A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (6 page)

Reaching the top of the Pang La Pass, we stopped to look back. The view of Everest dominated the skyline. Swathes of Himalayan summits occupied the entire length of the horizon from east to west. The land we’d travelled over was the drier, brown, mountainous landscape of Tibet. The peaks nearer Everest and the border with Nepal were heavily capped with snow.

The sound of our engine revving in a low gear and the smell of brakes filled the vehicle as we descended the steep, tortuous switchback road on the other side. Here we passed through small settlements where the white flat-roofed homes displayed numerous Buddhist prayer flags, each one about A4 in size in a single colour of red, blue, green, white or yellow. They were held high by the many long willow shoots placed above the four corners of the buildings.

A few miles further on we turned in a more southerly direction, towards Nepal. A short distance brought us to the first of several military checkpoints. Here we needed to stop in order to produce our documents containing the 60-day Chinese visas we’d been issued in advance of entering the country.

When I’d entered Tibet some six weeks earlier, this particular checkpoint had produced a couple of interesting episodes, one of which was rather amusing, but the other depended on your point of view. Our team, Henry Todd’s, had arrived here mid evening back in early April. As this was either the third or fourth such outpost we’d encountered that day, we’d got used to the time-consuming bureaucracy of the officials posted here by Beijing. Each climber produced a passport when signalled to do so and was then gestured to stand to one side until beckoned back to collect it a while later. When I handed mine across, the guard opened the page bearing my details. What had otherwise been a rather stoic and expressionless face now registered interest. My passport, originally a joint one with Catherine, contained her photograph. Intrigued by the picture of an attractive 35-year-old Western woman, he used his hands to ask where she was. I explained to a slightly disappointed guard that she was not travelling with us. Undeterred, he stepped into the guardroom, where his colleagues were, and shut the door. We could hear talking and laughter emanating from the officials as they passed the photograph of my wife around. The sight of a Western woman’s face and shoulders must have seemed somewhat erotic when compared to the Communist literature supplied from Beijing. Their curiosity satisfied, the guard came out, handed me my passport and signalled I could go. My fellow climbers who’d been waiting considerably longer than me muttered something about my apparent queue-jumping tactics, to which I responded, ‘You should have brought a photograph of your wife.’

The second episode I was not witness to but heard about some hours later. This I luckily missed. Once there were enough of us who’d had our passports inspected to fill the first vehicle, we drove on to our overnight stop at the town of Xegar. The other four-wheel-drive would catch us up. At least that was the plan. As they stood around in the cold night air, Mozart, one of our Brazilian climbers, decided he needed the toilet. He could have walked the mere 50 yards into the pitch dark to relieve himself. Instead, he decided to urinate against the checkpoint, the only building for miles around. Unfortunately, he was spotted in the act by one of the Chinese soldiers. Not surprisingly, they took this as an insult to their importance and a demonstration of our total lack of respect. The single-storey concrete building, painted white to contrast with the brown arid landscape, carried all the weight of Beijing. The authority of its incumbents was not to be messed with. The feeble barrier barring the single-track dirt road that wound its way over this high alluvial plain was our only way through. No insult would go unpunished. If the guards chose, entry could be refused without any reason being given.

All the remaining climbers were ordered to stand outside, away from the building and their awaiting vehicle. The temperature was well below zero. Here they spent four hours shivering away in a freezing Tibetan night. Once the guards were satisfied that an appropriate punishment had been dealt out for this act, they signalled that the travellers could collect their passports and leave. Not a word was spoken.

I vividly remember Crag at breakfast the following morning, cursing away in his Welsh accent. ‘Bloody Mozart, he went and pissed on the checkpoint. He could have pissed anywhere and he had to bloody go and do it there!’ Mozart sat sheepishly, more than a little embarrassed at the unscheduled and rather cold delay he’d caused. Now, on our way home, the American team and I passed through this checkpoint with minimal delay.

A few miles further on, we came across a lone Chinese figure standing at the side of the road. He was dressed in combat fatigues, wearing a bright red bandana and carrying a sub-machine gun. He waved down the vehicle I was in.

‘Oh, great,’ was my exasperated thought.

Once this man had had a short conversation with our driver in Chinese, I was signalled to shuffle across and let the guy in. His appearance was of someone who’d watched too many Rambo movies, or others of that genre. The macho image of some as yet undiscovered hero was apparent. Of all the people in the world, I had to be sat next to some nutcase with a loaded machine gun and a bullet belt over his shoulder. There he sat, with his gun held at the ready, staring blankly forwards. There was no expression on his face, no attempt to smile or acknowledge us. He tried his utmost to portray a steely image.

It was much to my relief, as I’m sure it was to the rest of the passengers in the vehicle, that when we reached the town of Nylam our fellow traveller signalled to the driver that this was where he wanted to be dropped off.

Nylam was a place my fellow American travellers wanted to forget due to their previous experience here.

At the beginning of the expedition, the official guide appointed to us had suggested that our team stay overnight at Nylam. Unfortunately for him, I’d passed through the town in 1993. I informed Crag, who was temporarily in charge because of Henry’s absence, that the place was a bit of a dump and that we’d be far better heading further on. Our guide’s reluctance to comply with our wishes led us to suspect he was going to earn a good bonus by getting us to stay at one of the town’s dubious-looking hotels. However, we stood our ground. Our convoy moved on. The American team, also passing through Nylam on the same day, had accepted the recommendation to stay overnight. To compound this mistake tenfold, they had actually eaten in one of the local restaurants. Sometime during the course of the night, their intestines reacted to the food they’d eaten. Frantically rushing around the hotel, they soon realised there was in fact no toilet in the establishment and, to make matters worse, the front door was locked. In total desperation, and with moments to spare, they pushed their backsides out of the windows of the upper rooms they occupied. Not a pleasant experience!

Now, on our homeward journey, my travelling companions were understandably reluctant to stop any longer than was necessary.

From here, we travelled south in a relaxed atmosphere. Our next stop was the town of Xangmu, lying on the Tibetan side of the border with Nepal. Beyond this point, our Chinese drivers and vehicles were not allowed to go.

As we arrived late in the afternoon, there was no chance of crossing into Nepal that day. With little option, we checked into the overpriced and uninviting but officially authorised Zhangmu Hotel. Positioned next to the ‘China Customs’, it had the appearance of a rundown office building that had been hurriedly constructed in the ’70s. Its flat roof, large metal-framed windows and solid floors foretold of a cold night. However, in the hotel’s singular defence, its location would enable us to make a relatively rapid departure the following morning, which in the end is what we wanted.

By the time we’d had breakfast, the Sherpas from the American expedition had already completed the arduous task of manhandling several tons of equipment. They had loaded it into Nepalese trucks for its onward journey to Kathmandu. Having spent two months away from home, they too were keen to get back to their families.

Chinese military personnel dressed in immaculate mid-green uniforms with bright-red epaulettes browsed over official paperwork. The matching green flat-topped officer hats they wore curved up at both the front and rear. Pulled tightly onto the head, they were decorated with a gold braid that ran around the circumference. The black shiny peak covered the upper part of the soldiers’ faces. No eye contact was made. The display indicated that they would see to us when they were ready, and not before. Compliance with this unspoken but transparent requirement was the only way to make a quicker than average departure from the Autonomous Region of Tibet. Any objection to this wait would bring either long delays or a comprehensive baggage search. The reason: they could if they chose to.

The border itself is defined by a structure called the ‘Friendship Bridge’ that spans a deep gorge and fast-flowing river below. It was a relief to be leaving such a strictly controlled area.

At the opposite end of the 85 yards of roadway that sits atop of the single reinforced concrete arch lies the town of Kodari: a ramshackle group of buildings that clings precariously to the narrowest strip of land between the road and the abrupt slope of eroded shale that plummets to the river below. Facing this human habitation on the other side of the road is an alarmingly steep mountainside, scarred with the signs of previous landslides and gushing streams. Here, Nepalese passport control and our awaiting vehicles welcomed us.

With our overnight bags stowed onboard, we drove off down the ‘Friendship Highway’, the name given to this road’s entire length from the border to Kathmandu, where we were to arrive some six hours later.

When dropping me off, my American companions generously invited me to be their guest at the ‘end of expedition’ evening meal in the restaurant of the Yak and Yeti Hotel. Set in large, resplendent gardens, complete with swimming pool and a quartet that played during afternoon tea, this establishment was at the upper end of the accommodation available in Kathmandu. It was a place steeped in history; the older parts of the building had been converted from what had once been a Rana palace.

I checked into the more modest Gauri Shankar Hotel, from which my team had departed less than two months earlier. At that time I had been preoccupied with high hopes and dogged determination. Now, a hot shower, a shave and clean clothes were top of my list. These simple luxuries were a stark contrast to the more basic amenities I’d endured for the intervening period.

It was when I was about to leave the Gauri Shankar to join the American team for the evening meal that I met Alison Hargreaves. Little more than a week earlier, at the age of 33, she’d completed an outstanding and largely independent ascent of the North Ridge of Everest. This she had done without the use of supplementary oxygen.

Standing about 5 ft 6 in., with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and a soft complexion, there was a quiet confidence about her: one that can only be found in those who have achieved a long-held goal. She had arrived in Tibet nearly two months earlier deliberately carrying extra body weight: fuel that would aid her with the ambitious undertaking. Now she had the appearance of a well-honed athlete in peak physical condition.

I’d seen Alison several times on the route. We had exchanged greetings as we passed each other. Although I recognised her in the hotel, I doubted the reverse was true. I had, in the last half-hour, shaved off the beard I had grown during the course of the expedition. I smiled and told her I’d just got back from the north side myself.

Maybe it was because she felt vulnerable or because she was a rising star in a sport mostly dominated by men that she felt she had to display her confidence. Her response was, ‘When did you summit?’

I suspected she half hoped I would say I hadn’t and go on to make some excuse, so strengthening her position. I merely answered, ‘17 May.’

I think the fact I left it at that and said no more surprised her slightly. Alison was in a world where people boasted of exploits, one in which she had to undertake climbs much harder than her male counterparts just to be an equal. She was naturally defensive but had no need to be. The more we spoke over the coming days, on matters not related to climbing, the more comfortable and relaxed she became.

As I stepped out of the well-lit Gauri Shankar, my eyes struggled to adjust to the lack of street lighting. The sound of beeping horns and the glare of dazzling headlights confronted me as I turned left up the short alley that led to the main road. Clouds of fumes and dust filled the beams of light from thundering trucks, cars, motorcycles and the small three-wheeled tuk-tuks that wove their way through the slow-moving throng. All this was interspersed by incredibly brave souls on bicycles.

A quick wave of an arm followed by the briefest of negotiations and my 30-rupee (35 pence) transport to the Yak and Yeti was obtained. With the skill and precision of a go-kart racer, my tuk-tuk driver wound the two-stroke machine through pedestrian-filled streets. He skimmed past people with little more than a whisker to spare. I winced each time this occurred, half expecting to hear a thud or scream of pain from some person we’d injured. It was with some relief that I paid the driver at the end of my journey: a point at which I no longer felt that any collision might somehow end up being my responsibility.

At the Yak and Yeti, I was escorted to the dining room in the older part of the hotel. Here we passed through a grand entrance hall with a broad mahogany staircase that led off to an upper balcony. Around the edges of the ceramic tiled floor, the walls were decorated with photographs of yesteryear. Images of maharajas, princes, kings and foreign dignitaries sporting their guns hung on the wall. Stretched out at their feet, in each case, were the carcasses of several magnificent Royal Bengal tigers, an animal that now typifies nature’s struggle to survive. Each picture showed the same. To my shame, my countrymen had more than played their part.