Kathmandu to Phakding
A grueling flight ended as we passed groggily through the terminal in Kathmandu. The contrast to Dubai airport where we had spent an arduous 12 hours in transit could not have been greater. I likened the passage through the airport to a secondary school corridor and baggage collection could easily have been the school’s PE hall. Getting through passport control was mercifully quick and soon we were in a taxi heading for the Kathmandu Guest House.
The driver of the taxi weaved, broke, overtook and undertook traffic along crumbling roads. Pedestrians and road users were blissfully unconcerned by the life ending margins for error. Death was a failed brake pad or delayed reaction away.
Dogs roamed the streets sifting through rubbish and we saw a few sacred cows, unconcerned by the chaos around them as if they knew of their heavenly status.
The worn and uneven roads made for a bumpy ride. The ramshackle dust ridden streets were heaving with people plying their wares, sustaining Kathmandu’s energy and vibe. School kids in uniform waited at bus stops whilst road sweepers seemed to simply shuffle dust from one part of the road to another in a seemingly futile exercise.
Above the roads hung an electronic canopy of wires and cables that criss-crossed the streets and wrapped around lampposts. They looked precariously balanced in places and I pitied the poor engineer working maintenance duty.
We arrived at the Kathmandu Guest House where we met our tour director Ram, of Mountain Ram Adventures. He was a lot shorter and thinner than I expected from the videos we’d seen of him but he was both charismatic and enthusiastic and immediately generated excitement in our party. His passion for trekking and his country were infectious and our long journey was soon forgotten. He introduced us to our guide, Pawan, a quieter, calmer individual who spoke little allowing Ram to hold court.
After the meeting, our team of four (Andrew, Paul, Chris and myself) adjourned to the guest house terrace restaurant where we had our last meat for what would be nearly two weeks. A few beers were sunk in relief/celebration or both and soon after we were in bed.
The next morning we were at the domestic terminal of the airport for the internal flight to Lukla. The infamous route to the airport carved into the hillside of the village of Lukla, the brainchild of Sir Edmund Hilary. The tension in the airport was palpable. Small planes mean competition between trekkers for seats. They may all have tickets but it didn’t mean they would fly on time, if at all. The planes to Lukla are invariably late and bad weather means planes do not take off or land at the world’s most dangerous airport.
We were in the hands of our guide, Pawan. A man of few words but he clearly knows how to get things done and reassured us with a smile and nod that our bags will be on the plane. Soon after he produced 5 boarding passes.
We learned that Pawan has completed the EBC route over 100 times in a 25 year guiding career. First as a porter, then as a guide. His preference is clearly for the latter. He is not blessed with great energy or dynamism but he is quietly efficient and this is what counts. We notice one trait right away. He doesn’t do straight answers to questions. It would become a running joke that Pawan himself would laugh at.
Pawan, our guide (right) and our two porters, without whom we could not do the Trek.
Currency is exchanged and coffee drunk whilst waiting for the flight. Seasoned trekkers lose themselves in books and overall the departure lounge seems free from anxiety, irritation and impatience. The building itself seems reflective of Nepal, basic, functional and starved of resources. Little had changed since Chris had ventured here some twenty years previously.
Maybe it is the lack of change in a rapidly changing world that generates a sense of affection for the place. Many people from all over the world gladly submit to the seemingly ad hoc rules and regulations. In a health and safety mad world Nepal happily bucks the trend and whilst worrying in some respects it also feels quite refreshing.
That’s not to say you can smuggle a Samurai sword through security. But should you try (and I’m not suggesting you should) you feel they’d simply remove it and send you on your way.
We get the call and soon we are boarding a plane with, as Chris put it from his glance at Google ‘one of the worst safety records.’ He does not show Paul, who is terrified of flying and has been dreading the upcoming 27 minutes of his life.
A plane prepares to depart from Lulka Airport
The Lukla flight was the shortest I’ve ever been on and with only 18 passengers it was the smallest plane I’ve been up in. My seat position meant I was denied seeing the breath taking views afforded window seat passengers. The legendary white peaks ascending into the heavens and the green ‘foothills,’ themselves mostly above 3000 metres.
We landed safely to cheers on the narrow runway. You must slow down in time or you hit a wall at the back of the runway. We were never in any danger of that and I found the flight to be a fun experience. Paul would probably disagree.
Soon we were on our way to our first stop, Phakding. It was a two and a half hour walk but there we were glad to get going. It was suny and nowhere near as cold as expected as we set off out of Lukla. We passed many people who were returning from EBC. Many had coughs or looked exhausted, a reminder that things would get tougher.
We found ourselves dropping lower into the beautiful wooded glacial valleys and crossing rivers high above on narrow suspension bridges. Paul struggled with this at first, adopting tunnel vision and both hands on the sides to will himself over. Already we were drinking lots of water, it was easy to forget this was the highest altitude most of us had ever walked at.
We reached Phkding before dark but the temperatures were dropping as rapidly as the sun behind the mountains and soon we were sat in the tearoom ordering from a pleasant but limited menu. Our appetites had not yet been affected by the thin air and we ate and played cards in the warmth of the tea rooms surrounded by other trekkers from all over the world.
Around nine o clock we found our way into our rooms, unfurled our sleeping bags and threw the musty quilt over the top of the sleeping bags. Chris, laid out like a vampire proceeded to snore rhythmically till the morning, totally oblivious to the dogs barking through the night. I realised ear plugs would be an essential purchase when I got to Namche the following day.
We woke to another sunny day and a six hour walk to one of the most famous stops on the EBC trek, Namche.
