The Everest Diaries: Part 5 (March, 2025)
Happy Hour
The town of Lukla (2,860m) would hardly look out of place in Switzerland. Multicoloured lodges and cafés snuggled side-by-side, with names like “Alpine Lodge,” “European Bakery,” and “Scottish Pub”, dwarfed by the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas that were now closer than ever.
The homogeneity of Lukla’s narrow streets was familiar: a lot of the exclusive gear that was available in Kathmandu was now displayed ironically in shopfronts, with higher price tags and less engaging hawkers. To be fair, after the journey we’d had, I think the delivery costs probably justified it. We passed through the town without wasting a moment. my eyes were fixated on the trail, desperate to begin the trip I had been counting down to for years.
The challenge of the day barely phased me. Because of the previous days of chaos and the urgent need to get back on schedule, the first day of hiking was now effectively the first two days. There was no better time to make up the difference: our battery was full – albeit lacking a few nights of quality sleep – spirits were high, altitudes were low, and we had arrived in Lukla with a full 12 hours of sunlight ahead.
If we could reach Namche Bazaar (3,440m), the largest town on our route, by sunset, we would only be one day behind and have an acclimatisation day to rest the following day. That meant hiking just under 15 kilometres with a net altitude change of 600m over the course of the day.
There was also one other important factor at play: our guide, who we expected to meet in Lukla, had already begun the uphill journey with another trekker who was part of our group. We needed to regroup with them as soon as possible to avoid any other disruptions, which, after our experience so far, required very little persuasion.
By this point, our Nepali family had grown again. We met a man who introduced himself as DK – Tali and Alan’s guide – who was probably the tallest Nepali I had met so far. A whopping 6’0”. He greeted us enthusiastically and his excitement was contagious, his gleaming smile disguising his weathered appearance earned from years of experience. DK explained that he had been working as a guide on this route for over 10 years, though his spirit and energy could have convinced us that he was doing it for the very first time himself.
He was accompanied by a porter who shyly introduced himself as he collected Tali and Alan’s bag. He was much shorter than DK and a lot more reserved. He wore a bright red neckerchief that masked his cobra-like neck. Despite being the smallest amongst the group, he was almost as wide as he was tall. I didn’t catch his full name other than the first syllable, which sounded something like “Dan”.
I greeted him warmly: “Dan the Man!” He matched my smile. DK explained that Dan didn’t speak English and translated his new nickname to him. Dan gave a warm embrace and seemed noticeably more engaged. He comfortably threw the 25kg duffel bag onto his back and stabilised the weight by leveraging one of the handles over his forehead. He was clearly the fittest in the group and, without a word, began hiking ahead of the group with his head down and the comically large bag mounted on him like a pack horse.
The guide system in Nepal seems fairly one-dimensional. As the youngest and least-experienced in the group, Dan was working as a porter to earn his stripes. Despite the incredible fitness and resilience required, porters are paid the least and largely rely on tips as the lion’s share of their income. DK described how working as a porter is a rite of passage and that he had begun his own career by carrying bags – and even doing deliveries en route – in order to get experience to become a guide, but also save the necessary cash to finance his government-approved certifications.
After qualifying as a guide, he supported treks with more experienced guides, before eventually leading his own groups by the time he was in his mid-thirties. It was a classic career ladder and Dan was just getting started.
I kept this in mind over the course of the trip as it could have been easy to let his company slip through the cracks due to the communication challenges. As we’d already found out, our new makeshift family was the core that helped us through some big challenges so far, and sticking together was going to be a big part of what was to come.
We passed through the Pasang Lhamu Gate, a humble stone archway leading down some jagged steps to the Tourist Permit Office – our last administrative hurdle. The office was simple: a small wooden desk where a frail lady dressed in a pristine police officer-style uniform effortlessly stamped some papers and handed over the necessary permits. That was it.
I was stunned. After 2 years living in Sri Lanka, I had become so desensitised to bureaucratic nightmares, delays, unnecessary questioning and tangential explanations. I stumbled around my words as she returned my papers, eventually mumbled a reserved “thank you”, and made for the door before she could change her mind.
The sun almost blinded me as I emerged from the office and I jumped out of my skin as a parade of horses carrying equipment circumvented our group. The bells around their neck jingled violently as they stumbled down the cobbled staircase. We had our permits and excitedly made for the trail. Happy hour was upon us, and we were ready for our 2-for-1.
Bhakda's Boys
The early stages of the hike led us between small mountainous villages scattered across the valley. The trail to Namche is a simple route that follows the banks of the Dudh Koshi – or the “Milk River”, aptly named after its white-washed colour caused by glacial sediment – winding through beautiful forests and up into the mountains. DK told us that anything with trees on it is a hill, not a mountain.
I glanced around me. We were surrounded by trees. Even at over 3,000m above sea level, by DK’s definition, we weren’t even in the mountains yet. Just Nepali hills. I shivered at the thought of what was to come – actually, it was probably just the wind chill.
Ahead, the trail disappeared behind the hills into the shadows of the real mountains. That’s where we were heading. We continued through smaller villages and crossed vibrantly decorated footbridges, draped in multicoloured Buddhist prayer sheets that bless the surrounding land as the wind passes through them.
The trail meandered higher, and each bridge carried us over the crashing white waters below. As we climbed, the trail became more rugged and loose rocks regularly slipped away from under my feet, throwing me disproportionately off balance on account of the heavy backpack digging into my shoulders.
Jez and I had opted against hiring a porter, mainly on the grounds of “if you can pack it, you can carry it.” So far, we could. Decorated with little more than a Sri Lankan flag as an ode to old times, my backpack kept my pace steady and reminded me of the uphill challenge, with each set of stairs testing my balance and threatening to send me tumbling back down again.
We encountered groups of school children in matching cotton sweatshirts and wooly hats patrolling the trail. Smiles and comically exaggerated waves turned greetings into mini performances, with each enthusiastic “hello” prolonging the enthusiasm on the trail.
One particularly friendly boy, no older than eight, threw a football in my direction and I couldn’t resist a quick kick-about, passing it back-and-forth to the delight of the local shopkeepers who peered out to observe the commotion. It was the first time I kicked a football in 2 months. I was probably more excited than the kids scurrying around me, who constantly attempted to kick the ball through my legs and scuff my hiking boots.
The game was brief as one overly-excited kid volleyed the ball over a makeshift stone wall into the garden, which brought a roar of laughter from his mischievous friends and a subtle sigh of disappointment from me. That was my cue to keep walking.
We left the villages behind and a stunning silence descended. The intermittent crashing of white water was accompanied by the distant jingle of bells that stalked us on our way up the trail, and the serenity of our surroundings brought calmness to the group. We were now engulfed by the natural beauty of Sagarmatha National Park and every step felt lighter as I became more and more distracted by the evolution of nature around me.
The river took a sharp turn and the trail followed. I carefully navigated the eroding path and clambered up some steep stairs that brought me out over the brow of the hill. The trail was now becoming increasingly more dusty, and slight bursts of wind lifted the sediment up into the air and coated my arms and forehead in a thin layer of sand.
I looked up and wiped some dust from my brow, adjusted my backpack and stopped dead in my tracks. Jez was just a few steps behind me and heard my overly dramatic gasp. Staring back at me was a real Nepali mountain.
I’m not exactly sure what it was that made this specific mountain so memorable, especially given that I’d already seen so many snow-capped peaks on my way to this point. Yet, this goliath dominated the scenery, overlooking the surrounding hills with tiny houses huddled at its feet. I stood in awe for a moment. I was intimidated by the scale and stature of the mountains.
I perched on an uncomfortable rock at the side of the trail, watching intently, breaking eye-contact only to take a drink and snap a photo of this idyllic landscape. It also gave me a discrete excuse for a break, which had become increasingly necessary as the trail became steeper and my legs got heavier.
A gentle Nepali man emerged from the trees on the trail ahead of us, his vibrant blue coat a stark contrast to the rest of our surroundings. His face lit up when he saw us, and he greeted DK with a firm handshake before swiftly turning towards us. His appearance was initially masked by his hat and buff, which he hastily removed to greet us with a cheeky grin. He introduced himself as Bhakda – our guide for the trail.
The third hiker in our group – Jon – had reached Lukla on time, so he had taken him to Namche before powering back down the hills to meet us. I admired his dedication, but more importantly his fitness, as he continued on with a spring in his step that we sorely lacked. I distracted myself from my aching legs by asking endless questions about Bhakda’s life, his experiences and everything he loved about the mountains.
Bhakda – much like DK – began as a porter before training to become a guide. He comes from a village near Lukla, where his wife and children live among many families working in tourism and subsistence agriculture. Bhakda described the competitive nature of the tourism sector, with countless guides and tour companies competing to serve the international tourists who flock to the Himalayas.
This meant that he spent most nights away from home, carrying his possessions in a backpack and hiking demanding trails to provide for his family. Many guides and porters grow up at high altitudes, familiar from childhood with extreme weather, rugged terrain, and the evolution of the tourist trail.
In these remote towns, subsistence farming remains the backbone of household survival, requiring men like Bhakda to leave home in search of income and better opportunities. With the growth of the Everest Base Camp trail, tourism has become a vital lifeline for local families.
I thought a lot about this as Bhakda opened up about his career. This is often where I find it difficult to find the balance between being an economist and a tourist. On one hand, tourism obviously creates so many jobs and opportunities in these otherwise isolated regions. It injects money from outside that is exchanged for a service that simply cannot be recreated anywhere else.
These unique treks, combined with local hospitality, attract tourists from all across the world, including myself, to pay handsomely for a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For families like Bhakda’s, this can be life-changing. I caught a glimpse of this as he spoke about his children’s ambitions to work beyond their village in pursuit of a better quality of life.
Yet, as we climbed higher and the thunder of helicopters echoed across the hills, it reminded me that the evolution of tourism comes at a cost. Bhakda described how many places along the route were unrecognisable from his childhood. Even though he expressed gratitude for his work, income and his experiences, a subtle disappointment lingered in his words.
Maybe I was overthinking it, I thought, as I passed a sign advertising Namche’s Irish Pub.
The final few hours of the trek were brutal. It became obvious why this stretch is normally spread across two days. My legs were weakening and the twists and turns paled into insignificance when compared with the intense gradient of the trail.
The sun had softened, and navigating through intermittent shade brought slight shivers as the breeze serenaded the sweat on my back. The path narrowed and the rugged blue pine trees towered higher and higher above us as we climbed. We stopped regularly for water breaks and our breathing became noticeably heavier on account of the dust and thinning oxygen.
We clambered around a fallen tree lying peacefully with its branches in the river. The water splashed up and cleaned the scuffs from my hiking boots as the setting sun repainted them orange.
The silence was broken by DK who blasély announced “Mount Everest”. I perked up immediately and ran alongside him, my bag doing everything it could to hold me back. Broken branches and patchy clouds perfectly framed my first sight of the tallest mountain on earth.
That split-second sight reinvigorated all of us. we breezed through the final hour of the hike and arrived in the vibrant town of Namche Bazaar with a spring in our step. After 9 hours of hiking, the sense of achievement was phenomenal. I was excited for what was to come, but relieved that tomorrow would be a well-earned rest.
At the town’s entrance, I spun the golden prayer wheels on the sacred white stupa, looking up at the strange patchwork of houses clinging to the mountainous landscape.
This was the gateway to the Himalayas.
