Page 19 of The Sky Beneath Us
A helicopter swoops overhead, swinging right to follow the line of the valley. ‘Usually many more flights, taking supplies to Everest Base Camp,’ says Tashi. ‘But not now. Just a few. Bringing people out. Everyone leaving.’
I wish with all my heart I could hitch a lift and be transported effortlessly to our final destination of Phortse. But I know it’s important for my body to adapt slowly, acclimatising and avoiding the threat of altitude sickness, which can be a silent killer. A ride in a helicopter to the higher altitudes we’re aiming for could do more harm than good. So I get to my feet and take a deep breath, trying to fill my lungs with the thin air in preparation for climbing the long flight of steps leading up to the bridge.
As we approach it, I can’t help imagining the wires suspending the bridge snapping, the whole thing twisting from its fixing points and sending us tumbling into the abyss. Even close up, it still looks flimsy, made from just a few cables and some planks of wood. But Tashi and Sonam seem completely confident in the structure. And our porters have probably already walked across it, I remind myself, far more heavily laden than we are. My legs and lungs burn with each upwards step, but I trudge onwards, trying not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, until, at last, we’re standing at the start of the bridge.
The only sound is the rushing of the wind and the fluttering of the prayer flags streaming from the suspension wires. Then from behind us comes a soft clanking of bells and we have to stand aside to let a man drive his pack animals across. The bridge bounces and sways with their weight and Sonam grins, seeing the look of fear on my face.
‘No worry, Mrs Daisy,’ says Tashi, with a serene smile. ‘Bridge is good. And we send Sonam first to make sure!’
His son laughs, shouldering his pack and stepping out confidently on to the planks suspended over the void.
‘See,’ says Tashi. ‘No worry, like I say.’
I go next, trying to emulate Sonam’s assured strides, but I can’t help clutching here and there at the wires to steady myself as the bridge lurches and sways beneath me. For several moments, there is only the wind and the streaming prayer flags and a sense of vast, suspended nothingness. I glance to one side and see the turquoise river far, far below.One foot in front of the other, I remind myself. And then my legs are pushing me up the final section and I’m back on solid ground again, with Sonam congratulating me. ‘Well done. Not so bad after all, was it?’
I turn to look back the way I’ve come and watch as Tashi strolls across in my wake, as nonchalantly as if it were a walk in a park, never once losing his balance or grabbing at the wires the way I did.
I know the steepest part of the climb to reach Namche Bazaar is still ahead of us, but the bridge crossing has filled me with adrenaline that helps my tired legs carry me onwards and upwards, one step at a time. I’ve learned to emulate Tashi and Sonam when we stop for brief rests along the way. Instead of sinking down on to the ground, they remain standing, leaning their packs on the stone ledges that have been built up alongside the path at regular intervals. They’re just the right height to take the weight off your shoulders, I’ve discovered, and it’s possible to perch there without your leg muscles stiffening and seizing up, making getting going again all the harder. We only stop for a few moments, just long enough to swallow a few bites of the protein bars I’ve stashed in my pockets and gulp down some more water, before setting off again.
After trudging up what feels like a thousand switchbacks, we reach a place on the trail where a wooden platform’s been constructed. A woman sits beside it, in the middle of nowhere, beneath an umbrella, which casts a little shade over the bottles of water andpackets of biscuits she’s selling. Or at least she would be selling them if there was anybody here to buy them.
Tashi points to the platform. ‘First Everest viewpoint,’ he says. I set down my pack and walk across to take a look. On the other side of the ridge, through some pines, the great mountain stands proud against the blue of the sky, with a wisp of white cloud caught on its summit. I snap some pictures. Since I’m not going as far as Base Camp, this could be one of the few opportunities I’ll have to see the mountain on a clear day. I know it’s notorious for disappearing behind a veil of cloud whenever the weather begins to close in.
I buy a bottle of water and a packet of cookies from the woman, sharing them with Tashi and Sonam, who seem to love anything sweet. Then we shoulder our packs again and carry on up the next stretch of seemingly endless switchbacks. Over and over, I repeat Tashi’s words in my head:just put one foot in front of the other, again and again, slowly, slowly, along the path.
It’s mid-afternoon by the time the first buildings appear, and I stumble the last few hundred yards into the town, utterly exhausted. I almost weep with gratitude when Tashi turns in at the doorway of one of the lodges. And then I almost weep again, with frustration and tiredness, as I discover there are four more flights of stairs to climb to reach the rooms. My head aches as though it’s being squeezed in a vice and my legs feel shaky with overuse as I force them to carry me upwards again.
At long, long last, I push open the door, let my pack drop from my shoulders, and fall, thankfully, on to one of the single beds.
After breakfast the next morning, we walk to the Everest View Hotel, a few miles away and a gain of another four hundred metres in height. We’ll return to the lodge afterwards and spend a secondnight in Namche Bazaar to acclimatise to the altitude. Not that my Sherpa friends need it – they are as bright and nimble as ever, while I push myself upwards along the path. My head still hurts, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my legs are going to ache with exhaustion for the foreseeable future so I might as well just get on with it. One foot in front of the other.
‘Slowly, slowly,’ Tashi reminds me. ‘Better to keep moving at steadier pace than push yourself too much and have to stop.’
The climb is worth it. In the clear morning light, the peaks of the Everest range are spectacular, their snow-covered summits breathtakingly beautiful against the cloudless sky. But by the time we get up to the top, the weather is changing again, and a curtain of cloud comes down, obscuring the mountains. And the hotel is closed, abandoned now that its clients can no longer hike in or pay through the nose for a helicopter to bring them here. Tashi had warned me it might be, although I’d secretly fantasised about ordering a cup of coffee and a cake to eat on the terrace looking out across the world’s highest peaks. Instead, I make do with a gulp of water as I perch on a ledge, trying to shelter from the biting wind.
It’s still only lunchtime when we walk back down to Namche Bazaar, so I retreat to one of the few coffee shops that’s still open. To my relief, my headache seems to have lifted a little – like clouds from a mountaintop, I think with a smile as I sip my coffee and devour a large chocolate brownie. But outside the window, chilly clouds have enveloped the town and there’s no view to be seen.
I pull Violet’s journal from my bag and rest back on a sofa in one corner of the café to spend the afternoon reading.
Violet’s Journal
SUNDAY, 27THJANUARY, 1929
My feet have scarcely touched the ground since I last had a chance to write up my journal. And I can say that with some literal truth too! I’m sitting at a table in the foyer of the Grand Victoria Hotel, Delhi, beneath a large ceiling fan, in the hope of finding a little respite from the heat. The fan turns only sluggishly, barely stirring the soupy air, but it is at least not as hot as my bedroom upstairs, which is like an oven. The hotel has seen better days and the ‘Grand’ in its name is definitely stretching things. But after a whole week of flights and airport hotels I’m just grateful to have got this far. The Imperial Airways route hopped from France to Italy, Greece and Egypt and by the time we flew onwards to Baghdad, Karachi, Jodhpur – such exotic names to conjure with! – and finally Delhi, I had completely lost all sense of what day it was, never mind which country we were in. Despite the arduous journey and a good deal of nausea, as the planes lurched and swooped so very wildly at times, the novelty of flying didn’t wear off one bit. I sat with my nose glued to the window as we passed over snowy mountain ranges, followed winding rivers, and crossed vast tracts of dusty desert as well as the bluest seas I’ve ever seen. I wanted to appear aseasoned and confident traveller to my fellow passengers, but I’m sure my rapt concentration on the landscapes unfurling beneath us as we bounced from one stop to the next must have given away my inexperience.
What a miracle it seems, to have been flung through the ether like that and arrived in the heat of India within a week of leaving the Scottish winter. I’ve written to Hetty to let her know I’ve got this far safely and tell her my extra bit of good news. A husband and wife boarded the plane at Karachi and were seated across the aisle from me, so naturally we got talking. They are missionaries, on their way to Kathmandu, and their church has managed to arrange a flight in a mail plane to transport them there from Delhi. They’ve kindly asked their local contact to find me a seat on their flight, which leaves tomorrow. It has cost me almost the last of the money Hetty gave me but saves me staying here longer to arrange trains and buses, so I’m sure it’s worth it. And so, by the time Hetty receives my letter, I will have met up with Callum and am confident I shall be well on the way to establishing a base for myself in some suitable spot whilst he goes off exploring.
The gong has just been rung for dinner, so I must stop now. The food has been unexciting so far – more along the lines of boiled beef and potatoes than the exotic cuisine for which this country is renowned. Mulligatawny soup is about as spicy as it gets in the dining room at the Grand Victoria Hotel. It nourishes my baby, though, so I try to eat heartily even though I have the most dreadful heartburn when I lie down in my bed at night. It’s probably partly nerves and too much excitement at the thought of seeing Callum so very soon. I must re-pack my case after supper, ready for tomorrow.
Kathmandu at last! I can hardly believe it.
Daisy – March 2020
Knowing what follows, I hesitate before turning the page to the next section of Violet’s journal. Her joy and excitement at having reached Delhi mirror mine before getting on the plane to embark on this trip, little knowing how the world would change. And while my setbacks have hit me hard, they are nothing compared with what she faced on her arrival in the Nepalese capital.
The waiter comes over to remove my empty coffee cup and I order another latte. The café is warmer than the teahouse, where the stove won’t be lit until this evening, so I’m in no hurry to leave. I raise my eyes to the window, but the clouds still obscure the view of the high mountains that encircle the town, and then I glance back down at the journal on the table in front of me.
I’ve marked this page with a pressed flower, a faded blue poppy stuck to a piece of ivory card that was tucked among the papers in the bottom of the cedarwood chest in the library at Ardtuath. The thought of home makes me swallow hard as I wonder how Mum and my stepfather, Davy, are doing and how they are all coping with the pandemic. I check my phone again, hoping for a message from my family, but there’s been no signal all day and the screen stays stubbornly blank.
