Farhat's Photo Journal

Day 10-12

I wake for the walk into Namche Bazaar. Down and then cruelly up. Around the headlands of valleys and then along a narrow path on the edge of a cliff. We halt at Namche bazaar and I have the luxury of  a hot shower. That night we eat well, but still the same vegetable free fare of the mountains.

The next day we walk for 8 hours, down and then up into Lukla. 8 hours and we do not feel well. Our knees hurt. The next day I awake to a field of fog. Dwight and I drink coffee for hours before bothering to go to Hillary Tenzing Aerodrome. Then we head to town to be told by Sita Airlines that they have cancelled all flights. SITA seem to have hired the village idiot as station manager, unlike YETI/TARA who have the excellent APPA as officer in command.

Some desperate Germans board helicopters in order to make their international flights. I wonder which fools have decided to buy tickets for a departure on the same day from Lukla? Only the Germans I suspect. At 1600hrs, the skies clear and Yeti and Agni airlines start to land their dorniers and twin otters. We look to SITA to operate but they decline. We later find out that the pilots have gone home and could not be bothered to operate. Dwight and I are not amused. There is only one option, we retire to the waves lounge (pub) where we meet up with Anthony and Carlie. Anthony is playing pool and I have a gin an tonic. The kids (Dave and Kelly) are really worried. They have open tickets and this is not helping their cause. Eventually we all stagger back and have dinner and some Khukri rum. All is well.

The next morning I awake and see clear skies. Appa has worked wonders and we are on flight no 2 of SITA. We queue up, stand waiting and then like a swarm of bees , the planes come in. With one engine whirling and burning, we stand like airborne infantry in lines with our packs, as the dorniers swirl around us. With a nod, 16 people board the aircraft and we sit down. We have barely strapped in before the pilots take us to the end  of runway 24, a short hill 200m long. The engines are revved up with the brakes on, and then we roll downhill. Somewhere we reach 100mph and lurch into the sky. This is no twin otter- who lifts off automatically at 80 knots. The greenery shows below us and the white mountain peaks to our right. If all is well, my bag will be waiting at the aerodrome and I will fly on to Bombay.

The man is not there to meet us. There is no bag. I am irate. We grab an ancient datsun cab to the Kathmandu guest house, grab our stuff, transfer Dwight to the Potala; and then it is time to say goodbye. I have not seen Dwight in 5 years, and having spent every waking moment with him for 2 weeks, I now need to say goodbye in a rush on a dusty street. We exchange hugs and promises to meet more often. And then my Datsun splutters back to Tribuhavn Intercontinental Jetport. Time has stood still in this red brick building; and even though I am 3 hours early, I line up for hours. An hour for check in, an hour for immigration , I have not eaten and I had a rum too many last night. I have to eat. I grab a gross greasy cheese pizza. It is what I need. I meet good people in the queues. We are there for so long. Eventually we board. After being triple searched in an in-effective manner. The 737-800 has TV screens but they do not work well. We taxi for ever. Nepal has a hold on me. It will not let go. Eventually the captain applies the brakes, opens up the throttles and we blow hot air all over Kathmandu. The engines roar and then we slide down the runway, slowly at first and then picking up speed. We rotate and climb out through the clouds. I have made it. Bag and baggage to the Bombay plane.

Bombay is wonderful and humid. Green trees line the roads and the Anglicisation of the city is unmistakeable. I sit and watch TV for hours. Then I venture out and have my 14 days of stubble cut off by an expert Bombay barber. He uses the knife carefully and chopps away the black hairs. He ends with a head massage that puts me in perfect mood. I have one more flight, but before that there is time for dinner. The IBIS hotel is excellent. I eat vegetable after vegetable, and lots of salad.

I wake at 0200, taxi it to the aerodrome and breeze through check in. I have 6 hours and 30 minutes on this A330-300. I spend 4hrs 30 minutes asleep.  I sip my coffee as we descend over the sea of marmara into Istanbul I think to myself: Now somewhere I need to find my wife.

Day 8

We leave Gokyo at 615 am- for us this is 15 minutes late. It is bitterly cold, and while the sun shines on the higher peaks of the bowl of mountains that makes the gokyo subvalley, we are in the shade. I am freezing, it must be -10’c in the shade. I step off forcefully on a narrow path that borders the lake. Here the water is a visivle turquoise. For today I have swapped backpacks amongst the porters and have asked Renji to carry mine. I am carrying 9-10 kg’s in my chest rig and backpack, he must be carrying 15. I am laden down with cameras, heavy lenses and extra cold and wet weather gear. I do not intend to be struggling with a large backpack looking for a lens. Above the lake, wild quails squark and look at us. Perhaps they think we are foolish.

As soon as we hit the first steep ascent on a scree slope, Dwight passes me. He and Ambar steam on ahead.  The scree slope is a narrow way of getting to the first plateau. We the air is thinner now, the sun disappears, it is cold again, but I am huffing and puffing. As instructed Renji stays in front of me. He is one of the few people I trust in the mountains. I follow his footprints; breathing deeply. The air is thin here. I have to stop and breathe.

We surmount the first plateau and are confronted by a boulder field, true to his word, Renji easily picks his way through the stones. We come to a wide snow covered valley within the mountains. We keep to the right, and the higher path, but we are walking on snow. Yaks and Dzo’s have been up here. I out on my cold and wet weather gear and am overtaken by Dave, Kelly and a girl from Hornchurch in Essex. I stop to take photos and breathe. By now Renji and I are alone. It starts to snow. My small view of Mt Everest disappears and the weather closes in. The sky and ground take on the same colour.

The path narrows and cuts into the side of the mountain wall. We are on the final ascent to the pass. Light shines for a few seconds on the opposite mountain wall. Walking at this height has become difficult. I shoot some images, and carry on walking, humming “men of Harlech” through my breath. This is the only way to regulate my breathing. Fifteen feet from the summit I need to rest again. On the pass the others are waiting. We sit for 20 minutes looking down at the other side. We are joined by a French couple who live in Chamonix. There is a tiny burst of sun, but it continues to snow relentlessly.

The decision is taken to descend; I extend my second ski pole and start down on the stairs.  The descent is rapid; we hop from stone step to stone step. All of which are covered in a thick layer of snow .

“this is good” says James, the Frenchman. “the snow softens the footfall”.

My pole breaks, Renji grabs it and says “careful sir”.

We meet some Germans coming up. They look at Kelly and Dave’s shoes.

“are you not cold?” They ask in a haughty manner.

“No-“ they reply annoyed.

I do not hear this exchange and point to the pass as the Germans reach me.

“see- almost there, enjoy the view” I say with a deadpan face.

The Germans respond with a withering glare and do not respond verbally.

“Screw you too then” I mutter to myself. There can be no room for pride or impoliteness in the mountains.

Step by step our small group of six trekkers and three porters makes its way down to a lake in a punch bowl. We reach the lake; the pass lies high above us.

“4995 metres here” says James.

“ we have descended only 450m and yet it looks so far” says Corinne.

“See the Germans” says James and he points his ski pole to some people who are trudging slowly up to the pass. “They have a way to go.” James’s father was a hunter and he was his spotter in his youth. Now, he makes Skis for dynastar- but he is always in the mountains and has keen eyes.

After the lake, we finally clear the snow line, and start walking in sand.

“A desert at 4800m” says James. We walk fast now, through the sand, then down narrow paths on steep hill faces. We see Langden- and find ourselves in a freezing guest house, strangely called “Renjo Pass support”. We all cheer when the didi arrives to put more Yak dung into the stove. It is so cold that none of us want to wash.  We talk to Jody and Jed. An unlikely trekking pair; Jed is a mormon who wants to become a high school geography teacher and Jody is a podiatrist who has taken six months off life. She looks at Dave’s feet and gives him some stretches and tips. I listen intently- my feet are constantly in need of patching or taping.

Day 9

“Wake up dude” Dwight calls out at 0600.

“What is it?”

“Some good photography out there” I jump out of my sleeping bag, pull on all my clothes and run outside clutching a pair of Nikons. The sun has lit up the white peaks while the valley is still bathed in blue light. I am lucky and get some good photos.

Breakfast is rudimentary as I try to catch up with these notes and stuff scrambled eggs down at the same time. Today we walk in a long string to the small village of Thame. The French start first, the Americans , Dwight and I follow with Jody and Jed bringing up the rear. Our porters and guides are strung out with us.

Jody and Jed arrive at the Everest summiteers lodge first, and the rest of us pile in afterwards. (The French choose to stay elsewhere.) This hotel is owned by Appa Sherpa, someone I met in 2006 when he was escorting some Americans to base camp. He has climbed Mt. Everest 20 times, and is the world record holder. Indeed as I write these notes, he is again at base camp, about to make his 21^st ascent.  After lunch Jody and Jed climb up to the monastery. The rest of us, sit on the grass chatting. The sun comes out and for the first time in days we lie down outside and feel warm.

We watch a documentary about the 2002 climb of Mt Everest by the descendants of the swiss team who were unable to breach the summit in 1952. I am taken by the difficulties of the day. It takes the expedition 21 days to walk to the base camp from Kathmandu; they take 180 porters with them. Their enthusiasm and interest in the mountain matches our current awe. While I would never dream of comparing our adventures with an everest climb, I can compare our walk to Gokyo and the Rejo La with their 1952 walk from Kathmandu to base camp. Their tenacity and sense of adventure make our  difficulties pale in comparison.  Yet again, I cannot help but have respect for the men who climb with heavy clothing and old technology backpacks.

Our trek is almost over. Two more walking days, one to Namche Bazaar and then another to the aerodrome of Lukla. While our bodies may be relieved that there is little more stress to be placed upon them, our minds are somewhat sad that we are leaving the mountains, their cool, their purity and perhaps even their dangers behind.

But we still have to make the next two days- and the plane from Lukla…

Day 7.

At night  I felt a bit grim. I can feel the tightness in my head, and generally feel very tired. In order to deal with this, I drink three litres of water, take a single diamox tablet and 1000mg paracetamol before sleeping. This has the effect of my getting a reasonable night’s sleep but also my having to pee four times in  the night.

But I feel slightly better in the morning; and we are all able to go for a walk. No one fancies the pre dawn start up the large mound that rises behind the hotel to 5300m. Instead, we walks slowly up the valley in glorious sunshine towards Cho Oyu, the peak that is the border between Nepal and the Tibet Autonomous Region of China. Or Tibet for short. An Englishman comments that for the first time in a few days he can see the ranges around Cho Oyu. We walk steadily up the valley towards them. Sushil has decided to stay at the lodge and only Renji and Ambar come with us. Renji leads us to the fourth lake at an altitude of 4836m. At this point the weather turns bad over Gokyo and the others, satisfied with their photography, all turn back. Only Renji and I continue up the valley, up onto a series of ridges that overlook the glacier. A new peak  appears and Renji Identifies it, and I forget to write it down. He is no where near me now, and so the peak must remain nameless. Further on I trudge, foot fall after footfall, up and down the small brown hills, around the boulders and through the mud.  The air is thin here, I consult my altimeter. After calibration it reads 16600ft. By the time I reach our designated summit for the day it reads the equivalent of 4950m. I gasp and suck in the cold air. Cho Oyu and the two white, ice cracking glaciers are so close now. I look up and see another brown hill and beyond that the peaks that make up the border of the Thame valley. But my eyes are rooted to the wall of white in front of me. This is the most natural border in the world, an 8100m high peak. Impassable to all but the world’s expert climbers.

There is one more lump that catches my eye and Renji and I start for it. But as we set off, the cloud closes in and a light fall of hail lands on us.

“better to go down” Says Renji sensibly. I need no further encouragement, and we turn back towards Gokyo, the clouds and the cold. Another walk in the solo khumbu comes to an end.

Tomorrow, if the weather holds, we hope to cross the Renjo La at 5400m and descend into the Thame valley and head down, down down… towards Marlung and eventually a day or two later, Namche Bazaar.

Day four

We leave Namche together and Dwight shoots off with the porters. I buy a bottle of water at the edge of Namche, no one stops, and I cannot catch them up. I come to a cross roads and realise that I do not know which way to go. I ask a muleteer and he points me in a direction. Only when I reach the Park headquarters by the army base, do I realise that I am staring at the path to Gokyo on the other side of the ravine. Rather grumpily, I descend from the sandy knoll, and rejoin the super highway that is the path to Everest and Gokyo. The path is narrow and cut into the side of the hill, but in places, it has been re-enforced with stones.

The sheer number of people around me is depressing. Groups of English teenagers, French Canadians and some Indians are on the path. The path climbs up over some boulders and past a stupa that everyone takes photos of; I continue, I have no use for another photo of something I have seen four times.

Mercifully, one hour out of Namche Bazaar, we come to a small path that leads up out of the valley. This is the route to Gokyo. Almost immediately we are on a remote trail that leads between piles of stone and into a forest of what looked like mansineeda trees. Gone are the maintained wide paths of the everest valley. We climbe steeply now, until we reach a cliff face. Here the path is cut into the cliff and over the top. This is not a route for the faint hearted. Being midly scared of heights, I look down often; in order to habituate myself with the experience. There will be no escaping the height soon.

Dwight is going slowly, and I catch him. “Look” he says: Pointing to the skyline. “Everest”. I peer along the ridges, and there indeed is the fat monster that enthrals so many of the world’s mountain community. Being rather jaded, I think there are far prettier mountains; but the name keeps bringing people to it on a regular basis.

Mong La is the pass where we can see both valleys clearly. Ours, leads to Gokyo, the Everest Valley. We stop for a greasy lunch of fired noodles. I regret the choice, but am lucky in that it does not affect me later.

The descent from the pass of Mong La is cruel, and Dwight’s knee starts to hurt again. Rather than go on to Machermo, we decide to night halt in Phortse Tenga. The river lodge at Phortse Tenga is at the base of the river valley; and while it catches some sunshine in the day, the river keeps it cold and damp. My socks are still damp this morning. It is the last place where the everest valley and the Gokyo valley are linked by a path.

We find ourselves bumping into kelly and Dave repeatedly. Two Americans who live in New York. Nice people. She is a podiatrist and he sells fords in southhold NY. We eat dinner and then breakfast with them. By deciding to stay in Phortse Tenga, we are now on the same schedule as them. This time last year, I met a young, but racist, German tax lecturer. In order to avoid him, I had climbed out of Phortse Tenga and gone on to Dole. This time, the opposite is the case; and we meet nice people by staying.

Morning sees my socks still slightly damp, but I pull them on regardless .

We walk through a narrow path in forests and the scenery is the most beautiful of the journey. We arrive at Dole and stop for tea and the day. Our walk has taken us two hours and a bit. We spend the rest of the day playing cards in the Himalayan lodge. Kelly wins continuously, Dave looses continuously.

Day 5.

This morning we are reminded of our own mortality. Sushil, Kelly and Dave’s guide, sits smugly in the lounge area of the Himalayan Lodge. He is a bit of a smooth operator. On this occasion though he has bad news.

“hey dude, did you hear what Sushil has to say?”

“no what?” I ask

“someone died last night”

“What?”

“Yes, “ Said Sushil, “a woman, she comes down from Machermo and dies”

The path was narrow and cut into the side of a hill. At some points the drop was sheer. Two groups, of Swiss I think, seemed to be in front or behind us. We were lucky in that we were able to stay ahead of these multitudes of the people. By this stage we were far above the tree line and the landscape became more barren.

Strangely enough we come across some welsh hill cottages made entirely of stone. Only the yaks and Dzo’s give the location away as being in the Himalayas.

We arrive at Machermo, wash and unpack. We now settle down to wait for Dave and Kelly. Three hours later they appear. The have seen the body being loaded into the helicopter and they were affected by this. This had delayed them.

In order to acclimatise we sit in the warm communal dining room and read, drink mint tea and chat. It starts to snow outside. At 3pm we all troop off to the Porters’s shelter and rescue post. Two English Doctors who volunteer to come here from England lecture us on how to avoid altitude sickness and how to treat it, if we get it. The general rule seems to be descend descend descend….

Day six.

The pre sunrise light is ethereal. I take a series of photographs of yellow tents in the snow, with Machermo peak in the back ground.

The walk to Gokyo is short, but rises some 400 metres. There are two groups of swiss and English speakers. Dwight and I trek in between the groups, who are slower than us, but do not take as many photographs. After a series of brown humps, a sheer rock wall rises to our left, while to the right the valley rises up, closer to us. The base of the valley is lined with a series of round boulders with a small river running through it.

Inexorably, we climb higher and higher. Passing one lake then another, that this time is frozen. We are now walking in a rock field, picking our way between the stones, on a path that is difficult to see. A series of small laid cairns remind me of a graveyard. Around ridges of stone I trek, always at the edge of the lake. Dwight is long behind me, and I fall in step with the guide who had been so friendly on the inbound flight. He explains many things, before we arrive at what looks like a Norwegian fishing village at 4700m.

The light snowfall becomes heavy snowfall. We go to the Namaste lodge where the owner tries to palm us off onto another lodge. These shenanigans infuriate Dwight. I can sympathise, and quickly look at the more expensive Goyo Resort. After a gap of one year we end up taking rooms here. The word resort is a misnomer. This is a stone and wood building with a large communal cafe and some smelly rooms off to one side. Mr Sharma, the Brahmin owner offers us a large unsmelly room, with a bathroom for $10 which we take.

Kelly and Dave are irritated by Sushil, who, hired as a porter, has morphed into an unwanted guide who does not like carrying too much. He sits with them, at every waking moment, and the two cannot enjoy themselves. I take the faithful renji aside and ask him to tell Sushil to give them some space.

It stops snowing and the sun comes out.

It starts snowing again, so thickly that we cannot see more than 100m from the cafe. Kelly and Dave head off for a nap. Dwight falls asleep in his seat, and I talk to a pair of pleasant new Zealanders; who have just come over the Renjo La. Their stories of weather are no awe inspiring. It seems that the sun dies by 10 or 1030 am.

I wonder if the altitude is affecting me, and I am writing gibberish.

It stops snowing and the sun comes out again. Gokyo starts to remind me of Northern Ireland.

Day three.

Namche is getting bigger every day. Even as I write this,  someone is building a hotel. The town is quaint, but it is what the people who come through make of it. If it is full of moaning minnies then it is not much fun. The worst moaners I have met are the swiss, but on this occasion, the entire town seems to be full of Australians. There are of course a smattering of Brits, French Canadians and the odd German, but the accent I hear the most is Australian. While I have often argued that this would lower the tone of the place, on this occasion it makes Namche Bazaar a fun town with pleasant interesting people to talk to.

I find a cafe to write in, and look down beyond the balcony. A lone Dzo comes by (Half cow/half Yak). A constant stream of trekkers passes me. Some stagger their breath slowly. Some flit by, hoppin from stone to stone. These people have been here for some time.  Some of the trekkers are fashion conscious and have the latest tight trousers, loose shirts and various bits of equipment hanging off them. The Nepalese wander around in normal trousers and trainers, mocking them slightly. In order to show solidarity with the Nepalese , I wear

Our hotel has a worker who is not very clever. Between him and Renji, they conspire to delay Dwight’s dinner. I arrive to find him having ordered and having no food. When Dwight finds out that his food has been delayed, he is furious. While I was tempted to find it hilarious, I know how emotive food can be.

Later on that evening,  in order to relieve the boredom, we argued about the possible repercussions of the arab revolt.

In order to acclimatise we have to hike higher than where we sleep. There is a day hike to the everest view hotel at 3880m. We meander up the earth zigzags to Syangboche and the airstrip that serves Namche Bazaar. Dwight cruised up the side of the hill saying “this would make a great golf course” while I plodded slowly behind him. The path became narrow with a steep drop to my right, but the views of Ama Dablam in the cloud were spectacular. Only Mt Everest was denied to us.

Our descent took us through the peaceful village of Khumjung. Along dusty paths between dry stone walls and over a crest of stone and down to the airstrip again. Dwight suffered horribly with his knee on a different steep zig zag descent. I wondered if all descents were zigzag like this? I was slower than Dwight and I could feel my head, but I was not uncomfortable.

Once again we found ourselves in a cafe, where we met a pair of Whelshmen called Richard Parks and Dai the camera. Infact I met Richard as he tried to break down the door of the loo, while I was in it. He apologised for almost destroying the door when I popped out, and I apologised for the awful flush. (a jerry can of water). Richard was climbing the 7 highest peaks in each continent and visiting both poles, all for charity. He exuded friendliness, and welcome, and people seemed automatically attracted to him. Richard’s adventures started as a welsh international and after a shoulder injury he decided to climb mountains and visit the poles for marie curie cancer care.  We spent a good 20 minutes discussing the NHS (britain’s healthcare) and a particular hospital in wales. Just as friendly was Dai the camera- who was filming him wherever he went. Dwight arrived and we chatted about all sorts. An Australian couple joined us and we gobbed off some more, until we had to go back to our respective hotels. Upon googling Richard and Dai, it seems they are quite famous- so here is their website, in case anyone is interested: (or wants to donate): http://www.737challenge.com

And with that, I’ll get this posted. This will probably be my last post until a mammoth one in Gokyo- or even back in Namche Bazaar in a few days… Until then trendsetters- greetings from Himalayas.

The air of Kathmandu is thick with dust. The red brick buildings have a certain charm, but there is no escaping the expansion and pollution that has plagued the city. Dwight and I rush around the city collecting our permits and buying last minute items. We bump into an Australian School teacher who is alone, and accompanies us on our shopping expedition.

There is always a risk when flying to Lukla, of the weather closing the airport, or indeed of the plane crashing. We are lucky. We pass through the cursory security of Kathmandu airport.

“Telephone, wallet, passport, Anything bad sir?” asked the policemen as he ran his hands over the bumps in my fleece.
“Nothing” I replied.

“Very good sir” and he waved me through into the final departure lounge. Very soon afterwards, we were called over to a bashed up plate metal bus and driven 200 metres to an equally bashed up Dornier 228. A man sat in the rear hold of the aircraft and stuffed bags into position. Three seats were removed and bags were stacked inside the cabin. This was clearly the time for the Everest climbing expeditions. The Dornier may have been made in 1986, but the crew seemed to go through their pre-flight checks reasonably professionally. Cloud hung over the Kathmandu valley but we managed to climb up out of it and were afforded a view of distant mountains. The engines ceased to whine quite as much, but the dial on my pocket altimeter moved relentlessly. A mountain guide leaned across me and pointed.

“See that, the distant dark peak? That is in Tibet.”  I craned over and had a look at the mountains. Gradually we got closer to the line of white snow capped peaks poking out of the clouds; the early morning sun flashed onto the snow and the sky turned blue. The scene was ethereal and once again the majesty of the Himalayas was apparent.

The Dornier turned sharp left, flew up a valley, turned right and flew up another valley  before landing at Tenzing Hillary airfield at Lukla. The best thing that could be said about the landing was that we landed. We came down hard and bounced on one wheel. Then we landed a second time and the pilot used maximum brakes to stop before we ran out of the 200m runway and ended up in a stone wall. Another Sita air Dornier 228 was sat on the parking mat, stripped of its engines, it had had a minor accident some months back.

Renji, my faithful porter guide from the previous year was at the wire fence. The Nepal armed police constable charged with holding the porters out, looked at Renji,  re-adjusted his 1914 model lee enfield rifle and allowed Renji to slip through the gate and rush to us. He placed Tibetan scarves over our necks, gave us a ceremonial hug, introduced us to our second porter and dragged us off for breakfast. We ordered porridge while I handed out photos to Appa and Remji. I was here last year and I had a soft spot for these particular people. Appa owns the Lukla Numbur hotel and is the Yeti Airlines station manager during the day. He runs both the hotel and the airline’s Lukla operations impeccably. He is also the Himalayan holidays representative in Lukla, so everything works out nicely. He takes our airtickets from us, and will make sure that we are on the returning Dornier in 12 days time.  While we eat breakfast, we bump into some young Indians.

We set off, but after only 3 hrs sleep, I was in a daze. Dwight snapped away on his camera, but all I saw was more buildings, more hotels, and more adverts for the reggae bar. Last year, I walked up to Gokyo, and over the Renjo la, after coming down, I swore that this was my last journey to the Solo Khumbu region. I had seen the area change, and the retreat of trekking and the advance of tourism. Mobile phone coverage, internet cafe’s and bars have sprung up along the way. Large groups of tourists, not trekkers, had come to the mountains and complained. But When Dwight asked me if I was free, and whether I would be keen to go to the mountains again, I jumped at the chance. When he mentioned the Solo Khumbu, I could hardly say no. And so while I walked along the path, I was not bothered by the increases in buildings or bars. I was expecting worse. I enjoyed the greenery and, when it came, the rain that turned the sky grey.

The only problem I encountered was when my feet hurt. I had taped my feet up, and added fleece lining, but this did not work. So I changed into my trainers and packed the boots.

My lack of sleep took its toll. I was not out of breath, but I felt constantly tired. The path dropped down to rivers, across long high rope bridges at Phakding and then back across the river and up over another hill to Monzo. I certainly stumbled into my old favourite, the Monzo guest house; run by a pleasant lady called Mrs Doma Sherpa. She was a matronly character, with a pleasant smile. Her rooms were comfortable and her food good. The only other guests were a team of Indians, who turned out to be the Indians we met before. This was the Indian Air Force womens Everest team. Five female Air Force Officers, supported by a bunch of male officers and airmen, were going to attempt to summit Mt. Everest. Some of the men had climbed Mt Everest in 2005, but the ladies were all new to this.
After dinner I wrote this and argued with Dwight about the Arab uprisings.

We leave Monzo and trek slowly up stone steps to the entry to the national park at Jorsale. While I abhor paperwork, the Nepalese have chosen the perfect spot for the entry. Two large rocks that reminded me of the pillar of Hercules stood on either side of a stone path. As we passed through the gate, we were greeted with a vista of steep stone walls that looked onto a narrow valley. We descended along large stone steps past herds of Dzo to the river. For some strange reason the path was empty. Dwight and the others went on ahead like mountain goats. I meandered slowly down the path, crossing three suspended bridges that cut along the edge of hills. Large rhododendron bushes seemed to hang by the side of the path. I looked down on one final suspended bridge and saw Dwight waiting for me. He wanted me to take a photo of him. The bridge was high and hung over a river hundreds of feet below. I stopped midway and looked down at water rushing past the perfect round stones. To my right was the continuation of the valley.

The path immediately started to climb in a steep zigzag across brown earth. Dwight set his own pace and I found myself completely alone. The only sound was the water below me, and the birds. The brown earth passed into a pine forest and then into Namche Bazaar. What was supposed to take 3 hours had taken me 3 hours and 45 minutes. I was slow, and I knew it, but I felt fine.

On the 8^th of December 2010 I set off with my friend Andri Bruehwiler to cross the sahara desert in a 12 tonne truck. The journey took us through the freezing snow covered Turkish mountains , down into the deserts of Syria. Then, through the historic city of Damascus and down to the Red Sea at Aqaba where we took a ferry to Africa. From there we crossed the Sahara and the Sudan. Where the snow had chilled our bones, the dust ate into our bags, and clogged our nostrils. Not satisfied with the adventure of crossing soft sand for mile after mile, we re-organised ourselves in Addis Ababa and headed out towards the Omo Valley. We again left the tarmac behind and crossed into a different world, an Africa not seen by westerners, peoples untouched by modernisation.  The paths turned to sandy tracks and then to nothing at all. After crossing an invisible border into Kenya, we found our path to be hard sharp rock. Eventually we arrived, tired and battered in Nairobi. I got on  plane and flew, via Dar es  Salaam to Pemba to surprise my wife. www.trans-sahara.com/log

A few days later I found myself in Sauti Za Busara shooting the musicians of the continent at dusk and into the night.  The two projects, crossing a continent, and shooting live music, could not have been more different.  The wiggle of African bodies, pouring in sweat, contrasted with the simple bedouin arabs who rarely moved in the heat. And now I return to Pemba to continue with my Pemba diary. Look out for my new Africa book on blurb in a few weeks.

Hong Kong is not somewhere where you would think of as being a centre of fine art photography, but it is the home of Andre Eichmann. Andre started off as a fashion photographer in New York using Nikon FM2’s. Now he documents China, shipping and some of the minorities in China. He is without doubt one of the most gifted and dedicated photographers that I know. Listening to him, is in itself a privilege.

And so I learned something over the past few days. I learned more about photography than I have in a long time. Not how to use shutter speeds, apertures or the rule of thirds. Not to expose for the highlights (colour) or the shadows (Black and white), nor even how to edit. But the need for it. The absolute requirement of being ruthless with your images. Andre is loathe to criticise, and so I had to force him to do so. And his advice? “if you have ten photos of Turkey and they are amazing, then only show those ten. Don’t show the other 200”

Cut out the “almost there’s”, “the slightly out of focus” and any doubles. “you have some powerful images in there man- but you need to be ruthless with your editing. The nearly there’s drag your good work down. I have a rule. I only put my very very best stuff out there for people to see.”  That is how you become a fine art photographer. By cutting everything that is not fine art.

And so since Hong Kong I have removed 800 images from my website. As I sit here on this tropical island, 30 minutes speedboat ride north of Sulawesi Island, it initself 1750 miles east of Singapore, editing (read deleting) images that are not quite there.

Just before I left Lamma island, I thanked Andre.  He took me and my travel companion and fellow photographer to the ferry. Spontaneously, he gave me a hug and shook Rob hand.

“Now remember to send me some stuff now. Send me what you have got.I know you have some good stuff!”

Ever gracious, he was not only talking to me, but to Rob too.

The winter is well upon us on the Island of Pemba. The days and nights are cool, and yet the sun shines. As time goes by we are closer to the end of my African Dive season and it is time to embark on yet another journey to Asia. Asia is captivating, more modern than Africa, independent, industrious and a cluster of ancient culture.

And yet Africa has a certain something to it. A certain naturalness, peace and untouched quality that can of course be ruined by man. The challenge for the photographer is to capture this continent without cliche, or having you camera stolen.

Happily Pemba Island is a peaceful place. (see my D700 robbery). In the last few days we have come across villages that I have never been to in 11 years, and our neighbours building a wooden boat by hand. I these images to demonstrate the remoteness of our world. A forgotten world.

The Renjo la is a high pass at 5400m. The climb up is a zig zag path and the descent is a series of steps to a plateau. That plateau is still 5000m high. I lugged a Fuji 6×45 over the hills but I have no idea where the slides are. The rolls were developed in Delhi and sent on by post, but now where are they? And so…I upload images from my tiny canon G11.