Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain, Jonathan Bloom [best ebook reader TXT] 📗

Base Camp. It was time to take on the Pass, glowing purple and yellow in the sunrise like a giant bruise. Hoyt wrote in his journal: “They are all jovial, but I know Death awaits at least a handful of us today.”

They had begun to walk across the basin when the unexpected occurred. A line of other people approached from the southwest. Everyone’s journals gave different estimates, but the average estimate was thirty men. As they grew nearer, it seemed the men were wearing nothing but loincloths and backpacks. Each was pushing a large, wooden box on wheels, the boxes having one corner carved out and open, but covered with white cloth. When they reached Hoyt’s team, the wheeled objects appeared to be over-sized prams. Thornton documented the interaction that followed in minute detail (In addition to being a linguist, he also dabbled in anthropology and sociology and he must have been compelled to make a record of these human anomalies):

The men were not of one race. Some were brown, others red, others white. Hoyt turned to me for my linguistic expertise but I simply shrugged. Like Hoyt, I was utterly at a loss. Hoyt lifted up his hand to greet them. “Hello. Do you speak English?” The man in front, a short, white, blond fellow with a terrible sunburn lifted up his hand just as Hoyt had. The morning was still cold and the man shivered. Then through chattering teeth he said, “Goo.” Needless to say, this confused us, but then he said quite eloquently in a German accent, “Yes. I speak English. We all can speak it.” This was quite a relief.

Hoyt introduced himself and explained that we intended to climb Mount Fumu. “Why would you do such a thing?” The question came not from the German, but from inside the box. Hoyt and the rest of us were taken aback. After looking at the rest of us - possibly searching for some glimmer of understanding in our eyes and finding none – Hoyt moved to the pram and lifted up the cloth. We gathered around. Inside was a full-grown man swaddled in blankets. “Goo” he said in a strong and confident voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Hoyt seemed angered by the bizarre state of things. “What is the meaning of this? Stand up and address me like a man!” The supine fellow in the pram wriggled like Houdini in chains, unable to break free from the blankets. He looked to the German who quickly offered assistance. Within moments the man was standing before us, naked. He was tall and skinny with dark skin. Running down past his shoulders were oily, matted strips of graying black hair, thinning on the top. He looked quickly to the German. “Capital swaddle,” he said. The German smiled, bowed slightly, and went back to shivering. “Let me tell you right away who I am because the last time I met someone from the West they seemed eager to know that piece of information before talking to me. My unofficial name is Mano and this group has no name and we all live in the ring of monasteries you undoubtedly passed on your way here and we worship Fumu and we act like good children to please him and so on and so forth. Now it sounds like you are going to the mountain, as are we. Would you like to accompany us?” He seemed to have an accent. It may have been Portuguese.

Hoyt replied quite tersely, “First, we did not see your monasteries because we were dropped from the sky by airplane. Second, I refuse to speak to you further until you are clothed.” The man, who was skinny and quite tall for a local, let out a frustrated breath and then went to the backpack of the German. He pulled out an enormous white bunting and pulled it on. He looked ridiculous with his arms out to his sides and pointy hood on the top. “Is this more acceptable to you than my nakedness?”

Ignoring the answer Mano just gave him, Hoyt asked who they were. Mano sighed and explained that they worshipped Fumu which he also referred to as “the angry parent” and “the cold breast” (His names for the mountain seemed a little heavy-handed to me). Mano explained that his brethren came from all around the world. Some had been part of expeditions like Hoyt’s and had had a change of heart. Others had been locals who simply stumbled across the monasteries and seen a chance at starting life again. Now they spent their days living in the monasteries, playing well with each other and going to bed at sunset. They would continue to do so until they had pleased Him. Hoyt asked how they would know when they had please him. Mano responded quite seriously, “When she stops bringing forth magma and starts bringing forth milk.” Mano paused dramatically and then said “And I mean that quite literally.”

A very odd thought this. A mountain producing geysers of milk. This seemed to be taking animism to a ludicrous extreme. Beyond your basic Shinto. When we anthropomorphize something in our culture, we do not expect that thing to actually mimic a living thing. If we think our automobile looks like a man, we do not expect it to tell a joke. And likewise, most people who think a flower has a soul do not think it is going to start tap dancing. Yet this fellow and his colleagues think that somehow this massive rock is going to lactate.”

Mano continued. “Our belief in this unlikely event is an expression of our hopefulness. In our temple we believe all things are possible. Surely men can get along with one another. Surely the sick can be healed. Surely there can be a place where children are safe from hunger. In fact, you might call us the ‘Surely Temple!” No one laughed at this except Chhiri Tendi the Sherpa sardar, who