by Andrew Greig
Mohammed turned to me. ‘Forward going,’ he said, his brown eyes shining. ‘This is my home.’ And he stood up in the jeep, swung his cowboy hat above his head and let out a rodeo whoop of pure joy.
Then we entered the desert, and the jeep slithered along old tracks through the soft sand. None of us had expected this, a desert at 8000 feet, stretching away for miles on all sides. Over a stomach-lurching Third-World bridge across the Braldu river, then a first-gear haul up a pass through the foothills. The scenery was growing wilder and more desolate all the time, with range after range of ‘foothills’ – between 12,000 and 15,000 feet high – opening up more sand and shattered rock and granite peaks than I’d ever imagined existed. The scale of it all and the sheer desolation were a shock to the mind and body. It scooped us out of ourselves like the stars do. It left us feeling tiny and liberated, finally jolted us free from the shell of our supposed importance.
The Walk – in to Mustagh Tower
Then we came on small villages, little miracles of fertility in the wilderness. I’d look up and see a straight green line slashed as if by a razor, slanting down across the cliffs, and know that it bled water and round the next bend would be human habitation, made possible by that lifeline of water channelled off a melting snowfield. The villages grew more grubby and more lovely as we drove hour after hour deeper into the mountains.
Maybe I’m drowning and this is my life, Kathleen thought as one scene tumbled after another before her eyes, vivid and joyous. Tall poplars, broad-leaved apricot branches whipping off the top of the jeep. Bright fields of wheat and lentils, shimmerimg irrigation streams running along their margins. A herd of goats shepherded by a beaming dwarf, chickens zigzagging in front of our wheels, magpies clattering out of a tree.
Sun in our eyes and our heads turned and turned, but we could never take it all in. Only a few images remain to set beside that richest of days. An old gap-toothed man carrying branches on his back looked up at us, his mouth open in astonishment or a smile. A young woman pulled her red shawl across her face as we approached; others stood motionless. A boy with blue eyes held out his arm, the palm of his hand facing us. He stood like that, grave and still, till we were 100 yards down the road. Was it a greeting or a warding off? And there was a man squatting beside a stream, his arms outstretched, watching glittering beads of water shiver and fall from his fingertips. Lost in some distant trance, he never turned his head as we went by.
As the villages became poorer, we began stopping in them. Mohammed seemed to be the best known and most popular man in Baltistan. Old friends and relatives clustered round him, shook his hand as they exchanged favours, made arrangements or merely chatted. In five minutes our jeep would be surrounded by an extraordinary variety of humanity. Tall, lean Afghans, small Tibetan-looking women with slanting eyes, village idiots with wide eyes and open smiles, children in bare feet and layers of sacklike shifts. Alex was clicking picture after picture in the most unobtrusive way, with a compact camera held casually in the hand that dangled by his side; no one was aware he was taking them. ‘The way I figure it,’ he drawled, ‘why drop a stone into the lake and make interference when you can place it on the surface and let it sink?’
That’s how we’d like to move through this country.
In the heat of the day, we stopped in a dusty village called Kashmal and were led to the headman’s house. There Adrian was asked to look at a few people with cuts, bad eyes, bad chests. While he had his surgery, we sat in a cool, dim room and waited for tea. It was very simple: a couch, a bed, a framed photo of the Ayatollah Khomeini, a table, a copy of the Koran. The walls were roughly plastered, there were fading rugs on the floor.
It was deeply relaxing. No clutter of possessions, no radio, no telephone, no newspaper. The only sounds were the murmur of voices outside and the wind in the trees. We were quite content to sit and smoke and wait, while the bars of sunlight flickered on the opposite wall. Chat ran its leisurely course till the luckless Sybil came out with one of her Profound Remarks: ‘Well, nobody has to like what they don’t like.’ A pause while we considered this pearl. Then she added defensively, ‘That’s what I think, anyway.’
Alex uncoiled himself from the far corner. ‘W-e-l-l, that’s a sane concept, but – we can still put it on THE CHOPPING BLOCK!’ He brought the edge of his hand crashing down onto the table in front of him. Jon laughed in pure delight. It was typical Alex – quite bizarre, perfectly timed. And maybe just a little cruel.
Adrian came in, looking at once amused and harassed. Would Kath come and help him? He had a female patient; the problem was he was not allowed to examine her. He had to stand outside a door while Kath relayed the symptoms from inside and he directed her what to look for. Eventually he diagnosed a bad case of worms for mother and child, dug out some pills from our medicine chest and with Mohammed’s help explained the course of treatment.
‘I’ve heard of examinations done through a hole in a sheet, old boy, but this is the first time I’ve examined anyone through a door!’ Mohammed explained that medical help for women in the remoter villages was a problem. There was a doctor and dispensary in every second village – which was typical of the impressive degree of organization we found in Baltistan – but often female patients were not allowed to see a male doctor. This also was typical. They could see a female doctor, but they were few and far between, and neither the men nor the women were keen on the men being examined by a female.
We took our tea, exchanged handshakes and smiles and clambered back up onto the jeep. ‘Trouble is,’ Adrian brooded, ‘anything I do here is just a drop in the ocean.’
Sandy was talking about climbing in Chamonix. ‘When you’re up on the crag, you want to be lying on your back in the valley, eh? And when you’re in the valley, you wish you were up on the crag.’
‘Yeh,’ Burt added, ‘people only want what’s impossible.’
But that ain’t necessarily so. All that day I’d wanted what was not only possible but also present and actual. I wanted what I got. That was happiness, and more. It was Mohammed’s hat swung aloft in the glittering air.
Travel-weary and jubilant, we arrived in Dassu at sunset. The road ended abruptly in the village square. From now on we walk. We shouldered our packs, took the track through the village, past the dusty trees and mud houses, teetered across a log over a stream and came to a military-looking compound where we were to spend the night.
Miraculously, our blue barrels and the already battered cardboard boxes were waiting for us, all present and correct. So too were our porters, who squatted in the yard like a flock of chaffinches, all motley and chattering. The air was sweet with the woodsmoke from their fires as they brewed up chai. While Mohammed and Captain Shokat hassled for a reduction in our camp fees and negotiated a body-swerve round the regulation that we eat and pay for the food provided, we went inside.
A concrete floor, one trestle bed, a hurricane lamp. ‘Shuffling dossing at last – great!’ Jon enthused. We all acted in character. He lay on his Karrimat with the headphones, arms folded and staring at the ceiling like the effigy of a medieval knight. Adrian fussed about cleaning his corner and sorting through the medical gear. Kath went outside to watch the last mauve light drift up the highest slopes. I lit the lamp and hunched making notes in its smoky, yellow light. Burt and Sandy muttered over financial calculations in the room next door, Shokat like a good Muslim went for his evening wash, and Alex simultaneously got wrecked and got supper together.
We were all in a mellow mood that night as we talked quietly and ate in the half-dark. The room was lit by the fitful glare of a chapati oven outside, where dim figures moved in and out of the glow, leaving a brief vivid image of deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, white teeth. We wondered how Mal was doing in ’Pindi, discussed his chances of raising the money. Our Expedition would be in desperate shape without it – but tonight all that counted was that we had finally come to the walk-in, and nothing could stop us short of Mustagh Base Camp.
> I went outside to look at the moon. It was low and white, casting enormous mountain shadows across the valley. The air was cold and thin. The stars were smeared all across the sky – how odd and reassuring it was to see the Plough still up there, making its slow eternal furrow through the dark. And us – where will our trail end? Will Kath and I be able to keep up and not make fools of ourselves? Will we acclimatize? Just how hard is it going to be?
I shivered in my Thermafleece, drew the zip up to my throat. Kath came out to join me and we stood beside each other in silence as the oven glowed, the porters murmured in their blankets, and the stars tracked silently across the indifferent sky.
I hum a Chuck Berry anthem to decadent, innocent, rebellious western youth as I slither out of my sleeping bag. The Karrimat didn’t soften that floor much. I’m bruised all over. There’s going to be another two months of sleeping on the ground. Suppose I’ll get used to it, just have to. Well, you don’t come up here for comfort, do you?
Hard to know what to wear. It’s cold now, but by 10.00 it’ll be pushing 100°F in the shade. It stands to reason the first couple of days will be the hottest, so I’d better wear the pajamas. I pulled on the old yellow Marks & Spencer pajamas, feeling faintly ridiculous. Hell, what’s good enough for Don Whillans is good enough for me. But nobody laughs at Whillans. No, the pajamas make sense – they’re the lightest men’s clothing one can buy. Then a light sweater and the Thermafleece, can carry them in my pack later. Got to keep the weight down – dump this sleeping bag in one of the boxes, maybe get rid of a few cassettes too, if no one’s looking.
The Nike boots. They’ve been ace so far, no breaking in at all, no blisters. Now we’ll find out what they’re up to. Foreign Legion hat, ridiculous but effective. Umbrella, ridiculous and ineffective. Too late to dump it now. Sun cream, water bottle, Milk Duds, rolling tobacco, aspirin, notebook, Walkman, spare socks … I’ll never know how the weight adds up. Sandy must be carrying a good 40 pounds, he’s even got his axes. He’s a bull. I’ve got maybe 25 pounds, and that’s enough for seven hours’ yomping … Ready as I’ll ever be, get a decent breakfast in, hey ho let’s go –
– UP in the morning and out to school –
‘Oh God, you’re not one of those cheerful sods in the morning, are you?’
Our porters gather to receive a military-style briefing from Captain Shokat – which leaves them amused and bemused – and a more direct pep-talk from Mohammed. The basic message: don’t steal, don’t lift, be nice to foreigners, money at Base Camp, sorry no sunglasses.
Adrian gives them the statutory medical inspection. This is something of a farce: he looks them in the eye, squeezes the odd bicep, and asks if they feel okay. Naturally they grin and say ‘Okay!’ There’s a good living in portering. They’re a very motley crew, aged from sixteen to mid-fifties, all lean and wiry. One or two look slightly shifty, the rest look you in the eye and smile or nod: nothing servile, just hello. We’ve heard stories of sit-down strikes, of pilfering on a massive scale. The Spanish expedition we met in Flashman’s used sealed and locked barrels for their gear; the ingenious porters removed the labels, cut into the barrels and removed what they wanted, then replaced the labels over the opening … By the time the Spanish discovered this, they’d lost several thousand dollars’ worth of gear, and the porters were back in their mountain villages.
But they look trustworthy enough to us. As with anybody, it probably depends how you treat them. Treat them as a lazy, shiftless bunch of thieves and, insulted, they’ll act like that. And we’ve got Mohammed who knows personally every man there, who they know will be back year after year looking for porters; he’s made it clear he’ll not be amused if anything goes missing. Only the ever cautious Adrian has festooned his pack with little Chinese locks, which only serve to suggest there might be something inside worth breaking in for.
It’s 7.30, the air is not so cool any more. Mohammed’s promised us a six-hour trek today, to the village of Chaqpo. That will take us through the heat of the day. We’re impatient to be away, but now each load has to be assigned to a porter and noted – he’ll have that load and be responsible for it all the way to Base Camp. The first porters rope up their boxes, strap them across their shoulders and backs, and stagger to their feet, steadying themselves with the stave each carries. In a biblical gesture, suggestive of Moses pointing the way forward into the Promised Land, the oldest extends his stick down the trail ahead, and now finally, on 23 June, we start walking to the Tower. This is the one big adventure I’ve always wanted; it’s happening now as I put one foot after another down this dusty track, following a flock of porters into the mountains. I glance at Kath. She looks well. She says nothing but looks and looks around her, living her dream.
Maybe I’m drowning and this is my life …
Our walk-in would follow the Braldu river for several days to its source in the Baltoro glacier, then we’d trek up the glacier for another five days or so. At the top of the glacier is the greatest concentration of high mountains in the world: K2, Broad Peak, the four Gasherbrums, Masherbrum. To find the Mustagh Tower you turn left three days from the end.
None of us had done this walk-in before, but many mountaineers have come this way and it’s agreed to be one of the most extended, arduous and occasionally dangerous walk-ins in the world. Joe Tasker in his classic book, The Savage Arena, described it as the hardest thing short of actual climbing he’d ever done. He was not a man given to overstatement. Tasker, Boardman, Haston, Bonington, Messner, Herman Buhl – all the heroes and companions of my armchair climbing had come this way, forded the same rivers, stayed at the same camp sites, been filled with the same dream as we had.
From the accounts we’d read, the main ingredients of hardship seemed to be the heat, the shortage of good water, and long stretches where the path skirted dangerously above the Braldu. ‘If we get everyone to Base Camp in good shape, it’ll be a minor miracle – and half the battle,’ Mal had said in ’Pindi. I wondered where he was now, in what sort of mood, and if he’d managed to raise the money. The more pessimistic Jon, probably trying to wind us up, had added, ‘You’ve probably got as good a chance of being crippled on the walk-in as on the mountain.’ I was beginning to appreciate there was more to Himalayan climbing than just stepping onto the mountain and giving it Jon’s ‘maximum pastry’ for a few days. The climb had started when we stepped off the plane in ’Pindi – it had started long before that – and we had to gear ourselves to three months of concentration, stamina and vigilance. As Aido pointed out, it was as important not to eat death-on-a-stick cream cakes and to add iodine to every water-bottle as it was to strap your crampons on super-tight and test every piton before clipping into it.
We were soon to find out what the path by the river was like. After an hour or so, the trail was forced down to the river by cliffs on the left. ‘Be careful,’ Mohammed had told us that morning. ‘Is no problem, but very careful not to slip.’ I could see why. The trail was a foot’s width of loose sand or grit or dried mud running across the steep slopes that ran straight down into the river. It looked very insecure. At times the trail was only a foot or so above the water, at others a couple of hundred feet up, but in either case if you slipped or the path gave way, you’d almost certainly end up in the river. And if you ended up in the river …
The river was scary. You could feel great wafts of cold blowing off it, as if someone had just opened a fridge door. The water was a thick, impenetrable grey, solid with silt – and inconceivably violent. It didn’t flow, it hurled itself through the gorge. Bits of it would suddenly leap into the air, or spit as you hurried by. All the time there was a deep rumbling of boulders being savaged below the surface. It was deep, fast, freezing, and desperately hostile. If you ended up in the river you’d be drowned, knocked out or frozen to death – either way, you’d probably be dead.
We plugged on for a couple of hours like this, concentrating on every step. Only concentration can displace fear. I reasoned that if
our porters could do this with 55-pound loads and smooth-soled sandals, so could we. It was not so much scary as a challenge that made the heart beat a little faster.
Finally the trail broke away from the river and zigzagged up the hill on the left. We began to fall into our natural order. Jon striding out in front with his headphones on, head nodding in his own world. He liked to be alone up front, possibly competitiveness, probably a desire for privacy. Sandy ambled along in the rear, the amiable Honey Bear, chatting with Mohammed and Alex. He had all the time and energy in the world. If only, he thought, I could stop worrying about our finances …
Adrian moved up and down the long straggly line of porters and climbers. He talked about home, about the Tower, dispensed pills and medical advice. He took all our little complaints – a sore knee, a rough throat – quite seriously, knowing they could well develop into problems. We were learning to monitor ourselves and become highly aware of our bodies. How strong am I today, have I drunk enough water, what’s my pulse rate, what’s causing this headache – the light or the altitude? It’s like driving a car with a broken petrol gauge: we nurse ourselves along and try to estimate how much we’ve left inside. We chatted a while, then, still clutching his striped golf umbrella, he dropped back down the line.
Most of that day I spent some distance behind Jon, keeping him in sight. I am mildly competitive, I wanted to test myself. Kath and I were content to walk separately much of the time, then we’d meet for a short break and swig from our water bottles and talk over our experiences. For this trip we were intimate friends, not lovers. That would have shut the others out.
