by hand, chipping the rocks one by one, you could almost feel the solace of the place. The lama of the region,
believed to be the living reincarnation of an ancient Buddhist deity, chanted from a parched scroll as we discreetly sat in the shadows at the back. After the ceremony we went outside the monastery
and into an adjacent hut, where we sipped soup around a fire with some of the villagers. A couple of hours later, we headed out into the snow again, towards Deboche, half an hour further on.
DIARY, 3 MARCH:
Deboche turns out to be a cluster of only three houses and, as expected being higher up, is even more basic. The hut we are in is wooden, as are the beds; cushions now seem
a luxury of the past. We all huddle round a fire as night brings with it the cold.
Two Buddhist monks are having a ceremony next to us, and are busy chanting and tossing rice around. They offered Mick and I some of their local alcoholic brew, called ‘chang’,
which we sipped tentatively, having seen them coughing ferociously into it seconds earlier. Sharing drinks here is always a bit dodgy, as many of the locals suffer from tuberculosis, but being
‘British’, we felt it important not to appear rude.
We have found a lovely kitten here, which now follows us round the hut. The local name for cat is ‘biralou’, but this one seems alive with fleas, so Mick renamed it
‘bira-fleas’. I wish that we could take it with us as our ‘high-altitude’ cat, but he says that it will make everyone scratch. I tried to tell him that I’d had
fleas for years, but he wouldn’t listen. The cat had to go.
The lady who runs the place here is apparently an old girlfriend of Edmund Hillary. She laughs beautifully, despite showing her only three black, rotten teeth. She seems to have chronic
tooth decay though, and to be in real pain. She clutches her jaw and grimaces, smiles briefly, then carries on moaning. I feel pretty hopeless, as all I have to give her are some painkillers.
So I have given her a large dose and told her to sleep. I’m suddenly a little worried that I’ve given her too much, especially considering the altitude that we’re at. We
haven’t seen her again, I hope I haven’t killed her!
That morning after a considerably colder night, the lady, who to my huge relief was still alive, woke us. It was dawn and she took us out through the trees to a clearing fifty
yards away. There in the still of morning, some fifteen miles away, and five kilometres vertically above us, we saw the summit of Everest poking out from behind the huge mountain of Lhotse Shar.
The early glow was catching the top, and she seemed so beautiful and remote as the wind drove the snow off her summit. Completely stuck for words, we both strained our necks and watched the sun
rise behind her; then she was hidden again by the mist of day – gone.
I knew what Mallory meant when he said: ‘Higher in the sky than imagination had ever ventured to dream, the top of Everest itself appeared.’
The sight of the mountain, so elusive, high, and impossible, filled my mind for the rest of the day. I had imagined that I would feel an excitement when I first saw her, but instead I just felt
this dread.
Later on that morning, having each been given a cord necklace that had been blessed by the head Buddhist priest of the region, we left Deboche. The landlady, who had lived in
the shadow of the mountains all her life, beseeched us to be safe; she assured us that the necklaces would bring protection. We thanked her and, deeply moved, headed on. We weaved our way through
the snow-covered forest tracks, further into the heart of the mountains. From this height onwards, the flowers and trees would stop growing and the snows would really now begin.
DIARY, 5 MARCH:
This morning I had the treat of washing my hands in the freshly fallen snow. It’s wonderful to see their real colour after the grime of the last few days. Everything
gets much cleaner the higher
believed to be the living reincarnation of an ancient Buddhist deity, chanted from a parched scroll as we discreetly sat in the shadows at the back. After the ceremony we went outside the monastery
and into an adjacent hut, where we sipped soup around a fire with some of the villagers. A couple of hours later, we headed out into the snow again, towards Deboche, half an hour further on.
DIARY, 3 MARCH:
Deboche turns out to be a cluster of only three houses and, as expected being higher up, is even more basic. The hut we are in is wooden, as are the beds; cushions now seem
a luxury of the past. We all huddle round a fire as night brings with it the cold.
Two Buddhist monks are having a ceremony next to us, and are busy chanting and tossing rice around. They offered Mick and I some of their local alcoholic brew, called ‘chang’,
which we sipped tentatively, having seen them coughing ferociously into it seconds earlier. Sharing drinks here is always a bit dodgy, as many of the locals suffer from tuberculosis, but being
‘British’, we felt it important not to appear rude.
We have found a lovely kitten here, which now follows us round the hut. The local name for cat is ‘biralou’, but this one seems alive with fleas, so Mick renamed it
‘bira-fleas’. I wish that we could take it with us as our ‘high-altitude’ cat, but he says that it will make everyone scratch. I tried to tell him that I’d had
fleas for years, but he wouldn’t listen. The cat had to go.
The lady who runs the place here is apparently an old girlfriend of Edmund Hillary. She laughs beautifully, despite showing her only three black, rotten teeth. She seems to have chronic
tooth decay though, and to be in real pain. She clutches her jaw and grimaces, smiles briefly, then carries on moaning. I feel pretty hopeless, as all I have to give her are some painkillers.
So I have given her a large dose and told her to sleep. I’m suddenly a little worried that I’ve given her too much, especially considering the altitude that we’re at. We
haven’t seen her again, I hope I haven’t killed her!
That morning after a considerably colder night, the lady, who to my huge relief was still alive, woke us. It was dawn and she took us out through the trees to a clearing fifty
yards away. There in the still of morning, some fifteen miles away, and five kilometres vertically above us, we saw the summit of Everest poking out from behind the huge mountain of Lhotse Shar.
The early glow was catching the top, and she seemed so beautiful and remote as the wind drove the snow off her summit. Completely stuck for words, we both strained our necks and watched the sun
rise behind her; then she was hidden again by the mist of day – gone.
I knew what Mallory meant when he said: ‘Higher in the sky than imagination had ever ventured to dream, the top of Everest itself appeared.’
The sight of the mountain, so elusive, high, and impossible, filled my mind for the rest of the day. I had imagined that I would feel an excitement when I first saw her, but instead I just felt
this dread.
Later on that morning, having each been given a cord necklace that had been blessed by the head Buddhist priest of the region, we left Deboche. The landlady, who had lived in
the shadow of the mountains all her life, beseeched us to be safe; she assured us that the necklaces would bring protection. We thanked her and, deeply moved, headed on. We weaved our way through
the snow-covered forest tracks, further into the heart of the mountains. From this height onwards, the flowers and trees would stop growing and the snows would really now begin.
DIARY, 5 MARCH:
This morning I had the treat of washing my hands in the freshly fallen snow. It’s wonderful to see their real colour after the grime of the last few days. Everything
gets much cleaner the higher
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