The summit push was shown entirely ‘LIVE’ on CCTV, beamed to millions spontaneously.
Incredible I say. Coming from a TV background I know how hard it is for good signals especially with the swirling clouds blanketing the peak, yet the broadcast from 8800m was crystal clear with little ‘dropout’ – those mosaic-like shapes on the screen. Whatever satellite technology they were using, the Chinese surely showed to the rest of the world their capacity to do anything they wanted. The production was sleek: a live studio was set up at 5200m inside a see-through dome tent so the presenters’ backdrop was the Everest peak itself. There were at least 6 live transmission points: 2 on the peak with the climbers, 2 from far away filming their progress, 2 at 5200m in the studio and in a control room coordinating with the climbers. The ‘live’ show was definitely something to be proud of. The whole operation must have cost them millions – we used to have to pay a few thousands for every minute of satellite relay – but since the team was likely to have been using China’s own satellite, the gi-normous bill was probably on the house.
When the flame finally reached the summit, I felt a deep sense of poignancy. How do I explain? Three of the final five torch bearers in the flame relay were Tibetans and its likely that a large majority of this summit team were Tibetans too. It wasn’t just the political nuance I’m talking about (which I won’t go into here – just too much to say and too complex for a blog). So while they were ‘live’ on camera and preparing for the flame relay, I could hear the distinct Tibetan chatter that brought back a flood of memories. Memories of living in close quarters with them in Lhasa, Songduo and in Shangri-la on separate occasions. Memories of Ngawang my rotund, jovial guide who was a heavy smoker but still managed to run up the steps of the mini Potala palace (Sumstenling Monastery) in Shangri-la faster than me. Memories of enjoying mouth-watering yak meat hot pot, steaming cups of butter tea, and handfuls of tsampa, while huddled close to a fireplace for warmth. Memories of trekking on a mountain that could not be found on maps – truly! Memories of plodding through snow and shale, as hail swept down on us. Ah… those were the days. And then I think of all the unfinished trails, and my promise to Ngawang to return to circle their sacred mountains together, and his crazy suggestion to smuggle me overland into western Tibet clad in a Tibetan dress. ‘Just pretend to be mute,’ he said. Yes, I was that dark and that burnished then I could easily have passed for a Tibetan. And no, Ngawang was not my lover. Just a very dear friend, a fatherly figure.
the sweetest kid in trinyi village
Seeing the Tibetan climbers on TV just made me wish I was in a different place today. And I guess, trying to put Val to sleep while trying to catch every step of the summit push really drove home to me that life will never be the same again. Period. This must be a dilemma every new mother faces – as her old life melts away, overwhelmed by motherhood.
ole adventuring days...atop Mt Shika,4245m, Shangrila
Today, I really felt a fear that I will never get back onto a mountain again. Sometimes I feel lucky that I did all that before I got married, but then sometimes I wish I never did then maybe I won’t feel such a sense of loss. Whatever the case, I’m feeling low right now. And hope that this will remind me to hold on to my dreams of adventuring again. Soon. Soon. Perhaps when Val’s old enough to walk, I shall start training him on simple trails and we can go climbing again.
offering prayers atop Mt Shika.
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