The Everest Diaries: Part 6 (March, 2025)
"Nice to Meet You!"
Namche Bazaar is a quaint mountain town. Its multicoloured houses climb further and further up the hill to form a circle around the centre, watching over its narrow disjointed streets like spectators in a colosseum. The southern entrance to the town follows a small stream that powers prayer wheels spinning endlessly to the rhythm of flowing water.
Goats and yaks graze in an empty volleyball court that acts as a makeshift pen. As the hill gets steeper, small shops, restaurants and mountain-themed guesthouses emerge from the shadows of its narrow lanes.
The town also boasts custody of the “world’s highest Irish pub”, its interior decorated with Irish flags, enormous canvases of rock music icons, a pool table and even a locally-brewed craft beer. Strangely, though, it didn’t seem out of place at all.
Namche itself is lively and has developed as a commercial hub for the Everest Base Camp trek, with high-end outdoor stores, relatively expensive restaurants and advertisements for karaoke, happy hours and free WiFi. The town has fairly stable supply chains and acts as the final resting point on the trail that can provide home comforts, access to more luxurious essentials, and, apparently, a pint of Guinness.
As a result, Namche has become the main point for an acclimatisation day on the Everest Base Camp trail. At an altitude of 3,440m, the town is strategically positioned to allow trekkers to spend 2 nights at a relatively high elevation, building resilience against the pressures of altitude sickness.
The most effective way to do this is to hike to a higher altitude during the day, which stimulates red blood cell production and increases oxygen intake, before resting at a lower altitude where exposure is not so severe. The plan for the following day was to take on a small hike without our bags, visit some local points of interest, and enjoy the relative luxuries before venturing deeper into the mountains.
We settled into the guesthouse for dinner and were greeted by Jon – the missing piece in Bhakda’s jigsaw. Upon discovering that Jon would be joining us, Jez and I made a conscious effort to integrate him into what could otherwise become a sort-of “third wheel” situation, accompanying two long-term friends on their adventure. Compounding this with three days of family-building with our other fellow hikers, we wanted to make the dynamic as welcoming and unintimidating as possible.
Although Jon came across as fairly reserved at first, our shared motivation for the trek made conversation easy, and it quickly felt like a natural fit. The three of us sat down for dinner and, despite our earlier conversations that day, Bhakda appeared fairly shy, as if deterred by our joint enthusiasm. We were breaking the ice and wanted him to feel included, so I flashed my Newcastle United-themed playing cards as a means of invitation to the table.
His eyes lit up. He immediately grabbed the cards, removed an ace from the pack, threw a handful of cards in our direction and jaggedly described a game that he and the other Nepali guides played endlessly on their travels. It involved playing pairs into the middle and blindly picking a card from someone else in the group. The person with the ace at the end loses. It was a simple game that passed the time – but also revealed Bhakda’s soon-to-be catchphrase for the trip.
Each time he picked a card and made another pair, he shot up from his chair and slammed the cards down on the table with a dramatic shout of “Nice to meet you!”, at times barely getting the words out between giggles. Before long, our civilised game of cards evolved into a boisterous shouting match, breaching the otherwise calm dining atmosphere with laughter, shouts, and groans.
A few other guides joined our table, a few beers were ordered, and heads turned to watch as “Bhakda’s Boys” launched into their first team-building exercise.
False Advertising
The following morning I woke up to what would become a recurring theme. Tired legs, dry lips, a runny nose, and an unwillingness to emerge from the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag.
I glanced at my phone: 07:15am. -3°C.
The room was basic: it consisted of two twin beds, a miniature cracked window rendered obsolete by thick frost, a mould-cloaked plug socket, and a few coat hangers. The thin walls had absorbed the night’s cold and the steam of our breath lingered in the air as our oxygen-deprived lungs fought the sub-zero temperatures to inject life into our aching bodies.
I had slept incredibly well, grateful to the intensely vivid dreams brought on by the altitude medication, and stumbled downstairs into the dining area, where I was met by a rush of furnace heat and the collective warmth of other feasting travellers.
Breakfast was underwhelming, with a gallon of hot chocolate doing most of the heavy lifting, but it managed to suppress the discomfort of my leaking lungs. The sun had risen over Namche and the crisp blue sky was only disrupted by the whiffs of smoke springing from distant chimneys further into the hills. I coughed at the thought of it.
We regrouped with the rest of our Nepali family – who were staying in nearby guesthouses – for our day’s hike, which involved a short expedition to the Sagarmatha National Park Museum on the edge of town. The centre housed storyboards depicting the region’s history of exploration, the lives of Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary – the first people to summit Mount Everest – and the cultural heritage of the Sherpa people, indigenous to the Nepali highlands.
I was impressed and reassured by the museum, which is visited by nearly every trekker passing through the town. Even with the commercial development of Namche and the constant push to cater for foreign interests, the museum preserved and prioritised authenticity. Our guides enthusiastically spoke about local communities and the rich cultural heritage that is the backbone of life in the National Park region.
My usual cynicism was genuinely softened by hope – that initiatives like this might leave hikers more grateful and aware of the quiet sacrifices made by ordinary people to enable them to experience one of the world’s most beautiful and remote regions.
We brushed past an unimpressive statue of Tenzing Norgay and hiked across the north side of town, passing small plots of farmland and weathered houses. The grassy hill evolved into yet another rugged trail. As we clambered up towards the many false summits, every step kicked up dust that was carried away by the chilling wind and the force of helicopters landing along the route. The path hugged the hillside (I remembered they were hills because they had trees) and guided us along the edge of the valley.
In the distance, towering above the rest of the hills, stood Ama Dablam – “Mother Holding Baby” – as Bhakda and DK translated. The clue is in the name: its jagged, disjointed ridge lines are said to resemble a mother shielding her child from the fury of the surrounding peaks.
I watched as the mountain dwarfed the range below, becoming our constant focal point as the trail unfolded – each bend revealing a new face of this extravagant giant. It is undeniably beautiful, and remains my favourite mountain on the trail so far – though, cards on the table, and not to spoil any etymological romance, but it doesn’t look like a woman holding a baby.
Seriously. I’ve really tried. The closest I have got is a West Highland Terrier looking up into the clouds.
After one final scramble, we reached the Everest View Hotel – an iconic “luxury” hotel, priced as much for its name as for its view. We ventured through its unremarkable lobby, greeted by some freshly arriving helicopter tourists ironically decorated in expensive hiking gear. Catching my reflection in the window as we settled on the patio, I saw my knock-off hiking gear coated in a layer of dust.
I did some mental gymnastics to to blame my dirtiness on the laziness of my propeller-powered counterparts, despite only really feeling their wrath on a concrete, dust-free helipad. Whatever.
I was in desperate need of a breather. The hike had been far more demanding than expected for a so-called rest day, most likely due to the elevation change, so we got comfortable on a shaky picnic bench with a jug of hot coffee and a plate of excessively sugary biscuits.
Clouds gathered around the mountain peaks in the distance and the Everest View Hotel was certainly not living up to its name. Heavy gusts of wind pushed clouds across the horizon and lifted snow from the visible peaks, swirling it around like smoke from these chimneys of the sky.
We sat patiently, slurping on our hot drinks, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mount Everest in all its glory. It was at this point that Bhakda revealed that “Sagarmatha” – the Nepali name for Everest – literally translates to “The Forehead of the Sky”, in reference to Mount Everest’s towering presence above the Himalayas. I hoped that the sky would soon wipe the sweat from its brow to reveal this impressive forehead. The wind was rising and the coffee was cooling fast.
Even with slight breaks in the clouds, a clear view of Everest seemed ambitious, so we resorted to our first all-family photo – with a nonetheless beautiful backdrop. We handed over our cameras to some fellow hikers with shouts of “nice to meet you!” in the Bhakground, which brought laughter in sync with the shutter.
We couldn’t review the shot from our film camera, so we simply hoped that Bhakda’s magic had unveiled the elusive peak.
I turned back to admire the view once more. A fleeting gap in the clouds revealed Everest – just for a split second. I was engulfed again – but before I could even consider scrambling for my camera, it was gone.
Much to the frustration of the hotel’s PR team, our photo featured no “Everest View”. Still, we had captured our first all-family photo, and no amount of clouds could ruin that.
Sacrifices
We returned to Namche for a rather lethargic afternoon of last-minute shopping, re-packing and rest. As the sun began to set and the cold descended on the town, we sought refuge in the guesthouse for another night of card games, hot drinks and a hearty meal.
As we tucked into what the menu described as a “yak burger”, Bhakda told us that, from tomorrow, we would be vegetarian. With limited access to electricity – and therefore refrigeration – he encouraged us to avoid the risk of illness by stripping our diets back to carb-heavy, meat-free meals that prioritised energy over indulgence. Every meal for the next 9 days would be strictly utilitarian.
I didn’t think twice before ordering – and inhaling – a chocolate brownie. After all, Namche was the last-chance saloon. Exhausted, full, and eager to escape the cold, I retired early for another long night’s sleep.
As I climbed the creaky stairs of the guesthouse, a low rumble of voices drifted down the corridor. A small door – no higher than chest height – sat slightly ajar, its chipped wood barely concealing the hum of conversations coming from the other side. Intrigued, I slowed down and examined the entrance, which resembled that of a cupboard more than a typical bedroom door.
At that moment, the door flung open and I jumped backwards in fright as Bhakda scurried out to face me. Although I appeared engaged in our conversation, my eyes were fixated on the room from which he had emerged. Half the size and height of our basic room, without a window or any furniture, a cluster of 8 men lay side by side on the floor in sleeping bags, on roll mats, or in full hiking gear, pressed up against one another for warmth.
Bhakda’s spirits were high. He reminded me to drink plenty of water, take my altitude medication, and avoid sleeping on my back – “better for breathing”, he said. My responses were fragmented but I managed to fumble out a simple “good night” before dragging myself to my room.
I was stunned. I lay awake for a while, reflecting on how lucky I was to call this adventure a holiday. For the guides, porters and countless others who made this expedition possible, it was an uncomfortable, repetitive, and far-from-glamorous journey – yet one that was essential for their livelihood and their family’s wellbeing.
I felt deeply grateful for the kindness and hospitality I had received so far, and overwhelmed by the quiet sacrifices made by those who perfected our adventure and welcomed us into their beautiful homeland.
My bed felt particularly comfortable that night.
