I tuck myself into bed back in my own room, thinking that this base camp thing isn’t so bad and that I should have snuck a few beers in, when I start to hear my heartbeat in my ears. Then comes the soul-splintering migraine, my spine drilling deep into the back of my skull. Ralf opens the window and passes me a pain killer as he says “You poor boy.” We sit at the sill, drinking in the cool air floating down the mountain, nourished by the very goddess that blew so angrily but a few hours ago, unaware of the visitors we’ll receive at our window.
First comes the Milky Way. I’ve never witnessed such sparkling splendour in such pain—regretting a lifetime of smoking while battling the unimaginable urge to light one up and get lost in the stars. Then, three wonderfully ridiculous riders, who’ve been shooting the sky at Everest’s base for hours, return briefly to find a lighter, which I hand out into the darkness. Later, a lead rider, Sabin, rather thoughtfully makes a round outside to make sure everyone’s window is cracked, but can’t resist pranking the only one who is fast asleep, Pankaj, by banging on his window and shouting, “China police!”. At dawn, a curious yak pokes his head in our room, followed by a trail of monks. Just as I worry about the trio that went out into the night, they return. The first words from the youngest of them, “That was the best morning of my life.”
Ralf capturing a Kodak momentJulian Manning
By breakfast, I find out it wasn’t so for everyone. Two riders had been taken down to a lower elevation—Rakesh, who helped me wheel my bike into the lodge I took a spill in front of on the first day, and Sanjeev, an affable uncle who told me he was wearing his friend’s motorbike jacket so he could be also be a part of this rare ride. Another, Sumit, who can corner as smoothly as a knife passing through butter, is being administered oxygen. As we digest the hard news, Ralf looks out the window and whispers “No clouds”. Since the British, Everest has always seemed to me like the apex of imperial ambition—peaks over people, legend over life—but I’m so exhausted I can’t think about people playing god, and see the mount for what it is, the worn visage of a guardian.
English