The Everest Diaries: Part 4 (March, 2025)
Strange Sundowners
The rising sun brought a hint of life to the dejected airstrip, but planes remained stationary and a morning of optimism came to an immediate halt. Overwhelmed staff guarded access to the runway. They announced that winds were too strong and all flights had been postponed. It was 06:15.
New travellers arrived from Kathmandu in even larger groups than we had seen the previous day and the backlog nearly doubled in size. The airport was congested and news trickled its way to the back of the lines where defeated, sleep-deprived travellers collapsed onto their bags in the street. Lucky bastards, at least they had a bag.
The village was no longer a ghost town but rather had evolved into a processing centre for delayed backpackers. Having been through all of this the day before, we found Tooth Gem and demanded reassurance. He insisted that we would be on plane number one as soon as flights resumed.
When asked if he thought planes would resume today, he dodged the question. We took that as a firm Nepali no, and opted to extend our guesthouse for an extra night before the new arrivals beat us to it.
At this point, we discovered an ingenious business model capitalising on the temperamental nature of the Ramechhap-Lukla flight. We were approached several times throughout the morning by other stranded travellers who had arranged private helicopter transfers to Lukla and needed extra passengers to fill the seats.
What a brilliant operation! Flight cancellations were common, and many tourists were bound by tight schedules, so these entrepreneurs offered a perfect failsafe to ensure hikers could reach Lukla in time. A 20-minute flight directly to the airstrip, regardless of wind speeds or visibility.
I wondered what humble fee these astute businessmen charged for such an essential service? They were addressing a market failure and relieving the airlines of intense pressure at an underfunded airport. They must surely be champions of the ordinary man.
$500 per seat – for a 20-minute flight! Incredible.
I almost spat out my water at the suggestion of a $500 helicopter ride and after almost no discussion at all, Jez and I decided to roll the dice and opt for another attempt at the sunrise flights the following day. If we succeeded, we would be two days behind, which was manageable but intimidating.
The rest of the group aligned with us, despite a brief moment of madness from Alan, who, once again embracing the role of adopted father after an intense 24 hours, proposed paying for the helicopter himself and figuring out repayment later. I admired his kindness, but not his economics. Instead, we watched on as desperate travellers grouped together and battled propeller winds to reach their safe haven: an extortionate helicopter seat.
The morning dragged on, and amid boredom I noticed some minor details. In between games of cards, naps and increasingly abstract conversations, the same helicopter landed that had taken off an hour or so earlier. It was painted a vibrant yellow and had a uniquely-shaped black streak across the side that I could neither attribute to decoration nor bad parking.
A thought sparked in my increasingly slowing mind: if these helicopters are also shuttles and my bag is in Lukla, they can bring my bag back!
I reluctantly confronted Tooth Gem again, who had found himself perched on a decaying office chair in the corner of the room, his posture deterring disruption. I asked him if he could get one of the helicopters to bring my bag back from Lukla.
He looked at me, perplexed, and without acknowledging my request, pulled out his phone and chuckled at the photo of my bag perched on a bench in Lukla. “Your bag has a better holiday than you” he exclaimed. I didn’t have the energy to entertain his recycled joke so I stayed silent.
Finally, at around 15:00, when spirits were at their lowest, the silhouette of a helicopter pilot staggering across the runway with his hands full made me leap out of my seat. My bag! He’s only gone and done it!
It turns out that even in his unenthusiastic state, Tooth Gem shared the photo with one of the helicopter pilots who had brought the bag back to Ramechhap. Perhaps he did deserve that slightly more luminescent vest after all.
I jumped over the fence and ran towards the pilot, much to the dismay of the ground staff, whose lacklustre raised arms and half-arsed calls produced an unenthusiastic Mexican wave. A Nepali wave. I bundled my bag back across the runway as Tooth Gem emerged from his office.
There was no attempt to rebuke my breaches of health and safety by crossing onto the runway illegally, or even apologise for the inconvenience of being without my bag for 36 hours, but instead one final chance to exclaim “your bag has travelled more than you”, accompanied by the roar of excitement from his posse.
This time it was funny. Fair enough, mate – third time’s the charm.
I was ecstatic after my bag returned, so much so that the official cancellation of the day’s remaining flights barely phased our newly-formed Nepali family. We escaped the depressing atmosphere of the airport and headed down to the river for a swim, basking in the glory of yet another beautiful Himalayan sunset.
Despite the fact that the next day could unfold exactly the same way, it genuinely felt like we didn’t mind. The past two days were stressful, exhausting and unpredictable, yet the challenges forged unbreakable bonds between us. We knew that it was out of our control and we embraced it. We had another night together in this strange but tranquil village, and even though we hadn’t begun our hike yet, this is what we had signed up for. Peaceful surroundings, stunning scenery, and great company. We had all three in abundance.
It was almost therapeutic. Minds were wandering in a silence that was only broken by the occasional splash of water or distant bird songs. I gazed up at the hills and pointed out a thick grey smoke spiralling up from beyond the mountain face, its source hidden by a dense forest disappearing beyond the peak. We assumed it was just local agricultural practice or a household fire, and our interest faded fairly quickly.
However, we clearly weren’t the only ones who had noticed this peculiar sight, as the silence was decimated by the sudden shriek of a siren in the distance. The noise grew louder and louder as a fire engine emerged from the dusty trail and parked itself right beside us at the riverside.
A stout man with a shaved head and a two-piece Adidas tracksuit enthusiastically hopped out of the fire engine and approached us, accompanied by a relaxed-looking teenager in similarly informal attire. Before any words were exchanged, the younger lad whipped out his smartphone and began snapping photos with us. Meanwhile, his partner wrestled with an enormous hose at the back of the fire engine, which probably could have used an extra pair of hands.
Through broken translation, pointing fingers and beaming smiles, they told us that they had come down to the river to collect water to tackle the fire that we could see in the hills. We probably could have figured that out from context, but they insisted on conveying it in excruciating detail. This exchange dragged on despite their blaring sirens, and it was clear that their urgency was selective.
The comical nonchalance was compounded by the fact that, after the photoshoot had finished, the fire-photographer then invited Tali into the front seat to press the buttons and take some photos. At this point the water tank was full and the water was merely splashing back into the river. The truck was ready to go yet the firefighters weren’t.
Instead, the duo continued to strike their poses – which included an angel pose on the fire engine roof. We irresponsibly offered them a beer which they both reluctantly declined, all under the backdrop of now black smoke billowing from behind the trees.
Eventually, the firemen took a hint and clambered back into the truck. The engine roared and the sirens blared ironically as they vanished into the valley on their heroic mission. We never found out the cause of the fire or how bad it actually was. All we know is that the following morning when we awoke at sunrise, the smoke was gone.
God forbid there’s an inquiry – though, something tells me there probably won’t be.
The Most Dangerous Airport in the World
Even after endless waves of overpriced helicopter shuttles, hundreds of travellers swarmed the entrance to Ramechhap in the early hours of the morning. We bundled our way to the front of the line in hope that Tooth Gem would stay true to yesterday’s promise of putting us on the first flight.
The sense of fear amongst the new arrivals was palpable when we announced that this was our third day at the airport. Whether it was through generosity or pure pity – it didn’t make a difference to us – groups of travellers parted to let us clamber through the piles of bags forming a barrier at the front of the airport.
The sun was rising and the airport staff seemed to have a rocket up their arse for the first time in three days. They were rapidly shifting luggage, throwing tickets at exhausted passengers and shouting intently to direct travellers towards the respective lines. Winds were incredibly low today and flights were resuming, which should have excited us, but our cynicism was such that we couldn’t bring ourselves to believe we were finally on our way.
Our tickets were blank except for one crucial number – a “1” circled at the top of the paper. Tooth Gem had pulled through and we had our long-awaited first flight. We were ushered towards the runway and almost immediately onto the plane. I was the last to board the flight, which was practically moving before the door closed.
A strange sinking feeling hit me as I boarded. This wasn’t due to landing at the world’s most dangerous airport or, even, the worry that my bag might not have made it onto the flight. Looking out through the scratched window of our wobbling aircraft, I realised that I would probably never spend time in this bizarre purgatory ever again.
Wandering its empty streets, patting its stray dogs, bathing in its river, posing with its firefighters, joking with its airport staff. I honestly thought for a moment about how I would miss those moments and how deeply I appreciated the unexpected memories I had built over the past few days.
This Stockholm Syndrome evaporated immediately with the whirring of propellers and excited gasps as we finally escaped the tarmac and left Ramechhap behind. The plane meandered through the hills as it climbed, leaving the valley behind, and the hills slowly gave way to towering mountains.
The plane shook violently and swayed side-to-side through the turbulence but couldn’t break my focus. I stared out at the snow-capped peaks I had anticipated for years, breaking through the clouds on the horizon, and squinted at the rising sun. This was it. Everything I had been waiting for. All I had to do was survive the landing.
Landing is a very generous term for what can only be described as glorified falling. We caught a glimpse of the runway up ahead. It was almost laughable. Surrounded by mountains on all sides, we approached through the valley and headed directly for the cliff face. The runway sits so close to the edge of the cliff that departing flights essentially gain altitude by dropping off the runway at speed and hoping that the trajectory carries the plane forwards.
Arriving flights fly directly at the cliff face, relying on intense stopping power to prevent a nasty meeting with Lukla’s town walls. We bounced down onto the runway with such force that it threw everyone upwards in their seats as the pilot violently hit the brakes. The plane travelled a short distance uphill at speed before turning sharply into the parking area with such momentum that I half-expected the plane to flip onto its side.
“Welcome to Lukla”, said the pilot.
Eventually.
The immediate drop in temperature was hard to ignore. At an altitude of 2,680m, we were no longer in a sun-baked valley. The mountains shielded us from the intensity of the morning sun and I watched each breath dissipate into the cold morning air. We sought refuge in a local cafe to prepare our kit and feast on a warm breakfast. Fellow travellers shared stories of stunning views, diverse wildlife, cosy teahouses, and great company, while our tales of delay, lost baggage, and rough sleeping earned only pity.
Stomachs full and spirits high, we ventured out in warm clothes, ready to brave the cold. By then, the sun had risen above the peaks and Lukla blazed in bright light. A quick outfit change and dollop of sun cream were necessary despite some intense shivers just an hour earlier. Sharp weather changes would become a recurring theme of the trek, and this early U-turn was a reminder that the Himalayas had plenty of surprises in store.
We laughed as we climbed the first set of stairs, recalling the suffering it took to get here. My eyes wandered back towards the airport. Through the rugged, rusting metal fence, I looked back at the world’s most dangerous airport. It didn’t seem so dangerous after all. I watched a tiny plane hype itself up for departure. The engine screamed as it descended rapidly and dropped ambitiously off the runway into the valley below.
It vanished out of sight for just a second too long.
