We knocked the [Base Camp] off

There wasn't heaps of good cheap wi-fi in the Nepali highlands (speaking of which, congratulations #gigatowndunedin!) but we made it up to Everest Base Camp and back in two pieces and have survived to tell the tale. Back in Kathmandu our most pressing engagement is to sleep for 24 hours to restore our vital stats to their factory settings (making up for two weeks of lost oxygen and body temperature - or that's our excuse and we're sticking to it).

Here's what all's gone down in the mountainside meanwhile...

Our first glimpse of Everest was a timid little peep-show halfway up the 3-hour climb to Namche Bazaar on day two.  But the following day when we hauled ourselves on to the Tenzing Norgay memorial statue a few hundred metres further up, she was out and proud in all her glory.

The world's highest peak is that one over Tenzing's head which his ice-pick points down to. You wouldn't believe it to stand there and look. All those other ones are so many kilometres closer that they seem to stand taller than the tallest of them all. Which just goes to show you... something profound about perspective or whatever, you know.

Near the memorial is a little museum featuring items of natural, cultural and historical relevance to the region. We learned that Mt Everest was named in 1865 by a guy (Colonel Waugh) after his mentor and surveying predecessor (Colonel Everest) who said that you should always name a geographical object by the name the locals give it. The problem Waugh faced back then was that the different groups of locals living within sight of Everest each had their own different names for it. And they didn't even know for sure then that it was the highest mountain in the world. But for the record, the Sherpas round these ways have always known it as Sagarmatha.  Easiest to remember as a mispronounciation of 'sugar mother.'

In Namche Bazaar, we met this guy called Anu who was selling souvenirs and handicrafts.

Blandy asked him about that historical first ascent in 1953. He said he remembered the day as a small boy when all the villagers dressed up in their traditional costumes to welcome the heroic mountaineers on their descent, and it was like a carnival in the Bazaar with much music and dancing. He said that his own father, a renowned mail runner, was given the honourable task of delivering the news of the successful summit from Edmund Hillary at Base Camp to the New Zealand Embassy in Kathmandu. Apparently the message took just five days to get through. Respect!

With the rest of our 'acclimatisation day' free to spend as we pleased, we stopped in at a toasty little cafe screening a free movie on the life and accomplishments of Sir Ed.  What a legend!  The doco showed photos of that big man as a lad, narrated by Sir Ed voicing his feelings of inadequacy and the notion that he was only a runty little guy with not much going for him.

... Shows that even the slowest of starters can achieve great things!  Turns out a couple years before Hillary's great crowning achievement in 1953 (sorry for the pun royalists!), he had narrowly missed out on the glory of summiting another peak to a couple of blokes he viewed as less-capable team mates.  That deep sorrow helped spur Hillary upwards on Everest, even with her extreme and then unknown physical challenges.  When Tenzing reached the top of Everest, Hillary said he popped out his hand to welcome Tenzing in a gentlemanly manner, but Tenzing flung his arms around him and they congratulated each other on the top of the world!  It was when the lads came back down to EBC, and the Expedition leader Sir Jonathan Hunt questioned Hillary about their feat that cheeky Ed said 'we knocked the bastard off!'

A photo of a photo of the two boys on their successful Everest expedition.

Hillary is a hero for many reasons.  After his big climb and seeing he could help the Himalayan people, he built schools, hospitals and rebuilt the Tengboche Monastery after a fire destroyed the original.  And looking back Sir Ed said he'd never fully recovered from the loss of his true-love, and his daughter who both so sadly died in a plane accident.  His remaining adult children inferred that they kinda lost their father at that point too, as he distracted himself by being busy helping the Sherpa people.  Curiously though, it seems some jealousy festers in the Nepali, because after all the help, the Sherpa are viewed as affluent.  

However all the locals revere Sir Ed with passion.  Except for one Sherpa fella we met who thought ol' Hillary funded the entire expedition, and needed Sherpa Tenzing as a guide ... How funny!   In fact the term Sherpa has been misunderstood by us, and it's nice to finally learn what it means.  Sherpas are an ethnic group, a fiercely proud bunch with Tibetan ancestry.  Locally, they regard and title themselves as Sherpa, not Nepali.  Google says there are currently about 150 000 Sherpa, and Sherpa literally means 'eastern people.'  The high Himalayas have become home to the people with rounded milk-chocolate faces, rich-ruby-red cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes.  Sherpa in early 1900's expeditions were hired as lackies and unskilled labourers.  As climbing 'gentlemen' realised the mountaineering and navigational skills of the Sherpa, they were seen as more instrumental in summiting bids.  From the time Tenzing so iconically stood on the roof of the world (the statue pictured above was created from Hillary's famous photo of June 1953), the Sherpa have became affectionately known as the tigers of the snow.  

The plaque below speaks beautifully of Tenzing, and worth a read.

Well, all this only gets us up to Namche Bazaar, and day 3.  Day 4 to day 7 of the trek were mostly up, mostly physically hard work, and mostly so beautiful it's difficult to retell or capture.  The days quickly found their rhythm... Wake up early (too early actually) in a freezing cold room, stuff our gear into our backpack for porter Chandra, try to mange down a breakfast of eggs and rock-textured toast, guzzle some liquid.  Next we'd be trundling outside, still half asleep, into the crisp mountain air.  The vistas around us would help our piggy eyes to awaken, and there'd be some oohs and ahhs, as we started trekking up.  Most days involved inclines, for a few hours at least.  Sometimes silently plodding along, sometimes chatting and singing.  Mostly overwhelmed at the gargantuan landscape that towered about us.  What an exceptional world we live in - glorious!  A stop for lunch, and another bit of legwork in the afternoon, then we'd arrive with tired smiles at the end of the day, warm up by adding a few layers, and order dinner.  Mostly on offer was dahl baat, curries, noodles, pizza or soup.  The vege egg curry was the best, but we craved fresh fruit and salad most days.  After dinner, we would order breakfast for the next day, and be in bed around 7pm. 

If you're looking for Everest in any of these photos, look for the grey triangular non-event, that if seen from the south, has a rocky 'skirt' of mountains underneath the summit.  The very beautiful Lhotse is seen to the right, and is a perfectly triangular looking colossus, with mostly grey rock on its southern slope.

It seems that every man and his yak are carrying something along the track, either ferrying goods up the Solukumbhu Valley, or returning.  The yak bells alert you from a few hundy meters away to find a good spot on the uphill slope, to tuck yourself in, before the dozen or so yaks amble past, hurried along by the yak herders hissing and cajoling.  

Human mules also crowd the path.  Short stooped over local men earn about 80 rupees (80 US cents) per kilo to lug their loads along the route.  Some guys are carrying 60 kilos.  Baskets like the one below are laden with everything you can imagine.  But mostly San Miguel.  Beer, for thirsty rupee-paying foreigners.  At first this smelt of exploitation of the poor locals, but on second thoughts it is providing much needed work for thousands of porters.  It makes sense that the prices of food and goods rise along with the elevation.  Literally every single thing is carried in on someone's back (and there's also the chopper option if you can choose to pay for it).

Halfway into our trek we came across a couple of porters with bulky loads escorted by several heavily armed militia.  We learned that employees in the mountains get paid monthly, and these guys' job was to haul in the cash!  Unfortunately for them, large denominations are no use round these parts, so their loads were comprised of wads and wads of small banknotes - no wonder they had bodyguards.

Our 6 or 7 kilo day packs were a breeze in comparison!   Although as our bodies paced up above the treeline, there was a massive difference in the air.  'Thinner' is a good adjective.  The air literally seems to disappear around you.  And higher up, where even the scrubby, mini-plants refused to grow, we noticed we couldn't suck enough air in.  Imagine the inhumane conditions 3 vertical km's higher on the top of Mt Ev.    

Our views were 360 degrees of stunning-ness!  The higher we walked, the more mountains showed off to us.  It seemed like the mountains were all quietly trying to outdo each other, with the sun dancing off different slopes throughout the day.  Deep blue skies highlighted the whiteness of the snow, interrupted by the aqua-blue of glaciers, and the dark-grey of the rock faces themselves.  

We slogged pretty hard for up to 9 hours a day, surrounded by other intrepid folks up to twice our age and with all levels of fitness. Without pretending that it was easy, the fact is that this is an eminently do-able trek for anyone who wants to get there bad enough. That is, unless the altitude gets you. Each day we saw several rescue helicopters (some flying in the valleys below us) evacuating people who had succomed to the potentially life-threatening symptoms of Acute Mountain Illness (AMI). At something like $1,800 USD for a medical evacuation, we were lucky to be relatively symptom-free.  Although we lost a lot of sleep most nights, and Blandy lost her lunch on the highest day, and we didn't have any appetite between around 4,500m and 5,500m, we were definitely among the lucky ones.

At Dingboche (night 6) we agreed to participate in a 48hour medical study. There were some doctors there researching something about the physiology of AMI based on the effectiveness of ibuprofen versus paracetamol. We were eligible because by that altitude we hadn't already taken anything for our (minor) symptoms.  We signed a paper, they gave us some unspecified pills, measured our oxygen levels before & after, & that was us. No more sore heads after that, so it was worthwhile.

Base Camp itself was a diminutive little affair tucked away on a colossal glacier at the foot of the Khumbu icefall.  With nothing to distinguish it from the enormity of the landscape but a ragtag of prayer flags, it's hard to believe this is the place from where legends have launched.

At 5364m above sea level, Old Everest Base Camp is a cold, isolated, and potentially fear-inducing place.  If you're looking for Everest, it's only a smidge visible from EBC, it's the little wedge poking out behind the right side of Nuptse Nup II (centre of photo).

We spent half an hour resting our weary bodies and soaking up the significance of our surrounds before turning to head for 'home'.  We couldn't imagine what it must have been like for those who once pitched their tents there and prepared to continue to the very pinnacle of the world. Nowadays, expeditions to Everest use a different Base Camp, at the same altitude, but another few kilometres around the way.

Our journey from Lukla (2880m) to EBC (5364m) took seven days,and is 62km-ish.  

The return journey (from EBC to Lukla) consisted of three very long days, heads down, legs trotting.  We celebrated with a mango juice and a vege curry!  After some hassles getting a flight back to Kathmandu, we eventually threw ourselves into the shower and scrubbed off ten days of dust and sweat ... So glad to be clean again!  The savaged sunburnt lips and the memories will last a bit longer though!

We've had a real hard time writing this blog post.  The majestic-ness and grandeur of the area is too magnificent for words.  The pictures look completely poor in contrast to reality.  Maybe, just maybe you should open a new window on your screen, book yourself some tickets, and explore the Himalayas for yourself.  You will be awed!

Hello Himalayas... How's ya legs?!

All kitted out in some posh new performance strides and a rented sleeping bag/jacket combo, we convinced ourselves that we could do this thing. Bit of a hikoi up te maunga, nothing too crazy eh. Reckon? 

Mmmm, should be. 

Yeah nah go on then.

Rightio boss. 

After you.

With our affirming self-talk thus pretty much nailed, we got up early to meet our friendly guide BK and make our way with joyful hearts to Kathmandu domestic airport for a long confusing wait.  In between queuing at a couple of different counters and getting frisked at a couple of checkpoints, we watched the departure board do very little at all, while stacks of luggage and sacks of lentils got shifted short distances here and there to no apparent end.

Boarding passes for Lukla.

We boarded our rather cute 16-seater and waited for another hour or so before the props started spinning. It was a 40-minute flight over magnificent mountain vistas to Lukla, the Himalayan gateway boasting "the world's most dangerous airport".  We'd believe it.  The runway at Hillary-Tenzing airport, Lukla, could easily be mistaken for a cricket pitch running lengthways up Dunedin's Baldwin Street, and the plane barely comes to a standstill before pulling a 3-point turn (on the local tennis court?) and promptly taking off again to clear the way for the next guy. We just googled the numbers: that runway is 460m by 20m with a 12% gradient. That's one tenth of the length of a standard runway.

We scoffed a quick lunch and perused the map, psyched for the short stroll ahead. Day one, they assured us, would be a piece of cake. A leisurely 3-hour waltz through flat pastures and cobbled villages. (Cue the theme song to the Sound of Music). What we were yet to learn is that "Nepali flat" is not a level gradient, but a series of ups and downs reminiscent of a Wall St line graph in which the final difference in altitude between start- and end-points is moderately negligible.  It's also worth noting that in Nepali geography it only qualifies as an actual mountain when its summit is over 6000m above sea level. Sorry about it Aoraki, but you are only New Zealand's tallest hill.

Today we have been challenged but awed.  The smattering of villages up here are connected by stony paths inaccessible by car or bike.  Supplies are trudged in by powerful donkeys, oxen, yaks and indefatigable Nepali porters.  The soundtrack up here is made up of rushing rivers, clanking yak-bells, and Bollywoodesque musical numbers emitting tinnily from mobile phone speakers.

We are following this mighty river, which has treated us to gargantuan waterfalls towering overhead and crystal-clear rock pools shimmering underfoot.  We've lost count of the swingbridges already.

Wherever there is life up here there is religion.  BK tells us he is usually Hindu, but he is Buddhist in the mountains and in the end it's all the same because God is on the inside.  There are prayer flags all over, and mantra carved painstakingly on rocks in Tibetan script, and many sacred cylinders inviting pilgrims to turn them three times to purify the soul.  The belief system prescribes that at any shrine or stupa you must walk around it in a clockwise direction for good luck.

It felt good to knock the first day off within the three hours allocated for it.  Mainly due to Chandra the shy wee porter who is carrying our 21kgs of gear.  Thanks Chandra.  We slept well.

Day two was described as three hours of Nepali flat followed by a three hour uphill slog to our accommodation in Namche Bazaar.  We are happy to report that we made it in fine time.  It's unclear how many kilometres we travelled in surface distance, but according to the map we're now eating dinner 700m further from sea level than we are our lunch, so that feels like an achievement.

In Namche Bazaar we are 3440m above sea level, and so far no complaints.  There's still a lot of climbing to do between here and Everest Base Camp (5364m) and everyone we have spoken to warned us that the altitude sickness is the real challenge.  We are super pleased that tomorrow is an official 'acclimatisation day' so we'll pass two nights here although we're encouraged to spend a few hours trekking tomorrow in the interests of our health.  We'll have to see about that, BK.

The following are a few more of our favourite photos from today, in no particular order:

A chicken on the threshold 

Beasts of burden

A little school

The road rules

More prayers

A life less ordinary

A well-earned rest.

Rafting and kayaking the Trishuli River

Leaving Kathmandu early, we met our new Danish mates Julie and Jakob, and Andreas the Swiss, and discovered that rickshaws are capable of carrying kayaks!

Some local dude saw us while we waited for the bus, and came over to wish us good luck.  Smearing some we-don't-know-what on our foreheads, we had a bit of a giggle, until he cheekily asked us for money, so we politely told him he could find his own luck somewhere else.  The joke was on us though, because he 'kindly' doused us with marigold petals, which we were still plucking out of our hair two hours later!

Our bumpy bus ride to the put-in point of river gave us our first glimpse of rural life in Nepal.  Dust.  Dogs.  Roadside shops.  Speaking of roads, they're danger-mouse!  The drop off is steep, and the cliff side so solid.  Flags, flowers, streamers and logos adorn the grumbling trucks as they heave up and over the Himalayan foothills (which are reminiscent of the winding Rimatukas), headed for Kathmandu.

Terraced fields are embedded into the lower slopes, with rice or corn seemingly being the preferred crops.  Marigolds dot the landscape, adding a splash of brightness to the otherwise dusty green fields.

Rivers snaked through the gaps in the giant mountains, ooooh, hold on, we should keep that description for another day when the real mountain giants are explored.  In any case the road west of Kathmandu pops up and over the side of the basin in which the big smoke sits, then winds down along the rivers.  Wherever there are mountains there are rivers, and we headed for Trishuli River for three days kayaking and rafting.

A ute pulled up with a troupe of six boys clinging on to the precariously laden tray.  The boys are led by a muscly and smiley man named Dil.  Dil looks the part, and it felt great to have some brute force around.  The lads busied themselves and we were soon getting our wetsuits on and rafts were being pumped on the sun-drenched riverside.  A couple of French clowns called Max and Abu joined us.

The Trishuli River has metallic looking speckles suspended in the water, and looks like fairy dust if the sun is behind you.  After fitting our (Blistick!) kayaks, we headed upstream a bit to warm up and for the guides to have a rough idea of how much rescuing they might need to do!  

The boys were amazing! Kanchha is 22, his ready smile revealing a perfect set of sparkling white teeth.  Kanchha's so at home on the river, he can manipulate his boat better than most can control their cars. His fun-loving side-kick called Milan has an ever present smile, and the biggest heart.  The boys made us feel really at home with them, and more importantly, safe.  

In the end, some of us kayaked and some of us rafted.  The river flowed quite swiftly, and it'd be epic to see how many cumecs would fit through after the monsoons.  The rapids were mostly between grades II and  III+ ... with a grade IV+ was snuck in to keep the rafters on their toes (us kayakers were glad to walk the larger one!).

Cruising along through the flat patches, we laughed and joked with our guides.  The young chaps taught us tricks, like a million different ways to rotate your paddle above your head, and how to whistle with your fingers, and kayaking tips too.  Kanchha and Milan showed us some insane tricks in their kayaks. Like flipping their kayak in the air, and trying to land it on the water (it did help that they had a play boat, but still it was super impressive!)

Whenever the sound of a rapid would be heard in the distance, the guides would put on their serious faces and brief us about which line to take.  The balance between playful interactions and serious instructions were amazing for such young blokes.  Milan is 17, and I tailed his blue boat like superglue  most of the time.  Milan had the poise of a pro in his boat, and I felt confident trusting my life to him.

Rapids had names like, Snail's Nose (that's imagination!), Upset (which it did and I went for a swim!), Surprise (water rushed from all angles), Ladies Delight (a bit of a smaller rapid, which would give the feminists something to talk about!), and the Pinball Rapid (quite an apt name!).  Blandy's in the green boat below.

Paddling all day let us observe local river life.  Gold panners.  Nudey-rudey children playing along the stony banks.  Ladies squatting for hours on end, washing clothes by hand.  Men bathing under piped water that emptied like a shower above communal bathrooms on the side of the river.  Little dusty people traipsing across the many suspension bridges, with baskets carrying tomatoes and veggies to market.  They must have strong necks, because many of the baskets were held by a cloth that went around their foreheads.  Oh la la! 

Arriving at our campsite around 4pm, the lads quickly started a fire while us travellers sat together and chatted.  Hearing a few grunts, we noticed a new guy called Kumar had collected a lot of branches and was bringing them to boost our fire.  Kumar was born deaf, looks a bit weathered, and could compete with an ox for strength.  He grunts and gesticulates articulately to share his stories.  He kept us intrigued for a few hours with all of his emphatic re-enactments of near death rafting episodes!   Kumar loves the river, and loves Dil.  It was plain to see that the men respected each other, even though they live worlds apart.  We were glad to meet Kumar, and watch how hard he worked, cleaning pots, carrying wood, moving stones to create a platform for our deck chairs.  Kumar is an amazing guy!

Our campsite magicly sprung up all around us it seemed.  The guides were like a merry band of brothers, teasing each other, racing each other to set up tents, and fashioning us a feast.  Paddling makes ya hungry, and when Kanchha called out 'Dinner is on the table' we couldn't have heard happier words.  Silky smooth hot vegetable soup and papadoms were delicious.  Dunno how those guys made it so smooth without a stick whizz, but they did.  Perhaps they ground the soup between a couple of rocks?!  A short while later the table was again full of piping hot food.  Rice, stir-fried veggies, tuna salad, some beef concoction, spaghetti, corn and mushrooms.  The guys had prepared all these dishes on two gas burners, on the side of a river, pretty much in the dark.  Legends!

After a few stories and marshmallows around the fire, Dil pulled out a bottle of Nepali rum.  He said it was really strong, and flicked a capful on the fire to prove his point.  Flames burst high into the air.  Dil took a pot containing water, canned fruit, pepper and honey, and generously poured his rum into the mixture.  Dil's hot rum punch was passed around the circle, and the whole group of us including the band of lads enjoyed the time together.  More stories, more laughs.  What a happy life!

Tucking into our toasty sleeping bags on the sandy riverside felt real nice.  We were lulled into a deep sleep by the gentle sounds of the water.

Waking up we manged on crepes, toast, Nepali hash browns (the most delicious tasting garlic and onion potatoes), eggs and rice.  The boys had done it again!  We went with Milan over the suspension bridge to his home town.  Climbing up to a lookout point, we saw ancient-looking small stone houses, little Buddhist shrines, veggie plots, and the river winding below us.

Just before taking the photo below Milan casually said 'And up over there you will see a spider.'  Looking up we winced as our eyes beheld the mother of all nightmarish spiders.  With webs of 3 meter width, and about the same height, these colossal spiders are freaky.  Milan was quick to add 'oh, we don't need to be afraid, they are not poisonous.'  The said black creature had yellow stripes on it, was easily 7 or 8 cm in length, maybe 2cm across the belly, and looked hungry.  It kinda ruined the Nepali forest for me, later on I went for a squat and five brothers of that spider perched in the trees behind me, giving me stage fright!

(The photo above was taken from a safe distance because the spider was scary.  He was much bigger than the photo depicts.  If you don't believe us, we can post you one if you like!)

The river was so fun the second day, we could hardly believe our luck!  Somehow Blandy caned over in the first piddly rapid, but came up all grins when she pulled off an Eskimo roll when it was needed!  The day before had seen a few attempts, but the skills were pretty rusty, and the roll had been elusive.  Glad that our bodies have a memory of their own!  Rolls from then on were a piece of cake!

After saying goodbye to our fellow travellers, we hunkered down for another night of camping by the river.  More stories around the fire, more heroic tales enacted by Kumar, more fine food.  

The last day felt relaxed and happy.  With just the two of us and seven guides, we were well looked after!  Finishing up with a late lunch, we thanked our new mates, and felt glad the river had let us journey safely.  Mostly we thanked our guides though, they'd hauled both us and our kayaks out of the drink a fair few times!  If you're wanting a raft or a kayak experience, definitely hunt down Adventure Aves, details below.

We bussed back to Kathmandu for a days rest, before the start of our Everest Base Camp Trek. (eeeeek, are we ready?  Will we make it?  Are we strong enough?)