
There is finally was -- rather more sinister than  I had expected. It was
sunny and it's fillings were of silver and glinted like steel. And the
rest of it was certainly  the whiter-than-white of detergent ads.

Getting to Everest had been frustrating, although less so than leaving
would be. My jeep had encountered a break in the road where the track was
replaced by a raging stream. This was to in fact clkear within a matter of
hours, but we didn't know that. Five of us had rented the jeep in Lhasa
and had already had differences of opinion, but I was amazed when one of
the others reported to me in a matter of fact way that he'd booked a jeep
on the other side of the problem which would take us to the Nepal border,
that this would cost us extra money, and that the driver was refusing to
go to Everest  because the roads were in such bad shape.

No use disagreeing -- the other four chickens had already bought this
idiotic deal. I rode with them as far as Tingri, which is shortly after
the Everest turnoff and then parted company after a fairly major shouting
match -- with the four refusing to give me back any part of the partial
refund the original jeep had given us.

Now I was illegal -- because all five of us were on the same police road
permit and the guide had taken that with the other four. The permit was no
longer valid if I left the group, in any case.

I quickly got a ride back to the Everest turnoff with a driver headed for
Lhasa, and there were a couple of empty jeeps waiting there, about to go
to Rombuk, the monastery near Base Camp. One of the drivers agreed to take
me, but I was worried that if I was in his jeep we'd get charged the 400Y
per vehicle tourist fee, in addition to the 65Y per passenger and 60Y for
the driver. So I stopped a jeep full of passengers that
shortly followed and asked them to take me as far as the Chay checkpoint.

I had mixed feelings about Chay. Lonely Planet, which tends to exaggerate,
says that the police there threaten foreign travelers with electric cattle
prods to extort bribes. But other travelers had reported little hassle
there and that permits had not been examined -- just admission charges
collected.

I had my 65Y ready, but someone ahead of me yelled that they were
demanding permits. I had to get out of there or face arrest, a 500Y fine
and the possible requirement to write a "confession." Just then the driver
of trhe empty jeep beckoned with his finger. He'd got to the other side of
the barrier and the policeman had momentarily vanished. The serving hatch
was meanwhile blocked by queuing tourists. So I ran round the barrier and
jumped in his jeep, slouching in the front seat. A Chinese policeman was
questioning a truck ahead so I feared the worst, but he didn't stop us. At
lunch, another Chinese policeman seemed to be examining everyone's face in
the restaurant, but he didn't ask for permits.

So I got to Rombuk -- and Everest was covered in clouds, of course.

Evening prayers at the monastery were quite a treat -- some of the best
music so far, with unusual horns and bells. At what appeared to be
intermission, the monks were served dinner: mostly plain rice, but some
seemed to get some vegetables. Pilgrims donated food: some cooked, other
in the form of raw cabbages or onions. A beefy looking lady camne round
with a huge cauldron scooping out some sort of goop: it was rather lkike a
scene from Oliver. The  man next to me, who didn't appear to have ever
washed, held out a piece of cloth, which was soon bulging with the stuff.
An adjacent lady proferred her had, which was well filled and the subject
of hungry hands coming from all directions.

The accommodation was miserable: Freezing rooms with foam mattresses, one
dirty cover and no pillows. It was pretty well impossible to sleep,
especially as I was sharing with a guide who snored like a volcano.
I walked around with my Maglite shivering. After trying to rest, I  sat up
short  of breath: I had an X-rated headache and was finding it hard to
breathe: altitude sickness, not much of a surprise given the  gain in
elevation.

Coughing away, I set off for Base Camp the next morning. It seemed to take
forever -- my head was spinning and it felt halfway between the state of a
spacey Astronaut and having feet of lead. Five miles and a couple of
hundred metres higher and after a nasty wade through an icy stream, I
staggered into Base Camp to a cheer from around 10 peoplle sitting at the
tea house. I drank tea, then asked the two park officials about going on
to the Glacier: not allowed unless organized, they said, because the gain
in elevation could be dangerous. This seemed nonsense to me as the
Glacier was only a few hours up the Everest trail.

Without delay I claimed the territory for Britain in the name of Her
Majesty the Queen, The Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Chief Rabbi of
all the Empire and renaimed it Mt. New England. I then asked the others if
they'd join me up the Mt. New England trail, but they were all chicken
given the instructions not to go by the authorities. So I set off by
myself.

Several streams had to be crossed -- just narrow enough to be jumped,
although there was a rather aggressive dog on the other side of the last
one, so I had to walk a long way down to get away from it. Then I was on
the Mt. New England trail. It was easy: a path going up for the most part,
although with some patches of rocks to scramble over, but I was out of
breath and my head was throbbing. By the  time I got up level with the
glacier the clouds were getting nasty, so I decided there was a limit even
to idiocy and decided to enjoy the view of all the ice before me and not
attempt to actually get across to walk on it (which required another river
crossing).

By the time I returned to Base Camp I was thoroughly sick, so I asked one
of the drivers to take me back to the Monastery: he wanted 200Y ($25)
which was ridiculous for five miles, so I started to walk. Another car
passed me after 20 minutes and I got a ride back for free. Sorry if this
all sounds pathetic: I can't imagine what it must be like to climb Mt. New
England to the top, rather than just going the little way I managed...

Next morning I saw Mt. New England clearly again (although the day before
I'd seen the top part, and now I  saw the base). Now it was time to head
for Nepal...

Someone offered me a ride down to Tingri, but his group leader seemed
displeased and said I'd have to go in the gear truck. I got thoroughly
thrown around on the way down. The Sherpas, who had also been thrown in
the truck, were also unhappy as there was more than enoiugh room in the
jeeps. The last part was really bad. with incredible bumps and everyone
getting mangled up. At the base I got out and decided to hitch a ride into
Tingri rather than risk that death machine any longer. I told the person
who'd offered the  ride I wasn't going any further with them as I'd been
hurt.

His son opened the jeep door and offered me a seat in the jeep. I got in,
then his father said "This is the First and Last Time I'm helping anyone."

"If that's your attitude, I won't come with you," I replied, getting out
of the car and resuming my hitch-hiking position beside the road.

"Jewish asshole," he shouted at me.

I shortly got a lift with a couple in another jeep, and stayed the night
in Tingri again.

There were about 30 jeeps headed for the Nepal border in town, but nobody
would take me because I didn't have a permit. I ended up waiting from 7am
to 5pm by the side of the road the next day, without being picked up --
and had to stay yet another night in this nondescript village. Then I got
an offer to go with a group -- but only in their truck.

The truck contained 19 angry Italians. They had been supplied a bus
without 4-wheel drive, and it had got stuck. So their guide had put them
in a truck. "Where did you come from," I asked the one next to me.
"Italy." "No, idiot, I meant yesterday." "Fuck off," he said. I tried to
persuade him that "idiot" was a term of endearment, at least in the better
public schools, but they were all in a grim state. The sky was lighting
up, so I offered "Ecco ridente in cielo," but to noi avail. Would "Oh,
what a beautiful morning," help things? I considered singing "Il core vi
dono" to an Italian lady to my left, but decided the punch in the face
wouldn't bew worth it...

"Tomorrow, we go into the travel agent in Kathmandu, and first we destroy
his office, then we 
KILL him," one of the Italians said.

The dust coming in the back was incredible. Everyone had scarves wrapped
round their faces. But the view of the seemingly endless Tibetan plain was
great.

And then we fell off the top. The plain just ends and -- suddenly -- you
are in free fall. Down... and down... and down and down. The scenery
changes dramatically: streams everywhere, greenery, and thick fog, a
nether world separating Tibet from the rest of eternity.

The two police checks went without trouble. The Italians' guide handed in
their permit and a police officer appeared, viewed the dusty mass in the
back of the truck, and luckily didn't bother to count. So  I slipped
through...  The water flows got wilder and we passed under several
waterfalls. A truck coming the other way had no canopy: packed full of
Tibetans, they got soaked. "That's Economy Class," I pointed out, and one
of the Italians remarked on our good fortune to be in Business Class.

At the border the Italians left for a hotel and I asked the guide if I
could stay with them to Kathmandu. No problem at China customs, but the 10
km to the Nepal side was really rough. One of the Sherpas told me to stand
in the truck and jump at the bumps. It sort of worked.

The truck wasn't allowed over the "Friendship Bridge" so we walked over to
Nepal in monsoon rain. The Sherpas carried all the bags in several shifts.

Nepal Customs & Immigration was a delight: three bemused men behind a desk
shuffling papers and laughing. This was  the Indian subcontinent now -- no
more robotic Chinese officialdom.

The road was mucked up and it  was pouring, so we had to stay a night in
Kodari. We set off again at 6am, but there were four landslides to face.
After the first we walked about three or four miles through glistening
green countryside, otherwise it was more trucks with porters to carry the
bags over the impassable stretches. And 12  hours later we reacked
Kathmandu.

Your hero, always,
	Jonathan E. D. Richmond                            


