It ought to be an interesting day.
16
Never Forget and Never Regret
Actually it turned out that the decision to remove the King had pretty much been taken already - but today it would be ratified. Watching BBC World in my hotel room I discovered that what the reporter called a ‘hasty constitutional amendment’ had been made five months ago, though there was talk that it hadn’t been implemented democratically. It did seem certain the King would be told to go, however, and it was purely by chance that we were here to witness it.
We weren’t quite sure what the implications would be but the meeting was happening at nine o’clock and I imagined the full significance would hit the streets later; sitting outside with a coffee, Russ and I discussed it.
‘The Maoists killed a shopkeeper,’ he said. ‘And yesterday a couple of bombs went off. It’s a good job we were in the mountains.’
‘It’s scary, but I’m glad we’re here. It’s kind of exciting to see history in the making.’
Russ sipped tea. ‘Quite a country, isn’t it? Until now, when I thought of Nepal I thought of Everest, and mountain farms. Not bombs and chronic fuel shortage. People have to queue for two days - have you seen the cars backed up along the road?’
There had been power cuts as well, for anything up to forty hours a week. Businesses and homes were plunged into darkness and the city’s tram system had pretty much ground to a halt.
Meanwhile we had some political and technical pressures of our own to contend with. The night before I’d spoken to Mungo - his knee was healing and he thought he’d be fit enough to join us in Hanoi in roughly a week’s time. But in the meantime, we had China to deal with. We had hoped that Robin would be able to help with the filming but there hadn’t been time to arrange a visa in London. We’d been trying to get one here in Kathmandu but Robin’s a Scot of Chinese origin and the Chinese were suspicious because he has what they called a Tibetan-sounding surname. He’d been down to their embassy this morning hoping that he would come away with a visa but unfortunately he didn’t. They told him that foreign nationals should get visas in their own country. He’d obtained one once before in Hong Kong, though, so there was still a chance.
In the meantime Anne, our Danish camerawoman, was trying to get a visa in London so she could meet us in Guangzhou. Russ also had another shooter lined up - a mate of Mungo’s called Matt, who lived in China. If Anne got her visa we didn’t need Robin, but if she didn’t . . . then we did. We had to make a decision on the spot, though, because if he was flying to Hong Kong he was flying right now. We had an agent on the phone asking if we wanted the ticket and reminding us that check-in for that flight was imminent. Russ decided that we couldn’t risk Anne not being there and not having Robin either: that would leave us with just one cameraman we didn’t know. Ten minutes later Robin was on his way to the airport.
At lunchtime we heard the news that the constitutional amendment had been ratified and King Gyanendra had fifteen days to vacate the palace. People were on the streets and the Maoist-led government declared a three-day holiday. Russ and I decided to head out in separate directions to see what was going on.
I went down to the Narayanhity Palace, the King’s official residence. The surrounding roads were surprisingly empty: just some kids and a few people on motorbikes. The heavy police presence probably had something to do with it.
With nothing doing at the palace I wandered down to the assembly buildings where there were huge crowds out on the street. Looking round, I could see hundreds of pink umbrellas shading women from the sun. People were playing music, singing and dancing; one little toddler was be-bopping away like there was no tomorrow. A bunch of men wearing red sashes with the letters YCL were helping the police. Deepak told me they were from the Young Communist League. Further on, people were marching, flanked by policemen with long batons. A couple of the marchers were carrying a dummy, which I imagine symbolised the King. I asked one guy what they were chanting.
‘Bye-bye to the King,’ he said.
‘Right: bye-bye to the King. Are you happy about it?’
‘Very happy.’
We were staying in the Kathmandu Guesthouse, famous in Kathmandu among climbers, situated in an area full of little shops and bazaars. Russ was looking for a gong to take home as a souvenir. Whilst trying to hunt one down, he spoke to two guys sitting outside a shop.
‘The Republic of Nepal starts today,’ one of them told him.
‘And what do you think about that?’
‘I think it’s very well.’
‘What about you?’ Russ asked his mate.
‘I think it’s OK.’
‘Are you happy?’
‘Very happy.’
‘Do you think the King will go quietly?’
‘Yes,’ they said. ‘We think so.’
Further on he came across a band of marchers yelling slogans into a microphone. Russ spoke to three young men looking on from an open doorway.
‘They’re saying the King is a thief,’ one of them told him. His name was Sujan and he spoke English very well.
‘Do you agree with the change to Maoism?’ Russ asked him.
‘I don’t agree with anything.’
‘What do you prefer?’
‘I prefer peace.’
‘You don’t think you’ll get peace with the Maoists?’
Sujan thought about that. ‘These people don’t have a clear motive,’ he said. ‘They’re killing people and they’re also looking for peace. You cannot kill for peace.’
It had been an historic day; the vote had been passed and Nepal had officially become a Republic. The following morning both the US and UN sent messages of congratulation to the government. A couple of bombs had gone off on 27 May, but apart from that the only sign of trouble had been at the palace where there had been a row about the King’s flag flying when the flag of Nepal should be raised.
We didn’t know what the Maoists would be like, but most people seemed to want them in. It wasn’t a coup, there had been voting and the party wasn’t Maoist in the true sense of the word: in fact, the Chinese had asked them to change the name because they didn’t reflect the teachings of Chairman Mao.
China, of course, was the next leg of our expedition and so far just trying to get in had been fraught with difficulties. We were leaving tomorrow by plane. With a day left in Nepal we took a helicopter ride to the last village on the trail to Mount Everest.
I wasn’t feeling great - I hadn’t been sleeping well and I was missing my family much more than I had expected, probably because I had spent so long away from them last year as well. I don’t think any of us had realised how much of an impact another long separation would have. I was pretty jaded, I had an upset tummy and as we were flying up to 3,800 metres, I’d had to take a tablet for altitude sickness.
The five-seater helicopter was piloted by a very cool guy who’d been operating in the Himalayas for fifteen years. I spotted the initials AD painted on the tail section: it turned out the helicopter had been owned previously by Alain Delon, the French actor who was really big in the sixties. That made us laugh; on Long Way Round there had been an ongoing joke that Russ looked like him.
I love helicopters, they’re my favourite way of flying and we had a brilliant pilot. We lifted off from the flat, scrubby basin around the capital and struck out east towards the mountains. Close up the hills looked purple and blue, and seemed almost gentle, but as we headed further east they grew increasingly steep and white, their peaks sharp and jagged.
We flew through gorges thick with jungle, rivers and waterfalls. The further we went the tighter the gorges became until finally we were above the clouds and the big summits looked so clear and close you could almost reach out and touch them.
We had to carry extra fuel in jerricans because there wouldn’t be enough in the tank to get us there and back. The pilot also explained that he would have to drop us in Lukla for a couple of hours. He’d had a call and had to make a detour to Everest to pick up an injured climber. Apparently he made lots of these rescue runs; so many people were climbing these days that there were cases of frostbite and altitude sickness all the time. He said some people only pretended to be injured though, so they could get a ride out rather than walking for ten days.
We didn’t mind stopping, it gave us a break to acclimatise. Lukla was a pretty town perched on a plateau 2,834 metres up the mountain. Tengboche, the village from which we would be able to see Everest, was another thousand metres higher.
A couple of hours later the pilot was back and we made our way to the roof of the world. The surroundings were stunning now: with the sky crystal clear, we could see every contour, every tree and crag, the breaks in the river and ahead of us the crisp white peaks of Lhotse, Nuptse and Everest.
At Tengboche we hovered above a tiny apron made from cobbles with a crowd of people on the ground watching. There were a whole bunch of tents pitched in the meadows and beyond them clay-coloured trails led into woodlands where a yak train was waiting.
It’s hard to put into words exactly how I felt: it was one of those ‘pinch yourself ’ and ‘yes, you’re really here’ moments. I was aware of the altitude, the Buddhist monastery that dominated the village. I was aware of the amount of people trekking in and out. There was even a marathon taking place; twenty-six miles with backpacks at 12,000 feet. We were introduced to a local Sherpa called Sharab who’d been guiding climbers all his adult life. He explained that today - 29 May - was the fifty-fifth anniversary of the first successful ascent of Mount Everest, and Peter Hillary, Sir Edmund’s son, was here in the village.
Russ was struck by the same sense of awe that took away any words. No superlatives would ever be enough. It was a beautiful day, and I had that feeling of serenity I’d experienced in Varanasi. For a while we just gazed the length of the valley, wondering at the way the hills enveloped each other, reaching out to the shoulders, the ridge and the white summit of Mount Everest.
‘We’ve seen some sights, you and me,’ Russ said. ‘But nothing compares with this.’
The yak train was leaving and the dull echo of the bells seemed to set off this landscape as nothing could. Ancient, shaggy cattle, they headed out laden with everything from blankets to food and great barrels of fresh water, driven along by Sherpas who controlled them with sticks and whistles.
Edmund Hillary had died in January but Peter and his daughter Amelia had trekked to base camp as part of the fifty-five-year celebrations. Sharab told us there was to be a ceremony in the Buddhist Temple. It’s a holy place, conceived in the sixteenth century by the Lama Sangwa Dorje, who flew here in his mind and chose it as a good place to meditate. The Buddhist monks believe that his spirit landed, his footprints marking the sacred rock where he touched down. He envisioned that one day there would be a monastery here and subsequently one was constructed. In 1890 it was destroyed by an earthquake. Rebuilt, it was destroyed again by a fire in 1989. With the help of Sir Edmund Hillary, the local people and an American foundation, it was rebuilt a second time.
Russ was worried about how the altitude might affect us. We were both a little breathless and we knew we couldn’t stay long if we wanted to avoid getting sick. Looking after yourself in air this thin is absolutely vital.
‘We were right to come though,’ Russ said.
‘Of course: how many opportunities do you get to see Mount Everest?’
We were sitting on the grass just taking it in; a little village perched on a narrow trail with the tallest mountains on earth gathered around us.
‘This expedition has truly lived up to the ideal,’ he went on. ‘I know we’re away from our families again but it’s worth it. No regrets, eh, Charley? Never forget and never regret.’
I nodded.
‘Did you hear they’re expecting a major earthquake though, in the next thirty years? And not one building is prepared for it. If it happens it will be devastating. UNICEF has already made contingencies in terms of vaccines, water supplies and so on, and the people up here, the villagers, I reckon they might be all right. They would lose their houses but they’d rebuild quickly: they’re used to subsistence living, aren’t they? It’s people like that who really know how to survive.’
We spoke to Peter Hillary, a tall New Zealander - slim and very fit. He was only a year old when his father conquered Everest, but he climbed it himself for the first time in 1990. Since then he’s climbed it again as well as lots of other peaks. He’s also raced the Ganges on a jet boat with his father.
Peter’s daughter Amelia looked terrific in her traditional dress, though she’d hurt her foot coming out from base camp. She’s not a climber, but when she’d seen the wind-burnt, weather-beaten mountaineers, she’d thought she might like some of that herself. Peter said he’d be happy for her to climb if she served her apprenticeship. Everest was a test of endurance: it’s the lack of oxygen and the rapid change in weather that claims most lives. As we stood there he pointed out the aspects of the summit, explaining that Everest is part of a horseshoe with the summit rising eight or nine thousand feet above the Nuptse-Lhotse Ridge.
‘Will you climb it again?’ I asked him.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve climbed it twice. I’ve been on the West Ridge, the South Pillar and the South Col Route. I know that mountain well, too well.’
He wasn’t saying he wouldn’t climb it and he wasn’t saying he would. He was on his way to Alaska right then, however, to climb Mount McKinley - his seventh of the seven great mountains. We talked for a while about why people climb in the first place; why they undertake any great challenge - as I’d done to a small extent when I had a crack at the Dakar. Peter told us he’d spoken to an economics professor from New Delhi who suggested that people risked their lives simply because the old adage is true: the greater the risk the greater the reward.