Kathmandu to Namche Bazar (1400M TO 3440M)

Sam Ferguson
Apr 22, 2015
10 min read

“That one!”

Tek’s excited voice from my left. I glanced at him, meeting his smiling eyes.

“The black one, there?”

“Yes”, Tek replied, his voice filled with the certainty of a hundred such exchanges.

“The one shaped like a pyramid, with the snow coming from it…”

I gazed again out of the tiny window, pressing my face up against the glass in excitement. In the seat in front of me Carlos was busy snapping away, talking in quick Spanish to the Go-Pro held in his free hand. Richard, behind me, was exclaiming in wonder; his Manchester tones drifting through the small plane.

Far in the distance, amidst the chaotic jumble of Himalayan giants, a squat black pyramid nestled confidently. What I’d taken for clouds forming from the distant peak was in fact snow, blown by the ferocious winds, wrapped like a long white scarf against the pristine blue sky. It suddenly struck me that the snow being blasted from Everest was at a higher altitude than the cruising plane. I took some pictures, but mostly gazed in wonder.

I’d met Tek, our Sherpa guide, the previous evening. He greeted me with his ready smile and firm handshake in the lobby of the expensive hotel that G-Adventures had booked us into. Minutes later, Carlos burst into our lives. Early thirties, Mexican, and armed to the teeth with more camera equipment than I would have thought useful, exuberantly shaking all of our hands in his enthusiastic Latin American style.

We settled down to some tea and a briefing. Our third member, Richard, was due to arrive later; caught up in the fallout of the Turkish Airlines crash at the airport. A fourth member, known only as “the German girl” was also absent. Tek explained that we hoped to meet her at Namche Bazaar on the second or third day of the trek. The delays caused by the accident, however, ultimately meant that our group size stayed at three.

The meeting was our chance to ask Tek all of the stupid questions we could think of, and we got a lot off our chests. He kindly listened, though, and answered honestly and simply. I’m sure he gets asked the same questions at the beginning of every trek, but not once did he seem bored or irritated.

After the meeting, Carlos and I went for a quick dinner, before stocking up on the kit suggested by Tek. Crampons, Diamox (altitude tablets) and a heavier down jacket were top of my list, along with some trails nuts and chocolate supplies.

Whilst re-arranging my kit into a pile of trekking kit and “staying in the hotel kit” – a painstaking task to say the least – the hotel room phone rang. It was reception, letting me know that Richard had arrived, and that we were in fact sharing a room. A few minutes later and I was greeting Richard. I was a bit taken aback by his age, which was sixty five. He’d had an awful journey of delays and annoyances, so I accompanied him to the restaurant and drank some tea while he ate dinner. We got to know each other a bit, and I started to find myself liking him. I hoped, not for the last time, that I would still be having adventures at sixty five.

By the time we had both packed, there were only a few hour until our wake up call, scheduled for 4am sharp. We found ourselves downstairs at the required time, somehow. No one was saying much as we got into our taxi and drove to the airport, nor for a while afterwards. The entrance to the domestic departures lounge seemed chaotic, with the usual South Asian queuing system in full swing.

We waited patiently until the doors opened, then followed Tek as he barged confidently through the throng, getting us into the building much quicker than I would have thought possible. We all failed the security checks as usual, and were waved casually into the departures lounge.

We quickly stocked up on bottled water, then spend a while gaping at the wreckage of the Turkish Airliner plane. It’s a strange thing to see a large jet crippled on the runway. The machinery to remove it didn’t exist in Nepal, and it would be weeks before the stricken hulk was removed. We eventually boarded the bus which would guide us to our tiny, toy-like plane; almost smaller than the bus that we were in. It drove straight us past the wreckage. Not exactly the best mental preparation for flying, we chuckled to each other nervously.

The spellbinding Himalayan views, as seen from the air, made short work of the forty minute flight. As Everest was eventually hidden behind closer peaks, the plane banked suddenly. Sitting near the cockpit, I had an excellent view of the pilot’s line of sight. Far below us, I spotted the runway. I turned to Tek, an incredulous look on my face. He’s been expecting it, and laughed. The runway was miniscule, no more than 100 metres, and we were descending fast.

The important point to note about this runway, an insignificant concrete bookmark marking the Himalayan gateway town of Lukla, is that the runway is a full sixty metres lower at one end than the other. Bearing in mind its short length, this is not insignificant. It throws out the perspective of descent. I was unable to tear my gaze away from the approaching strip, growing slightly with every passing second, but not growing quickly enough. We hit the ground at least ten seconds before I expected, with a mighty thump. The pilot immediately accelerated, charging up the sixty metre slope. Just as it seemed we’d crash into the far bank, studded with camera wielding onlookers, we swerved with a squeal into what can only be described as a car park.

Engines still whirring, we were ushered from the plane. By the time we had grabbed our bags from the hands of the off-loading team, our faithful mount was in the sky again, laden with weary trekkers heading back to Kathmandu. Safety checks be damned, the spring season was picking up.

Here we met our porters; Karma Sherpa and Larma Sherpa. At first it was impossible to distinguish them, they looked so similar, and were in fact brothers. We quickly became fond of their ready smiles and happy attitude. And we certainly appreciated their carrying our baggage; I still don’t know how they do it.

While all of this was going on, I stood and stared at the scenery, mouth open in wonderment. The small town of Lukla was ablaze in colour. Prayer flags dotted the landscape, and the streets were full of brightly dressed locals, blending with the greens, reds and browns of the trekking parties. Beyond the grey runway, literally dropping off the side of the mountain, the town houses and shops nestled in the shadows of some minor peaks. But what glorious minor peaks! To my inexperienced eyes they seemed unconquerable, immortal. Snow topped Gods looking down on the comings and goings of the small human outpost with a wry interest, the way a child plays absentmindedly with a small insect.

We shouldered our day sacks, waved goodbye to the porters who loped off with our main luggage strapped to their backs via a head support, ate a quick breakfast, and began.

That first day we walked for a grand total of four hours, marvelling at the views growing better and better with every corner. At this relatively low altitude (insert here), some rhododendrons bloomed a vibrant pink alongside the trail. We exited Lukla, and wandered through a steady stream of Himalayan trekking villages, each with its compliment of tea houses and water stands. I began to feel thankful that I’d come in March, thus avoiding the high season crowds of September-November. Though early spring, the weather was pristine. It soon became too hot for what we were wearing, and we each stopped in turn to strip layers off; this would become a daily routine.

We stopped for a glorious tea break overlooking a monastic school, watching the children run back and forth between the classrooms and their houses, laughing and playing as children everywhere do. Life continued around us for the people living on the well-trodden trail to the base of Everest.

That afternoon, we came upon our accommodation for the night, in a typical trekking village named Phatding. We settled into our surprisingly comfortable rooms, and spent the afternoon sitting in the sun drinking lemon teas and chatting.

While it was still mid-afternoon, Carlos and I decided to walk to a nearby monastery overlooking one of the many suspension bridges on the trail. It was also a chance to climb up a few hundred metres higher, so we set off eagerly. After a sticky climb we arrived, and it was worth the effort. We cautiously entered the building, not really knowing what to expect, or even if we were welcome. The sight that greeted us is one I’ll never forget. The young apprentice monks were playing a simple game of tennis ball-tag. Basically throwing a tennis ball at each other. Carlos hit the nail on the head; children will be children, wherever you go. We were allowed into the inner monastery, and gazed at the various Buddha’s adorning the small space. What struck me most was the peacefulness of the place. Highlighted by the simple sounds of children playing just outside. We sat and watched the young monks awhile, before happily descending down to Phatding for some more lemon tea and dal bhat.

The following day, well rested, we climbed around four hundred metres to Namche Bazaar. The day passed in a blur of Himalayan beauty, following the rocky path that meanders alongside a fast flowing river, green-blue with glacier melt. I’ve never seen river water that colour. We glimpsed a mountain goat, silhouetted against a half hidden cave, nervously standing over its young as we paused to admire it, cameras clicking furiously. Donkeys with brightly coloured, handmade headdress, and japthas (half cow, half yak) with their clanging bells plied their weary, plodding trade along the trail. Most heading to Lukla, free of burden or carrying empty fuel tanks; bound to load up at the airport before beginning the return journey to Namche. The whoops and stones of the herders guided and encouraged the beasts on their way.

The trail evened out before climbing to a suspension bridge hanging over the river at a height of 130 meters. Below this was a lower bridge for the faint hearted. After climbing a short switchback slope to the higher bridge, we paused to allow some heavily laden porters to pass. The weight that the porters carry is simply unbelievable. Here we were, sweating and panting with our day sacks, while the passing porters carried up to 12 lengths of timbers on their backs, bent double under the weight, supporting themselves with short walking sticks clutched in their left hands. They moved in bursts, making around 50 yards before abruptly leaning back, and resting in the shade of their wood. The majority of these porters looked like teenagers. Speaking to Tek, he assured me that the loads of wood weighed well over 100kg, and they would carry them from Lukla to Namche, and often far beyond, receiving payment based on the weight of their load.

The prayer flags fluttered red, green, white, gold and blue in the breeze as I contemplated Tek’s words, silently watching the porters shuffle over the suspension bridge while the river raged below.

Shouts of alarm jolted me from my thoughts. Tek was pointing frantically at the far end of the bridge. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered in Nepalese. A japtha herder, descending from Namche towards Lukla, had sent his beasts across the bridge before the last unfortunate porter had finished crossing. The Japthas, panicked, pushed roughly passed the stranded porter, as he leant back against his load and clung onto the iron supports until the herd had passed. Then, without as much as a glance back, he shouldered the wood and continued, ignoring his brush with death, focussed on the struggle to come. As the herder crossed behind his Japthas, Tek exchanged angry words with him. This was the only occasion of the whole trek that I saw our friendly guide lose his temper. Later, once he had calmed down, he explained that the herder could see that the porter was still on the bridge, but had sent his train over regardless. He also explained that the herders are often drunk, and claim right of way in any situation.

Tek then told of an incident he’d witnessed four years earlier on the lower bridge. A French trekker, bored with the slow progress of a yak train, had taken to prodding passing yaks with a stick. Eventually, he prodded the wrong yak, and was heaved over the side of the bridge with a casual flick bovine horn. The trekker died in the river. I digested this as we started the two hour final ascent to Namche.

I chatted to Tek at the back of the group, drinking in the scenery as we climbed, taking my time and trying to not get out of breath. At the halfway point, we came to a viewpoint, and our first on the ground sighting of Everest. We gazed in wonder at the distant peak, the squat, dark grey pyramid sat beside (to my mind) the more attractive peak of Lohtse, the usual snow scarf drifting from its tip. The perspective caused the surrounding peaks to seem taller, but this didn’t matter. Everest, the highest spot of earth, within sight and getting closer. Our weary legs suddenly felt lighter, and we continued slowly up.

We passed the checkpoint at the top of the trail and our trekking documents were examined, before we were allowed to continue. We turned the last corner, and there was Namche, wrapped around a semi-circular, sloping valley. The houses and lodges unfolded across the slope, granite grey stonework and blue outlines. Donkeys and Japthas greeted us lazily, barely looking up from their grazing as we passed. Villagers washed clothes in a stream that flowed around the town’s boundary, chatting animatedly in the afternoon sun.

Our hotel lay at the opposite end of the valley, and we wandered happily through the town, watching the stall owners and listening to the noises of the small but bustling community. Though well-endowed with the inevitable trekking stores and coffee shops aimed at western visitors, a pervading sense of traditional life cloaked the town, glimpsed through the gaps. The women washing clothes in the stream, livestock wandering free in the cobbled streets, and the towering horizons dotted with Buddhist stupas, the painted eyes guiding the inhabitants as the prayer flags flew. I was spellbound by it all. The surrounding mountains loomed protectively, and the weather matched our delighted moods.

Tomorrow we would spend the day here acclimatising, a welcome rest, and good preparation for the journey ahead. At the Tensig viewpoint, we again bathed in the sight of Everest and her fellow giantesses. The Tensig memorial, framed with prayer flags and shadowed by a military outpost captured the views perfectly. From here we climbed the short but exhausting 200 meters up to the local airstrip, which was covered in around a foot of snow. This wasn’t stopping the helicopters, and we watched one being refilled for a while. We completed our acclimatisation trek by slipping and sliding down a winding, muddy path back to Namche, and spent the rest of the day lazily relaxing in café’s and grabbing some souvenirs and postcards. We watched a daily screening of a documentary named “Sherpas”; a humbling account of the superhuman efforts of the mountain Sherpa porters who assist every Everest expedition, before getting a relatively early night. Though happy to have reached the iconic Namche, we knew that the toughest days were still before us.