by Dom Joly
As we carried on down Mingmar told me a story about when he’d gone to work in Japan for a year. He was doing construction work with ten other Sherpas and he now spoke fluent Japanese. When they’d first arrived, however, they didn’t speak a word of the language. One of their gang went off to buy some food and came back with various tins of things and they cooked up a very good dinner. The following night they invited some other workers from a nearby camp to share a meal. When these Japanese workers arrived for dinner they saw the tins and were horrified.
‘That is bruddy cat food!’ they shouted.
Tears rolled down Mingmar’s face as he told me the story and the sound of our laughter echoed off the steep valley walls.
After two and a half hours we reached the bottom and crossed the suspension bridge over the river. As we crossed we passed two trekkers walking along happily, seemingly without a care in the world. Little did they know of the fiendish ascent right ahead of them. It was like driving along on the empty side of the motorway having just passed a five-mile traffic jam on the other side and seeing people driving towards it unaware of what was to come. It made you feel good . . . Or maybe that’s just me?
We walked along the riverbank until we stopped for lunch. We had vegetable curry, rice and some powerful chillies. The chillies certainly woke me up, and afterwards we made good time and were soon in Monjo. This was where we’d stayed on the first night and I was under the impression that we were stopping there. Mingmar, sadly, had other plans and so we marched on. He wanted us to sleep in Phadking, the village where we had stopped for yak and chips on the first day. It was another two hours’ walk and my knee groaned in agony. I slipped on my headphones and listened to music. I started doing a much better pace, no doubt also helped by us having descended more than 3,000 feet. I marched to Bon Iver, Lana Del Rey, the Stranglers, Marianne Faithfull and the Divine Comedy. My legs were like lead and my knees ached with every step but I was managing not to stop for too many breaks. Eventually we crossed the final bridge and it was but a short five-minute walk up to the Green Village Guesthouse. As if on cue, on came ‘Glad It’s All Over’ by Captain Sensible.
Walking through the main drag of the village there were several hectic games of Phadking underway. This is a game not unlike billiards but played with checkers on a flat piece of wood. The player must slide his or her checker across the wooden top and try to knock his or her opponent’s checker into a small round hole cut into the corner of the wood. The table is sprinkled with flour to make it slippery. As the game was named after the village, I presumed it originated there – but apparently different versions of it are played all over the world. Either way it was certainly popular.
We climbed the stairs into the Green Village and I threw my bags on the bed and collapsed. I was filthy. A thick film of dust and dirt covered me but I couldn’t have cared less. I was lying down and only three hours from Lukla and the flight back to Kathmandu. I remembered the steep walk down on the first day and I already knew that I had taken my last steps in the Khumbu Valley: I needed more horse.
Later that evening, as we sat around the wood stove in the centre of the Green Valley dining room, I broached the subject with Mingmar. He seemed unsurprised by my request and rang someone on his mobile to organize it. The stove was gloriously hot and I could feel the heat seeping into my tired bones. Outside the skies had darkened and the clouds had rolled down the valley, lowering the temperature by ten degrees in a second.
I was sick of beer so I bought a bottle of XXX Rum for us to drink. It did the trick and Mingmar was soon three sheets to the wind and suggesting we move on to the local drink, rakshi. This is made from millet and I’d had enough local spirits to know that it was going to be rough. I was wrong. It was utterly delicious, subtle, and really hit the spot. We sat around the Sherpa Aga and talked bollocks for hours.
My horse arrived early the following morning and, to my surprise, it was Tiza, my second day horse. The look of horror in the poor animal’s eyes as she spotted me was unmistakable. She backed away, trying to turn round and bolt for home, but Scary Lady now saw me as a total cash cow and grabbed the reins for dear life.
The climb up to Lukla wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered and on the frequent flat bits I felt very embarrassed when passing fresh-faced backpackers heading off on their treks and staring at the lazy bastard on a horse. The last half-hour, however, was reassuringly steep and I was very pleased to have Tiza. I think I can confidently say that she didn’t feel the same way. It started to snow quite heavily. We looked back up towards the Holy Mountain above Khumjung and it was white. We’d got out just in time. Mingmar thought otherwise.
‘Snow good for Eti tracks,’ he said ruefully.
Damn it, he was right – but I wasn’t going back. I’d had enough and wanted a warm bath and my legs back. We trudged on up the path until we came to the final slope, where a memorial to the victims of the Yeti Air crash reminds trekkers that these are dangerous mountains. We passed by and crossed under the arch demarking the end of the trail. As we entered the town I quickly hopped off Tiza and walked in before anyone could see me. I paid Scary Lady off and patted Tiza on the nose. Tiza turned her head very slowly to look at me.
Our eyes met and we shared a brief moment and then she said, clear as day, ‘Don’t ever come back here again, you fat bastard.’
I jumped back in surprise and looked around to see if anybody else had heard her. Nobody appeared to have done so. I have had many such occasions, when I have been convinced that animals have spoken to me. It’s either a very special skill or the first signs of severe mental illness. My son, Jackson, claims that every cat he encounters winks at him. It appears to be a family trait.
We said goodbye to Tiza and Scary Lady and trudged through the snow into town to my last guesthouse. I had to get a plane to Kathmandu the following morning and it wasn’t looking promising. Given the height and the variable weather conditions, flights had sometimes been cancelled for up to a week. With the snow still falling hard, I had a sneaking suspicion that I might be getting to know Lukla rather well.
I spent the rest of the day writing up my notes and drinking cup after cup of sweet black tea. It was bollock-numbingly cold and, for the first time, I got out my rented down jacket and put it on in the communal room of the guesthouse. As with all Nepalese guesthouses, there was a wood burning stove in the middle of the room – but it wasn’t lit. Various members of the guesthouse family came in, turned on a telly and watched an Indian show called Dance India Dance.
This was a succession of terrible dance acts, one being a woman dancing round her ironing board while another was a man in drag dancing inside a closet . . . Subtle it was not.
The judges all spoke in Hindi/English saying anodyne things like, ‘Very sweet act; I wish you the best of luck.’ After the panel had spoken a rather creepy man in a leather chair (who reminded me of Cyril from That’s Life!) appeared to make the final decision. He slammed anyone male but was incredibly complimentary about any woman performer: ‘You have a most fabulous form and such a charming smile . . .’
The Nepalese family oohed and aahed at every act as I desperately hinted that it might be time to light the stove. They ignored me and so I poured green chilli all over my Sherpa stew hoping it might warm me up. I went to bed at seven p.m. and had the coldest night I have ever spent in a bed (and I have slept in two ice hotels).
I woke at five-thirty absolutely certain that all planes would be cancelled. Miraculously however, the day became clear and sunny and the runway had been magically cleared of snow. I had a coffee and walked over to the airstrip. Mingmar came to say goodbye and gave me a white silk scarf for ‘safe travels’. He was going to walk all the way back to Khumjung to help his parents build a new house. We said our goodbyes and parted. He was a great guy but I felt totally emasculated by him.
At seven a.m. a siren sounded to indicate the imminent arrival of a plane. Not only was it clear in Lukla, but conditions in Kathmandu w
ere good too. The plane landed and passengers got off while porters hurried to offload baggage and hurl ours on. Meanwhile someone constantly rotated the propellers manually so that they wouldn’t freeze up.
The engines roared and we started hurtling down the slope towards the drop. At the last moment the plane went up the ramp and was catapulted into the void. Everyone screamed, as the plane appeared to almost come to a standstill in mid-air. Then, somehow, it got some invisible traction and we were off. People started breathing again and unclenching their fists. The fat woman next to me let go of my arm and I felt blood start to flow to my fingers again. I looked out of the little window at the snowy peaks to my right. As I did I could almost swear that I saw a large hairy creature, about eight feet tall and covered in a reddish-brown hair. As I stared the creature raised its right hand and extended two fingers in the international sign of dismissal. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but the mountains had disappeared and we were enveloped in soft white clouds that would carry us back to Kathmandu and the drudgery of the known world.
Nessie
‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’
Friedrich Nietzsche
I couldn’t really be an English monster-hunter and not go after the Loch Ness Monster, possibly the most famous monster in the world.
‘Nessie’ has somehow grabbed the world’s imagination: you can mention her anywhere and people know the story. The term ‘monster’ was first coined to describe Nessie in 1933 by Alex Campbell, a water bailiff and part-time journalist, in an article he wrote for the Inverness Courier. This was the year in which the legend really kicked off, with a plethora of sightings of a large creature in the loch that continue to this day. There was apparently always something eerie about the loch, however: tales of something in the water stretch back to the time of St Columba, in the sixth century, who supposedly witnessed a man who was being attacked by a large ‘water creature’ in the River Ness.
In more recent times the canny locals of the loch have done their very best to use the story to attract the lucrative tourist dollar. A trip to Scotland would not be complete without a visit to Loch Ness. It’s something that appeals to the whole family. Dad can be a monster-hunter, Mum can enjoy the scenery and the kids can get a cheap thrill worrying that they might be eaten by this modern-day celebrity dinosaur.
Truth be told, though, the idea of travelling to Scotland after my recent adventures – and as opposed to searching for the Chupacabra in Puerto Rico or the Wild Man of Borneo – was not that appealing. I was a monster-hunter and wanted to hack through jungles and climb mountains, not drive up the M1. Also, on this trip I’d be travelling with my wife and two kids. Don’t get me wrong. I adore my family but it’s just that when I’m ‘working’ I like to travel alone. This isn’t because I don’t miss my family when I’m gone (I do, terribly) but is because, in my opinion, to write a proper book you need to be on your own. This allows you to people-watch, eavesdrop, explore and get into trouble.
I occasionally write for the Sunday Times and they had provided me with a brand-new Mercedes ‘family wagon’ to review. They suggested that I go off on a trip with my family to somewhere in the UK to test out the vehicle. It was half term and the kids were bored. Everything was pointing in one direction. We were going to Loch Ness to monster-hunt en famille. God help us all.
The Mercedes turned up. It was a lovely, posh new yuppie-mobile and it had been brought over from Germany especially for this story. No pressure . . . I thought to myself as I climbed in. I got in the wrong side. It was a left-hand drive with German number-plates. The kids loved it, playing with all the buttons in the back that turned your seat into a Jacuzzi or some such nonsense.
I punched ‘Inverness’ into the complicated sat-nav system and it announced in a German/English accent that the trip was about 500 miles. It was also claiming that it would take me eight and a half hours. This was crazy. I thought that Germans had no speed limits on their autobahns? It seemed the moment it got over here it was getting all Little Englander with me.
‘How long until we get there, Dad?’ The kids were restless and we were still parked outside the house.
‘About three hours,’ I said.
‘Dad is lying. It’s about nine hours, kids,’ said Stacey.
‘Nine hours! OMG! What the hell are we going to do for nine hours?’ cried my little monsters.
‘We could play I Spy?’ I suggested, hoping they’d say no.
‘Why did you tell them it was nine hours?’ I whispered to Stacey.
‘Because that’s how long it is,’ she replied.
‘Now they’re pissed off already,’ I whispered back.
‘Why are you whispering?’ asked Stacey.
‘Forget it,’ I said, trying to find the button that turned the engine on.
‘I spy with my little eyes something beginning with L . . . !’ cried the back seat.
‘It’s L for Long Time – too long to be in a car!’ They all laughed and for a moment forgot they were unhappy . . . But only for a moment.
I found the button and pressed it. The engine came on but was so ‘eco’ I had to get out of the car to check, as I couldn’t hear anything. I got back in and drove out through the gates. We were off, monsters hunting monsters.
The drive was pretty much as I’d imagined it would be. The kids bickered most of the way up. Someone hit someone; someone denied hitting someone; someone hit someone back.
‘Shut up.’
‘No, you shut up.’
‘Dad, Parker hit me.’
‘Mum, the little brat kicked me . . .’
As the soap opera developed in the back seat, things weren’t much better up front. Because we were in a left-hand drive, Stacey – who was in the ‘exposed’ passenger seat – was convinced that every oncoming car was going to hit her. Every single time a car went past us she would flinch and scream: ‘You’re in the wrong fucking lane, you big bonehead! Aaaaaaaaaarrrghghgh!’
By Burford, just twelve miles away from home, I was fantasizing about murdering her. We had eight hours and forty-five minutes to go and I realized that I was on my very own National Lampoon’s Vacation.
Suddenly a car pulled out in front of me without looking. I slammed on the brakes and just managed to avoid hitting him. I was about to remonstrate with the single-cell organism in the clapped-out Ford when he beat me to it.
‘Fucking German bastard. Learn to fucking drive, you Nazi arsehole!’
He sped off, giving the finger to both the entire German nation and me. Stacey and I looked at each other and had to laugh.
Although we were after the Loch Ness Monster, we were not going to be staying beside Loch Ness. Experience has taught me that if a hotel doesn’t have a swimming pool, or at the very least a hot tub, then kid trouble lies ahead. I’d found a hotel with a pool in Inverness so the idea was to hang out there and make investigative forays to the nearby loch.
I must have been high on hallucinogens when I agreed to this idea. By the time we eventually rolled into Inverness, ten hours later, nobody was talking to anybody. We simply communicated via a series of sharp elbows and seat kicks.
All I wanted to do was hit the bar, have a drink and get something to eat, but the kids had got the overpowering stench of chlorine in the lobby into their noses and wanted to swim. Reluctantly I got them into swimsuits, found towels and wandered down to the pool.
To my delight there was a hot tub right next to the pool. Unfortunately there was also an enormous tattooed Geordie sitting bang in the middle of it. Without much choice I slipped into the bubbly soothing waters. I tried to look away from the tattooed Geordie but he just sat and stared at me as though I’d spilt his pint. He appeared to be struggling to say something and it took a while but it eventually came out.
‘Are youse him off the telly?’
I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to sit there, relax and ge
t over my ten-hour drive from hell. If I did this, though, he would tell everyone he knew in prison that I was a wanker who was ‘up’ himself and needed a ‘good kicking’.
I turned and smiled and looked bashful and said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
He looked at me for a while before speaking again: ‘No you’re not him. Are youse mocking me?’
I didn’t know what to say to this without getting a smack.
‘No, no, it’s me. I’m Dom Joly from the telly. How you doing?’ I tried to sound relaxed and friendly.
‘I thought you were that fella from the comedy-house show, wasssiisname?’ His red face looked like it was about to explode with exertion.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. Sorry, I’m really tired and just want to chill out.’ I leant back and closed my eyes and hoped he’d go away.
‘Do you think youse better than me?’
I didn’t wait for any more. I got up, got out of the hot tub, grabbed the kids out of the pool and started marching them towards the changing rooms. They started protesting and trying to get back into the pool.
The tattooed Geordie shouted, ‘Are those your kids?’
I ignored him and we got into the changing rooms to find a man standing naked, with one leg up on the bench, blow-drying his pubic hair. We left straight away and headed for the room.
‘Hey, that was quick – how was it?’ asked Stacey.
‘Fine,’ I said, looking for the mini-bar.
After half an hour or so we went downstairs to get something to eat, only to find that the hotel restaurant closed at eight p.m.
We went next door to a ‘posh’ Italian restaurant. It was ‘posh’ enough to have nothing for the kids to eat, but ‘shit’ enough to leave us all very unsatisfied and with a huge bill.
