A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (11 page)

22 March 1996

I stepped out from the shade and relative calm of Kathmandu’s international airport into the subsiding heat of late afternoon.

Within five paces of the exit, I was swamped by the usual mass of eager taxi drivers and touts. This all-male throng, seemingly aged from seven to seventy, jostled as they vied for my custom, each member hoping that they might provide the transport for my twenty-minute ride into the city.

With outstretched arms, imploring brown eyes and well-rehearsed lines, they tried their utmost to persuade me to hand over part of my luggage, hopeful I might relinquish some of the burden and assent to their services. If successful in this manoeuvre, the unmistakable sign to their competition was that the business was won. The pandemonium would cease as abruptly as it had begun.

The more confident of these competitors took on the mantle of overpowering salesmen, pushing their way to the front and trying to take control of my luggage before a fare had been agreed. At the time, the going rate was 200 rupees, about £2.30. To each outstretched hand and eager face, I repeated, ‘Two hundred rupees.’ The first to agree to this figure was the one who got my custom. The whole process of arranging my transport took less than 30 seconds.

However, the next problem was how to hang on to the rest of my luggage. It was piled high upon an ancient and rather worn-out airport trolley that chose its own direction of travel. I struggled hopelessly to master the art of steering this unpredictable rusting mechanical aid. At the same time, I had to avoid the scam that any person lifting one of my bags, or in some cases just touching them, expected some payment. This perceived assistance could be as little as lifting a bag three feet in distance or one foot up onto the back seat of the car. Nevertheless, the ever-expectant open palm would be thrust out, foreign currency in the form of a note being the preferred recompense.

The entire ritual was far less intimidating than it sounds. The art was to remain in control, a smile or polite ‘no’ the most useful tools.

Having secured my ride, I was escorted to my taxi. It had been parked on the opposite side of the unnecessarily large official car park: oversized through aspirations of future airport expansion or as a statement of the country’s ambitions in the modern world. The distance between the negotiations and provision of service had been wisely played by my driver to his best advantage. It meant I had not been able to set eyes on the 20-year-old burgundy-coloured Nissan saloon, which was heavily dented from end to end. Neatly positioned within the white lines of a designated parking space, it had the requisite four wheels and almost as many doors. To my optimistic eyes, it looked as though, once started, it might be capable of moving in a forward direction.

With my rucksack loaded onto the back seat of the sun-bleached interior, and two large expedition bags protruding from the strapped-down boot lid, we departed from the airport grounds. Passing the armed military checkpoint, we joined the public road where rules and rights of way seemed less well defined. The gearbox whined incessantly and clunked loudly with every change. The suspension, what little there was of it, rattled as though it were about to part company with the vehicle. The fuel gauge read empty.

To possess a vehicle in Nepal was a means to earn a precious living. The owners kept them going in their battle-scarred states as long as humanly possible. Nothing was wasted.

My worryingly young-looking driver was unperturbed by the abnormal sounds emanating from the car. He must have instinctively known which rattles might be terminal – that or he was just waiting for something to drop off. Accompanying him was one of his friends. This extra passenger, who had managed to squeeze alongside my rucksack in the rear of the car, just happened to be going into Kathmandu. He needed a lift. After only a few minutes, it became apparent that this extra occupant was hoping to steer me in the direction of a trekking company or hotel from which commission might be earned. It was done very nicely, in a typically Nepalese way: friendly and without the hard sell. Once they realised I’d been to Nepal before, on more than one occasion, it relaxed into an easy-going conversation of why I liked Nepal so much. They were proud that I should choose to keep coming back to their country. I was a Westerner after all, and in their eyes I had the whole world to choose from.

As the dilapidated taxi rattled its way through the narrow streets, the aromas of sweet-smelling incense mingling with that of rotting rubbish wafted through its open windows. The warm air blowing over me felt soothing after the long flight.

We passed row after row of ramshackle buildings with corrugated metal roofs that lined the streets. The goods displayed outside shops were a sea of colour and ranged from cheap plastic items of every description to earthenware pottery, chillies and spices. The constant sound was of car and motorcycle horns beeping as they all competed for what little room there was to squeeze through. Cows grazed on decaying refuse piled high at the side of the road awaiting the infrequent collections; children played happily nearby. An old bicycle tyre propelled along with a stick appeared a popular toy and prized possession. Whole families sat out in front of their simple homes, enjoying the subdued warmth of the early-evening sun. They were constantly being covered in the dust thrown up by the passing traffic and left in the clouds of choking fumes being emitted. This scene was repeated time after time as the taxi wound its way down narrow, worn streets. Overhead, innumerable power cables and telephone wires spanned the route. They drooped wearily under their own weight in what appeared to be a dangerous mess. Hand-painted signs surrounded many a doorway, advertising the businesses that occupied the upper floors of the taller and more permanent concrete buildings. Barber shops with their wooden hardback chairs offered haircuts for only a few rupees, alongside vendors carefully attending three-foot-wide hot pans of boiling oil. These sizzled with samosas, which danced in readiness across the bubbling surface.

After 20 minutes, we entered into an altogether much quieter world as the taxi turned left down a small, unmetalled side street. With a shudder from the brakes, the driver pulled up outside my hotel, the Gauri Shankar. The establishment was a favoured haunt for climbers at that time, though it has since closed down. In the years to come, customer requirements would change from clean, simple and inexpensive hotels to ones with all the modern comforts and facilities of their Western counterparts. Bookings dropped and the hotel ceased to be viable.

Above the entrance, an imposing 20-ft white banner with large blue lettering welcomed our Everest expedition to Nepal. Underneath, on the broad hotel steps, stood two traditionally dressed members of staff who only ten months earlier had bade me farewell. They had been anticipating my arrival.

This five-storey hotel was built as three equal-sized sections facing a small central entrance courtyard, the edges of which were lined with a well-watered variety of exotic plants whose flowers brought dazzling colours to this otherwise dusty urban environment. A large broad-leafed tree generously offered welcome shade from the searing heat of the midday sun. All guest rooms opened onto a concrete walkway that overlooked this small oasis set within a chaotic concrete jungle. Blue plastic storage barrels, highly favoured for expedition supplies and equipment, were spread throughout the establishment. They overflowed into the reception area and onto the large walled veranda located directly above it. Climbing equipment, clothing, tents and harnesses were strewn over every available balcony, airing in the warmth of the sun.

Hanging on the walls of the two concrete stairwells that wound their way to the upper floors were large, dramatic photographs of highly respected Himalayan climbers, both men and women. Underneath each picture was a list of their continued achievements on the 26,000-ft peaks, though several noted an untimely demise of the person in recent years.

It was a climber’s paradise. The air was charged with the excitement and expectations about what lay ahead. Many were not going to Everest but to lower Himalayan peaks that often presented much harder and more dangerous technically difficult climbs.

All the expeditions gathered at the Gauri Shankar that year shared great camaraderie in their hopes and aspirations for their imminent adventure. The place was buzzing with the very essence of feeling alive.

Over the next few days, my hotel room took on the appearance of a storeroom from a climbing equipment shop. I set out, on any available surface, everything that had been so painstakingly packed at home. The floor was littered with neat piles of climbing hardware, boots, sunscreen, thick woollen socks and even a couple of tents. The dressing table and bedside cabinet were covered in piles of batteries, sewing kit, music tapes, medical supplies and every other conceivable item that I thought might be necessary for my comfort and well-being over the next two months. I made a request for the hotel staff not to clean my room; other guests were doing the same. There was no point in them attempting this impossible task. My down suit, highly insulated sleeping bags and thermal underwear, which lay airing on my half-made bed, were seemingly out of place in the rapidly rising springtime temperatures of this capital city, a place where shorts, T-shirts and sandals were far more suitable attire.

With great care, I repacked the blue plastic barrel and two large holdalls with the majority of my equipment. These would be taken by helicopter to the mountain airstrip at Lukla and from there by yak to Everest Base Camp. I would not see them again for at least two weeks. Other essentials such as a sleeping bag, waterproofs, umbrella, changes of clothes, walking poles and suncream were packed into a rucksack that would remain with me. These I needed for the ten-day acclimatisation trek from Lukla up to Everest Base Camp. I felt a nervous excitement as I sorted through the equipment and supplies that were spread out before me. The plans I had dreamt up in Argentina little more than two months earlier appeared to be coming together. Not wanting to tempt fate, I tried to deny myself the thought that I could actually pull this off – that I might summit Everest two years in a row. Too much could happen to dash my hopes and aspirations. In the intervening period between my arrival in Kathmandu and the two-month gruelling expedition to the towering heights of the lofty Himalaya that lay ahead, there was an endless list of things that could go wrong. From now on, one step at a time was the way forward.

Daytimes were spent in the many outdoor cafes and small restaurants that line the narrow bustling streets of Thamel, the hectic tourist quarter of Kathmandu: a place that draws travellers like a magnet and from where they radiate across the globe on their onward journeys. While here, they momentarily slip into a worldly melting pot of humanity: one that contains a wide spectrum of ages, cultures, nationalities and experiences.

I also idled away time browsing the large number of climbing and trekking shops. These were full of equipment that had been sold off at the end of expeditions in previous years; their sponsors’ stickers adorned the windows of these overstuffed establishments. Not that I needed anything extra. Rather, I suppose, I was hoping for inspiration or for something to jolt my memory to recall that vital piece I might have forgotten. There was always the chance that I might spot some hitherto unknown piece of equipment that could aid in my forthcoming endeavour.

It was after breakfast in the large and dimly lit wood-panelled hotel restaurant that Henry and I set out to scour Thamel. Our objective was to find the best exchange rate we could, to maximise a sizeable chunk of the expedition funds. The best rate to be found in those days was not given by the licensed moneychangers but on the black market. Surprisingly, these could be found in carpet shops, which went a long way to explaining their prolific number. A discreet enquiry with the proprietor, who actively sought his next customer, and one would be ushered to the more private area to the rear of the establishment. A brief discussion concerning the amount to be changed and size of the bills would determine the rate to be offered. While this was happening, the shopkeeper’s assistant would warily stand guard at the front door. Everyone knew it was going on, and no one wanted to be caught red-handed. The current daily newspaper, which lay conveniently to one side, was always referred to for the bank rate of that particular day. The rate the shopkeeper offered was always better than the banks, in order to secure this precious foreign currency; US $20 and $50 bills were preferred to the bulk of smaller notes, reflected by the amount given in return.

In the years that followed, the Nepalese government, well aware that this was going on, decided to offer a preferential exchange rate that exceeded that on the open international market, but only through authorised moneychangers. This shrewd move forced the carpet shops to close in large numbers, as they were now forced to make a living from actually selling carpets.

It was while Henry and I were passing between these carpet shops on our fact-finding tour that I spotted the tall lean figure of Anatoli walking towards us. His height, blond hair and bold blue-checked shirt made him stand out from others in the street. The welcoming smile of renewed friendship that spread across Anatoli’s face was accompanied by his outstretched hand as we met. I’d heard he was working for Scott Fischer’s Mountain Madness expedition this year, and I was delighted to see him.

Placing his hand on my shoulder, and with a concerned expression, Anatoli said, ‘Graham, I hear you climb Everest again. Why do you not climb Lhotse?’

I was on the verge of giving a lengthy explanation as to my reasons when out of the corner of my eye I caught Anatoli trying to wink at Henry. I burst into laughter, realising I was being wound up. Quite obviously he’d spoken with Henry in the last day or two and knew of my plan. It was good to be amongst friends.