I Expected Desert – Busride from Manali to Leh, India

I was as prepared for the journey from Manali to Leh, India, as my parents were for my birth. When I was born, they hadn’t had a baby shower, my mom hadn’t had Lamaze classes, and my dad was intoxicated from a Christmas party.

As I entered the jeep at two o’clock in the morning in sandals, see-through emerald Aladdin pants, and an onyx tank-top, the man who took my luggage said the seventeen-hour drive to Leh would probably be cold. I told him not to worry, I had the skin of the Hulk, and I’d manage.

If the man had just said the word “Snow,” I might have prepared myself as if I were climbing Mount Everest. However, I slipped off my sandals and fell asleep in the front seat of the jeep as content as Barbie.

Prayer Flags over the Baralacha Pass

I awoke three hours later to snowflakes ambushing my feet like the Japanese bombarded Pearl Harbor. I thought Leh was surrounded by desert. My uncovered toes resembled eggplants. Replacing my sandals was as productive as sleeping in a one-on-one meeting, which I have done.

I reconnaissanced the range and resolved that the driver’s window was open because he was using it to see the road. Solidified snow and withered windshield wipers obstructed his vision as effectively as a lion lying across the hood of the car.

In the seats behind me, two Aussies adorned in five layers of clothing were shivering like three-year-old baboons bathing in glacier water. The Brit’s lips were grapes and his body was as immovable as London. All I could detect of the two French was the blanket they had over their heads. The Israelis were incapable of speech but repeatedly paraded their fingers from a Nutella jar to their tongues.

The Traveler Jeep had no four-wheel-drive and our driver had no chains.

By leering through my window, the driver’s open window, and the frostbitten windshield, I gleaned that three feet of snow screened the road, we were one jeep in a caravan of four, and sheer cliffs surrounded us. To my left was an extreme incline and three feet from the right side of the road was the edge. I couldn’t conceive the ground. Apparently the driver was under the impression that proceeding through the Abominable Snowman’s land without any blizzard apparatus for vehicles was a good idea.

When he halted between two wooden shacks our driver departed without instruction. Anchored to our seats, we regarded each other with bewilderment paralleling my first experience with a banana.

As we emerged from our igloo, my feet submerged in snow like Britney Spears’ self-esteem after she shaved her head and attacked a paparazzo with an umbrella.

The tent community we stayed at overnight

I scuttled with my fellow frozen sufferers to the nearest doorway and catapulted myself onto the nearest bench with the lithe of one who accidentally triggered a tyrannosaurus tranquilizer into their trachea. We were in a home that ostensibly converted into a restaurant during the day. Beds at night became seats in the day.

”Hypothermia,” the Brit moaned with tears in his eyes as he sat down, sounding more like a woman in labor than a trim twenty-two-year-old.

”Frostbite,” I replied as I felt feces festering.

When I requested a toilet location, I was told “Open.”

”Open” indicates that there is none. “Open” embodies wilderness. “Open” means you’re shit out of luck.
As I contemplated whether I could prolong the inevitable excrement another four hours when I surmised our next stop might be, one of the Israelis entered with a smile and a pair of yak wool socks in his hand.

Without words, the Aussies and I dashed out the door, through the snow, and across the street to the only other shelter in eyesight. The Brit hobbled in and railed rupees at the proprietor as we completed our purchases. He didn’t speak. I put on the socks with Michael Phelps speed and we clumped back to our chai.

Forty-five minutes later we still hadn’t seen our driver. He had been spurring through snow and reeling roads for ten hours. We concluded he must be sleeping. After four rounds of chai and an hour and a half he reappeared like the grim reaper. He nodded towards the jeep and trudged off.

“Toilet” stop in the wilderness

As the Aussies, French, Israelis, and Brit filed past me the excrement congregated in my body, threatening to blaze like the Big Bang. I bound behind the building to find sheets of snow and no barriers to bend behind. Panicking like a schitzo as my anus leaked liquid waste, I lowered my loose, transparent Aladdin pants and perched near a concrete step.

Poop projected from my ass with the force of a sperm whale’s ejaculation. I couldn’t cease the deluge any more than I could speak Mandarin, interpret Arabic, and dream in Japanese simultaneously. I sighed with the contentment I would convey should I scrutinize a hot air balloon in the shape of a penis. I looked around for toilet paper. I distinguished with dismay that I was on the back deck of the house. There was snow and a leaf stack, and my hippopotamus-sized stool sat three steps from the backdoor. The jeep’s honk honed in my ears. I launched some leaves over my discharge, stoned some snow into my posterior, and duck-waddled to the jeep, my socked feet shoved into my sandals and cold creeping through my bottom.

Ten minutes later I observed discoloration on my right pant leg. I had excreta on my pants and sandals, melted snow in my underwear, and wore a tank-top in a snowstorm.

Our caravan continued with the persistence of telemarketers. The two-wheel-drive Traveler Jeeps persevered through the three-foot snow until they slid from the road like vehicles on ice skates. Once the glide generated, the automobile reversed until the wheels wedded with the snow-covered concrete cleared minutes before. The three vehicles trailing reversed in a four-car retreat that resembled ducks doddering backwards.

One man materialized like Harry Potter and with a Neanderthal shovel, spaded the snow from the path until the jeep found a foothold. The jeep drove for six feet before spilling from the street again. Harry Potter would reappear, shovel and disappear, only to manifest five minutes later. His shovel doubled the prized possession of a caveman and looked like the metal had been fastened to the wooden shaft with string. In two hours we progressed two hundred meters. The Indians were apparently under the impression that a bulldozer and chains were unnecessary. Our passage over the 16,020 foot Baralacha Pass made as much sense as Sylvester Stallone naming his son Sage Moonblood.

The Manali-Leh highway

Although my sheer pants provided as much warmth as an icicle, I adjudicated that as I wasn’t afflicted with explosive diarrhea or barking bloody feces, I was as happy as an orphan adopted by Oprah Winfrey. The other passengers didn’t share my enthusiasm.

The French remained immersed in their blanket, the Brit was reduced to an infantile state, and the Aussies were so assured of our impending death that one of them deemed it logical to smoke a joint in the snow to tranquilize himself into a soothed state. Instead, as we skidded over the snow towards the edge of the cliff, he assumed the cracked character of one with Paranoid Personality Disorder.

When our driver desisted driving at eight o’clock at night, I asked what was happening. Earlier, while we had sat like perplexed dung beetles, he had exited the vehicle for twenty minutes to have a conversation and for ten minutes to relieve himself. He replied that we were staying the night at the surrounding tent community.

”Excuse me, but can we please get our bags down from the roof? A few of us have sleeping bags,” the French female requested.

”Ya, I actually have a shirt with sleeves in my bag,” I said.

”No, bags stay on roof,” he said and then stalked off like Hitler.

The Brit cried.

We crept into what looked like a circus tent to discover a stove and sleeping areas.

“Blanket,” the Brit said and thrust money at the owner. He burrito-wrapped himself and then pronounced, “Chai,” between shivering lips. The rest of us relapsed in conversation while he curled into the fetal position.

The next day the snow shifted to desert and our progression was impeded by road blockades and detours instead of arctic conditions more suitable for polar bears than Westerners. Our journey, originally supposed to last seventeen hours, endured for thirty-two. We later learned that the pass closed as we were on it.

Cheap Southeast Asia: How to Pretend You’re Rich in Bangkok

Bangkok is ‘fake it’ central. It’s a city where pretending you’re something you’re not has become a way of life. Everywhere you go, you’ll see fake designer purses, watches, shoes, suits; you name it, and Bangkok has it in all the colors.

So what better way to spend a day in Bangkok than to pretend you’re rich? If you do it right, it’s totally affordable, and fun.

Tip: Don’t forget to bring a change of outfit – rich people never wear the same clothes all day.

There are so many ways to do it, but we’ve put together a sample ‘Fake it Til You Make it’ day in Bangkok:

Start on Khao San Road

This is the place to buy your designer dress or jacket, your essential overly large sunglasses, and your chunky jewelry, chic hats, and ritzy belts. You can get top-notch designer knock-offs here for cheap, cheap, cheap.

Tip: always start bargaining at 50 percent or less of the quoted price. Just because you’re pretending to be rich doesn’t mean you have to pay more!

Taxi downtown: No rich person would ever be seen on a bus or in a tuktuk. Taxis are cheap (just remember to insist on a meter!), and the air-conditioning is essential to keep you looking fresh and at your best.

Tip: Don’t bother taking the highway – you’ll have to pay a toll and it’s far more scenic to take the long route. Besides, you’re not in any hurry.

Get designer shopping bags at Central World

You will be shocked by what a difference it makes to carry designer shopping bags around. Everyone treats you with more respect if they see D&G or some other posh name on your bag. Just pop in to the fanciest-looking shops and ask for a bag.

The stiff ones are best because it’s easy to disguise their lack of content. If the shop attendant asks what it’s for, them him or her that you’re doing a photo shoot, or something equally glamorous.

Tip: Now that you’ve got these bags, you’re far more likely to be accosted by beggars and street vendors who will see dollar signs in your eyes. If you can swing it, 10 baht (about 30 US cents) can be a huge help for that woman and her small children looking up at you with those big, sad eyes.

Make your way to the Siam Center’s Gourmet Market via the Skywalk

Here you will be able to dine on gourmet foods for not much more than you’d pay on the street. The place is full of rich-looking cakes and pastries, as well as healthier fare, including salads and gigantic sandwiches.

You’ll definitely find something to suit your taste, and you’ll feel so much more posh in the ritzy air-conditioned indoor market than you would getting pad thai from a street-side stand for about the same price.

Suggestion: spring rolls for 50 baht (about US$1.50) and tapioca pudding for 40 baht (about US$1.20).

Tip: Snack on an appetizer of free samples, which are everywhere here.

Rolexes and Guess bags at MBK

MBK is a massive shopping complex that is the place to get your fake designer handbags and watches. It’s 8 stories filled with over 2,500 different shops, many of them specializing in electronics, but there are also plenty that specialize in fashion knock-offs.

The rip-offs are among the most realistic this writer has seen in this side of the world (Hong Kong included). It’s like Khao San Road on steroids.

Cruise through the stores and take note of your favorite things before you make your purchase, because you may find a better and cheaper version in the store next door.

Tip: Take note of where you enter. It’s easy to get lost in MBK.

Stroll through Vimanek Mansion

It’s far cheaper than a visit to the Grande Palace (100 baht (about US$3) compared to 350 baht), and just as nice. See how the rich kings lived as you tour through their palace rooms.

A guided English tour is included in the price. Check out the gorgeous gold and mother-of-pearl meditation chair used by very posh monks (unfortunately, you won’t be able to sit in it).

Tip: Remember to bring something to cover your shoulders and wear knee-length slacks or skirts.

Get a street-side massage

You must be tired: Why not relax how the rich do? Get a street-side massage for 200 baht (about US$6). Let the Thai masseuses work their magic on your aching muscles. After your long and strenuous outing, it will feel particularly divine.

Tip: Avoid the ritzy-looking tourist-trap places, and head for an outdoor massage station. The massage will be just as nice (if not better), and everyone who walks by will see you getting pampered, thereby adding to your upper-class credibility.

Enjoy some wine

Some vino? Now you really get to experience rich life. Looking your finest, stroll through the gates of the ritzy boutique hotel Ma Du Zi around 5:30 for their after-work wine promotion.

Pay 650 baht (about US$20) and get as many wine refills as you like until 8:30pm. Ladies get a free canapé. The place is tricky to find, but if you head to Asoke Sky Train station, and ask around, you’ll be sure to be pointed in the right direction.

Tip: But be careful with how much wine you consume; it’s not classy to get too drunk.

Pretend you’re a celebrity at Skybar

This famous Bangkok lounge is a favourite hang-out of the ultra high class and celebrities. Not only that, but at 60 floors up, it offers an impeccable view of the entire city.

It’s almost worth the 450 baht (about US$15) you’ll have to pay for the cocktail. But if the view isn’t enough, rubbing elbows with high society will definitely give you a taste of how the other side live.

Tip: Enjoy the free pre-peeled pistachios – the bowl will be refilled when you get to the bottom.

Of course, it’s all in the attitude. Walk around like you’re worth it, and people will think it’s true. So, what are you waiting for? Go see how the other side live.

All photos courtesy of Kaila Krayewski, except MBK, by maistora on Flickr

15 of the Best Expat Blogs

Of all the entertaining varieties of travel blogs out there, there’s one category that sets itself apart in a way that I find most appealing – and that’s the expat blog. I’m a wannabe expat myself, so clearly that’s part of the draw for me, but I also think the way an expat approaches blogging is inherently different from any other travel blogger. In fact, many of them wouldn’t even consider themselves travel bloggers, and there’s a good reason for that.

It’s because they’re not.

Being an expat blogger can mean writing about cultural observations about one’s chosen home, or about the new cafe or shop or museum one discovers in the getting-to-know-you phase of living in a different place. But once you’re settled in, it can be hard to continue to look at where you live as a traveler might. Which is why so many expat blogs are one part travel guide, one part cultural anthropology class, and one part “what I had for breakfast” blog.

Obviously, with this kind of ingredient list it takes a good writer (or photographer) to keep things interesting. So in this article I want to highlight a few of what I think are the best expat blogs out there.

15 of the Best Expat Blogs (in No Particular Order)

Miss Expatria (Rome & Montpellier) – Christine Cantera, AKA Miss Expatria, is one of my favorite bloggers, period. She’s hysterically funny but also unfailingly charming with her enthusiasm for everything. She’s like a kid in the candy store of the world, and no matter where she is she’s in love with something enough to tell you about it. Reading her blog, you feel like you’re chatting with an old friend over coffee. Or wine. Or both.

David Lebovitz: Living the Sweet Life in Paris (Paris) – David’s a food writer who lives in Paris, so the blog is equal parts food porn and Parisian (sweet) life. His cultural observations are amusing as well as interesting, and a recent post about what he’d miss if he moved away from Paris was particularly enlightening. (His Twitter updates are immensely entertaining as well.)

Alexandre Gervais (Tokyo) – Alexandre Gervais’ self-titled blog is a showcase for his photography, and what beautiful photography it is. He’s from Montreal, and moved to Japan to learn Japanese – thankfully he’s also a top-notch photographer who enjoys sharing his surroundings with the rest of the world. The words are minimal on the site, but the pictures are huge; and, for photo-geeks, the technical details of each picture are provided, too.

Traveling Mama (Morocco) – Tina and her family are, technically speaking, in the middle of something of a round-the-world trip. It’s just that they’ve been in Morocco since early 2007 and her husband runs a language school there – so I think it’s probably more accurate to call them expats than travelers at the moment. Either way, the blog is beautiful (the fact that Tina’s husband is also a skilled photographer doesn’t hurt!) and the writing lovely.

Danish Accent (Portland) – One of the best things about an expat blog is the potential for seeing your own home country in a new way, so finding expat blogs in the United States is particularly fun – especially when that blogger lives part-time in your home city, too! Peter Fogtdal is an author who splits his time between Copenhagen in his native Denmark and Portland, Oregon, where he’s a literature and writing professor. His blog includes posts about his travels and cultural observations, as well as information about the books he’s written.

Still Life in South America (Buenos Aires) – As the about page of this blog states, it’s “part travel journal and part resource for fellow travelers,” which is a pretty good combination for an expat blog. It’s written by an American writer and English professor who moved to South America in early 2008 with her husband in order to learn Spanish, and they’ve lived in Buenos Aires since mid-2009. You may never know the name of “the writer,” but the writing is great, and the photos are plentiful.

Isoglossia (Slovenia & Bulgaria) – I’m oddly drawn to Isoglossia, despite it feeling like it’s more about things like potty-training and other child-rearing topics than about travel, because the author is bitingly funny. John is an American who recently moved his family from Slovenia to Sofia, Bulgaria, so it’s possible the new environs will inspire more travel-esque posts in the future. Even if that’s not the case, however, the site is worth stopping by for a good chuckle now and then (as is the Twitter feed). And any travel trivia freak will be happy to know just what an isogloss is.

Rome Photo Blog (Rome) – There’s no shortage of “daily photo blogs,” but I particularly like Jessica Stewart’s. She’s a talented photographer who has a knack for spotting things in her adopted city that you might miss if you were just passing through (she’s particularly fascinated by street art). Looking at her photos makes me look at my surroundings, wherever I am, in a new way – which is a great attitude to have whether you’re traveling or not.

Diary of a White Indian Housewife (Mumbai) – Sharell met the man of her dreams in a Kolkata nightclub while on leave from her job in Melbourne, and that changed her life forever. They got married and moved to Mumbai, where she is – as the blog title indicates – a “white Indian housewife” who writes about travel in India for About.com and about life in India on her blog. There are cultural observations, travel tips, and tidbits about daily life – and there are also lots of pictures.

Le Franco Phoney (La Clusaz) – As you can probably tell from the cute blog name, this blogger has a sense of humor. Australian April Hollands moved to the French Alps after two stints living in England in order to be closer to snow (she loves winter sports), and has been blogging since mid-2008. April’s a writer with a background in journalism, but don’t worry about getting overwhelmed by hard-hitting serious topics on her blog. You’ll find more in the way of funny observations about life in France on the blog than anything else, and that’s one of the things that makes it so delightful.

Touching Up My Roots (Croatia) – This blog is about one American family’s journey tracing ancestral roots in Mrkopalj, Croatia. The blog’s author, Jennifer, is the one with the Croatian family ties, but her husband and their two kids are along for the adventure, too. There’s evidently a book in the works, but you can follow along before publication on Jen’s Croatia blog – full of photos and colorful local personalities. And for fun, check out the kids’ blog, too.

From Russia With Love (Rostov-on-Don) – Eileen Emch is a missionary in “the largest city in southwest Russia,” Rostov-on-Don, and has lived there since 1999. She’s been blogging since 2006, and her blog is full of observations on both the local culture and what travel is like in the former Soviet Union. She’s an experienced and eager traveler (not to mention an eager blogger), and she takes lots of pictures.

Living in Egypt (Cairo) – As Maryanne Stroud Gabbani says on her website, “I have experienced Egypt myself as a tourist and then as someone living here on a day to day basis. I know the difference.” Maryanne’s been in Egypt since the 1980s, blogging since 2003, and she now leads horseback riding tours in Giza. Her perspectives as both a long-time local and yet still an outsider make for an interesting read.

Emilie Johnson (Paris) – There’s a nice mixture on this blog of travel tidbits and what Emilie’s daily life is like in Paris, plus she takes lovely photos. The cast of characters includes her French husband and his adorable daughter as well as her in-laws, so you get a feel for French family life in addition to expat life. Read up on Parisian life quickly, though, as it appears Emilie’s returning to New York (with her French family in tow) in early 2010. Let’s just hope she keeps blogging.

Ahoy, Hanoi! (Hanoi) – Although the author of this blog is starting to bounce around a bit location-wise, he’s still firmly outside his home country and pretty funny no matter where he is. Ben August had planned to spend six months in Hanoi, but then he met a girl – you know how that goes. He ended up staying for more than a year, and even returned after traveling for awhile. Ben’s got a great sense of humor, and posts lots of photos and video of his life in Vietnam and his travels throughout the region.

Finding Expat Bloggers

We’ve all heard how everyone has a blog these days, and sometimes that feels true – which is why I said this is only a list of some of the great expat blogs out there. There are, as you might expect, a kajillion (that’s a technical term) expat blogs, and a huge number of them are really interesting.

If you’re looking for more expat blogs, one handy place to look – especially if you’re looking for blogs in a specific location – is the Expat Blogs site. You can find blogs by country, and you can also find information about living in that country.

And if your favorite expat blog wasn’t included in this list above, please let us know what it is in the comments section below. We love finding out about new expats worth following.

About the Author

BootsnAll staff writer Jessica Spiegel is midway through the excessively long paperwork process involved in becoming a legal immigrant to Italy, and in the meantime she continues to write about Italy travel for BnA on WhyGo Italy. You can also find her on Twitter @italylogue.

photo by mangpages

Gasometer in Oberhausen

View from halfway up the blast furnace at Landschaftpark Duisburg-Nord

Speeding through the Berchtesgaden salt mine on a miniature train

I’ve been up the mountain and I had a choice – Huayna Potosi, Bolivia

I have just returned from Huayna Potosi and my initial feelings are that I will be a happier man if I never set eyes on it again. I still feel physically terrible from the ordeal, quite simply it was the hardest thing I have ever done.

The Author

There turned out to be seven of us who were gluttons for punishment; three Israeli’s, one of them a girl and each with equally unpronounceable names, a red-haired Australian called Scott who confessed he’d never actually seen snow in the flesh so to speak, a Frenchmen named Julian, and James and myself (two fine upstanding Englishmen). Throughout the entire kitting up process and drive to the first “refuge”, everyone’s spirits were noticeably high as we shared a few jokes in the minibus. Though I became a bit worried we might be out of depth when we encountered a group of Brazilian mountaineers there preparing to climb the mountain as part of their training for an Everest expedition next year!

Leading us were a group of three experienced mountaineers, all indigenous Bolivians, Quechua-speaking save for a smattering of Spanish and wearing state of the art gear “loaned” to them by the tour company. Truth be told all were probably desperately poor and reliant on the tips of tourists for their livelihood. We were told that victims of altitude sickness frequently had to be taken down the mountain by the guides and for that reason the company operated on a 2:1 tourist to guide ratio. Obviously someone had played a bit fast and loose with the remainders when calculating the needs of our party.

The first day was surprisingly civilised, intended as it was, to ease us into the task ahead and further acclimatise us to the altitude. We arrived at the refuge unloaded all the kit, took in the scenery, which was impressive, then had a nice two course lunch, (one of them being that Bolivian staple, chip soup), before heading off for a practice ice climb. That involved a 3 hour round trek and a crash course in basic ice axe, crampon and rope climbing techniques. I found the ice climbing difficult, my ice axed seemed to have an annoying habit of bouncing off the ice instead of burrowing into it, but I wasn’t worried. I’m not a performing monkey, I do it when it matters. My mood improved. This might not be the most ill-advised thing I have ever agreed to, I thought.

In celebration of this revelation and in the absence of any TV or radio or books, or indeed anything, we played charades. And by “we”, I mean me and James as everyone else pretended they didn’t know the rules and had no interest in learning them. Two man charades is an interesting game; it seemed from the reactions of the refuge’s other inhabitants to give more pleasure to the spectator than it did to the participant. I can’t imagine why. Anyway this epic encounter had to end at some point and after the excitement had died down we went to bed. At 8.30pm.

The next day we set off to refuge number two, where we would spend that night, before our final push to the summit. We retraced the previous day’s steps to the place where we practiced our ice climbing, then pushed on further, our guides leading the way, setting a pace that although not lightening, showed no signs of relenting. It became clear that breaks would not be on today’s agenda. At one point we had to walk on top of the water pipes which took water from the mountains down towards La Paz. For some reason this reminded me of the iconic scene in Stand By Me, where they walk down the railway track. I decided to lighten the mood a little bit by whistling a bit of Ben E King. Nobody else joined in. They probably had their minds on the task in hand, but I’m pretty sure they appreciated it.

The View

After about four hours or so of trudging along we reached a glacier over which a guide informed us was the second refuge or high camp. The glacier sloped up around 100m or so, regardless we were told not to bother with crampons as these were only needed for the next day. Instead we used our ice axes like a kind of walking stick and contoured up the treacherous slope, Chaplin-esque. I’ve got to be honest I did question the guides decision that crampons were superfluous to requirements for this section as we repeatedly slipped and slid our way up. But on seeing them stroll up in their trainers, casually smoking bare-handed whilst the rest of us wore two pairs of gloves each, I decided not to question their leadership. James and I pushed on to the glacier top where we sat and waited for the group to reassemble. Looking down we saw Matta, one of the Israeli’s, (who I believe may have shortened his name for my benefit), and Julian who were really struggling, lying on their backs in the snow catching their breath. We decided maybe now was a good time to start taking our Sorochi altitude pills, each one so big it practically needed two bites.

I’d love to hear how an estate agent would describe the second refuge. Perhaps as “homely”, “compact”, almost certainly in a “secluded location” and most likely as “rustic” and “oozing with charm and character”. Personally I’d describe it as a dilapidated two room shack, lacking any basic amenities, stuck on the side of a bloody great mountain 5000m up, though that may lack a certain je ne sais quoi. It consisted of a kitchen of sorts, where chip soup (inevitably) and hot drinks could be prepared on a calor gas stove and a bedroom in which the ten of us would all sleep. The three guides on the floor, the seven of us above them on a kind of shelf, huddled together against the minus 20 degree cold of outside. I can be as condescending as I like now, but it did the job. Not that there was much time given over to sleeping, mind. In order to reach the summit before the sun came up and the melting snow became dangerous, we were to be woken at 2am for a 3am start. One guide had already “bagsied” me and James, not so much impressed by us I felt as happy to avoid taking Matta and Julian who looked increasingly sick as the afternoon wore on.

As the plan dictated at 2am, we were woken and began getting dressed by candle/head torch light. 3 pairs of socks, 3 pairs of trousers, 2 thermal vests, 1 alpaca hoody, 2 coats, 2 pairs of gloves, hat, helmet, gators, mountain boots and crampons later, I was ready and looking bloody cool I’d imagine. Our guide however, broke any delusions we may have had (and I certainly did) of being fearless explorers, by roping James and I to him, like a pair of naughty horses.

And so we walked, trudged and plodded through snow and ice and any and every conceivable mixture of the two. It was pitch dark and we walked with our heads down in silence. None of us spoke. There was no small talk. This seemed appropriate giving the mountain the solemnity it deserved. As we walked higher we saw the impressive lights of La Paz, the world’s highest capital far below. Other than that we looked at the ground. Anything else became too much effort. After two hours or so, it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other. You had to find rhythm in the monotony of plodding on, to distract you from the tiredness. Occasionally we stopped for drinks and chocolate bars that my stomach could no longer take, our guide expressing approval of our progress with the odd “muy bien”. Around half five our guide instructed us to rest, we had reached the final approach. So impressed was he at our pace that he “rewarded” us with the difficult ascent: up a 60 degree slope of compressed snow and ice around 150m high I guessed. I’d hate to have pissed him off! Everyone else was “punished” with a gentler ascent along the summit ridge. Even the Brazilian Everest wannabees took the easy route.

The next 45 minutes to an hour were not pretty. Climbing as we had been taught to do so, first our ice axe, then digging the spikes of one crampon in, then the other, ensuring that two of this three anchored you into the cliff face at all times. Our guide advised us “despacio, despacio” (slowly), as if there was another choice. Fatigue and altitude were winning. Snail’s pace does snails everywhere a disservice, we would have killed to have attained snail’s pace. Ever frequently I had to demand a rest, at which point I buried my covered head into the cliff face taking the strain off my muscles, and gasped for amounts of oxygen that weren’t there. Increasingly my willpower became weaker than my lungs and we could barely go for 2 minutes before I needed to stop. Not until our progress took us within sight of the still dark summit did I discover a steelier resolve and manage to wrench myself to the top with an impressive 5 minute continuous ‘burst’.

The Summit

The summit itself proved far from the sanctuary we had envisaged, a most inhospitable place you had to be roped onto less you get blown off. Nevertheless we had made it and before sunrise. Although this latter point is, in my eyes, not so much an achievement as an oversight, as it turns out summits are pretty cold and if the sun is yet to come up you can’t see anything. Imagine our surprise then to find Matta already up there, having raced round the summit ridge route with his guide, seemingly recovered from the altitude sickness that had afflicted him just the day before. By way of celebration he decided to strip completely naked for a photograph, much to the amusement of the two guides, one of whom turned to me and said “I’ll give him four minutes”. I’m still unsure if he was joking or not. We posed for a few pictures with a Bolivian flag we had got from the recent world cup qualifier against Venezuela in La Paz, I inwardly cursed both the metric system and our decision to use it writing the mountain’s height on the flag. 6088m is just not as good as 19,976ft anyway you spin it. Subsequently I have told anyone who will listen and many who won’t that the mountain I climbed was 20,000ft, it just sounds better and is easier to remember. On our way down we encountered the others on the way up, minus Julian whose sickness did not miraculously disappear. We exchanged a knowing nod, which I think communicated congratulations to each other, commiserations for Julian and never again for any of us!