The mirror is so small that when I can see my nose and eyes in it, my ears are invisible. And when I look at my chin I can’t see my eyes. Even holding it at arm’s length doesn’t allow me to see my entire face.
But I would hate to part with the little mirror.
If you ask me, the history of mankind falls into three significant stages.
In the first, man didn’t recognise his own reflection, any more than an animal does. Show a cat a mirror and it reckons It’s a window with another cat beyond. It hisses, prowls around the mirror. Loses interest eventually; some cats ignore their reflected image altogether.
Man was no different to start with. One hundred per cent subjective. An ‘I’ that could question a ‘self’ did not exist.
Second stage: Narcissus discovers the mirror image. The greatest sage of Antiquity was not Prometheus, who gave fire to man, but Narcissus. Henceforth the ‘I’ sees a ‘self’. There was no demand for psychological insight at this stage, for man was to himself what he was, namely his mirror image. Whether or not he liked what he saw, his self did not betray him. I and self were symmetrical, each other’s mirror image, no more than that. We lie and our reflection lies with us. Only in the third stage were we dealt the blow of truth.
The third stage begins with the invention of photography. How often do we think our passport photos do us justice? Hardly ever! In former times, when people had their portraits painted and they didn’t like the result, they blamed the artist. But the camera can’t lie, as we all know. So it is revealed to you over the years through countless photographs that you aren’t really yourself most of the time, that you and your self are not symmetrical, indeed that you exist in a variety of strange incarnations for which you would refuse all responsibility if you could.
The fear that other people will see him as he appears in the portraits he disapproves of, that they might never see him the way he likes to see himself in the mirror, has caused the human individual to fragment into a general plus a band of mutinous soldiers. An I seeking to assert itself amid the constant clamour of alter egos. This is the third stage, in which self-doubt, previously a rare state of mind, flared into consternation.
Roll on psychology.
At least my compass assures me of one soldier I can rely on, one who’ll stick with me through thick and thin, who’ll write my thesis for me cum laude and who’ll gain a professorship one day. When the newspapers ask for his picture I’ll go on taking his portrait until I’ve got one that’s just right. But this morning he’s red-eyed for lack of sleep — and I have such trouble sleeping as it is. His chin is stubbled, because I haven’t shaved yet.
I have my shave and get dressed. I pack my rucksack and suitcase with deliberation. The items I will leave behind in Alta can go in the suitcase: white shirts, electric razor, etc. Into the rucksack go my notebook, thick socks, ballpoint, pencils, hammer, ever-useful polythene bags, hiking shoes, sleeping bag, transistor radio. Steel measuring tape? can’t find it anywhere. May have left it at home. I make a note in my diary to buy one in Trondheim. Steel measuring tape I write beneath Østmarkneset, where the Geological Survey is situated.
Before going down to breakfast I give the bathroom a last once-over, as well as the wardrobe, the bureau and the bedside table. No, nothing lying around. I even check the drawers and cupboards I didn’t use, just in case. I can’t stand hitches of any kind. Leaving things lying around, landing in situations unprepared, being tongue-tied — what could be worse? I will not accidentally fall to my death in a mountain chasm like my father, and if I do fall I will have to be prepared. Losing my footing will not take me unawares. I will manage to hang on to something, or else to break my fall.
I have already put my suitcase and rucksack out in the corridor, and just as I make to shut the door behind me, what do I see?
Something on top of the coat rack. It is the postcard I wrote to Sibbelee last night.
Discovered in the nick of time!
8
At the first call for the flight to Trondheim I make my way calmly to the aircraft and board with a friendly greeting to the stewardess.
I stow my mac and camera in the overhead luggage net, sit down and yawn. For the next hour or so there is nothing for me to do other than doze, and I let my eyelids droop. Not heavy enough — they lift again.
The seat next to mine is vacant. I am by the window, looking out on to a wing, so there is nothing much to see.
The stewardess walks past with an armful of newspapers. I pick one at random and leaf through it.
Almost involuntarily, I begin to read.
DUTCH EXPEDITION RELIES ON SHERPA CELEBRITIES
It’s a report about that Himalayan expedition — the one Brandel is on.
We make our first camp beside the airfield of Pokhara, close to such Himalaya giants as Annapurna (8078 m), Machhapuchhare (6997 m) and Lamjung Himal (6985 m), whose ice-capped summits dominate the entire region …
All we have to do now is wait for Wongdhi the Sherpa-sirdar who left Kathmandu eight days ago with a team of a hundred porters.
The term ‘Sherpa’ is generally taken to mean a high-altitude bearer or mountain guide, no doubt due to the name Sherpas have made for themselves on previous Himalayan expeditions, but in reality it refers to a specific tribe.
Experience
Wongdhi is only twenty-nine but has already earnt an excellent reputation on the Himalayan circuit. Recently he accompanied our French friend Lionel Terray on the ascent of Jannu in Eastern Nepal, a height just short of 8000 metres, and it is interesting to note that Wongdhi, unlike Terray, did not use oxygen. He also took part in the Women’s Himalayan Expedition to the summit of Cho Oyu, an undertaking which ended tragically when the leader, Claude Kogan, was overtaken by a giant avalanche together with Claudine van der Straeten and three Sherpas. One of them was Wongdhi, the only member of the party to survive. In broken English he described how he was able to dig himself out with the aid of his penknife, which he always carries in his top pocket. Several of his fingers were damaged by frostbite and later amputated in France.
Omelette
We have another Sherpa celebrity in our midst … Danu the cook. All expeditions nowadays vie for the services of this young man, known for his extraordinary cooking skills and exceptionally good humour. For Danu the high point of the day doesn’t arrive until evening.
When we settle down to enjoy a moment of leisure after a gruelling day, he starts rushing around to attend to our needs. Tea is usually served within five minutes, often accompanied by a delicious omelette … almost better than back home!
At times I had the impression Danu simply made for the nearest cottage and snatched the kettle from the hob … so as not to keep the sahib waiting! In short, Danu’s a great guy!
Loyalty
A minor incident that occurred during this expedition may serve to illustrate the Sherpa mentality. As Brandel and I lay sleeping in our tent near a mountain hamlet, some child started pelting our tent with stones from on high. Immediately the Sherpas came running to chase the little blighter away.
Soon after that, having drifted off again, I was woken by a scuffling sound close by … it was Danu, lying down across the opening of the tent in his sleeping bag, his pick at the ready to protect his sahibs should the need arise. The fact that it rained during the night was immateriaclass="underline" Danu remained at his post till daybreak. It is clear why the Sherpas are so highly esteemed for their loyalty and devotion.