explains that last night there’d been an angry dispute between some of the porters and Dawa. They, the porters, claimed they’d been led to believe we were camping at Taplejung, not here at Suketar. (We’d taken an early lunch at Taplejung, but no porters had arrived by the time we’d set off again; and that should have been a warning.) Now Dawa is going to assert his authority and pay off four of the most troublesome men – and that will not be easy. Neither will it be easy to calm the mood of fizzing discontent.
Dawa Sherpa treads eggshells.
An eruption of angry voices breaks out. Thin men leap to their feet, all shouting, arms waving. Dawa steps back a pace or two, but is quickly surrounded. ‘I’d better go,’ says Bart, who hurries to the fray, followed by Pemba and Dendi.
The noise continues for several minutes, but although there’s a certain amount of pushing and shoving, there is no meaningful physical violence, yet it takes the joint diplomacy of Bart and Dawa to calm the situation. Eventually loud voices subside and spaces appear where moments before there’d been a tight mass of volcanic tension. Dawa’s face appears above the crowd and beckons to Mingma, who hurries to his sirdar’s side. A few words are exchanged, and Mingma goes off to find Dawa’s rucksack in which he keeps a fat wallet of rupee notes.
A few minutes later the blister has been doctored and the tension evaporates.
‘What you English would call a true compromise,’ explains Bart in obvious relief. ‘The porters demanded double pay for yesterday’s climb. It was a bit tough for them, I’ll admit, but Dawa’s got them to agree to one and a half day’s wages. That’s pretty fair, I’d say. Mind you, if we have any more days like that, it could prove to be a costly trek.’
Porters gather their loads. Some are even laughing, while those who were paid off count their wages and set off down the hillside without a backward glance. ‘The trek resumes,’ cries Max, like a wagon-master eager to be on his way. ‘Let’s go!’
Our route across the Surke Danda is more complex than the one had been along the Milke Danda, as we descend to cross streams and rivers and climb through one village after another. For hours at a stretch we are denied mountain views, but this is of no concern, for these Middle Hills, whose summits approach 4000 metres, are rich in visual contrasts, rewarding in vegetation, and lively with wildlife. White-faced monkeys bounce among the forest trees, highly coloured birds swoop across the trail, and I see my first butterflies of the Himalaya – as big as sparrows, they seem to my wide-eyed gaze.
Day after day the trail works its route through an ever-changing landscape, and my eyes are everywhere, for I’m innocent as a child and filled with a sense of wonder. In sunshine and shadow I drift without effort – sometimes among trees and shrubs, sometimes on bare and open hillsides. Life makes no more demands than that of placing one foot in front of the other.
Today we stop early. The harvest has been taken, ploughs have turned the soil in endless terraced fields, and that soil is now baking in the full sunshine. This rucked and wrinkled land fills me with delight, and I’m glad that Dawa has chosen this spot for our tents – two to each terrace with an airy outlook as though from a balcony. Max and I are on the second terrace down from the kitchen tent, which suits us both. Our loads having been dumped above us, I climb the terraces and manhandle a couple of kitbags, and with one under each arm foolishly jump down to the small field of baked earth below. Landing awkwardly, my left foot twists beneath me and I crumple to the ground in agony. I feel physically sick as I grip my ankle, convinced it’s broken. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, but I shiver all over.
‘Let me feel.’ The voice is John’s, a member of our group with a cultured voice and an authoritative air. Until now I’ve not found him easy company, but in this emergency he’s calm and efficient, and I recognise that whatever his background he certainly knows his first aid. His hands are gentle but probing, and he announces (with more certainty than I feel) that nothing is broken. But my ankle is swelling like a balloon. Bart calls for two bowls of water, one hot, the other cold, and after carefully removing my sock, my ankle is immersed first in one, then the other repeatedly until the hot water has turned cool. Then more is called for. I’m given pills to help reduce the swelling and ease the pain, and am carried to my tent.
Passing an uncomfortable night, I’m reminded that mountaineer Pete Boardman also damaged an ankle on his way to climb Kangchenjunga 10 years ago, and had then been carried by a relay of porters until he could walk again. Perhaps that should have given me confidence, but I fear my trek is over. ‘Nonsense,’ says Max. ‘You’ll walk. The alternative is to be buried here.’
In the morning my ankle is discoloured with bruising, and I’m given more pills to swallow. John carefully straps the wound in a crepe bandage, but when I ease my foot into the boot, I find I can only tie the lace very loosely. I’m given a stick to use and helped to stand, but as soon as I put any weight on the foot, pain shoots through my body and I feel sick again.
Pemba is now my constant companion as I hobble slowly along the trail, but a rhythm gradually develops and my pace improves, although it’ll be a full week before the swelling starts to subside. On the second day I lose my balance and sprawl face down on the path, twisting the ankle once more. Every part of me throbs with pain. Pemba helps me up, and soon after I’m seated upon a rock with my foot submerged in a clear forest pool at the base of a cascade pouring over a mossy green slab. I’m dashed with spray, and the water is cold enough to make my whole leg ache, but it’s sheer bliss.
Our trek takes us over ridge spurs and down to gorge-like tributaries, which we cross on suspension bridges that sway and shudder beneath us. The route is a helter-skelter, and there’s barely more than a few paces of level ground anywhere along it. Attractive houses cling to impossibly steep hillsides; snow mountains tease above distant hills before hiding again for hours at a time. Passing through the village of Mamankhe we discover a couple of houses with beautifully carved balconies decorated with containers of flowers. But for the thatch on their roofs they could have been transported from the Bernese Oberland. Padding barefoot along the trail nearby, two young children return home beneath towering loads of foliage – presumably fodder for their animals. They stand back to watch us pass, but say nothing. Much later the route takes us through a cardamom plantation, after which we splash through a side stream and make camp below a sad-looking broken village.
Yamphudin is still in shock. A month ago, at the tail-end of the monsoon, the Kabeli Khola burst its banks and swept half the village away. Huge boulders and mud banks remain where no boulders or mud banks belong. Trees have been uprooted, and river-ravaged houses stand among banana groves tilted at odd angles where the land has been uplifted by the force of the water. Villagers stare at us with vacant expressions as though life has been drained from them, but a policeman appears to check our permits, and while the tents are being erected he squats on his hunkers and draws deeply on a cigarette. He tells Dawa there’s an American climber with a broken leg waiting in the village for a helicopter to carry him out. Apparently he fell while crossing the ridge ahead, and since he was too heavy for his porters to carry, he had to crawl all the way down to Yamphudin. I feel the pain in my ankle and make a mental note to take extra care on our crossing tomorrow.
We discover there are two ridges to mount before we finally enter the valley that leads to the south side of Kangchenjunga. The first of these is crossed at the Dhupi Bhanjyang, below which the slope is steep, greasy and crowded with mist-hugging trees, while the second gives way at the Lamite Bhanjyang, where we catch sight of chisel-topped Jannu, Kanch’s most impressive neighbour that was first climbed by a French expedition in 1962. No other snow peaks can be seen, yet we know they are there. In another day or two, perhaps, we will be among them, but first we must descend with care along the edge of two monstrous landslide scars, then through a forest of chir pine, fir and bamboo, and finally among rhododendron trees above the east bank of the river that drains Kangchenjunga’s
