Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (12 page)

Two days away from Base Camp, the team stopped in their tracks. A valley they had been hiking through opened up to a rocky field gently rising in front of them. Straight ahead, Junk saw the peak of Everest. But that was not what stopped them. To their right, due east, rose a mountain of such height, they could swear they had gone off course and were actually passing Everest. Some of the Europeans on the expedition began to press the porters, asking how they had botched things up so badly as to miss their destination. Junk shushed them. He knew the shape of Everest and whatever this mighty Goliath happened to be, it was not their destination.

One could hardly see her because she was protected on all sides by the smaller-but-still-humbling giants, Mitya, Abel, Lata, and Asha. Junk consulted the map and spoke with the porters. They explained that it was a terrible mountain called Fumu. Junk was struck with fear. He had heard of this beast and its perils. The mountains in front of it were bright white. But behind those mountains, taking up what seemed like the whole sky, were rock faces living in an entirely different weather pattern. Overcast. No sun, at least not where they could see. Near the top, just below the ash cloud, snow squalls passed across her face. There was a distant rumbling. Elihu Twist swore he saw an avalanche accompanied by black rocks come spilling out from the cloud at the top. But the others did not make it out. There was a faint smell of sulfur in the air, even at this distance.

The team was sincerely upset by the sight. “Each one to the man, including the porters, confessed later that their hearts were racing. Even in the cool air, they were sweating under their layers. Fumu was not their destination, but certainly they must have thought if Everest was taller than this giant, then Everest must be terrible indeed.

Little did anyone on Junk’s expedition know that at the same moment, Zachary Hoover, Chhiri Tendi, and about twenty other men were halfway up Fumu, looking up in terror at the same landslide above them. Luckily, they were climbing along a ridge. The falling snow and rock would bank to the left and to the right of the ridge, sparing the climbers. Chhiri Tendi was trying to lighten the mood by saying the mountain’s snow was looser than Mae West.

One more thing caught the attention of Junk’s team. They had seen an occasional Buddhist monastery on their way. In front of them now was not one monastery, not two nor three, but a monastery every one hundred yards or so, trailing off into the higher elevations to the northeast and into the lower elevations to the southeast. He could easily see fourteen, each one draped in colourful flags blowing in the gentle wind. The monasteries looked as if they may be ringing around Fumu. But that would be impossible, Junk thought. The ring would have to be hundreds of monasteries long. No white man knew of these monasteries, seeing as Nepal was forbidden to outsiders. He asked the porters about the structures. They pleaded ignorance, but Junk knew there was no way they were in the dark about such a massive architectural feat. He chose not to press it, wanting to keep the porters on his good side.

Junk wanted to understand this beautiful vision, this Shangri La. He had researched Nepal and focused on the peoples who inhabited the higher elevations in the North. In that time, he had never heard anything about this mysterious string of buildings. In a quest to learn, and to be the first white man to uncover their secrets, Junk chose to approach one of the monasteries with Oldhusband in tow. Junk wanted Oldhusband with him so Oldhusband could make some field recordings. The more research completed, the better justified their trip. He also asked Ang Kikuli, the Sherpa sardar, to join them but he refused. When pressed for a reason, Ang Kikuli responded, “Because they are unbalanced people.” Apparently, the porters did know about the monasteries. “They are not Buddhists. Nor are they Hindu. Nor Jain. I don’t what they are.” Junk chose to let it go.

A village of small huts and penned animals had grown up in between and in front of the monasteries. The two travelers walked proudly and briskly past on-looking villagers. Oldhusband lugged a cylinder phonograph on his back with two cylinders tucked into a pouch on his belt and the horn held in his left hand. They approached and then ascended a long series of wooden steps, straining their lungs in the sparse air, At the top they opened two heavy wooden doors, slowly and with much effort. The doors were massive, having the effect of making the climbers feel like children walking into their parents’ room.

“
The transition from the bright day outside to the darkness inside caused green blotches to overwhelm our fields of vision,” wrote Oldhusband. “The smell inside was that of burning wood and warm milk. More colourful ceremonial banners hung from the high rafters inside. Candles dotted the room in apparently random locations. We had to plan our steps carefully.”

There were dolls everywhere. Girl dolls, boy dolls and ambiguous dolls. Some dolls were big – maybe three feet tall - and incredibly detailed, with wooden hands carved to the point of detailing knuckles and freckles. Other dolls were smaller, just a collection of sticks tied together with a stone for a head. An occasional doll had hair made of
grass.
The temple guests made every effort not to step on these dolls for fear they played some sacred role in the monks’ lives.

From somewhere nearby, they heard what they thought to be throat singing, low and guttural. Junk and Oldhusband’s eyes finally adjusted enough to expose two monks sitting on the floor in front of them and across the room. As they moved closer, it became clear these monks were the source of the music.

Oldhusband greeted them in what he thought would be their mother tongue, Nepali. But the monks told Oldhusband not to bother. They understood the Queen’s English quite well. Oldhusband tried to show kindness and diplomacy right away by apologizing for interrupting their singing. One of the monks said they had not been throat singing. They were simply hung over and discussing what they would have for breakfast.

“
My eyes continued to adjust to the darkness and only then did I notice other people sitting around the periphery of the room,” wrote Oldhusband. “They were dressed in white loincloths and all were in various states of what could only be called ‘play.’ Some were playing checkers. Others were drawing large, awkward pictures. Another man was playing mumblety peg with a very sharp blade. The scene put me ill-at-ease. I had no explanation for such behaviour in fully-grown men. What also struck me was their skin. These were not Nepalese men, or at least not many of them. Some looked European. Others were coloured. Another oriental. They seemed to represent all corners of the globe.”

According to Oldhusband, a large door in the back of the room swung open. A tall, skinny man of unknown descent (“Tan skin. South American? Brazilian?” Oldhusband wondered in his journal) stood at the threshold. Running down past his shoulders were oily, matted strips of graying black hair, thinning on the top. He called out the names of the two men who had first greeted Oldhusband and Junk. Their names were apparently Wee One and Tiny. “A tattletale has informed me you have both been sneaking alcohol from the villagers! Is this so?”

Neither man answered.

“
Well?!”

Silence. Looks of terror on Wee One and Tiny.

“
Fine. You do not need to answer. But be advised there will be no sleeping over at the other monasteries until the harvest!”

Wee One and Tiny began to cry.

“
I was baffled. Wordless,” wrote Junk in a letter to McGee. “What the hell was going on here? This made conversations during my stay at the mental hospital seem like arguments before the Supreme Court.”

After disciplining Wee One and Tiny, the tall skinny man turned around to leave. Junk stopped him and asked him if he could have a moment of his time. The tall skinny man acquiesced and grudgingly invited Junk and Oldhusband to follow him.

They entered a bright room. Across from them was an enormous opening in the wall, roughly twelve feet by twelve feet. The opening overlooked Fumu and her smaller neighbors. The room did not feel particularly cold despite the giant aperture. The warmth was due to a roaring fire burning in a pit just before the opening.

“
Gumdrop?” The man held out two gumdrops he had fished out of a bowl on the floor.

Junk replied. “No. Thank you. My name is Aaron Junk, and my colleague here is Mr. Bruce Oldhusband. We are from the United States and England, respectively. Can we record our conversation with you?”

“
Be my guest. Would you like to hear my imitation of a duck?”

“
No thank you.”

“
I can sing ‘Anything Goes.’”

“
That’s quite alright.”

“
This is going to be a very boring recording. I have an idea. I can pretend to be The Queen and you can pretend to be the guards outside of Buckingham Palace. I do crazy things like lift up my skirt, and you try not to laugh.”

“
Wait.”

“
Tiny! Come in here please!”

“
No no. Sir, this is not supposed to be a humourous recording.”

Tiny entered the room. The skinny man immediately put Tiny in a headlock and messed up his hair. He then released Tiny from the headlock, slapped him, and kissed him full on the mouth.

“
Now get out of here.”

Oldhusband laughed but quickly stifled it. Junk shot him a scathing look.

The skinny man watched Tiny leave the room and then turned to view his guests. “That was more of a visual joke, I guess. But you see my point. Absurdity tarted up with violence can be quite amusing.”

Junk spoke. “Sir, not to be rude, but we wish to record you for posterity. We have come from far away, and we find you and your colleagues fascinating. I am confident others will be amazed by your existence as well. You see? We wish to document you.”

“
If you do not record my antics, then you are not documenting me.”

“
Fair enough. Then let me rephrase my intent. I wish to interview you.”

The skinny man sighed and then sat on the floor. “Go ahead.”

Junk sat down as well. He pulled a pad and pencil out of his jacket pocket, wiped dirt and sand off of the pad, and prepared to write.
Oldhusband took the phonograph off of his back and placed it on the floor, equidistant from Junk and the skinny man but slightly off to the side. He affixed the horn to the top, attached a cylinder, and wound the phonograph’s crank. The cylinder began to turn. Oldhusband gave Junk the thumb’s up sign and then sat down himself. The following is the transcript of the conversation, with Oldhusband’s notes in brackets:

JUNK: “What is your name.”

SKINNY MAN: “I do not have a formal name, but around here, they call me Mano, which is Portuguese for ‘big brother’.”

JUNK: “Why ‘big brother?’”

MANO: “Because I tell them what to do to be pious.”

JUNK: “Piety. What religion’s dogma are you following?”

MANO: “It has no name. We worship the Angry Parent, the Fire and Ice. We worship Fumu.”

JUNK: “Why is she angry?”

MANO: “He is angry because his children do not live up to his expectations.”

JUNK: “Wait. Is Fumu a he or a she?”

MANO: [Raises his shoulders and lower lip, as if to express befuddlement] “May I ask
you
a few questions?”

JUNK: “Of course.” [Junk replies in as friendly a tone as possible even though I know he has no interest in answering questions].

MANO: “Why are you here?”

JUNK: “In Nepal?”

MANO: “Yes.”

JUNK: “We are here to climb Mount Everest.”

MANO: “I see. Do you plan to climb Fumu as well?”

JUNK: “No. Not this time. But perhaps in the future.”

MANO: “Why would you climb her?”

JUNK: [Junk has to think about this one. He does not want to offend Mano. For all we know, the wrong answer could lead to a public garroting. My friend chooses his words carefully.] “Out of awe. Out of worship.”

MANO: [Slowly shakes his head, as if disappointed with the answer.] “Singing praises is worship. A burnt offering is worship. Living humbly is worship. Me wearing a loincloth like a nappy is worship. Climbing atop a god is not ‘worship.’ It is anger. It is domination. It is nonconsensual. It is forced entry. It is rape. Licorice?” [Holds out licorice]

JUNK: [Silence. He seems angry] Let’s move on. Why do you believe you have the right to boss these others around if Fumu is the, as you put it, ‘angry parent?’

MANO: “Because the mountain has no voice, silly. I speak her will. Sure, we play and sing, but we are good children. We treat each other with respect, say ‘Please,’ go to bed at eight.”

JUNK: “Do you have any sacred texts?”

MANO: “Reading primers mostly.”

JUNK: “Can you ever please the angry mother?”

MANO: “The angry parent?”

JUNK: “Yes.”

MANO: “Yes.”

JUNK: “How?”

MANO: “Um. Well, we’re not sure. We just have to keep doing the best we can. Be kind. Be honest. Treat others nicely. Don’t wet ourselves. You know. The basics. But we’ll know when he is pleased.”

JUNK: “How?”

MANO: “When she stops bringing forth magma and starts bringing forth milk.”

[Silence for about twenty seconds.]