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April 29th
Namche Bazaar to Tengboche – Part 1
You would think that being so high in the mountains, the thin air would be crisp and clear, the wind carrying with it scents of pine and earth, wafts of the occasional meal being cooked in the distance drifting your way. And you would be right, for the most part. Except for when you'd be wrong, which is about every 7th or 8th minute on the Everest Base Camp Trek. In addition to all the trekkers bound for EBC or Goyko Lake or Cho La, and the mountaineers en route to tackle Ama Dablam or Island Peak (teams attempting the Everest summit have been in place for two months already) the road is also populated with their gear. This is transported one of two ways: either by yak or human porter.
The yaks, or more often in Nepal the dzos (yak/cow half breeds and the chosen beast of burden up here) have bundles (very heavy and very large bundles) tethered to either side of their backs. They travel in caravans of 3 to 10 or more, and carry everything from bags of rice to giant North Face dry sacks stuffed with expedition gear, to drums of fuel (kerosene, I suppose) to their own food (after 12,000 feet, there is no growth for them to graze on). The animals wear bells so you can usually hear them coming, and are generally accompanied by a herder either leading the pack or bringing up the rear. Since I'm told I had an imaginary yak friend as a child, I harbor a certain affinity for the creatures, and always got excited when we would see the rare and sightly pack of real yaks, standing tall with their unmistakable long hair and giant horns. They are an integral part of the scenery and an absolute necessity for sustaining life in these hills.
The first thing you learn upon encountering a pack of dzos headed your way is to watch out – because they will not be doing the same for you. You get pretty used to prostrating yourself face first against a mountain wall when yaks are lumbering by, considering the alternative is being thrust off the trail or trampled. The second thing you learn is that when animals are present, so is their poop. The entire trail is covered in crap. You're on it long enough, and you start to decipher between purebred yak crap, dzo crap, and donkey crap (the most pungent by far). When you're pushing your exhausted body to climb an endless incline of giant stones, chest heaving in the thinning air, sweat dripping down your back, the last thing you want to be breathing in are the fumes of a hot yak load. Actually, it's the second to last.
This is Sherpa country. Having been part of this hostile environment since the beginning of time, sherpas are physically pre-conditioned to have very little problem adjusting to altitude. They also climb up and down these hills like spiders, most of the time in flip flops and t-shirts. This makes them perfect candidates for porter work, and they outnumber everyone else on the trail. Since I was traveling alone, my Sherpa guide Phurba was also my porter. He carried my pack on his back and his on his front. I packed as light as possible and guessed I'd only given him 10 -15 lbs to haul. Unless they are carrying their own gear (and some extremely physically fit people do), any trekking group of two or more will hire a porter to carry their gear. Mountain expeditions for Everest, among others, already set up in tent cities at 18,000 feet, require constant supplies to be refurbished. Tea houses along the way, especially the ones over 14,000 feet where it is impossible to grow any food, require all of their goods to be carried in on foot. The Sherpa porters haul everything – from tents, crampons, ice axes, sleeping bags to cartons of eggs, cases of Fanta and Mars bars to bushels of hay for the animals to wooden doors, aluminum siding and 2x4s – on baskets strapped to their head. A strap goes across their foreheads and is connected to a giant basket resting on their backs. They cruise up and down the path, stooped over, their necks bearing the brunt of the load; which many times exceeds 100kg. One of the tea houses we stayed in had a pool table inside. I could only wonder how any man could bear its weight, let alone carry it up a mountain.
Most people who live in these parts do not have running water in their homes. There is usually a village tap where washing (of cookware, bedding, clothing and people) is done. The temperature, as you would imagine, is ICE COLD. Bathing is not a regular ritual for these villagers (some folks I talked to say they bathed once a week, if that. And these were people who worked at tea houses and generally stayed put.). And so it is certainly not high on the agenda for the porters, who are hauling more than their weight for miles per day over difficult terrain. And, man, do they stink.
I am not sure these guys bathe, ever. The ones who wear flip flops have so much dirt and crud caked to their feet that toenails are seldom visible. My guess is that clothes are worn, sans washing, until they literally fall apart. As for the ones who do wear socks and shoes – well, try and imagine the pungent odor of months old sweaty, funky, unwashed feet that are used daily for 10 or more hours, and that constant funk growing and seeping into synthetic sneakers that retain it. Couple that with b.o., dirty, greasy, dusty hair, cigarette smoke (somehow, these guys can skip up to 18,000 feet and all chain smoke), bad breath, animal crap, fart, kyu (a porridge that literally smells and tastes like rotting garbage), and you learn to breathe through your mouth when one walks by. Get caught in the slip stream of a multi-porter caravan and you're a goner.
The porters and guides usually all sleep in a common room at the lodges. Sometimes it has beds, sometimes carpet-covered benches in the dining rooms are used as beds. Rarely will a guide get his own room. Never will the porters get one. Phurba was complaining after our second night in Namche that he had not slept well. I thought maybe it was the cold (tough guy had not brought a sleeping bag since we were not going that high). “No,” he said, “forgot face mask. And porter not washing the feet. Room is smelling very bad. Keeping me awake.” I hated to admit it, but I knew what he meant. As all of my gear, including and most importantly, my socks and hiking boots, did not make it to Nepal, I was forced to rely on supplies purchased there. (Thanks, Iceland volcano.) The boots I purchased were heavy, clunky, gave me terrible blisters and stunk to high heaven. The sock choice was equally poor. “Special North Face Coolmax Trekking Sock” turned out to be nothing more than cheap knockoffs of the real thing, made from cotton (which is your enemy in as it retains moisture) and I think cardboard. The first night I removed my boots and socks, half of the sock had remained on my foot (kind of like wet cardboard) and I was almost knocked out by stench. Now I know why Patagonia charges $30 bucks a pair for moisture wicking, anti-bacterial trekking socks and never before had I really needed them. The boots, too, were obviously of the non-breathable variety. After a day or so of this nonsense, I quickly learned the routine of washing my feet in the subzero (and public) water spouts as often as possible, and applying a mixture of Purell, underarm deodorant, medicated powder, and straight up Lysol to my feet each morning to keep the smell down. If the Lysol got past my moleskin blister protectors, the pain was intense, but I knew that 8 hours later, the sting would be worth it.
Back on the trail, those rare moments when the thin air was clear and (almost) filled your lungs with the pure scent of the Himalayas were all the more special.
