Introduction

April 1:
Kathmandu
April 2:
Kathmandu
April 3:
Kathmandu
April 4:
Lukla and Phakding
April 5:
Namche
April 6:
Between Namche and Thyangboche
April 7:
Thyangboche
April 8:
Thyangboche
April 9:
Dingboche
April 10:
Dingboche
April 12:
Lobuche

and
Beyond

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Trek photos by Peter Potterfield, © 1997 The Zone Network. All rights Reserved.

Danger doesn't always come in the form of avalanche, crevasses, or high altitude edemas. If the truth be known, the real scary part of bringing an Everest climb to the Web is riding through Kathmandu on Jiban's motorcycle.

The Nepalese agent for the 1997 Everest climb, Jiban Ghimire tells me that if I want to get film back to The Mountain Zone quickly, for processing and posting, we have to go down to the DHL office and set up a way to get around the usual problems. There's no avoiding it, we can't send everything digitally, so when I say let's do it, Jiban just flashes a shy smile and points to his Honda. No idiot, Jiban pulls out a huge Bell wrap-around, the biggest helmet I've ever seen, and disappears inside it, cinching it tight. It's clear my own brains will be exposed to the considerable dangers of Kathmandu traffic, but no one said this would be easy.

Once we're out into the chaos of local traffic, however, I start mentally drafting my retirement letter. This is completely unreasonable. Bicycles, rickshaws, cars, buses, trucks and tuk-tuks move in an irresistible, organic flow with ever increasing speed as we leave the relatively sheltered back-streets of Thamel and move onto the main drags.

By the time we get to the DHL office, I'm in an altered state.

Immediately a lorry almost takes my kneecap as it goes by, so I tighten up on my riding posture, tighten it a lot, really get small, no protrusions. Since there's no telling what life-saving maneuver Jiban will execute next, I've got to be ready for anything. Feet on the pegs, one hand clutching a bag of exposed film, the other hanging on to the short sissy bar, I lean when Jiban leans but otherwise am at the mercy of the laws of physics. We zoom past cyclists, pedestrians and rickshaws, and I learn to give no thought to any physical body or vehicle that weighs less than we do. It's those taxis and buses that give me pause, and everyone of them is trying to get by everybody else at insane speeds with inches — we're talking inches — of clearance.

It's a ride of sheer terror that reaches magnificent crescendos as we approach the roundabouts. These local traffic circles are in fact pure high-speed expressions of individual driving styles, extended games of chicken featuring impossible chances taken and just barely pulled off. With one's mortal being in the balance, I'm thinking, this can't be real.

By the time we get to the DHL office, I'm in an altered state. Kiran, the manager, is a small, dapper man who wears suspenders and a tie. He's pleased to have the business, and offers us sweet-milk coffee. We sit quietly for a while and make small talk, the way of the East, and my cup doesn't so much as rattle in the saucer since I've moved to a higher consciousness. The mood is businesslike, and Kiran says thoughtfully he thinks Telex fund transfers from Seattle to Kathmandu will work best. You got it, Kiran, old pal, I think to myself. Gold bullion, unmarked bills, Euro-dollars, our CEO's first-born child, you name it, just call me a cab, would you?

Jiban, across the office, smiles enigmatically as he sips his coffee. I can tell he's enjoying this.