Day 9 Trekking Day 8 Dengboche to Lobuche

So today we're up early to get a start on the trek. We follow practically the same route up to the stupa that we did yesterday on our acclimatisation trek but then we go over the hump and along a ridge following the valley floor. The landscape is breathtaking. You have to stop and look around you to see these mountains which seem to rise out of nowhere like a stone titan's surfing waves.

Dr Lord gave us a little speech about the next section as we were in the Khumbu valley and from here on in it gets pretty dusty, if anyone brought facemasks, then this would be the time to wear them.

We're following another river and eventually we cross it as a rocky point over a low wooden bridge. Someone noted that we more-or-less walked straight over. Usually at this pass we'd have to wait for people on the other side to cross first and it'd be the Himalayan traffic-jam. We see that above is an outpost called Duggla (or Thukla, depending on where you read your maps) where we had a memorable meal of spicy noodle soup. It was probably the best thing we'd had so far on the trip - It wasn't pasta and it wasn't potatoes. Noodles in soup with a smattering of vegetables.

While we were eating we could see the trek ahead. A rocky hill that just seemed to go on forever. We were watching other trekking teams ascend and roughly timed them on their ascent. They seemed to take forever to disappear. Some of them we smaller than ants and weren't even halfway up the hill. It looked very daunting. I wasn't looking forward to it whatsoever.

I was developing a slight headache so I tried sleeping for a bit and taking a paracetamol or two. I think I managed to sleep for about 15 minutes before I was woken up to gather my things and leave. Much refreshed and headache seems to have lifted slightly.

(me and Dr Nick have 40 winks. Or maybe it was just about 20)

Simmo(nds) wasn't feeling very well so was left behind with Dr Isla Cox to rest for a day in Dukla (Thuggla). It was decided that he does have AMS and was presenting all the classic symptoms but we all went ahead leaving him in Isla's capables.

The rocky hill that stretched above us was a bit of a chore but we took frequent rest stops. Trekking in the Himalayas seems to be a constant struggle to stay at a comfortable temperature. I'm wearing quite a heavy tog NorthFace down jacket, a windproof inner layer as well as a technical underlayer and generally when I'm stood still, it's fine but moving and especially with uphills, it gets pretty hot and sweaty zipping and unzipping the windproof, taking the down jacket off, gloves, hat, pack, moan, moan, moan.... it's beautiful here at the top. This a a holy place.

We're resting for half an hour at what seems to be a basin shaped plateau (which, I guess, isn't technically a plateau) at the top of the rocky hill. At the crest of it we turned around to see the teahouse which looked like half a postage stamp. I hope Simmo is okay. There are prayer flags stretching from one peak of the crest to the other, forming a welcome gate to this place. There's a stupa here with more flags flying. In the base of the rocky basin there are what looks like granite boulders with carvings on them. We look around and there are memorials and monuments all over the place. Everyone seems to recognise names of people, perhaps more famous climbers that have tried scaling Everest. Walking around, I find a boulder tucked into a far corner where I find a simple carving to someone. It's stupid to cry over people you don't know but I guess, it's like watching films where you invest in the truth of the film and something sad happens, I can't help but cry. I don't know who this person is but I've invested in the truth of this mountain that it can be unforgiving and that there are dangers on it. I can only imagine what went on. Did they only make it this far? No. Surely not. These people are surely more heroic than I, though I am reminded that that some have fallen before this point of the route up to Everest. I suspect that our little trek is nothing to what ever Alex Lowe had gone through. If I get back down I will find out who this person is and what they did and why an anonymous friend carved their name in a rock. It's simple but beautiful, out of the way of the main route through this place. And sitting by the rock, looking around, it's like we're being watched by the Gods on all sides in their towering majesty. No wonder they chose this spot as the place to place the monuments to the fallen. They can rest protected.

When we continued our journey, we are all a little subdued and more than moved by the sacrosanctity of this hill.

Further along after much deep thought and subdued walking, I finally hit on the answer.

"Mansion House. The tube stop with all the vowels in the alphabet is Mansion House!"

Day 8 Trekking Rest Day 7

Dingboche. Or is it Dengboche? The plan for the morning of this 'rest' day is to nudge 5000m and stay up there for an hour, shocking our bodies into acclimatising. The route up was pretty hard going really. We got some group shots and there was this stupa half way up where we took some more photos. The guides showed us the way that we were going the next day from that point. The valley lay on the other side of this hill where we were going (Lobuche).

Today was also Kinsey 'Kimbo' Hern's 28th Birthday and the guys had arranged a little something of a 'show and tell' for him, unbeknownst to himself. I was a little afraid that I didn't know Kinsey enough to write him a poem especially for him despite my asking him over the course of the past few days a random set of questions, which I thought might help my understanding of Kimbo. He's one of those enigmas that follows their own logic but seems rather odd to the outside world. I completely identify with that so I thought I'd re-write something that I wrote when I was 28. I'll take the references out of breasts 'giving up their milky goodness' and the passages lifted from Blake. And I don't think the girls would want to hear about 'fizzing at the bunghole' either. I mean it's just too too rude, even by my standards. Perhaps in quiet pubs in Hampstead but not when you're trying to climb a mountain.

The climb up this particular hill was tiring and was meant to take only 2.5 hours to get up and 30 mins down. It didn't seem to be doing that. The trek up took nearly 4 hours for me and over an hour down. I was only able to rest for about 30 mins instead of the hour that we were meant to get. Not sure if that was any good for me. We reached about 4900 metres which is the height that we'd be sleeping in tomorrow night in Lobuche. The views of the Khumbu valley were amazing. I never expected the world to exist in a place of such beauty. Only in films. From where we were we could see the journey we will be taking tomorrow, all the way up this valley, all the way for what looked like miles and miles of steady sloping valley floor, past stone houses, past streams between mountains that stretched to the sky and ended in clouds like benign volcanoes. Beauty. Beauty. Beauty. As far as the eye can see.

Jameau Pederskin, Kimbo Hern and Jambo 'Kenya' Markby

Kimbo wasn't sure how to answer ' Do you like wolves?' question. He was a bit back footed. I mean, it's a simple yes/no question. But no, he'd never met any. (I knew I get Kimbologic to these questions, excellent). What's your favourite sandwich? (Easy - Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato. I like the fact he didn't say BLT. It shows a savouring of those words, like he wanted them right now. I fancy a nice sandwich at that time, no bacon though).

What would you usually be doing on his birthday? Did he expect to be doing this?

Walking down I'd noticed that my hand had swollen up. Rather worrying. I thought this was the start of the angio-neurotic oedema. Hells teeth. It had gone by the time I'd descended. Speaking to Dr Nick he said peripheral oedema was quite normal at high altitudes. Oh good.

There was an internet cafe in Dingboche which was 25 rupees a minute. Updated my twitter. Some of the boys went to play snooker (or was it pool?) which the owners had helicopter flown.

That evening was the Kimbo Birthday Surprise Show And Tell. I think that was even better than the Everest Factor because it was more personal and it had everyone (or most everyone) doing something or other for Kimbo. Goonit asked if I was going to sing but all I knew were ballads or Joni or lovesongs. Not really appropriate for Kimbo. Really. Nice looking as he is. Even I can't do that. Chris Martin (not from ColdPizza) emceed the event and a great job. We got more of a taste of his stand-up style, which I preferred to the charity gig that he did (ain't that always the way). Goonit and him did a song to start the proceedings.

There was a damn fine bit of garage rap and beatboxing from MC Shark (Joe Williams) feat. Miles Nathan and Jules Staveley. There were also stories and jokes told by other people. For the first time on the trip I'd heard Simmo speak and was pleasantly surprised at the joke he came out with, loving the opera impression he gives. Lucy Brooks shared with everyone a photo of Kimbo in his youth playing on the beach as they were childhood friends.

Here's the poem I recited for Kimbo, should you be interested.

It was the Summer of My Youth

We were on holiday in Scarborough

When I came into myself.

She was older than me

Mousey haired, looking for marriage,

Wore a green pinny

And worked behind the glass

At the BP garage

Over the road.

She came over on her tea-break

To smoke the fags

I'd bought my dad an hour ago.

I kissed her body -

This was Yorkshire -

She smelt like kippers

I walked around the holiday home

And wore her like slippers.

She said 'Can you prove your love?'

I slipped my hand in and wore her like a glove.

The North sea spume splashed

On her promenade walls,

The spray ran down in rivulets

On her high harbour front.

Her mouth was full

With talk of years and ages.

She protested I could be her son!

I replied, 'I'm the little brother you never had -

Now kiss me.'

I realise now that I missed a trick there, not rhyming 'front' with anything other than 'son' but hey, that was the re-write at the 11th hour. I recently recited this to a mixed group of artists and performers, some women were of the age the woman in the poem could have been and they found the last line incredibly sexy. I found that reaction a little bizarre but perhaps it means different things to different ages. Such is the power of Art.

The other question I asked Kimbo on the hill which I forgot about was "What would he usually be doing on his birthday? Did he think he was going to be doing this on his birthday?" Because he lives in the countryside of Herefordshireshire Kimbo doesn't usually spend his birthday with his friends because most of the time it's half term so they used to go on holiday with their parents (how old are his friends?) so he never usually gets to see his friends so this was kinda different for him. (Yes, that, and the fact that we were 4000 metres above sea-level.) I was happy that my comedy poem was part of the fabric woven into that birthday blanket. (WTF is a Birthday Blanket? I think the altitude has either affected my handwriting or my mind!)

Day 7, Trekking Day 6 Tengboche to Dengboche

We were told that if we went to the early morning prayers we could ask the Rinpoche for blessings. From yesterday I knew that he was in Kathmandu so it'll be the assistant Rinpoche. Whatever that is. Abbot. I've looked it up. I'd noticed that during the prayers all the monks were presented with food and tea or maybe soup to eat. Some of it was biscuitty and wafery things, the sort you'd get in a Costcutter back home. Didn't look particularly ascetic.

On the way to Dengboche I was happily in the company for some of the way of Toovey and Hill(s) who devise list games with each other. The one I joined in on was naming the film where the hero had died. Now, I'm never the best with people's names anyway, unless I'm facebook friends with them so actors' names are the one thing I'm frightfully bad at. (Does that make me a bad actor?) But I managed to get quite high on the rounds. Jameau had posed the question what tube stop on the London Underground has the longest sequence of consonants. Easy. Knightsbridge. 6 consonants in a row. The other one was what tube stop has all the vowels in it. Hmmm I'll have to think about that one a bit more.

One of the things that I'd noticed was how little these people expected to live on, how little they needed. We passed a series of walled fields where we saw one of the locals were throwing rocks at a group of what looked like goats. I was going to ask him to stop as it seemed horrific that someone should be harming someone else's livestock. I'm glad I didn't as apparently they weren't goats but wild mountain deer and they'd broken down the wall and made an entrance and were slowly demolishing a farmer's crop of potatoes. I tried pitching some rocks at the deer but my efforts feel short of anything that was even in the deer hearing range so I gave up and said that we'd tell someone in the village further up the track. Pangboche was where we filled up on more chocolate and was able to stop for a toilet break.

We are so privileged living in the Western world. We want for everything and we get it so easily. We don't have to wait for a delivery from a passing train of yak to get the next bag of rice or potatoes or medicines, or we don't have to walk for 3 days to the next outpost to get stuff that we need. If we want food we just go to Tescos and get it, or heat it up in the stove (I don't own a microwave) or go out to a restaurant to eat. Alex Fudda made a good point saying how privileged we are on this trip. We turn up to teahouses and wait to be served, we can still shower if we want to pay for it, we sleep in beds.

This is an extraordinarily short blog. What's going on? I remember walking into the village with Hill(s) and Butler at the time and we were being greeted by trekkers going down hill. We didn't quite understand their smiles and cheers of encouragement. What was that all about. Their encouraging 'Not long now boys' type chat just wasn't what we were wanting to hear. Give us a break ladies. Every cow or dog or yak that we passed Butler's one joke of 'Ah Mrs Martin, such a pleasure to see you' was trying to prove the comedy rule that a comedy line is funny once, thrice or twenty-seven times. I think that he was at about at the 23rd time that day. Was I going to stick around to wait for the 27th? It'd be a masochistic mission.

Every shop we passed on the one fairly easy slope would claim that Dingboche was higher than the next shop by a good 40 metres, even though they were next to each other. Rather amusing. Perhaps they knew that by the time trekkers got to this point, they'd only look up at the shop they were going into and not actually at any others after that. Who knows?

Day 6 Trek Day 5 Khumjung to Tengboche (Tyangboche)

What scares me about journeys is not knowing exactly what is on the road ahead. It's like devising a play, I guess. You know you have certain goals but you don't know what accidental twists of plot will happen - what amazing scenes, what points of tension will capture the imagination, what difficult uphill paths will break you down. You push yourself to just keep going until that goal in reached. That's what I think I've learnt about myself so far. No matter how hard it is and the tears are trembling just on the rim of my eyes like they do in Japanese cartoons, I just keep going. Despite the constant fear of not finding the next toilet before the next urge takes me, I keep going. Somehow it's easier to keep going the more I'm by myself. If I was with others a bit more I'd probably argue myself down off this mountain. For most of today I was trailing behind, not wanting to rush up the mountain. Today was going to be a 3-4 hour trek. Why are we going downhill? Not looking forward to the uphills anymore. More Downhill to go Uphill Frustrations. We found a bridge to hang the prayer flags from the schoolkids back in England. Reading some of them was mindblowing. These kids. Not about playstations or more toys. Not about World Peace either. But something more local to them. One flag asked for no more stabbings in the area, another asked to cure their dad's cancer. Simple. Basic. Pure. Now their payers are fluttering hundreds of feet above a river, thousands of feet above sea-level from a suspension bridge on the roof of the world

.After the bridge we start to make our ascent and it goes from quite rocky terrain near the valley to a lush greener terrain. Not that wooded but decidedly more deciduous than previous. Up the track on a grassy hill were the tealodges at Tengboche (Tyang Buche). Others were already putting their packs in rooms etc. I followed the ridge further to the other teahouse as the first one had already been occupied. Someone says to me to follow the 2nd tea lodge and walk past it. The guide I was with pointed to something in the distance. Something I thought I'd never get to see. In this amazing landscape, with more prayer flags flying high above our heads, a beautiful monastery to our right behind the tealodges, way, way in the distance. Behind the ridge of Lhotse in an almost cloudless early afternoon sky sitting protected. Serene. Invincible. Everest. I put on my sunglasses. I am crying. What a faggot.

After a while I stopped and thought, 'Where's Kirt? Where's my friend? I need a picture of this.'

After putting my stuff in a three-man room (I'm sharing with the Sharlands! Yayy, They're nice chaps. Don't take themselves too seriously, I like that) and getting some milky tea some of the players practice cricket just to see what it's like at this altitude. It's going to be harder when they get up another couple of thousand metres but might as well make the opportunity of the time and the altitude to get used to it. I go exploring the monastery. I can see the George and Wesley are there already and have tried to take photos of the acolytes and monks. I'm there to sketch. I took some film of the prayer wheels and some shots of the building. I was surprised that it wasn't as old as I thought but then one of the monks told me that the original was burnt in a fire and that it was rebuilt with money donated by the Himalayan Trust. I had a fun time sketching. Curiosity always gets the better of people when sketching and they will crowd around looking over your shoulder to see what you are doing. For some reason, I never get fazed by this, not that I sketch in public at all. Perhaps it's the art school brashness that I still retain. I doubt it. I can remain unattached from this. Especially since it's quite a technical drawing. One of the older monks comes up to me to see what I'm sketching and nods in slow approval. He asked to take my pad and looked through it with more nodding and saying 'Very good,' while looking at the sketches of the players in Phakding. I wish I could take a photo of him while he does that. but I guess that would be rude, while he's talking to me. I continue sketching. Some off the younger boys shuffle around me to get a better look at what I'm doing. I guess I'm waiting until 4pm when we are allowed in the monastery itself to witness the prayer session. One of them says that Mingmo is also a very good drawer and I'm introduced to Mingmo but he's too shy to show any of his drawings.

The doctors come up and take pictures of the monks around me while I have them distracted and talks to them up at the top of the steps. An acolyte remains by me, watching intently, silently as I measure the building with my pencil. I've not done that for years but it's good to be doing it now. Suddenly there's a low horn coming from somewhere. Up on the 3rd floor of the monastery two windows are open next to each other and two monks at either window are sounding the call to prayer with conch shells. Where do they get conch shells this high up the mountain?

We get ushered into the inner courtyard to wait for the monks to take their places inside the building. One of the monks is really old and has to be almost carried up the stairs. Inside, we take our shoes off, observe to 'No flash' signs (apart from Alex Fudda who manages to not stop her auto flash and is asked to leave. Ooops!) and we're greeted by loud music of various horns, cymbals and pipes. It's quite dark apart from the lights from the windows and the flicker of the electric lights which sometimes go off and we're plunged back into darkness.I get stuck into sketching the scene as the light is so low that I'm not getting a clear image. The sound of the monastery at prayers is amazing. It's the low drones of 30 voices all reciting the same verse at different points of their breath. Transfixing. I'm sat opposite the monk that looked through my sketchbook and sketched away. He reminds me of a friend's dad. I look up during sketching once and I see that he's looking directly at me, his lips moving, the sound of is voice mixed in with the other voices. He's noticed that it's him that I've been sketching a lot of. Oh shit, I've done it now, I've ruined his concentration. He smiles and starts to giggle but still maintains the chanting. Thank god. Must be all that meditation that they do. Either that or he's perfected the art of keeping his lips moving and it'll look like you're singing, as perfected by Jen Gladstone at school.

Outside in the now chilly evening air I bump into Mingmo and a rounder monk who want to see my sketchbook. I show them the sketch of the building and the monk during prayer. The get excited and point at it and they did tell me his name but I didn't write it down. Apparently it was correct. I managed to get his surly demeanor.

I must be slightly affected by the altitude. I was convinced after dinner that David Kirtley had a speech impediment. I just didn't understand what he was saying, or trying to say. We had only been given a serving and a half of food and were all still a bit hungry. David who was sat next to me, kept on saying that in the other lodge, the other lot had fiths. I was sure he was trying to say that they had fish (something I was missing greatly) and spent an amusing five minutes trying to decipher what he was actually trying to say. Perhaps I was going deaf and I needed to blow my ears out or something. But he kept on repeating it. I would perhaps have said it another way - 'The other lot had five helpings' pour l'example, but it amused me enough to think that Dave had a speech impediment. Even though I know he speaks very well.

Day 5 Trek Day 4 Khumjung April 14th

‘Rest Day’

Today is one of our acclimatisation ‘rest’ days. Which means we go up a mountain (and I think we’re going to breach 4000 metres) and then come back down to sleep at the lower altitude. I got up early to take some photos of Khumjung and the mani stones that lined the avenue from the mountain pass. Got a great cow-yak photo.

It’s also the day of the ‘Everest Factor’. A piece of bonding fun that was dreamed up by Jamo Peterson. Some of the players got involved in teaching the kids at the Khumjung School the finer points of cricket. (The kids are on holiday this week but from the turnout it looks like they came just for the experience of meeting us. From what I saw, there seemed to be at least 3 different ages of kids. Some were really young and didn’t really do much cricket training but seemed to play loads of catching games. British Bulldog was one of them. Very sweet to see our lot playing mit kinder.

I got some lovely shots of people playing cricket and such the like with the slightly older kids. The Staveleys treated me to an apple pie and hotish chocolate which was a welcome treat. It was good to finally have some fruit, albeit tinned. When we got back to the teahouse, it was a great relief to see the Sharlands there. Neil looked much better than when I saw him yesterday morning and Tom was glad to be back with the pack.

Before lunch we went to the Khumjung Hospital which gets a lot of funding from various Hillary Foundations around the world, especially the Canadian branch. Hopefully our donations will help these good doctors get medical help to the local population. It was the only hospital in the district and seemed to serve around 7000 people, some of whom would travel the 3-4 hours to get to the hospital. The good doctor was one of three that was always on call at the hospital and seemed particularly proud that the women in their catchment area were very good at getting their children immunised and particular about showing off their immunisation records. For the ante-natal clinics that they run, the women would travel to the hospital on foot for the miles to get the right medical help and advice.

A small lunch break back at the teahouse and then the trek up the hill to acclimatise. Joe Williams and Chris Martin (not of Coldplay fame) dressed in costume to get comedy photos up the peak. Apparently Chrissy has really low-hangers. I wasn’t sure. I just thought that his tights were bunching funnily. We walked past the hospital again up some low rolling hills to the peak where there was a boulder on which we took turns to pose. The HomoErotic Super Heroes (Joe and Chris) made comedy poses on the same boulder, while beyond them the hill fell away to what looked like a 3000+ metre drop to the bottom of the mountain.

Now chat is important to most people, it really brings out our character and thinking. Somehow James Butler’s query of ‘Were the Jews involved in World War 2?’ earned him ‘Dick of The Day’ Award. Dick of the Day usually means wearing a cowbell on your pack (or around your neck) for the whole of the trek day. It must be more annoying than you think, especially after the first hour when you have this low-hanging thing hitting your legs constantly. My sympathies go out to Chris Martin and possibly his bedpartners.

The afternoon on the ridge was fairly relaxed, I managed to get some nice photos of people and was able to enjoy myself amongst the chatter. The tightness around my head was noticeable and was a concern today. I took it as read that this is what normally happens when you ascend so I didn’t mention it as it wasn’t a headache. This constant worry about my brain is beginning to wear thin though. It just kinda makes me pensive and probably aloof. But that's all it is. It also kinda makes me want to be on my own a lot of the time. Must change that.

Back at the teahouse after the trek down the teams got ready for the Everest Factor. Nerves were apparent, tensions were rising. Dinner out of the way and we start. Jamo takes the stage as emcee for the proceedings. I must say that I’ve never really appreciated James Peterson. I knew that he was amusing and had a wry Radio 4 sense of humour but seeing it translated to something useful is absolutely charming. He should consider it as a career.

The event itself was a bit of fun for the teams. Once the Hillarities realised that they had an actor among the teams, they tried to enrol me as honorary Hillarian. Sorry lads, teams have been picked. I’m a Trektator and proud. During last night’s rehearsal we’d heard that the Hillarities were doing the same song as us with the rather tedious 500 Miles. As Trektators, we’d decided to go with that first but change some of the lyrics to reflect the trek a bit more and that’d be our ‘edge’. It was also our weakest song.

I have no idea what the other teams sang (something to do with not recognising the song, or is that unfair? Haha) but perhaps because I just don’t know songs. I’m reliably informed that the Zingers did ‘Stand By Me’, the Hillarians did ‘Wonderful World’ and we did 500 Miles which saw the players tied and us with really low points. Rounds Two started with the Zingers doing ‘Living On A Prayer’ which started with a bit of theatrical genius. Not the fact that the boys were in costume (underwear from Primark over leggings. Very erm…. Fetching) but the fact that they had flashing head torches providing a bit of atmosphere. Not that that was theatrical genius but Haydn Main’s head torch didn’t have a ‘flash’ setting so he had to manually flash it by flapping his hand in front of the light to simulate it. Titters for those that noticed. Toovey did his best screaming through a sore throat. The Hillarians did ‘Afternoon Delight’ which I didn’t recognise but it got laughs in appropriate places and Chris Martin’s vocal instrumentation was par. We did Summer Loving which was always Rachel and my Karaoke favourite, though I could never get the end harmony so I just encouraged everyone to sing the last chorus. I knew it was going to be a winner mainly because it was an acting song and I knew how to play it. I did have to turn down the offer of sex from someone, goddamit. Yeah, even these boys were looking good after 4 days of trekking. Round 3 started with the Hillaries doing 500 Miles which was done in earnest and probably better sung than our version, and it had a bit of action. We did ‘We Are The Champions’ which was hilarious as there was a line which the rest of us could never sing so we just left it to Helen Curr to do. I gave my best Mercury impression (just a lot lower. He is a tenor with a high belt). The Zingers made us all go outside in the cold to watch theirs. And despite the Hillaries making taunts at them, I was moved by the Haka which was Preston’s idea, and I believe done with the utmost respect and integrity. Back inside we had a break while the scores were totted up to which the Sherpa sang us two traditional songs which to us sounded like ‘Bring on the Milky Tea’ or sounds to that effect, but got them singing and dancing and enjoying the night with us.

It was a load of fun for everyone and provided a perfect bonding-cum-light relief for everyone, showing each other that we don’t take ourselves that seriously. It ended up with the Sherpa coming first, garnering a perfect 10 from the judges, the Players got joint third and the Trektators got second place (or 1st in the Foreign Team category). I could say that it reflected the talent on board but I swear I saw Sharon Osbourne pass Simon Cowell his score, before even he knew what score he was giving. A fix? No… of course not. I'm sure it was all above board. Yeah. Right. But anyway, it was fun for everyone to be a bit silly for an evening.

I must say that even the judges had loads of fun. Ian Ditchburn’s Louis Walsh was double-entendre heaven. Dr Nick’s Randy Jackson was spot on, and Isla’s Sharon was aptly catty and sharp. Breck Lord’s Simon Cowell was amusing. Well, to me anyway. Whenever I hear Australians try to do English, they do end up sounding gay. But I suppose Simon Cowell sounds kinda gay and Breck was being accurate.

I had my first cigarette in 4 days as I was finally in a good mood. Perhaps buoyed by people coming up to me and commenting on the quality of my singing (according to Joe Williams I have the voice of an angel, bless him, and wants me to sing him to sleep, ahaha) but perhaps it was the first time in 5 days I was able to relax a bit. Tomorrow we go to Tengboche. It’s a monastery, one of the highest, if not the highest, in Nepal.

Day 4, Trekking Day 3. Namchee Bazaar to Khumjung.

I wake up a little later than agreed, just in time to take pictures of the race from the window of our temple room. I hope they’re really careful. It’s David Kirtley (Richard ‘Kirt’ Kirtley-Wright’s cousin (I can see what it means to be a Kirtley. It’s in the nose shape)) and Mike Preston, (who’s smile can swallow darkness).

It looks like it’s Preston that’s won from where I’m stood. Why are the Hillarians cheering? God knows. Confused. The whole thing is farcical anyway and I hope that it doesn’t get shown. If Jordan wanted the thing to be less like ‘The Sound of Music’ then he should speak to the people at the rear of the train. There are enough of us there to get dramas out of.

My god. Namche is probably on a 65º angle and heading up the steps of this hill towards Khumjung, we could see the layout of the town which basically on one leg of the mountain and curves down round the other, hugging the crotch, as it were. After stopping to regain my breath, I heard Dr Nick on the walkie-talkie who had stopped a few metres ahead of me radioing through instructions to the group behind us. Tom Sharland, who was nearby, stopped to listen intently, his ears focused and eyes trying to read Dr. Nick’s face. Someone wasn’t feeling well, someone who wasn’t feeling great last night was dizzy and light-headed. It was his younger brother Neil who was hit with AMS and was going to stay behind in Namchee with Dr. Ian to let his body catch up with the altitude. Tom with no more than a blink’s thought had disappeared down the mountain again to be with his brother. I was glad for that, I would like to think that I'd would have done the same for my brother. The Sharland’s are probably the fittest on the teams and had taken us through our training during the last 8 months and for one of them to be struck down with AMS just goes to show that it could be anyone. Perhaps Neil wasn’t taking it easy. Perhaps he was storming ahead. I was a little more than shaken to think that someone could get it at only, what, 3300 metres. I continue at an even slower pace up to the top of the stepped streets.



Eventually, the near vertical streets turn into a path that zig-zagged the rest of the way up the mountain. The trees seem to be more sparse on the hillside. I saw a helipad and a building on a mini plateau and then at the top of the mountain, the path turned into a tree-studded plateau. It was a lot more comfortable to walk there as it was flat, flatter than ‘Nepali flat’ which to us means a constant up and down but mainly staying at the same altitude over several miles. No, this was visibly flat. I found myself walking a little way behind Waters and Dr. Nick until they were no longer apparent as the trees grew ticker and closer together around the path. Still hilly, the terrain reminded me of a golf-course with bunkers (yes, bunkers) every so often. I got followed by someone who turned out to be one of our guides who eventually told me his name was Jitar and reminded me that it was okay to go slow with a reassuring 'bisari, bistari...'

Dr. Nick was up ahead and pointed to a bank of cloud and a mountain peering out from the right of it. ‘That lump of clouds next to the mountain is Everest, apparently.’ The one that you can see is Lhotse. (Jitar wasn’t entirely sure).


I really thought I was going to see Everest. Unexpected as it was, I was disappointed, but I thought I was going to see it. I was ready for it. Right at the top of the mountain is The Everest View Hotel. Famously this was the hotel that was built by a millionaire for other millionaires and was a fully pressured, fully oxygenated hotel with large windows facing Everest. On it’s opening day they helicoptered in some Japanese tourists who promptly collapsed on the trek from the helipad to the top as they weren’t acclimatised to the altitude. Jitar pointed out the hotel which looked like a Frank Lloyd-Wright building and I was heading up the steps to it when he motioned that we were carrying on ahead to Khumjung. Oh well.

The rest of the descent was easy enough. Through the trees I could see the low stone walls and the wooden buildings with their joblot green roofs which made a complete contrast to Namche’s joblot blue.

Waters and I decided to room together again as it was easier, we seemed to be the first bunch of people to get there. Really? I’m sure I was lagging behind.

The others have got here and at tea it’s announced that tonight was the Everest Factor rehearsal night and that we should be performing after dinner tomorrow. I’m glad that we’ve got 2 nights here. It just means that the Sharlands can catch up with us without losing a day’s travel and that the rest of us can acclimatise further. Hopefully they can get back to us in time for stuff.

After dinner we pile into respective groups’ rooms and rehearse. Before we left we chose to sing ‘Summer Lovin’ from Grease, ‘500 Miles’ and a toss up between a Queen song and something else, which I can't remember. A fun time rehearsing the songs and huddling up to get warm

Day 3: Trek Day 2 Phakding to Namche Bazaar

It’s the solo walking that keeps me thinking about the other things like illness and such the like. When I’m travelling with people it’s fine but I often find myself trailing behind being not the strongest of people on the trek. I’m not comfortable with a raised heart rate… it keeps on making me think about my pre-existing condition as it sometimes sends clicking through my head along the scar line. Not an entirely comforting thought. I guess I wouldn’t have thought much about it had it not been for the call about 2 days before we left London from Dr Ian about my brain haemorrhage and subsequent operation that really got me thinking ‘Have I made the right choice in coming on this trip? Has the neurosurgeon I saw a year ago not thought it through?’ I knew that when I was given the ‘All Clear’ by the specialist last April that I had no recurring symptoms of my arteriovenous malformation (that resulted in my bleeding at age 12) I was on top of the world. 25 years of being in the clear. I wanted to celebrate by doing something amazing, something I’d never expected myself to ever do, but wanted to. When Kirt asked me to photograph a meeting between him, his friends and some people about a project he was starting I didn’t think much about it. By the end of the meeting and the spiel that Kirt and Charlie Campbell gave I was hooked, I knew that this was going to be the thing that I was going to do.

What happens with Altitude Sickness (AMS – Acute Mountain Sickness), or how it was described to me, how I remember it, is that something chemical happens in your body because you’re over-breathing to compensate for the lack of oxygen and your brain produces a fluid to protect it (is that right? Even now I’m doubting this) and consequently starts to swell.

When Dr Ian calls me up at work and discusses the silver clip that’s in my head that stopping the vein from bleeding, it suddenly makes me think. The Sunderlandese doctor is concerned that this swelling possibly might affect the silver clip. Somehow. I don’t want to think about it much more than that. He asks 'Has your insurance got a pre-existing condition clause.' No. 'Well, it might be a good idea to get one in case we need to get you off the mountain by airlift.' Immediately after I get off the phone I research a higher insurance package than my bank can guarantee. One that has helicopter rescue. F*ck it. It’s only £25 more than I’d have had to have got anyway.


Back on the trail from Phakding I really hope I don’t have to use it. It is a constant worry. I'm aware that I'm alone much of the time and that it's not that healthy for me to be walking by myself.

The teahouses are very much like my Grandmother’s in Malaysia, except her house was half on stilts. And we were given beds. Twin beds. I was semi expecting, like my Grandmother’s house, to be sleeping on the raised floor of the main room, all of us, farting and snoring and having to deal with couples copulating in the corner. Not that that happened at my Gran’s.

I end up walking next to a guide called Lannam who asked me where I was from. I usually get asked this in London so I say “Aldershot is where I was born, Malaysia is where I grew up.” This time I said “I live in London but my father is Malay, my mother is from London”. He got all excited about this fact and was really happy. Lannam, it turns out, lived in Malaysia for two years and speaks a smattering of Malay. Joy of joys. I’m always one for learning a bit of the language before I get to places and beyond ‘Namaste’ and ‘dhanyabad’ I was getting bored of my vocabulary already. It was nice to be able to connect on some level with Lannam and speak with him. Malaysia and Nepal used to have work agreements and allowed the Nepali a certain amount of work visas, I believe, from what he was saying. He really had a good time over there and was able to earn a bit of savings. He was pleased that I could speak Malay to and for the rest of the trip called me ‘Abang’ (which means big brother. I am a year older than he is. He must have had a hard paper round).

Before we left that morning, we're told that this is gong to be one of the hardest walks of the trek and says that the 800 metre climb in 2 hours after having walked up and down for 6 hours will be the hardest thing that we’re going to be doing on this trek. (I have my doubts at this point, about so many things, but I don’t voice them).

Lannam’s two years working in Johor Bahru meant that we could exchange a few words about family and work and life and journeys. He’d worked in a plastic factory out there. I didn’t realise that Malaysia had foreign labour other than Indonesians. It is the hardest walk we have done so far and (ok, it’s only lunch) and I’m thinking we’ve not done the hard bit yet. I’ve really found my pace (or lack of) so having company in one of the rear guides was helpful. By the time we get to lunch, the fact that I’m Malaysian gets through to the other guides and I sit opposite Bil for lunch who says a few words in Malay. More surprises. It’s really overwhelming. Bil intended to go and work there so he learnt how to speak Malay. With learning anything, I more you practise the better you become at it. With the recession happening, the work agreements suddenly dried up and Bil never actually got to go and work there. Maybe one day.

The rest of the walk we were still under the tree line which was quite good as the weather was very hot. It looks like that the trees are in bloom. I wish I could take a photo of the blossoms to ask my mum what they were as all the trees on the way seemed to be in bloom. It was a forest of green and pink in clumps (JZ: I later find out that we were walking in a forest of rhododendron. I always thought that rhododendron were a bush and not trees). It’s been good weather so far. And not cold either. Crossing many metal rope bridges (some to the tune of Indiana Jones) we seemed to be going up to go down. That was the disappointing thing about the trek, the fact that once you seemed to climb to the top of one hill, you saw the route ahead which seemed to be going down again. Didn’t we just climb 300 metres? Why are we going down another 150? Where was this 800 metre climb? Was that it? What do you mean that was only 150 metres.

At lunch, it’s become apparently that Jameau Pederskin has the runs and has been suffering badly, poor fella. After lunch I worry that I might be suffering from the same thing. Perhaps it was the chillies that I have in my meal. We’ll see. Let’s just temper the diet as an experiment. Thankfully I only have to go twice at the lunch break. It was slightly comedy as it was the first time I’ve had to do anything in a squatty toilet for years. And then to suddenly feel you can let loose is somehow liberating but also worrying. And then there’s the unsatisfactory poo.

The unsatisfactory poo.
Just before a performance I usually like to have, what I call, a ‘satisfactory poo’. You know, one that leaves you feeling that you can let go on-stage (emotionally) and not worry about whether you’re going to ‘let-go’ anything else. When we were doing The Nightingale on tour for Yellow Earth, I introduced the concept to my Japanese friend Haruka who seemed to think that it was as important as I did. As we opened the show, we’d just check with each other with a quick, ‘Satisfactory poo?’ And whether it was a positive or a negative we knew as to whether each other were going to have a good performance or a slightly ‘held in’ performance. I wonder if Ralph Fiennes has the same discussion with his co-stars?

(Ok enough about that.)

Now that the knees are starting to hurt and the backpack is becoming a burden I must say that this portion of the journey is getting to me. Paola Fudakowska (who signs off her emails with Mini-P, or P-Fud, to differentiate between her and the taller sister Alexandra Fudakowska who was also on the trek) was usually within my sights as we’re both not the fastest on the trek. I also must point out that as one of the photographers, I am one of the few that get my pack carried and all I have to do is carry my daypack along with my photographic equipment. The rear guides were wondering why we were the slowest and I’m sure they were talking about us amongst themselves (the paranoia of the British traveler). They were also carrying daypacks but theirs were considerably much smaller than mine. Or flatter, at least. Halfway up the route to Namche Bazaar was a welcome sight of the group I was in sitting on a low wall in a cleared area where 2 orange women had set up shop. Now these had nothing to do with Restoration period Orange Women. As far as I know they weren’t prostitutes. What they offered was just as good. Fresh oranges for 80 rupees. I bought two. And lapped up the juices from my dusty hands with gusto.

While we were sat down with our packs leaning against the wall, resting our legs. One of the guides picked up my daypack with his hand. He looked over at another and nodded and something tacit was exchanged. Did they say that they were going to carry my pack? I suspect not. I suspect they were just wondering what was keeping me back. Their investigation seemed to satisfy them.

Goonit (ok his name isn’t really Goonit, it’s Gareth but prefers the name G-Unit. As I already have a friend who calls himself G-Unit, I call him Goonit. It makes sense in my head) tries to carry a pack that one of our porters is carrying. They place it gingerly on his head and it nearly snaps his neck off until they re-place it on the part of the head that the strap is meant to be placed at (I’m not sure where that is, I don’t try and find out).

When we’d rested up enough we’d started our way up the mountain again. One of the orange women (it sounds so rude to call them that, they weren’t sluts at all) asked me what we were doing so I told her about the cricket on Everest thing and then she asked if we were going to Khumjung and I said yes, tomorrow and that we’ll be teaching the kids cricket there. She hoped to come along.

Miles Nathan, one of Kirt’s friends who wasn’t a cricketer and one of the cameramen on the trip (there is a film being made of this, a docu-style film. Wes is the other cameraman and ‘director’.) is struggling with his pack and is being gently encouraged by Lucy Brooks, the Trektator team leader. He’s clearly exhausted and I hand him some nuts and chocolate from my scroggin pack, just to help him along. They carry on ahead while I keep at my slow pace. I’m equalled by one young Mongol-looking porter, who couldn’t have been more than 16 and who gets as tired as I do, mainly because his pack weighed a ton.

For much of this trek I am by myself with the occasional sighting of people ahead or below me. A couple of times I have to stop just to admire the view. I keep on forgetting that we were in the most amazing landscapes on Earth. Most of the time, however, is spent looking at the ground as it’s uneven - sometimes it’s steps of rough hewn rock, sometimes it’s dusty path rising zig-zaggedly upwards. I remember looking up once to see where I was going and then being surprised by Wes scolding me with a rather inappropriate ‘If you see me holding the camera, don’t look directly at it.’ ‘What?’ I respond, rather incredulously, being insulted by this. 'If you see me holding the camera, don't look directly at it.' Right. I’ll remember that next time I want to see where I’m going, I’ll try to telepathically be aware of where you are in case you’re holding a camera in my face. Or when you're a director, paying me, you can talk to me like that, when you've had as many years in front of the camera as I have. Otherwise, you just come across as a c*nt. I’m wearing sunglasses FFS, and you’re standing in the bushes, I didn’t even realise you were there, you twat. Of course, I’m writing this hours after this happens and my sense of humour bypass has just about rerouted. But it still irks. The narrator in 'The Great Gatsby' was right. You never will have had the same experience as anyone else in life. It's funny how that bubbled up after not having read it for nearly 20 years.

I get to a ‘Nepali flat’ part of the track and round the corner is a wooden shack with chocolate and drinks. I think I bought a Mars Bar or Snickers, it was only a few hours ago but I don’t remember. Lucy and Miles are there, resting. He’s been in a bad way, struggling with the climb. This has been the hard bit. According to the shop owner it isn’t long until Namche. About 30 minutes, Miles and Lucy assure me. They leave and I’m left sat on the wooden bench looking over the valley. Why am I here? What the fuck am I doing? I feel drained. I’m glad for my little scroggin pack which consisted of mixed dried fruit, mixed nuts – including brazils which were my favourite, and peanut M&Ms.

True enough, it was up a bend in the next hill when there were more houses and the dusty track become more rocky road. I was stopped on the way by a policeman, telling me that I couldn’t go ahead, that I had to hang a right through a gate in a fenced area. We get talking about what we were doing, he’d seen the posters, one of which was on the blue police shack opposite the gate. He was married with 2 kids and that his daughter loved chocolate. Yes, she really liked chocolate and nuts. What’s that you’re eating? Badam (almonds) and kismis (raisins) and chocolate. Yes, my daughter likes chocolate. I laugh and give him the rest of my bag of scroggin. I’ve got another 3 quarter bags left somewhere. He says she really likes chocolate and leaves. No, she doesn’t like leaves. Well, I don't think so.

I see Mark Jordan on a platform by a shop doing a few takes of his report to camera. The words ‘eccentric and English’ was what I heard. Nothing about being in Asia. Yes. Sense of humour bypass kicking in nicely. I’m going to start getting angry if he mentions that phrase again. There are non-English people on the trip too.

Walking through Namche it looks like one of those places you seen in dungeons & dragons storybooks, it doesn’t look real. Through the dark streets only lit by the shop’s fluorescent lamps and kerosene from burners, I see shops on either side of the softly cobbled passages selling trekking gear, woolly yak-hair hats and last minute climbing equipment.

By the time I get to the lodge, I’d been told by someone that I was in the upper lodge but ‘I’m sure that there’d be a cup of tea in the first one, waiting for you'. I stumble into the lower lodge looking for friendly faces but before anyone says ‘Hello, you made it, have a cuppa tea,’ I get a ‘You’re in the wrong place. You’re in the upper lodge.’ Which promptly gets met with a ‘Shut the fuck up’ from me. I know that, you hairy twat. ‘You’re in the wrong place.’ he repeats. I’d heard him the first time. Perhaps he didn’t hear me. ‘Shut the fuck up.’ I snap even louder and leave.

Yep. Sense of humour completely bypassed by. (editors note: Sorry, Woodsy. I didn’t mean to snap. Hope I’m forgiven. You still have a hairy tw@t though.)

In the upper lodge I get ushered by the owner, who apologises and takes me to the prayer room which will be our makeshift bedroom. I’m not sure who it is that’s ushering me I barely know what my name is let alone care where I’m sleeping. Everything looks a little grey and I get put on a makeshift bed in the temple. I think it’s a temple and I’m sat down recovering slowly, eating chocolate, taking in the colourfully painted walls and drift off into the lying down position.

Once I slowly start feeling myself again I realise that James Butler, who, for the size of him, looks more arm than man, Neil Sharland who, this evening, looks more pale than ale and Jonathan Hill(s) who looks to the side of you endearingly, are also in the room. Jonathan asks me if I’d mind sharing with someone else as Curry hasn’t quite got a room yet. Probably the wrong time to ask me anything. No, I can barely move and I’ve sunken in the bed, weighed down by love of it. Bless him, I think he probably realises that it’s all too much for me and when Curry arrives, not only does he manage to get him a room but is able to make it sound better than the one we’re in, despite it being a shared double bed. Curry, thankfully, thinks this is great, or doesn’t know what he thinks and takes it anyway.

At dinner there is a pow-wow as Mark Jordan has decided that everyone is doing too well and that there is no drama on the event and that he wants something to happen. Toovey succinctly remarks that Jordan was ‘expecting a demolition derby but got the Earl’s Court Motor Show’ or words to that effect. (JZ: I note that he hasn’t quoted himself on his blog so I’ve quoted him here as I think it's very apt). What Jordan suggests is for two guys, one from each team, to hold a porter-race, i.e. to carry a porter’s load on his head and race up the stepped streets of Namche Bazaar. Absolutely stupid. It makes the groups feel a slight animosity towards our ITV cameraman as the idea is completely stupid, unsafe and risky. To me it’ll make the group look like we’re a bunch of rich eccentric English men having a laugh in amongst the foreigners in their own country. Please. They decided to sleep on it and consider how they feel in the morning, health-wise especially. I hope none of them agree to it. I can’t believe I’m still up (it’s about mmm 8.30pm).