleeding light, our minds empty and passive, merely recording. Immense distances open up as clouds on the horizon resolve into further foothills. We rattle through a sleeping village, a dog barks, a stirring of wind or perhaps the draught of our passing momentarily distorts a straight column of smoke into a question mark above the flat roofs. We meet a mule train trotting out of the desert, led by a man and woman muffled in sheepskin and black cloth. They glance up incuriously, nod then walk on towards whatever destination. We jolt towards ours, only two more days …
Bob Barton pulls down his cowboy hat, listening to Blood On The Tracks. Dave fingers his moustache, his thick gold wedding ring catches the low sunlight as he plans and worries about Base Camp organization. He knows how he wants things done, but his position here is difficult as a non-climber. There’s already been some friction with Sandy … Sandy opens a beer, looks out of the window, then settles down to a book. Liz is sleeping and her head bobs on Mal’s shoulder as he pulls on his first cigarette of the day and stares fixedly ahead, thinking about logistics, personalities, his own hopes. Going quite well so far, he reflects. The extra time in Lhasa has helped acclimatization, but we might come to regret that lost week. The monsoon can come any time after mid-May …
We reached Xegar in mid-afternoon, a dusty, casual village of whitewashed houses, women spinning as they sit back against the walls, old men carrying baskets of dried yak dung, boys stacking them under the roofs. There’s one street, a few concrete and tin-roofed modern additions including a cinema and the post office, where our mail will arrive. Jack goes to check it out: nothing for us. Another four weeks to wait till the first news from home, it seems a long time.
We went to explore the Dzong, the ruins of a sprawling walled fortification built right up a sheer outcrop, a combination of monastery, fort and safe retreat for villagers from the period in the distant past when Tibetan chiefs were perpetually at war with each other. We’ve seen many stubs of forts like ancient worn-down teeth sticking up out of the desert, but none on this scale. As we scrambled up, feeling the extra altitude at some 4,250 metres, the hillside steepened into a few climbing moves on very friable rock, then a few more.
Soon Mal, Liz, Andy Nisbet and myself were in the position where down-climbing was a bad option and we had to go on with no idea if there’d be an exit. We finally ended up in a broken, near-vertical corner that seemed to offer the only way out. Mal and Andy do it with ease, enjoying themselves. Liz follows with more care. I envy her rock-climbing experience; mine amounts to childhood scrambling and one route in the Lake District. I check out the down-climb again. … Seriously marginal. Up’s the only way out. How do I get into these situations? One slip and I’m out of the trip. Here goes …
Light-headed, heart pounding and slightly sick at the top, gasping for air that isn’t there. We eventually made an exit through a hole in the fortress wall near the top. Andy and I found a heap of moulded clay Buddhas under a rock; we picked up a few because they seemed casually discarded, part of the general ruin. But back at our ‘hotel’ Urs told us they’re compounded of clay and the ashes of the dead.
Sandy was deeply perturbed by this. ‘Look, it’s bad joss, youth. We can’t afford that on a trip like this.’ I tease him for being a superstitious Highlander, but he’s in no mood for joking. We decide to return them, hoping ignorance is an excuse in the eyes of divine, if not human, justice.
The sun set and the temperature plummeted. A clear night and the sky studded with unwavering stars. The dining room was a wind-tunnel with all the charm of an aircraft hangar; we shivered over our meal, wearing everything but our down suits. The food seemed even more slimy and intestinal than usual. So it wasn’t altogether surprising when the suggestion came from Jon, Rick, Tony and Sandy that we omit the rest and acclimatization day here and go straight on to Base Camp. They’re feeling well and are impatient to arrive and get stuck in and start suffering.
The suggestion was considered and eventually dropped, (a) because the majority are against it, (b) because Mal is against it. He holds that going from 3,300 to 4,250 to 5,150 metres in two days was pushing too fast; it might suit some of the lads, but the idea was to arrive at Everest with everyone in good shape. Andy Nisbet for one looked relieved, still concerned about his failure to acclimatize on Nuptse.
This was the first time we’d debated an Expedition decision. Sandy argued that as a group we had to back Mal’s decision to wait on; interestingly, Jon agreed. Rick and Tony would obviously still rather have gone on, but the decision was accepted without resentment. It was a good sign that people felt free to make suggestions, discuss them and abide by the outcome. I wondered what would happen, though, if Mal was ever in the position of making a decision that went against the wishes of the majority.
Jon Heart bursting with happiness again. … Rick definitely twitchy, Sandy in football-manager mode – talking lots, saying nowt but meaning a lot!
So we spent the following day in Xegar. We drank tea, washed clothes, wrote up diaries and letters, made climbing slings, sewed loops on gear, and lay in the sun. Rick tried to curb his impatience by devoting himself to Les Trois Mousquetaires, which he’s brought along to keep up his French. There was a sense of drawing a deep breath for the hardships ahead, and enjoying a last few undemanding hours. As we sat and chatted about the route, past expeditions, home, music and future plans, we were preparing our hearts and minds as much as our gear and bodies. By the time we arrived, everything should have been stuffed into the right compartments.
Sandy and I climbed back up to the top of the fort to return the clay figures. We sat there a long time amid the cairns, ruined masonry and clumps of prayer flags, looking out over high Tibet, elevated and at peace.
Another evening huddled in the dining room. ‘I think I’ll just pop into town and get some I LOVE XEGAR badges,’ said Allen.
Sandy Walking out of the dining area it felt cold, very cold with the wind and all. Mal said, ‘I hope it’s not this cold on the hill!’ My thoughts hit me, made me feel nervous in anticipation. Yes, I said to myself, won’t be too cosy creeping out of a snow hole at Camp 2. Shivers ran down my spine. Don’t know if I’m looking forward to it or not. I think I am, even trying to throw egotism to the dogs. Been trying that a lot lately. Dominique said climbing is selfish, I’m trying to see if it is or not. I wish it was not. But it must be, we climbers must be selfish.
Sure, being in the hostile environments makes us and helps us to really appreciate the finer points of valley life. But can’t work out why we leave all that just to climb – and as I write this I know that I’m psyching myself into thinking, Yes fuck it, this route is hard but as a team we can climb it and even if we can’t then I can … How the hell can I believe such a statement? But we have to, I have to. I imagine before a woman gives birth she must feel, Well how in hell can a baby so large come out of me so small? And then some fear, then some confidence, then birth, some loud screams, then OK, Inshallah. Perhaps it is the same with us climbers.
But I want to go there, to try, even to the point to die (I won’t die though). But I’ll push to beside death, till I can smell it. … But that’s the art in the game, I guess, to recognize when to step back. … But on a 8,000 metres technical route … Well, one and one’s mate have to walk close with death for many paces – that’s when life is seen so close to. We may then be able to compare them, life and death, and see what’s what. I cannot tell which one I’ll choose – or will be chosen for me – death is probably the easier of the two for me – but I don’t want it – I want life. Maybe I’ll find it that way!
* * *
You’re a bumblie, Andrew, an incompetent wazzock. You must have known a pint of water wouldn’t be enough for a day going from 4,250 to 5,150 metres. Nine pints a day, man! So stupid … The tent’s moving up and down again. I feel sick. Drink! Another litre to go. I’m going to throw up. Wish I could see properly, instead of out of focus and grey round the edges. This headache is not so much an ache as a Frankenstein bolt through the head. You’re a sick man, not entirely in your right mind. Drink! So this is what cerebral oedema feels like …
That was what mild cerebral oedema, water retention in the brain, felt like. A crushing headache, absolute physical weakness and the mind wandering in its own labyrinth. Like childhood ’flu when a dressing-gown on the back of a door momentarily becomes a monster – the same worrying sense of unreality, as if the world and oneself were a leaky boat about to come apart at the seams and sink.
Lying alone in the claustrophobic world of my tent that first night at Everest Base Camp, I struggled to keep a grip on myself. I took Urs’ pain-killers and anti-nausea tablets at regular intervals, then lay back and waited for the relief. Whenever I came to myself enough to remember, I drank my way through the flasks of luke-warm coffee Julie had brought over. I was angry at myself and my body for getting into this state, and well aware that if I didn’t get better by morning I’d be facing a drive back down to Xegar with Urs to lose altitude and recover – unpleasant and embarrassing. Even in extremis, the ego still defends its self-image.
One of those seemingly endless nights. No question of sleep even if it were possible; I had to keep drinking. I tried reading but my eyes played tricks. The Walkman made the headache worse. Looking blankly at the ceiling was claustrophobic and there was something unsettling in the way the weave of the fabric bulged and shifted. I drank more, propped myself shivering up on one elbow and forced myself to record the last day of our journey to Everest in a shaky hand by the light of two flickering candles…
… Stumble out into the freezing dark of Xegar, dazed and half-awake. The moon burning white and brilliant as magnesium, the stars unwavering. Blow-torches roar under the trucks as the drivers unfreeze the engines, hunched figures moving in the shadows. Unreal and vivid as a dream, this final setting out. Finally the trucks shudder into life, echoing back down from the ruined fort. Most of the lads clamber into a Mothercare-type playpen of mats we’d constructed in the open back of a truck; Danny and I each climb into one of the other trucks as driver’s mates. A wave and we’re off.
My truck gets 100 yards from the compound then breaks down. A broken battery lead; the driver cobbles it together while Danny and I joke and stomp up and down to keep warm though we’re wearing everything we’ve got. Dawn turns cobalt blue over the mountains, the star fades, the first dog barks.
An hour later we’re on the road again. My truck is the oldest and slowest, breaking down with monotonous regularity. More desert, more moonscape, tiny villages with grey fields that will be green when we come this way again. And what will our harvest be? Irrigation streams, raggedy children, an old woman with a hen tucked firmly under her arm. This is the last of natural human society we’ll see for a couple of months. Our existence on the mountain is completely unnatural and can only be temporary. Maybe that’s why it seems so precious and so intensely experienced, like the last sight of a woman’s bracken-tinted hair, or another waving goodbye in a London dawn … I want to journey on and on like this till I become completely amnesiac, living in the eternal present of expedition time.
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Mid-morning we abruptly turn off the tarmac Friendship Highway onto the ‘road’ to Everest. It’s scarcely a road, more a clearing in a boulder field. The truck grinds on in its lowest gear, bouncing us about like dice in a cup. The Chinese extended this road right to Everest Base Camp to bring in supplies for their 1960 expedition. It’s indicative of their methodical approach and colossal manpower. They may also have been anticipating the potential tourist trade, though anyone going to Everest Base Camp on this side of the mountain for a quick look around is going to feel distinctly unwell.
At the far side of a river, which the trucks ford only after some difficulty – it can be completely unpassable – we all meet up again and open up Expedition supplies for the first time: luncheon meat, tinned peaches and oatcakes. They taste wonderful because we’ve all had enough of Chinese food. We talk and joke, take off layers of clothing. A few of the lads admit to the first ghost of an altitude headache and I’m light-headed myself, but we’re all very raised behind our attempted casualness. In a few hours the mountain, which we regard more as our testing-ground or theatre than an adversary, will show itself. The weather is perfect; surely it can’t stay like this all the way to Base. We’re all aware that Bonington’s expedition arrived in very hostile conditions.
… ‘See you, Jimmy! See you …’ My driver rehearses over and over his only English phrase as I coach him in the authentic, aggressive Glasgow gutterals with which we aim to astonish young Tinker. For nearly two hours now we’ve been grinding up towards the 5,000 metres pass from where we should see Everest. The cab’s stifling, stinking of diesel; the wheel leaps like a fish through the driver’s hands. We share cigarettes and the contents of my one water-bottle. Should have brought more … Danny’s truck is way up ahead, the other is out of sight. This is endless, want to get to the top and see Everest, want to get to Base and put my tent up. Mal and Dave have planned exactly what’s to be done in which order so that it’ll not be everyone for themselves when we arrive. Hope the lads stick to that; it’ll be a test of how co-operative we’re prepared to be. Not another breakdown, please …
