Yakking About Nepal
Mingma thought he could fly. And to prove it, he zigzagged up and down the snowy plateau below the Renjo Pass, veering perilously close to a cliff edge along the icy Lhanjo Kh river, arms flapping in a desperate bid for lift off. When tired of this, he tried to steal Ang Cheering’s medical kit.
“No! Mingma!” Ang Cheering shouted.
His job was to keep four trekkers on the snowy, narrow path toward Thame, not to play tug of war with a frisky sherpa drunk on chang. Mingma fell down in the snow, giving everyone a break from the chase. Then he sprang back to his feet, having tricked us, and dashed away toward the cliff with the medical bag. Now he can fly and set his own bones, too! What a solution.
Ang Cheering sprinted off after him, two black dots vanishing into a whiteout world of lonesome ravens and an occasional heap of sacred mani stones. Ahead, a herd of yaks shuffled toward Tibet, Khata scarves and ornaments twined through their plumy tails. Only Tibetans adorned their yaks like Christmas trees, and we were on a trail used by Tibetan yak caravans hauling piles of knockoff outdoor gear from factories in China to sell in Namche Bazaar. The Tibetans were taller than the sherpas, with flashing dark eyes, glinting turquoise jewelry and wild, long hair. They had raised their own funds to buy the gear—unaware that the “NorthFace” logos were slightly off kilter, or that the fabric didn’t really breathe. They yakked the skiwear to market in Nepal and then were forced to return to China, trapped by immigration laws in a perpetual Sisyphean sales circuit. As Mingma flew by them, he shouted out yak butter, and they laughed and shouted back yes.
When we first met Mingma, he wove and gabbled in sagging pants, his eyes bleary as he danced and pranced to the sonorous chanting of Tibetan lute players performing for us in a yak field under a blanket of bright stars.
“He’s a climbing sherpa?” we asked as he fell into a stack of wood. More like a dope on a rope. But he was the only one who knew the route to Pokalde Peak, the reason for the 17-day trek through the Solo Khumbu, and once sober, he handled the ropes with skill. The point of the trip was to summit a lesser-known mountain in the Everest Region, possibly one of the newly opened, unascended mountains. This hope was dashed by the Sherpas, who investigated our first choice, Nirheka Peak, and reported back, no! too much rockfall! Too many avalanches. Others should have heeded the advice, as four sherpas were killed during our trip by a wall of snow sweeping down the vertical crags of Pomori, an extremely steep mountain visible from the top of Pokalde. Ang Cheering told us the sad news, pointing out that they were from a different village.
Our own summit day was far less risky, but deeply exhausting. Pokalde Peak was described by a 1953 Everest team as “a jolly ridge, in the Alpine sense,” yet nothing seemed jolly about it at 3 am, as we struggled into our gear, scrambled up miles of broken rock, and skirted frozen glacial lakes to reach the lip of the hanging glacier at dawn. A crevasse and an ice bridge barred our ascent, and we roped across both in the pale lavender light of morning. When the sun finally burst out, the snow turned bright as a wedding cake set against the bright blue sky. The air trembled with pellucid light. Deep cut shadows played up the slope as we advanced. The snow clung in huge folds to the 50-degree slopes, so crisp, deep, and unconsolidated that we floundered like yetis. No matter how many crampons had tramped in the same place, the snow refused to pack down. Completely without traction, we wallowed. We plunged. We pulled ourselves slowly up a taut rope using ascendors and wondered: was it possible to drown in snow? One side benefit: a climber could never slide backwards down the steep slope. Of course, the snow itself could slide backwards down the steep slope, but…well, let’s not think about that.
After hours of puffing and pulling up a 250-ft. rope, reset over and over, we finally inched toward the summit, crampons teetering on the jagged rocks. Ahead rose the false summit, behind which lurked the popular summit, and further behind, hid a third crest, which the sherpas called the “impossible” summit. On their advice, we settled for the summit with the cairn, trying not to look down the backside, a vertiginous drop of thousands of feet straight to the valley floor. Just then, the immense, triumphal Nuptse broke out of the clouds behind us, glacial teeth flashing like a shark, while in front of us stretched a world of jagged snow snouts: Ama Dablam to the south, Lobuche to the west, Kala Patthar and the Khumbu Glacier below, the killer slopes of Pumori to the north, and skirting just out of view, the hidden grandeur of Everest.
The climb down seemed interminable, knees straining as we slid down pitched frozen rock toward camp, which we finally reached at the end of a fourteen hour day. Crawling into the yellow tent, I curled around a hot water bottle, beaten up, sinews strained, mentally scrolling through a list of ways in which my body could break down, which included: pneumonia, shock, edema, rupture, paralysis, or deep tissue atrophy. I finally settled on the Khumbu cough and sleep, and by morning, all pain was forgotten in the thrill of having made it to the top.
Well, one of the tops, anyway.
But then, the entire trip was a peak experience. From the ancient city of Bhakatapur to the public incineration of bodies in Kathmandu’s Pashupati temple, Nepal surprises, mystifies, and delights. People come to die along the littered banks of the Bagmati river, or are hauled there after death. From stadium seats on the opposite bank, we watched the sepulchral tableaux unfold as marigold wreathes, ablutions and song shower down around a constant succession of bodies. Then, the body is lowered into the river, where its clothes are stripped off, thrown away, and retrieved by urchin boys for resale. Decorously draped beneath a sheet, the body is then laid on a burning pyre. Meanwhile, the boys scour the shallow river with rakes, searching for gold fillings. Behind us, ash covered sadhus, their unwashed hair coiled up, electric white lines painted down their faces, wander about, thrusting huge wooden pitchforks at us, devilish in bright red loincloths.
We search for the Milk baba, an ascetic sadhu whose lair is along the cliff base on the opposite bank, and who lives only on milk. He never appears—he must be out of the country on tour. The popular penis sadhu is also gone—he must be on the road, lifting 10-lbs of bricks with his organ to demonstrate total body control. He can also shoot wooden arrows at the crowd when he’s tightly wound up.
Monkeys abound, sitting solemnly on the steps, toying with shoelaces and camera bags, staring wordlessly at the people. Later, at the Monkey Temple in Kathmandu, Neal made a sweeping gesture toward one, and the monkey screeched, whirled around, crouched into boxing stance, then jumped after him in pursuit.
The trek lasts 17-days, beginning with a terror flight from Kathmandu to the mountain town of Lukla—a 20-person plane zipping into a toy sized landing strip only works because of a steep, uphill right turn. Like a runaway truck in a sand pit, the plane just has to…stop. And it does. We can’t imagine how this works in reverse.
From Lukla, we trekked to Namche Bazaar, a Sherpa town so overgrown and bustling that the Everest national park supervisors are confounded. They had “allowed” the sherpas to stay when the park was formed—everyone assumed these Tibetan descendants would continue their quiet lives, herding yaks and making momos, or savory little vegetable dumplings. But the savvy sherpas capitalized on the trekking crowds and launched tea houses, internet sites, bakeries, and lodges. Today, Namche clings like Velcro to the impossibly steep mountains, held there by luck and yak dung as it continues its headlong surge toward the future.
Once out of Namche, we head toward the Buddhist temple of Tengboche, admiring the quaint teahouse signs along the way:
“nice worm bath”
“apple pie sinnamon”
“enjoy yourself, by yourself, find yourself—cheese pizza!”
A steep ascent toward the monastery of Tengboche is climbed in tandem with dozens of trekkers, all headed in different directions: Kala Patthar, Everest, Island Peak, Mera Peak. Panting, sweating, we finally reach the misty heights of the monastery to catch the first clear view of Mt. Everest. At 12,700-ft., the monastery huddles in the curve of swoopingly high mountains—Everest, Nuptse, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, and Kantega—and the cold, wet night rumbles with the mutter of distant avalanches.
It is festival time in Nepal, and at the temple, we shuck our shoes and sit inside to observe the celebrations. Twenty or so monks assume a seated position on parallel benches to chant and pray. Like a lone foghorn, the Sandung, a long, traditional horn, mourns loudly. Cymbals clash and drums boom. Around the gompa (sacred space) are pyramids of candies, heaped up in profusion, along with bakery goods and other sweets. At the end, each monk collects a plastic bag filled with treats, plus fistfuls of rupees. They clutch their bags and giggle like schoolboys, good-natured, thankful.
And so are we--thankful.
