words by Bernd Zangerl pics by RAY DEMSKI
The tip of my left index finger drills mercilessly into a tiny, painful edge. Never say never. This tiny quartz edge can barely be considered a hold. What I am doing here can only be described as pushing. The quartz crystal bites into my skin. I don’t feel pain, only a slight instability in the wrist, which will be an obstacle for the next move. I put my thumb over my index finger; the increased pressure will rebalance the instability. I wonder why I can’t see blood. The callous remains intact. I had spent four long days resting, helping in the camp and supporting my friends on their projects. Now it was my turn. My last chance this year. Tomorrow we have to leave this ‘paradise’. With all my strength, I push my body towards the finish. My eyes desperately look for another bump in this compact granite armour to shorten the distance to my target. Two fingers find a place on an edge – it doesn’t enter too much into my consciousness, before gravity gains the upper hand and pulls me down to the ground. I hurl my body and let out a primordial scream upwards. Seconds later, I top out on my project. Shangri-La is finished; it has become a reality.
Wuummm . . . thunder erupts . . . the earth shakes. Seconds later, the next fork of lightning flashes in the sky, silhouettes of wild rock formations appear on the horizon before the whole tent trembles. My sleeping bag is electrostatically charged. For hours a storm has been raging. There seems to be no end to it. We set up our tents on a high plateau on the Tibetan border, 4000 metres above sea level. All around we are fenced in by unnamed peaks of the ‘Trans-Himalaya’ up to 6500 metres high. Shiva and Kali, the two most important gods of Indian mythology, are also at home here, whatever that may promise.
Wuuummm. Another flash illuminates the plateau, followed by thunder. This natural drama does not escape my primal instinct. The idea of the thousands of cubic metres of rock and debris that tower above us is of little amusement. Thoughts of the electronic equipment and the 50 kilograms of Alex Luger’s metal gear, stored not far away from our sleeping place, don’t facilitate falling asleep either. Tension is noticeable. Maybe we should have set up our camp in a different place, maybe we should store the electronic equipment somewhere else, maybe . . . Maybe I should try to sleep. Tomorrow the world will look different again, and the moat that we have tentatively built around our tent will not be destroyed by the lightning.
Tired eyes open. Fresh powder snow has turned the mountain peaks into a charming backdrop. Now everything looks so harmless. The morning world around us is majestic. I stay in my warm sleeping bag and wonder. My thoughts wander to Jawhar’s chai. It’s time to find it in the kitchen tent. Jittu, Prabaker and Jawhar, our assistants, have been on their feet for a long time and have lit a fire. They have become somewhat pale. The night’s thunderstorm didn’t pass over them without leaving a trace either. Nobody says a word. Electricity is in the air. Jawhar reaches out to me with some chai and a mischievous smile. I warm my hands on the cup. At last, Jittu breaks the silence. He looks at me and says: ‘We have to go! The gods are angry!’
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