Mountain Goggles

Everest Base Camp the Lazy Way Day 15-16 – Gorak Shep to Pheriche

When I awake, it feels that winter has really hit. Fat, soft snowflakes are drifting down, the earth a morass of white and grey, the sky like dirty cottonwool.

As we descend through snow towards Pheriche, the yaks come with us, great hordes of them, young Sherpas herding them down from the summer pastures to their winter grazing.

Zac loves the snow. He picks great handfuls of it up to eat, despite my admonitions about lowering his core temperature, scrapes together loose and flaky snowballs and chucks them at me, writes his name in the thin layer that crusts the rocks.

Me? I’m glad to see this migration, a slice of traditional Sherpa life. I’m glad to know what it feels like to walk in -20 degrees at 5000 metres through flurries of fresh snow. I’m glad to find how winter feels and see the mountains emerge as blurry hints behind the sky.

But, ya know. There’s a few new things to see, but we’ve done this trek. We’ve done the difficult bit (crossing the Cho-La Pass), and the bragging bit (Everest Base Camp).

I haven’t washed properly for pretty much a week, and have been sleeping in the same fetid clothes for the last three nights. Seriously, if there was a bus right now, I’d take it.

Though, schizophrenically, I also wish we could head left at the bottom of the valley, not right, for the mountain views from Chhukung, and maybe grab a couple more days.

I have been sleeping in the same fetid clothes for the last three nights. Seriously, if there was a bus right now, I’d take it.

I’m settled into a fairly steady, if rather leisurely, rhythm of step-step-stick as we descend the valley, and hobbling my way down a step of stairs beyond some memorials when this random kid from East London starts talking to me.

“You coming down?”

Yes, of course I’m coming down.

What the fuck does it LOOK like I’m doing?

I’m hobbling down a mountain after a heavily-laden porter with my son, leaning on my stick like a geriatric while smelling like a homeless person.

I explain what we’ve been doing. His mate, who’s quieter and older, chats to Zac.

And, bewilderingly, it becomes evident that this kid is actually HITTING ON ME. On the mountain.

Even at the most optimistic assessment, he’s at the very least a decade younger than me, and at least an inch shorter than me, and I can’t see much else because it’s snowing, and, furthermore, I am with my son, goddamit, and haven’t washed for a week.

I’m bewildered and mildly outraged. What is wrong with this man?

Yes, of course I’m coming down the mountain. What the fuck does it LOOK like I’m doing? I’m hobbling down a mountain after a heavily-laden porter with my son, leaning on my stick like a geriatric while smelling like a homeless person.

Conversation continues. They’re coming up.

They left Lukla three days ago, and they’re headed to base camp.

WHA’?

Have these cretins never heard of altitude sickness?

“But that’s more than 3000 vertical metres in four days,” I say, feebly, getting my maths wrong.

“Yeah,” says the cocky one.

“Isn’t that a bit fast?” I suggest.

“Nah,” says the cocky one. “We’re going to do a couple of mountains and then head back.”

These are 6000m+ peaks. Their schedule is approximately one third of what it says in my book is acceptable.

We chat some more. They toodle-pip, head up the mountain at some insane speed, and I think to myself, smugly, fucktards!

And then, oh god, I hope they’re OK. These guys could die!

“Stop climbing if you get a headache, yeah?” I yell.

WHA’? Have these cretins never heard of altitude sickness? “But that’s 3000 vertical metres in four days,” I say, feebly. “Yeah,” says the cocky one. “Isn’t that a bit fast?” I suggest.

The cocky one yells something placatory back and they continue to literally run up this bloody gigantic hill.

They are ascending raw rock steps with big packs at the sort of pace I can muster when late for something very important on a flat, smooth surface, like Oxford Street, and laden with nothing more strenuous than something trashy from TopShop, or possibly a laptop.

Jesus, I think. They’re fit.

Then, smugly, it’s always the fit ones that get helicoptered off with AMS.

All the same, I feel a sense of mild superiority at this idiocy.

All three of us do, in fact.

“No guide!” says Nir, tshawing.

“Lukla to Lobuche in three days?!” tuts Zac. “That’s insane. The maximum is 300m in a day. There are signs EVERYWHERE.”

“I know!” I say. “I hope they’re OK. It’s always the fit ones that get in trouble.”

We tch and tshaw and tut a bit more, then continue to descend at a pace I’d describe flatteringly as leisurely, priding ourselves on our comprehensive and slow acclimatisation, and how much more sensible we’ve been than our fellow Brits.

All the same, I feel a sense of mild superiority at this idiocy. All three of us do, in fact. “No guide!” says Nir, tshawing. “Namche to Lobuche in three days?!” tuts Zac.

Next morning in Pheriche, a cluster of yaks, lodges, terraced fields and frozen streams, I’m brushing my teeth al fresco and contemplating washing my face to the usual fantabulous mountain views and the fetid, homeless person stench of the fleeces in which I’ve been sleeping for the last few days.

My body odour has gone beyond that garlicky underarm tang to that real, stale, yeasty stench that makes you move down the bus when a tramp gets on, with an extra tang of urine from al fresco micturation at speed, also probably familiar to anyone who’s taken a London night bus.

Someone is talking to me!

Something about the mountains, and how amazing it is to be in the mountains.

“Yeah,” I mumble on reflex. “Nice mountains. Very nice mountains.” (I’m not a morning person, and, anyway, I’m abluting, so I’m in private, even when out of doors, particularly since, at least when I went to bed, Zac and I were the only guests in our lodge.)

Oh shit! It’s the cocky one, from yesterday.

Well, I think. At least they’ve had the sense to come back down. Fucktards.

He babbles on about mountains for a bit. I volunteer that my favourite so far’s Ama Dablam, discover he likes that one too, then head indoors to get Zac up, wondering idly what is wrong with this man.

I mean, hell, he’s a good-looking kid. Surely he has better things to do with his libido? Or is he just hitting on every woman he meets on the mountain?

My body odour has gone beyond that garlicky underarm tang to that real, stale, yeasty stench that makes you move down the bus when a tramp gets on, with an extra tang of urine from al fresco micturation at speed.

Later, we’re all sitting around the brazier, as one does in the morning in a trekking lodge, awaiting one’s breakfast order of chapatti and fried eggs and one’s third coffee of the morning, if one’s me. It’s another easy day’s walk for us, down to the monastery at Dengboche, so we’re in no hurry.

“See?” the cocky one says to his mate. “She doesn’t even remember us.”

“Yes I do,” I say. “You were heading up to Lobuche yesterday and now you’re here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “He got a bit of a headache so we came back down.”

“Yeah,” I say, with my best effort at diplomacy (never a strength). “We were worried you were going up a bit fast.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, we’re Nepali, so….”

Oh Jesus God. They’re not British!

I take a proper look at the cocky one. He’s stripped down to his thermal top and has muscles in places I don’t even have places, the full complement of disco tits and shoulders approximately twice the span of mine, the kind of body that makes a lady long for a snapshot to share with her homosexual friends.

Oh fuck.

The penny drops.

Bahahahaha!

He’s stripped down to his thermal top and has muscles in places I don’t even have places, a full complement of disco tits and shoulders approximately twice the span of mine, the kind of body that makes a lady long for a snapshot to share with her homosexual friends.

The two of them are super-fit Nepali guys with British accents. This can only mean one thing. I take a look at Nir. He looks back at me in horror.

“Oh,” I say, innocently. “I thought you were British.”

“Nah,” he says. “We lived in Britain for a while but we’re Nepali. Now we live in Brunei.”

“Oh,” I say, innocently. “What are you doing in Brunei?”

“We’re Gurkhas,” he says.

I glance at Nir. He’s giggling silently in total embarrassment.

I start to laugh. “I’m SORRY!” I say. “I thought you were British.”

I haven’t just told two super-fit Nepali guys how to climb a mountain. I’ve just told two members of arguably the hardest regular unit in the entire British Army how to climb a mountain.

Bahahahaha! Go me!

I haven’t just told two super-fit Nepali guys how to climb a mountain. I’ve just told two members of arguably the hardest regular unit in the entire British Army how to climb a mountain. Bahahahaha! Go me!

To clarify, Gurkhas are like the SAS of Nepal, or their Navy Seals, except they belong to the British Army (some are in other armies, long story, and no, we never colonised Nepal, even longer story, though the entire thing is like some ludicrous throwover from the Raj).

There’s a museum in Pokhara devoted to their various kamikaze feats of bravery and if you’ve ever had the privilege of getting drunk with a veteran of World War II you’ll have heard all about them.

(If you’re me, it will have gone roughly like this: “Little guys, but absolutely bloody terrifying. Best bloody soldiers I ever met. Another gin, love?”)

Further, entry to the Gurkhas is about the only way out of poverty and into the west for all but the super-elite of Nepal, which is poorer than many sub-Saharan countries – there ain’t no university if daddy has no money, no trading floors for smart, driven kids to get rich on — so entry is quite unbelievably competitive.

Aspirant Gurkhas have to race each other some insane distance up a vicious hill while carrying 35kg (80lb) of rocks, and that’s BEFORE they start the training.

Aspirant Gurkhas have to race each other some insane distance up a vicious hill while carrying 35kg (80lb) of rocks, and that’s BEFORE they start the training.

“But…” I say, recovering quickly (one of my strengths and weaknesses is that I never know when I’m beaten). “I thought you were only supposed to ascend 300 metres in a day? And then break for an acclimatisation day every thousand metres?”

Zac looks up from his Kobo and nods knowledgeably. Mum’s right!

“Actually, I’m a paramedic,” says the cocky one, very politely, delivering the trifecta. “And if you’re born around 2000m above sea level, the rule’s 650m in one day. So that’s what we’ve been going with.”

“But I moved lower when I was six,” says the quiet one. “So we reckon that’s what caused it.”

Oh well, I think. It can’t get any worse from here.

I mean, it’s not like they’re climbing Everest, right?

Oh fuck, no…

Oh well, I think. It can’t get any worse from here. I mean, it’s not like they’re climbing Everest, right? Oh fuck, no…

“This is Tenzing,” says the quiet one, pointing to a Sherpa who has been following this conversation with mutedly obvious Sherpa-esque amusement: think Chinese, but with an inaudible snigger, instead of an inaudible giggle. “He’s summited Everest eight times.”

I take a deep breath. “Right,” I say. “So you’re going up Everest?”

Not this time, apparently. They’re having a pop at a couple of starter mountains first.

“But it’s not difficult, Everest,” says the cocky one. “The Sherpa can get anyone up there.”

“Even Zac?!” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “What’s the youngest person to summit Everest? 13?”

The quiet one is engaged in the thankless task of trying to make conversation with Zac, who is reading Iain M. Banks by the brazier on his Kobo and is the living, breathing definition of monosyllabic.

Sheesh, I think. The boy’s becoming a teen.

And then I think, well, nice of him to try.

Zac, who is reading Iain M. Banks by the brazier on his Kobo, is the living, breathing definition of monosyllabic. Sheesh, I think. The boy’s becoming a teen. And then I think, well, nice of him to try.

Like I say, I’m not a morning person. I rack my brains for something to say to Tenzing, a man who’s stood on the summit of the world’s highest mountain not once but eight times, and every year since 2005.

Other Sherpa have done it more often (the record stands at over 20, as far as I know), but it’s still pretty darn impressive.

“What’s it like on top of Everest?” I manage, after some thought.

“Cold,” he says. The full stop is almost audible.

Silence dawns.

Professional interviewing technique at its finest, I make a vague beckoning gesture in lieu of a follow-up question.

“Very cold,” Tenzing amplifies. “Minus 40.”

“Zac!” I say. “Tenzing’s summited Everest eight times! Do you have anything to ask him?”

“No,” says my spawn.

“What’s it like on top of Everest?” I manage, after some thought. “Cold,” he says. The full stop is almost audible. Silence dawns.

My fried eggs are going cold. I sprinkle some salt and burst the yolk with my chapatti.

The Gurkhas and the Sherpa are looking at a map and writing things down in pencil in an organised way.

“What map have you got?” I ask, conversationally, in the manner of one competent map-reader to another. “I think the contours are all wrong on mine.”

The cocky one looks at my map for approximately two seconds. “It looks alright to me,” he says. “Maybe lost a bit of definition but -” he points to various features of the landscape to which I’m utterly oblivious – “That and that and that are all there. See?”

No, I don’t see.

As it happens.

Aaarrrrrrggghhhh….

The quiet one asks some alarmingly intelligent and perceptive questions about Zac, and travelling, and by the end I’m feeling a little discombobulated.

“What map have you got?” I ask, conversationally, in the manner of one competent map-reader to another. “I think the contours are all wrong on mine.” The cocky one looks at my map for approximately two seconds. “It looks alright to me,” he says.

I’m outside the lodge trying to work out a way to take a picture of mountains that doesn’t look like another picture of mountains.

This is difficult in the Himalayas, cos the locals don’t like having their pictures taken and to do good landscape shots you need a bunch of time and a tripod to get the perfect spot and then wait for the clouds to move, or the yak to move to the right spot and put on its photo face, which – as a side note to any single parent aspirant photographers – is not compatible with travelling solo with kids.

The cocky one appears from nowhere. “Look at that,” he says, pointing at a black peak that overhangs Pheriche, sticking out his shoulders, and expanding to twice his previous substantial width and an inch or two taller than me. “You want to climb that? You and me? This afternoon?”

Are you mad, man? I think. ME? Climb a mountain? What do you think I am? Do I LOOK like I like climbing mountains? Can’t you TELL I’m a gibbering pussy that’s scared of heights?

And then I think, oh yeah, we’re on our way down from Everest Base Camp.

And actually I DO like going up mountains, albeit very, very slowly.

Sure, the prospect of an alfresco Himalayan dalliance with someone who is, the more I look at him, clearly an extremely hot soldier, is hugely appealing.

If probably chilly. Very chilly.

Also, it does look like a lovely and achievable little mountain. And I’d quite like to walk up it. It looks fun. There might be a scramble. There’ll be some lovely views.

And, he’s got a few lines on his forehead, at least in these temperatures. Maybe he’s 28? 30, even? Ya know. If he’s over 25, that makes him closer to my age than Zac’s, and that’s OK.

Also, he’s HAWT.

ME? Climb a mountain? What do you think I am? Do I LOOK like I like climbing mountains? Can’t you TELL I’m a gibbering pussy that’s scared of heights? And then I think, oh yeah, we’re on our way down from Everest Base Camp.

Nah, I think. I can’t inflict that on Nir, who’s quite traditional and under the impression I’m married, and has been basically part of the family for a fortnight, or Zac, who’s desperate for internet.

Further, I smell like a homeless person and haven’t washed for a week. I AM wearing clean knickers, for the first time in longer than I care to think, but quite frankly I don’t want anyone near that area until I’ve been in first with soap and water because god knows what’s happening down there, what with the altitude and wearing two pairs of leggings under everything ALL THE TIME.

My face is scarlet and flaky with windburn, my lips are chapped, my socks are crunchy with stale sweat, my hair is so greasy my unflattering fleece hat smells like those clots of sheep wool you find on fences, I’ve got little bits of ingrained dirt in my neck and my frownlines are competing with my scars for forehead space.

Most importantly… I’ve seen this guy going up a mountain. Any al fresco dalliance is right out of the window once I’ve puffed and spluttered my way up after him, or he’s waited patiently for me to catch up at every minor turn in the path.

“You and me?” he says, again.

“Can’t!” I expostulate. “Zac! My guide! Nir! Can’t! Too busy! Can’t!”

And then, gentle reader, I run away.

“You and me?” he says, again. “Can’t!” I expostulate. “Zac! My guide! Nir! Can’t! Too busy! Can’t!” And then, gentle reader, I run away.

The Gurkhas and the Sherpa are happily doing IMPORTANT MAN STUFF with maps and pencils and oximeters and charts. Zac, whose oxygen saturation levels are not only way better than mine but way better than Nir’s, is reading quietly.

I’m pissing around our room, squashing our sleeping bags into their roll bags for probably the 20th time so far (they’re fake sleeping bags, so the catches on the roll bags have gone and I have to tie knots in them instead, and, further, they smell as if someone has, if not actually died in them, at least sharted copiously), when there’s a knock on the door.

“It’s me,” says the cocky one.

I don’t know why, but I let him in.

“What are you doing in here with your door locked for ages?” he says, as if it’s his business.

“Packing,” I say, realising as I do so that I’ve subconsciously locked the door not so much to keep him from invading my space, which he was obviously going to do, as to keep him from inhaling the fetid stench of an entire backpack full of crunchy socks, over-used underwear and general locker room aromas. “These sleeping bags suck.”

“Kiss me,” he says.

WHA’?!

What DAFUQ is wrong with this man? Can he not see? Does he have no sense of SMELL?

They’re fake sleeping bags, so the catches on the roll bags have gone and I have to tie knots in them instead, and, further, they smell as if someone has, if not actually died in them, at the very least sharted copiously.

I react like some Victorian maiden, only not. “No!” I say.

“Why not?” he says.

“Because,” I say. “I’m with my son and Nir. And we’re in Nepal and things are different here.”

“It’s the same,” he lies barefacedly.

Without boring you with the finer points of child brides, female immolation, honour killings, literacy and women’s rights in general in Nepal (precis here), this could NOT be further from the truth.

“No it fucking isn’t,” I say.

“Give me a hug,” he says, undaunted.

And for whatever insane reason I clench my elbows in to contain the stench of my underarms and passively accept a hug. He kisses me on the neck and disappears.

Mildly bewildered, I add “smelling like a vagrant” to “facial scarring”, “old enough to be your bloody mother”, “convinced you’re gay no matter how often you explain you’re not“, “drunk and obnoxious” and “in high dudgeon and ranting about being offered money for sex by a cab driver” to my ever-expanding mental list of weird shit some surprisingly hot men will put up with in search of – ummm – “female companionship”.

I add “smelling like a vagrant” to “facial scarring”, “old enough to be your bloody mother”, “convinced you’re gay no matter how often you explain you’re not”, “drunk and obnoxious” and “in high dudgeon and ranting about being offered money for sex by a cab driver” to my ever-expanding mental list of weird shit some surprisingly hot men will put up with.

I’ve done our bags, paid our bill, and am taking time out from chivvying Zac into his boots when the cocky one pops up again.

“Give me your number,” he says.

I know full well that I don’t know my Nepali number, because I’ve tried to give it to someone else and I need to use the “find own number” function which only works when you have reception, which I don’t.

“I don’t think I know my number,” I say, pathetically. “I need reception.”

I fuck around with my steam-powered phone (it cost me $15 in rural Borneo) for a bit, becoming increasingly neurotic for these reasons: 1) I don’t know my own phone number 2) I don’t have reception to find it and 3) (this is the bit I’m hung up on) I can’t even remember which bit of my phone I have to go into to confirm I can’t find my own phone number.

And I want to do that, because – oh shit! — I actually want to give this man my phone number.

“Take your time,” he says, in the measured and pleasant tones of an efficient man dealing with an imbecile.

“Seriously,” I say. “I don’t know my own phone number. I could take yours, though.”

He shows me his number, reads it out to me, watches me input it, makes me show it to him and then makes me read it back to him from my phone.

I turn round.

Nir is in the doorway, smirking, and the Tamang porter behind him is openly sniggering.

It’s clearly time to leave.

“Take your time,” he says, in the measured and pleasant tones of an efficient man dealing with an imbecile. “Seriously,” I say. “I don’t know my own phone number.”

A couple of hours down the way, I get reception and text the cocky one my number.

I am annoyed yet utterly unsurprised when he doesn’t return my text. These are big mountains, and while there are not a lot of women about most of them are younger and fitter than me, and, let’s face it, the boy isn’t exactly backwards about coming forwards.

Even if he works his way systematically down the mountain evolutionary scale, as I suspect he will, I’ve got to be a long way down the list, mountain goggles or no mountain goggles.

It’s a bummer, though. To be frank, I’m a little bit gutted.

Now I’ve not just got Negronis on the brain but sex on the brain as well.

And bacon. Let’s not forget the bacon.

To find out what happened next, click the next button, below, or navigate through my NSFW category.

You can read the last, and rather more salubrious, post in this series on our Everest Base Camp trek here, or start from the beginning here, or read the next post here.

If you’re thinking of doing the Everest Base Camp trek, I recommend my Everest Base Camp FAQs.