Sacred Mountain (4 page)

The office of the Secretary for Foreign Affairs was large and airy. Light streamed in through three large windows that overlooked a central courtyard, lighting up a huge desk behind which sat a small man wearing a thick pair of spectacles. As Philip entered, the man dropped the paper he was reading and rushed around his desk to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr Armitage,” he said enthusiastically. “Please, take a seat while we get you some tea.” He said something in Nepali to the man who’d shown Philip in, who nodded and left the room. “My name is Dixhit, the Minister for Foreign Affairs and please,” he said with a small bow. “You have nothing to worry about. Your illustrious paper sent the request via your Embassy a few days ago and we have prepared the necessary permissions for you.” Turning to his desk he picked up a sheet of thick paper that was covered in Nepali text and several large official-looking stamps. “This,” he said proudly, showing Philip the sheet, “is your permit to visit the Khumbu region and this…” he paused and pointed to a hand-written note at the bottom, “is my own personal endorsement allowing you to visit the mountain itself, right up on the Tibetan border.”

He gave the permit to Philip who sat studying the incomprehensible writing while the tea, which had just arrived, was served. “This really is most kind of you,” Philip said at last, as they both sat in comfortable armchairs. “I do apologise for the short notice.”

Mr Dixhit shook his head and waved a hand, sloshing some tea into his saucer as he did so. “It is not a problem. We all hope that this expedition is successful on Sagarmartha.” He carefully poured the spilt tea back into his cup and smiled at Philip, “That, I’m sure you know, is our name for Everest. Getting the news out to the world is vital if we want to Nepal to be on the global map at last.” He paused again. “It was wise that your London office cabled us however, as we’re having to currently restrict all travel to the northern borders.”

Philip looked up at him. “Really? Is there a problem there?”

“It’s the refugees from Tibet,” Mr Dixhit replied, shaking his head. “Ever since the Chinese invaded their homeland a couple of years ago, there has been a steady stream of Tibetans fleeing. In the last few months,” he shrugged, “it has become much worse. When they get here they have to sell their valuables to survive, jewellery and the like. But now the monasteries in Eastern Tibet are being looted by the Chinese and priceless artefacts sold to unscrupulous traders. They smuggle them into Kathmandu posing as refugees.” He looked out of his window. “The city is awash with dealers from India trying to get their hands on the finest and they even started travelling into the mountains to try to get the best pieces. Therefore, we’ve stopped all foreigners leaving the city and do our best to control what is sold here. His Majesty has just this year created a Department of Antiquities to help deal with the problem but…” he shrugged, “it is early days.”

He turned and smiled again at Philip. “But please don’t worry. With this permit you will travel unmolested and on your return I must insist you to visit me again for tea to tell me of your great adventure and, I hope, its successful conclusion.” He leant forward, adding with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Although I must admit to a bias. I hope it is our own Sherpa climber Tenzing Norgay about whom you bring me good news!”

A few minutes later and Philip was once more out on the streets of the bustling city. The preparations had all gone much more smoothly than he’d anticipated and he found he’d some time on his hands to explore the city. While Mingma was getting the main supplies for the trip, he thought he’d try to pick up a few small treats to brighten up what he thought might be a fairly monotonous diet.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was near to Durbar Square, the ancient heart of Kathmandu. This array of old palaces, pagodas and shrines was packed with traders shouting out their wares, haggling with passers-by over the cost of their produce. Beggars stood in corners chanting prayers, hands outstretched for alms. Holy men sat beside the statues of mythical animals, some in meditation, others reading cards covered in strange symbols. Their hair was wild, unkempt and dirty, some with ash rubbed through it. Their foreheads were smeared with bright paints, their robes a brilliant orange and copper bowls were laid beside them in which to receive offerings of food.

Philip had to stop as a bull walked out in front of him, intent on reaching a pile of rotting vegetables that was being thrown into the gutter by an old man with a small stall. Two skeletal dogs raced over to it, quickly grabbing hungry mouthfuls before scampering away from its tossing horns.

The roofs and spires of the temples sparkled gold in the warm morning sun, the brick buildings and their terracotta tiles glowing a warm red. With no car engines to drown out the noise of the square, Philip seemed able to hear everything. Shoemakers sat on the pavement, hammering fine nails into the soles of well-worn shoes. Monks walked around the temples, spinning prayer wheels that were mounted in the walls and chanting prayers. Children chased each other, screaming as they leapt from statue to statue, the angry yells of the stallholders following them as they upset their carefully displayed produce.

Philip walked over to a small shop that opened onto the square, drawn by the stacks of tinned food on the paving outside. Ducking his head under the low lintel, he cautiously walked inside. It was tiny, only a few yards square and crammed from floor to ceiling with tins. At the bottom the tins were large, more like small barrels, tapering to smaller, household sizes at the top. Many were labelled in Hindi but some were in French and English and after a couple of minutes perusing he left with five tins of peaches, tinned in the US and which, he’d a sneaking suspicion from the design of the labels and condition of the tins, were left over from the war.

He emerged once more into the square, almost colliding with a barber’s chair in which a man was receiving a shave with a cut-throat razor. Slowly Philip’s eyes readjusted to the brightness. Looking around he noticed a large sign written in English on the far side announcing the “Rangana Café – tee, cakes, cofee”. He glanced at his watch and seeing that it was nearing lunchtime, crossed the square and sat himself at a small, rather rickety table outside.

A young man appeared, dressed in the white jodhpurs and jerkin that seemed to be the clothes of choice for men in Kathmandu, but embellished with a bright green sash and traditional multi-coloured Nepali cap. After much pointing at the menu, which seemed to contain words that fused English and Nepali together, he disappeared again, Philip hoped, to fetch a large omelette and some tea. He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting the sun bathe his upturned face, looking forward to food that until a few months ago had still been rationed at home. Even now actually getting hold of extra eggs was virtually impossible.

“Good afternoon,” came a voice from the next table. There were two of them, both dressed in lounge suits and smoking cigarettes while drinking from a large pot of coffee.

“Please excuse us disturbing you, but westerners are such a rarity here I’m assuming you must be something to do with the expedition to Everest?”

Philip nodded cautiously. “That’s right, I am, in a way of speaking.” He stopped, taking in the two men, unwilling to divulge too much information until he knew who they were. The man who’d spoken leant over and offered his hand.

“My name is Navel Gupta”, he said, “and my companion is Rajiv Mehru. We’re here to cover the climb for our papers. I work for the
Times of India
while Rajiv is from the
Hindustan Times
.”

“In which case,” Philip replied with a grim, “we are sworn enemies. I’m Philip Armitage from
The
Times
in London.” He could see their interest pick up, instantly more alert.

“Ah,
The
Times
,” Navel replied with a shrug. “Then you are the cause of our problems. We have editors in Delhi demanding a constant stream of news and yet the expedition tells us nothing.” He carefully stubbed out his cigarette before looking at Philip. “I don’t suppose you have anything you could pass onto us, information that you’ve already sent to your paper but which we are yet to hear?”

Philip shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve cornered the wrong man. I only arrived yesterday and haven’t really caught up. You’ll have to ask Arthur Hutchinson if you want the latest.”

“Hutch?” the Indian replied, shaking his head. “We have more chance of climbing Everest ourselves than getting a crumb of information out of him. You know he lives in Delhi so we know him well, but when he did the communications for the Swiss expedition last year we got absolutely nothing out of him, despite a lot of whiskey being consumed.”

Philip laughed, looking down at his food which had just arrived. “In which case I don’t think I can help,” he said picking up a battered fork with only two prongs and giving it a good wipe with his handkerchief. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Navel nodded courteously and turned back to his table, allowing Philip to pour himself a glass of tea and cut into his omelette. It tasted wonderful, rich egg stuffed with a pungent cheese and slivers of sliced vegetable. He was feeling more settled, memories of his nightmare the previous night fading away in the warm sun. Hearing the language spoken again after so long, seeing the people all around had made him anxious as to what memories it might bring back. But now he was in a different place in happier times. People were going about their normal lives, there was laughter in the square and a relaxed atmosphere in the city that made him feel calm and safe.

His food finished, he downed the last of the tea and put some rupees on the table to cover the bill. He was just standing to go when he saw Navel. He’d been leaning forward talking quietly to his companion for much of the time. Now he turned and offered Philip a piece of folded paper.

Philip glanced at it and then looked at the man’s face. “What’s this?”

“It’s the address of the hotel I’m staying at in case you think of any information that you might be able to spare us.”

Philip shook his head, leaving the man’s arm outstretched. “I’m leaving Kathmandu tomorrow for the mountain so I won’t be around to help even if I could.”

The Indians eyes didn’t leave Philips. “Perhaps an occasional dispatch could be sent to this address instead,” he replied, head angled enquiringly. “Nothing exclusive, just a little general information on what’s going on. I’m sure,” he added slowly, “it would be made worth your while. Say ten pounds per dispatch?”

Philip returned the man’s stare before shaking his head slowly and turning away. “I’m afraid not,” he said coldly and strode off.

“Fifteen, Mr Armitage, but we would require a little more specific information at that price.”

Philip continued walking, calling over his shoulder, “You can have all the information you want for free. Just buy yourselves a copy of
The Times
and read what James has written.”

He was soon lost in the crowd and relieved to be so, disconcerted by the experience at the café. If he’d bumped into two journalists so quickly, there must be plenty more in Kathmandu all circling around for the story. It was going to be trickier than he’d thought keeping James dispatches a secret, especially if people were prepared to pay such good money for it. He wandered on, following the main street from the square, enjoying the freedom of just meandering along with nowhere specific to go.

He drifted down another street and then turned into an alley that caught his eye because of the hundreds of prayer flags, small colourful squares of cotton with Buddhist mantras stamped on them, that hung from all its ornately carved balconies and window frames. He stopped to look at a small shrine to the Hindu God Ganesh that adorned the doorway of one house, its elephant head garlanded with a chains of dried flowers and sprinkled with rose petals.

As he stood admiring it a young Tibetan woman came towards him, her head bowed and hands held together in greeting. Her woollen clothes were brown and a deep purple, covered at the front by a colourful striped apron on which she now wiped her hands. She reached up to her forehead on which hung a disc of beaten gold, a polished coral stone mounted at its centre. It was hanging on a band of Tibetan turquoise that ran around the crown of her head, keeping her long, shining hair tightly held in a bun. She carefully removed the headdress, some of her hair falling free as she did so, and grabbed Philip’s hand, trying to press the jewel into it.

Philip froze, unable to move as her dark eyes locked onto his. In them he saw a desperation he’d witnessed before, a plea for help that brought back terrible memories; ones he longed to forget.

“No, please …” Philip stammered, “please, you keep it.”

Undeterred she continued, trying to force his hand open while leaning forward slightly and indicating over her shoulder with her head. He could see the fine hair of a tiny baby strapped to her back.

“No,” Philip said again, desperate to get away. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out some loose rupee notes, pressing them all into her hand while holding her other one tightly closed around the gold.

She looked at him, as if puzzled as to why he was so frightened of her. Quietly she said something in Tibetan, gently reaching out to take his hand and slowly placing the back of it against her forehead. She seemed to study him as she replaced the headdress, carefully tidying the hair that still drew Philips eyes, before holding her hands together once more and continuing past him up the alley.