Last night we went to a party. Not just any party. An Everest Base Camp Party. Russian style.
For reasons I can’t quite put a finger on there has normally been very little fraternisation between camps. Our camp is about 10 feet from the nearest team, Summit Climb, and then there are about 8 - 10 other smaller camps spread haphazardly across the flat rocky moraine at the foot of Everest. Whilst relations are cordial between camps and jokes and general knowledge is exchanged on a regular basis, showers, toilets, mess tents, etc are not shared. Pleasantries are generally exchanged in the morning as we emerge from our tents, eyes squinted in the morning light and stumble to the nearest non descript pile of rocks to empty pee bottles.
At around 3pm some Sherpas from ‘The Seven Summits Club’ came over and extended an invite for our team to join them (and the rest of the camp) in celebrating the anniversary of “the Russians being liberated from the Germans” (this is about as much history as I was able to gather from the pigeon English conversation).
We all quickly checked our social calendars and, apart from a potential game of Risk (Geordie taking over the world again), and the opportunity to watch Top Gun, or washing our trekking socks, we all agreed to make an appearance and share in a drink or two… or six and raise a glass to the Russian team. On reflection, it’s funny to think that in London you effectively have to ‘book’ social calendars weeks in advance and here on Everest a raging party of about 80 people can be organised at the drop of a hat….
Quite simply because, quite literally, there is nothing else to do.
Before going into further detail about the party itself, it’s worth providing some background to, ‘The Seven Summits Club’. The ‘Club’ is a Russian-run group whose members aim to achieve their individual goals of climbing the highest summit on each continent. Their ‘area’, about 100m north east of our camp is the ‘Chelsea’ of EBC. Their camp sports a giant ’dome’ tent that could comfortably seat about 45 people, 7 reinforced super sophisticated wind-proof toilet tents, a huge tunnel shaped dining tent, and a mass of about 30 individual tents, similar to the ones we use. A giant, solar powered, glow in the dark phallic-looking ’tower’ clearly marks the camp at night and dominates the moraine in front of the mountain.
In London when invited to a party in an area like Chelsea, it takes me weeks to plan a wardrobe. Now I was faced with a tremendous dilemma. My first social event in weeks and to such a prestigious part of camp - what to wear? I had the choice of 2 shirts…. One was definitely less smelly than the other in spite of the Merino Wool claims. A down over-layer? Shorts? Wool socks? Hmm…. Bit risqué…
I settled on Crocs with socks, combat trousers (in celebration of the military theme and they were the only non-stained trousers I have left) and my last sort-of clean shirt (thank god for baby wipes)…. I even managed to put a comb through my hair. The entire transformation took about 30 seconds…. Life is so uncomplicated here on the mountain…
About an hour after having received the invite, armed with our ‘host gift’ of a package of Jaffa cakes, we stumbled our way over the rocky moraine which separates our two camps. The sound of Russian military music had already begun to penetrate the air.
The Russians did not disappoint and overwhelmed us with their hospitality and generosity. Upon entering a tent which can only be compared architecturally to Disney’s Epcot Centre in Florida or the Eden Project in Cornwall, we were met by a spread of food and drink and hospitality. Beer, whiskey, cognac, vodka, cured meat, cheese, olives, popcorn, prawn crackers, all packed onto a giant ping-pong table which dominated the centre of the room. Ambiance was provided by two giant speakers which belted out extremely patriotic military marches heavy in drums and beats - so distinctly Russian that it made one want to reach for the olives and vodka. Chairs lined the inside perimeter of the dome tent and the rest of the space was reserved for mingling with the other climbers, eating and drinking.
After a few drinks and having had the opportunity to properly observe the array of guests at the party, I couldn’t help but chuckle at what a unique experience the party was. I felt extremely privileged to be witness to such an interesting social gathering. I counted 4 women including myself and about 50 men; of those 50 men, about 40 had large furry beards, everyone had at least 2 items of down clothing on and hats seemed to be the accessory of choice. Andrew compared it to a social gathering of hobbits. In the air hung a rather distinct aroma of ‘fart’ and ‘wet wipes’. The drink of choice was beer and vodka and for every beer removed from the ping-pong table it was immediately replaced by our generous hosts.
Conversations started at the beginning of the evening in a cordial way - generic “mountain talk” - when teams were last down from the North Col, recent snow conditions, wind conditions, etc. A stark contrast to the ‘end’ of the evening when there was a realisation that 3-beers at altitude is equivalent to 6 beers at sea level and mountain chat was reduced to alcohol induced, testosterone driven conversations about women (the lack of) and how many beers one could drink before being found face-down in the moraine (and/or a pile of yak dung) between our two camps…
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